Hidden Truth

1. Darkness Creeps In

It was cold, too cold in fact, and there was too little space, even though it was enough, somehow. He couldn't tell anymore if it was really cold, for his senses were dulled to the point that he doubted he could feel anything at all. Even when he was awake he wasn't capable of differing between what should be cold and what was considered as hot. It was the same for him - there was no difference anymore.

His mind was on full alert, albeit he was soundly asleep, trapped in his own nightmares - or were it memories? He couldn't know, he wasn't able to find out what he was dreaming about. Restlessly tossing and turning, he couldn't find any peace this night, like so many others before.

All of a sudden, a sharp pain shot through him, starting behind his forehead and spreading throughout his whole body. Bolting up into a sitting position, shivering fiercely and glistering with sweat, his hands clenched around fistful of sheets in a vain attempt to regain his composure back. While his breathing stayed ragged, trembling fingers tentatively touched the scar on his forehead, at the very moment hidden behind a veil of black, dishevelled hair. Slowly the panting subsided and he was glad he hadn't cried out loud earlier.

With a quick movement of his wrist, he illuminated a match to light a candle, he shoved the left sleeve of his nightshirt all the way to his elbow to reveal ...

"Nothing ..." Severus couldn't hear the softly if not incredulously spoken word properly over the frantic pondering of his heart, which caused the blood in his ears to rustle deafening.

Somehow mesmerized, the professor stared at his forearm, but even after endless minutes of intent looking, he couldn't make out anything other than skin too pale to be healthy covered with fine hairs, which were currently standing due to the chilly air - not that he recognized that.

Still, Severus couldn't believe that it should be finally over, for good this time. The time of forced sub-ordinance at last ended. No need anymore for his abilities as a spy, for which he'd had to sacrifice so much.

Severus snorted softly. It hadn't been too many sacrifices to become Dumbledore's spy, it had been his only possibility to rescue his ... What had he rescued anyway? His life? His sanity? His 'friends'? More likely his environment, more or less.

But no more. He could scratch together what was left of his body, mind, heart and soul and try to go on, try to live a decent life for a change. Well, as decent as he could become, anyway.

There wasn't anything left to worry about. Voldemort's terrible reign finally had come to a stop. It was there, the sign that confirmed his mingled thoughts, or more like the lack of said sign on his forearm.

Absently rubbing the rather fresh scar on the left side of his forehead, Severus settled back into bed and blew out the candle to let the room get dark again. Knowing that sleep wouldn't come another time that night, he gazed unseeingly through the dark up at where the ceiling of his chambers should be and pondered on questions, where he still had to find the answers to.

What did happen exactly those four nights ago? How had You'll-Soon-Forget-Who been finally defeated? What had he meant as he said, that he knew something important and that he, Snape, wouldn't get away as unscathed as he'd like?

Neither he nor Potter could remember coherently - and these two had been the only surviving fighters, who'd been close enough to could have possibly seen anything significant. But where Severus wanted to know exactly who delivered the final blow to kill Voldemort, Harry couldn't care less. He was, in fact, utterly delighted, he couldn't tell what happened and due to the fact that his own fire-bolt scar had vanished shortly after, he hadn't any nightmares of the actions. A pleasant change.

As Severus recalled the events of the final battle, he wasn't aware that the sun slowly crept in through the tiny windows to light the murky dungeons.

The attack of Voldemort and his Death Eaters hadn't been totally surprising. The Dark Lord had given false information to the Potions Master and after figuring that out, Severus and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix had been sure that he'd been unmasked and that his service as a spy wasn't needed anymore. Being prepared and weeks on end on edge had paid off, eventually.

Harry lay sleeping, blissfully dreamless, in his bed in the Gryffindor boys' dorm and was oblivious to the world around him. His cheeks, though unseen behind the curtains of his four-poster bed, were dry. There weren't any tears left to cry. To cry for those he lost.

Life wasn't fair, he'd been the first to know through experience. As far as he could think back, he had to endure the Dursleys and their mistreatment of him. But weren't they supposed to love him or at least care for him? They were family, after all, weren't they? It had taken a lot of time, but at last Harry understood what kind of 'family' they were to him.

You could call it poetic justice, if you'd like. Funny, really, though he wasn't in the mood for it.

Voldemort had managed to erase so many lives throughout his own life - even after he had died. If it weren't for his twisted mind, Harry would have admitted that He-Whose-Anniversary-Of-Death-Will-Be-Celebrated had been a brilliant man. He'd been a genius; a sadistic, gruesome, sick, cruel, bastard-like genius, but a genius nonetheless.

At least, it had been quick for Poppy. The countless severely injured students, teachers and Aurors hadn't been as lucky. Many of them could have been rescued.

Foolish Cho, dear Draco, poor Ron. Most people couldn't escape the devil twice.

