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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 2: Cross the Burning Ground

I took advantage of him. Without qualms or guilt or even a second thought. The drug was finally leaching from his system and I made damned sure there would be no turning back. Within minutes of finding him writhing and screaming on the floor of the sitting room, while he was still disoriented and clinging to me, I had forced him to admit the existence and location of the remaining vials. I left him there, cold and shaking, to gather up the remainder and destroy them.

It was almost as wrenching for me as it was for him; whatever had gone into the crafting of that particular potion was probably lost forever a work of incalculable genius that I envied and lusted after, destroyed by my hand. I kept one tiny vial, but even if my powers returned in full, it was likely it wouldn't be a big enough sample for exhaustive tests. I didn't dare tell Potter; the possibility that his house might lead him to it was too great. I found myself grieving for a man I never knew, a man I detested for the harm he had, knowingly or unknowingly, caused.

I had returned to the sitting room, hefted his shaking body from the floor, carried him to his room, deposited him in his bed, treated him for shock as best I could, and left. Being with him was unbearable after what I'd done. I packed my valise, ready to leave the moment he was up and about again. And then I sat on the edge of the bed to wait and think. And wait.

Alone with your sins in a stranger's house, unable to leave, is a terrible place to be. I have made so many mistakes in my life. I am nothing like the man I wanted to be, the man I should have been. This is my burden, my shame and my outrage. I am petty, bitter, resentful of the people who have accepted me in spite of myself. They should have known better.

That night as I waited, I remembered that Potter had once called me a coward and, while there were any number of brave acts to my credit, I also remembered he was right. I thought, Always brave until they get you alone.

I could not bear what the rest of them had done to Harry Potter during his life the Dark Lord, Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black, that obscenity of a family that raised him. Not that any one of them could have behaved differently; that play was written long ago. But I was responsible for my own actions. What I had done to Potter was not orchestrated by events larger than myself. I had as near raped him as makes no difference. I had brutalised him, and all because he was scared and alone and dared to reach out to me. That is a thing for which there can be no forgiveness.

Potter. Mercurial. Arrogant. Irritating. Charming. Irritating. Perhaps he hasn't been taking his medicine after all, I thought. Under its influence once the regrettable, temporary effects passed he was calm, reasonable, dull. Recently, he had not been any of those things. But if he had not taken his draught, why had he come to me? Perhaps he had just been scared and lonely. It was better not to dwell on it.

He came to my room. Pale and shaky but with fists clenched so tightly his fingers were white and blood pooled in dark shadows below the knuckles.

"For your information, I haven't taken my medicine for days. Not that it's any of your damned business."

I looked up at him. I knew my face would show everything anger, grief, despair and I could not find the will to don my mask. Unable to meet his gaze, I dropped mine back to my hands, the fingers of which were twisting and twining around each other as if of their own will.

"Potter," I said around a hard knot in my throat, "I . . . I'm sorry."

What else could I possibly have said?

I watched something soften in his face and then his whole body became tense, his lips drawing into a tight line. "No! Not good enough. You can't make me feel sorry for you, not after what you did!"

"I've packed my things. I . . . I was just waiting . . . to apologise for my behaviour. There's no excuse. No justification. I should have come to you, found you. I shouldn't have hidden, but I couldn't. I couldn't face you. I'm just . . . sorry."

That's what I said, but a voice in my inner ear was raging, You are such a miserable excuse for a hero. You're a wizard. You still have magical ability, I've seen it. Why didn't you stop me? You know damn well this was not my fault. Why didn't you fight me?

Of course I knew I wasn't supposed to feel that way and I kept it to myself. Perhaps I had found a new mask.

Potter's response was about as elegant as one can expect from him: "Oh, shut the fuck up. Apology accepted, okay? And you can't just pack up and go. Not without giving me some answers."

The expression on my face must have been comical because he laughed. I really couldn't believe he had told me to "shut the fuck up."

"Look, Snape. I may be thick, but I'm not stupid. There's something going on here. Something more than nightmares, and I think you know what it is. You stormed my house, destroyed my Harmony both literally and figuratively and have been acting like a grand inquisitor and all around ass, trying to convince me I'm who you want me to be. And now, you want to cut and run because you behaved badly? Fuck me. If bad behaviour is reason enough to leave, you should have been gone within thirty seconds of your arrival. I want some information and you're not leaving until I get it."

"You insufferable little prick! I've done nothing since I've been here but try to help you, and all you've done in return is drug yourself and try to distract me. Every kindness I've shown you, you've taken as no more than your due. Every piece of information I've offered, you've rejected. And I'm supposed to bow and scrape and cater to your every whim just because you've figured out, at long last, that perhaps I know more than you? I should turn you over my knee and give you a sound thrashing!" I could feel a vein throbbing in my temple.

"Oh, well," he said with a smug little smile, "if you're going to talk dirty to me, I suppose the answers can wait a little while longer."

He returned to my bed. Even after the harm I had done him. I tried to refuse him, unwilling to pile sin upon sin, but he ignored me. I hectored, I railed, I begged and pleaded, I threw him out bodily, and still he returned. Every night we had the same essential conversation:

"Go." My tone always far more beseeching than it ought have been. "No. Why should I?" His tone alternately pugnacious, demanding, wheedling.

"I want to sleep alone. For fuck's sake! I just want to sleep!" Still beseeching.

"No you don't. You like having me here." There is no point describing the tone here, the words speak for themselves. And laughingly, he'd add, "If you're going to force me to suffer through these nightmares then you're going to suffer through them with me and, brute though you may be, sex with you is more fun than sex by myself and you owe me."

He was right, I did owe him, and I supposed it was only fair I share his lack of sleep, but his willing presence did nothing to expiate my guilt, and the way he hogged the covers was incredibly annoying.

So in my bed he stayed. Between the nightmares and the sex and the conversation, I sometimes longed for Azkaban.

Although sleep deprivation did not improve my temper, I did what I could to make our waking hours productive. When not engaged in other activities the necessities such as eating, bathing, treating him for shock (which happened with appalling frequency,) and various nocturnal exercises the next few days were spent answering his questions, bringing him up to speed, as it were.

Once again I told him his life history, this time leaving nothing out. Something flickered behind his eyes when I told him of his time in "St Mungo's Auxiliary for the Spell-Shocked" and when I prodded him he struggled with it, then sighed and said, "I'm sorry. I can't remember."

Without his draught, he became increasingly edgy. He would deliberately pick fights and, typically, over the most ridiculous things the plural of Horcrux or whether or not he was really twenty. As the days went on, I noticed he was developing a tendency to rub his forehead exactly where his scar had once been, exactly where he once used to rub it when angry, frustrated or, on those spectacularly rare occasions, thinking. I was intrigued and asked him about it. He said, "Dunno. It itches or something." There was no sign of the scar, no shadow or blemish but sometimes it seemed his eyes were shading more towards green than brown and his hair seemed to be getting unrulier by the day, and I wondered if the scar would reappear.

Whilst, to my disappointment, his memory did not seem to be returning, he now, suddenly, more or less accepted that he was indeed Harry Potter. Still, he frequently didn't respond to the name. If I tried to get his attention, it was, "Potter. Harry. Harry! Damn it, boy! ADAM!" He thought it was funny, although he insisted he was not doing it on purpose. Needless to say, I had my doubts; Potter always did have a peculiar, and difficult, sense of humour. There were times when I was sure he was shamming his increased use of the epithets "git" and "snarky bastard"; the insulting comments about my personality, my appearance, my hygiene; and the rather startling way he would fly into a temper over my mildest comments were all too familiar.

Where Adam White had been polite, calm, and disturbingly incurious about anything pertaining to himself, Harry Potter was rude and inquisitive, although he had more interest in my personal life than his own.

"Severus, if you're a wizard, why don't you do magic?"

I winced. Of all the questions he might have asked . . . "The Dark Lord destroyed my wand, the same night he cursed me."

"Wow. That's harsh. What about, you know, wandless? I can do wandless, so could Fico. It's not that hard."

Given our long history, I should have been well past being surprised by his egoism, but it was galling to hear him speak so cavalierly of a skill few very few wizards ever mastered, a skill I no longer had. I raised my eyes to the heavens and begged to be spared; as usual, no one was listening. "It requires a level of strength and concentration unavailable to me in my condition." As an afterthought, I added, "And don't call me Severus."

"Somehow saying, 'Snape, can I sleep with you tonight?' just doesn't have the right ring to it."

I should have expected it. He couldn't remember a damned thing of value, but cheeking me was coming right back to him.

_____________________________________________

I let my trembling hands dangle at my sides, trying to focus, trying to feel the energy in my palms. Almost afraid to continue, I took several deep breaths and closed my eyes, but I knew there was no point in dithering; I could either do this or resign myself and, in so doing, embrace my own death. Perhaps that would be the wiser choice. If I did not try, I would be dead sooner rather than later; if I tried and failed, I would face the same fate. Better to abandon the attempt; at least I would maintain the illusion of some control over my destiny.

Then I laughed. It wasn't as if I'd ever managed to maintain any control over my own life. I raised my wand arm, sweaty palm canted slightly to the left and whispered, "Lumos!" There was the faintest flicker at my fingertips and then it was gone.

Cursing, I dropped my hand back to my side and once again tried to feel the tingle of energy in the centre of my palm. Deep breath, eyes closed, wand arm raised, palm canted. "Lumos!" Again a brief flicker.

"You can do it. I know you can."

I whirled around to see Potter leaning in the doorway, a tentative smile on his face.

"It would be in your best interest if I don't succeed," I snarled, "as my first hex will be aimed at you. How dare you spy on me. How dare you!"

"If you don't want to be seen, you shouldn't leave your door open."

"I didn't!" And then I stopped. I had, actually. "What do you want?" I snapped. "I'm busy."

"I saved you some dinner, if you're hungry."

"How charming. I'm busy. Go away." I advanced on him and pushed him roughly out the door, slamming it behind him.

Fist clenched, I stalked over to the bedside table and lit a candle. Knowing that intention was everything, I had been working in the near dark, leaving the door of my room ajar so that the candles in the corridor would cast just enough illumination to keep me from stumbling as I moved around. I'd thought my chances of success with the spell would be better if I actually needed the light.

I damned the boy in loud and colourful language. Realising my fists were still clenched, I slowly opened them and was surprised to feel a pulse of energy in my palm. I smiled grimly; anger has always been my friend.

Rotating my shoulders to ease some of the ache, I took my stance again and channelled my rage into my palms, imagining it as a ball of light the colour of the killing curse. Once again a deep breath, closed eyes, arm raised. "Lumos!" Again the light flickered but this time it didn't go out. A faint glow, hardly as much as the most insipid first year could manage, wreathed my fingertips.

I held it until my arm started to tremble and then exhaled, "Nox!" and it went out. I wanted to yell, scream, cheer, pump my fist in the air like some moronic Quidditch twit. I didn't.

"Well?" Potter asked when I found him, as usual, in the kitchen. "How'd it go?"

"Well enough," I said and couldn't keep from smiling.

"How long has it been?"

"Ten months, twenty-seven days and three point seven two hours, give or take."

He tackled me in my chair, straddling my legs and kissing me sloppily. "Severus! Congratulations. God, I'd kill the bastard who took my magic!"

"I'll be sure to mention that to the Dark Lord when next I see him," I said dryly. "And don't call me Severus." I pushed him off my lap.

Laughter was bubbling up inside me and my stomach ached with trying to hold it in. I had done it! Only one easy spell and I had been unable to hold it for long but my magic was still there.

"Is there nothing to drink in this infernal house? I want to celebrate. I feel like I just might not die after all."

