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The Impossibility of Crows	By : LoupGarou1750 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 4562 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and her business associates own the world of Harry Potter. I make no money from this, nor anything else.

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Part 1: The Dweller On the Threshold

The wide path, composed more of rut and salient rock than roadbed, seemed to fight its way up a hill that was almost but not quite a mountain. I looked at it in irritation. No way up but foot or flight. I was still far too weak to Apparate and, as I don't have wings, hiking was my only option. The path led, eventually, to an incongruity; a fair-sized modern house of stone and wood and glass, half surrounded by scrubby trees. Having achieved the summit, winded and almost staggering, I could barely acknowledge the bloom of hope in my chest. No axle could have survived that path and there was no other road, yet somehow someone had contrived to flatten the hill's crest and to transport the massive stones, broad beams, and delicate window panes to this resting place. It had to have been erected by magic but what wizard in his right mind would choose this place, in plain view high above a remote Muggle village?

And the Muggles could definitely see it; the house was a source of near constant argument in the village, although it took me some time to work that out. The room I'd let over the local bar was cramped and uncomfortable and I spent as little time in it as possibly, choosing instead to wander the narrow village streets when I was not patronising the dingy little pub. In the beginning I struggled to comprehend their incomprehensible language. Had I not been ill I would have remembered sooner that it was not entirely dissimilar to Latin or French. That, at least, made my efforts marginally less onerous and, with some minimal help from the bartender who had a smattering of English, I gradually began to understand the conversations of the old men as they sat drinking their thin, and to my palate hideous, local wine. Inevitably, one would raise the question of the house's construction and another would pound his fists against the hard wood of the common table, claiming that it hadn't been constructed at all but had simply appeared one night. Similar conversations were had in the dusty marketplace where the women gathered. Vendors would wail and plead for the safety of their wares as voices rose and fruits were bruised by tight fists as this woman said she knew for a fact that a powerful brujo had raised the beams and that woman said the first was a superstitious old fool.

Magic certainly, but whose? It was almost too much to hope that after all this time I had at last caught scent of my prey.

It was obvious none of the villagers knew the truth, whatever their suspicions. It seemed none could actually remember a time the house hadn't crowned their hill and yet they knew it hadn't always been there, for in the bar there was at least one painting and a few dusty photographs depicting a near barren, rounded hilltop with no building and only the merest suggestion of an animal path winding its way to the summit. And certainly, they said, it was impossible that the thin, pale young man occupying the house---whom none could remember not occupying it---was a mighty sorcerer. Nor his friend, who had owned the house before him and who was now buried under the ancient cork tree behind it. The bartender, whom I'd discovered was also the bar's owner, told me the friend had been a painter, as respectable as any artist ever could be and, while quite possibly mad, far too fine and generous to fall under suspicion of witchcraft. However disturbing his paintings had been, had Federico Buenaventura been a brujo there would have been curses and spells, sickness and madness in the village. This they all knew for sure.

Muggles can be the most wilful idiots.

As I stood at the crest, nothing stirred about the place. No birds, no breath of air. The house's windows were uncurtained and shutterless but I could detect no movement at all in the dim interior. Out of long habit, I felt for my wand for comfort's sake primarily as in my weakened state it would be little use against a Muggle child, let alone another wizard and swore silently when I remembered it was gone. I waited until I had regained my wind and could breathe without noise. Removing my boots so my footsteps wouldn't give me away, I cautiously approached the house and, using my sleeve to clear a patch on a dusty window, peered in.

And there he was.

I sank back against the wall of the house and considered what to do next.

Would he remember? And if he did, could he possibly trust in anything I told him? Even if he believed me, would he agree? I cursed myself for a fool. Not the first time. Someone else should have been chosen, someone neutral, someone unknown, someone anyone other than myself. I should have refused. Relief that my search was over and irritation at my folly in agreeing to search in the first place not that I'd had much choice commingled in my breast and solidified in blessedly familiar anger. The weak little whelp. Unable to withstand the most benign of tortures, he had collapsed, forsaking friends, foes and duty and in the process causing me no end of difficulty, as usual. I wanted to throttle him. I truly did.

I couldn't, of course, but the desire to do so was familiar and comforting. After a moment's hesitation I would think of what to say when it was time to say it I returned to the front of the house, raised my fist and pounded on the door.

_____________________________________________

Even in the hottest part of summer the stone walls sometimes seemed to leach away all warmth and light, gathering comfort to themselves and leaving none behind, but he was happy enough there. He would curl up on the threadbare carpet in front of the hearth, one finger lazily tracing the veins in the pink marble floor, so incongruous in such a simple house.

The sole item of real value hung above the mantel; a small painting by Federico Buenaventura, a Spanish wizard who had broken with the tradition of talking portraits and pastoral scenery, painting what he laughingly referred to as magical unrealism. "Pay attention to what it tells you. It will show you the truth, whether or not it is real." Depending on the light, the weather, his mood, the painting suggested butterflies on thistledown shadowed by a storm looming on the horizon; spectral children playing with balls of coloured light; sun-dappled water in a lake almost hidden by surrounding trees; an old man asleep, half in shadow, half in sunlight. In all cases, a dark, indistinct figure lurked about the perimeter a threat or a guardian, it was impossible to say. Perhaps that also depended on his mood. Federico had titled it Historia de Fantasmas - Ghost Story and had painted it for him. Now that Fico was dead, the painting was both comfort and insurance; he could sell it if needed, if too much time passed between meals or the medicine that relieved his anxiety.

He rolled onto his back and looked at the painting. "I wonder where you are. Alive or dead or caught some place in between?"

He was never quite sure who he was thinking about, whether the dark man was memory or dream. His memory of anything prior to inhabiting this house was gone, but he thought he'd had friends once, in the time before Fico which was as far back as known life went. Friends and enemies. He had neither anymore.

The villagers, whom he infrequently encountered and to whom he never spoke unless absolutely necessary, usually referred to him as El ngles to each other and simply Se¤or to his face. He called himself Adam Fico had given him the name, saying it was appropriate for one without history but sometimes in his dreams he was called Harry. Even as he dreamed he knew that was wrong and would awaken nervous and damp with sweat. It would serve as a reminder to take his medicine.

Nights on the little mountain were either uneventful or horrible; there was no middle ground. Sometimes, in the cold hours before dawn after a dream had disturbed him into consciousness, he would huddle at the top of his bed, listening to the wind as it set the branches of the cork tree scraping the window, making a sound like people screaming. When the first light of morning seeped through his windows, banishing shadows that rows of candles couldn't, he would scramble out of bed and race for his medicine.

His days passed slowly; he did little and was content. He could spend hours looking at the painting, or sitting in his battered chair in front of the house, watching the villagers below crawling around like ants. When he remembered to eat he would construct elaborate meals, enough for a dozen people. Most of it would be left outside the back door for whatever wild creature dared approach. Twice a month he made the long walk to the village for whatever essentials he lacked food, the rare and costly herbs that he used for his medicine. Occasionally, but less frequently as time passed, he sat under the cork tree and talked to Federico. He was both solitary and lonely but, except for the brief time he'd had with Fico, it was all he really knew and he didn't mind.

Just then, it seemed, his solitude had been broken. Someone was making a monstrous racket at the front door. Adam climbed to his feet, dusted off his knees, and padded barefoot through the house.

_____________________________________________

The door opened and he stood there, hand still on the knob, looking at me with a politely inquisitive expression. "Yes?"

The words I had been sure would come, didn't. I stared at him. When I had looked through the window and seen the stubborn curve of his back and his thin frame, I had been so certain. But now, confronted by damp black hair pushed back from a smooth, clear forehead and eyes, free of glasses and only barely tinged with green looking at me, I was suddenly doubtful.

As I looked at him, saying nothing, waiting, his expression changed to one of uncertainty. "I'm sorry. Should I know you? You seem to be expecting something of me and I haven't the least idea what."

"Mr Potter." It was the only thing that came to mind.

His face cleared. "Ah, I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. My name is White. Adam White."

He extended his hand and, at a loss, I shook it.

"I'm sorry you had to climb that beastly hill for nothing. Look, why don't you come in? You're very pale. Are you ill?"

"Yes. Thank you. I am tired. Your hill is beastly and climbing it has quite done me in." I felt as if I were saying lines from a play. The whole situation was surreal and I was nonplussed. While I had known he might not know me, I still hadn't really thought it possible. He showed no sign of recognition at all, but then I wasn't entirely sure I recognised him either.

"I hope you don't mind sitting in the kitchen. I was just about to make tea and you look as if you could use some. Or would you like something stronger?"

I followed his retreating back through the doorway and down a dimly lit corridor. "Tea would be fine, thank you."

His laugh startled me. "Just as well. I'm not actually sure I have anything stronger. When he wanted a drink, Fico would usually go down to the village. He and Se¤or brego you know, the owner of the bar were good friends. Other than me, I think he was Fico's only friend. Anyway, sometimes he'd come home with a bottle of the local red but I never understood why he liked it. As I don't drink it and have never bought any myself, I doubt there's any still about."

"Fico?"

"My friend. Federico Buenaventura, the artist, you know. This is was his family home. At least I think it was. I can't quite remember. In any event, it's mine now. He's dead, you see."

"I'm sorry." Really, I couldn't possibly have cared less.

"Can't be helped. I've gotten used to it, more or less. And really, it seems like he's still here, most of the time. I can feel him watching over me."

"His ghost inhabits the house?" I was genuinely curious and even a bit concerned. The presence of a ghost guardian could make my task harder.

"You believe in them? Have you seen one? What was it like?"

"What are you playing at, Potter?" His words had startled me and I spoke sharply. He looked taken aback.

"My name is White," he said calmly, in the kind of tone one takes with a madman. I fought the urge to slap him but something must have shown in my face because he looked at me warily.

"Do I look very like your friend?"

"You are not my friend!"

Potter shook his head. "No. Of course not. I thought we'd established that. I only ask if I look like him because that's the second time you've called me by his name."

I pressed my palms to my eyes. He was Potter. Of course he was. And somewhere inside he must know it. Perhaps a different tack.

"Harry "

Potter leapt to his feet, his face white with shock. "Why did you call me that?" he whispered. "I'm not Harry. My name is Adam. Adam White. Who are you? Why did you call me that?" He was almost yelling now and pacing agitatedly. "Don't call me that! My name is Adam! Adam!"

"Fine. Calm down, man. Your name is Adam. Sit. You're distressing yourself needlessly."

"I think you had better leave."

I stood to go but the heat of the room, my illness, the stress of the encounter all conspired to make me dizzy and, ridiculously, I almost swooned. I fell heavily back into my chair. "A few more minutes." At his mutinous look the word "please" was dragged from my lips.

"I'm sorry. You really are ill. You can stay the night, if you like." That at least was Potter-like, changeable as the weather. "You'll feel better if you sleep. I'd hate to be responsible for you stumbling to your death trying to navigate the path in your condition."

He led me, hand on my arm, through a confusing array of corridors. He showed me the bathroom and the cupboard where fresh towels were kept, then left me standing in the hall as he passed through a door.

"I hope you don't mind waiting for a minute while I see that everything's in order?"

I nodded but when he left the door slightly ajar behind him, I peered through the crack between the hinges and the jamb and smiled when he pulled a wand from his sleeve. Potter or not, he was a wizard. I only barely had time to move away and lean heavily against a wall before he returned.

