Not Your Savior

"You're our friend. But you're also our weapon. You always have been."

Hermione's words rang in Harry's ears, echoing coldly in his mind. He was nothing but a murderer to these people. Their hope for the death of Voldemort, no matter what the cost to Harry would be.

How could his older self allow that to happen? Harry thought of the brief minutes he had spent with the nineteen-year-old version of himself. The cold silver eyes that held no emotion, even when the rest of the face was smiling. The rigid, controlled stance. The wariness and utter determination. The older Harry had no life beyond trying to kill someone.

The younger Harry wanted Voldemort dead as well, but he hadn't thought about how far he was willing to go to accomplish that. Obviously, he was willing to help out and travel to the future, but he hadn't turned into a fighting machine capable of nothing else. Yet.

Harry was saved the trouble of finding a response when the "pop" sound of a wizard Apparating reached the Order's ears. Harry fought the urge to jump up from his seat when he saw who the newcomer in the kitchen was.

"Draco," Lupin said quickly, as if eager for the distraction from the previous conversation. "What's going on?"

The blonde, now nineteen, handsome, and clad in the robes of a Death Eater, strode over to the table and shook his head wearily.

"Things have calmed down now. The Dark Lord doesn't have any plans at the moment beyond making potions," Malfoy said. His voice was different. The arrogant drawl was replaced with something more personable, yet dignified.

"Potions?" Ron asked.

"What for, Draco?" Hermione inquired.

"I'm not sure," Malfoy said, shaking his head again. "But he's using Quin's blood. It's something bad, he hasn't told me what, though. I suspect it's yet another pursuit of immortality."

"That would make sense," Lupin agreed, sighing. "Well, now we know why he captured Shea."

"Yes, we do," Malfoy said. His cool gaze had settled upon Harry. "What's going on here?"

Harry shifted in his seat. Draco Malfoy was in the Order? Possibly spying on Voldemort for it?

"Harry went back in time and sent his younger self to us to take his place," Hermione said in a small voice when no one else answered.

"Perfect," Malfoy said. Suddenly the drawl in his voice was back. "Now we're even worse off than before, right when the Dark Lord is adding another layer of invincibility."

"Draco..." Hermione said warningly.

"So what are you planning on doing with him?" Malfoy went on, ignoring her. He leaned forward, directly in Harry's face. "Train him up again? Hide him?"

"It's not my fault I'm here, okay?" Harry burst out. "Well, it is, sort of--"

"Shut up, Potter," Malfoy spat.

"Stop it!" Hermione shouted. "We're dealing with it, Draco! Go get some sleep or something, then--"

"Don't order me around, Hermione," Malfoy said slowly.

"She's right, Malfoy," McGonagall said sharply. "You have been up for two days straight, take some rest."

Malfoy inclined his head and left, robes billowing behind him.

"Malfoy is in the Order?" Harry asked blankly.

"He's our spy among the Death Eaters," Lupin explained.

"What about Snape?" Harry asked. No one answered him. Instead, they looked at each other awkwardly and avoided looking at him.

"Snape is dead," Lupin said after the long pause. Harry was suspicious about their behavior, but he let it lie.

"We need to move on to more important matters now," McGonagall said, adjusting her glasses. "We must get Quin out of You-Know-Who's hands."

"What about Harry, then?" Hermione asked.

McGonagall fixed him with a stern glare that hadn't changed at all. "I've changed my mind. He shall be admitted to the Order. We need all the help we can get and can't afford to stick to the old rules in such desperate times."

"Thank you," Harry said, relieved that he might be able to help after all.

She looked at him fixedly again. "Don't thank me, Potter. It's not going to be very pleasant for you."

Harry nodded uneasily.

"Right," McGonagall said briskly. "Granger, have you had any luck with your research?"

Hermione sighed and fiddled with her thick glasses. "Not really. I think it must be some sort of spell, but I have no idea what. I'm starting to think it was a spell of his own invention."

"If that's the case, we're going to have to think of another plan," Shacklebolt mused. "Can't provide a counterspell for something unknown."

"We still haven't found the other two Horcruxes," Hermione reminded him. "I'm sure when Shea gets back he might be able to tell us more about the spell, we might be able to figure out a counterspell in the meantime."

"Horcruxes?" Harry asked Lupin.

"Objects that Voldemort put pieces of his soul into," Lupin explained quietly as the others continued talking. "If his body is killed, parts of his soul remain intact, so he can never truly die. He used to have seven of them, he's down to three counting his physical body."

"He split his soul?"

"That doesn't surprise you, does it?"

