Crucio

Harry forced himself to turn away from the splintered wood that had erupted from the wall and jarred its way into the ceiling. Snape's cupboard, the one that had probably been filled with potions, was gone...hell, the entire bloody corridor and Harry's bedroom beyond were gone. He couldn't really imagine how the bed hadn't been blown to ashes as well. Blown to ashes...

"Sirius?" It was plea now.

There was a soft rustling to the left. Harry swung his wand around. A foot.

Harry almost fell over in his haste to get to the space next to the imploded bureau...the dark shadow that had eluded him as he'd shoved Dodgy's head out of his lap in the previous minutes. And there it was again. Dodgy's grimacing features stared lifelessly at the bloodied leg.

All the hope died in Harry's throat as he saw the dark fabric of Snape's dressing gown, draping in gruesome elegance over one of Dodgy's floppy ears. So anxious, that he barely registered the horror of what he was doing, Harry nudged the head aside with the toe of his trainer and dropped to his knees.

Snape was wheezing...or maybe he was trying to say something, Harry really couldn't be certain. Especially with the way his heartbeats seemed to be roaring in his ears. Harry tried to stay calm as he pushed flotsam away from where he hoped Snape's head was.

Snape blinked fuzzily up at him.

"Professor?" Harry heard his own voice as though it was coming through a long tunnel.

"Potter?" Snape demanded. Harry stared at him; the professor sounded...panicked? It made sense he supposed; Snape's main job at the moment was to keep him alive. "Potter!"

"Yes, sir," Harry answered, feeling very slow; hadn't he already answered? He gazed down at the professor, wondering blankly how he'd managed to find him. "I need to find Sirius..." Harry nodded, more to himself than Snape. Snape could help him search through the rubble. Sirius might be hiding...

--

"Black?" Severus blinked several more times, and tried to ignore the streams of pain throughout his limbs. Smashing into walls with such force would do his recovery no good. Although it hardly mattered anymore. He couldn't return to the Dark Lord.

"I can't find him." Snape didn't like the fevered look in Potter's eyes. "I found Dodgy's head," he added, sounding a hairsbreadth from hysterical.

Severus stared at the black-haired boy. "His...head."

"It was in my lap," Potter supplied with a short shudder. "I can't find Sirius though, and I should be able to. It's not such a very large room." His eyes were large and pleading. Severus narrowed his eyes.

"Help me up," he demanded. Potter complied hurriedly, and with screeching limbs, Severus was leaning tentatively against the wrecked bureau, being careful not stir too much, lest he be impaled by a stray piece of wood. Severus glared at Potter, who was fidgeting. "Your wand," Severus said shortly. How had the daft boy not thought of this; no matter how anxious he was?

Potter didn't even ask why this time. He simply handed the holly over.

"Point me, Sirius Black," Severus commanded impatiently. Potter's wand went berserk, waving wildly back and forth, and then spinning around and around. Severus' lips pressed together. Potter was staring at his wand in confusion; he obviously hadn't understood. "He's dead," Severus murmured through his lips' pinched edges, softening the blow where he normally wouldn't, hoping Potter would be able to control himself.

It was a foolish hope.

Potter's mouth opened, but there was no immediate sound. His mouth moved strangely, almost in the same way the house elf's had. And then his eyes began darting around, belatedly following the movements of the Point Me Spell, as he finally began to understand just what had happened to Black.

"No!"

Against his will, the single gasped word made Severus flinch. And then Potter was repeating it over and over again. A litany of fury and despair. Until, for one darkening moment, Potter's eyes focused. His gaze honed in on Severus.

"I'll kill him," he declared, the words calm and ugly. "I'll make the bastard pay for this. I'll kill him." A new litany was born. Severus watched, almost with fascination, as Potter began to work himself into frenzy, the words pouring from his lips with a fervor Severus would never have suspected the boy capable of.

Like a madman now, Potter's hand lashed out toward the wand in Severus' hand, as though he meant to complete his vow immediately. Nearly caught off guard, Severus hastily uttered a threatening snarl as he used Potter's wand to end the idiot's little maniacal fantasy.

Potter pitched forward, and it was with every muscle screaming at him that Severus managed to catch him under the armpits before he crashed into a lethal scrap of bureau.