"All ship shape and Bristol fashion."

"You're British." "I think so."

"You don't know?"

"I . . . I had an accident. Amnesia. I don't remember anything much before I came here."

"Wizards aren't usually susceptible to amnesia," I remarked.

"You know! Are you one too?"

"Come now, Potter, you know the answer to that," I snapped, annoyed more at the fact that I barely counted as a wizard these days than at the question itself.

"My name isn't Potter."

"How about Smith, then?"

Something sparked in his eyes and was gone. Recognition? Or annoyance? I couldn't be sure.

"My name," he said very softly, "is Adam. Please use it." He looked so distressed I almost felt sorry for him.

Another wave of dizziness assailed me and I swayed. He grabbed my arm again.

"We can talk about things later. You need rest." He stepped back to let me into the room and when I turned to say something he was gone, just that quick.

Shrugging, I stumbled towards the large bed, shedding my robes as I went.

_____________________________________________

The sun had almost sunk beneath the horizon. Bands of light and shadow streaked the floors and walls as Adam moved quickly around his room lighting candles. He felt vaguely irritable. It was hot and his clothes adhered to his skin but it was more than that.

"Who is he?" he wondered out loud. Talking to himself had become a habit. For a long time after Federico's death he'd kept up the pretence that it was Fico he was talking to but as there was no one to hear and none to judge, he'd let go the fa‡ade. Who would it bother if he was crazy?

After making sure every candle was lit against the coming darkness, he left his room and wandered through the house lighting more candles and torches. He didn't draw the curtains; there was a full moon and he liked to see it. "Why is he here? What does he want? Why, oh why did I tell him he could stay?"

He had no answers for himself.

In the kitchen, Adam put the kettle on and took down a plate. A bit of bread, a slice of cheese, a few olives. He wasn't hungry but he ate because he knew he should. The food was dry as ash in his mouth and finally, in disgust, he spat out an olive pit and listened to it ping against the kettle and then clatter from stove to floor.

"Who the fuck is he? I shouldn't have let him stay. He's sick. I don't care; he was well enough to get up the hill, he's well enough to get down. I'll wake him up and tell him to go. No, let him sleep. What harm if he stays 'til morning? I can ask him to leave then."

Then he did want to talk to his dead friend but the sun had fallen below the horizon and it was too dark to sit under the cork tree. Sighing, he made his tea and took the mug to his favourite room; perhaps the painting would ease his mind. But tonight it was nothing more than splotches of colour artfully arrayed across the canvas.

"Go to bed. Just go. Stop thinking. Stop moping. Sleep is what you need. Things will look better in the morning. They always do. I don't want to sleep. I wish it wasn't so fucking hot. Who is he? Why did he call me Harry? What does he know about my dreams? You're being stupid. Just go to bed."

He returned his mug to the kitchen, lit some candles in case he or his guest needed something in the night and extinguished the torches. The rest of the house was lit as brightly as day, candles burning on every surface, and Adam left it that way.

A brief pause outside the bedroom door confirmed his guest was sleeping. Soft snores filtered through the thick oak. "Wonder he can sleep through his own racket. Well, not surprising he snores, not with that nose." For Adam, sleep that night was hard to come by. His eyes would drift closed and then his whole body jerked and he'd be wide awake again for a few minutes. He watched the moon outside his window until it rose too high to see.

It's dark and cold and there's the sound of someone coughing in the distance. The idea that his visitor is awake flitters through his mind and is gone. He can hear timbers creaking and footsteps on wood floors and his own teeth chattering but he can't see anything. It's that dark. Waving his hand in front of his face gains him nothing, not even the ghost of some darker shadow in all that blackness.

He knows he is dreaming and he can't stop the dream or change its course. He can only observe; he's there and not there. But he can feel the cold stone floor against his skin, the bone grinding chill setting in. He's acutely aware that he's naked and miserable; at the same time he is also outside himself, watching.

He curses and gropes his way across the floor until his hand bumps the wall. He stands up, trying to orient himself in the dark. His need to piss is urgent, which means he can probably tick off another day, but his legs are weak and unsteady and he doesn't want to kick over his bucket in his haste to use it. He's done that more than once and had to spend hours, if not days, afraid to move in case he stepped in his own waste. He slides a foot forward, feeling with his toes, hand on the wall to steady himself. He sweeps his foot in a wide arc and, encountering nothing, moves his other foot forward a few inches and repeats the arc. On his fifth sweep, his foot knocks gently into the bucket. Keeping the side of his foot in contact with it, he stoops and feels for the rim, making sure of its position before he lowers his arse to it.

He fights to keep from leaping up when he hears footsteps. Someone is coming and that means light to see what he's doing. He doesn't want to upend his toilet before he can finish using it.

The door opens but there is no light. He can hear the quiet click of footsteps crossing the room towards him.

"You stink. I could smell you from fifty paces."

Harry cocks his head. It's an odd voice, speaking in little more than a whisper, but he thinks he might know it.

"Pissing sitting down like a toddler. Pathetic. If you're going to use the toilet, be quick about it. I haven't got all day. I'm taking a big enough risk as it is without you dawdling."

"Who are you? And why can't I see you?"

"It wouldn't serve me to be seen by you, or anyone else for that matter. For fuck's sake, use the toilet so I can empty it and we can get you cleaned up."

Harry feels the man staring at him. He can't piss with someone watching him.

"Damn you, boy. Evacuo!"

He wants to die of embarrassment as his bladder and bowels empty explosively into the bucket. The experience leaves him drained, weaker than before. The man returns to his side and pulls him up.

"Scourgify!"

Something very like a rough brush scrubs all over his body, even between his arse-cheeks. It feels like several layers of skin are being removed with the dirt. He whimpers.

"If you think I'm going to stoop to washing you with my hands, you're sorely mistaken. You smell marginally more human at least. Here," the strangers thrusts a bundle of cloth into Harry's hands. "Pants and a jumper. Not much, but all I could get. I didn't know I would be here today. I didn't even know you were here until yesterday."

"Who are you?"

"A pretty puzzle to occupy your lonely hours. I'll return if I can."

"Wait!" Harry yells but the door snicks closed.

Adam jerked awake again and sat bolt upright in his bed, heart pounding violently in his chest. His breathing steadied as he looked around the room; all the candles were still lit and the sky outside his window was pale and tinged with pink. It was a dream. Just a dream, he assured himself. But he'd dreamed about Harry again. Harry and someone else. A man who but it was gone; fading as fast as his dreams always faded.

_____________________________________________

I awoke to the smell of coffee drifting under the closed door. Sunlight was just beginning to filter through the branches of the tree outside the window. My stomach growled, a good sign as I was rarely hungry in those days; my lack of appetite both a symptom and magical enhancement of the wasting illness with which the Dark Lord had gifted me. I looked at myself in the room's mirror, running a hand over my concave belly and prominent rib cage. I had never carried excess weight but now I was skeletal. I scowled into the mirror and then covered my grotesqueness with my robes.

I needed a bath, a shave and a change of clothes, but I had left my valise in my room above the village bar. It certainly hadn't been my plan to stay the night. My nose wrinkled when I picked up my socks. They stank and were stiff; I certainly wasn't going to wear them again. My robes weren't much fresher, but padding around barefoot was one thing, walking naked through a stranger's house was something entirely different.

I expected the corridor to be dark, and so it would have been but for a dozen candles burning on a table outside my door. It appeared my host was an early riser. Signs of hospitality were evident in the bathroom where, in addition to two large towels and a clean flannel, I found an unused razor, a shaving mug with a fresh cake of soap, and a hand towel immersed in a bowl of steaming water. I snorted with amusement. Potter's dead painter must have been a wizard of extraordinary finesse if he managed to inculcate the conceited brat with manners; something that six years of Hogwarts education had failed to instil in him. Either that or Adam White was not Harry Potter an idea I preferred not to entertain.

Shaved, bathed and dressed, I felt marginally more human. I knew it the feeling wouldn't last. The sky was the sort of washed-out blue that promised unbearable heat. Blasted country. At least the permanent inhabitants could be excused on the premise that they know no better, but why anyone and it's my understanding that many do would pay good money to come here voluntarily was beyond me.

I'd been dead on my feet the night before; too tired to track the path through the house. There were a ridiculous number of corridors for what was, after all, not so grand a house. Once, where there should have been a door, I was brought up short in front of an immense tallboy. I scowled it was a ridiculous place for a piece of furniture and turned back the way I came. Several more wrong turns, and a few correct ones, brought me at last to the stairs. I sighed with relief. Something about the oppressive atmosphere of the house had me half convinced I was doomed to wander aimlessly forever, but I did remember that the kitchen was down the stairs and at the back of the house.

"Garlic? At breakfast time?" I spoke softly from the doorway not wanting to startle my host who was standing on tiptoe, reaching for a small bottle on a shelf above his head. My good intentions were wasted.

He whirled around, eyes wide and said, "You!"

"You were expecting someone else? I wasn't aware you had other guests."

"N-no," he stammered stupidly, "you just startled me."

"Who did you think I was? Here, give me that before you crush it." I tried to take the little bottle from his tightly clenched fist but he clutched it tighter.

"No one. I don't know. You reminded me of . . . something. I can't remember." With agitated fingers he fumbled at the bottle's stopper. Quicker this time, I snatched it from him. "Hey, give that back!"

I held the bottle up to the light before unstoppering it and taking a sniff. It smelled of nothing much, perhaps a vague odour of damp grass. "What is it?"

"My medicine. Give it back!"

"Medicine for what? You look tired," and he did, with dark purple smudges beneath his eyes, "but not ill." I sniffed again but couldn't identify anything that could be considered medicinal.

"To help me sleep." He pouted like a child when I didn't return his bottle. Sulking as only a Potter could sulk.

"Why on earth would you take a sleeping potion at," I faltered, having no idea of the time, "the crack of dawn. Surely it would make more sense to take it before you go to bed?"

"It's not . . . It's because . . ."

"Spit it out, you young fool. And mind your cooking."

"I have nightmares, not that it's any of your business. It stops them coming. When I remember to take my medicine, I don't dream at all." "You take this regularly? That's not a good idea. Dreams, even bad ones, are necessary. Did you learn nothing at Hogwarts? And your garlic is burning." My stomach rumbled loudly. "As reprehensible as the idea of garlic is at this hour, I could cheerfully eat a flobberworm doused with the stuff, only I'd prefer it unburnt."

"Flobberworm?" he asked as he stirred the garlic and whatever else he was cooking.

"Not my preferred breakfast food but "

"What's a flobberworm?"

Bemused, I stared at him. Any normal person would have enquired about why dreams are necessary, or at least asked about Hogwarts. I felt immensely cheered. It was very Potter-like to focus on the least important thing I'd said. The eye colour and lack of scar were still a puzzlement, but I was feeling more confident that this lunkhead was indeed Harry Potter.

"What? Am I dripping bogies or something?"

"Not at all, although it wouldn't surprise me in the least if you were. No, you're just running rather true to form. It's heartening."

"I haven't the least idea what you're talking about." He picked up a knife and competently began chunking potatoes.

"Why doesn't that surprise me? About your nightmares, what did you dream last night?" It seemed important. Taking something to repress dreams only makes them that much more virulent when they manage to burst through. And anyone who can craft a potion to stop dreams, knows that. Buenaventura would have known that. Why had he stopped the boy dreaming?

"My nightmares are my business and none of yours," he snapped.