Harry shook his head. "I guess not."

"...which brings us to the matter of rescuing Shea," McGonagall was saying. "Lupin, what do you think?"

"We need to get him back," Lupin said firmly. "Voldemort can't be allowed to use him. Who knows what he can do with his own, enslaved necromancer?"

"I agree," McGonagall said.

"I don't," Shacklebolt growled. "That--thing--should be able to get himself out of trouble. We already wasted time and effort, walking into that trap. Voldemort is probably expecting us to come for our necromancer, as well. It's just another ambush waiting to happen."

"He should be able to rescue himself, right?" Ron asked. "He's even better at dueling than Harry, after all. I mean, our Harry. I mean--" He cut off when Hermione elbowed him in the ribs.

"Shea doesn't fight to preserve his own life," Lupin said seriously. "He's not going to hurt anyone to save himself. We have to go get him."

"You know, I've never understood that," Fred said. "Why train your whole life to be unbeatable in a duel if you're going to lose on purpose every time you get into a duel?"

"He wasn't always like that," Lupin said quietly.

"Which is all very well, but what are we going to do about it?" McGonagall returned the group to the matter at hand. Harry got the impression that she was the leader in Dumbledore's absence, just like she was at school. He wondered where the old wizard was.

The Order members agreed that rescuing the mysterious Shea was the best course of action, if only to keep him out of Voldemort's experimental hands. Harry didn't really know who this Shea was beyond a few mentions of him by his older self, and he was starting to think he didn't want to know him. He seemed to be a matter of controversy.

The plan was made with minimal arguments. Ron and Hermione volunteered to go, and Lupin would accompany them. It was not to be an all-out attack, but rather a quick, hopefully quiet operation.

Harry didn't know whether to volunteer to go or not. He knew his older self would want him to. But would he be any help? Would it be like when he tried to rescue Sirius?

"I think Harry should come with us," Ron said, making Harry's decision for him.

"Why?" McGonagall asked.

"Well, Harry's pretty good at rescuing people," Ron vouched for him.

"Definitely," Hermione agreed.

Harry smiled. He could do this, he could help and be useful. "All right, then. I'll go with you."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry lost track of the time he spent lying on the floor pretending to be dead. His arm was aching, and his body was growing cold from loss of blood. He kept his eyes shut, reaching out and sensing that people were indeed nearby. They just hadn't opened the door to take a look inside.

Tired of waiting, he sent a subtle nudge to Mrs. Weasley's mind. A quiet compulsion to come check on Harry. It was a trick Shea had taught to him that was only possible with empathic powers. He could gently implant emotions into others, especially those without mental defenses like Occlumency.

The compulsion worked, for Harry heard her coming up the stairs, and felt the vibration of footsteps through the cold floor.

Here we go, Harry thought grimly.

The door creaked open. Mrs. Weasley screamed.

"Harry? Harry!" The panicked woman rushed to his side and shook him roughly, shrieking again presumably at the sight of a small pool of blood gathered around his wrist.

"Mum?" Ron's voice came. "What are you--bloody hell!"

Harry stopped his breathing. A hand checked for his pulse first at his uncut wrist, then at his neck. He had cast a spell to make his pulse unnoticeable, and it seemed to work.

"Harry, wake up!" Mrs. Weasley sobbed. "Why did you do this? Why won't you wake up?"

A third presence, Hermione, joined the group with a scream.

"No, no, no, no, no..." she chanted, kneeling next to Harry. Then--

"Wait!" Hermione said. "Shea can bring him back!"

"He can?" Ron said stupidly, presumably stricken by the sight in front of him.

"He's a necromancer, Ron, of course he can." Harry was proud of her suggesting the use of Shea's powers. He wondered if she had been the one to fetch Shea in his own timeline, as well.

A minute later, Shea was on the scene. Harry felt his torn emotions as he entered the room.

"Can you bring him back?" Hermione asked desperately. Mrs. Weasley was still sobbing horribly, and Ron was quiet. Lupin and Dumbledore were now outside of the room.

"I think so," Shea said, his voice quivering. "He's lost a lot of blood, though, we might just lose him again the moment he wakes up--"

Mrs. Weasley left his side. Harry guessed that she had launched herself at Shea. "You have to wake him up! He has to be alive! Please!"

Mrs. Weasley lost all coherence after that. Shea approached Harry slowly and knelt at his side.

"Can you resurrect him, Shea?" Dumbledore asked, his voice artfully grave. Harry sensed that the old man was slightly amused and slightly mortified at the same time. Dumbledore never ceased to confuse him.

