***

For the next three days Harry studied, reading book after book, and spending what little time he didn't spend reading staring off into the distance in either his room or the kitchen, mulling things over, playing a mental game of Wizard's Chess.

From time to time, he went either to the lab or to the third floor to pester Snape for more reference material on Merlin. If Snape was surprised at Harry's pestering him for books rather than sex, he hid it well--his first request had garnered a raised eyebrow, but that was all.

Harry was in the kitchen, going over his plan for what felt like the three-thousandth time, when he heard Snape's steps descending the stairs. He thought they'd go right on past him and down to the lab, but no--Snape paused for the briefest moment in the kitchen doorway, and then crossed the room to sit in the kitchen chair opposite. Harry looked at him with as much coolness as he could muster--Snape sat up straight with his arms crossed, looking very much like someone who was not in the mood to be trifled with.

"I'm not an idiot, Potter." He said waspishly.

Harry looked down at the table so he wouldn't stare, and crossed his own arms for good measure, glad for the moment that he was sitting at the table, because when Snape used that particular tone with him it just... it was absolutely ridiculous. Over the past three days he'd learned all kinds of things which, if the books were correct, he would someday be able to do--utterly amazing, incredible things. And yet, he seemed to have no control at all over his own traitorous, treacherous body. He shifted in his chair, then forced himself to be still. "Don't remember saying you were," he mumbled with quiet belligerence.

"You must think I am, if you presume that I would fail to notice that you are up to something." Snape's chair creaked. "In regards to clandestine matters, I'm afraid that your dubious talents are sadly unable to match even the abysmally marginal level of efficacy you usually aspire to."

Harry simply shrugged. He wasn't about to respond to that, not unless Snape tacked 'so come over here at once and suck my cock, you impudent brat' onto the end of it. Which wasn't bloody likely.

Snape's chair creaked again. "Well?"

Harry glanced up briefly. "Well what?"

Snape's eyes got very narrow very quickly. "Do not try my patience any further, Mr. Potter. It is blatantly obvious that you are up to something, and whatever it is, I assure you I won't stand for it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "What are you going to do, send me to bed without supper?"

Snape's eyebrow lifted. "Would you prefer a sound spanking?"

Harry choked, blushed, and knew he was done for. He put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands, the one way he could think of to keep from leaping over the table and straddling the maddening git and... "It's, it's nothing, I just... I just wanted to help, that's all." That much was true, anyway, it just didn't include the part about how he wanted to find a way to help that would make Snape stop thinking of him as a child, and subsequently stop being so unhappy about having one off with him.

"Hm..." A pause. "Potter, when you get into a helpful mood, I get very nervous; a corollary I'm sure you understand. Now, how exactly were you planning to 'help'?"

Harry shook his head. "Never mind. I just was. I thought I could... do something."

Snape sighed. "Yes, you can do many things, most of which are either immoral, dangerous, or a piquant combination of both. But for now, I think you should consider leaving the sinister plotting to those of us who have an aptitude for it, and go to bed."

He heard Snape push away from the table, and was surprised--he'd been expecting more of an interrogation, not just a vaguely insulting slap on the wrist. He wondered whether he should be relieved, offended, or disappointed--

"Potter," Snape's voice, from the doorway.

"Yes?" he said quietly.

"Eat supper first. You really are appallingly undernourished."

Harry listened to the sound of Snape's footsteps going away, and the lab door closing. He sighed, and put his head down on the table, rocking back and forth a little. He'd made a promise to himself, for very good reasons, and he supposed it didn't matter if it felt like it was tearing him to bits inside--the guilt would be worse, wouldn't it? The guilt had been *terrible*, a deep and abiding misery, so yes, that would be worse.

For now, he'd just have to believe that he'd either find a way out of this, or, failing that, that some day in the future it wouldn't hurt so much.

"Some day it won't hurt so much," he said softly, just to see if it sounded as ridiculous out loud as it did when it was only in his head, and then snorted. "Right. And on that day, I'll gladly lick Voldemort's slimy boots."

"Could be sooner than you think, Harry," said a voice near his ear, and Harry froze, his internal temperature plummeting to zero in a split second and he *knew* he had to move, but before he could free his locked muscles he heard a muttered curse, and the next moment there were ropes snaking round him, wrapping him tight to his chair. His stomach contracted to a shivering ball of fear and rage as he lifted his head--

To see Bellatrix Lestrange standing next to his chair, her mad eyes glittering wildly, a quality shared by the wicked-looking knife in her hand. As he watched, her thumb caressed the knife-blade, and her eyes took on a covetous kind of twinkle. "What's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"

***

Bellatrix turned round and round in the kitchen, looking at everything. "I can't believe that this--*this very house*--is where you've been hiding all this time." She glanced at him then, amused. "I wondered why it was so hard to get in here. But don't you know that this house was a Dark stronghold? For generations upon generations--oh, if these walls could talk--" she reached out and touched one, almost stroking it. "They would scream."

"How did you find me?" Harry asked through numb lips. He didn't really know what he was asking, but he knew that he wanted this chance, one chance, to find out whether he had the kind of power that Snape thought he did. He wanted the ropes off him, and that would take time, so it would be best to keep her talking if he could.

Bellatrix giggled girlishly, a high-pitched sound that sent a shiver up his back. Harry ignored it, and focused on the ropes. "I wasn't looking for *you*--I mean, of course I was, we all are, but that's not why I'm here." She took another turn of the kitchen. "This house has a rich and powerful history, you know, and with Sirius the blood-traitor gone to the great dog-pound in the sky..." she glanced at him slyly, and Harry met her eyes, giving her nothing, his attention on the ropes. "I thought that this might be the perfect place for us to... to regroup--"

Harry's attention wavered for a moment. "You came here looking for a new headquarters?" he asked in disbelief.

She nodded happily. "Yes! I thought... I felt it might be a lucky place for us--" she darted towards him suddenly, and Harry had to struggle not to flinch as she caressed his cheek with one sharp fingernail. "And oh, how very right I was--lucky me..." She bent at the waist, moving closer to him until their eyes were level. In one split second, all the girlish glee vanished from her face, and he was staring into the wide, maddened eyes of a cold killer. "We have a score to settle, you and I."

Harry felt sweat spring out on his forehead, and he was hunting frantically for something to say that might get her away from him so he could go back to working on the ropes, but Bellatrix turned away on her own, almost cringed away, holding her head tightly. "Oh... don't. Can't--" she broke off, panting, and Harry wondered if perhaps she was a bit crazier than anyone knew.

A thought occurred to him then, a slender, distant hope, and he abandoned his work on the ropes and closed his eyes, gathering his energies, pulling up power from below. When his eyes opened, everything seemed to stand out in stark relief, every detail etched clearly in his vision. He took a deep breath. "Bellatrix."

Bellatrix jerked violently, and then turned to look at him, her face waxy and blank. "Yes?" she said in a soft voice.

"Undo the ropes," he said, and she drew her wand at once, muttered a spell, and then the ropes were gone and he was free. He felt a burst of excitement, but he kept it in check, and got to his feet slowly.