"Don't blaspheme the house. It's sentient." He had the impertinence to kiss my nose. "I had Se¤or brego send up a bottle from the bar he makes it himself, you know. I thought you had the look of a secret dipsomaniac and I knew you'd break down sooner or later. And Severus, speaking of breaking down, it's okay to smile, you know."

He handed me a bottle and two glasses. I tasted the wine and grimaced. "House-elves could teach Mr brego a thing or two about making wine."

"And you could learn a thing or two about not insulting what you don't understand."

"Are you speaking of the wine, or yourself?" I asked snidely, but there was no answer and when I turned to look at him, he had disappeared.

He returned quickly, covered with cobwebs, a triumphant expression on his face. "I thought there might be some somewhere." He held aloft a dusty bottle. "You might find this a bit more to your liking, and more celebratory."

"Champagne?"

He waggled a disapproving finger at me. "Champagne comes from France. This is cava."

I hate being lectured, even in a friendly fashion. "Your arrogance never fails to annoy me, Potter."

The only bad thing about his smile faltering was how ashamed I felt for causing it.

"It's no wonder Potter despised you," he said. No more than I deserved but it stung anyway.

He had the unmitigated gall to haul me to my feet by my shirtfront. He glared up at me, which I might have found amusing if his eyes hadn't sparked green and reminded me that, yes, this idiot you're fucking actually is Harry Potter.

"But you don't despise him as much as you pretend, do you?"

I pried his hands from my clothes and like an utterly besotted fool, wrapped my arms around him. "You're painfully arrogant, incompetent and stupid. No one with an ounce of sense could help but loathe you "

He interrupted me, "That's not what you were thinking last night."

"If you would refrain from interrupting me," I gave him my most imperious stare. "You're arrogant, incompetent and stupid and no one with an ounce of sense could help but loathe you and yet, it has become painfully apparent I've completely lost whatever sense I ever had." I touched my forehead to his. "Though it shames me to say it, I don't despise you much at all."

I didn't. I should have. I wanted to. Apparently there are side-effects of Cruciatus overdose that no one's ever bothered to chronicle. I envied Alice and Frank Longbottom their honest, basic, reasonable insanity.

_____________________________________________

The dreams kept coming. Every night now, although he was a little less afraid of them than he had been, because Snape was always there to hold him in the aftermath.

They always started the same way and that's how he knew he was dreaming. Always the cold first, but some part of him knows he can't be cold because he is in bed, with Severus. Then the dark, but it can't be dark because in his house candles and torches are always lit. And he's usually naked. Sometimes, even though he slept, he would smile because he's naked and in bed with Severus and he knows it and then it's not sweet and it's not funny because he's cold and it's dark and he can't wake up.

It never worked to tell himself he was dreaming; knowing didn't stop the terror.

Noises outside and he recognises the administrator's voice. Pompous and smug. Impatient and rude. The door bangs open and he throws up his hands to shield his eyes from the light, always a shock after the utter darkness, even when he knows it's coming.

"I've had just about enough of this, Mr . . ." The administrator looks to the nurse who accompanies him, "What are we calling him, then?"

"Smith," the nurse responds. "It seemed as good a name as any."

"Well, Mr Smith, as I was saying, this has got completely out of hand. The Healers tell me they can find nothing wrong with you, no magical nor medical explanation for your behaviour. This leads me to believe you're faking for some reason. What are you running away from? A nagging wife? Whinging children? A boring job? Or," the man screws his monocle more firmly into his eye, "are you trying to escape from something more sinister?" He turns to the nurse again. "He could be a criminal, did anyone think of that? Escaped from the Aurors? Sentenced to Azkaban. Have the authorities been notified?"

"The Ministry and Hogwarts both. Nothing," say the nurse.

"Who are you? You're not a Healer." Harry looks at the man's rumpled gray business robes.

"Barnabas Billywig, Chief Administrator of this facility and Liaison to the Minister of Magic himself." Billywig puffs out his narrow chest. "So, now you know who I am and I insist you stop this nonsense and tell us who you really are."

Always the same question, every time they come in they bring light and warmth and frustration. The same question over and over and over again. Who are you? And it doesn't matter how many times he say's, "I'm Harry Potter." They argue with him, rebuke him, accuse him of shamming, dismiss him. It should be funny but it isn't. It isn't funny at all. Because, they say, Harry Potter is dead and has been dead for months and everybody knows Harry Potter and you are not he, but Harry Potter cannot be dead because I am Harry Potter and I'm the son of James and Lily Potter and the godson of Sirius Black and I was born and I fought and I went and I am and every time they say no, no you're not, no you weren't, no you didn't. Harry Potter did those things and you are a liar and a faker and a cheat.

And he tries to remember, tries to think of some proof that will convince them but they won't be convinced, they don't want to be convinced, they want him to tell them who he really is but what can he say except, "I'm Harry Potter and I'm the son of James and Lily Potter and I . . ."

He is alone and it's so cold and it's so dark and he is trying to remember what happened before he woke up in this place. He thinks Ron and then he remembers that they had been drinking, a one-night respite from the war. That's right. And they had Apparated to the road leading past the Burrow and then Ron had stumbled and fallen and Harry had laughed before he realised that Ron had arrived minus a foot. And then Harry was trying to remember the spell for unsplinching and then . . . nothing.

What he is trying to remember, what he needs to remember is if he had been undercover. No, that's just stupid. Of course he hadn't been. He was too recognizable and unfortunately, not yet good enough at transfiguration to alter his appearance for any significant length of time.

And yes, that's what he needs to remember. He is recognizable. His hand flies to his fringe and he pulls it back and he says, "What about this, then?"

"What?" Billywig asks.

"This, you pompous buffoon!" He rubs a finger back and forth over the slightly raised, lightning-bolt-shaped scar.

Billywig sneers. "Yes, you can take his history as your own but there's nothing you can do about your physical deficiencies. Harry Potter had a scar on his forehead. You have none. Harry Potter had his mother's brilliant green eyes. Your eyes are brown, hazel at best. And Harry Potter is dead, and you are very much alive."

Adam woke up screaming, "I'm not dead. I'm not dead. I'm not dead." And once again, Severus was holding him tight, saying, "No, you're not dead. You're here. You're alive. It's just a dream, Harry. Just a dream."

And Adam didn't ever voice the thing that burned inside him. If I'm not dead, why can't I remember?

_____________________________________________

"And his friend?" Harry said, picking up our conversation where we'd left off two hours earlier. "Why did she say she didn't know him? Was she in on the plot?"

Tired and out of breath after the strain of an hour long walk I'd set a daily regimen for myself, trying to regain some of the strength and vitality the wasting sickness had robbed me of I didn't want to start up again, but Potter had become relentless. He couldn't remember a damn thing. At first, I'd welcomed the questions, pleased about his inquisitiveness, sure that it was a sign that he was coming back to himself, but as the days wore on and he still didn't seem to comprehend that it was his history we were talking about, and sometimes couldn't seem to hold on to the facts, I grew weary of it.

But after pushing him to think, remember, accept, how could I refuse to play my part? I sighed as I sank into a chair in front of the fireplace. "Think, you blithering idiot! I've already told you Hermione Granger is one of Harry Potter's two best friends and a trusted member of the Order of the Phoenix." My obligation was to answer his questions, not answer them nicely.

"Yes, I remember. But people aren't always what they seem, are they?"

Touch‚, you little shit."It wasn't Granger in the room with him. I don't know who they used, or whether the deception was accomplished with polyjuice or a charm. Whoever it was, the game was very nearly given away when you mentioned Grimmauld Place. A sharper mind would have realised she didn't recognise the name."

"But wait," he frowned and rubbed his forehead, "I thought "

"That's cause for a celebration," I interrupted him, my voice dripping sarcasm. "Is there any cava left?"

He didn't rise to the bait, which was disappointing; a good shouting match would have gone a long way in reviving me.

"I thought . . . didn't you say that the Order's headquarters were under Fidelius?"

"Very good, Potter." I was quite serious; his ability to retain information seemed to be improving. "Yes, it was, but when Albus Dumbledore died," I gritted my teeth and rephrased. "When I murdered Albus Dumbledore, the protection of Fidelius died with him. Somehow, we had forgotten to provide for that; a nearly disastrous oversight. You didn't reveal the number, only the street. They incinerated the entire neighbourhood."

I watched his face pale and hastened to add, "No one in the Order was killed, apparently."

His colour didn't improve. "That's horrible. Not about the Order the rest of it. How many Muggles were killed? Or didn't anyone bother to count them?" His voice was bitter and the question surprised me, as did the sudden, and temporary, shift of his eyes from hazel to emerald green.

"One would think you were a Muggle. No. I apologise. That was completely uncalled for."

"There's nothing wrong with being a Muggle! It's not as if anyone has a choice. You didn't just wake up one morning and say, 'I think I'll become a wizard.'"

"Calm yourself. I was apologising for implying Muggle deaths aren't important. And no, no one tallied the non-wizarding dead. But then you must consider where my information came from. The Death Eaters don't give a damn how many Muggles die the more the better."

"Severus?"

He paused and I was immediately alert, somehow knowing I wasn't going to like what came next.

"Why did you come here?"

The familiar knot formed in my chest. "He sent me. The Dark Lord sent me to find you, to find if you remember anything, bring you back if you do and kill you if you don't."

His face, still pale from thinking about the massacre in Grimmauld Place, drained completely. "Are you going to kill me?"

Self-righteous anger flared. "Yes. Just as soon as I've had my fill of ravaging your nubile body. The Dark Lord wants you dead sooner rather than later, but I'm taking my bloody time because I do so enjoy wiping up your drool and answering the same questions a hundred times over. As soon as the pleasure of that pales, rest assured, I'll kill you."

He gave me such a wounded look that I wanted to gouge his eyes out and use them to garnish a glass of cava. "Don't be such a fucking moron, Potter. If I were going to kill you, I'd have done it already and been back in the tender embrace of my loving master. No. He sent me, he told me where to look and I did come to take you back, but not to him."

"Then why?" His voice so soft I had to strain to hear.

"It doesn't matter any more."

"Yes, it does."

"It doesn't matter because you can't remember. If you did, it would be different."

"Why?" He was begging for something I didn't understand.

I gave him all I had to offer the truth. "The war is going badly. The Dark Lord and His Death Eaters are winning. The wizarding world is in shambles. Complete fucking disarray. I thought if I could find you, bring you back, there would be hope again. A chance to regroup. You've no idea how important you are. Whether or not the prophecy is true, people believe it. With you there was hope. Without you, I'm afraid there is none."

"But what can I do? I don't know anything beyond what you've told me! If I'm Potter, I don't remember."

"No," I sighed. "You don't. And it increasingly appears that's not going to change. Ah well, it was a fool's errand anyway."

His fingers were digging into his forehead, leaving sharply delineated crescent moons in the smooth skin. I thought he might make himself bleed.

"Come," I said, standing and stretching my hand out to him. "There's no point in fretting. What is, is. I said it was a fool's errand. Now, what's for dinner? I'm tired and hungry and liable to get a wee bit cranky if I don't eat soon."

"A wee bit cranky." He huffed and then smiled, but there was no joy in it.

I sat at the table, watching him cook. The kitchen seemed to have become the focal point of our lives. It was pleasant to watch him work, a mundane pleasure, both comforting and baffling to me. I was not used to domesticity.

"It's a pity you could never be arsed to pay attention in Potions. You might have made a half-way decent brewer if you'd only applied yourself."

"I actually am a half-way decent brewer. Fico taught me. You'll please be remembering that I make my own anxiety medicine." He shook his cleaver at me and then neatly beheaded the fish he was cleaning.