His tone didn't deter me in the least; I kept probing. "Do you take it every night?"

"No. I'm supposed to take it twice a month but I forget."

More interesting information; I was familiar with no version of Dreamless Sleep that was more than a temporary palliative, or needed to be taken on a regular basis, however infrequent. "And what reminded you this morning? Did you have a nightmare, Potter?"

He scooped up the potatoes and threw them in the pan. "My name is Adam White. You can eat breakfast but I really think you'd best leave afterwards. I have a busy day ahead."

"Doing what?"

"Why is it," he whirled on me, face flushed, "that you think anything I do is any of your business? I let you stay because you were feeling ill. I'll feed you breakfast because I always cook more than I can eat myself. But I want you gone from here. You annoy me. I'm sorry if you find that rude but as you're so very rude yourself, I suspect it feels natural. Now, will you please give me back my medicine?"

With a shrug, I handed him his bottle and then made myself comfortable at the table, watching him as he tipped the bottle back and practically inhaled the contents. He closed his eyes for a minute, his expression almost one of ecstasy. I was intrigued. I would have expected to be able to identify several ingredients in any potion that could have that kind of effect. His eyes, when he opened them again, were bright and clear. The shadows that had been lurking under them were gone completely.

"Sorry I was rude. I had a rough night. Feeling much better now, though." He turned back to the stove and poured eggs on top of the potatoes, garlic and onions. "Don't have any meat. Haven't been down to the village in ages. I'll be going a bit later, if you'd like to accompany me. I didn't mean you have to leave. You're welcome to stay if you like. Much more comfortable here than in what they call a hotel down there. And I could use the company. I've no one much to talk to. My Spanish isn't very good and I think the good people of the village are frightened of me, for some reason. Don't understand why. I'm completely harmless and I've never done anything to anyone. Haven't even been rude. Which might surprise you, considering." He grinned as he slapped a plate down in front of me.

"You're babbling."

"Am I? I suppose it's having someone to talk to after all this time. I mean, I go to the cork tree and talk to Fico all the time he's buried under it, you know but as he doesn't answer, it hardly counts as conversation. What do you do? You seem to know something about dreams at any rate, and medicine too, I'm guessing. Are you a doctor? Oh, that's right, you're a wizard, a Healer then? Can you brew medicines? Fico could. He made mine and taught me to make a simple one for anxiety . They help tremendously. The nightmares are terrible only I can never remember what they are. I always feel dreadful the morning after I've had one. How're your eggs?"

"Surprisingly good, in spite of the garlic." I would have liked him to shut up so I could enjoy eating in peace.

"Fico taught me how to make eggs like this. Tortilla de patatas. I quite like it. I worried about my breath, you know. Who wants to kiss with garlic breath? But then he was eating it too, so I guess it didn't matter. He never seemed to mind and I certainly didn't."

"You and Fico were "

"Does that shock you? We never let anyone in the village know, although I always thought they must suspect. How could they not? But then Fico always said people expect the worst of artists in any case."

"Do you always talk like this after you take your medicine?" I asked through a mouthful of eggs. Hardly polite but bright-eyed and inanely cheerful Potter wasn't noticing. And if I couldn't dine in peace I might as well take advantage of his gabbling to find some things out.

"Am I talking a lot? I suspect I do, or would, if I had anyone to talk to. Fico never complained."

"Well, I'm certainly not he, and to answer you in order: No; they probably did; and yes, far too much for my taste."

He giggled. Giggled. A grown man. At least in theory. More evidence of Potterhood. Both father and son were always completely emotionally inappropriate and extremely immature.

"Did you have a bath? I see you shaved. You'd have quite the beard if you let it grow, wouldn't you. Wonder what you'd look like in a beard? I've hardly got any body hair at all." Much to my surprise, he pulled open his robes and exposed his chest, which was indeed bare. And nicely sculpted. I squelched that thought in a hurry.

"Cover yourself up. I have enough trouble eating these days, without the hideous sight of you parading nude in front of me."

He giggled again. "Sorry. I think it's the medicine. I always feel so extraordinarily well after I take it that well, you know, I get kind of uninhibited. Used to make Fico laugh."

"Likely made him a few other things as well," I muttered. "I've heard of Buenaventura. I was under the impression he was quite an old man. Apparently I was mistaken if you and he . . ." I delicately left off the end of that statement. "When you said he was dead I assumed old age. How did he die? If it's not too painful for you to discuss."

"Nope. I like talking about him. And yeah, he died of old age. He claimed to be three hundred and forty-two, but I didn't believe him, of course. Still, he was an old man."

"And yet you were lovers?" Fuck delicacy.

"I've got to tidy up in here and then take a bath myself. Or perhaps I should wait until after I get back."

Apparently the euphoric effects of his medicine were wearing off. Oh well, it really was none of my business and in any case, if I was to stay, I'd have more opportunities to probe.

"Will you come with me or do you think it will be too hot this afternoon for you to make the long walk there and back?"

"You meant it then, when you said I could stay?" I was relieved. My plans had never included staying with Potter, but my room above the village bar was exceedingly uncomfortable and it would be far easier to do what I came for if I didn't have to expend my energy making the trek up and down the mountain and manufacturing excuses to do so.

"Yes. Definitely. It will do us both good, me for the company and you for the rest. You needn't accompany me to the village. Just tell me if there's anything you need and I'll get it for you. You can rest."

It amused me to think how this would have played out if Potter had been in his right mind. He would never invite Severus Snape to be his houseguest. Of course, if he were in his right mind, I wouldn't have been there and the question would have been moot. Mingled with my amusement was irritation at his stupidity. I could have been anyone. I thought it best to point that out.

"Don't you think it's dangerous allowing a complete stranger the run of your home? I could be anyone. I could mean you harm."

He laughed. "I don't have any enemies. Nor friends, not since Fico died. Why would anyone want to harm me? I'm nobody."

What a refreshing change of attitude. It would almost be a pity to help him remember who he really was.

_____________________________________________

If I thought it foolish of the boy to leave me alone in his house, I was soon proven wrong. The minute he'd disappeared from sight I headed up the stairs and set out to explore. There was no specific intent to my search, I was merely hoping to find something, anything, I could use to pry Potter's memory loose and get him back to Britain. The interior appeared to be bigger than the external structure would suggest. I found his bedroom easily enough, bland and utilitarian with nothing of interest beyond the astounding number of candles, but beyond that the house confounded me at every turn. No matter where I started out and which direction I went, I ended up back in the same long corridor that housed the incongruously placed tallboy. I was on my third go 'round before I thought to open the tallboy. I struggled for a few minutes with the door before it suddenly gave way and I landed on my arse. It was empty. Finally, I admitted defeat; apparently the house was constructed by the same practical joker who had designed Hogwarts staircases. Or perhaps it was some sort of built-in defence mechanism. It didn't matter either way. I was allowed into the bedroom I had been given, the bathroom, and anywhere in the downstairs area I cared to go; everything else was closed to me.

A search of the kitchen revealed little. It was well-stocked with basics, condiments and Spanish seasonings, and every possible kind of cooking paraphernalia, but I already knew the boy could cook. One cupboard appeared to be devoted solely to medicines and a quick look through indicated he suffered from headaches and anxiety. There were a variety of things I assumed had been used to ease the last days of the painter but really nothing out of the ordinary, if one didn't take into account a hundred or more bottles of the boy's odourless, colourless and, as I found out by touching my finger to the rim, tasteless nightmare medicine. I was very intrigued by that particular concoction but had no way to do any tests on it. I left everything as I'd found it and went to explore the surrounding landscape.

The grounds were not particularly well kept and circling the house was tiring as the dirt was rocky and uneven. The discovery of a small kitchen garden and Buenaventura's grave was all I got for my exertions. The grave was marked by a snow-white slab of marble. There were no dates, only the name 'Fico' and the words 'mentor, friend, beloved." Grief rose thick and sour in my throat. The same words could have been used for Albus Dumbledore.

Shaking off my maudlin thoughts, I returned to the house. It would take Potter, or White, at least three hours to get down the mountain and back and I had used up most of those reacquainting myself with the tallboy. Even Potter was not idiot enough to think I wouldn't pry given the opportunity, but it wouldn't do to be caught out. Besides which, I was weak with exhaustion. I needed a cup of tea. What I actually needed was a good stiff drink, but if there was liquor in the house it was hidden from me.

Tea in hand, I walked into the sitting room with the ridiculous pink marble floor. Like the kitchen and unlike the rest of the house, this room appeared to be well used. A bookcase revealed gaps that accounted for the books scattered around. In spite of the sweltering weather, a large fire blazed in the hearth. Thankfully it appeared to have been spelled to cast no heat. As in every other room, candles stood on every surface and torches, currently not lit, filled the multitude of wall sconces. The boy was obviously afraid of the dark not a surprise, considering.

A painting was given pride of place above the mantel. I had encountered other paintings in the corridors but hadn't stopped to examine them. This one seemed to beckon me.

I stood in front of the fireplace, staring intently at the painting as if I could puzzle out the artist's intention by sheer force of my gaze. Something purple flickered in an area of reds and oranges, clashing horribly. For some reason perhaps it was an echo of my encounter with the gravestone I was reminded painfully of Albus. The purple flashed again, this time surrounded by the thinnest line of lime green.

Feeling ridiculous, I said, "Albus?" The paint seemed to shift and if I half-closed my eyes I could make out the figure of a white-bearded man.

"Ah, Severus, my dear friend. It's been a very long time."

"Where have you been? Why haven't you shown yourself before now? Are you in contact with the Order? Is something happening on the war front? Is that why you're here?" "You're looking unwell."

I snorted. How typical of Albus to answer none of my questions. "I'm not well, as a matter of fact. I have the wasting sickness."

"Oh dear. I'm very sorry to hear that. You've come here for your health then?"

"I came here, as you no doubt are well aware, to bring that idiot back."

"He's not an idiot, you know," the voice from the portrait said disapprovingly.

"You were always soft on the boy."

"I certainly gave him more credit for his intelligence and abilities than you ever did."

"Yes," I sneered, "and look where his intelligence and abilities have landed him, us, the entire wizarding world, and the Muggle world as well."

"Hardly his fault."

"He's weak. Another wizard "

"He was a boy. And if even I, in the fullness of my powers, could not stop you killing me, what chance did a mere boy have against you?"

Stung, I snapped, "That was uncalled for. You know perfectly well . . . and besides which, it wasn't me, it was the Dark Lord."

"And you did your utmost to prevent Voldemort's scheme?"

"There was nothing I could do. My cover would have been destroyed. I did what you wanted of me. Why are you blaming me for this disaster?"

"I have long suspected that you inhabit some bizarre and dark cloud-cuckoo land, but to suggest that I would value your role as a spy over the life and well-being of any child, let alone Harry Potter . . . I know you loathe Harry and always have done but really, Severus, this is too bad of you."

"I do not loathe the boy," I muttered, feeling a flush colouring my cheekbones. A low chuckle came from the portrait.

"I did as much as any wizard alive, yourself included, to keep that boy from harm's way!"

"You feel no guilt whatsoever at your role?"

"Of course not! The whole idea is absurd!"

"Then why are you arguing with Albus Dumbledore through a portrait that has nothing whatever to do with him?"

I swayed dizzily and, as if on cue, Potter stepped up to me.