"Sit down." She walked slowly to the table, drew out a chair and sat in it. Beneath the blank look he could see muscles twitching in her face, and he could *feel* her struggling. He took another breath. "Stop fighting me." As he watched, her face abruptly went moony and slack. A bit of drool spilled from the corner of her mouth.

He stood next to her chair, thinking, his heart racing in his chest--but the moment his mind turned to other things she began twitching again. He turned to her, pushing gently until she went limp once more. He trembled, from nerves rather than exertion--he had his chance, and he was lucky that he'd been thinking things over for the past few days, and knew pretty much where he wanted to go. He'd have to just do his best, and keep his attention where it needed to be. "I want... I want you to tell me about the curse. Tell me everything."

Bellatrix blinked slowly. "Obsessius curse," she said, sounding vague and far-away, almost dreamy. "Blood curse. Not cast for almost a thousand years. My Lord helped to structure it, fed his power into it, helped me to cast it." Her eyes rolled suddenly and locked onto him. "Meant for you."

Harry swallowed. "How do... how can it be broken?"

Bellatrix smiled, and a little more drool trickled down onto her blouse. "Can't. Blood curse. In the blood. Death will break it--his death." Another slow blink. "You should kill him," she said with wistful eagerness.

The bitter rage and furious misery that surged through him at her response overwhelmed his ability to concentrate, and the next thing he knew she was growling like a cornered animal, her hands raised to claws and moving towards his face. "Be still, you hateful bitch!" he hissed, pushing much harder than he'd intended to, and she rocked in her chair, her head flying backwards as if he'd slapped her.

When Bellatrix twitched her head back up, Harry's stomach dropped, skidded as if on some queasy surface, and dropped off into nothingness--her eyes were crimson, filmed with blood, and grotesque bloody tears welled on her lower lids.

"Immunity," he said quickly, almost stuttering, swallowing back a metallic tang of panic. "How does the immunity work?"

She said nothing, only sat there blinking until red rivulets dripped down both her cheeks. He leaned close, grappling for control, feeling for her mind. "Answer me. Now."

Bellatrix made a sudden high-pitched squealing noise that made him jump a little, and his stomach went cold with revulsion when a tremendous gout of blood gushed from her nose, drenching her where she sat. "Masterstroke," she whispered. "My Lord's. He, and all those loyal to Him, are immune. Keeps us safe. Shows us traitors." She grinned, red teeth gnashing, and her bleeding eyes locked onto him again. "There have been some, you know."

Harry couldn't stop shaking. He was caught, so terribly caught between rage and fear--he wasn't trying to hurt her, and she'd bled so *much*...

His attention had slipped again, and when he realized it he tensed, his head whipping round to look at her, ready for anything--

But there was nothing. Her head hung down, her hands limp and upturned on her lap, spattered with blood. She seemed to be whispering something very quietly, over and over--he leaned forward, ready to push at her if he had to. "So sorry, so sorry, so sorry, so sorry..."

Harry's throat tightened. "Why are you sorry?"

At first there was only noise, a low, choked gurgling that made him feel nauseous. Then a soft rasp of breath as her airway cleared. "I am... torn. Not pure. For the first time. My Lord... he knows, he believes, your power. He wants to see you, wants to talk with you."

Harry took an involuntary step backwards. "What?" He said harshly, and without any conscious decision on his part, pushed her again. Bellatrix vomited a dark stream of black-clotted blood, and Harry retreated in horror, pulling in his power, pushing it down, not caring if she came at him now.

She didn't, but she slumped in the chair, not quite sliding out of it. "He wants to talk to you," the words were no more than a throttled wheeze, but they were hellishly clear to him anyway. "I want... all I want is revenge."

"Revenge," he repeated slowly, his lips numb.

She coughed, and he heard a patter of blood droplets spray across the floor. "I... loved... Walden," she rasped. "You killed him."

Harry blinked, confused--and confusion was a relief, in comparison with the wretched mess that made up the rest of his feelings. "I...? You think I killed MacNair?"

A dark flutter snagged the edge of his peripheral vision, and Harry looked up to see Snape standing in the doorway, gazing at him with wide, horrified, *guilty* eyes.

"Oh my God," Harry said weakly.

***

Snape moved smoothly into the room, his face now entirely, carefully blank. He moved to Bellatrix and knelt by her, tilting her head gently up. "What did you hit her with?"

"I didn't hit her!" Harry said in a shrill, wavery voice that didn't sound anything like his own. His stomach was a roiling pit of ugliness, and his skin felt clammy and cold. "I didn't! I... she used a rope spell on me, and I... tried to use voice compulsion on her so I could get free."

Snape's dark eyes turned towards him. "You've learned to do that?"

Harry felt his lower lip tremble, and his eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "Not very well, apparently--"

"Mr. Potter!" Snape's voice sounded like a whipcrack in the quiet room. "Stop that at once. We have no time for it!"

But it was too late; Harry was past staving off the panic that had risen up in him. His legs felt terribly weak, and his throat kept catching in the middle of every breath, and he wondered if he was going to throw up. There was no stopping the torrent of words that poured out of him. "I didn't mean to hurt her--I didn't want to hurt her, but she said... she said I... we've got to do something, got to help her--St. Mungo's, they'll know what to do, won't they? But what if they can't help her? What if they have questions--what do I tell them? What do I say--"

His words were cut off by a sharp, sickening crack, and Harry's first thought was that Snape had slapped him and he just hadn't felt it--but no, Snape was nowhere near him. Snape was still with Bellatrix, still had her head in his hands, only now her eyes looked like blood-smeared marbles and she was staring at the ceiling with her neck twisted at an impossible angle...

Snape let her go, and she slithered to the floor with an appalling thud. He looked at Harry, wiping his hands on his robes, his eyes pits of grim fire. "You say nothing. To no-one. Ever."

Harry stared at him, his mouth open, too deep in shock to say a word. Snape drew himself up, frowning down from what seemed like a great height. "You should go now. Go to Albus--you can tell him what happened. He'll understand."

Harry made no conscious decision to move, but the next moment he found himself tottering towards the fireplace on numb legs, his hands out in front of him in case he stumbled. When he reached the hearth, however, he stopped, his head down, listening to the sound of his frantic, stuttering heartbeat. No. As bad as this was, he couldn't go yet.

He turned around. Snape stood over the body on the floor, looking as sober and grave as ever, the only expression on his face a kind of mild annoyance, like an undertaker who'd arrived too early. As if nothing... as if nothing of any great importance had just happened.

Harry tried to speak, choked, and tried again, but was only able to produce the barest whisper. "Is it true? What she... what she said I did?"

Snape's expression didn't flicker. "Yes. But she's dead. You are not. Now go."

Harry *wanted* to go, he really did; only Snape's answer to his question stretched out like melting taffy in his ears, and his scope of vision had narrowed to a pinhole centered in a vortex of black and purple clouds, and he didn't seem to have a body anymore--only a sense of falling, a spark of consciousness tumbling through an endless vast emptiness, spinning into an insignificance he was obscurely grateful for.

Then there was nothing at all.

