Family, a sort-of Severitus challenge response by seeker. Rated NC17 for sexuality, violence and language. No copyright infringement intended. See the end of the story for notes.

Pairings: Harry/Draco, Snape/Lily, Lucius/Snape, James/Sirius.

He thought he really should be past this by now. Harry stared out the window at the spotless, regimented garden below, and bit his lip.

Over a year since it happened. Sixteen months of life continuing as if nothing had changed, when in truth he'd lost one of the few foundations his life contained. Sirius hadn't been the most stable of guardians, living more in the past than the present, damaged by his time in Azkaban in ways Harry couldn't begin to imagine, but he'd been the closest thing Harry had to a father.

To family.

The Dursleys didn’t count. They might offer blood protection to him, but they didn’t want him. Never had. They didn’t love him. Not at all; certainly not like a son. Not like Sirius could have, given the chance.

No matter how many times Dumbledore and McGonagall and Remus and Tonks and Ron and Hermione told him (and told him and told him) that it wasn't his fault, he knew better. He fucked up. Sirius died. That was the truth.

At least Snape didn't lie to him to try to make him feel better. Snape just looked at him with those cold black eyes and told him to try again, do better, work harder, until Harry could slam a wall down over his thoughts that Voldemort couldn't penetrate. It stopped the dreams.

It didn't stop the guilt.

So here he was, on his seventeenth birthday, a month from beginning his final year in school, still reeling from the pain of his worst failure. A tiny knot of hope in the center of his chest refused to completely die, whispering that this year would be better, that this year would be the one where he got his life back.

He didn't listen to it.

Perhaps he should have.

His Aunt Petunia's shrill command to come complete yet another chore before he was fed, or he wouldn't be fed, roused him from his brooding and send him sullenly downstairs. A summer like any other. Too much work and too many worries.

At least he didn't have to worry about anybody hitting him again. Once the petrifying fear engendered by the Aurors who'd checked on him all last summer had worn off, which was approximately five seconds after his Uncle Vernon realized the visits weren't continuing this summer, his uncle thought he'd push his luck. Harry stifled a grin at the memory.

"Boy!" Vernon had yelled, "get down here and clean up this mess!"

'This mess' being, of course, the pigsty Dudley left behind himself. As usual. Harry had trotted obediently, resentfully, downstairs to clean up behind Dudley. As usual. Vernon sneered at him. As usual.

Then Vernon tried to backhand him for ‘giving him attitude,’ which from what Harry could tell, meant ‘breathing.’

Tried being the operative word.

Six years of annual death-skirting trysts with Voldemort had sharpened a survival instinct in Harry that was already phenomenal. Vernon's meaty fist never landed.

Harry flinched; Vernon's fist bounced off what appeared to be thin air; Vernon cut loose with a shriek of pain that would have made the girliest of girls quite proud.

Then he cradled his broken hand against his chest and bawled like a baby.

Petunia stormed in, grabbed up a broom that only Harry had ever used, and attempted to beat Harry about the head with it for the unforgivable sin of damaging her precious Vernon.

The broom splintered a foot from Harry's skull. Not so much as a wood chip landed on him.

Petunia stood there, gaping like a landed fish, as Dudley yelped (from his position cowering the best he could behind his rail-thin mother), "They'll kick you out for this!"

Except, of course, they couldn't. For Harry hadn't done any magic.

The shield that surrounded him was intrinsic to his person, an extension of his innate magic not called by any conscious or emotional means. Unlike when he’d blown up Aunt Marge, he hadn’t even been angry. Hadn’t done anything at all, really. Had only allowed the hatred of others to shatter against him without touching him.

The Ministry of Magic had no clue.

Well, they had no clue about much of anything, really, but particularly, they never discovered that Harry's magic was doing a fine job of looking out for Harry when no one else would.

Eventually, his relatives gave up trying to bash him one. When no further odd instances (or freakishness, as Vernon blustered) happened, they quieted down and coexisted uneasily with Harry. Of course, that didn't stop them from trying to starve him to death.

Every time they refused him a meal, however, unbeknownst to them, a piping hot dinner or tasty fried breakfast awaited Harry upon return to his tiny room. As soon as he cleaned his plate, it disappeared. His relatives never found out, and he certainly never told them.

They also tried to lock him in the cupboard under the stairs.

Once.

The door splintered, much like the broom.

So Vernon replaced the door with a metal sheet, bolted to the wall and closed with a dozen or more locks.

The locks melted. Then, so did the door.

Harry had stepped out over the slag that was no barrier to his freedom and watched with interest as it seeped away through the floor, leaving nothing behind to show it had ever existed.

"I'll just use the second bedroom then?" he'd asked calmly.

Vernon was too busy choking to answer. Dudley was whimpering and hiding (or attempting to hide, but his bulk wouldn't fit) behind the couch. Petunia nodded mutely. Harry took that as permission.

They didn't try to lock him up the rest of the summer, either.