"So you say, but I've never seen you at it. Where do you brew?"

"Here. In the kitchen."

"That's appallingly dangerous. I believe I've lost my appetite."

"I haven't killed anyone yet."

"Hmm," I murmured. "And yet the painter lies dead under the cork tree."

"I can't believe you fucking said that." He was laughing and shaking his head, looking at me in complete disbelief. "You are so callous!"

"I'm callous?" I shot back. "I didn't even know the man. You, on the other hand, were purportedly his lover and yet you're laughing like a lunatic. The youth of today." I sighed. "No respect for anything."

"You were trying to shock me. Why?"

"Your brooding was getting on my nerves."

"Everything gets on your nerves."

"Back to the topic at hand," I said with mock sternness. "Surely your painter had a laboratory. I've never seen it, but then your house seems peculiarly determined to thwart my every move. It won't even let me go to your room. Not that that's an issue of late."

"He did have a laboratory, but he died without telling me the secret of its location."

"Well, that was incredibly annoying of him. I thought I might be able to hasten the return of my magic by attempting that which I was best at." I'd been brooding about that quite a bit lately, although I'd had the decency to keep my brooding to myself, unlike the spoiled imp in front of me.

"That's a good idea. Well, my equipment is in that cupboard. You're welcome to use it. It's a bit minimalist but, maybe that's all you need to be going on with." He rubbed his forehead meditatively. "Can I ask a question?" "Since when do you ask my permission?"

"Good point. Why does your Dark Lord want me back? You said, 'if you remembered'. Remembered what? That I'm Potter? Or something else?"

"He thinks you have something of his and he wants it back."

"What the hell would I have of his?"

"A Horcrux."

He gave me a surprised look. "I'm confused. Don't say it!" He threatened me with the cleaver again. "I thought you said Potter had destroyed them."

"I said you'd destroyed the ones we found. There were six Horcruxes. You destroyed the diary when you were twelve. Albus destroyed Gaunt's ring. Over the course of the next two years, you and your little friends found and destroyed Hufflepuff's cup, Slytherin's locket and Ravenclaw's dagger. You never figured out what the sixth item was. No one knows but the Dark Lord and he's certainly not telling."

"Well, whether I'm Harry Potter or not, I can guarantee I don't have it. I don't own anything but my wand and my clothes. And my painting, but Fico painted that after I came. If Potter was intent on destroying the Horcruxes," he wrinkled his nose, a clear reminder of our argument about the correct plural arrogant little twit, "why would the Dark Lord think he'd keep one?"

I nodded. It was a very good question. "I don't know. I suspect it's because it's something he would do himself. Keeping his last Horcrux might give you a certain amount of power over him, mightn't it? Or perhaps you'd hold on to it for the pure pleasure of destroying in front of him before you attempted to destroy him."

"That's insane."

"Indubitably."

"He's mad."

"I would have thought by now that went without saying. Perhaps you should have empathy for him; you're not much better off yourself." Inwardly, I cringed. My barbs came from habit; any real loathing was long in the past.

"Prick," he said, but he was smiling. I nodded, in acceptance of his right to say such a thing and as mute apology for what I had said.

"Can I ask you another question?"

I rolled my eyes. "Why the sudden timidity?"

"After what you just said? Guess I'm beginning to think you find all the questions irritating."

He had a point. "It's not the question I find irritating, it's you." I held up my hands placatingly. "Sorry. Habit. It's just a bit frustrating having to tell you some things over and over. It's not your fault, and, in any case, it seems to be getting better. So, ask your question."

"How did he know to send you here?"

"Another very good question. One I don't know the answer to. And it disturbs me, it truly does."

_____________________________________________

Even had his memory been intact, it would have been difficult to get Potter mentally fit enough to resume his part in the war. I was uncomfortably aware of time slipping away while we got no further with his recovery. My own sense of urgency was made worse because I had no idea how things were faring at home. I would have given anything for even a glimpse of a Daily Prophet, or even a Quibbler, scurrilous rags though they were.

The Mark surged with frightening regularity the Dark Lord's impatience was growing and that could as easily have meant things were going well for him as that they were not but I was better able to withstand the pain as my strength grew. I could now walk to the village and back without needing to collapse immediately on my return. I had also regained the weight I'd lost and then some; for the first time in my life, thanks to Potter's obsession with food, I even had something of a belly.

My magical ability was also increasing, but more slowly. I could cast simple spells, those for light and summoning and thankfully, personal care I did so hate shaving with a cut-throat razor but I could not cast the simplest defensive spell, nor transfigure anything. More frustrating was my inability to use Legilimency on Potter; I was certain that would have speeded our progress.

For his part, Potter seemed to be growing accustomed to his nightmares and, while he still woke terrified and trembling, he rarely screamed and the incidences of shock were increasingly rare. It was a relief to no longer worry that a bad dream might actually result in his death, but I had lost almost all hope he would ever regain his memory. I was relentless about forcing him to relay as much as he could of his dreams before they faded completely. In many cases, I could confirm that the events had actually happened; he seemed to accept that, but never seemed to understand that they had happened to him.

"I don't know. It just doesn't seem to relate to me. I get it that it happened, but it's as if I'm dreaming someone else's dreams. I know it doesn't make sense, but I'm trying, Severus. I am."

And I believed he was trying and that it was no use. By that point he could recite his history by rote, but if I asked, without first making sure he knew I was talking about Harry and not Adam, "Who was the first person you met in the wizarding world?" the answer was, "Fico," not "Hagrid."

It was hard to not sink into despair. I was filled with a sense of sick helplessness; I had invested all my hopes for personal redemption in bringing Potter back where he belonged, and now it seemed I had to resign myself to failure.

Still, I had to admit there were worse situations I could have been in, worse places to sit out a war. Sometimes I was almost content; I had food, shelter, a voracious young lover, and something other than Potter's memory, and my own failures, to occupy my mind.

The house had, in its own inimitable way, assisted me. Between bouts of tossing me into the corridor containing the tallboy, it would sometimes let me into the library. I had thought the books in the sitting room were all there were not that the quantity contained there was paltry but it seemed Buenaventura had been a scholar as well as an artist; his library nearly rivalled that of Hogwarts. A man like me could happily lose himself for years in that room. There were books on spells simple and esoteric, dark and light; texts for arithmancy and philosophy, magical theory, histories of wizarding cultures all over the world; manuals for cooking and travelling as well as the usual sexual perversions and some completely unfamiliar to me.

Finally, after what I can only presume was some sort of probationary period while the house determined I wouldn't steal any books, I was allowed in whenever I wished. As Potter had little liking for any title not beginning with "The Adventures of", he grumbled about accompanying me until, in exasperation, I shoved one of the milder sex manuals into his hands. I discovered he was an apt pupil when a subject interested him and, as I had been the one to set him on his path, I could hardly refuse when he wished to demonstrate the practical application of his studies. I did, however, insist that the library was not the proper place to practice magical autoeroticism.

It became our custom to retire to the library after dinner. I worked my way through in a haphazard fashion, and, as a consequence, stumbled on a collection of notebooks that I wouldn't have discovered for months had I taken a more systematic approach. Potter identified the hand as Buenaventura's. To my irritation, most were written in Spanish, and the rest in some obscure melange of hieroglyphic symbols and glyphs. But there were a few that had brief passages in English. Logically enough, I examined these first and found nothing of interest. I had been hoping to find his Potions journals. The mystery of Potter's Harmony still nagged at me; never before had I encountered a potion where I could not identify a single ingredient by smell or taste.

I was reading a vaguely interesting tale, which had to have been pure invention, of a dinner party Buenaventura had attended where Francisco Goya was the guest of honour, when I encountered two pages stuck together. Prising them apart carefully, I stared in horror at a loose photograph hidden in between.

I must have made some noise, because Potter looked up from his current piece of smut and came to look over my shoulder. My instinct was to slam the book closed so he could not see, but instead, I picked up the photo and handed it to him.

"Severus? What is this? Who is this?"

It seemed an age before I could answer. Familiar feelings of outrage and horror rendered me temporarily speechless and my mind was reeling with questions; how had Buenaventura acquired this, and why? Did he know the origin? Understand its significance? Had he played a part? I hoped for Harry's sake that the answer to the last question was no, but in my gut, I was sure the painter had known.

"Severus? What's the matter? Who is this? Whose funeral is this?"

I didn't want to tell him, but he had a right to know. "Yours."

_____________________________________________

Adam was exhausted he was almost always exhausted these days but he didn't want to sleep. He knew if he did, the nightmares would come.

The photograph had bothered him but it wasn't as if he knew Harry Potter. Anger at his lack of reaction had made Snape savage, bitter, sarcastic, and finally Adam had left him in the library and gone to his own room. He would not go to Snape's room, would not subject himself to that fury, but he didn't want to sleep alone, to wake up alone.

He felt like a prisoner in his own room, but he would not, would not seek Severus out. He'd hoped that when Snape's rage subsided, he would seek Adam out and take him to bed, but it had been hours now and there was no sign of him. Finally, Adam couldn't hold out any longer. If he didn't sleep tonight, they would come tomorrow night and be all the worse for having been delayed. Adam longed for his Harmony, but it was gone; destroyed by Snape and now Snape was nowhere to be seen.

He dawdled over his nightly bath, hoping against hope that the door would open and reveal Snape standing there, but it didn't. He lingered over his nightly ritual of lighting the hundred candles that guarded him from the dark, and still Snape didn't come. At last, exhausted beyond endurance, he went to bed and almost immediately slid into sleep.

Some part of him remembers, he's had this dream before and he knows it's bad and he thinks he should pick another one, but he doesn't have the capacity to choose; he must go where the dreams want him to go. As always, it is dark and it is cold and he's someplace he shouldn't be, some place where he doesn't belong because no matter what they say he isn't sick and he is Harry Potter and he is the son of James and Lily Potter and he is but he can't remember what else he is, it's slipping away from him.

And there is light behind his eyelids and there is someone coming into the room and he is in clothes though he was naked a second ago, and he is in bed although there was no bed a second ago and he thinks he knows they are fucking with him and he's not really sure any longer. Maybe he isn't Harry Potter. Maybe they're right. Maybe he's delusional. But he's not. He can't be. He is Harry Potter and he is the son of and he was born on and he attended and he can't remember. It hurts to not be able to remember and it's better if he doesn't because the questions will stop and maybe the dark will go away and the cold will become warm and the clothes and the bed real, if only he admits he's crazy.

But there's the light, the red behind his eyelids, the door opening and the voices, familiar and not familiar.

"Oh dear! Please get up, Mr Smith. Why are you sleeping on the floor when there's a perfectly good bed?" It is a woman's voice, friendly and concerned.

"Who are you?" Harry asks groggily, pretending he's just woken up. "And my name's Potter, not Smith," he adds as an afterthought.

"I'm afraid sleeping on the floor has addled your wits even further. It's Peony Pomfrey. You can't have forgotten me already; I was just here this morning, not to mention seeing you twice a day, six days a week this past four months. Poppy Pomfrey's sister? Not ringing any bells? Oh dear, oh dear. Healer Adderson will be most disappointed. You seemed to be doing so much better. Oh, do get up. And where is your hospital gown, young man? Here it is, wadded up like so much used parchment and shoved under the mattress. What were you thinking? You'll catch your death! Put this back on immediately."

Harry stands, watching the nurse warily, and hesitantly accepts the proffered gown.

"Do hurry, Mr Smith. Healer Adderson will be here any moment. Wouldn't do to have her catch us alone like this, with you in the altogether." The nurse titters behind her hand.

"Stop calling me Smith!" Harry demands.

The nurse sighs. "We have to call you something, dear. And we can't call you Harry Potter. It would be disrespectful.