***

Although he didn't remember it, he'd been told that Hagrid was the one who found him wandering over the Hogwarts grounds, dazed and mumbling. And it was Hagrid he stayed with; preferring his simple company and rustic hut to the cold stone complexities of the castle. Harry spent as much time as possible out of doors, at least in the daytime. Dusk brought on chill winds and heavy purple clouds that he found disquieting for some reason, driving him indoors to sit before the fire for hours, silent and still, gazing into the flames and trying very hard not to think about anything.

Hagrid nursed him in a subtle, unobtrusive way; gave him simple, straightforward physical work to keep him occupied, and didn't lecture him or, what would have been worse, try to make him talk about it. Occasionally they would work together, labouring side by side until Harry was sweaty and dusty and shaking with fatigue from trying to keep up--and oddly, those were the times when the pain that ate at him seemed most distant, the times he liked best. Hagrid would ruffle his messy, too-long hair when they were done, and grin at him, and Harry would feel a tiny pang inside for the boy he'd been, and the boyhood he now felt he'd left behind forever.

It was easy, working to exhaustion every day in order to bludgeon himself into a stuporous sleep every night, to lose track of the passing days. But in his initial, hazily-remembered interview with Dumbledore (he could remember wanting to cry and not being able to, but not much of anything that was actually said), the Headmaster had told him they'd talk again in a week; so when he came in from the afternoon's chores and saw Dumbledore rather than Hagrid sitting by the fire, he figured a week must have passed.

"Harry," Dumbledore said, turning to him. "I thought you might prefer here to my office for... for our talk. But if you like, we can go--"

"Here's fine," Harry said dully, wiping his gritty face with the handkerchief Hagrid had given him. He'd known this was coming, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He got some water and drank it, moving without any undue haste, and then reluctantly sat down in the chair opposite Dumbledore's, staring into his empty glass.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Hagrid tells me you're doing well here. He says he never would have been able to get ready for the new school year if it weren't for your help, and that the gardens have never bloomed so--"

"Look," Harry interrupted, glancing up. "I know you're trying to, to be nice, but... if you don't mind, I'd rather just get this over with. Why don't you tell me what's going to be done to me, and we'll get on with it?"

Dumbledore's head tilted quizzically. "What's going to be done to you?"

Harry swallowed. "For... for killing MacNair. Do I go to Azkaban?"

A myopic blink. "My dear boy--no! Nothing at all will be 'done to you', and you *certainly* aren't going to Azkaban prison."

"I killed a man," Harry said tonelessly.

Dumbledore peered gravely over his glasses. "You defended yourself, and saved a fellow member of the Order. Surely you must know that."

Harry looked into the fire. "I still don't remember it."

Dumbledore sighed. "Yes, I think that might be an effect of the latency phase of your Gift. But I hope that soon--"

"I don't want to remember," Harry said quickly. He looked back at Dumbledore. "I know he's dead, and that I did it. That's all I need to know." Harry shifted in his chair. "So... that's it? No inquiry? No appearances before the Ministry?" He heard the petulant anger in his own voice, knew it to be both useless and misplaced, but he couldn't help it. "I mean... last year, I used magic to hold off some Dementors and I went through hell over it. This year, I kill somebody, and... what? 'Good one, Harry'?"

Dumbledore lowered his head, blinking owlishly. "Harry, I see no need to inform the Ministry of these latest developments. It is Order business, and it is not the practise of the Order to divulge all knowledge of events to the Ministry. Not when it would create... complications."

Harry fought off the sudden chill in his blood, and closed his eyes for a moment. "Yes--there's nothing worse than a bureaucracy for mucking up a good political intrigue."

When Harry opened his eyes, he saw that Dumbledore was frowning. "You've picked up some of Severus' habits, I think. I don't believe they entirely suit you."

Harry sighed, and looked into the fire again. The jumbled mess of conflicting emotions that rose up in him every time he thought about Snape was enough to make him try very hard not to think about him at all--an effort that was entirely futile. But right now, in the context of Dumbledore's comment, the clearest thing he knew was that he missed him. He swallowed, and then turned to Dumbledore again. "Is he... where did you put him?" he asked, very softly.

"I beg your pardon?"

Harry cleared his throat. "I mean... is he safe? He couldn't have stayed at Grimmauld Place; not after..."

"No," Dumbledore said carefully, "of course not. And yes, he's safe. He's... in a safe place."

Harry caught the note of caution in the Headmaster's voice, and looked up. "What? Are you... is there something you're not telling me, or are you just trying to keep me away from him? Is he all right?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Severus is fine--he's perfectly fine. And no, I'm not trying to keep you away from him--but you must see, Harry, that it's for the best that you don't... that you aren't in close communication; at least for a while."

Harry realized that his hand had clenched very tightly on his water glass, and made himself stop. "Why?"

Dumbledore leaned forward, his voice calm and earnest. "Your time with Severus was designed with a specific purpose in mind: to provide you with an opportunity for learning and advancement with regard to your newfound abilities. Instead, there was a... an unfortunate incident, as a result of which you had a... an emotional break--"

"That wasn't Snape's fault," Harry said hotly. "Everything that happened--it was my fault, I did it. He tried to teach me control, but--"

"Harry, please," Dumbledore said quietly, one hand raised. "I didn't come here today to assign blame, or to ask you for an evaluation of Severus' fitness as a teacher--"

Harry swept his hair out of his eyes impatiently. "But you can't punish *him* for things that I--"

"I am not punishing anybody," Dumbledore said resolutely. "I am simply trying to talk to you, so that we can address some rather... pressing matters that have arisen. Matters which, I might add, are entirely unrelated to Professor Snape."

Harry rested his head in his hands for a moment, and took a deep breath. He didn't want to be 'managed'--which was what the change of topic amounted to--but really, what good would it do him to talk about Snape at this point? Especially when he wasn't entirely sure himself what he wanted to say, other than what he'd just said--and Dumbledore had obviously already made up his mind about all that. Harry decided to let it go. For now. He looked up. "What pressing matters?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I think," he said, studying Harry carefully, " now that you've had an opportunity to rest, that it might be time to... to enlighten certain people regarding your Gift."

Harry blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Why? Why would you want to do that?"

Dumbledore sat up straight. "From what I've heard from you, it seems likely that Voldemort himself is aware of your newfound power--or at least, the possibility of it; and that he has, in response, changed his strategy."

"She... she said he wanted to talk to me, whatever that means. But... the prophecy--"

Dumbledore shook his head. "To the best of my knowledge, Voldemort is still ignorant of the information contained in the prophecy. But there's no doubt that he is fully aware that your Gift would mean his inevitable doom, unless he can... persuade you otherwise."

Harry cradled his head in his hands. "You mean, you mean that after all--after everything that's happened, he wants to... what? Call some kind of truce?" Harry felt like he was reeling, just from the idea.

Dumbledore appeared to be thinking it over. "Ostensibly, yes; but really it's simply a matter of survival; of neutralizing that which he knows he cannot defeat. And it would appeal to him, I think, to ruin you through treachery, betrayal, and a mask of friendship--he's done it to others in the past."