Severus, having no better place to set him, and no strength to continue holding him, lowered Potter's head toward his chest. Severus' momentary burst of strength evaporated quickly and his arms all but flopped into his lap before he could place Potter in a bearable position; Potter's cheek slumped against Severus' bunched dressing gown sleeve, leaving Severus' arm trapped below it.

Instinctively, Severus sucked in a breath, trying to move his torso as far from Potter's face and upper body as possible. A splintered piece of oak rebuked his effort. Severus hastily twisted his shoulder away from the sharp wood, gasping as he did.

There was nowhere to go.

Pity reflex had taken control of his reaction. He should have slapped some sense into the irksome boy instead of putting him to sleep. But instinct had overcome him; at least now he could think in silence. And there was, indeed, much to think about. Much to plan.

Black's death certainly could have been timed better, Severus thought resentfully. He did not relish the thought that Potter, once again, had become his sole responsibility. At least Black, for a short time, had been good for something.

--

"Potter!"

The low, impatient hiss grated against Harry's senses. He kept his eyes firmly closed. If he opened them, Sirius would be gone. Sirius...Sirius would be dead. And Snape...Harry swallowed...Snape would have survived.

In that eternal moment, he hated Snape. Hated him more than he had even when Snape had been attacking him. Hated him more than he hated Voldemort for murdering Sirius.

"I hate you."

He hadn't meant to say it, but he savored the way the words felt on his tongue. So much that he wanted to say it again.

"The feeling is mutual, Potter," Snape's ragged voice informed him, and Harry opened his eyes. The words no longer tasted as good. Snape was probably glad to be hated by him. "Get off my lap," Snape ordered in the raspy voice Harry had become accustomed to in the last few days.

His lap?

When the words penetrated his brain, Harry quickly complied, which was a mistake. Sharp jabs of pain jolted his shoulders and shoulder blades. He ignored them and scooted as far away from Snape as possible, which unfortunately wasn't particularly far. Dodgy's head blocked his exit.

Harry knew an urge then to pick up one of the beams of fallen wood and as he would any Bludger, send the head flying through the caved-in roof. It would be immensely satisfying. Though not as satisfying as using Snape's head instead.

He glared at Snape. Snape glared right back.

"Give me my wand," Harry suddenly growled, finding it resting beside Snape's leg.

"Get it yourself," Snape replied with a scorn that was barely muted, even though Snape was clearly still having difficulty speaking. Good, Harry thought bitterly, serve him right.

His conscience didn't even blink at the hateful silent commentary.

Harry snaked his arm forward and swiped up his wand, giving Snape no chance to change his mind. After all, Snape didn't have his own wand...

Harry's eyes widened as Snape's fingers moved a little in his lap; he was clutching his wand tightly in his left hand; his knuckles were taut with the effort. "But..." Harry's eyelids blinked rapidly of their own accord and harsh, unwelcome emotion clogged his throat. "Sirius..." he tried to explain, but he couldn't. He couldn't. Sirius had been holding that wand. Had slid it carefully into his pocket.

And now there was nothing left. Wet, choking heat burst through Harry's lips as he tried desperately to hold back the sob. Nothing left of Sirius, except Snape's wand. "Your fucking wand!" The sobs hauled the fury through and then Harry had to turn away as the dam of grief in his chest gave way. "Sirius..."

--

Potter wailed Black's name.

These tears were very different from the ones Severus had witnessed before from Potter. Potter's slight body was wracking, not with tremors that fear had too long pent up, but with anguished heaves. It was uncontrolled and raw. And it made Severus frustratingly uncomfortable.

He couldn't even turn his face from it, not with the bureau's splinters grazing his cheek. He closed his eyes. He would have preferred to tell the whelp to cease the emotional display, but he doubted very much Potter would have been able to comply.

With his eyes firmly cut off from the sight, the sounds of Potter's despair were sharper. The sobs burrowed into conscience, digging into every nerve, and fraying each slowly until Severus' patience finally erupted. His eyes popped open again and he brought his wand up a little, fully intending to hex Potter into silence.

His wand arm stilled.

Potter's sobs were growing quieter on their own. Severus watched silently as long draughts of air were pulled into the boy's chest, and with each, the boy gave a wretched shudder. It was as if he was dragging each mournful wail into his lungs in order to bury it. Potter's glasses had been pushed up onto his forehead; the heels of his palms were digging into his eyes, as though the boy meant to impale his eyes long enough for them to cease to function.