Or even once.

Harry was truly alone now, no one was left of his Merlin-damned family. It was so ironic, he couldn't stand it. He was finally in his seventh and last year at Hogwarts, after which he would stay in the magical world, he wouldn't have needed a guardian any longer, he would have been rid of the Dursleys ... now he was truly rid of them, wasn't he?

But Harry wasn't that kind of person, he couldn't even wish Snape to oblivion, even if he tried - very hard.

At least Harry had been able to prevent Voldemort from killing him in the end. And even though neither he nor Snape himself were sure how they had managed it, the boy was more than thankful to having forgotten. He had enough to deal with, after all.

Now that his scar could have been removed, he was free, and nobody would recognize him anymore walking amidst groups of wizards and witches.

All links and ties were cut.

He was free.

He was alone.

He was afraid.

The hot water cascaded freely over his back and massaged softly the tense muscles. His hands pressed flat against the cool tiles, Severus leaned back and let the water wash away the weary expression on his face. He hadn't slept half of the night and it bothered him to no end that he couldn't figure out why.

Wincing slightly, as he brushed the fresh scar on his forehead, Severus wondered how much longer he would have to endure it before he could remove it finally.

He'd hoped that it could help him to retrieve his memory, but it hadn't worked. Even the Pensieve hadn't been a help. It seemed almost as if he were cursed - Severus snorted at the irony - it was obviously a curse, but he couldn't detect what kind and what its purpose was.

And although Albus was seemingly unfazed by the lacks of coherent memory of both Harry and him, Severus couldn't shrug off the feeling of foreboding. Something wasn't right about him, obviously, but it sure as hell wasn't as secure as Albus would like it to be.

As soon as he was out of the bathroom, he'd begin with his research. A little over a week was still left of the 'extraordinaire holidays', and that would be enough to brew the potion he needed.

2. The Fear Within

Harry awoke late and one quick glance towards the grandfather clock on the wall confirmed that he had to hurry or he'd miss lunch, too. The sun stood fairly high, confirming what he already knew, sending its rays through the window into the dormitory. There weren't any birds chirping; odd when you just awoke. But then again, maybe not that odd, considering the time - both of the clock and the year.

Trying not to move too quickly, Harry wormed his way out of his bed and succeeded in not making his headache worse. Massaging his temples, he slipped his house-shoes on and tiptoed towards the bathroom, trying not to wake anyone else. His foggy mind registered finally that the 7th years boys' dorm was deserted, short of only himself ... His breath caught, as Harry's eyes came to a halt on the only other four-poster, which curtains were still closed. Trembling fingers reached out, faintly caressing the heavy cloth.

"Ron," Harry whispered, as tears started to form in his eyes. "It wasn't your fault, you know ... How could you have known?"

Briskly dubbing his eyes with his fingers, Harry readjusted his glasses and went straight to the bathroom. He filled the sink halfway with cold water and splashed it into his face. It helped a great deal to drive away the rest of sleepiness. Breathing evenly, Harry closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing at all, while he concentrated on his surroundings. The cool air around him, the smooth surface of the sink's edges he gripped with his fingers, the sound of his own drawing in of air.

Finally, raising his head so he could see his reflection in the mirror, Harry scrutinized his facial features anew, which were still damp. He hadn't changed much, though he had lost a bit of his childish looks, his hair was as untameable as ever, his eyes - Harry's fingers clenched tighter around the enamel - were still the same shade of green as that damnable Avada Kedavra. His frown eased as he caught sight of his forehead, where he couldn't find any trace of his oh-so-famous lightening-bolt shaped scar.

It happened at this very moment, that the surface of the mirror swirled, causing Harry to stare perplexed. As the motion subsided, the boy gasped and stumbled a few steps backwards, until he felt the wall behind him. The cool tiles of the wall sent the same amount of heat to his bones as the creature glaring at him through the mirror.

Harry was positively paralysed as he gapped at the being, he'd thought he'd never again have the misfortune of seeing. "No," he whispered shakily. "You are ... dead. The scar is gone. You ... do not have ... power over me, not anymore ..." How could this be? Could he ...? No way! He was dead, for good, there was no way ... Snape's mark was gone. Voldemort couldn't have tricked them, could he? No. No!

Harry's eyes widened considerably as the image of Voldemort drew away from him, seemingly into space behind the mirror, and gasped at the unfolded scene. Forceful huffs of air, almost visible in the bathroom - was it getting colder? - racing heartbeat. Harry trembled noticeable as the now exposed second person - which he recognized as none other than Hogwarts' Potions Master - drew his wand and pointed it at Voldemort. There were no sounds coming through the mirror and due to the fact that the persons as well as the environment were only black and white, one could have mistaken the scene as part of an old silent film. Harry couldn't make out where they possibly were, he couldn't recognize anything too far away from the centre of the mirror, for the farer away from the centre the blurrier the image got.