Harry's first thought, perhaps predictably, was of Snape, but he didn't ask--Dumbledore wouldn't tell him, anyway. He rubbed his forehead, trying to blink away the beginnings of what felt like a sizeable headache. "Whether he has or not, he's not going to do it to me. But none of that explains why you think we should... tell people about it. About me."

Dumbledore regarded him solemnly. "Voldemort's other option, the other possibility should he fail to gain your trust, is that he might use the information he has to forge an alliance with several other factions--groups and peoples to whom he could represent the more... threatening aspects of the situation."

Harry blinked. "Threatening aspects?"

A slow nod. "To the best of my knowledge, you are the most powerful wizard since Merlin himself," Dumbledore said with solemn gravity. "That fact alone could be... twisted, used to frighten people--those who don't know you, of course."

Harry looked down at his feet, unwilling to meet Dumbledore's eyes. "And you want to... counteract that?"

"Exactly, Harry." Dumbledore sounded pleased. "And I think that this is the time to do it. Now, before Voldemort is able to gain any ground."

Harry rubbed one dirt-smutched trainer over the other, looking only at his feet. "What would I have to do?"

Dumbledore cleared his throat briefly. "Well, you would need to continue with your studies, certainly; refine your control--"

"I have no control," Harry cut in quietly.

A pause. "Well, I'm sure I can arrange to provide you with the opportunity to learn some. Other than that, you wouldn't have to do much at all, except be yourself."

"Be myself..."

"Yes. I would take care of informing the people who need to know about your Gift. They'll have questions, certainly, but you don't need to worry about that--I won't allow you to be badgered."

Harry looked up. "Why would they badger me?"

Dumbledore frowned. "Because often great power can inspire great fervor in people. When you were a baby, I left you with your relatives not only because it offered you the greatest chance of safety, but also because I wanted to spare you the experience of growing up as 'The Boy Who Lived'. Fame and adulation are not always easy burdens to bear, as I think you know."

Harry nodded. He knew that well. "But you still want me to... you still want to tell people about me?"

"A few people, yes." Dumbledore sighed. "It's going to happen sooner or later, Harry; I can't spare you from that. And, as you have recently reminded me, you're not a child any longer. This way, we can at least have some measure of control over the disclosure--"

"I need... I need to think about this," Harry said quietly, squinting at the light from the fire, which suddenly seemed far too bright.

Dumbledore's hand patted his knee. "Of course. Take your time--there is much to be done, but the need for haste has not yet grown dire." From the corner of his eye he saw Dumbledore get to his feet. "I hope you will feel free to come to me, day or night, if you have any questions; or if you need--if there's anything I can do for you."

Harry nodded, but didn't say anything more. He rubbed his aching temples and closed his eyes, and waited until he heard the door click quietly shut behind Dumbledore before he opened them again, leaning back in his chair as far as he could, his unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling.

He stared at nothing until the pain in his head became a dismal, throbbing misery, listening to the chirp and twitter of crickets outside. It was sound which usually soothed him--but not tonight. He wasn't really surprised.

He realized that part of him was waiting for Hagrid to return--waiting for Hagrid to light the lamps, draw the curtains, put water on for tea, to talk and chatter at Harry about today's job done and tomorrow's job ahead--all the little domestic actions that would signal the close of another day, a return to the routine that had lulled him so well these past few days. But Hagrid didn't return, and Harry could sense Dumbledore's influence in that--to give him some time, most likely. So he had some time. Too bad he really didn't have any idea what to do with it.

Except that he did, of course. He had to think about... about everything, and then he had to decide. Choose. Resolve. Things he really didn't feel capable of, or comfortable with. Not right now, at any rate.

When he found himself standing upright, there was a moment of slight panic--he hadn't known he was going to move. But apparently some part of him knew; had already thought, decided, and chosen. So Harry observed himself as if from a distance, moving slowly around the cabin, filling his school satchel with a few necessaries, supplies, and provisions. There was a deep, subtle sadness in him, an admixture of grief and regret that seemed almost too heavy to bear, and yet his back remained straight and his eyes remained dry as he calmly finished his preparations, moving at the last with quill and parchment to the kitchen table to pen the following note:

_Dear Hagrid,

Thank you for everything, you've been a brick. Please tell the Headmaster that I'm sorry. I'm just not ready yet.

I'll see you both soon. Don't worry about me.

Love,

Harry_

He folded the note, wrote Hagrid's name across the front, and left it propped on the massive stein that served Hagrid as a teacup. The quill went into his satchel, his satchel went over his shoulder, and then he was up and out the door, and soon was standing in a sea of dewy grass in the cold light of the waning moon.

Harry closed his eyes and lowered his head, breathing deeply of the chill night air, his hands curled tightly on the strap over his shoulder as he took in the low, damp, misty scent of earth and trees, and the faintly metallic dank note that was the lake. He breathed for several long moments, his eyes flickering rapidly behind their closed lids, his lips moving silently.

When he finally raised his head he took one final look around him, glancing last at the warm, welcoming light flickering from Hagrid's windows. He scanned the stars overhead, then sighed, resettled his satchel, and vanished, leaving behind nothing but a tiny curl of blue smoke, which dispersed in the next errant breeze as if it had never been.

***

He found himself in a clearing; wide and almost perfectly round, but it was a bleak and barren waste of tumbled rock and fallen trees, ringed with tall standing pines beyond which he could see nothing. Despite the inhospitable look of the place something within him leaped up--it seemed as if he could almost hear the stars turning overhead, a high, crystalline note that harmonized effortlessly with the tick and scurry of insects and small animals hidden in the bracken, and the robust, omnipresent hum of the earth below. He shifted his feet, wondering at the feeling of being rooted, of being connected to the ground he stood upon--it had never seemed so strong before.

But as interesting as that was, it wasn't why he was here. Harry scanned the surrounding trees more carefully, and finally discovered a small break, a notch between two towering pines which overhung a narrow path, which, when he reached it, proved to be overgrown from disuse. He took it anyway, and though he was quickly swallowed up by absolute blackness he kept moving forward steadily, trusting his feet to find their way. They led him up and down, left and right, a meandering, twisting journey that would have bewildered him even if he'd been able to see.

Long before the path ended Harry saw light ahead; at first only as a vague dissolution of the darkness, but it soon grew to a yellow, homely glow, filtering to him through innumerable trees. He made for it, and followed a few last twists and turns before the path abruptly vanished into a much smaller clearing, in the center of which was a wooden cabin--not much more than a shack, actually--whose curtained windows shone brilliantly against the blackness of the night.

Harry readjusted his heavy satchel and walked to the door, his footsteps noiseless on a deep carpet of old leaves. He hesitated a moment, then drew a deep breath, and knocked.

He waited for what seemed a very long time, while the almost trancelike state that he'd been in since Dumbledore had bid him goodnight slipped away from him slowly by degrees, leaving him feeling rather uncomfortable and uncertain, not at all sure why he'd come here, wondering if maybe he should just turn and run, while he had the chance.

Harry heard the click of the latch, and abruptly his heart seemed to try to squeeze up into his throat. The door creaked open, revealing first a slender, pale hand gripping a wand, followed by Snape's cautious, wary face.