"Not a good day, I'm afraid," she says to the woman in white robes who enters the room at that moment. "Found him curled up naked on the floor and he's forgotten we'd agreed on Smith for something to call him."

"Do you know who you are?" says the white-robed Healer.

"Harry Potter. I am Harry Potter and I'm the son of . . . of James and Lily and the godson of . . ." He wants to cry when the name doesn't come.

"Harry Potter is dead," says the Healer.

He shakes his head. He is not dead. He is not. "I am Harry Potter and I am not dead."

The Healer sighs and asks, "Then how do you explain this," as she hands him a scroll of parchment.

Harry unrolls it. He can feel his eyes widening in shock and his forehead creasing in confusion. Under the words Daily Prophet there is an enormous photograph of himself, in his best robes, lying on a raised pallet, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed. A long line of people are walking past, all looking very serious, some dabbing their eyes. A weeping witch throws herself hysterically across his prostrate body.

Harry looks at the Healer and then back at the Prophet; two wizards are now dragging the overwrought witch away from his body and escorting her out of the picture. Minutes pass before he can tear his eyes away from the photograph of the endless line of people filing by.

Afraid to read and afraid not to, he looks at the headline.

Potter Funeral Draws Capacity Crowdspecial report by Rita Skeeter In a display that would have gratified his enormous ego, witches and wizards from across Great Britain descended on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry like a horde of weeping Glumbumbles to view the body of Harry Potter, The Boy Who Finally Died, as it lay in state in the Great Hall of the castle. story continued on page 3

Harry is silent and he doesn't turn to page three but instead looks at the Healer who is smirking at him.

"You haven't been subjected to a knock on the head. Physically, you're fine. It's your mind we're concerned about. You seem to have misplaced it."

And the dream shifts and Ron is missing his foot and Hagrid is bringing his letter and Harry is catching the snitch and Voldemort screams, "Kill the spare." Inside the dream and apart from the dream, Adam knows he must remember these things, they are proof, but they hurt and he doesn't want to remember and they prove nothing because you are not Harry Potter, Harry Potter is dead and I am Harry and I am, I am.

Dark and freezing and light and blankets and voices. And he must wake up, it's been going on too long, but he knows he might never wake up because he's dead, he's seen the pictures and pictures can't lie.

"Any change?"

"No. He just lies there. We haven't had a response out of him for hours."

"Mr Smith. Mr Smith!"

He opens his eyes. It makes no difference; the room is still in darkness.

"Can you see my hand, Mr Smith?"

"No," he responds dully.

"No improvement at all? No glimmer of light?"

"No," he says, just as dully.

"Do you know your name?"

"Smith."

"Well, that's a refreshing change. Do you know where you are?"

"St Mungo's Auxiliary Hospital for the Spell-Shocked."

"Do you know why you are here?"

"Delusions."

"Well, nurse. I think it's time. We'll be back shortly, Mr Smith, and we're bringing you a very important visitor."

He rolls over, turning his back to them and closes his eyes again and behind them he sees a flash of green light and hears a woman scream and a high, thin, cold laugh and eyes like a snake's and he is alone. There is no one to help him, no one who remembers him and how can anyone when he can't remember himself?

_____________________________________________

It was pointless to continue. I was tired and irritable. My eyes burned so fiercely it was almost impossible to focus and I knew they must be shot through with red. I had been turning pages for hours, comprehending nothing. For the hundredth time I cursed the man for his incivility; he understood Latin well enough and English as well, judging by his library, why he couldn't have chosen one of those or even his native tongue instead of this ridiculous conglomeration of glyphs and symbols was beyond me.

In the background, Potter struggled on with his pathetic translation of one of the journals written in Spanish. I had mostly stopped listening although the occasional phrase filtered through my concentration on the text in front of me.

"That can't be right," I snapped as something patently ridiculous reached my ears. "Try again."

"Which part?"

His voice was tired and bland, as it had been since the night I discovered the photograph. I was worried about him; something had shifted but he wouldn't talk to me about it. I could make an educated guess he had discovered that I'd retained a bottle of Harmony and was pissy that I'd withheld it from him but guessing was not the same as knowing for sure. And what use would a single dose have been to him anyway? It would serve him better if I discovered its secret, and his lack of appreciation for that fact proved his idiocy. As if I'd needed additional proof of that.

"You said something about rosemary and dragon's blood. The rosemary I can understand but dragon's blood, in a potion such as this would be downright dangerous."

"Well, that's what it says," he responded and I was glad to note a little bit of petulance in his tone.

"You are useless. How long have you been speaking this language? It must be at least two years, and that's the best you can do? Dragon's blood." I snorted in disgust. "Go to bed. Your brain is addled. You can attack it again in the morning."

I was only half aware of it when he stood up. Eventually it dawned on me that he hadn't left and I looked up to find him hovering over me. "What is it?"

"Aren't you coming?" "In a moment. Just a few more pages. I'm convinced the key is here somewhere."

"Come to bed with me. Your eyes are about to bulge out of your head. We'll both do better in the morning."

I knew I should go with him; this was the first overture he'd made in days, but I was still in search of an answer to the Harmony potion and knew the answer was in there somewhere. I couldn't put it aside just because Potter needed his hand held. "Not just yet, damn you! I know there's something " I stopped short as my eyes fell on the first identifiable word I'd seen in the text.

"What is it? What have you found?"

"Shut up," I snapped. My mind was reeling. I looked down at the page, rubbed my eyes and looked again. The word was still there and I was chasing a thread of an idea through my tired brain. Could it possibly be?

"Severus. Bed. Now. Whatever you've found will still be there in the morning."

The thread snapped. I glared at Harry and then, shrugging, stood up. I knew well enough that he was right. I needed sleep and perhaps the thread would reveal itself more clearly in my dreams.

"How you made any sense out of this gibberish," he said wonderingly, looking down at the book on the table in front of us. "Show me what you saw."

Silently, I let my finger trace down the page and pointed to the word that had arrested my attention: Flamel

_____________________________________________

"Potions are like alchemy but they are not alchemy per se."

Finding Flamel's name in the notebook had finally put me on the right track. I felt an idiot for not realising sooner that Buenaventura was an alchemist and that Harmony was not created from magical ingredients and by the use of magic, but rather from ordinary elements transformed alchemically. If irritation at my own stupidity was not galling enough, I had to try to pound something through Potter's thick skull as well.

I really needed to stop encouraging the boy's sexual fantasies and get some fucking sleep.

"What are they then?"

"You might has well have been born a baboon as a human. Amnesiac or not, you are a wizard. Think like one."

"I'm not following you."

"Why am I not surprised? It's a good thing for me you have a pretty body. I'd never be able to live with myself if you were both stupid and ugly."

"Thank you." He gave me a smile calculated to charm and damn him, it did charm.

"Potions are magic. Alchemy, in its most esoteric forms, certainly has a measure of magic but most of its practitioners were actually Muggles. There were exceptions certainly, Flamel for one, Albus Dumbledore for another, Hermes Trismegistus certainly, Thomas Aquinas possibly. Isaac Newton was a Muggle, as was Boyle. Even Paracelsus was a Muggle well, there are those who would dispute that; the wizarding world likes to claim him but I think anyone who's ever actually bothered to read his writings would be forced to agree he had no knowledge of real magic."

"Um, you realise that none of these names mean anything to me?" I scowled at him and he hurried to correct himself. "No, I was listening when you talked about Flamel and Dumbledore but the rest of them . . ."

"Have you no education whatsoever?"

"I don't know. That's my point." He gave me that same calculated smile.

"Don't try to distract me, boy." But he had distracted me. I couldn't even remember what point I'd been trying to make. "Perhaps we should continue this later. Your wits, what there are of them, are unusually addled. Perhaps you need a nap."

"Napping with you doesn't usually prove restful."

"Imbecile!" I snapped, feeling a blush rise; his interest in unusual sex practices hadn't abated, and my interest in them embarrassed me. "I wasn't suggesting we both take a nap. I've work to do." Ah! My point resurfaced. "My point, before you derailed the conversation as usual, was that alchemy does not have to involve magic. Therefore, I may be able to reconstruct some of your painter's experiments. With perseverance I should be able to determine exactly what was in that medicine of yours. If I know what it was composed of, I'll have a better understanding of exactly what it did. Once I understand what it did, I'll have a better idea of why Buenaventura created it, what his intent was."

"His intent was to help me get through the night without nightmares." Although he spoke calmly, he rubbed his forehead where his scar had been, and I knew he was masking his irritation; he never liked it when I questioned his ancient lover's motives.

"You take too much on faith, boy. Just because he liked your body is no guarantee that he was looking out for your best interests. The opposite may just as easily be true that he employed some form of control so that your body was available."

"So I should be questioning your motives as well?" His tone was smug, as if he'd just scored a point. Idiot.

"Yes, you should question my motives, you little twit. Have I not already told you I was sent to bring you back to the Dark Lord? Does that make it seem as if I have your best interests at heart?"

"As you haven't spirited me away from my home, no, I'm not too concerned about your motives. And you like my body even more than he did, so I'd think it was in your best interest to keep me available and pliable. Not that you have to work very hard at that. I'll remind you it's been weeks since I last took it and I still want you, although at times like these I wonder why."

His instinctual discernment, coupled with his ability to make me laugh, was disturbing. Really, there was nothing else I could do but laugh. More than once the thought had crossed my mind that I could chuck my history and sit out the rest of the war disporting myself with his nubile flesh. "Go take a nap. I'll call you if I discover anything."

"I could help."

I snorted. "You forget I taught you for six years. Potions has never been one of your skills."

"At least you admit I have skills. And "

"Yes, if a talent for mischief, mayhem and general thoughtlessness can be termed skills."

"I'll get up to mischief and mayhem later, when you agree to take a nap with me. As I was saying, before you so rudely interrupted, you just said alchemy wasn't the same as Potions. And, I'm competent enough to brew my own anxiety medicine. Plus, you have to admit that having someone around who can do magic would likely be useful. I'm sure there's a magical component to everything Fico created; his potions wouldn't be any different."

"Fine. I'll need someone to wash bottles at any rate. Even you can't muck that up."

"If I do," he said sweetly, "you can punish me."

"See that you break at least one then. For the moment, promises of torture will have to be set aside. I may be besotted, but, magical ability or not, Potions is my life and even the promise of sexual nirvana," I paused to tweak a nipple through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, "will not sway me from my task."

"I'll break a dozen if you promise to do that again."

"Buffoon. Go put some clothes on."

"One more question?"

I sighed.

"I thought alchemy was all about turning lead into gold."

"Good god! Seven years of the best education wizarding Britain had to offer and this is the result. Did you pay no attention to your studies at all?"

"I'll just remind you . . . I don't remember."

"That excuse is getting pretty thin. It's not as if you showed an ounce of intellectual capacity before you lost your mind. The alchemical notion of turning lead into gold is not about transforming one metal into another. Alchemy is about metaphysics as much as physics and the two parts cannot be separated. Lead into gold symbolises turning that which is base into that which is divine."

"Well, why don't we go upstairs and practice some reverse alchemy. You can debase my divinity." His eyes flashed green.

I stared at him. His words had just fitted another piece of the puzzle. "Potter, you are a genius."

His eyes rounded and his mouth gaped like a drowning fish. "What did I say?"

I laughed. "As a reward for proving the existence of your solitary brain cell, I won't even make you wait until you break a bottle. By all means, let's go upstairs."

_____________________________________________

"I think your house is conspiring against us."

Potter nodded, his face perplexed and his hand rubbing his forehead.

"No," he said. "I keep telling you, it's benign except to enemies."