Harry felt Shea's quivering fingers trace the cut on his wrist. The necromancer felt cold even to Harry's blood-deprived arm. "Yes, sir," Shea replied quietly. "But he'll need a blood-replenishing potion immediately."

"I'll send for Severus," the old wizard said. "He brews medical potions at his home."

Harry forced himself not to move as hot anger at the mention of "Severus" flooded his veins, as if in replacement for the blood. Anger at Snape and anger at himself...

Shea must have felt the sudden surge of anger, for his hand withdrew as if he had been burned. He probably had been, mentally. Harry quickly Occluded his mind as best as he could to avoid distracting Shea any more.

"What are you waiting for?" Ron demanded. "Bring him back!"

The room was now silent except for Mrs. Weasley's continued sobs. Shea positioned Harry's limbs so that he was on his back and straightened. Then he placed one shaking hand on Harry's forehead and the other on his stomach.

It occurred to Harry then how his friends had blatantly disregarded his wish to die. There was no mention of "maybe he wants to be dead, he just sliced his own wrist." There was only "raise the silly boy, quickly." He wasn't sure if he was glad to have such caring friends, or upset to have such unobservant friends. Either way, it didn't matter.

Harry had told Shea to make it look like he was raising him, and after a few moments Harry completed the illusion by opening his eyes. His silver eyes, for he had removed his contacts.

Several people gasped. Hermione was in his face, pelting him with worried gibberish. Mrs. Weasley gathered him up in her arms, now crying into his hair.

"What did you do to him?" Lupin demanded, grabbing Shea by his shirt collar and slamming him into the stained wall.

"I don't know," Shea whispered, eyes brimming with tears. "It's never happened before--"

Lupin gave the little necromancer a final shove into the wall before joining the strange huddle on the wooden floor. "Are you all right, Harry?"

Harry remembered Lupin asking him this his past. He remembered how he could barely see thanks to his new eyes, how his arm was aching, how his whole body was cold and stiff, and how angry he had been because his plan to kill himself hadn't worked. He remembered Lupin's as the most absurd question anyone had ever asked him.

"I'm fine," Harry said bitterly. He looked past Hermione's bushy hair at Shea, who was huddled against the wall like a dog who feared he was going to be kicked. No one had even thanked him.

"Why did you do that, Harry? Why?" Hermione asked, tears bright in her eyes.

Harry didn't answer. She didn't deserve an answer, really. Now that he thought about it, the fact that no one had considered his wishes was upsetting.

"Leave him alone, Hermione," Lupin said, more calm after taking his anger out on Shea.

The room was full of stifling tension for several minutes, until Snape arrived. Harry averted his gaze, Occluding his mind as thoroughly as possible. He could never fully Occlude as an empath. He had forgotten that Snape had been called to help...how was he going to hide his situation from a shrewd, always-suspicious Legilimens?

"The blood-replenishing potion," Snape said stiffly, taking in the scene with quick black eyes. He smirked coldly. "My, my, Potter. A new low."

"Now is not the time for taunting, Severus," Lupin snapped, grabbing the potion from the other's hands.

Harry stared fixedly at the floor as Snape tried to look into his "newly"-silver eyes. "Oh, but it is, Lupin. I see our new necromancer is a failure," Snape sneered, glaring at Shea.

As a single tear leaked onto Shea's cheek, Harry didn't feel so badly about killing Snape in his seventh year anymore.

"Drink this, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said, taking the potion from Lupin and bringing it to Harry's lips. Harry's eyes were forced up for a fatal split second, and they met with Snape's cold black gaze.

The Potions Master's eyes narrowed, cool and calculating under knitted eyebrows. Harry kept his eyes on his potion to avoid looking at Snape again, but he knew the damage had been done. He was going to have to confront Snape to make sure the spy didn't do anything stupid.

When Harry had killed him it had been to avenge Dumbledore and the belief that Snape was really working for Voldemort...but afterward it had been discovered that Snape was no true Death Eater at all, he was merely protecting Draco from the wrath of the Dark Lord. Guilt had consumed Harry for months after he found this out. But he had no way of knowing how he kept his Dark Lord sated for information, how much of the Order's workings he betrayed in order to keep his spot in Voldemort's inner circle.

Yes, Snape would have to be dealt with.

Harry finished his bitter-tasting potion without complaint, still trying to avoid the stares of everyone in the room. Indeed, Shea had messed up in his timeline. The shy little necromancer had not raised anything for months, and this stored power had been released to Harry by accident. Plus, Shea had not raised any humans in years, so he had overcompensated. Necromancy, as Harry was learning, was more a precise science than a field of magic, and only with practice and frequent use can one with the power be any good at it.

