Not Your Savior

Harry ran at a crouch to keep from hitting his head on the low rock ceiling of the tunnel. There was almost no light, save for the charmed torches glowing at distant intervals, glinting on the foot of muddy water that covered the ground. He grimaced as a spray from Hermione's quick feet splattered in his face as they half waded, half ran.

No one spoke. They had been running in the tunnel for half an hour now, and Harry was beginning to suspect that they were just going farther and farther underground.

"Wait a second," he said, stopping suddenly. Someone ran into him and fell into the sludge with a loud splash.

"Harry, don't stop in the middle of the hallway like a first year," Ron's voice grumbled in the dark.

"Boys!" Hermione whispered harshly from a few metres ahead. "We have to keep moving!"

"I don't think this tunnel goes anywhere good, Hermione," Harry whispered back.

"It's too wet," Shea's childlike tone agreed from behind Ron.

"You suggested it, Shea!" Hermione burst out.

"I just saw it earlier, I didn't know where it goes," Shea said, apologetic. Their voices echoed down the tunnel for a moment, and the group hushed in fear that anyone heard.

"Can we Apparate from here?" Harry suggested softly. "Make a Portkey?"

"You can't Apparate or Disapparate from Voldemort's castle," Hermione said as if quoting a textbook, reminding Harry very much of her frequent quotes from Hogwarts, a History. "And the protections around this place don't allow for Portkeys to work, either."

"You guys didn't come with a way to get out?" Shea asked, a little bit late.

"Well, we weren't planning on getting caught up there," Hermione growled.

"Quiet!" Harry said suddenly.

The Order members went silent, leaning against the tunnel walls and listening for pursuing Death Eaters. A few seconds passed of silence save for their heavy breathing and the sound of water.

"It doesn't make sense that Voldemort would have a tunnel that leads to absolutely nowhere," Hermione said in a low voice after a moment. "There's even torches leading the way. No, we have to come out somewhere."

The other three agreed and continued to follow Hermione.

* * * * * *

A week in the past went by quickly for Harry.

Things were so much more pleasant in the past. The atmosphere wasn't as grim. People were friendlier. Ron and Hermione weren't using every available moment to snog in a corner. Dumbledore and Snape were still alive. Shea actually smiled from time to time, if shyly. And best of all, Order members didn't treat Harry like the murderer he was. The past was like a vacation.

But he couldn't allow himself to enjoy it too much. He had a job to do. He had to kill Voldemort.

"Caedes enecto!" Harry shouted.

Shea absorbed the variant of Avada Kedevra with his hand, then shot it back. Harry conjured a shield just in time to avoid being lacerated to death, but he wasn't fast enough to block the next spell from his teacher.

As usual, the duel ended with Harry staring at the ceiling, completely motionless under Petrificus Totalus.

"Finite Incantatem," Shea said, and Harry sat up instantly.

"I don't like how you always use the Body-Bind curse to end duels," Harry said from the floor of the drawing room.

"Why not?" Shea asked. His tail dragged behind him as he paced in front of Harry.

"I know why you do it," Harry said. "It makes me think for a moment about where I messed up."

"It works, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Harry admitted. "But it's so simple. And you always get me with it."

"I'm sorry," Shea apologized.

Harry shook his head as he stood up. "You don't have to apologize for being a good teacher."

Shea blushed slightly, looking away. Harry stretched, then said, "Let's go again."

Shea looked down at his bare wrist. "Harry, we've been at this for five hours."

"I don't have anything better to do at the moment, do you?" Harry asked.

"I guess not," Shea mumbled, looking at his feet. Harry watched him for a moment, and felt his determination to practice ebb away, replaced with something else.

"Right," Harry said, walking over to Shea, who looked up at him questioningly. "No more dueling. I'm going to teach you instead."

"Teach me?" Shea cocked his head to the side. "Teach me what?"

It was hard for Harry to see his teacher like this, even more painfully shy than he was in the future, and with no will to back up his existence. In the future Shea was capable of refusing to do things; this past version had allowed Harry to use him as a sparring partner for five hours without complaint. It wasn't normal, and Harry was feeling guilty for being so obsessed with practicing when Shea hated fighting.

"I'm going to teach you how to say no," Harry said.

Shea blinked. "Okay."

"You're already doing very poorly with this lesson," Harry observed wryly.

"I'm sorry," Shea said automatically.

"Don't be sorry, be right."

Shea cocked his head. "That doesn't make sense at all. You can't be right all the time. Everyone makes mistakes. What can you do after you make one but apologize? I mean, you could avoid making the mistake ever again, which would be right, and you could try and correct the mistake, which would also be right, but in the meantime someone probably wants an apology."

Harry felt as if a snake had crawled down his throat and constricted around his heart. Mistakes. Apologies. Righteousness. It was all becoming so blurred. Shea's childlike babble reminded him way too much of his own mistakes.

"Dead people don't want apologies," Harry mumbled to himself.

"What was that?"

Harry looked up, startled from his own thoughts by Shea's confused voice.

"Nothing," Harry said, somewhat glad that Shea's hearing was even worse than his own. He mentally shook himself from his reverie. "Back to learning how to say no. Say no to me."

"No?" Shea said tentatively. Then, "Wait, someone's here..."

"I know! No!" Harry shouted.

"No!" Shea returned, slightly louder this time.