"You're not mad, you know. He painted it that way. It's what he did. Magical Unrealism he called it. The painting can sense, or something, that which is buried deep inside and then help create a necessary reality. What did you see?"

"Nothing," I snapped. "Your painter had hideous colour sense."

The boy chuckled. "It wasn't Fico's colour sense that was bad. You provide that aspect as well. I'm sorry, you're looking quite faint. Come with me into the kitchen. You can have some tea while I put the shopping away. Oh, it looks like Se¤or brego must have sent a boy up with your valise. I found it at the door. I wish I'd known he would do that, the boy could have brought the groceries as well."

_____________________________________________

The pain was excruciating; worse, if possible, than I remembered. I clutched my arm, digging my fingers into the Mark, thinking that ripping out a whole chunk of flesh would hurt less than the searing heat of his summons. My master's voice. Nothing more than his little joke, of course. I was forbidden to return without Potter in tow.

Find him. If he knows, bring him back for me. If he doesn't, kill him and bring his body back. We're too close now to risk leaving him wandering around loose. I am waiting. Do not fail me again, Severus.

I remember the pain and falling to my knees clutching my arm. And that's all I remember.

I do not remember being moved, stripped, bathed including my hair and put to bed, but there I was, damp headed, in hideously coloured but clean pyjamas, blankets pulled up to my chin. It took me a moment to focus and realize I was not alone. In that moment I was sure that Adam White was not Harry Potter. The clear, hazel eyes that watched me with concern lacked the impertinence and spark of Potter's and held only the vaguest him of green.

"What " he began but I held up a hand to stop him. I was not ready . . . not capable of speech yet.

It was even difficult to think clearly. I had no real idea if the Dark Lord had summoned all his Death Eaters or if he was merely sending me a reminder that he was waiting. Had I imagined his voice or had his power grown to such an extent that he could speak to me over thousands of miles? If White wasn't Potter, where next? If White was Potter, what then?

"Water." It came out as a croak.

Adam stood without saying anything and picked up the glass on the bedside table. I hadn't realised it was so close but it wouldn't have mattered. I couldn't even lift the covers from my body. Still blessedly silent, he hitched himself up on the bed, put an arm behind my back to raise my head, and helped me drink. When water dribbled down my chin, he wiped it away as tenderly as a mother. Had I not been so weak, I would have hexed him.

Instead, I gritted my teeth and croaked, "Thank you."

"Don't talk. Would you like me to go? Just nod or shake your head."

Good Lord. I invaded your home uninvited and collapsed insensible on your landing. Could you have the fucking courtesy to be properly irritated?I nodded. I needed to think, but first I needed more sleep.

I awoke to the same steady gaze. When I stirred he smiled and held up the cup, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. I nodded. I felt somewhat better and knew I could speak but I didn't trust myself. Here on sufferance and too weak to fend for myself, I knew if I opened my mouth I would say something regrettable.

But I didn't have to allow him to cuddle me. Painfully, I pushed myself up on my elbows. It seemed to take forever but eventually I was able to balance on one arm and extend my other for the cup.

"You're good at this," I said grudgingly.

He smiled sadly. "I've had practice."

"Ah, yes, your dead painter." Pain creased his features. Perhaps I should have apologised for bringing up obviously distressing memories but if he did turn out to be Potter it was better that I not set a precedent.

"Are you always such a bastard? He was very weak at the end. It was hard."

I was afraid the little twit might start crying. I know that among my former students and colleagues I have a reputation for being overly proud but the number of times in my life I've had to set my pride aside is humiliating. Gritting my teeth again I said, "My apologies. I wasn't probing, or I wasn't meaning to. And I do have something of a reputation for being a bastard, yes."

He had the grace to laugh. I sighed more weight to the notion that he wasn't Potter.

It was another day before I could get out of bed unassisted. My weakness shouldn't have shamed me the Dark Lord knew his curses and most people would have been dead by now but it did. In bed for a day and a half over something I used to endure without complaint. Once he seemed satisfied of my recovery, Adam had made himself scarce, appearing occasionally with broth or tea, helping me to the toilet and then leaving quickly. I found I missed his presence, but he hadn't thrown me out and that was something.

I took me almost thirty minutes to dress as weakness forced me to sit down several times. Bending over to lace up my boots made me dizzy. I decided to forego wearing them and stumbled to the kitchen in my stockinged feet.

"You should have called me to help you." He was cooking again and didn't turn to look at me.

I felt my jaw clench. "Perhaps I should have, but I needed to at least make the attempt alone. If I stop trying, I'll die." Melodramatic but true all the same.

My stomach growled. Whatever he was cooking smelled good.

"Can you eat a chop?"

"I would like to say I could eat the tanned hide of a thestral but I'm afraid my stomach will rebel if I eat much of anything. Could you manage an egg?" I hated asking for favours.

At that he turned and looked at me. "I'll make you a deal. Eggs and toast in exchange for some answers. I think you owe me that much."

"You little extortionist."

"Please yourself. I've made tea and there's some broth in the cooler."

"Eggs, damn you. Ask your filthy questions."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Do you mean physically? Or emotionally?"

"I'm not a thera-wizard. I don't much care about your emotional state, as long as you at least attempt to refrain from being so snippy."

"I am not snippy." Outrage does not even begin to convey how I felt. "However, in answer to your question, I've been cursed. Wasting sickness. I should be dead; I probably will be soon. I take some measure of pride in the fact that I'm not yet. There. Satisfied?"

"Who cursed you?" He was sitting now, leaning forwards, wiry forearms resting on his thighs, apparently very interested.

I was flattered; my weaknesses are legion. "The Dark Lord. Oh come now, even living in this benighted country you must know who I'm talking about." I couldn't decide if his blank look was a tick on the side of his being Potter or White.

"Nope. Sorry. Doesn't ring any bells."

I told him an abbreviated version of the story he should have known as well as his own name; the first rise of He Who Must Not Be Named, the massacre at Godric's Hollow, the Boy Who Lived, Albus Dumbledore, the re-emergence of the Dark Lord. I left out the part about Harry Potter's disappearance, preferring to wait until I felt stronger to tackle that subject. And from sheer perversity as much as needing to explain my own illness, I told him my own story of joining the Death Eaters, taking the Dark Mark, and an expurgated version of my role as a spy. Aside from flinching slightly when I first said Harry's name, he had no response. His curiosity about me seemed odd given he apparently had none about himself. He didn't interrupt my narrative; a tick mark on the side of Adam White. But when I was done, his few questions focused on the things I deemed least relevant, Potter's friends; a tick on Potter's slate.

The uncertainty about his true identity was maddening.

_____________________________________________

It's dark again, only it can't be dark he distinctly remembers lighting the candles before climbing into bed, it's something he never forgets so he's dreaming again. Only he can't be dreaming, it's only been two days since he took his medicine. But it's dark and he's cold and filthy.

He can hear voices, muffled by the thick stone of the walls but understandable if he strains.

"I know this must be very difficult for you, Miss Granger, but I'm afraid I'm running out of options."

Hermione! Oh God, thank you. Finally!Unable to wait for the door he can't find to open, he pounds on the wall. "Hermione! Hermione!" But the voices continue without acknowledging him.

". . . already been here for several months, we can't find anything wrong with him other than the persistent delusion. Arthur Weasley couldn't identify him. He seems to know a lot about Hogwarts, so it's possibly he actually was a student there. We thought perhaps someone who had been there at the same time . . . He's roughly the same age as you and Harry Potter."

"What will happen to him if I can't identify him?"

"I'm afraid we can't keep him here much longer. The wards are already overcrowded. He has one of our few private rooms and we need it for those who are more seriously ill but we're afraid to put him in with the general population as he can be quite violent."

A wave of fury washes over him. "Hermione! I'm not violent! They can say anything they want, do anything they want it doesn't matter. You've got to get me out of here!"

"Through here, if you would. And how are you feeling today?" Yet another Healer in white robes steps through the door. "I've brought you a visitor."

He is startled by the warmth that accompanies the clothes he is suddenly wearing, and by the bed, chair and table that now occupy the previously empty room. He blinks in the bright light, trying hard to focus through watering eyes.

"Hermione!"

Hermione's familiar frizzy hair is pulled back and held by a clasp. She looks at him blankly, then turns to the Healer. "I'm sorry. I don't know who he is. He certainly wasn't at Hogwarts when I was."

"Hermione!" He's shocked. "I know I'm dirty and my hair must've grown a foot, but you must recognise me.

She shakes her head. "I'm very sorry. Really I am, but I don't know you. I wish I did."

"You've confunded her, you bastards!" He takes a deep breath and tries to think, to calm down. He'd been so excited when he'd first heard her voice but now this. "I want to speak to her alone. You leave," he says, rounding on the Healer. "Let me talk to her alone. Five minutes. Just give us five minutes."

The Healer raises his wand. "Step back, Smith. Of course I'm not going to leave her in here alone with you. There's no telling what you'll do."

"Please," Hermione says, "it's okay. If he wants to talk to me, we should let him, don't you think? Perhaps I can find something out. I'll be fine. I've got my wand." She puts her hand on the Healer's arm. "Honestly. It's fine."

Yes! She's just playing along with them. Together we can come up with something.

"It's against my better judgement, but very well, if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

The white robes disappear through the door and Hermione starts forward but he holds up a hand to stop her and, holding his finger to his lips, leads her the ten paces away from the door. When he hears footsteps receding down the corridor he throws his arms around her, hugging as hard as she can, tears streaming down his face. She pats him on the back. Finally, he releases her and steps back.

"You look terrific. Oh my God, it's so good to see a friendly face."

"What years did you attend Hogwarts?"

"It's okay. You can talk freely now. He's gone. Who's with you? Is there a plan?"

"A plan? No, I . . . I'm not here with anybody. They asked me to come, so I did."

"Who asked you to come?"

"Your Healer."

He grunts. "Which one? I've had at least four in the week or ten days that I've been here."

"A week? He told me you'd been here for months."

"Months? You know better than that. It hasn't been but a few weeks since I saw you last." He searches her face for some clue to what she's thinking. "Hermione?"

"I'm sorry. I thought maybe I could do something to help but I don't think I should have come."

"You want to help? GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!"

She flinches.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't yell at you, of all people. I've got to get out of this place. I'm not sick. I don't think it's a hospital anyway. I mean, I know this room looks enough like a hospital room, when I can see it. What's it like outside that door? I'm not sure what their game is. I can't figure it out. Nothing makes any sense at all. But now that someone knows I'm here . . . You'll do what you can to get me released?"

"If you're released," she runs her hand through her bushy hair. Her fingers tangle in long strands, unintentionally freeing them from the clasp, making her hair look wilder than ever, "do you have some place to go?" Stopping his nervous pacing, he jerks his head around to look at her. "Do I have some place to go? What kind of question is that? I'll go to headquarters. However much I hate it, it is home."

"Headquarters?" Hermione asks hesitantly.

"What is the matter with you? Headquarters. Grimmauld Place. Maybe you should be admitted. You're the one that seems not to know what's what."

"Headquarters. Grimmauld Place. What do you know about it?"

"What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing. I . . . I'm just surprised you know about it." "Are you mad? Of course I know about it! Okay. Sorry. I shouldn't yell. You can explain everything to me later. Right now, I just need you to tell them I'm who I say I am so they'll let me go."

"But I don't know who you are."