The results of this mishap had been more of a curse than a blessing, although Dumbledore had been pleased with the change. Harry's striking green eyes were turned into the ghostly orbs of a necromancer, just like Shea's strange gaze. Colours were brighter, but he went blind on occasion. The feelings of others suddenly flooded into his mind, filling him with emotions that were not his own. He healed faster and took pain more easily. Regular food and sleep were not required for him to function anymore.

But the biggest change was the sudden rush of power. It filled his core, giving him strength. It ached to escape his body. This was not the normal magic he had come to know, this was the power of a necromancer. If he didn't use his new powers for too long, they would come out on their own, usually in a bad way at a bad time.

This was the part that Harry considered to be more of a curse than anything. He had to raise the dead every few weeks voluntarily, or else the dead might come to him. It was always horrific. It was a good thing that he didn't have to sleep as much anymore, because his sleep was always disturbed by nightmares. He could never get used to it.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, had been elated to find out that Harry was more powerful than the average wizard. Suddenly, the old man had a better chance at beating Voldemort at last. Harry had known that Dumbledore was using him, but he let it happen because they had a common goal. Now, even more aware of events, he wasn't sure how he felt about the strangely manipulative headmaster.

Dumbledore would have to be dealt with, as well.

"Are you feeling better, Harry dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked in a strange, high-pitched voice.

Harry didn't respond. That was another foolish question. How was he supposed to react to being alive after killing himself, anyway? He didn't remember the first time too clearly, probably because of the lack of blood. He opted for looking faint and closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to say anything, at least not yet.

And after his new appearance and behavior was no longer considered odd by the Order, he could go about his business. As an assassin.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The dungeon's cold floor was mostly covered in a puddle of stagnant water several inches deep, leaving a mere foot of dry stone in the corner for the lone occupant to sit on. The smallest sliver of light illuminated the corridor from the door at the end, enough to see glimmers on the water. Shea grimaced as his tail drifted too far, disturbing the puddle with a small splash before he could whisk it away.

Shea Quin hated water. It was cold and wet, the wet part often leading to the cold. When the Death Eaters had tossed him brutally into the cell, he had landed in the puddle. His clothes, already ripped and covered in his blood, had been soaked for the past day or so of his isolation. The damp cell stubbornly refused to let anything dry. He knew any magic he performed would be detected immediately, so he refrained from using wandless magic to warm himself up or dry his clothes. He was content in his cell, and didn't want to attract unwanted attention.

Shea didn't know why Voldemort was bothering with the isolation tactic. His former master knew him better than this. For Shea, loneliness was just another feature of life. He had been an outcast from the moment of his birth. Craving the company of others was a perfectly normal pastime for the broken-hearted necromancer.

And it wasn't like he was being deprived of food and water. He never ate. He didn't need water. The only thing he had found over the years that he could stomach was milk, but it wasn't necessary.

The darkness didn't bother him much, either. While he didn't need food to survive, he did need an influx of positive emotions from others. It was strange, but if he went too long in an environment of hatred, he would feel weak and his eyes would stop working, to be followed by his pointed ears. In a more pleasant environment, he would feel stronger, and his senses would be normal or enhanced. But this rarely happened, so Shea was quite used to being blind.

Indeed, Shea was capable of sitting curled up against the stone wall in his square foot of dry space indefinitely. And he knew that the Dark Lord knew this. So to pass the time, Shea set about to wondering what Voldemort was up to.

Shea's first thought was that he was being used as bait. He knew his student, Harry Potter, had a bad habit of trying to save people. But then, Harry would know that Shea was more than capable of escaping on his own. Then again, Harry would know that Shea would refuse to fight his way to escape. And Voldemort would know both these things as well, so using Shea as a lure was a gamble that probably wouldn't work too well.

Shea was fairly certain that he wasn't being kept there for interrogation purposes. He had already withstood days of the Cruciatus Curse along with other, more creative methods of torture. He was ready to face it again if need be. He would never rejoin Voldemort, not after what he did all those years ago. A spell of seclusion in a cell full of water wasn't likely to change that.

It was possible that Shea was just being held until the Dark Lord had another use for him. They had already chained him to an alter and taken liberal samples of his blood, probably for use in potion making. He shuddered to think of what could be made using blood as powerful as his in a potion. And it had been a while since he had raised anything; soon the Dark Lord wouldn't even have to torture him before he raised a field of zombies for Dark purposes.

It also occurred to Shea that Voldemort simply didn't know what to do with him. He had already taken his blood. Was that all the Dark Lord wanted? It was possible.