"I'm hardly your enemy," I said irritably.

"Oh please. It hasn't done anything to harm you."

"No, it just leads me around in circles at every opportunity. I can't tell you how many times I've ended up in that corridor with the tallboy."

Something sparked in his eyes and I felt an answering spark.

"The tallboy!" we exclaimed simultaneously.

"The laboratory!" Potter added gleefully. "Last one there is a rotten egg!"

He took off running. Short as his legs were, I easily overtook him and tripped him neatly on the stairs. For once the house didn't try to thwart me and I beat him to the corridor by a full fifty paces.

Panting, completely winded, I sagged against a wall, but I was exhilarated.

"You cheat."

"Of course I do. Brains over brawn, boy. I'm a bit done in by the exertion, however. You'll have to be the one to move it."

Sticking his tongue out at me, Potter put his shoulder to the tallboy and shoved. It didn't budge. I watched in amusement as he tried again and again. It wasn't until he'd backed up ten feet and made a run at it nearly dislocating his shoulder and landing on his arse for his efforts that I sneered and reminded him some things were best done by magic.

He gave me a sheepish look and pulled his wand from his sleeve. "Mobili . . . um . . . Mobilipuerprocerus!" He glared at it in frustration when nothing happened.

I looked at him in stunned amazement, half-impressed and secretly tickled by his literal-mindedness. "I think," I drawled when I trusted myself not to laugh, "the word you're looking for is armarium.

"Oh. Right. Okay. Mobiliarmarium!" he said tentatively. The chest moved perhaps two inches and Potter grinned. "MOBILIARMARIUM!" His gleeful yell turned into a screech as the huge piece of furniture jumped ten feet and toppled over with a deafening crash.

"Whoops."

"Whoops, indeed. Potter . . . look."

Where the tallboy had stood, a door was revealed. I had barely put my hand to it when it began to open. I threw the hand up to shield my eyes. The door appeared to have opened onto the outside world. The midday sun blazed against masses of gold; it was as if a childhood fantasy of wealth had been made real. A staircase with golden treads and balustrades spiralled delicately upwards, blindingly and, at the moment, quite unnecessarily lit by floating torches in gold sconces.

Behind me, I heard Potter's breath hitch and then he let it out in a long, slow whistle. Eyes watering, I turned on him. "You might have warned me. I suppose you thought it would be funny if I were blinded."

"I didn't know!" he protested. "I've never seen it before. He never let me in."

"Shall we?" I said grudgingly, gesturing towards the glittering staircase.

He nodded slightly, his hand clutching my sleeve.

"You first," I said.

"Chicken?"

"Merely prudent. You're the one with a wand. You do know how to use it for more than destroying furniture, I presume."

"Yeah, I use it to stir things with when I'm cooking."

I was not entirely sure he was jesting.

He mounted the stairs and I followed close behind. We had only gone up a handful of steps when the staircase began to move. Potter gasped. Accustomed to the stairs at Hogwarts, I was not startled. I smirked at him before casually leaning against the railings, my feet crossed comfortably at the ankles. Potter white-knuckled the railing with the hand not clutching his wand.

Up and up and up we went; our ascent took several minutes, but at last the stairs stopped moving. In front of us was a vast room, defined by floor of the same ridiculous pink marble as in the sitting room. It floated in the sky, free of walls or any visible supports. Potter stood gaping on the top tread of the gaping and I gave him a small shove to move him along. He stumbled and tripped and then simply lay there, doing his best to clutch the floor's smooth surface, as if he might fall off the edge of the world.

Ignoring him, I stepped into the room if you can call a floor with no ceiling and no walls a room. Stained glass windows hung suspended in mid-air and coloured everything with jewel tones. I moved around the room in wonder. Bookshelves lined . . . nothing, but bookshelves there were aplenty. There was an apothecary's cupboard with hundreds of small drawers -- each labelled in the messy scrawl I recognised from Buenaventura's notebooks and the compulsion to stop and open each one was enormous. But I was equally drawn to the long tables laden with beakers, retorts, crucibles, condensers, flasks, braziers, tripods with not a cauldron to be seen amongst them. Everything metal appeared to be gold -- perhaps I'd been wrong about "lead into gold" being solely a metaphysical concept -- and everything wood was decorated with inlay or intricate scrollwork. All the books were bound in the finest calfskin. All the herbs in the drawers of the best quality -- held in stasis guaranteeing their freshness and all the elements of the purest possible composition. My knees felt weak with desire and jealousy curled and hissed around my brain. The whole laboratory was a professional wet dream.

At the far edge of the room, incongruous in the midst of all the scientific paraphernalia, stood an easel supporting a small painting a portrait. Tearing myself regretfully away from the shining laboratory equipment, I walked over to look at it. I'm sure my jaw dropped. Once again behind me, Potter made incoherent choking noises. And no wonder. Captured in paint and light was his image. Adam's features overlaid Harry's, or vice versa. The eyes were simultaneously Potter's brilliant green and Adam's warm hazel. The lightning bolt scar was there and not there, the suggestion of a red shadow marring a smooth forehead. Potter's stubborn jaw was rounded by Adam's softer one. Here was the proof, if proof I still needed, that the two were one and the same.

"Don't," I said as I instinctively stepped backwards and grabbed Potter's shoulders to keep him from crumpling to the ground. "You already knew. I've been telling you for weeks."

He swallowed thickly and once again I caught myself staring in fascination as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "It's . . . it's just that . . ."

"Spit it out before I slap you." There was no reason for me to be angry, but I was livid. I wanted desperately to annihilate something and Potter was close to hand. It was a massive effort not to strike him and yet he'd done nothing, was not the one responsible for the hatred that blazed in my chest.

In spite of my efforts to support him, he sank to his knees, trembling hands over his face. "He knew. He did this to me. How could he? Oh god, how could he do this? He loved me." His shoulders shook and suddenly he was gasping, huge unpractised sobs rattling his chest. His grief was so palpable it hurt to look at him.

Unwilling, but helpless to stop myself, I dropped to the floor next to him, wrapping my arms around his trembling frame. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my lips pressing into the thick vein throbbing at his temple. "I'm sorry." As if I had done this; as if his despair was my fault.

"Can we go, please?" His face turned up to me, eyes pleading.

I wanted to scream 'No! Don't be such a fucking coward!' but unaccountably I found myself helping him to his feet. Supporting him with an arm behind his back, I led him back to the stairs. Just before they started their downward spiral, he glanced back at the painting and pain wreathed his features again. He leant against me, his back to my chest, and closed his eyes. With something not unlike tenderness, I pressed my cheek to his hair. Looking down at him, at the smooth skin where jaw met neck, I felt my heart lurch.

Just before we reached the bottom, he turned in the circle of my arms. His jaw worked convulsively before he spat out, "If that fucker wasn't dead, I'd kill him."

I stared at him in consternation. In spite of the attempted bravado, it was clear he was slipping into shock again; dilated pupils, skin slick with cold sweat, lips tinged with blue. By the time we reached the corridor to our rooms, he was shaking violently and I was bearing more and more of his weight as his legs wobbled beneath him.

"Fuck me. Not again, Potter. This is turning into a very bad habit." But instead of shoving him into his room and slamming the door on him, I led him to the bathroom and undressed him while the tub filled. He was limp as a rag doll, unable to assist me at all. I realised he would never be able to get himself into the tub and that once there, he'd likely slip under the surface. With a disgruntled groan, I propped himself on the edge of the tub and awkwardly undressed myself with one hand as I held him upright with the other. Pleasantly surprised at the ease with which I did so, I lifted him in my arms and stepped into the hot water.

_____________________________________________

A systematic and exhausting search of Buenaventura's laboratory had yielded a few more notebooks and a new secret. In one of the apothecary drawers I had discovered a pair of glasses. That, in and of itself, was odd but not disturbing; what sent a cold shiver down my spine was the realisation that the drawer had been labelled Terra Figulina literally, "Potter's Clay." I recognised the glasses; the drawer's label was no coincidence.

Potter's reaction was nothing more than a laugh and, "I must have looked like a proper git in those."

Disappointed, I responded mildly. "What makes you think you don't look like a proper git without them?"

He had no interest in, nor need for, the glasses and I had no reason to keep them, but I did. They affected me strangely; reminding me of the skinny little boy with the bad attitude who had once worn them. It dawned on me in horror that I was feeling sentimental about the glasses, about Potter. Really, I should have just slit my throat. Death was preferable to realising I was . . . in love. Not that I thought there was anything wrong with love in principle; it was the object of my affections that horrified me, not the affections themselves.

I was disgusted by my inclination to wallow in tender feelings, but I couldn't seem to stop it. I took to carrying the glasses in my pocket and often fiddled about with them when turning over a problem in my mind.

That Federico Buenaventura had known the true identity of his young lover was no longer in question; the glasses confirmed that. My discovery of them, and the label on the drawer I'd found them in, went a long way in confirming my suspicion that Potter's medicine did much more than prevent nightmares and guarantee an overactive libido. His frequent habit of rubbing his forehead and the way his eyes now sometimes seemed more green than brown, had not started until he'd stopped taking his elixir. That, coupled with his quip about debasing his divinity, made me sure that Harmony was the reason he no longer looked like himself. But surety was not proof; for that I needed to decipher the notebooks.

A further sign of my addled wits was that it took so long to remember that whilst my magic was limited, Potter's was not. Of course, I might be excused on the basis that Potter rarely used magic outside the bedroom, preferring for some unknown reason to do things in the Muggle fashion. Be that as it may, neither the spell for translation, nor its wand movement, is difficult and Potter succeeded on his first attempt. All the notebooks' secrets were unlocked.

By this point we were spending the majority of our time in the laboratory. My skill with Potions was returning, but the expenditure of magical energy still tired me; when it did, I would resume my investigation into Buenaventura's history. I learned much that seemed completely inconsequential; he was generous with his work, often giving paintings away even after he became famous and his work had increased in value. It was mildly interesting to learn that brego-the-bartender had been gifted with a small portrait; the idea of a valuable piece of art gracing some wall in that dingy little bar was both amusing and disturbing, and I wondered that I had neither seen nor sensed it in general, Buenaventura's magic positively leaked from the paint he used. More interesting was discovering that the dinner with Goya was actually possible; the painter had told Harry the truth when he claimed he was over three hundred years old. Although he had worked with Flamel, and to my complete surprise, Albus, on the Philosopher's Stone, his long life was due to his own experiments most of which were beyond my comprehension. Not that I cared; I cannot understand why anyone would want to remain above ground for that long. And none of this got me any further.

I had returned to the notebook in which I'd discovered the faked Daily Prophet picture, which I'd set aside at the time since it was mostly unreadable without translation. It seemed to be the last of the lot and therefore the most likely to reveal information about Harry/Adam.

This particular notebook had apparently been started shortly after Potter had arrived at this house. As I read, I felt my pulse quicken. It was clear from what I was reading that Harry's appearance here was not coincidental, but Buenaventura's writing style was maddeningly elliptical and yet I was convinced that somewhere I would find confirmation of my suspicions. I read a passage several times over, shook my head in frustration, and decided to move on. I read the first few words on the next page and stopped, stunned. I stared down blankly for a moment, then read the words again. My mouth tasted of ash, and it suddenly hurt to breathe.

"Potter," I had to struggle to get the word out. He didn't look up from the notebook he was reading. "Potter," I called again, more sharply this time. I realised he still wasn't completely used to the name but who in the nine circles of hell did he think I was speaking to when there were only two of us in the house? I shook myself. Of all the irrelevancies . . .

He looked up the second time and evidently saw something of what I was going through because he stood and came to stand next to me.