Harry flinched as Snape cast a spell at Voldemort, without moving his lips. 'How could he-' He stopped mid-thought, as the prominent green curse erupted from the drawn wand. The whirl of light rotated slowly towards the Dark Wizard, while it stood out considerably from the dark background.

Harry stared, unmoving, as Voldemort fell, twisting in agony. His mind was a tumult of confusing thoughts, making no sense at all. What was he witnessing? What did that mean? Why in that mirror? Was it real, at all? Voldemort was dead! Why should he see dead people? Besides those, he'd wanted to see.

Drawing in a calming breath, he decided that he needed to see Dumbledore to inform him of this rather obscure occurrence. If there was even the slightest possibility that some, no matter how tiny, part of Voldemort had somehow survived, he needed to report it, so they could discuss the meaning of this. Harry's eyes were fixed on the now unmoving figure of the Dark Lord, lying at the feet of one obviously self-satisfied Severus Snape.

"This can't be happening," the boy murmured desperately. Though he didn't want to believe that there was a chance that they hadn't succeeded in killing Voldemort, he couldn't calm his chaotic thoughts. What-ifs whirled around in his head in nothing resembling logical order.

What would he do, if this short period of peace would be ended abruptly? How had Voldemort managed to survive? What did Snape had to do with it? Why was the scene on the mirror black and white, except only the bright green killing curse? How would Dumbledore react to this? How could - even though just this mirror - Snape be obviously stronger than Voldemort and hence defeat him? Did anything of that make sense, at all?

Again, Harry was not prepared for the next occurrence.

A loud 'bang' filled the bathroom as out of the mirror a large balloon appeared and exploded, letting loads of confetti and glitter rain upon the startled boy, who sat now in a heap on the floor. The colourful pieces of paper and magic settled slowly, covering both the floor-tiles and the sole occupant of the room with sparkling and glistering bits.

Harry's mind was frozen in shock. What was happening? Had he finally gone mental? Did he only imagine the short movie in the mirror? And what about the confetti?

A bright red envelope popped out of nowhere, hovering in the air, causing Harry to cringe slightly. Slowly the envelope floated into Harry's lap, as the boy followed its way with his eyes. Cautiously taking the letter in his hands, he undid the golden seal, a feeling of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. As he freed the piece of parchment from the envelope and began to read it, Harry's mien started to darken considerably. "Definitely a bad timing for your pranks, Fred and George," he growled lowly. Quiet plopping noises accompanied the now vanishing confetti pieces, and as Harry looked up, he could see that the mirror was back to normal. Only the parchment, still grasped in his hand, reminded that anything happened, at all.

Exhaling, Harry re-read the short message.

'Spider and Snake

Real or Fake?

Nightmare's over

You may awake!'

He stared at the words until they started blurring before his eyes. The letters re-arranged themselves and said now nothing more than 'Fear Within'. Harry snorted, shakily. Some jokes of the twins weren't funny, at least the ones one couldn't see coming at all - stupid time-spelling. Closing his eyes, he gathered himself together, let the water out of the sink and tucked the small parchment into his pyjama pocket.

As it was already too late to attend lunch at the Great Hall, Harry dressed not too quickly, deciding that he would fetch something from the kitchens and eat the bunch (as it was now even more lunch than breakfast to being called brunch) in the dorm.

Bony fingers traced the line from his cheek towards the side of his mouth, sending chills through his whole body, as they grasped his chin abruptly, turning his face upwards to meet the icy gaze of the Dark Lord.

"My Severus ..." the hissing voice cut like knives made of both ice and fire through his body, leaving nothing untouched. "What are you doing?" Voldemort's eyes burned with an intensity, no other living being could possibly dream to match. He was never satisfied by halves.

"Nothing, Master." Snape's tone lacked every bit of superiority, he was so well-known for at Hogwarts. It was an act, an act so he could, maybe one more time, return to Hogwarts to be again the most hated teacher living. The balance was long lost. Severus was the subservient, obedient slave, nothing but faithful to his master. But whenever this master wasn't looking, he was Snape. Snape levelled it out, he was the conceited prick, who did everything within his power to make life for everyone, he wasn't fond of, a living hell and as difficult as possible. But why not? If he was doomed, why should all the others have something, he could never receive? Was that unfair? Well, it was Snape thinking.