"Hullo," Harry said softly.

***

The cabin had one room--two, if you counted the attached privy--and by far the nicest feature of it was the large stone fireplace that occupied most of the north wall. There was a little wooden table with two spindly and battered chairs, a half-sink set above a few cupboards, an armchair opposite the hearth, and one medium-sized bed in an old wooden frame--that was all. But to Harry it seemed snug and warm, and with the fire going it seemed like a cheerful, if plain, sort of room. "What is this place?" he asked.

Snape, who had held the door open wordlessly so that Harry could enter, just stared at him. "How did you find me?"

Harry tried to meet his eyes, and found that he could, although it wasn't exactly easy. "I don't know. I decided to find you, and so I shut my eyes and worked at it, and then... and then I just decided to be where you were. I got close--I wound up in a clearing not too far from here."

Snape appeared to be thinking that over. "I see." He looked away for a moment, and then back to Harry again. "Did you know you could do that?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really. I thought it was worth a try, that's all."

Snape nodded. There was a silence; not an entirely comfortable one. It stretched on until Harry could feel his nerves twitching. "What do you want, Mr. Potter?"

Count on Snape to ask the one question he really didn't feel qualified to answer. "I don't know."

Snape's eyelids lowered. "Well then, I doubt you'll find it here. Now, if you don't mind, I was about to--"

"She wouldn't have recovered, would she?" Harry blurted, and then bit his lower lip, hard. He hadn't known he was going to ask that. His hands curled into fists.

Snape didn't react to the abrupt shift in topic, or seem to be at all perplexed by the question. He was silent for a few moments, his face thoughtful and grave. "I can't be sure. But if you're asking for my decidedly inexpert opinion, I don't think so. No." His voice was cool, dispassionate.

Harry felt himself start to shake. "I think... I think I need your help," he said quietly, hating the subtle tremor in his voice but unable to help it. "Will you help me?"

Snape studied him for what seemed like a long while, his face set and careful. Finally he sighed, walked over to the sink, and began to fill a small kettle at the tap. "Have you eaten?"

"I'm not hungry," Harry said, shaking harder now, squeezing his hands tight closed as if he could somehow contain the flood of relief that washed through him. He gave himself a few moments to regain his self control, then took his satchel off his shoulder and slung it next to the fireplace.

He looked around a bit, but there really wasn't much to see, other than what he'd taken in at first glance. When he found himself shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, he forced himself to be still and turned to Snape "Can I help?"

A dark look under an arched brow answered him. "I believe I am capable of cobbling together tea and toasted cheese. Sit down. Try not to blow anything up."

Harry sat down at the table, his hands folded in front of him. He had spoken truthfully when he told Snape that he wasn't hungry, but when Snape floated a laden tray to rest in front of him, he suddenly felt famished. He fell to with a will, glad to have something to occupy his attention when Snape joined him at the table, staring at him blandly over the edge of his cup.

"So," Harry said through a mouthful of toasted cheese, then swallowed. "What is this place? Is it yours?"

"No," Snape said steadily, "It's nobody's--or rather, I suppose it belongs to the school. In case you didn't recognize the locale, we are deep inside the Forbidden Forest, in a cabin that used to belong to a former Hogwarts groundskeeper; a man named Dernwinkle who was misanthropic enough to want to live here."

"Oh." Harry gulped some tea, a little alarmed at the thought that he'd been blithely walking through the Forbidden Forest at night--but really, he didn't have anything to fear, he supposed. That idea would take some getting used to. "'S'nice."

Snape just glared at him. Harry shrugged. "I... I like it," he said quietly. "But then, I've been staying with Hagrid, and I like his place. It's a lot more crowded than this, though."

Snape frowned. "Did you tell him where you were going?"

Harry dropped his eyes to the table. "Not... not really. I... I didn't know where you were, after all. But I left a note, and told him... told them not to worry about me--"

Snape rolled his eyes. "I'm sure that will put all their fears to rest at once." He sighed. "Tomorrow morning you will write to Albus, and tell him where you are."

Harry struggled to swallow a piece of bread that had suddenly lodged in his too-small throat. "He won't like it," he managed to say.

Snape sighed. "Of course he won't. Nobody with an ounce of sense would."

With a heroic effort, Harry finally got the bread down. He pushed his plate away, and groped for his teacup, sipping until he felt he could talk. "He... he came to see me today. He said, he said..." to Harry's surprise he found himself telling the entire story, including the uncomfortable parts about how Dumbledore seemed determined to hold Snape responsible for Harry's mistakes. He told everything without once raising his eyes from the table, haunted by a strange sense of confessing his sins, and a vague but persistent apprehension that if telling all this made him feel better, it must follow that it would make Snape feel worse.

When he was done he drew a deep breath, then let it go with an exhausted sigh. He felt wrung out, oddly hollow, drawn with fatigue--but he wasn't shaking anymore, and he found that he could look up now; could meet Snape's eyes willingly, ready for whatever might come.

Nothing at all came for a good long while. Snape appeared to be lost in thought, frowning, staring into his teacup pensively. Finally, he raised his head. "He's right, you know. People will find out about you, sooner or later. And Voldemort... he could do quite a bit of damage, I think."

Harry nodded. "I'm just... I'm not ready," he said quietly, shifting in his chair. "I don't know when... or if, I will be. But right now, I can't... I need to learn how to control this--otherwise I'm not going to be able to do anything at all, other than... other than things I can't stand to do." His voice sank to a breathless whisper at the end, but despite that he realized that now he could ask the question that had really been in him all this time, the one he hadn't known he needed to ask until now. He took a breath. "Why didn't you tell me? About... about MacNair?"

Snape shrugged. "At the time, because you didn't remember, and I needed you with your wits about you, or your equivalent thereof. Afterwards..." Snape sighed, and for the first time Harry noticed that there were dark smudges beneath his eyes, deep crescents that were nearly the same bruised-looking purple as his scar. "Because I was weak, and I failed you."

Harry was rendered momentarily speechless, but that didn't seem to matter much as Snape rose from the table at once, and moved towards the fireplace. Harry watched him wordlessly, caught between something like pain and something like tenderness--it was really neither, or possibly both, but whatever it was he felt it all the way down to his toes. He watched as Snape, with a few sweeps of his wand, transfigured the armchair on the hearth to a low, padded cot, and the threadbare tea-towel which hung next to the sink to a tattered blanket. He glanced at Harry. "You should get some rest," he said quietly. "You may have the bed."

Despite everything, Harry's first impulse was to suggest that they share it. His cheeks burned, and he looked down. "No, I... the cot will be fine for me, really," he said, earnestly. "I've had--"

"Do not argue with me, Potter," Snape growled. He moved stiffly to the bed and took one of the pillows from it, tossing it onto the cot with an irritated motion. "Tomorrow you will write to Albus, and then we will attempt to remedy your appalling lack of discipline. I suggest that you get all the rest you can."

Harry bit his lip to keep from objecting, nodded, and then went meekly for his satchel, uncertain as to whether he was glad or disappointed that he'd thought to bring his pyjamas.