Of course, they also didn't say a word to him beyond "Boy! Do this!" and "Boy! Do that!"

Harry was perfectly content with his interaction with his relatives, if a bit bored by it all. He had too many important things on his mind, like guilt and anger and grief, to worry about the idiot Dursleys.

The day passed, as most days had, in a dull progression of chores, magical meals, and silence. Since Dumbledore had made the Dursleys' house unplottable after Voldemort's sixth annual failed attempt to kill Harry and everyone around him, no owls bearing birthday gifts appeared. As midnight approached, Harry stared absently at the darkness through the window.

"Happy birthday," he whispered soundlessly, catching his reflection's eyes.

Hedwig hooted softly in reply. His mirror-self looked older than it should, stretched by sadness, all angular planes and hollows, his eyes dark shadows.

Dimly he heard the bells ring from the church down the way, and leaned his forehead against the cold glass. Midnight. His seventeenth birthday. The last he would see in this godforsaken place with these horrible people. It was something to celebrate.

If his heart hadn't hurt too much to celebrate anything.

The next morning, Petunia's unpleasantly shrill screech roused him to come down and cook everyone else breakfast. Harry rolled over, stretching out an unaccustomed stiffness from his muscles. His joints popped, and he groaned at the sensation. It felt rather as if he'd come out of alignment overnight, and the luxuriant stretch had slotted his bones back in place. Grinning slightly at the mental imagery, he pulled on his clothes and clattered down the stairs.

Petunia took one look at him, turned paler than normal (a reaction Harry hadn't thought possible, given how pasty white the woman usually was) and tottered on her heels. He stopped in his tracks and looked at her warily.

"What?" he asked, suspicious of her odd behavior.

Then he blinked and raised a hand to his throat. His voice was deeper, lower and smoother than it had been the day before.

"Great," he muttered under his breath, "another freakin' wizard puberty thing nobody told me about."

After a fourfold increase in magical power hitting him in the middle of transfiguration (and the resultant transformation of his entire class into chimpanzees, a misfire that took most of the day for McGonagall to correct), Harry had been rightly concerned that more wizardly weirdness would catch him unawares.

His classmates and professors hadn't seemed to grasp the fact that he'd been raised by phobic Muggles in a cupboard under the stairs, and didn't know all the things magical children and studious Muggleborns already knew. One would think after so many years they might, but Harry knew better.

"You-- you're -- you did -- WHAT did you DO, you freakish boy?" Petunia finally stuttered out.

"Woke up, got dressed, came down to cook breakfast," Harry informed her dryly. He'd found after a lifetime of practice the only defense, poor as it was, that he had against his relatives' rhetorical questions was absolute literalism. Even that got him punished.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, WHOEVER YOU ARE!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Harry winced, shook his head, sighed, and went back to his room. There was no way to reason with the woman when she was acting more insane than usual. There was also no way he was leaving the only place he was safe. If he had to lock himself up in his room for the next two weeks, at least he had meals, a bed, a roof, unplottable wards, and a window to pee out of if he had to.

God. What a life.

Not surprisingly, that's exactly what he did.

Harry, being Harry, remained oblivious to the fact that for once in her life Petunia had an actual reason for turning into a lunatic. He avoided mirrors, didn't talk to anyone, didn't see anyone. He buried his nose in his schoolbooks, petted and pampered Hedwig, and one day shortly before he left for the train station, he glimpsed Dobby leaving Harry lunch and Hedwig treats.

"Thank you, Dobby," he said quietly, but the elf had already vanished.

When the day finally came for him to escape back to Hogwarts, he woke early. He ate Dobby’s breakfast, finished packing his trunk, and looked around the little room. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, there that he would miss.

As he came down the stairs for the last time, dragging his trunk behind him and cradling Hedwig's cage to his chest, Harry found the house deserted. He looked around cautiously.

"Hello?" he called out. His voice was rusty with lack of use. "Anybody there?" he called again, louder. His words echoed in the empty room. "Well, that's brilliant."

Setting the cage and trunk down, he rummaged until he found his wand and prepared to go call the Knight Bus. When he straightened up, he caught sight of his reflection in the shiny chrome front of Petunia's brand new refrigerator.

He dropped his wand.

Stumbled back a foot, jostling his trunk and unsettling Hedwig in her cage. She gave an indignant hoot, the noise bringing him back to himself.

Whoever the hell himself was. Judging by the stranger looking back at him with familiar green eyes, he could have been anyone. He hesitantly stepped forward and peered closely at his reflection.

His hair wasn't messy anymore. It was sleek, lying against his skull, with a blue tint to it where the sunshine hit it instead of the sable brown it used to have. His eyes hadn't changed, were if anything a little larger, but his brows were arched, his nose longer, his chin more angled, his cheekbones much sharper. His mouth was thinner, and his skin was nearly as pale as Petunia's. He raised a hand to touch the shadow beneath one cheekbone and was startled again at how long his fingers and narrow his palm seemed to be.