Shea's musings were interrupted when he sensed someone approaching. He concentrated. Three people, one of them very, very powerful. Great.

The door to the corridor opened for the first time in two days, flooding his weak eyes with too much light. He winced and brought a hand to his face to block it, but nothing could block out the cold, high-pitched voice.

"Are you still here, my necromancer?" Voldemort asked as he swept in front of the cell bars. Two masked Death Eaters accompanied him on either side. Shea felt like an animal in a cage, which was no doubt the Dark Lord's intent in putting him in such a holding cell. There were three walls of rock and one wall that was strong bars. The rest of the cells in the basement of Voldemort's castle and manor, Shea noted, were separated from the world by a thick metal door.

"I'm not your necromancer," Shea responded stiffly.

"Of course, of course," Voldemort said, red eyes gleaming as he smiled. "You belong to the Order of the Phoenix now. You are always welcome to return to me, you know."

Shea didn't respond to that. Voldemort laughed.

"Still not in a talkative mood, I see?" Voldemort's smile disappeared. Shea was glad of this; the smile made him look scarier. At least the angry expression looked more natural. "Bring him out, Lucius."

"Yes, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy said, a quiver in his voice as he opened the cell door to do his master's bidding.

"Are you afraid of little Shea?" Voldemort asked airily, also hearing the fear in his voice.

"No, never, my Lord," Malfoy asserted. Shea could sense otherwise. He was surprised that Malfoy had the nerve to lie to his master.

Draco's father was still a slave of the Dark Lord. Shea pitied the young spy for a moment before realizing his own situation was probably worse.

Shea allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. He also allowed the elder Malfoy to fasten a collar around his neck and chains around his wrists. Then he quietly followed Malfoy through the water and out of the cell.

"Docile little thing today, aren't you?" Voldemort commented, reaching out to gently stroke Shea's cheek with a long, pale finger. Shea flinched away, and Voldemort's sinister smile returned. "Perhaps we have made some progress, indeed."

Progress? Toward what? Shea wondered. Knowing that Voldemort was always one to explain his evil plans with relish, Shea asked.

"Toward breaking you, of course," Voldemort answered civilly. The Dark Lord sounded as if Shea had asked what time the cricket match started. "You will be mine again, necromancer. You will belong to me soon enough."

So Voldemort did have a use for him, Shea thought. That could not be good.

"Bring my necromancer to Bella's favourite room, and have Bella spend some..." Voldemort paused, caressing Shea's face again with his cold, pale hand. "Quality time with him."

"Yes, my Lord," Malfoy and the other Death Eater replied in unison. Malfoy roughly tugged on Shea's chains to get him moving.

"I wonder, though," Voldemort said lazily as the strange trio reached the door. "Why haven't you left yet, little one?"

Comprehension dawned upon Shea as the Dark Lord voiced this thought. He had no idea that Shea had gone pacifist. Shea had stopped using his magic to defend himself at the expense of others after his time with Voldemort, as a result of his actions. He wondered if telling Voldemort of this change in philosophy was to his advantage, and after a second of debate decided it was not. The less the enemy knew, the better.

"Tell me," Voldemort said, approaching him. Shea Occluded his mind, knowing it was a futile attempt but trying anyway. "Why haven't you merely blown a hole in the wall, or killed all of my Death Eaters with a thought? Why are you allowing yourself to be tortured every day?"

No reason, Shea thought frantically as Voldemort took his chin and forced his silver eyes to look into the red snakelike eyes. He knew his attempts to Occlude failed when Voldemort smiled coldly once again.

"My dear Shea," Voldemort said quietly. "You are much more brave than you used to be."

Shea blinked. That was not the response he expected.

"We'll have to change that," Voldemort sneered, releasing Shea's chin and pushing him away. "I won't have a useless necromancer. Continue, Lucius!"

The Death Eaters led him back up the winding torch-lit staircase and into one of the numerous torture chambers. Shea memorized the layout in case he did end up escaping. It was old habit to think that way. Malfoy locked him into place against the wall, and the two left without speaking. Shea felt their fear of him. For once, he wasn't too upset about people being afraid of him.

The minutes ticked by. Shea calmly waited for Bellatrix Lestrange to arrive. He could feel her presence right outside of the door, and knew that she was trying to make him nervous before her grand entrance by making him wait. His left shoulder was starting to hurt, as it had been injured earlier and didn't appreciate being stretched out by chains.