He sags to the floor. What in hell is going on? He rubs his face with both hands, shoving his glasses to the top of his head, then pinches his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger and stares blankly off into the distance.

"I'm really sorry. I'd thought I might recognise you, that I might be able to help the Healers discover your identity, but you weren't at Hogwarts when I was. I'm sorry." She rests her hand lightly on his shoulder but he jerks away.

"I don't know why you're doing this, why you're playing their game." He stands abruptly and grabs her by the shoulders. He looks intently at her and drops his voice. "What is it I'm not getting? Is there some kind of magic in place that you can sense and I can't? Do you think they're listening? Tell me," he begs. "Give me some kind of sign, blink twice or something. Anything!"

He hates the pitying look she gives him.

"I'm sorry." She shakes her head sadly. "I don't know you."

"Nurse! Healer! Guard! Whoever's outside this door," He pounds on the door angrily, "she's ready to leave now! GET HER THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!"

_____________________________________________

At first, I didn't know what had awakened me. I sat up, fully alert, and listened. Then the still night was shattered by a scream. I climbed painfully out of bed knowing that speed was of the essence. Miraculously, the house did not confuse my path and within moments I was by his side, shaking him none too gently.

"Potter, wake up. Snap out of it, boy. You're dreaming. Wake up! ADAM!"

He sat up suddenly, eyes wide and unseeing, pupils the size of Galleons.

"What did you dream? Damn you! Don't hesitate. What was your dream?"

He was trembling and his lips were turning an unpleasant shade of blue. Snarling, I pushed him back down and yanked the covers up to his chin. "What was it? Tell me before you forget."

"There was a girl. I was me but not me. I knew her but she didn't know me."

"Quick. Don't stop and think. What was her name?"

"Hermione. She didn't know me but she should have known me. She was my friend and she didn't recognize me or something." His speech was coming faster and faster. "I thought she had come to rescue me. I thought . . . I don't know. I can't remember."

This dream had been a verifiable memory, I thought. I don't know who'd dreamt up the original plan for Harry the Dark Lord himself, or perhaps Bellatrix Lestrange. I would have thought I detected the fine white hand of Lucius Malfoy but he was still in Azkaban. No, not Lucius and not the Dark Lord; subtlety was not one of his skills. It would have been Bellatrix. Not that it mattered. Bringing in some witch polyjuiced or charmed to look like Hermione Granger had been a stroke of genius. That more than anything had taken Potter to the breaking point.

Naturally it never occurred to the imbecile that the girl was a fraud. She played her part well, I'll admit, even managing to discover that headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix were located in Grimmauld Place. The Dark Lord rewarded her well for that little titbit, and used the fact of it to ridicule my efforts as a spy. Of course I am used to being blamed for things.

But at the moment I had things beyond the boy's gullibility to occupy me. In spite of the thick blankets, his teeth were chattering. I touched his forehead and it was damp. The hand that tightly gripped the coverlet was pale and the nails were tinged with blue. He was in shock. I cursed. Had I my wand, I might have cursed him.

Had I my wand, dealing with his condition would have been simple but it had been a year or more since I'd felt the comfort of its wood in my grip, its loss like an amputation of a limb. I cursed again. While I had been woolgathering, he'd gasped slightly. I turned in time to watch his eyes roll back in his head and his body go limp. He was unconscious. Snarling I hate playing nursemaid I pulled the covers down, put my hand over his heart, and found it was beating far too quickly. In spite of that, his pulse was weak. Disregarding my distaste, I ran my hands quickly over his body the fact that he slept in the all-together made my task easier, and more interesting ascertaining there was no secret injury that might account for his state. He was thin though well-muscled and entirely without blemish but his skin was ice cold. He needed to be warmed and quickly.

I briefly considered my options and found, as usual, I didn't have many. Too weak to even support him if he'd been ambulatory, there was certainly no possibility of carrying him to the bath. The idiot didn't even have a fireplace in his chambers. He wasn't generating his own body heat and when no other way presented itself, I stripped off my own clothes and climbed into bed with him. I pulled him close and yanked the covers over the pair of us, then ran my hands briskly up and down his body.

"I should fuck you warm, you absolute blithering idiot. At least I'd get something out of it."

Realising my brisk rubbing had slowed to gentle strokes, I yanked my hands away. My soul is black from many sins, but I've never numbered rape among them. It gave me no pleasure to admit to myself that I was aroused by an unconscious body.

Gradually, his breathing and his heart rate slowed. I checked his fingernails and was dismayed to find them still tinged with blue. I pulled back one of his eyelids and looked at his dilated pupils. What kind of weakling goes into shock from a dream? Grumbling, I slid gingerly from beneath the covers, trying not to displace the pocket of warmth our bodies had created.

As I'd discovered previously, the boy had a veritable pharmacopoeia in his kitchen cabinets. In addition to his unidentifiable dream medicine, he had some ordinary potions ones he brewed himself apparently, another weight on the scale of his not being Potter and perhaps I might find one that would explain why he was in shock, or possibly even something to treat it if this was a common occurrence.

I turned him on his side before I left; it would be just my luck to have him vomit and choke. The Dark Lord had instructed me to bring him back dead or alive but I had my reasons for keeping him breathing.

He was awake when I returned but still disoriented. His expression was even more vacuous than I'd come to expect from Potter.

"What happened?" he asked thickly.

"Shut up and drink this. Slowly. Oh for fuck's sake, I'm going to have to feed it to you, aren't I?" I mimicked his actions from a few days before, perching on the bed and supporting him so he could drink.

He took a small sip, gagged and spat it out, dribbling it down his chin.

"What?" Weak as he was, he sounded irate. It amused me.

"You're in shock. Take another sip."

"Th'fuck is it?"

"Magic." I had no intention of admitting it was nothing more than salt and soda mixed with water; my ability to brew potions had gone the way of my wand. "Take another sip and if you spit it out, I'll slap you."

There are reasons I never went into the healing profession.

"That's enough for now. Is there a doctor in the village? You need to be looked over."

"Yes . . . but no," he said stupidly. He shook his head as if to clear it. "No doctor. I'll be fine."

I let him have his way. It's not as if I was up to trekking down the hill.

_____________________________________________

"Thank you."

I looked up from my plate. The boy was still pale and trembling slightly.

"For what? If I let you die there would be no one to fetch my groceries."

He laughed weakly. "Don't think I'm up to it, either. I'll have things sent up."

"And how, precisely, will you manage that?" An idea was germinating in my mind.

"I got a mobile when Fico got sick. So I wouldn't have to leave him."

"A mobile?"

"Telephone."

"What happened to your owl?" Of course if he didn't remember anything else, he wasn't likely to remember his owl but I wondered if, in the aftermath of his dream, something might be sparked in him.

"I don't have an owl. Fico had other ways of communicating with wizards, when he wanted to, which wasn't often."

"What happened to your owl?" I pushed.

"I don't have an owl." His tone was placid, unconcerned.

Would nothing shake his composure about his true identity? By all accounts Potter had loved that owl. I wondered how I could go about getting her here. I couldn't ask anyone in the Order. Unless Albus had left something to exonerate me, I was still a pariah in their eyes. No doubt they suspected I had something to do with Potter's disappearance as well. Although, perhaps Hagrid . . . he'd always had a soft spot for me, trusting me absolutely because Dumbledore had.

I changed tactics. "I think you should stop taking your medicine."

"Are you daft? You see what the nightmares do to me."

"You don't always go into shock. You had a nightmare the night I arrived. You were more-or-less fine the next day."

"More less than more."

"You have no idea of how important dreams are. I suspect that by repressing yours, you're only making them worse."

"Fico didn't think so."

"I doubt your painter was infallible." And any man who could create a painting that diabolical was automatically suspect in my mind. It smacked of the Dark Arts.

"He loved me and he wanted what was best for me and the medicine helps. That's why I'm down here now." He walked hesitantly to the cupboard where it was kept.

"Potter, don't."

"My name is Adam White."

"Fine, Adam; you really should stop taking the potion until I can determine what it does. It may make the nightmares go away but I really don't believe it's helping you."

"Oh, it helps," he said, fiddling with the bottle's stopper.

"You told me you were supposed to take it twice a month. It's only been a few days since the last time. At least wait another week."

"No. I need it now."

Unaccountably desperate, I cast about for something to say. "Your dreams, you're remembering things. This last dream, the things in it actually happened."

"Maybe," he said doubtfully, and then with more assurance, "but not to me."

"So, you have psychic abilities?" I sneered at his monumental stupidity. "Why are you so convinced that these aren't memories trying to surface, which I'm sure they are? You know nothing about yourself. Why can't you believe that I do? You're Harry Potter, damn you! The things you dream about happened to Harry Potter."

"Your friend Potter is dead. I'm as sure of that as I am sure of needing my medicine." He gave me a defiant look, unstoppered a bottle and drank it. Irritated as I was, I found I liked him better defiant than compliant. I watched his Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed and waited with curiosity for the result.

The effects were exactly the same as the first time. His colour improved, the trembling stopped, and a big smile wreathed his face.

"D'you know, I think I've grown to like your nose. It suits you. Makes you look like a bird of prey. There are hawks here. Sometimes, I sit under the cork tree and just watch them for hours, catching the updrafts, soaring and circling and diving. Wouldn't want to be a mouse, though. Wonder what you'd do with any prey you caught? Kill it and eat it immediately, or toy with it a little first?"

And with that, he sat down. In my lap. I was too startled to move until he had undone several buttons of my robe and then I captured his hands in mine and jerked them away with unnecessary force.

"Oh," he said breathily, "I like it a little rough." He struggled half-heartedly, all the while grinding his arse against my groin.

"Well, then you'll probably enjoy this," I said softly, biting his ear hard and shoving him off my lap. He appeared to land right on his tailbone and I hid my wince behind a scowl. "Go away, little mousie. I prefer my prey to be in control of all their faculties, and you, apparently, are in control of none of yours."

He stood up, rubbing his bum. "Ah well, it's not as if you didn't warn me you were a bastard."

I stood up in turn and gave him a mocking half bow. "With your permission, I think I'll go take a nap. It's been a tedious day."

"Have a wank and think of me." He gave me a cheeky wink.

I resisted the childish urge to stick my tongue out at him and instead, sat back down. "I've changed my mind. I want to ask you some questions." I had no desire to ask him any questions; all I wanted was to go someplace quiet and ameliorate the effects of his brief interlude on my lap but I was damned if I'd give him the satisfaction.

"Well, if you won't, I will," Potter said, and promptly pulled his semi-erect penis out of his trousers.

"What the HELL do you think you're DOING?" I sprang to my feet, itching to hex the little pervert.

"Damn it, now look what you've done. You've scared him!"

"I'll fucking chop him off if you don't get him out of my sight immediately." Unfortunately, out of sight wasn't going to be out of mind. And wanting to laugh didn't help matters. Anger was called for and anger is something I'm very, very good at. Without bothering to see if he'd followed my instructions, I stormed over to the cupboard where he kept his medicine and began pulling down bottles.

"What are you doing?"

SMASH

"Stop it!"

SMASH

"You can't do that! I need that!"

SMASH

All in all I was having a very good time. I swept a whole row of bottles onto the floor for emphasis and turned to look at Potter. He was near tears, which I found quite satisfactory. He had, I couldn't help but notice, managed to put his penis back into his pants.

"Look, I'm sorry! I told you the medicine makes me a little uninhibited."