No. Not fucking possible.

Even as he thought it, his features began to blur. His nose broadened, his cheekbones flattened, his lips softened. The hair was still strangely tidy, his chin was still too sharp, and it looked like he'd plucked his eyebrows, but it was himself, again, as it should be.

Trembling, he reached out to touch his cheek, and took in a quick breath.

On the outside, anyway, he was more himself. His fingers traced his  cheekbone, still jutting out under his touch but not visible to the eye.

Once again, his instinct to protect himself had kicked in, in a more subtle way. He didn't want anyone else to see him like this, not until he'd figured out what the hell was going on. And no one would, until he could explain it, maybe stop it, maybe use it, whatever IT was.

Swallowing with a dry throat, Harry squared his shoulders. Picked up Hedwig's cage, muttering absently, soothingly, to her, picked up his trunk, picked up his wand, and swept with unknowing grace out to the kerb. Sticking his wand in the air with a hand that still wavered a bit, he waited for the Knight Bus to careen to a stop.

Climbing aboard, he mumbled an answer to Stan's overly-exuberant greeting and dragged his belongings to the back of the bus. He stared at himself in the window all the way to the station then, still in a daze, shouldered past the crowds to Platform 9 3/4.

Luckily, considering his state of mind, he was early, so he didn't have to pretend to be normal for his friends. Settling Hedwig with the rest of the owls, dumping his trunk in the baggage car, he found a compartment near the back of the train and stared gloomily at his reflection again.

As he watched, his features began an infinitesimal shift. Panic shot through Harry and he concentrated fiercely on the way he knew he was supposed to look. The shift ended abruptly. Just in time, too, as a bright red head attached to a gangly six-footer popped through the door.

"Harry! Mate! I've got presents for you!"

Ron tumbled into the car, bearing gifts as threatened. On his heels came Hermione, hair primly braided, Head Girl badge gleaming on her robes, contentment beaming in her expression. Harry forced a smile and moved over to make room on the bench.

The following few hours were very instructive. Harry learned that a façade was much easier to maintain than he'd expected in large part because his friends were rather wrapped up with one another. At any other time he might have felt hurt at being excluded. Right then, as he was also discovering that he had to maintain an awareness of his appearance at all times, his exclusion was a relief.

So he opened his presents, made appropriate noises, redirected attention from himself to his friends, and let their happy conversation wash over him while he wondered what the hell he was going to do with himself.

The first month of school confirmed what Harry feared. Having once been revealed, his true appearance fought constantly against being hidden.

To his relief, the upsurge in his magic from the year before remained constant, so he had the reserves of magical energy to maintain his appearance and still participate in classes. Schoolwork had never occupied more than half Harry's attention anyway, so he had plenty to spare to keep his friends from finding out he'd turned into a stranger.

Quidditch was another matter entirely.

Flying consumed Harry as nothing else did. During the first practice he got so caught up in flying, and the snitch, and listening for Captain Ron's bellowed instructions, that he completely forgot to pay attention to his face.

It was a good thing his hair had grown longer. It was a better thing that Ron was too busy tearing a strip off MacLean, the new Beater, to look at anyone else. Harry raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his face and his glasses fell off. He bent over to pick them up, and the sunlight reflected off the lens, giving him a clear view of his altered appearance.

"Bloody fuck!" he muttered, screwing his eyes shut and concentrating hard on what he was supposed to look like.

"Harry! Harry, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Ron's voice came from a long way away. Harry finally opened his eyes and stared apprehensively at his friend.

Who was perfectly clear, even though Harry still held his glasses clenched in his hand.

Ron also didn't seem to be shocked by Harry's looks, so Harry could only assume (hope) his magic had worked.

"Sorry? What?" he asked vaguely.

Ron snorted in amusement and irritation. "Nothing much, just wondering what planet you were on. You okay there, mate?"

"Um," Harry stalled. "Think something's off with my prescription. I should go see Pomfrey."

Ron nodded. "Do that. Can't have you flying blind against Ravenclaw next month!"

He grinned at Harry, who grinned weakly in return. The rest of the team dispersed to the showers, but Harry trudged toward the castle.

He didn't go to the infirmary, however. Casting a quick cleansing charm to rid himself of sweat and smell, Harry made a quick stop at the dorm to change back into his robes then kept going until he got to the Library. Once there, he started looking for any information about magical means of controlling one’s appearance. He had to get a handle on this, not let it get away from him again.

When the Library closed at midnight, he hid in the stacks. After Pince left, he lit up his wand and kept looking.

One hundred eighty seven volumes on everything from blood curses to animagi to the wizardly equivalent of plastic surgery later, the sun was coming up and Harry could barely keep his eyes open.

Staggering toward the main hall at the behest of his grumbling stomach, Harry found Hermione and Ron waiting for him at the doors.

"Where were you last night?" Hermione asked, looking concerned.