After a few more minutes of "suspenseful" waiting, Bellatrix entered, slamming the door behind her. The dim candles in the room faltered as the wind rushed by them. She approached Shea slowly, a tight grin that didn't reach her hooded eyes appearing on her pale face.

"My master says that you need to be taught your place, my little one," Bellatrix informed him.

Shea didn't answer. He felt more people beyond the door. Three nervous and determined people.

"Tut tut, little one," Bellatrix said, pulling her wand out. "I thought that I had taught you a few lessons by now. I guess we'll have to keep going. Cru-"

"Stupefy!" a familiar voice incanted. Bellatrix fell to the ground, revealing Order members Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger.

"Thanks," he told them as Hermione chanted off a spell to undo his bonds. He fell when he was suddenly deprived of support, and Harry stepped forward to catch him easily.

Harry. There was something horribly wrong with Harry. His power was depleted, and his emotions were more frantic than usual. Plus, he hadn't used magic to catch him, and Harry hated being touched. Shea looked up at him as he got to his feet and gasped.

His eyes no longer matched Shea's. They were back to being green.

"What's going-?" Shea began, but was cut off by Hermione.

"It's a long story, we'll explain later. Right now we have to get you out of here," the young witch told him tersely.

"Right," Shea said, still disconcerted by the change. "There's a passageway to the back grounds on the left if we go down this main staircase a few more levels, or a first-floor window two levels up."

"Oh, Shea," Hermione shook her head. "Why didn't you just escape on your own?"

"I might have had to hurt someone!" Shea said indignantly.

"Come off it," Ron snorted as he looked at Shea's bloodstained attire. "They certainly didn't mind hurting you!"

"Let's take the downstairs passageway," Harry suggested. "There's less of a chance that we'll run into someone that way."

"Good thinking," Hermione said. "Lead the way, Shea."

"I don't suppose we can get my wand before leaving?" Shea inquired in a small voice.

"Where is it?" Hermione asked.

Shea winced. "Voldemort's private chambers. Never mind, I'll just get a new one later."

"Thank you for not making us go there," Ron said earnestly. "Now, this may be a great place for discussion for you, but I don't like it that much. Let's get out of the torture chamber."

"On the contrary, Mr. Weasley, I think it's a great place for discussion," Lucius Malfoy's voice said from behind them. The group whirled around to see five Death Eaters standing in the doorway and on the stairway landing. He leveled his wand in the general direction of the Order members. "Let's talk."

~*~*~*~*~*~

"You know you can talk to me at any time," Lupin said for the umpteenth time that morning. The werewolf had been assigned "counseling" duty more or less by default, and Harry was starting to think he should let Lupin in on the plot, if only to stop him from wasting more of his time.

The werewolf's words were greeted with yet more silence. When Lupin reached out to take Harry's hand in what was intended to be a comforting gesture, Harry decided that enough was enough.

"I'm fine," he said shortly, whisking his hand away from the tabletop and drawing his wand. Lupin backed away and reached for his own wand apprehensively, but calmed down when Harry used it merely to cast a Silencing charm on the room.

"I probably should have trusted you from the beginning, but let me fill you in now," Harry said, and he informed Lupin of his situation and plot.

Lupin listened with a cool, collected expression. When Harry was finished, he said, "Harry, it's perfectly normal to...explain things with the extraordinary rather than facing the truth--"

"I'm not lying," Harry cut him off.

"He's not lying, Remus," Dumbledore's voice put in. Harry blinked and looked over his shoulder; the old Headmaster was standing calmly in the corner. How did he escape Harry's detection? "It is quite the story, yes, but all perfectly true. Harry is here, three years older and wiser, to vanquish Voldemort once and for all."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said quietly. He was still unnerved that Dumbledore could sneak up on him. "How did you get in here, sir?"

"Me? I have been standing here the whole time, Harry," the old wizard replied lightly. "I don't think you should take up a career in therapy anytime soon, Remus."

Lupin flushed slightly, but he was disconcerted by the news. "So our Harry is three years in the future right now?"

Harry felt slightly put out at the mention of "our Harry", but he let it slide. "Yes, the sixteen-year-old version of myself has taken my place, as I have taken his."

Lupin frowned. "Is he--is he still--"

"Suicidal?" Harry offered. "Probably. But I find that problems larger than one's own tend to take one's mind off of the smaller problems."

"What do you mean?" Lupin asked worriedly.

"I mean the future is not pleasant. He'll be keeping busy, hopefully enough so that he won't be thinking of how to do himself in," Harry said, feeling odd because he was talking about himself.

"So you're not really--"

"No," Harry said firmly. "I just had to stage all that to explain my powers and appearance."