"Sorry to interrupt your horrendously inept lessons," Snape's entirely unapologetic voice cut into the room. Both necromancers looked around at him with mild expressions. "But I have returned with information that Mr. Potter will find most interesting."

"Did you find out what--?"

"I did not manage to find out what the Dark Lord's seventh Horcrux is, Potter," Snape spat before Harry could finish. "It will take even me months, perhaps years to learn that information. No, I found something else that you will find useful if you would stop interrupting me."

Harry crossed his arms and waited with a patient gaze. Snape's black eyes narrowed before he went on.

"It seems the Dark Lord is hiring. He's looking for a competent..." Snape paused, glancing at Shea with obvious distaste. "Necromancer."

"What for?" Harry asked.

"What is the only thing necromancers are good for, Potter?"

Harry gathered up some of his necromancy powers and let his eyes flash bright silver and white at Snape, who recoiled. "Lots of things, actually."

"If you prefer," Snape sneered, over his momentary shock. "As I was saying, the Dark Lord requires a being to raise many, many dead for him. Not just Inferi, he wants zombies under his control."

"He wants an army of the dead or something?" Harry asked.

"For once, you're right, Potter," Snape said, dismissive.

Harry thought about this for a moment, ignoring Snape's provocation. He did recall a sudden rise in Inferi attacks in his own past, but these were all easily dealt with. Indeed, zombies would be a greater threat. A powerful necromancer could technically raise an entire army and control it. But depending on how freshly dead the corpses were, they would still retain the intelligence to be useful in a fight or a raid. Inferi were completely mindless and easy to mow down, but zombies only died for good when the necromancer told them to.

"In about three weeks," Harry said slowly, "Voldemort will start launching attacks using dead people instead of wasting his own Death Eaters. They won't be very successful with Inferi, because while those are useful for scaring small children they aren't any good in a fight. So then he'll return to using his Death Eaters, who probably like the work they do anyway." He looked up at Snape. "Why did you think I would find this useful?"

"I thought," Snape's eyes glittered maliciously, "that you would like the opportunity to get close to him for yourself. And the opportunity to make a few of his raids go...sour."

"That occurred to me," Harry said. "But I already know that using the dead doesn't help him. Why ruin something that will ruin on its own?"

"Forgive me for lacking your intrinsic knowledge of things to come," Snape said acidly.

Harry didn't respond. This was still, as Snape said, an opportunity. With some Polyjuice Potion or some other disguise, he could become Voldemort's personal necromancer. He would be very, very close to the thing he had to destroy.

"There aren't many of us in existence," Harry said, looking over at Shea, whose eyes hadn't left the dusty floor for most of the conversation between his student and the Potions Master. "And the few there are would prefer to hide. How does he plan to acquire one?"

"With honey rather than vinegar," Snape sneered. "In much the same manner he acquired his first one almost twenty years ago--"

"Shut up," Harry growled. His fingers tightened around his wand.

"Very well," Snape smirked, triumphantly gazing over a quivering Shea.

"Has he had any luck finding someone?" Harry continued with his questions.

"None. He's trying to locate our dear Quin here," Snape smirked again. "But he's proving quite elusive."

"Thank you for your information," Harry said, somewhat in dismissal. As Snape whirled to leave, with his robes billowing behind him, a thought occurred to Harry.

"Wait," he said. "Have you told this to Dumbledore yet?"

"As if I would report to you of my own volition," Snape snarled.

"He told you to tell me that," Harry said grimly, not as a question.

"Yes. It would appear that he wants you to take advantage of the situation," Snape said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have much more important things to do than stay here and chat with the likes of you."

The door slammed behind the last of the black robes as he left the drawing room.

"I'm not going back to him," Shea said faintly. Harry looked at him in concern; he was shaking uncontrollably. "I won't. I can't."

"I know that," Harry said. He sighed. "Dumbledore may not, though, which is why we should continue your 'no' lessons."

"I don't want to."

Harry smiled softly. "See, you're getting better already."

"This isn't funny, Harry," Shea said. "You shouldn't go either. You can't Occlude, he'll know who you are in moments."

Harry said nothing. This would require some thought.

* * * * *

"Stop!"

Harry splashed to a halt in the watery tunnel at Hermione's fevered whisper. There was dim red light coming from ahead, coming from around Hermione's black silhouette. He crept closer to her, peering over her shoulder to see why she stopped. Behind them, Ron gasped.

Before them, out of the end of the tunnel, lay a gigantic underground chamber. Stalagmites randomly graced the floor of the cavern, while threatening stalactites hung from the cathedral-like ceiling in the manner of fangs. Brilliant flames licked the walls to illuminate the chamber in flickering red light. Chains hung high above the flames, along with a variety of weapons and other Dark objects whose purposes Harry couldn't begin to guess at. Tables covered in chains were in the center of the horrid room, and what looked like dried blood was splattered on most of the equipment.

This wouldn't have scared Harry so much if there wasn't a half-eaten, still fresh basket of fruit sitting atop one of the stalagmites.

"Turn around," Hermione said lowly, obviously fighting hysteria. "Quickly, come on--"

"Miss Granger," an icy voice echoed from below. Harry's blood began to simultaneously freeze and boil in his veins.

"I'm offended that you don't wish to join me for dinner," Voldemort said, idly raising a fork in their direction.