Ron nodded. "Yeah, when you didn't make it back before curfew, I borrowed your cloak and went down to the infirmary. Nobody was there."

Harry looked sheepish. "Turns out I don't need glasses anymore." His mind worked furiously. "Remembered I had to look some stuff up for Flitwick's essay and went to the library. I was so tired from practice and everything I fell asleep there."

Hermione looked suspicious while Ron looked vaguely horrified.

"Didn't Madame Pince wake you when the Library closed?" Hermione asked.

"I was back in the stacks, sitting on the floor, reading. Guess she didn't see me."

As Hermione had done the same thing more than once in the past, she couldn't find fault with his excuse. To his relief, they dropped the subject as he led the way in to breakfast.

That set the pattern for the next several weeks. Class, practice, long nights doing research, and the constant battle to maintain his appearance began to take their toll on Harry. It was a good thing his friends were so distracted by their romance they didn't notice how distanced Harry had become.

Unfortunately, or perhaps inevitably, Harry's luck ran out.

The circumstances would otherwise be happy, an irony Harry couldn't help but appreciate. In late November, two weeks before Christmas hols began, the current DADA teacher had a nervous breakdown (her students had been predicting it since the beginning of term). She was rendered immobile and carted off to St. Mungo's, once again leaving Hogwarts with no Defense teacher.

For three days Dumbledore taught the class, giving the students a whole new appreciation for just how manic an ancient wizard on a sugar high could be. They were nearly at the point of demanding their previous teacher, lunatic that she might be, return to them, when the Headmaster stood up at breakfast that Thursday and announced the new Defense teacher.

The slight, rumpled, somewhat careworn figure was greeted with waves of applause from every table (even the Slytherins, surprisingly, but then Dumbledore truly had been a frightening teacher). Remus Lupin smiled sweetly at them and sat down to tuck into his breakfast.

Harry lost his appetite.

Hermione and Ron were easy to fool, wrapped up as they were in each other. Ginny was off with her Hufflepuff boyfriend, so she hadn't noticed his disappearances. He wasn't really close to anyone else in school, so everyone had left him pretty well alone.

Lupin wasn't about to miss, or ignore, Harry's struggle.

What should have been a wonderful day was a nightmare. Harry fought to keep his desperation from showing, but he knew he'd been tense and upset during class, and Remus had certainly noticed.

Harry stared at the tipua, malevolent shape shifters of Maori origin Remus brought in to test the seventh years against, and sighed. The spirit lunged toward him and Harry reacted instinctively.

Scattered messy bits of tipua rained down over the rest of the class. A particularly large bloody chunk landed with a wet thump in the center of Remus' desk.

Immediately, the air was filled with disgusted cries and the sounds of retching. Harry winced, hunching down at his desk, looking up through his lashes at Remus, who was staring in some bemusement at the dismembered tipua flesh splattered across the papers he’d been reviewing.

"Oh, YUCK!" Ron yelped, trying to remove strings of tipua from Hermione's hair and only managing to squish them in thoroughly. She squeaked and tried to get away.

The scene was repeated, with variations, all over the classroom.

Harry sighed.

Remus gave an interrogatory hum, then waved his wand in the air. Instantly the tipua fragments disappeared, but the gore unfortunately remained.

"Class is dismissed," Remus announced calmly, his voice carrying easily over the hubbub. "Go get cleaned up."

Everyone bolted for the door.

"Harry."

Harry froze at the sound of Remus calling him. Very slowly he pivoted until he could peek at his professor again. Remus looked thoughtful.

Shit, thought Harry. I'm in for it now.

"Come here," Remus told him, motioning him toward the desk.

Harry winced again at the incredibly messy papers. "Sorry about that," he said sincerely, not daring to look up at Remus.

"Have a seat."

Harry wanted to protest that he had to go clean up, but since this mishap had, as all the others, not left a mark on him, he gave up the idea of escape and sat.

Kind brown eyes watched him as he shifted in his seat, until Remus finally took pity on him and asked quietly, "How long has this been going on?"

Harry actually considered playing dumb, for a whole two seconds, until his mouth opened of its own accord and, without any permission from his brain, began to babble.

A confused combination of seventeen years of Dursley abuse, more accidental defensive magical incidents than one could shake a wand at, and the birthday surprise from hell fell from a tongue he couldn't get to stop wagging. When he finally ran out of words, Remus sat stock still in his chair and stared at him.

"He tried to hit you?" Remus finally rumbled, his voice closely resembling a growl, the amber highlights in his eyes threatening to overrun the brown.

It was Harry's turn to blink. "Yeah," he finally muttered.

The amber turned red-tinged. Harry hurried on; much as he'd rather like to see the Dursleys ripped limb from limb by an enraged werewolf, it was over now, he was never going back, and his moment of revenge would not be worth the last godparent he had going to Azkaban.

"But really, it's the weird thing that happened with the way I look that I'm most worried about."