"Did Buenaventura ever mention the name," I stopped, cursing myself for a weak fool. "Did he ever speak of a Lord V-Voldemort?" Saying the name out loud was horrible.

"No. I don't think so."

"Think harder. V-Voldemort or Tom Riddle? Damn it, boy! Don't blink at me with that stupid, unutterably vacuous expression. This is important. Voldemort. Riddle. Even once, in passing?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know for certain. Riddle, that's an ordinary sort of name, isn't it? Not one that would stick. But Voldemort, I think I'd remember that if I'd heard it before. Why? Who are they?"

"Not they. Him. Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort." And then I screamed. The Dark Mark blazed, a thousand furies as if He'd heard me using his name and didn't like it at all.

I came to on the floor, Potter squatting next to me, the notebook I'd been reading on his knees.

"You could have," I stopped to clear my throat; speaking was difficult. "You could have put me in bed."

He smiled gently. "I could have, but you'd only've insisted on coming right back up here, and, as that staircase still freaks me out, I don't think I could have levitated you safely down and back."

"I'm shocked. You managed to figure that out with only one functioning brain cell?" I felt surprisingly good. It seemed as if the combination of exercise, magical practice and potionscraft was paying off. "Did you read it?"

"Yes, but I don't understand why it upset you so much." His finger traced the words as he read aloud. "I don't think Tom quite trusts me as he once did, but I am not afraid. Powerful yes, but his power does not extend this far. And it was the right choice to make, the boy belongs here. I will keep him as payment for Tom's debt." He looked down at me. "What does it mean?"

I didn't want to answer; just how much was I expected to put the boy through?

"Severus?"

I gritted my teeth. I much preferred the insolence of the old Potter's 'Snape' to the intimacy of the new Potter's 'Severus'. But my irritation allowed me to tell him what he had the right, and the need, to know.

"I think it means that your painter knew the Dark Lord." My heart twisted as his face paled.

"What else?" he asked grimly.

Brave lad. "Turn back a few pages. It's somewhere near the bottom on the right hand side. Look for your name and then read the next bit."

"Yeah, here it is, I think. This bit? I'm surprised at how quickly Ad n has worked his way into my heart." He faltered and looked pained again. "When I first agreed to take him into my keeping, I did not question the reasons, interested only in what I stood to gain. That's it. Then he goes on about some experiment and then the prospect for the grape harvest. I don't get it. Who was he keeping me for? And what did he stand to gain?"

"As for what he stood to gain, well, if I had to make a guess, something to further his alchemical knowledge perhaps. It doesn't matter now. But I believe the Dark Lord sent you here and, for whatever reason, Buenaventura agreed to take you in. Give me your hand. I think better in an upright position."

"You should go to bed," he said, grabbing me by the wrist and hauling me to my feet.

"Perhaps," I said, but I had already taken the notebook from him and was reading it as I began to pace.

"Severus," he admonished.

My body chose that moment to betray me yet again and I swayed. "Fine," I snapped. "Get those other two notebooks. The one you were reading and the one on the table there. There's no reason I can't work whilst I convalesce."

"I think the two are mutually exclusive, but I know better than to argue with you."

I rolled my eyes. "Since when?"

Impatient as I was to return to the notebooks, the trip on the moving staircase resurrected my dizziness and I was grateful to finally gain my own bed. And I was foolishly gratified when Potter flopped on the bed next to me.

"Shoes."

He sighed and toed off his trainers. "You're so prissy."

"I'm not a bit prissy. I merely dislike grit in my bed."

"You're prissy," he repeated, neatly cutting off my retort by sticking his tongue in my mouth.

"Well, if that's how you're going to be. I don't think you should lie on my bed in those grubby trousers, either." Some time later, he rolled over and rested his back against me, idly twining his fingers in my hair.

"Severus, what debt?"

"Don't call me Severus," I said automatically and then took a minute to track what he was referring to. "I don't know, though I suspect something more than just taking you in. But, since you've brought it up, I think it's time to go back to work. Where are those notebooks?"

"They fell on the floor, I think. At least something did, but I was too busy to pay attention."

In that annoyingly limber way of youth, he anchored himself by hooking his ankles around my leg, and levered himself over the edge of the bed.

_____________________________________________

I had fallen into the habit, on my forays down the mountain, of stopping into the village bar. After my third or fourth visit, the owner with he improbable name Oto¤o brego, revealed his ability to converse fluently in English. After I'd got over my initial outrage that he'd kept this from me, I found him an interesting and entertaining companion.

Making friends has never been a particular speciality of mine and I was surprised at how quickly I warmed to him. On discovering I didn't care for their local wine, he feigned offence, but the next time I came in there was a bottle of good Scots whisky to hand. I almost wept. It was such a pleasure to be away from the house and in adult company for a change.

I soon myself giving him a much expurgated history of my life, framed in Muggle terms of course. It turned out he too had once been a teacher and we spent several hours discussing the peculiarities and perversities of dealing with obnoxious children on a regular basis. Plants also featured heavily; he was conversant with botany in general, medicinal plants in particular, and had an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the local flora, which, naturally enough, interested me greatly.

He was also very interested in "the mountain house" and its occupant. I told him half-truths and outright lies; that I had been "Adam's" professor, that he'd had an accident and had amnesia, that I had stumbled upon him quite by accident. If he figured out that "Adam" and I were more than teacher and student, he kept it to himself and expressed no judgement.

Our chats were wide-ranging and varied. A conversation about music led to philosophy and thence to literature. I told him about London and Edinburgh and he reciprocated with stories of Madrid and Barcelona which led to Gaud¡ I of course did not mention that Gaud¡ was a wizard and to art in general. He took the opportunity to grill me mercilessly on the subject of the art in Buenaventura's home, having, as he explained, a personal interest since the both his father and grandfather had been friends with the painter.

I remembered reading in Buenaventura's journals that he had given brego a small painting and was just going to ask about it when he said, "I have a small collection of my own. Would you like to see?" I nodded and brego gestured for me to step behind the bar. "My father once told me that investing in art one truly loves is never a mistake. My father was a very wise man."

Do not tell anyone," he said as he moved a large bottle revealing a niche and in the niche, a lever. "This is my safe and no one knows the secret except my family." He gave me a short bow, "And now you, my friend." He smiled and pulled the lever and the entire back wall of the bar moved to three feet to the left.

I smiled. "Almost like magic." brego laughed, snapped his fingers and said, "Hey presto! Follow me and be careful where you put your hands. It is very dirty down here." He led the way down a stone staircase and into a large cellar stacked with barrels of wine. "We go to the back," he said, gesturing to the wall behind the barrels. For a moment I hesitated, suddenly gripped by the irrational fear I was being led into a trap, then shrugged my shoulders and followed my host through a small doorway.

"Mind your head. I think my great-grandfather must have been a very short man." He flicked a switch and the room flooded with light.

I blinked. The bar upstairs was dim, the cellar even darker, and the sudden light was blinding. When I could see again, my breath hitched in surprise. Small collection indeed. The man had a gift for understatement. Framed paintings covered every square inch of wall space in the large room and unframed ones filled bins designed for the purpose. There were enough paintings to fill a small museum and I was impressed.

"Come," he took hold of my arm. "You must see the jewels of my collection: a Goya, a Mir¢, two Picassos, and very, very small Vel zquez."

I looked at them in wonder. Any museum in the world would have been delighted to own even one of his "jewels" and here they were, nearly priceless pieces of art, hidden in a wine cellar.

"Don't you worry about the damp?"

"No, no. Can't you feel? It is very dry in here. This part of the country has very little water to begin with, and my father and grandfather spent a lot of money making sure this room would remain dry."

I nodded, realising he was right, the room had no odour of mustiness at all. In spite of the fact that the temperature in his cellar was perfect, neither cold nor warm, I shivered as I felt the familiar tingle of magic.

"And these," he said, tugging at my sleeve, enthusiastic as a boy when he saw my appreciation. "These will interest you. Buenaventura's. I have six two from my grandfather, three from my father, and one that Buenaventura himself gave me as a gift only a year before he died. Are they not wonderful? His technique was magnificent. They seem to change sometimes, you know? I can never put my finger on it, but each time I look at them, they seem slightly different. What do you think?"

I was completely incapable of speech, frozen in shocked horror. Among the abstracts and pastoral scenes was a single portrait. My heart pounded and my tongue tasted of dust and death as I stared into the smiling, slightly mocking eyes of a young Tom Riddle.

_____________________________________________

"Harry! Potter! Adam! Whatever the fuck you call yourself, where are you?" Winded from the long walk up from the village, and still filled with dread, I stalked through the house screaming for him. There was no answer and my sense of panic increased. Had something happened to him? Had the Dark Lord somehow . . . ? Even though I knew it was improbable, I couldn't shake the terror of being unable to find him.

"POTTER!" I stood at the front door, yelling at the top of my lungs and almost fainted with relief when he popped around the corner of the house, smiling.

"You bellowed?"

In an unprecedented display of emotion, I wrapped my arms around him, squeezing him nearly in two as I mumbled, "Thank God, you're all right," into his messy hair. At that moment I was prepared to never let him out of my sight again.

Pulling back from me with effort, he looked up and said, "Severus? What's the matter?"

"I need a drink," I said abruptly.

"From the smell of you, I'd say you'd had enough."

"You stupid, arrogant, selfish little FUCK! Don't ever frighten me like that again!" I dragged him bodily through the house and into my room.

I shoved him towards the bed, slammed the door and locked it. When I turned back, he was lying there, half-dazed, looking at me as if I were insane. Well, perhaps I was.

"Don't you ever do that again, Potter. Do you hear me? Don't you ever disappear like that again!" My heart was still hammering in my chest and, although I was no longer screaming, my voice sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet afternoon.

"For fuck's sake, Severus! I didn't disappear. I was in the garden. What is the matter with you?" His eyes sparked green.

I was tearing at his clothes, desperate to feel him, desperate to make sure he was unharmed, desperate to wipe the image of that painting from my mind's eye. "Shut up!" I snapped. "Just don't. I need to feel you. I need . . . I need . . . " I didn't know what else to say. I was afraid I might be hurting him but I couldn't stop. Fear was eating me alive, making me sweat, making me clumsy and harsh.

He caught my fumbling hands in his and held them together, clasped to his chest. "Exuo!" he said softly and our clothes fell away. "It's okay, Severus. I'm okay. I'm okay."

He offered gracefully and I took with a complete lack of finesse. Afterwards, my chest still tight with fear, he held me, stroking my head.

"What happened?" How could I explain my abject terror over a painting? I looked into his eyes, the eyes that should have been green but weren't, the eyes that were so disturbingly similar to those in the hidden portrait, and suddenly I understood. "I've found the last Horcrux."

_____________________________________________

Adam doesn't hear the door open, nor the footsteps approaching. The first he knows he isn't alone is when a hand grips and shoulder and shakes him roughly.

"Wake up, damn you."

He sits up. It is his friend, the one he thinks of as his friend, the one who comes occasionally to clean him and bring him things clothes, extra food, blankets.

"Where have you been?" Harry asks.

"Don't talk. There isn't time," the whisper is harsh and unfriendly. "You've been told you're to have a visitor and so you will. Him."

"Him?"

"You needn't prove your stupidity. I'm very familiar with it. Don't fight him. It will go worse for you if you do."

"Who?"

"The Dark Lord, you little fool. I had hoped I'd have time to get you out of here before now but you're watched very closely. It's been hard enough to get in to clean you; getting you out is impossible. Have you access to any magic at all?"

"I haven't tried."

"Try now, then. Something simple. Make light."

"I don't have my wand."

"You're hopeless. A wand is only a tool. Concentrate with all your might and say the spell."