It wasn't long before Potter was snuffling loudly, obviously making some attempt--pathetic as it was--to bring himself under control. Severus finally turned away in disgust when Potter began scrubbing at his nose and eyes with his bare arm; his sleeve had been shorn off at some point.

Once Potter was largely silent, except for an occasional hitched breath, Severus turned back to him; his lip curled a little. Potter was hugging his knees, and Severus wondered fleetingly if he was remembering...imagining that he was embracing Black. Severus scowled at the immature child that Potter was obviously morphing into.

--

"We will need to leave."

Harry didn't look up at the stark words; his face was buried against his crossed arms, his shoulders hunched up around his ears. He didn't care.

"The Dark Lord knows where we are."

Harry didn't care about that either. "Let him come," he whispered, mostly to himself.

"He will kill us both," Snape scathed...funny that he could scathe in such a low, un-alarming tone.

"Let him."

"Potter, get up."

Harry didn't even bother to answer the irritated order.

"Potter." Once again, Snape was hissing at him. "If the wards around this shack fail, the Dark Lord will find us instantly."

Harry shrugged. What did it matter? What did any of that matter? Sirius was dead. As far as Harry knew, they were all dead. The Dursleys certainly were by now. And Dumbledore was as good as. For all he knew, Ron and Hermione were dead too.

There was no one left to save.

"Do you believe Black would want this?"

Harry's head jerked up sharply. Snape was staring at him, his dark eyes bottomless. There was a vicious sneer on his ugly face.

"Shut up." Bastard. Utter bastard.

"Do you?" Snape challenged, his voice still fuzzy and weak, thought oddly, it seemed almost uncontrolled. "How would Black feel to see you, sitting there without courage? To see you defeated?"

"Shut up!" Harry raged. He pushed himself to his feet and stomped the two steps back to Snape. He towered over him. "It doesn't matter what Sirius wants! He's dead, Snape! Dead!"

"Yes," Snape said snidely, "and if we do not leave now, you will be dead as well."

"I don't care!" Harry shouted down at him as he jabbed his wand close to Snape's face, and imagined for one second what it would be like to spear Snape's face through with the holly. Wondered if blood would flow instantly...or if the crimson truth would wait until he had pulled his wand out again.

"Black would care."

As if he'd been popped, Harry's arms fluttered helplessly back to his sides. Even his legs began to feel like jelly; he sank to his knees. Sirius would care...

"Sirius..." He couldn't stop the whispered pain as it escaped. "Voldemort killed him," Harry continued, his swallow scraping along his throat. He gnashed his together in sudden fury. "I'll kill him." The words sounded right. He thought he almost remembered saying them before. He liked the way they had sounded then as well.

"Yes," Snape agreed on a drawl, and Harry was momentarily distracted as he wondered why Snape sounded so sure of it. Snape's lips curled, the vicious sneer returning to his lips. "That is why he has been attempting to kill you since you were a child. Because you are destined to kill him."

Harry stared at his professor.

"The prophecy, Potter." It was almost sarcasm, as if Harry was supposed to simply know what the damned prophecy had said. That's what the prophecy had said!

"How do you know?" Harry demanded, suddenly suspicious. His fists curled close to Snape's dressing gown, as if Harry meant to pull the edges tight and strangle the information from the professor.

"How do I know?" Snape echoed. Even Snape's scratchy mumbles were sarcastic. But before Harry could either snap at him or demand again an explanation, Snape's eyes seemed to come into a focus they'd been missing for days now. "I know, Potter because the Headmaster told me." It was almost a jeer, a taunt that Dumbledore had entrusted Snape with knowledge that he had purposely kept from Harry. But Harry didn't care. Not now.

The prophecy foretold Voldemort's death. At Harry's own hand.

His veins were alive again...almost pulsing with a deep, thrumming satisfaction. Voldemort must believe this prophecy. Voldemort, who was not, by any measure, stupid. Voldemort believed in the prophecy so fervently that he'd been trying to kill Harry for years. Before Harry could kill him.

Harry almost smiled. Revenge would be his. Fate, in fact, dictated it.