Remus shook his head, the amber haze slowly dissipating. "What weird thing, Harry? Other than getting taller, and your face thinning out a bit, you don't look much different than--"

Before Remus could complete the sentence Harry relaxed, allowing his real appearance to show through deliberately for the first time since arriving back at Hogwarts. It was only as he sighed in relief at the absence of strain on his magic that he realized how big an effort it had become to maintain the façade of his previous appearance.

"Good lord!" Remus stuttered, face going slack with astonishment.

"Uh-huh," Harry agreed wryly, "THAT weird thing." His voice had dropped again and the words came out sounding like a purr.

Moments passed.

Remus' eyes stayed wide and his mouth stayed hanging slightly open. Eventually Harry gave a short growl of his own. The slightly feral sound jolted Remus, and he blinked, slowly closing his mouth, a thoughtful expression stealing over his face.

"I can see... your problem," Remus said slowly.

"So what do I do about it?" Harry asked, frustration leaking out of every word.

"Well, first we find out why you made such an abrupt change, then we figure out what we're going to do about it. That is, if you don't mind--"

"I trust you, Moony," Harry cut in, warmed by the smile Remus sent him in return.

"In that case," Remus continued quietly, "I would recommend you reveal yourself very slowly, relaxing the hold on the mirage magic--"

"Is that what I've been doing?" He didn't mean to be rude, but Harry'd had no idea what his instincts had led him to do to himself. It was reassuring to know there was a name for it, so it couldn't be too outlandish, or as he’d feared, completely unknown.

"Yes," Remus went on, casting him a warm smile, "that's what you've been doing. Anyway, it doesn't appear to have harmed your ability to do other types of magic, but it can be draining. I can help you with that, work with you to help you ease away the mirage over time so the changes appear natural. Meanwhile, we shall do some research and find out why you changed so drastically."

From the look in his eyes, Harry had a feeling Remus had his own suspicions, but he also knew the man well enough to know Remus wouldn't share them until he was ready. Which, oddly enough, was perfectly fine with Harry. He had enough on his plate.

At least now he had someone to share the burden with him.

Over the next several weeks, Remus became Harry's refuge. He pulled further and further away from his closest friends, who thankfully didn't notice, being quite caught up with one another. In the frantic bustle that was classes and homework and projects and Quidditch and N.E.W.T. preparation, no one in Gryffindor noticed a thing amiss.

Someone in Slytherin wasn't nearly as blind.

He had waited seven years for this opportunity. Seven years of watching, of wanting the one thing he was never allowed to want, of hexing in public and dreaming about in private.

Harry Potter was breaking away from his cozy little nest of Gryffindors, and Draco Malfoy saw an opening he wasn't about to miss.

At first it was difficult. He'd look for openings, the Weasel and the Know-it-all would gaze like sheep into one another's eyes, Potter would be ripe for the picking, Draco would step forward... and Potter would disappear. Not literally, not disapparating, but somehow being a step closer to the door than Draco, then out the door and up the steps and out of reach before Draco could catch him.

If he hadn't known for a fact that Potter was irritatingly, undeniably real, he'd start to think the man was a will-o'-the-wisp.

Eventually, however, Potter got a step slower, or Draco got a step quicker, and one day Potter looked up to realize he was matching steps with his erstwhile worst enemy all the way to the Charms classroom. Without a rude word or hex threatened the whole way.

Then Potter noticed that his so-called friends hadn't even noticed. So when Draco left a seat empty for him, Potter took it.

Draco enjoyed this gradual awakening on Potter's part. Very gradual, as Potter was distracted by something, criminally so for someone on the hit-list of a being as thoroughly nasty as Voldemort.

That preoccupation nearly led Draco to reconsider his plan of getting closer to Potter, as the primary motivating factor had been to ensure his own safety when he didn't take the Dark Mark. He most certainly was not going to be a slobbering sycophant to a homicidal psychotic regardless of the career path his father had laid out for him. He wanted to ensure Potter knew Draco was on the side of Light and so wouldn't accidentally take Draco out with a misplaced killing curse.

He'd seen it happen. Not by Potter, of course, but Lucius' friends were known for their poor aim and an accumulation of bystanders' corpses. It made perfect logic to Draco that if the Dark were so careless with whom they killed, the Light probably wasn't all that picky either. He was determined to come through this unholy mess alive and intact.

Which led back to the reason he'd decided to get closer to Potter in the first place. More by luck than design, but also because he was truly a powerful wizard, Potter survived Voldemort. Repeatedly. Draco was going to make damned sure Potter wasn't the only one, and have some of that Potter luck or talent or serendipity look after him as well.

So regardless of Potter's naturally oblivious air, eventually he discovered that Draco Malfoy Played Nicely. Sometimes.

Given the secondary motivation for placing himself in Potter's orbit, that the man was bloody gorgeous and possibly seducible, this was a promising beginning.