"But "

"Do it," his friend hisses.

"Lumos!" As he expects, there is nothing.

"And this is whom we endowed with all our hopes. I told Dumbledore he was an old fool!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry says quietly, turning to face the wall.

"Completely given up, have you? Even I expected better. Not much to be done now, then. But you must try. When he comes, try to Occlude as you've never tried before. Do not let him into the deepest core of you. If you can prevent that, there's hope."

"Occlude?" He rolls over again. "You know who I am! Lumos!" he whispers fiercely. A pale light filled his corner of the room. He blinks in surprise. He can see the shadow of a robed figure standing a few feet away.

"And there might be hope. Well done."

"Let me see your face."

"No. You wouldn't like what you saw. I must go. Occlude. He's going to alter your memory. He's grown to be a master at it. You must fight him without letting him know you're fighting." The shadow turned at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. "I have to go. Occlude. Everything depends on it."

There is a quiet pop and the shadow disappears. The dim light wavers and goes out.

"I can't Occlude. I never could."

There were tears in Adam's eyes when he woke up. He scooted to the far edge of the bed, his back to Snape. He didn't want Severus to see him cry and he didn't want to have to explain why he was crying if Severus woke up. And he knew why he was crying; he could remember the dream and even though it felt like the memory of a dream and not a memory itself, he was ashamed of the failure it revealed.

Eventually, morning came, and Severus, as was his habit, woke with the sun and pulled Adam to him. Adam returned his kiss and rested his head on Severus's shoulder, but he didn't tell him about the dream, and he knew he wouldn't.

_____________________________________________

If the painter had ever kept detailed records of his alchemical processes, they remained hidden. The notebooks were as sketchy on that subject as they had proved to be about almost everything else.

I had managed, by painstaking effort, to break down the tiny sample of Harmony into its basic elements. It turned out I was wrong about there being no magical components, but so convinced had I been of the accuracy of my suspicions, it was anti-climactic to discover the elixir contained both boomslang skin and bicorn's horn key ingredients of the Polyjuice potion. Nonetheless, I was justifiably proud of my achievement.

Potter, typically, managed to ruin my pleasure. "Big deal. What difference does it make? Who the fuck even cares any more?" Self-centred to the last.

This was the span of our days: We fought; Harry cooked; we argued; we slept; we . . . didn't sleep; Harry worked the garden; we argued; I read the notebooks, did experiments, pursued my magic; we fought; Harry cooked.

It should have been peaceful. It wasn't. Potter was more mercurial, and therefore more Potter-like, by the day. It was obvious there was something was eating at him, but he denied it.

There was something gnawing at me as well. Weeks had passed since my discovery of the Horcrux in brego's underground vault and I had not once returned to the village. I could not forget its existence, but neither could I talk about it. Just thinking about it filled me with such dread, I was as reluctant to bring up the subject as I was to use the Dark Lord's name.

And the Dark Lord was on my mind for reasons beyond the Horcrux. Since the wave of agony that had left me temporarily insensible on the laboratory floor, there had not even been a twinge in my Mark. In the days following my discovery Tom Riddle's portrait, I steeled myself against the pain I was sure would soon come. I was sure that unearthing the Horcrux must cause some vibration to ripple across the miles and disturb the Dark Lord's sleep. Yet nothing happened, and that was also cause for concern. Why was He silent? His impatience would certainly not be growing less. The only answer I could find was the war; either it was going so well for Him that He did not need to worry about Potter, or the tide had turned and He had more immediate concerns.

And yet, while I fretted, I did nothing. An unseemly lassitude had crept over me. I told myself I could do nothing; circumstances beyond my control had conspired to make me a non-combatant. I didn't have the magical strength to destroy the Horcrux. It was, as might have been expected, Albus or his facsimile who finally shook me from my torpor.

Of late, all my time had been spent in the laboratory, the library, the kitchen, or the bedroom. I had barely ventured outside, except for moments when some unspoken dread sent me running for the garden when I could not find Potter in the house. But, having exhausted the library and laboratory as a source for more notebooks, and remembering at last that the higher shelves in the sitting room contained untitled volumes bound in the same material, I went into the room I hadn't been in for weeks.

I had quite forgotten about Historia de Fantasmas. I was standing on my toes, stretching my hand towards the books that had no doubt been placed there because they were far out of Potter's short reach, when I caught a flash of purple out of the corner of my eye. I really wasn't in the mood, but the painting didn't care; it flashed more colours at me, various hues of red and orange clashing with the purple.

I sighed. "Albus." No matter that I knew it wasn't his portrait.

"Severus, my lad. You're looking much fitter than when l saw you last. Would I be wrong if I gave some of the credit for that to Harry?"

"He's a good cook," I admitted grudgingly. "But he's just as wrong-headed, argumentative and stupid as ever."

"Tsk, tsk, Severus. I would have expected you to recognise his true talents by now."

"Oh, I'm completely aware of his true talents, but apparently he hasn't got a broom."

"That's closer to the mark than you believe. He's a bit impetuous, I admit, but that's because his intelligence expresses itself more in the physical than the cerebral."

"In other words he acts without thinking."

"That's not what I meant at all, and you know it. Give some honest thought to the things he does best."

Detecting a note of misplaced amusement in Albus's tone, I flushed. "You've been spying on us."

The painting seemed to flare pink and I could hear Albus's familiar chuckle. "My dear boy! I'm dead. I did not leave my ghost behind. This painting is not of me, and I sincerely doubt you've managed to acquire a Chocolate Frog card during your sojourn. No matter what your guilty conscience is telling you and what you'd have to feel guilty about, I'm sure I don't know I am not spying on you. I was referring to Harry's magical ability. He's really quite talented."

"He may have been once, although I've never seen any evidence with my own eyes, but he doesn't even do magic these days."

Again the annoying chuckle. "None at all?"

"Fine. I admit. Sexually, he's a magical dynamo. Satisfied? Is that enough information to satisfy your prurient curiosity?"

"Have you ever thought about why so few have mastered Sex Magic? Surely you don't think it's because of a lack of interest." What started as another chuckle soon metamorphosed into gales of laughter.

Had the painting been within spitting range, he'd have been wiping his artistic eye.

"Your point? If you have one."

"Oh dear, dear, dear. You do disappoint me. Think of how hard it is to concentrate on anything at all during orgasm."

"You're a filthy-minded old man."

"I am a figment of your imagination, which would make you the dirty old man." More laughter.

At times such as these I wondered why I had ever liked him.

"Again. Your point?"

"We should chat more often. I do so love to laugh."

And with that, he was gone; not that he'd been there to begin with.

But, I'm not an idiot. I knew what his point was. Although he rarely used it in any other circumstance, in the bedroom Potter's magic was fluid, flawless, and done without his wand. I should have recognised it sooner; if he could, after reading only a few books, perform such complex magic without apparent effort, his power had to have been on par with Albus's. After weeks of disquiet, I finally knew what to do.

"Potter!" I roared as I strode from the sitting room. "Imp! Menace! Where the devil are you? POTTER!"

I found him in the laboratory, staring at the small portrait of himself. I had hidden it away almost immediately, but apparently I hadn't done a good enough job.

"What do you want?" he asked sulkily as I stepped off the golden staircase and onto the lab's marble floor.

He didn't wait for my answer. "I hate this thing. I fucking hate it."

"That's a waste of time. It's neither sentient nor intelligent. Hating it accomplishes nothing."

"Don't lecture me, Snape!" He spat the words out and I was taken aback; it had been some time since he'd called me by my surname.

"What's got you sulking this time?"

"Oh, sod off," he grumbled and then stormed out of the room.

I gave him thirty minutes to cool off before I went looking for him. He wasn't in the house and once again the familiar panic flared, but it didn't take me long to reason out where he would be, and I found him, as I expected to, under the cork tree.

The day was windless but the tree was flailing as wildly as ever the Whomping Willow had done. Potter stood there, fists clenched, paying no heed to its writhing. All his attention was focused on the white marble slab that marked Buenaventura's final resting place. I watched in amusement as the engraved words "mentor, friend, beloved" were gouged away and beneath the deep rut the words, "bastard and collaborator" appeared.

"How childish," I drawled, deliberately provoking him.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! For once in your life, try not to be such a shithead!"

"I've had enough of your pathetic moping, your tantrums, your self-pity. Pick yourself up and move on, boy! Everybody has disappointments in life. But what harm did he do you? He took you in, stopped your nightmares, loved you." I despised even saying the words, but I had to see how far he could be pushed and what would happen.

"I SAID SHUT IT, SNAPE! JUST SHUT YOUR FUCKING GOB! HE TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME!"

The air crackled with Harry's rage and suddenly the white marble slab exploded in a million fragments that spouted into the air and fell back to earth as nothing more than a fine white powder. The cork tree's flailing became even wilder and its branches scraped against the windows producing a sound like a thousand people screaming.

For a split second, everything calmed, and then the tree was blasted by a shard of light so brilliant, I was blinded. When my vision cleared, I saw the tree had been split in twain and its core was blackened by fire.

Perfect.

Silently, I thanked Albus.

"Feel better?" I asked snidely.

"No. Damn you! Shut up before I do the same to you!" His eyes blazed green fire and on his forehead, a jagged vein bulged. It looked remarkably like a bolt of lightning. "FUCK!" His scream was full of both rage and pain. "It's no fucking use. It's not even his fault." He gestured at the pile of white marble dust. His eyes glistened with what I at first assumed were tears of rage, but he suddenly crumpled to the ground, sobbing. "It's my own fault, isn't it? I failed somehow. I was too weak. I don't even remember but I know somehow it's my own fault."

My heart went out to him, but this was no time for coddling. I had no use for his tears; I needed his rage. "Yes, Potter. You were weak."

He glared up at me in outrage at my perceived betrayal.

"You made a complete mess of things, but you can do something to atone. Your painter was most likely just a pawn, Potter. If you really want revenge against the one who harmed you, there's a way."

I stalked off towards the path down the mountain, not even pausing to see if he followed. It was only moments before I heard his footsteps as he pounded down the hill after me.

"Where are we going."

"You have a mission to complete."

"I . . . what?"

I stopped walking and grabbed his arm to stop him as well. I looked at him. He really didn't know to what I was referring. I knew it wasn't blind stupidity. In the proper context he could recite every detail I knew about Harry Potter, but he still thought of himself as Adam, and Harry's memories were likely beyond recovery.

"The Horcruxes, Potter. You've one left."

Comprehension flooded his faced. He stared at me for a moment, then nodded and walked on with determination. I followed.

We didn't speak again until we arrived at the village almost an hour later. Harry's face was grim, and the tracks of his tears were outlined in the dust of the path.

"Ah, Severus, my friend! I thought perhaps you had left us without saying good-bye." brego's face showed real delight.

I felt a pang that he'd thought I'd leave without bidding him farewell.

"And Se¤or White." He nodded at Harry. "It is good to see you." He turned back to me and put his hand on my arm. "What can I get you, profesor? Vino?" He laughed, knowing full well how much I despised the local wine. "No, I am kidding with you. Whisky, I know. And for you, se¤or?"

Harry surprised me. His face was still pale and set, but anyone who didn't know him well would recognise the anger that hid behind his smile. "Ah, nothing for me. Gracias. Please, call me Ad n."

I was surprised and impressed to hear him offer the Spanish version of his name that only Buenaventura had used. I could only imagine how much he loathed it at that moment. "Don't be angry with him, but Severus let slip you have some paintings of Fico's. I was wondering . . . would you let me see them?" brego looked at me and I hung my head in silent apology. With a smile, he generously shrugged off whatever irritation he felt. "But of course, Ad n." He shook his finger at me. "But don't tell anyone else. You will bring the thieves."