***

"I like this place," Harry said, staring around at the clearing, the same one he'd first found himself in last night. It wasn't much prettier during the daytime, it was still desolate and strewn with rocks and trees, but the air seemed remarkably clear, and the sun felt wonderful, warming him through his robes.

"Of course you do," Snape said dryly. "It's a powerful nexus of energies: concentrated, unpredictable, and really quite dangerous. You probably feel right at home."

"I do," Harry agreed blithely, refusing to be needled. Then he blinked, sobering. "Why? Why this place?"

He couldn't tell if Snape's narrowed eyes were from irritation, the brilliant morning light, or both. It was exceedingly strange to see him standing out-of-doors in the sunshine; Harry almost expected him to begin to steam and curl up at the edges. He tried not to smile at the thought.

"I'm not sure that there's any practical answer to that question," Snape said brusquely. "Some places are simply more powerful than others, that's all. To the people who used to worship here, this was a sacred circle, a place where they could feel their connection to the earth much more strongly."

Harry blinked. "Is it... were they... was it Dark magic?"

Snape frowned at him. "It wasn't any kind of magic, Potter--at least, not as we understand it today. They were Muggles. The earth, the natural world--that formed the basis of their religion."

Harry thought it sounded like a much more reasonable religion than any of the C of E rubbish that his Aunt Petunia had made him sit through occasionally. "Oh," he said, "but then, did they--"

"In Merlin's name--I'm not a bloody Muggle Studies Professor!" Snape interrupted harshly. "Now do you want to do what we came here for, or would you rather continue to explore the complexities of comparative theology?"

"Sorry," Harry mumbled. He turned away from Snape and looked out over the clearing. "So... what do you want me to do?"

Snape took a step away from him. "Nothing, until I have moved further away from you--I believe I learned my lesson last time. When I have reached the cover of the trees you can feel free to start. Wreak havoc. Rain down destruction. Blow things up."

Harry held his tongue with an effort, and waited until Snape had moved back to the path. When Snape nodded at him, Harry turned, looking about for a likely object upon which to practise, finally selecting a smallish, uprooted tree stump that had somehow come to rest balanced precariously atop a stack of splintered rocks. It didn't look like it would take much to topple it. Harry faced it squarely, lowered his head, and took a deep breath as he reached in and down, looking for the source of his power. He blinked... and in that split-second of darkness he saw blood, what seemed like an ocean of it. He smelled fire and heard screams, and saw people driven like cattle, everything crushed and broken and scattered to ash with the slight wave of one small, white hand...

Harry gasped and went rigid, suddenly sweating and yet icy-cold in the sunshine. His eyes flew open, but the rest of his muscles had locked, absolutely locked, and it took him the better part of a minute before he could move again. When he could, he palmed cold sweat from his forehead, and wondered what on earth had just happened to him.

He turned around, and saw Snape staring at him from the edge of the clearing, his arms crossed, nothing on his face but his customary expression of grumpy impatience. As Harry watched, he waved one hand towards the tree stump, a silent 'get on with it, already' gesture.

Harry turned back, and looked carefully at the tree stump, which appeared to be quite ordinary, and not at all unusual. He took a few deep breaths and then lowered his head once more, feeling the somnolent hum beneath his feet, allowing it to rise up around him...

Screams. Terror. Monsters--something red and spiderish flying towards him, almost faster than eyes could see. His own hands, dripping, red to the wrist. A cunning, wicked chuckle, sly and utterly evil. Cobblestones stained with vomit, with blood, caked with bits of tissue. A black shape looming, no larger than human but *huge*, its cloak flying from its outstretched arms, a greedy embrace intended to blot out the world with blackness, blackness, blackness--

And then he was just Harry once again, standing in the sunshine of an August morning, frozen to the bone and trembling like a palsied old man. Something touched his elbow and he whirled, choking on a startled shriek, and before he could stop himself he'd sent Snape flying, hurtling high through the air and headed straight for a huge, towering pine on the other side of the clearing. Harry lifted his hands, his eyes wide and shocked, and Snape slammed to a halt in midair about a metre from the branches that would have skewered him.

Harry lowered Snape slowly, gently, never letting go until he saw the man's feet on the ground.

Then he turned away and threw up.

***

Harry stayed in the shower until his skin had gone red, scrubbing himself over and over again in water that was as hot as he could stand. When he finally emerged he was still shaking, but he managed to dry himself off, brush his teeth, and dress himself without any mishaps greater than dropping his toothbrush in the sink twice, and buttoning his shirt incorrectly so that he had to start all over again.

When he entered the other room he noticed that the cot had been transfigured back into an armchair, and a fire burned in the fireplace despite the warmth of the day and the bright sunshine coming through the windows. Snape was nowhere in sight. Harry made his way to the armchair and sank down in it, glad of the extra warmth--now that he'd left the shower, he felt chilled again.

He'd just sat down when the door opened and Snape stepped into the room, wand in hand, a large bundle of firewood levitating in front of him. A wave of the wand and the firewood sorted itself into neat stacks to the right of the hearth. Harry watched the operation carefully, since it was much easier than looking at Snape.

"Would you like some tea?" Snape asked him, and then Harry *had* to look at him--the question was calm, unemotional, as if they'd been doing nothing more than studying, and now it was time for a break.

"I almost killed you," Harry said in a low, tight, miserable voice.

Snape's eyebrow arched. "That did not, in fact, escape my notice. But I fail to see the relevance of it in relation to whether or not you want tea."

"I'm s-- I'm sorry," Harry murmured, nearly stuttering over the words. Snape simply turned away from him and began making tea. Harry looked down at the floor, wrapped his arms around himself, and kept shivering.

When Snape returned and offered him a cup, he took it. A kind of resolve had grown in him, but he didn't know if it was sufficient, or even where it might lead him--he only knew that it was where he should start. "I need to ask you something," he said quietly, and looked up. "I need to know... I need you to tell me what I did to... to MacNair."

Snape looked a bit surprised by that. "Why?"

Harry looked down into his cup. "Because... because I saw some things, out there in the clearing... Because I think, now, that it's better to know than not know. I need to know what I'm capable of."

Snape went to fetch one of the kitchen chairs, which he set carefully next to the one Harry occupied, and then sat in it, cradling his own teacup. "Mr. Potter," Snape said gravely, "are you quite sure? It's not... it is not a pretty story."

Harry forced himself to look up. "Imagine if you... the worst thing you've ever done in your life--if you knew you did it, but couldn't remember anything about it... wouldn't you want to know?"

Snape frowned. "I'll assume that's a rhetorical question. And yes, I would rather know than not know. My surprise was due only to the notion that you would think so."

"I do now," Harry said sadly.

***

Harry listened quietly as the tale unfolded, amazed at first by the way that Snape seemed to be able to discuss such ugliness so calmly. It was almost like receiving a report: dry facts, recited with all relevant detail but with no elaboration of any human feeling. Of course, he supposed that made sense, in a way--Snape had probably been issuing similar reports to Dumbledore for years. But still it was disturbing, unnerving, and it left him once again with a sense that, regardless of everything they'd been through, he didn't really know Snape at all.