Of course, while Draco's cohort weren't the brightest tulips in the field, they were highly self-protective. Draco's unusual efforts to be social with the Little Sod that Bollixed it All Up were noticed. First by Pansy, frigid jealous hag that she was; then by Blaise, looking for blackmail material; then at last by Greg and Vince, who finally got their faces out of their plates long enough to notice Draco was sitting next to Scarhead instead of next to them.

Draco beat them all to the punch, and sent his father an owl. For once his filial communication was surprisingly succinct.

"Dear Father,

The term progresses well. Circumstances warrant a change in strategy with regards to more personal matters. A breach has been detected in the walls; a slow insinuation of acquaintance followed; in less time than previously hoped I will have a much-desired gift for our benefactor that will cement our family in his good graces.

Your son,

Draco"

While the formal wording might fool anyone outside the Malfoy family, to Lucius it would be clear as a bludger to the forehead. I've seen my chance, Father, and I've taken it... Potter's mine and will soon be Voldemort's.

Of course it was a pack of lies, but his father wouldn't know that until the absolute last minute, when it was too late for him to try to drag Draco down with him. Draco loved his father, but he was not about to repeat his mistakes. Nor was he going to allow the sins of his father to be made his own.

Within a month, Potter was following Draco out to the Quidditch pitch in the early mornings. They'd fly, walk together to the broom shed, walk together to the changing rooms, walk together back to Hogwarts, parting only once inside the doors before entering the main hall for breakfast.

At first it was silent. Then there were greetings. There wasn't much else, and Draco was satisfied, because Potter was increasingly relaxed in Draco's deliberately undemanding company.

Thirty two days after he began his infiltration into Harry Potter's life, Draco kissed him.

Potter knocked him flat on his back.

Then he blinked at Draco, green eyes wide, making Draco appreciate the fact that they were no longer hidden behind those hideous spectacles. Draco gasped to regain the breath knocked out of him when Harry punched him. Then Potter reached down, grabbed him by the arms, pulled him to his feet, and kissed him back.

From that moment on their friendship had a growing intensity nothing in either’s life had ever matched. Nor ever would.

Lucius stared at the wrinkled parchment in his hand and wondered if it would be bad form for him to scream himself hoarse.

This was NOT the purpose for which he'd spent the past fifteen years living a double life. True, at least some of his motivation for leaving the Dark Lord's service was the fact that Voldemort was increasingly insane before the Potter brat decorporealized him, and since the fool rat had helped him regain physical form he was absolutely barmy.

Add the fact that Narcissa was as rabidly, blindly Dark as the rest of the Black clan (Sirius' youthful rebellion apparently spurred by his affair with the Wolf and Andromeda's poor taste in marrying a Muggle aside), making his political alliance of a marriage even more of a farce than expected (it was difficult to maintain interest in a woman who only ever got aroused when torture was involved).

Mainly it was because his lover for the past quarter century was a spy and SOMEONE had to save his hide on a regular basis. Which brought him to the matter at hand.  Draco was NOT going to live the chaos of a life Lucius had. And Severus was going to make damned sure of it.

Or next time he slipped and the Dark Lord suspected, Lucius might not be so quick to take a cruciatus to cover for him.

Even as he thought it he knew he'd never betray Severus. But neither would he hand Draco over to Voldemort on a platter, much less Potter, the only hope Lucius had of ever escaping the Dark Lord's yoke.

This would take some very careful planning, a great deal of cunning, and a hefty dose of luck.

Unfortunately, while Lucius was a consummate Slytherin so the planning and cunning were no problem, luck had never been on his side.

While having an ally who knew what was going on and how to alleviate the worst of the problem, and gradually lessening the strength of the magical drain keeping his façade intact, helped considerably, Harry still found his seventh year to be incredibly difficult.

As if dealing with Ron and Hermione’s increasing distance, the weird if rather wonderful fact that Draco Malfoy had become a friend (if friends were the sort to make one light-headed with kisses) and the ensuing shifting of his personal alliances were not enough, along with schoolwork, Quidditch practice, revising for N.E.W.T.s, keeping his guard up against Voldemort, and trying to remember what his face was supposed to look like each morning… he came into an inheritance.

He’d seen the notice in the Daily Prophet, of course, even if it had been on the next-to-last page. Only a few lines, but enough to bring back all the pain he’d felt over the summer, all the pain he’d felt since it happened.

“Sirius Black, escaped murderer, has been officially declared dead by the Ministry of Magic,” he’d read. “Black, missing since a confrontation with Aurors in the Department of Mysteries two years ago, was best known as the betrayer of James and Lily Potter, the parents of The Boy Who Lived. As the requisite twenty four months have passed, the Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge has declared the fugitive legally dead, “thus ending a sad chapter in Wizarding history,” according to Minister Fudge.”

Harry had snarled at Fudge’s name, growled to himself over the slander of his godfather repeated yet again, and late that night, he’d cried, once more, for Sirius.

A few days later, a school owl landed on his fork as he was eating lunch. Luckily he was eating soup, so hadn’t needed his fork that afternoon. Harry sighed, pulled the scrap of parchment from the owl’s leg, and handed over a tidbit of ham to the appreciative bird.