He led us behind the bar and through the passage to the cellar. I could feel waves coming off Potter and it was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. At the door to his hidden room, he reminded me to watch my head and laughingly said to Harry, "You are built compact like my great-grandfather."

Harry laughed, and again no one who didn't know him would recognise anything amiss. But I was suddenly afraid of what I had unleashed.

"They are just here," brego said.

"Oto¤o, I hesitate to ask, but Adam and Buenaventura were . . . I think this will be hard for him. Would you give us just a minute alone?" I wanted him out of there, and in a hurry.

But I was too late. Harry was standing in front of the small portrait, fists clenched. Once again I could feel the waves of rage. Suddenly, the air crackled.

"Oto¤o," I said desperately just as Potter's body was wreathed in blinding white aureole. "Fuck," I whispered.

Potter raised his hand and a vivid green light shot from his fingertips. In other circumstances, I might have laughed; who but Harry Potter would think to use Avada Kedavra on a painting? But there was nothing funny about this situation. The killing light spiralled in ever tighter circles around the portrait. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I watched the paint on young Riddle's face begin to run. The portrait's scream was shrill beyond endurance and went on and on and on, long after the painted mouth had melted into a glob at the bottom of the frame.

Harry stretched out a hand and yanked me to his side, enveloping me in his white aura as a ball of vermillion fire blazed and the room exploded.

Two Picassos, a Goya, a Mir¢, a very, very small Vel zquez, and my friend Oto¤o brego, were the price of the destruction of the last Horcrux.

I had never even wept for Albus, but I wept for brego.

_____________________________________________

His hands were soft and hot, blunt and sure, and ever so slightly damp. He's nervous. Why is he nervous? But I couldn't think about it just then; couldn't think about it because his hands were all those things and they were touching me. Where his hands went, his lips followed.

Perhaps a leopard may one day change his spots, but he can't do it overnight. I couldn't let it be. "Harry, what's wro ?"

But his hands covered my mouth and he said, "Nothing." Then, "Later."

"Harry?"

His only answer was his touch. He didn't use magic. There was no laughter, no teasing, no fury. But there was a desperation in his eyes as he kissed his way slowly up my body from toes to forehead.

"Severus, please? Just this once? For me? Please?" Still the desperation.

I knew what he wanted. I closed my eyes and tried to bring air into my lungs to displace the panic. He could have taken anything he wanted, but instead he asked. His own peculiar little fantasy and the one thing I'd always refused. After what I'd seen him do to the Horcrux, I'd hardly have dared refuse him again, even if I'd wanted to.

"Aduro!" I whispered. I hadn't opened my eyes but I could see the red glow as one by one I kindled the room's torches and the hundred candles that graced every raised surface.

I opened my eyes to see him smiling at me, almost wistfully, and a tight knot formed in my throat. It was not light he was asking for, that was my own idea; a ribbon on the gift he'd requested.

Locking my eyes on his, I pushed myself up in the bed until my back rested against the headboard. I swallowed, trying to dislodge the knot, but it wouldn't budge. I was a spy, a dungeon-dweller, a creature of the dark places; pale, thin and ugly, it was not in my nature to expose myself. The fiery candlelight was not to assuage Harry's fears. It merely promised that I could not hide.

I did not understand why he wanted this and that night, it did not matter. Instinct made me draw my knees up; I forced them back down and made my legs sprawl wide. Slowly, not once allowing my gaze to break away from his, I touched myself. I smiled briefly as the simple act of dragging my middle finger over my bottom lip caused him to inhale sharply. I did it again and let my finger pull my lip down, exposing the red, inner flesh.

In spite of my discomfort, I was becoming aroused. Harry knelt at the end of the bed, knees spread, knuckles pushing into the mattress. He did not touch himself at all, but his erection never faltered as he watched me drag a fingernail down the side of my neck and across my chest. My skin burned and I knew I had left a long scratch in my finger's wake. The pain of it helped me keep from withdrawing into myself.

He inhaled again as my hand strayed briefly across my nipple.

"Why do you like this? Hmm? I don't understand you at all. How could this," I let my hand drag along my ribs, "excite you more than this?" and stretched my hand out to touch his nipple, but he swayed back beyond my reach. He smiled but said nothing.

I had not yet touched my cock, but I was intensely aware of it. A bead of fluid leaked out of the tip and tickled me maddeningly on its slow path down the length of me. Groaning, I turned my head away from him for the first time and sank my teeth into my own bicep, biting down hard and leaving a ring of sharp dents in my flesh.

"Little voyeur. Is there no end to your perversions? I suppose eventually you'll cast some spell that forces me to fuck myself." I sank my teeth into the obscenity as I had my arm, and was rewarded by a green flash of desire in his eyes. In spite of it, I could not continue in that vein. It was enough that I was toying with myself in front of him, I decided. I didn't have to indulge his passion for gutter talk as well. The truth was that I was never any good at it anyway.

I stroked my armpit with the flat of my hand and allowed my fingers to linger at the sensitive crease a place that Harry often favoured with tongue and teeth because it always seemed to make me wild. The tortures that sprat could do to my nerve endings were outrageous. He knew why I lingered there, knew I was thinking of his lips. His body was taking on that sheen of sweat that always came with his arousal.

With one hand I stroked my hip-bone and the hollows beside it; my other plucked at my minimalist chest hair before straying to my nipple. The thought flitted through my mind that it was a pity I couldn't suck it. Then, imagining myself with mammaries large enough to nuzzle, I laughed.

"What?" he asked with a half-smile and a tilt of his head.

I told him and he laughed but said in a very demanding tone, "Don't stop."

It occurred to me to provoke him but really, what was the point? It would only delay the inevitable.

Bringing both hands to bear on my nipples, I closed my eyes and bit my lip and took a long, shuddering breath. I could hear an answering breath from Harry and imagined what he looked like as he watched me, the strong rise and fall of his chest, sweat beading on his face. It was a stupid thing to do when I could see the real thing if I only opened my eyes.

I jerked in surprise. He had pushed his damp fringe away from his forehead; his scar was back. I thought it seemed fainter than the last time I saw him, but that had been only very briefly, in his "hospital room", by very dim wand light. He was not using magic, but power radiated from him.

I cursed my weakness for arrogant and manipulative wizards.

"What?" He asked again. His hand strayed to his forehead and froze. "I've got Harry's scar."

"It looks good on you," I smirked.

"Severus, I "

I cut him off. "I know, Harry. Now, I don't mean to be prissy, but can we get back to the matter at hand?" I pressed my hands against my body, allowing the heels to bump slowly over each rib as they drifted downwards. I kept my eyes focused on his face, but his gaze was considerably lower down on my anatomy than my head.

As I took my cock between my palms, I said, "I could use some help here."

Harry just shook his head with a slight smile.

"Monster."

I was not inclined to waste any more time, but Harry gave me that same smile and said, "Play with your foreskin."

How does one argue with a man who has the capacity to say something like that? I played with my foreskin.

I skinned it back, tightening the ring of my fingers as it passed over the head, twisting as I moved lower. I watched Harry watch my cock as my hand slid back up. When the glans was again hidden, I rubbed my thumb over the velvety skin covering it.

When I was so close my body was starting to shake, I said, "Please?"

Harry tugged on his lower lip and then, without releasing his lip, grinned and nodded. It was a ridiculous expression and I was reminded painfully of his youth. I don't know why it bothered me; I've known men who would kill to be in my position.

I moved to my knees and then closer to Harry, so that our knees were almost touching. The hand not on my cock moved languidly up and down my side. I watched him watch me. And the shame of doing this was a little flame of pleasure in my belly. I wanted to die. And then I did die, just like the fucking heroine in a Regency novel.

My emission splattered Harry's chest. I leant forward to lick him clean but he stopped me with a hand pressed against my chest. He scooped up some of the sticky white mess and lapped it from his fingers.

"There's no point in any of that. I'm an old man. It's going to be hours before I'm up to fucking you."

He rolled his eyes and laughed. "Severus. Thank you. That was," he paused, shrugged, and said, "beautiful."

"You're welcome. Don't expect me to ever do it again. And," I glared at him, "don't call me Severus."

Later much, much later as he spooned his back against my belly and wiggled his arse against my desiccated member, he sighed and said happily, "I don't think I'm going to have a nightmare tonight."

But I still thought I could detect a note of desperation in his voice.

_____________________________________________

"What are you doing?" He didn't answer and I needn't have asked; the answer was spilling from an open rucksack.

"Why? What on earth do you think you can accomplish? You don't even know who you are."

"Don't," he said. "You know what's at stake. You know better than I do. You've said it yourself; it doesn't matter who I am, it only matters who people think I am. Severus, if I can help then I need to help. It's the right thing to do."

"Ever the hero," I said bitterly.

"No, it's not that. It's not as if I have a thing for saving people. I've got unfinished business of my own. Destroying the Horcrux means nothing if that son of a bitch is still hanging around. He destroyed my life and damn near destroyed yours. I mean to make him pay for that."

I nodded; revenge is a concept I understand. Reaching into my pocket I extracted Potter's glasses. I'd held onto them out of some perverse sentimentality, I suppose. "You'd better take these. You can transfigure the lenses into plain glass. With the changes in you, you'll have a hard enough time convincing people you're Harry Potter and Harry Potter is almost as famous for his glasses as his scar."

"But I look like him . . . me now. Why won't people be convinced."

"Some people, Ron Weasley springs to mind, are thick but they're not stupid. Potter . . . you have friends, people who've known you intimately for years. If I had doubts, imagine how it will be with Weasley and Granger. Just take the damn glasses."

There was no way to know how things would turn out, who would win, if he would survive. I wanted no reminders.

He stretched out a hand and touched my cheek, rubbing his fingers irritatingly over the stubble on my jaw. "Stop that," I snapped. "If you're going, you'd best just go."

"I'll come back, Severus. Count on it."

"I count on nothing, least of all hare-brained Harry Potter."

"Bastard."

"Yes." I smiled without meaning it.

"Right. I'm off then. I will come back."

"When you do, if you do, I won't be here."

"What do you mean? You can't just walk away. No. If that's how you're going to be, I'm not leaving."

"Don't be a bigger fool than you must, Potter. Stay in this god-forsaken village, with its hideous language and worse wine? In this country with its execrable weather?"

He laughed and there was no more meaning in it than my smile. "Where will you go? I'll find you, you know."

"Of course you'll find me, you lunkhead. I'll be in Britain. I can't travel with you, I'll just slow you down and thanks to your weak mind enough time has been wasted. But for good or ill, I belong there, not here. I spent too long, gave too much, to idly sit by eating lotos while others fight that madman."

He picked up his rucksack and walked to the door. I might've expected it but he took me completely by surprise when he turned and lunged at me, wrapping his arms around me tightly and pressing his lips to mine. "I love you, you son of a bitch."

I tugged his messy hair, rocking his head gently back and forth. "I know you do, more fool you. Go. I hate scenes."

He slowly backed away, not taking his eyes from me. I closed mine, biting back the ridiculous urge to beg him not to go, to stay here and dine on lotos with me.

"I have to do this." His voice was so soft I had to strain to hear it.

"Of course you do. You never did have any reasonable understanding of your own limitations."

I accompanied him to the head of the path that led from his mountain to the village, kissed him with a desperation that nearly unmanned me, and stood watching as he walked away. He was nearly around the curve and out of sight when I called out, "Potter!"

He turned and cocked his head inquisitively.

"Don't you dare fuck this up."

I could see his teeth flash in a smile before he turned and disappeared.

The End
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The Impossibility of Crows