I rounded on him. "Uninhibited? UNINHIBITED? YOU ARE A FUCKING MESS AND YOUR FUCKING MEDICINE IS FUCKING RESPONSIBLE!" It took looking away, several very deep breaths and all the self-control I possessed to keep from strangling him. "Your behaviour is beyond uninhibited. Your behaviour is, not to put too fine a point on it, beyond the pale. I'm a guest in your house. I'm a virtual stranger to you. And yet you have the audacity to maintain that parading around with your pitifully puny pecker exposed is merely uninhibited? Your painter, excuse me, your lover who created this was a sad, pathetic old man."

I turned back to look at him, more than half expecting to face a drawn wand, and instead found him slumped in a chair.

He looked up at me, tears welling in his eyes, and said, "You take that back."

"For fuck's sake! You're not Potter. I must have been mad to think you might've been. He's an insufferable brat but at least he does not snivel. Your lover was a pathetic old man and you are a pathetic young one."

"What the hell did I ever do to you to make you so cruel?"

"I'm trying to help you, fool. You obviously need it. I don't know why I bothered trying. You're beyond help. Well, you needn't suffer my cruelty any longer. I'll leave first thing in the morning and good riddance to you."

With a wave of my hand I cut off whatever he intended to say and stormed out, leaving him to clean up the broken glass and puddles of liquid.

_____________________________________________

Each time the Mark seared was worse than the last. I had no lingering doubts. He was not summoning His Death Eaters; this pain was solely for me, a reminder that He was waiting and not patiently. My body was less able to accommodate the pain, but at least this time I'd had the good luck to already be in bed.

I had neither seen nor heard the boy since the scene in the kitchen. Fully expecting him to storm into my room and demand I leave immediately, I had packed what little I had in my valise before I flopped tiredly and wholly unaroused on the bed, but he had not appeared that night nor the next day. It wouldn't have mattered if he did; I was in no condition to tackle the path down his mountain. If he wanted me gone he would bloody well have to carry me.

I felt almost as sick at heart as I had after killing Albus. The boy was not Potter. He could not be. Nothing could have reduced the Boy Who Lived to the pathetic wreck that owned this house, a shambling, near-drooling creature who was only animated under the effects of that blasted potion. I had no idea where to turn next.

No news of the war's progress had reached me. After the Dark Lord's curse I was shunned by the Death Eaters and had, I imagined, never ceased being the pet bugbear of the rest of the wizarding world my black-heartedness proven beyond any shadow of doubt. Finding Potter and bringing him back had been my only hope of redemption in either camp and now that seemed impossible. I was alone, cut off, completely without contact.

As I began to drift into sleep, it occurred to me not even my mother would welcome me back. There was no hand in all the world that would ever again be extended to me in friendship before I died. I wondered why I bothered fighting the curse, struggling to remain alive. Well, I would leave in the morning and let the world do with me as it pleased.

Not even aware I had drifted off, I jerked awake.

"Can I come in?" Adam was standing in the doorway, candles blazing in the hallway behind him. His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest and he was shivering.

"What do you want?" I snarled. The last thing I needed was to listen to his puling.

"I can't sleep."

"And what am I supposed to do about it? Get you a drink of water and change your nappy? Perhaps you'd like me to read you a bedtime story."

"I don't know what's wrong. I'm scared." He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and I could hear his teeth chattering. "It's dark in here. How can you stand to be in the dark?" He stared out the door into the brightly lit corridor.

"It's night time. It's supposed to be dark. Dark so I can sleep, which I decidedly can't do with you yammering in my ear. Go back to bed. You're not six."

He grinned painfully. "I feel like I am. Please, don't make me go."

The little sod lifted the covers and slid between the sheets next to me. I didn't know what he was playing at, but I was tired and sick and cold and filled with dread. I simply didn't have the energy to kick him out.

_____________________________________________

Adam shifted until he was as close to Snape as he could get without actually touching him. He wished his teeth would stop chattering. He wished he could take his dream medicine but he knew it was too soon since the last time and it didn't seem to be helping much anymore. He wasn't used to being scared he never had been when Fico was alive and he didn't like it. He had awakened in the dark and it terrified him. It had felt like the walls of his room were closing; for a moment he'd imagined the ceiling descending and crushing him flat.

"Stop wriggling," Snape snapped at him.

"I can't. I'm fucking freezing. Look, I know you like the dark to sleep but I really, really don't. Can we light one candle at least?"

The sound of an exaggerated sigh seemed to echo in the darkness. Snape sat up and fumbled for matches. The candle sputtered and hissed as it was lit. "There. Light. Happy? Can we go to sleep now?"

Adam's teeth chattered so hard he couldn't say anything.

"Sod it." Snape rolled over. "Come here you little wretch," he said, wrapping his arms around the shivering body. "Sleep, now. Please?"

Adam nodded, uncomfortably aware of the sound of his hair scratching against Snape's chest. His own breathing seemed like thunder. He listened to Snape breathe, waiting for it to even out, waiting until he was sure the man had fallen asleep. When he felt the arm across his chest slacken, he shifted carefully, rolling over so they were face to face.

With a trembling finger he traced Snape's eyebrows and the contours of his nose and cheeks. Snape's face twitched and Adam jerked his hand away even though he knew Snape was sleeping. Such a strange man, cruel and bitter and still kind enough to allow Adam this comfort even if he wasn't allowed to speak or move.

Snape was so familiar and not, so comfortable and prickly. Absorbing the unique smell of him and the blessed warmth of his body, Adam closed his eyes. They flashed open again at the sound of a harsh whisper.

"Potter."

He looks at Snape whose eyes are still closed and whose breathing is still regular. It's not him. Oh god, he's dreaming again but he can't be, he had only just closed his eyes for a moment.

"Potter!" The whisper is more urgent this time, slicing viciously through the frigid air that makes his bones ache.

It's the voice he's come to think of as his friend; the voice of the man who cleans him, brings him bits of extra food, clean clothes; the voice he's never heard above a whisper; the voice that speaks harsh words at odds with kind actions; the voice that calls him Potter. He wants to answer but he can't. His throat is raw as if he'd been screaming for hours.

"For fuck's sake. Potter! Answer me, damn you. Let me know where you are at least."

The best he can manage is a weak moan.

"Shit. Lumos! Good fucking Christ! What have they done to you this time? Come on, let's get you up." Two wiry arms stretch out to him and he clings to them as he would a life raft in a turbulent river.

He can't see anything. His eyelids are encrusted with something and he can't pry them open. He knows there's light because of the whispered spell and because he can see red. That's odd. His friend has never brought light before.

Hands guide him to his bucket and help him sit. He cringes, expecting the spell that empties him but it doesn't come. Instead, he can hear his friend muttering quietly. He sounds angry and Harry is afraid but a hand is on his head, stroking his hair lightly. When his bladder finally releases, the hands help him up and guide him until he is leaning against a wall for support. The hands run up and down his body and he knows instinctively that he's being checked for injuries.

"They beat you, did they?"

He nods even though he can't really remember but they must have beaten him because everything hurts and he can't open his eyes.

"Nothing broken, I think. Some nasty bruises and a cut above your eye."

That's why he can't open them then, they're sealed with blood. He feels faint.

"Don't you dare pass out on me, boy. Not until we're done."

Something hard touches his head and he knows it's a wand. "No concussion. You should be relieved. It means I'll let you go to sleep as soon as we're done. Does anyone, other than myself, ever come to you in the dark?"

His brain feels muzzy. He doesn't think anyone has but he's not sure so he doesn't answer.

The hands shake him. Hard. "Stay with me, fool. This is important! Does anyone ever come to you in the dark?" The voice is harsh and angry but the hands have stopped shaking him and are simply holding him by the shoulders, firm but unexpectedly gentle.

He shakes his head and croaks, "No. Don' think so."

"Well, I can't leave you like this. I'll have to risk it. You'd better pray they don't. If anyone finds you've been helped, I won't be able to come back. Too risky. They've made a real mess of you. I was a fool to think they'd do you no physical harm. I should have expected it."

More muttering accompanies the feel of the wand moving over him. He knows the words are spells because the ache gradually eases and he feels as if he could stand on his own.

"That's better, don't you think? Let's get you cleaned up."

He cringes again, dreading the feel of the scrubbing brush, but instead of stiff bristles and cold water there's a soft, warm flannel held in a gentle hand.

"Nox!" his friend whispers and the red behind his eyelids disappears as the flannel moves over his eyes.

"Why won't you let me see you?" He's whinging and he hates it but he can't seem to help himself.

"Just an all around bad idea. You've no idea who I am, have you? And it's better for me if we keep it that way. Can you open your eyes?"

He can but it doesn't matter. He can't see anything.

"Here. Blankets. Mind you shove them under the bed as soon as it appears. They mustn't know. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he croaks, and he does. If they find out he's being helped they'll put a stop to it.

"Good. I don't know when I can come back. You hold on as best you can."

He hears his friend's footsteps walking away and then a whisper that sounds vaguely amused. "Don't let the bastards get you down, Potter."

He jerked when he felt the hand on his shoulder.

"Adam. Wake up. You're fine. You were dreaming again."

Adam shivered. Snape's voice was rough with sleep and little more than a whisper.

"You!" He blurted out. "It was you!"

"What was me? Of what exactly am I being accused?" Snape no longer whispered. He had obviously come fully awake; his voice was unnaturally loud and he sounded angry and suspicious and wounded all at once.

"I . . . I don't know. I . . . it's gone again." Somewhere inside him he knew he should act the adult, apologise for disturbing the man and return to his own room but instead he buried his head in the crook of Snape's arm; he only barely managed to keep from whimpering.

He was surprised to feel Snape's hand resting gently on the back of his head and he looked up.

"You're remembering." Snape's eyes glittered in the candlelight.

"I don't remember."

"No. But you're remembering."

"I don't want to remember." He buried his head against Snape's arm again, shocked to be jostled by the man's silent laughter.

"I don't know why I ever doubted. The world doesn't have room for two idiots of your ilk." Snape's voice was tight with suppressed laughter and Adam wanted to hear him laugh out loud.

"You're awfully nice for such a greasy bastard."

It didn't get the laugh he was hoping for. Snape yanked his head up by his hair and then grabbed his chin, forcing Adam to look at him.

"You remember more than you pretend," he said, voice now thick with suspicion.

Adam struggled to pull away but Snape's fingers were digging painfully into his jaw.

"I don't know what you mean." He had no idea what had prompted the sudden shift in temper.

"Then why did you call me that?"

"What? Greasy bastard? Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

And then Snape did laugh out loud. His laugh was grating, like a crow's caw, but Adam found himself surging upwards. Surprised at his own daring, he pressed his open mouth against Snape's, trying to capture the laugh, take it inside himself.

Snape growled, "You little wretch," and Adam was scared. Things weren't made any better by being forcibly pushed onto his back. Suddenly Snape was on top of him, hard fingers gouging into his biceps, black eyes sparking dangerously. It was both terrible and electrifying.

Summoning his courage, Adam spat out, "I am not a little mousie, Mr Hawk!" and kissed Snape again, delighted when a puff of breath, accompanied by a chuckle, filled his mouth.

"At the moment, I don't care who or what you are. In the morning, when you find yourself bruised and battered, remember you brought this on yourself."