Then he unrolled the parchment, read the few words written there, and dropped his spoon into his soup. Hermione noticed, for once, probably because the ensuing splash sent bits of vegetables across her sleeve.

“Harry!” she began to reprimand him, then, peering at his face, she asked softly, “Harry?”

Unable to force any words past the lump in his throat, Harry pushed the parchment over for her to read. He didn’t need to read them again. They were burned into his brain.

“Dear Harry,

As executor of Sirius Black’s estate, it is my duty to give over to you the key to his vault at Gringott’s. You are excused from classes this afternoon and tomorrow, to enable you to sign the necessary documents awaiting you there. Please come to my office for a portkey after finishing your meal.

Yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore”

Anger swept through Harry, uncontrolled, for the first time in months.

He didn’t want this. Didn’t want any of it. He wanted Sirius back. He wanted the life he’d been denied, and wanted Sirius to have the life that had been stolen from him. He wanted the world to know that Pettigrew was guilty, that Sirius was innocent, that Fudge was a bloody fool, and that his godfather loved Harry Potter as a son, and that was how it should have been.

He only realized his anger was getting out of control when Gryffindors on either side of him yelped and dived under the table. The hall was noisy, but there was a pool of silence surrounding Harry, an eerie, aching silence that mirrored the pain swirling through him.

Candles snuffed, cutlery flew up in miniature silver tornadoes, plates cracked and the table rumbled. He didn’t hear his friends pleading with him to calm down, didn’t see Dumbledore staring at him from the head table, hand on wand, didn’t see Remus get up and start toward him. He could see and hear nothing but the void inside him.

Until a warm hand settled on his shoulder. Heat behind him, thawing the ice that was coating his skin from the inside out. A voice, soft so that only he could hear it, and it was the only thing he could hear.

“Harry,” it said. “Harry. Harry.”

Just his name, over and over. Just Draco, saying his name.

Harry came back to himself with a jolt.

“What the bloody hell did you do to him, Malfoy?” Ron shrieked.

Hermione was looking at him strangely, as was Neville, though the rest of the students were too shell-shocked or preoccupied with climbing back out from under the table to pay much attention.

“He didn’t do anything, Ron,” Hermione said calmly, as if Malfoy coming over to the Gryffindor table was a common occurrence. When Ron made as if to continue his protest, Hermione absently shushed him and handed him the parchment.

Draco’s fingers tightened on Harry’s shoulder for an instant then left him, and Harry felt cold again.

“All right, then?” Draco asked quietly.

Harry nodded jerkily.

“Granger,” Draco said with restrained politeness.

“Malfoy,” Hermione answered, eyes wary and alert.

Ignoring Ron, Draco swept passed the Gryffindor table and out the door of the Great Hall. The incident had taken less than thirty seconds, and no one outside the affected students and a few of the faculty had noticed.

“I wonder how much he left you?” Ron asked, a tinge of envy in his voice.

The cutlery rattled as Harry’s anger started to rise. Hermione smacked the back of Ron’s head. Before Harry could decide between explaining the obvious to Ron, knocking Ron’s head off his shoulders, or ignoring Ron and pretending that hadn’t hurt, a calloused hand gently patted his arm.

“You okay there, Harry?” Neville asked, eyes anxious and watchful.

Harry had to swallow before he could answer, partly to stop himself from snapping at Neville, too. When he felt like he had some control back and the table was once again calm, he answered quietly, “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Neville.” He gave Neville a tight smile. Neville nodded, clearly not convinced, but willing to give Harry his space.

Turning back to look at his two best friends he found Hermione glaring furiously at Ron, who looked bewildered, as usual. Harry sighed.

“It just hurts, that’s all,” he said bluntly.

It took a moment, but Ron eventually got the point. His eyes rounded, his mouth tipped into a frown, and he looked at Harry with all the concern he hadn’t felt before, hidden as it was behind the instinctive jealousy Ron often fought when he was around Harry. He gulped out, “Bloody hell, Harry, I’m sorry.”

“S’okay,” Harry lied.

For some reason, maybe because he was so tired from everything else that was going on in his life, he wasn’t so quick to forgive Ron’s baser instincts as he had been. The fact that he’d had truly undemanding friendship offered to him for the first time in his life, from Draco Malfoy of all people, was no doubt also a major factor, but he tried not to think about that. Not that Hermione let him get away with denial for any length of time.

“Harry,” she asked gently, “how long have you been going out with Malfoy?”

“WHAT?!” Ron bellowed again.

“Shut up, Ron,” Hermione and Harry said in unison. He subsided with a confused whimper under their combined glares.

“He grounded you, Harry. You were out of control, and no one else could get through to you. You didn’t even hear me or Ron…”

“Or me,” Neville put in softly.

“… but when Malfoy called your name, you came back.”