But the discomfort of that soon gave way to other, more immediate concerns. It was almost as if Snape's mode of expression had infected him; Harry listened without a murmur, without a tear, without a shudder to the account of the confrontation--what his arrival had saved Snape from, the ensuing struggle, and finally how he'd held out his hand, summoned MacNair's heart to him, then squeezed it to a pulp and tossed it away. It was a bit like listening to a story of something that had happened to somebody else in the unimaginably distant past; sad, but impossible to connect with the reality, the immediacy of his living, breathing self.

But that was false, of course; a deceptive insulation that simply kept him quiet and still until the tale was told, until Snape's low, dispassionate murmur had trailed off to silence. Harry sat, barely breathing, staring at the wall as if he were attempting to memorise it, and all the while something crept up on him, insinuating itself without revealing anything of its nature until it overwhelmed him--and to his utter dismay he suddenly burst into tears, hot and terrified and miserable, curling up his arms around his head and bending down over his knees while he sobbed as if his heart would break.

He knew Snape was sitting right next to him, watching him fall apart, but he couldn't think about that right now, couldn't think about anything at all. In all the time since he'd first found out what he'd done, he'd been horrified, terribly burdened with guilty knowledge, but he hadn't been able to cry about it. Now apparently he could, and a large part of him felt that he *should*--that he needed to, that he owed it to himself as much as to the man he'd killed, that whatever hopes he might have for his future would only be found on the other side of this complexity of grief.

He cried for a long time. He cried until he couldn't anymore, until the deep, welling horror in him had been diminished, although it couldn't be expurgated. He cried until his sobbing had trailed off to occasional sniffles and hiccups, leaving behind a sad, empty hollowness that made him feel sleepy and almost floaty, as if he would have drifted up to the ceiling if he'd pushed away from his chair.

He let himself float for a while. And when he finally wiped his extremely messy face on his robes and closed his heavy eyes, he found that he could breathe; that he could breathe deeply, for what felt like the first time in forever, so he did that. He was surprised to find himself actually drifting off into a doze, and might have slipped under completely, if he hadn't felt a warm touch on the back of his neck.

It was soft and barely tangible, a silent gesture that might have been compassion or might have been solace, but which didn't feel like either one. It felt, rather, like a wordless kind of empathy, an understanding that threatened to undo him all over again. He lifted his head and saw Snape kneeling in front of him, looking at him and yes, that wasn't compassion, or comfort, or pity--Snape's eyes were free of any of the softness engendered by such feelings. But they were honest, ruthlessly honest; not sparing him anything, sparing neither of them from the pain of their shared awareness.

Harry reached out before he knew that he meant to, and before he could even begin to regret it there were strong arms round him in a new and wholly different kind of embrace; one devoid of any comfort given or taken other than that which came through common survival, a wordless acknowledgement of endurance, and the cost of enduring. It hurt, but it was what he needed, and for a few quiet minutes it was everything; it was enough.

He didn't know exactly when the shift happened--the line of demarcation seemed as thin as one breath, one single sad exhalation followed by a soft gasp--but however it happened the fact was that it did, and in the next moment Harry was excruciatingly, exquisitely aware of the man in his arms, his warmth and closeness, and he responded to it helplessly, one silent second of painful want before he locked up, outwardly rigid and inwardly cringing.

Snape's fingers moved gently over the back of his neck, and Harry bit his lips to hold back a moan. "It's all right," Snape said calmly.

Harry's eyes squeezed shut. Snape knew. Of course Snape knew. God. "No," he managed, "you don't... I didn't mean to--I didn't do that to... to get--"

"I know that," Snape told him, and pulled back from him a little. Harry regretted it--he wanted to hide his flushed, tear-stained face, but he couldn't seem to do more than shake his head mutely, clenched fists covering his shameful, tell-tale lap, his eyes downcast. "Just look at the fire," Snape told him, a quiet command.

Harry obeyed, not knowing what he was looking for but searching there nevertheless, and it was strange how bright the fire was despite the fact that the room was full of daylight--it seemed to pull him right in, mesmerize him; the perfect focus to separate him from the humiliation that had seemed so overwhelming.

Within moments he was entirely absorbed by the flickering, crackling flames, and when Snape tugged Harry's hands away from his lap he didn't see it, didn't fight it, didn't worry or wince at what was revealed. The clink and purr of his belt-buckle and zipper were muted by the sounds the fire made, reduced to subtle, metallic notes that seemed somehow entirely... outside, entirely other, nothing to do with him, really, nothing he need be concerned with--and he found that he didn't mind at all that his body was stripped and spread on the chair, wanton and needy; the rest of him was lost in contemplation, locked to the fire, exploring its mysteries without a thought of anything else.

Even when he felt himself swallowed up in hot, silken wetness all he did was gasp distantly, his hands trembled on the arms of the chair, but he stayed still, stayed with the fire. The spell held until he cried out for the first time, until the succulent mouth devouring his cock was joined by the sudden tender breach of long, slippery fingers thrusting into him--that was more than any fire could hold him to, more than anything could hold him to... and it was *devastating* to re-enter his body at that point; it brought his hands up to fist themselves in Snape's hair and wrested a throat-cracking groan from him, struggling to catch up, to encompass the kind of goodness that felt too big for one small body to hold.

Eventually he did catch up, however, and the first thing he knew for sure as his head tossed restlessly and his thighs slipped and strained to spread further was that he'd been a fool, an utter and complete fool, to think that he could ever give this up. He clung to each moment as greedily as he gripped Snape's hair, rocking back and forth between the deep, throbbing tingle feeding his arse and the wickedly clever tongue swabbing his aching cock, his soft, plaintive cries entirely inadequate to express the depth of the earthy, nearly brutal sensations that swamped him. The fact that Snape let him, let him thrust and revel and skewer himself ruthlessly on long fingers only made him want more, drew out desperation from the core of him and made him shudder with inexpressible need.

Fuck me--two little syllables, how could it be so hard, so impossible to say? He was ready, he was willing to beg, and yet he couldn't force the words out, couldn't get them past the lock on his gasping, panting throat. Somehow even that reticence in him seemed erotic, frustrating as it was, and he held those two words close to his heart, felt the warmth and heat of them beating in his blood as he abandoned himself entirely, sliding and spreading feverishly in the chair, demanding more of both pleasures available to him, feeling them merge into one raw and devastating arc of bliss that was hot enough to scorch the skin off his soul.

He couldn't last long; he knew it, and told Snape so in a low, guttural moan, but there was no letting go this time, no backing off, in fact he clutched Snape's hair even more tightly during the last moments, holding him perfectly still while he thrust up, plunging his cock as deeply as he could into that silken throat, root to tip, riding the fingers inside him until he came explosively, unstoppably, sobbing all over again and undone all over again only now he was glad of it, so very glad of it.