He might has well have been a mouse; he was being devoured, eaten alive. Snape flipped him effortlessly onto his stomach and chewed his way across and down Adam's back, taking skin and muscle between his teeth, gnawing and sucking. He followed each bite with a soothing lick that vanished too quickly before the teeth sank in again. It hurt and felt wonderful in equal measure.

Snape said something and Adam blinked. "What?" he asked thickly.

"I said, little mouse, when did you last bathe?"

Adam snorted laughter. "Why, do I smell?"

"Answer the question," Snape demanded, sinking his teeth into the sensitive flesh of Adam's arse.

"Tonight! Just before bed!" Adam squealed, completely confused.

The reason for Snape's question made itself evident; long fingers parted Adam's cheeks, digging in painfully as they had dug into his shoulders and then there was wetness just there. Adam was slightly horrified and incredibly aroused. This was not something Fico had ever done and if anyone before had done it to him, he didn't remember. He couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that Snape would put his mouth there, let alone spear into him with his tongue, but his body accepted it easily. His hips arched, pushing himself up, driving Snape's tongue in even deeper.

"Fuck," he yelled as Snape's teeth scraped across the sensitive ring of puckered flesh that was doing such a poor job of protecting his insides.

"We'll get to that later," Snape mumbled without lifting his head or even slowing down his attack.

Adam didn't complain. Each thrust of Snape's tongue was wetter than the last and Adam knew he was pushing saliva into him, preparing him. He thought he might actually faint from the pleasure. Under him, trapped between his stomach and the bed, his cock throbbed almost painfully. Adam groaned, seconds away from coming, and then Snape snaked a hand around his hips and gripped his cock tightly at the base, cutting off his release.

"Don't you dare. That's for me and I'm not ready for it yet." His mouth had slowed its work, no longer stabbing into his arse but now slowly lapping up and down his cleft, caressing and gentle.

Adam could hear him groaning softly as he licked; the understanding that Snape was doing this for himself as much as for Adam, that he actually enjoyed eating Adam's arse, excited him. In spite of the cruel pressure of Snape's fingers at the base of his cock, Adam new he was seconds away from coming, he could feel his cock pulsing.

With another growl, Snape flipped him over again. "This is why I've no use for children no patience," he said and then his mouth, hot and wet, was drawing Adam's cock in. The wicked tongue circled his glans and then probed the sensitive slit at the tip. Adam squealed and Snape pulled away, at the same time letting his fingers loosen their grip. Adam exploded, semen arcing in the air before splashing back down onto his belly.

"Bitter," Snape remarked as he began to lick it up. "Delicious."

"That," Adam panted, struggling to catch his breath, "was not half bad."

"What did you say?" Snape's voice was full of menace but his lips, wet and red, twisted up at the corners. "One hundred and fifty points from Gryffindor."

Adam furrowed his brow. "What?"

Snape snarled, "Never mind," and, flipping Adam over onto his stomach again, brought his hand down hard on his arse.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Adam yelled.

"Admiring my handprint," Snape said and smacked him again. "And punishing your impertinence. Remember, you brought this on yourself."

Adam writhed. His arse burned and he could feel the muscles clenching and releasing with hunger. But in spite of all the sensation, he felt drowsy; it was always like that when he came the desire for sleep became overwhelming.

"I don't think so, Mr . . . White," Snape said through clenched teeth. "You may be sated but my hunger has only been piqued. Which do you prefer, prone or supine?"

Adam moaned. It'd been a very, very long time since he'd been fucked. Fico hadn't often been up to it, even before he started his descent into death. The thought of him brought Adam up short. He thought he should feel guilty but he didn't. He only felt aroused and, surprisingly, safe.

"I prefer you on your back. You're little use to me face down. I may be young but I do need a little time to recover."

He was delighted to hear Snape chuckle again. He was content with his life but hearing Snape's laugh reminded him how little real joy there was in it.

"I suppose that's only fair. I've done all the work so far, now it's your turn." He wrapped his arms around Adam and rolled over onto his back, carrying Adam with him.

Snape's breath came out in a grunt as Adam pressed his hands into his chest and pushed himself into a sitting position on Snape's thighs. Another grunt turned into a deep moan as Adam took his cock into both hands and squeezed gently.

"How did such a skinny man get such a thick cock?" he asked, feeling awed and a little frightened by the girth between his fingers.

"Dark Magic," Snape said. "I sold my soul for it. Cheap at half the price. Sure you can handle it, boy?"

"Not at all sure," Adam said honestly. "But I'm willing to give it a try."

"Then stop pussyfooting around." Snape's words came out in a gasp as Adam continued to work his hands up and down.

Keeping one hand on Snape's cock for guidance, Adam squatted over it and slowly began to lower himself down. "If I die doing this, bury me under the cork tree next to Fico."

Snape went very still, not even breathing, and his face paled slightly. "Are you in the habit of bringing up past lovers during sex?"

"Don't know that I've had more than the one. If it doesn't bother me, why should it bother you?"

"Why indeed?" Snape replied but his face was still tight.

"I'm sorry," Adam said earnestly. "I won't bring him up again." He was relieved to see some of the tension drain out of Snape's face.

And now it was his turn to grunt as the wide head pressed against his puckered ring. Gritting his teeth, he pushed down and then stopped before the head was fully inside. It hurt, burned, felt like a knife slicing into him. Sweat beaded up on his forehead. "God!" he gasped, and then, "Fuck me."

The words had been an oath, not an invitation but Snape snorted and said, "If you insist," as he thrust his hips up.

"Shit! Oh god, don't do that, you bastard." He slapped Snape's chest and was rewarded with a feral smile.

Sucking in air through clenched teeth, Adam pushed down again. "Fuck! It's been a long time."

"It's been quite some time for me as well."

It was Adam's turn to snort. "If I recall correctly, it's much easier from your end."

"There's no need to hurry things . . . Adam."

"Oh, but I think there is. You're not a young man, Mr. Snape. And if your stiffy falters before I'm done, I might cry."

"I suspect my erection may never subside. I've never been harder in my life, nor felt less like coming."

"Oh goody," Adam said.

It was Snape's turn to snort. He rolled his eyes for good measure. "Oh goody? And my stiffy? Reassure me that you're above the age of consent. I may have spoken too soon regarding my ability to maintain erectile function."

Adam slapped Snape's thigh, making himself wince as the movement thrust inches more of Snape's cock up his arse.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God," Snape said quietly. "You're quite tight. Are you sure you've done this before?"

Adam laughed and then grit his teeth. "Shut up, can't you? This is hard enough without you making me laugh."

It seemed to take hours before Snape's cock was fully embedded. The burn had not gone away but it felt sweeter somehow, welcome. Rather than moving up and down, Adam simply rocked slightly back and forth, getting used to it. He watched the expression on Snape's face shift from impatience to humour to bliss as he squeezed his muscles tightly. His own cock flopped limply as he moved. He was never hard when he did this and he was glad of it; getting an erection would merely be a distraction from the exquisite ache of being stretched.

Slowly, carefully, he began to move up and down. Then Snape was up on his elbows, hands clenched into the sheets and he groaned as he began moving with Adam, pushing himself in deeper, moving faster and harder until Adam whimpered with pleasure. Snape's eyes were closed but Adam's remained open, watching Snape's face. A grimace that almost looked like pain, a final hard push, and Snape hissed, "Fuck yes!" as he came.

_____________________________________________

Sleep simply would not come. I finally gave it up as a bad job and climbed from the bed, wrapping myself in the duvet, which had fallen to the floor. I should have woken him, made him return to his own room but the moonlight through the branches of the cork tree beckoned me to the window.

I was disgusted with myself.

I stood and stared out the window, thinking of Potter and the Dark Lord and Albus, and the complete utter mess I made of everything I attempted.

Behind me, I could hear the boy's soft breathing. I turned to look. He was beautiful and I hated him almost as much as I hated myself.

Finally, the chill of the floor against my bare feet was more than I could continue to bear and I returned to the bed. Careful not to disturb my sleeping companion who was now lying with his face pressed into the pillow and drooling I settled myself on top of the sheets, wrapped in the duvet. But I still couldn't sleep.

I didn't realise he was awake until I felt his hand at my waist. I stiffened. "Don't."

"Don't what?" I could hear the amusement in his voice.

"Don't touch me."

"Why ever not?"

"I'm old enough to be your father." It was an utterly stupid thing to say.

"It didn't seem that way when we made love."

"We didn't make love," I sneered. I could feel the warmth of his hand even through the thickness of the duvet. It angered me.

"Severus "

"And don't call me Severus." I jerked my body away from him.

"What's the matter with you?"

"You. This. All of it. You were my student, for fuck's sake."

"Was I?"

"And you're not well. You don't even know who you are. Fucking you was wrong. I feel as if I'd molested the village idiot."

I felt his hand tighten on my arm. He peered at my face, confusion on his. "I do know you. At least I " He stopped, clearly at a loss, then shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," I snapped. "Who you are, what you are, matters." I laughed bitterly. "In your case it matters even more than most."

"Why do you care?"

"About you personally? I don't. About Harry Potter the symbol? Because the fate of wizarding Britain hangs on his weak shoulders. Whichever side controls Potter, controls the war."

"Poor Potter."

"Poor you, you idiot." For the first time, I actually felt sympathy for Potter. I preferred it when I had none.

"You're in love with him."

I almost choked. "Of all the inane . . . You haven't the wits God gave a vegetable marrow."

"You do care," he contradicted me.

Sighing, I wrapped the duvet around me and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, but, although I couldn't stand to be in bed with him a moment longer, I didn't get up.

He took my hand, stubbornly separating my fingers from their grip on the duvet. I made a half-hearted attempt to jerk away, but he didn't let go. Uncurling my fingers from their tight fist, he stroked my palm for a moment before laying a gentle kiss on it.

"It would seem you have a thing for older men." I couldn't leave it alone. I had picked at that particular scab all night long.

He sat up and looked at me, curling his arms around bent knees, heedless that the blankets no longer covered him. "You're not that old. What are you, forty? You look tired and you're skinny because you're ill, but you have the grace and presence of a young man."

I didn't hear whatever he said next. I could feel a flush rising from navel to neck. His knack for zeroing in on my weaknesses was uncanny.

"Snape?"

I suddenly became aware of a hand moving back and forth in front of my face.

"Are you still with me? Good. For I minute I honestly thought you'd died. I don't know how many men would be able to die and remain so rigidly upright but I knew if anyone could, you could."

I would almost have rathered he returned to discussing my age and appearance.

"Come here," he patted the pillow next to him.

"No. Thank you."

"Oh, come on. I don't bite."

"No, Potter."

A peculiar expression flitted across his face and was gone almost instantly. It occurred to me that it might be hurt that I'd continued to call him Potter rather than Adam. It also occurred to me it might be anger at being denied. This was Harry Potter we're talking about.

"Why not?" he asked petulantly.

"Because I loathe you," I snapped. "I have from the first moment I saw you. Your arrogant little face glaring up at me. You were short, scrawny, dim-witted, and had an ego as large as Hagrid. You were the spitting image physically and emotionally of your father. Everyone always hastened to add 'but he's got his mother's green eyes', as if that somehow made you less conceited and insolent. I " I stopped, realising I'd said more than I'd intended.

He didn't even have the sense to be outraged, and I knew the next thing out of his mouth would be completely irrelevant.

"Who's Hagrid?"