Voldemort allowed his lips to turn a bit upwards, forming a cruel little smile. It had been the wrong answer. There wasn't a right one when he wasn't in the right mood, never. "But you are breathing, aren't you?" He caressed the pale skin of Severus' cheek with the back of his other hand, staring deeply into the black orbs of nothingness, probing cautiously if he could dive into his mind. He wouldn't push it, he wouldn't dare. Daring his inferior to make the first move, to merely flinch, Voldemort continued stroking Severus' face in an almost loving manner. He'd been so pure, now he was contaminated by that awful contagious disease. Why did he have to lose the best Potions Master to the Light? It was so not fair. Well, at least he could be sure now, where his loyalties lay. 'Your fear, although almost undetectable, is utterly delicious, my dear Severus. The fear within ... it makes you so much more appealing, did you know? Be afraid, live the angst.'

Carefully keeping his mind blank, Severus awaited his punishment, he was sure was to come. He wasn't one of the most intelligent wizards for nothing.

"Crucio!"

Within a second, Snape startled awake, leaving his mind slightly dizzy, the nightmare still fresh in his memory. The scene had taken place not long before he had figured out that Voldemort knew of his spying on him. It was odd, though, that he dreamt about being tortured and not about himself torturing helpless Muggles. Oh well. Variety spiced up one's life, didn't it?

He was still in his lab, dozens of tomes laying sprawled around in no recognizable order. Yawning, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and weighed the importance of taking a bath; he couldn't afford losing any more time than absolutely necessary. His grumbling stomach reminded the Potions Master that he hadn't had a decent meal since ... his mind refused to tell, so it had to be some time.

Snorting, Snape rose from his seat as he thought about how worried Albus had possibly been. Or maybe not, as he had surely enough else to worry about, at the moment.

Finally, opting for taking a quick shower and ordering something from the kitchens, Snape began unbuttoning his clothes. His memories had to be dug out, he wouldn't be too happy being rescued by a Potter twice, after all.

Carefully balancing the heavy loaded tray, Harry walked over to the nightstand beside his bed. Dobby had given him everything from sausages, pancakes, ragout and different kinds of dessert. Tasting a piece of pancake, Harry nodded to himself, satisfied with the taste. His thumb was still in his mouth, as he turned towards the curtained bed beside his. Reaching out, he hesitated only seconds, before he drew the cloth to the side, flinching slightly at the sight before him. A heap of tangled limbs and blankets lay motionless amidst the mattress.

"Ron?" he asked carefully. No answer was given, no answer had been expected. "Ron? You need to eat something, anything. I brought food from the kitchen. I even got two chocolate frogs. You want one?"

"No." Had he ever sounded that defeated, that ... lifeless? Not that Harry could recall.

"Please, Ron. Just one pancake, okay? Dobby gave me even some filled with cranberries ..." Tentatively Harry put one knee on Ron's bed and leaned forward, intent on touching the redhead's shoulder to turn him around to himself. But mere millimetres before he could make contact, Ron tensed and edged hurriedly away from him. "A half pancake? Or a few sausages? Ron, you must eat something ..." It cut deeply into Harry's heart to have to see his best friend in such a state. But what should he do? Nothing could be undone at this time.

"No," he growled more fiercely.

"Ron, you haven't eaten anything since yesterday - where you, too, did only scarcely. You can't simply stop eating, just because-"

Harry never got the chance to finish his sentence, as in the next instance, Ron turned around in a flash and lunged at him, sending them both hurling to the ground and knocking the breath out of the Boy-Who-Lived-More-Than-Twice. "HOW DARE YOU?!" the redhead screamed, pummelling his friend, not caring if he'd hurt him severely. He'd always been stronger than Harry, and even now, as Harry didn't suffer from malnutrition anymore, he was superior, of which he took advantage of.

Harry merely tried to block the blows he received, not caring to defend himself. It was only physical pain, anyway, and it confirmed that he was still alive. He knew it was hard for Ron, but he could only guess how hard it truly was. Losing a loved one, a family member, a sister. Harry had lost, that much was true, he'd lost every living family members by blood he'd had, in fact. But he hadn't had an emotional link with them. So he couldn't compare the situations.

Ginny, however, was ... had been the sister of his best friend. Did that make her his sister, too?

As the power left Ron's exhausted body, which was rather quick considering the lack of food, he collapsed, still on top of Harry. Clasping the sides of his robes, Ron buried his face in shirt and let lose of his pent-up emotions. Forceful sobs escaped his burning throat, he shuddered with the effort of staying calm. It was the first time since her death that anyone got a reaction out of him. Due to the temporary communication break-down in the entire Wizarding World, they were cut off. Nobody of his family knew, yet. "It's ... it's just ... not fair! She was so young! She was ..." Ron's sobs grew louder, silencing his words. 'She was too young ... I should have protected her ... as the big brother I had to be! She was too young, it should have been me instead ...'

Rather awkwardly, Harry put his arms around his friend and held him close, letting him cry as long as he needed. Whispering soothing, meaningless words, he closed his eyes and succumbed to his own grief.