Lupin buried his head in his hands. Dumbledore seated himself at the table and pulled a lemon drop out of his pocket to snack on. Harry calmly waited for more questions.

Lupin didn't disappoint. "What did Shea do to you?"

Harry sighed. This was getting old now. "He overcompensated. I wasn't dead for long, he hadn't raised anything in a long time, and he had forgotten how much power it takes to raise a human. All of these factors led him to use too much magic, and it just transferred to me."

When Lupin remained quiet, Harry added, "I would appreciate it if you didn't hurt him again. He's a little bit..." Harry considered, searching for the right word. "Fragile."

Lupin nodded, still in shock. Harry felt okay with putting his hands back on the tabletop, and so he did. "Well, if that's all," he said, "I'd like to move on to more important matters. I know the locations of three of Voldemort's Horcruxes, and we would do well to destroy them as soon as possible."

Dumbledore actually choked on his lemon drop in shock. When he had recovered, he gasped, "Why didn't you tell me of this immediately, Harry?"

"Had to get other things out of the way first," Harry explained.

"Horcruxes?" Lupin looked up, bewildered. "Aren't those--"

"He made six of them to store parts of his soul," Harry said briefly. "That way when I try to kill him, it doesn't work."

"One of them has already been destroyed," Dumbledore said. "The diary of Tom Riddle at the age of sixteen. Tell me, Harry, what of the three you know about?"

"They are the cup of Hufflepuff, the locket of Slytherin, and that ring that you're going to find in a few weeks," Harry said. He conjured a piece of parchment and wrote the locations on it magically. He gave the slip to Dumbledore, who took it with slightly trembling fingers. "I've charmed this parchment so that only you and select Order members can read it. To others it will just look like scrap," Harry explained.

Dumbledore read the list several times, memorizing each item before pocketing the parchment. "That leaves two more to find. Do you know about those?"

Harry shook his head regretfully, dark hair falling into his bright eyes. "We've been trying to find those for a year. Actually, one of them is the snake, Nagini, but Voldemort realized that we've been taking out his Horcruxes, and he hid her somewhere. Wait," Harry stood up suddenly to pace the small room. "She's not hidden right now. She's always at her master's side."

"You aren't going to charge into Voldemort's hideout to kill his snake, are you, Harry?" Dumbledore asked gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

Harry considered, then sat down, feeling mildly foolish. "I'll kill her at the same time that I kill him," he decided aloud.

"Very good, Harry, but what is the seventh Horcrux?" Dumbledore pressed.

Harry cocked an eyebrow. He had expected Dumbledore to be enthusiastic about the knowledge of the Horcruxes, but he hadn't anticipated such a fixation upon the topic. The Headmaster was a manipulator, that was a fact. Harry had always suspected, upon hearing the prophecy, that Dumbledore only cared about Harry as far as Harry's usefulness. He was halfway tempted to keep his knowledge to himself because of all this, but for now their goals were identical. And it was Dumbledore who had told him everything in the first place, so....

"We're not sure," Harry said truthfully. "We think it's either something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's."

"To fit the pattern," Dumbledore mused. "Yes, I had suspected this as well."

Harry allowed himself a small smile. "Well, you did tell it to me first, sir."

"Did I?" Dumbledore asked airily. "What a clever wizard I am."

Too clever, Harry agreed mentally. He stood up again. "Is Snape still here?"

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore corrected absently.

"Yes, him. Is he?"

"You can find him in the kitchen, I believe," Dumbledore said. "Molly is making spaghetti for lunch."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said. He smiled to himself again as he left the upstairs room to descend the stairway. He was about to give Professor Snape an assignment. The irony would have been great enough to make him laugh out loud, if only he laughed anymore.

The spicy smell of Mrs. Weasley's meatballs reached Harry's nose as he padded softly past the portrait of Mrs. Black to the kitchen. He sighed. He missed eating meat sometimes.

True to Dumbledore's prediction, the greasy-haired Potions Master was standing stiffly by the threshold, waiting for Mrs. Weasley to finish cooking the meal. It struck Harry as odd that Snape would actually eat at the Order headquarters for once, but then, Mrs. Weasley's dishes were irresistible.

Harry approached as quietly as he could, wanting to, for once in his life, surprise Snape instead of the other way around.

"Professor Snape," Harry said softly. Snape's head whirled too fast for him to have known that Harry was there, so he knew he had succeeded. He held a back a grim smile. "May I have a word?"