I scowled talking to him was like trying to drink soup with a fork but I let him pull me into a reclining position on the bed. He rested his head on my chest, looked up at me through ridiculously long lashes, and opened his mouth to say something else. Deciding that later was soon enough to think about why I shouldn't, I cut off his words the only way I knew how.

_____________________________________________

Awakening to discover the sun already high in the cloudless blue sky and my bed empty of nocturnal visitors, I closed my eyes briefly in silent thanks, grateful I didn't have to immediately deal with the consequences of my monumental foolishness

My body ached in the aftermath of His most recent reminder and my subsequent foray into sexual gluttony. I growled at my cock which had twitched at the thought of the latter. If I had to strangle it into submission, it was better done in the bathroom where there was less chance of being interrupted by vacant-eyed, empty-headed idiots.

I lingered in the bath so long I began to feel as if I were hiding, which was intolerable. As I descended the stairs, I heard the sound of Potter clattering around in the kitchen and finding the idea of seeing him repellent, I turned for the sitting room. As they were everywhere else in the house, candles burned brightly from every surface. I sneered; there was an excellent reason for the boy to be afraid of the dark, but it annoyed me all the same.

I was calmly perusing the books on their shelf when, from the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of purple over the mantelpiece. "Not now, Albus," I snapped, and then growled when I heard a quiet chuckle.

"It's not my fault and I don't feel like discussing it with you at the moment." I crossed my arms and turned my back on the painting.

Unfortunately, that tactic worked no better with this painting than it does with any other.

"That is hardly a startling revelation." He was laughing at me.

"I said shut it."

"My dear boy, I'm not even here. If I understand the nature of Federico Buenaventura's work correctly, there's no one here but you and your psyche."

"Any conscience I ever had shrivelled and died years ago, no little thanks to you and your evil twin." This was maddening; all I wanted was a few moments of peace.

"I said psyche, my boy, not conscience." He sounded unbearably smug. "Perhaps a little something to eat would brighten your outlook. There are wonderful smells coming from the kitchen."

Right on cue, my stomach rumbled. I sighed. As usual, everything was aligned against me.

Potter was standing at the sink doing something to a mound of fish and crustaceans that had apparently been delivered while I slept off the effects of relating to him. He was whistling tunelessly as he worked and even the back of him looked so relentlessly chipper that I scowled. I hate morning people never mind that it was well-on noon. Of course it might have been an overdose of hormones; I was feeling unusually vibrant myself.

He turned when I entered the room and gave me a brilliant smile, his eyes dancing with pleasure. I was momentarily stunned, blinded, and then his arms were tight around me and he tilted his mouth up to be kissed. My heart lurched in my chest.

He wriggled a bit, bringing our groins together, and then giggled. It was as if a vial of acid had broken open inside me. Outrage and betrayal vibrated along my every nerve. Grabbing his shoulders, I pushed his body away but didn't loosen my grip. I looked at his pinpoint pupils and blind fury enveloped me.

"Where are you hiding it?" I shook him like a rag-doll. His smile, which had been so blinding, was now tentative, but he was still smiling. Damn him. "Where is it? Are you so desperate for oblivion that you care nothing for yourself?"

"Where's what?" he asked innocently, but I could see in his eyes that he knew exactly what I'd meant.

"Your infernal medicine," I said through clenched teeth. "Is that what brought you to my " I bit back my words and fought down the bile that rose to my throat.

"No!"

He was lying. With one hand, I yanked him in the direction of the table, not caring in the least if I wrenched his arm from its socket; with the other, I sent everything on the table crashing to the floor. I bent him backwards over it and leant menacingly over him. "Is this what you want? Your lover's dead and you're so desperate for oblivion you'll drug yourself insensible and throw yourself at the first man that shows you a bit of kindness?" I scraped my teeth over his neck, sucking until he was whimpering in pain and writhing under me.

Without letting him move, I yanked down his trousers and pants, took his testicles in my hand and squeezed. "Is this why you came to me?"

He was shaking his head violently back and forth, but I ignored that. I roughly turned him face down onto the table. Oblivious to his screaming, I freed my cock, ready to enter him with no preparation, no lubrication beyond a single mouthful of saliva to ease my way.

And then, a single word filtered through my rage. "Severus."

Sick with rage, despair and self-hatred, I jerked away from him and fled.

_____________________________________________

Adam wandered into the sitting room. Unable to admit it, even to himself, he was looking for Snape whom he hadn't seen since . . .

Restless, upset, he paced the length of the room; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. There was something wrong with the whole situation not what Snape had done almost done because Adam had actually enjoyed that, in a disturbing kind of way. No, the problem was his reaction to the man himself. There was something very wrong with feeling that way about Snape, with his long, elegant, brutal fingers, his thick, greasy hair, those sharp, biting teeth and sharper words, but Adam just couldn't pinpoint what it was.

It wasn't that Snape was angry with him, nor why. It wasn't that he'd betrayed Fico; Adam didn't believe you could betray the dead. The problem was Snape. God, even that name. Snape. Snape. Sharp and snappish and bitter on his tongue.

At the far end of the room, he turned sharply and walked over to his painting. He hadn't looked at it for several days. What would have been the point? He hadn't seen anything in it since Snape had arrived, or nothing beyond a vague sense of a man lurking at the edges, the dark figure that had always been the one constant, the dark figure that he now identified, and probably forever after would identify, with Snape. Frustrated, Adam dropped to his favourite spot on the carpet in front of the fire. He winced, his knee catching an edge of hidden stone, his body sore from the things that Snape . . .

He stretched out on the worn drugget and rested his head on his arms. He hadn't been sleeping well and he was so tired.

For months going to sleep at all had made him nervous until the day Fico handed him the first small vial and told him it would help. Armon¡a he'd called it Harmony. And it had helped, banishing the cold ache that always lingered in his bones after a bad night, filling him with a sense of peace and happiness, leaving him hungry and eager for everything. While Fico was alive to give him a fortnightly reminder, the nightmares went away completely and didn't return until the reminders stopped. He hated himself for not being able to remember on his own.

Snape had said, "You forget to take the medicine because something inside you wants to remember."

That was the stupidest thing Adam had ever heard and he'd said so only much more politely, of course. Snape had sneered, which is what Snape did.

Snape. Adam shook his head. He'd thought there'd been some real possibilities there. He was drawn to the man in spite of his sharp tongue and withering glare. And then Snape had . . .

Putting a hand in his pocket, Adam felt for the little vial he carried there; one of six remaining after Snape's rampage and one of the five he still had. He wanted to drink it. He needed to drink it, but once the five bottles were gone there would be no more the secret of its manufacture gone with its creator.

No, he wouldn't drink one now. He would wait, go back to taking it once a fortnight, but it was hard; the bad dreams were so much more persistent since Snape had come.

Adam spelled the fire warm again, summoned a cushion from a chair and rolled it up under his neck, his head flopping backwards so he could watch the flames. In spite of the blaze, he was cold, right into the core of him. There might as well not be a carpet under him. And there isn't. There's no light from the windows or the flames, there's nothing between him and the icy floor and please no, don't do this. Let me wake up.

So cold it hurts and his clothes are gone again. He'd had them briefly two days ago or perhaps it was the day before that, he can't keep track anymore when he'd had his first visitor, but he's been naked since and he's not sure he can stand it any longer and the cold wouldn't be so bad if only there was light, but there isn't, there's only darkness so absolute it doesn't even acknowledge the existence of light. He curls up as tight as he can, wrapping his arms around his knees, making himself into a ball of skin and bone, but he cannot stop shaking.

And then suddenly he is dressed, warm, and blinking in the sudden harsh light that fills the room as a harried looking man in white Healer's robes enters preceded by a floating quill and piece of parchment. Without speaking, he runs his wand up and down Harry's body while the quill jots things on the parchment. Then,

"Do you know your name?"

"Of course. Harry Potter."

"Ah."

"What does that mean? What's wrong with Harry?"

"We had rather hoped you had moved beyond that stage."

"What stage? What are you talking about?"

"You don't remember? Well, perhaps you don't. Shock. When you were admitted, you said your name was Harry Potter. We'd hoped by now you'd be able to give us your real identity."

"I am Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter died six months ago. Try again. What is your name?"

Adam is crying in his sleep, except he doesn't cry. He never cries. He never has. But he is crying because he wants it to stop, wants the dreaming to stop, and if he can just open his eyes, it will stop. But there's red behind his eyelids and that means light and when he opens his eyes it doesn't stop. He pushes and prods himself. Wake up. Wake up. You can wake up.

And with the light comes the clothes and the warmth and these are good things but they're not because they're not real. They only allow him clothes to confuse him and these are not his striped pyjamas and this is not his bed and it's not really warm in here, it's cold, cold as ice, cold as death, cold as despair. A new Healer walks into the room. It's a different one. It's always a different one. But this one is just as impatient as the rest.

"I'm waiting."

"Where am I?" Harry asks, stalling for time, desperately trying to remember the last thing that'd happened to him before he woke up here.

"Hasn't this game gone on long enough?" The Healer is pacing, waving his hands about angrily. "There's nothing wrong with you, no discernable spell, no bump on the head. If you're trying to hide who you are in order to escape paying for your treatment, you needn't bother. The Saint Mungo's Auxiliary Hospital for the Spell-Shocked treats indigents for free."

Harry protests. He isn't indigent and St Mungo's doesn't have an auxiliary. And he is Harry Potter. He's the son of James and Lily Potter, the godson of Sirius Black, the only one who's ever survived the killing curse. He tells the Healer all this and more.

"I survived an attack by Lord Voldemort," Harry rolls his eyes as the Healer flinches, "when I was a baby and a few since then. I was born 31 July, 1980. I attended Hogwarts while Albus Dumbledore was Headmaster and I was present when he died at the wand of Severus Snape."

He begs the hospital administrator and it is an administrator now, a short, balding man with a toothbrush moustache and a monocle to get Arthur Weasley. Mr Weasley will identify him, confirm he is who he says he is.

"You know perfectly well Mr Weasley has already been contacted. You saw him yourself just yesterday. He claims to not recognise you. His exact words, I'm sure you recall, were, 'Says he's Harry? How very extraordinary. Nothing like him at all.' He then reminded me that Harry Potter was dead, as if I needed the reminder with flags still lowered all these six months later."

There's something he's supposed to remember, but he can't. Voices fade in and out. He can pick out words, phrases, but there's no logic to it, no reason. He knows he's dreaming, he knows and he can't wake up. The dream is going faster and faster, random images, faces he knows and doesn't quite recognise and it's all gone so very wrong and it's just a dream and dreams don't follow the logic of the waking world but it's all so terrible and fast and frightening.

The voice is high and thin and it scares him, makes him want to run screaming but he can't, he has to stay, he has to see and his head hurts, his scar burns but he doesn't have a scar so it can't burn but it does and there is someone screaming, a woman, terrible screams, pleading, begging, screaming oh god and he wants to help and he can't help he can't do anything and a bright green light and Harry is screaming and Adam is crying and he has to wake up he has to he has to he can't take this oh please oh please oh please oh please.

"Harry."

Adam jerks and twitches and he can't wake up.

"Harry!" The voice is sharp and loud and angry and scared and it hurts his ears but it means he's not alone and he dives, falling upwards, driving himself towards the voice thinking help me, help me, you've always helped me before.

And someone is holding him, strong arms and gentle hands and a familiar voice saying, "Harry. Harry. It's okay. You're okay. I've got you. I've got you. I've got you."

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The Impossibility of Crows