This time he felt it clearly when Snape's fingers pulled away, pulled out, he felt himself twitch and he held tightly to his secret two words, letting them fill the empty place Snape left. His stomach muscles felt too weak to let him sit up, but he insisted, struggling upwards and groping for Snape's face, leaning forward and ignoring the stretch in his spread thighs as he fumbled his way into a gasping, wet, bitter kiss, sloppily grateful and far beyond any sense of shame. He felt Snape trying to pull back from him, and that seemed just too much, he'd been through too much, so he held on and slithered right out of the chair and onto Snape's lap, ignoring the man's surprised grunt.

"I need this," he breathed, groping through Snape's robes, tugging weakly at silky fabric. "I need this as much... as much as the other, please--oh please--" and he could feel Snape's stillness, his reserve, and the very last thing he wanted was for Snape to start *thinking* about any of this, so he laid Snape out flat on the hearth with a kiss and then just kept kissing him, brushing their mouths together clumsily, dipping in with his tongue for wet, rapid, inept explorations, licking Snape's swollen lips until he heard a soft gasp that made his toes curl.

Snape shifted him to the side, and Harry tried not to shiver as he heard cloth rustling, tried to keep his hands still, tried to wait patiently and not start pawing at the man with ineffectual eagerness. When Snape took his hand to guide it he did shiver--he couldn't help it, and he kept on shivering as Snape guided his hand over cloth, then rougher cloth, then softer, warmer cloth and then hot--hot, silky, tangible skin and when he finally had Snape's hard cock fully in his hand he thought he might just explode from gladness and brilliant, dizzy excitement.

He couldn't stop making soft, fervent little noises, couldn't keep himself in check at all when he registered how much more there was of Snape, girth and length, and it seemed amazing, incredible that he actually had it in his awkward fist, his hand wrapped around as much of it as he could manage. His mouth watered and his body burned and his own prick hardened all over again, and he drowned everything in another kiss of heartfelt gratitude and lust, offering up everything he had in one passionate moan.

Snape's hand never left his, but set a pace that Harry would have found torturously slow on himself; languid, indolent caresses that seemed almost indifferent, that seemed more likely to frustrate any pleasure than to gratify it. It drew out Harry's own arousal until he was writhing for Snape's sake, clinging and desperate, on fire everywhere and utterly unable to grasp how Snape could stand it without going mad.

"I'm not sixteen," Snape said in a low voice, and only then did Harry realise that he'd spoken his thought aloud. He buried his flaming face in the curve of Snape's neck, and sighed. Snape continued in the same subdued tone. "Are you finding this tedious?"

He couldn't answer, could only shake his head vehemently, panting into Snape's ear. He retreated into obedience, allowing himself to be guided, surrendering at once and then over and over again each time his own desire tried to intrude. He fell further and further away from his own sense of urgency, gradually losing himself in the subtle textures of Snape's soft skin, slow heartbeat, and dark, earthy scent. It satisfied something in him, and all at once he understood, felt something in him grow larger in learning to accept this, to be patient, to relish each moment, and then he hoped it might never end, that he might always have this, warm and slick and hard against his palm, his to hold, and caress, and stroke.

There was no rush, even at the end, only a slow, cresting tension that he felt so clearly that he shared in it, and Harry startled himself by coming with a quiet, shuddering gasp when he felt Snape spurt over his fingers, their hands laced together and moving gently, an unbearably sweet release that seemed to burn itself into him, into his very blood, moving through his veins, through his cock, through his heart like the oxygen he needed to live, that simple and that vital.

Then there were kisses, Snape's mouth afterwards seeming even wetter and silkier than usual, a feasting-place that Harry gladly indulged in until Snape finally guided him away with a sigh.

"Enough, Mr. Potter," he said quietly, and Harry scanned his face carefully, searching so very carefully for that look--of regret, of remorse, of any sign of pain. He didn't see it, and the relief in him nearly made him go limp all over again. "We have things to attend to," Snape continued, "and I..." his nose wrinkled for a moment, "I am in desperate need of a shower."

It occurred to Harry that he was as well, and that this might be the perfect time to propose that they share one, but Snape's stern glance suggested that he knew full well what Harry was about to say, and didn't think much of it, so in the end Harry let him go without a murmur. He supposed it wouldn't do to be greedy.

***

The rest of the day was quiet. Harry felt oddly subdued, which was perhaps not surprising when he thought about everything he'd been through today, but still, it felt strange, his existence outside of an extremity. Like he was waiting for something. Snape gave him a new book to read and then sternly insisted that he read it, and then spent several hours seated at the table with parchment and quill, doing something Harry was really too miffed to ask him about, and offering nothing more than a disapproving glare every time Harry had the temerity to make any noise louder than the sound of pages turning.

After supper, Snape beckoned him peremptorily back to the table, and bid him to bring something soft and preferably not flammable with him 'for further investigation into the yet-unplumbed depths of hazardous futility'. Which was... difficult, because Harry really didn't want to have any more strange, dangerous visions; but on the other hand, he had some hopes of persuading Snape to share the bed with him tonight, and incurring the man's wrath by refusing to work definitely didn't seem like the sort of thing that would increase his chances of success. In the end, of course, he listened to reason (or what seemed most reasonable in *his* world), and went.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. There were no dark visions. In fact, there was nothing at all--no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he focused on, or how incensed Snape got, there was nothing. He couldn't do it. He couldn't do *anything*. It was as if his abilities had disappeared entirely.

In response to his failure, Snape was bad-tempered and insulting enough to put Harry off the idea of even trying to get him into bed (which was saying something). Later, while brushing his teeth in a furious and resentful way, Harry considered the possibility that Snape might have perhaps embellished his own belligerence as a defensive measure--the Snape equivalent of polecat spray. He wouldn't put it at all past the bastard. He went to bed alone.

His last thought before he closed his eyes was to wonder, if indeed it proved to be that he had somehow lost his Gift, whether relief or disappointment would have a greater share of his feelings.

***

He was lost, lost and stumbling in a dark, cold place that seemed to be full of whispers and echoes, which felt like they were trying to crawl into his ears so he clapped his hands over the sides of his head and staggered on, knowing only that he needed to keep moving.

But that was a trick--he knew that now, because in the dark he'd been going in circles, and when he lifted his hands for light he felt triumphant. Now he would see. Now he would *know*.

But the light that came from him, though pure and clear, illuminated nothing but a landscape of blight--dust and rubble, and here and there great, humped shapes as if the earth itself had been tortured and wrung dry. His triumph turned to slag in his mouth, and out of every corner, from every dim and half-seen crevice came dark, grey things, travesties of humanity crawling, making their way to him on ruined hands and knees, trailing blood and slime that were instantly absorbed by the parched ground. Harry froze, immobile, as they converged on him, a dry, papery moan of panic slipping from his glassy throat.

The light dimmed as the creatures got closer, and Harry was far beyond the ability to care--he didn't want to see. When a scabbed, scaly hand gripped his ankle, he fell to his knees, unable to fend off the multitude of limbs that fought for him, that struggled to pull him down.

Blood-slimed lips touched his cheek in the last of the light, exposed bones clicking in skeletal fingers as they pushed his hair away from his ear, a horrible parody of intimacy.

The whispered husk of a voice called him Lord, begging for an unspeakable mercy.

Then Harry started to scream.

Continue to part 7

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