Snape looked down at him, an expression of disdain upon his sallow face. Harry could feel the curiosity battling the dislike of Harry in Snape's mind. No matter how well one could Occlude the mind, there was no defense against an empath. Similarly, as an empath, Harry couldn't block a Legilimens. He stared back unblinkingly, allowing the black eyes to grasp tantalizing images from his head.

"Make it quick, Potter," Snape said finally. "I don't have much time for suicides."

"Very well," Harry said, ignoring the bait. "Let's go somewhere more private, shall we?"

"Very well," Snape sneered, inclining his head slightly. "Lead the way, Potter."

Feeling an exasperated sense of déjà vu, Harry led Snape to the drawing room where he had explained everything to Shea.

"So, Mr. Potter," Snape said silkily as Harry shut and charmed the door, "Care to explain why you seem to be thinking of murdering me?"

Not the best way to start the conversation, Harry thought. Of all the things for Snape to have seen in his head already, that was probably the worst.

"Certainly, sir," Harry said easily. Snape didn't rattle him now as much as he used to. In fact, in some perverse way, Harry was having fun sparring with his former teacher. "I killed you a year and a half from now. But that's only because you killed Dumbledore, and I felt inclined to return the favor."

That wiped the characteristic smirk from Snape's face. With his audience blissfully silent, Harry explained the whole situation yet again.

"Completely idiotic as your story is," Snape said, affixing his sneer right back into place, "I can tell that you are telling the truth. You have such a worthless mind, Potter."

"So you tell me often," Harry said, smirking back. "I would think your vastly superior mind could come up with a different insult now and again."

Snape advanced upon him, trying to intimidate him with the height difference. Harry merely cocked an eyebrow at the other. "I am still your Professor, Potter, and as such--"

"I graduated two years ago," Harry interrupted.

Snape smiled coldly. "Not in this time, you didn't. Like I was saying, as such, you will show some respect."

"Of course, sir," Harry said, giving him a mock bow. "Now that you know all about me, we can move on to your assignment."

"My--" Snape tripped over the word a few times. "My what, Potter?"

"Your assignment. As in, your task as appointed by me for you to complete," Harry said smoothly, still bowing.

"Your insolence is astounding, Potter," Snape hissed.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said easily. He stood up straight again and watched with amusement as Snape's fingers curled and uncurled, ready to choke the nineteen-year-old. "Anyway, your assignment is simple. You will determine the object and location of Voldemort's seventh and final Horcrux. And then you will report these items to me."

Snape cocked his head slightly and fixed Harry with a calculating stare. "So you have been working to kill the Dark Lord for several years."

"I believe we have covered this, yes," Harry confirmed.

"It just surprises me that you know what you're doing, Potter," Snape sneered. It was the highest compliment Snape had ever given Harry. "But tell me, Potter, why should I do what you...assign?"

"I've killed you once, haven't I?" Harry asked with a smile.

"You're going to have to do better than that, Potter. I receive death threats from the Dark Lord five times a week."

"Yes, but few of them are as sincere as mine," Harry said, smile evaporating from his face. He let the memory of Snape's murder rise to the top of his thoughts again so that Snape may glimpse it.

Harry had won. Snape was floundering. He had lost control of the situation, and now genuine fear of the Boy Who Lived was entering his mind. Harry knew that it was one thing to be threatened with death, but it was quite another to know that it would happen.

Snape's shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, defeated. "I will do this, Potter, but not out of fear of you or as a favor to you in any way. I will do this because I want to see the Dark Lord dead."

"I don't care why you do it, just so long as you do it," Harry said in a low voice. "You're the only person in such a position to do this with any ease."

"Ease," Snape snorted. "Do you have any idea, Potter, any at all, of what will happen if I am--"

"Yes," Harry said simply. Snape stopped his rant at the single, sad word, and Harry continued on to the next topic at hand. "I must ask you not to go to Voldemort with any information about me, beyond the fact that I tried to kill myself, and now I'm having health problems."

"Becoming a necromancer is a health problem, is it?" Snape asked derisively. Even after such a huge blow to his ego as having a student appoint a task to him, Snape still managed to be a git.

"I'm mostly blind, Professor."

"How is that any different than before?"

"I also can't eat many foods anymore," Harry said sadly, ignoring the scathing comment. "Like the meatballs Mrs. Weasley is preparing right now. We should return to lunch. Remember, don't mention--"

"Your secrets are safe with me, Potter," Snape interrupted acidly.

"I hope so," Harry said softly. Then he smiled again. "Let's go get some spaghetti."

He turned to leave.

"You've become very Slytherin, Potter," Snape said, causing the younger wizard to stop in mid-stride. Snape smirked down at him before exiting the room first. "Take that as you will."