“What’s going on?” Ron asked, in slightly less than a bellow than before.

“In a minute, Ron,” Hermione shushed him absently, staring expectantly at Harry, who stared back blankly. Hermione frowned slightly. “Then afterward, he was civil to me. And he didn’t insult Ron.”

Harry shrugged one shoulder and picked up the parchment, stuffing it into his pocket. “He’s not been bad this year,” he finally said, ignoring Ron’s indignant snort. “We go flying once in awhile. It’s… nice.” He decided not to say anything about the snogging sessions yet.

From the intent way Hermione was staring at him, he had the feeling his secrets about Draco wouldn’t stay secret for long. Forestalling the rest of the inquisition, Harry pushed away from the bench. “Gotta go. Dumbledore’s waiting.”

Hermione nodded, expression full of sympathy. “Good luck, Harry. Let me know if you need anything, please?”

We’re going to talk, she didn’t need to say for Harry to hear her clearly. He nodded shortly, turned and walked out of the Great Hall.

From behind him he could clearly hear Ron begging Hermione to fill him in on everything he’d just missed. Despite his heartache, Harry found himself smiling. Some things never changed.

As he neared the Headmaster’s office his steps slowed. There was something so final, so intrusive about going through another person’s things, even if that person expressly wanted him to do it. Harry knew Sirius was gone, knew he wasn’t coming back, but this just made it all seem so real.

Remus was waiting for him beside the gargoyle, his face reflecting the pain Harry knew was on his own. Harry nodded greeting but didn’t say anything, and Remus was silent as well. Only the weight of Remus’ hand on his shoulder and the warmth beside him reassured Harry that he wasn’t going through this alone.

Dumbledore looked over his glasses at them as they walked into his office. The customary twinkle was muted to the point of near invisibility, but he offered Harry and Remus a solemn smile. Harry couldn’t bring himself to return it. Remus dropped his hand and stepped back, and Harry missed him immediately.

“I know how difficult this will be for you, Harry,” Dumbledore told him. “Professor Lupin has volunteered to go with you to Gringott’s if you would like.”

“Yes, please,” Harry answered right away. Sirius was Remus’ last old friend, and it was closure for Remus as well as Harry, even if Harry didn’t want it.

“Very well,” Dumbledore nodded, one hand absently stroking his beard. “Once you arrive at Gringott’s you will have some documents to sign.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a small purple velvet bag. Leaning over to hand it to Harry, he said, “Inside you will find an Ever-light Expanding Trunk, for use should you wish to bring anything back from the vault with you. There is, as well, the key to Sirius’ vault, and an owl feather that is the portkey to return you both to Hogwarts. Do you have any questions, Harry?”

Even if he had he wouldn’t have been able to force them past the lump in his throat. He shook his head no, then numbly took the bag from Dumbledore and stared down at it blankly.

“Right, then,” the Headmaster continued when Harry remained silent, “here you go. On the count of three.”

Harry reached out to take hold of the tatty glove Remus now held out to him. Staring at the threads sticking out at odd angles from the seams, he gritted his teeth and waited for the pull.

It was as unpleasant as it always was. Once they popped into place a block down from Gringott’s, Remus steadied him with one hand at his back.

“All right, there, Harry?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Harry answered, because he had to say something, even if it wasn’t the truth.

From the sad smile on Remus’ face, he understood, as he had all year. Harry felt a sudden upsurge of gratitude that he still had Moony in his life, at least, and gave Remus a genuine smile.

Some of the tension bled from Remus’ shoulders, and he unconsciously sighed. “Shall we do this, then?” he asked, deliberately giving Harry the right of way, allowing him to go at his own pace. Harry appreciated it. With a jerky nod, he led the way into Gringott’s.

The next hour would always remain a blur to him. There were goblins, less rude than he expected, or perhaps that was Remus running interference for him. There was the usual cart ride from hell, though he didn’t cling to the sides of the car as he used to when he was younger. There was the ever-present feeling of age and weight in the caverns surrounding him as they went deeper into the vaults.

Some moments, however, were sharp as a blade, and cut as easily. The glint of gold and the small weight as Sirius’ key fell into his palm for the first time. The words ‘Upon my death’ leaping out to him from the mound of parchment he signed. The hitch in Remus’ breathing when they stood before the vault door.

There were more locks on Sirius’ vault than on Harry’s family vault, but fewer than the extreme security Dumbledore’d had on the vault that held the Philosopher’s Stone six years before. Harry watched as the gears worked to unseal the door, then stood there, staring into the dimly lit vault, after the door opened.

Behind him he was vaguely aware that their goblin guide impatiently cleared his throat, and was as equally vaguely aware of Remus’ stern whisper that stopped the irritating noise. It didn’t matter. Harry couldn’t be distracted from the import of this particular moment.

This was all wrong. Sirius should be beside him, as well as Remus, Harry’s little family, laughing and pointing things out and sharing memories with Harry as they went. It shouldn’t be so still. Shouldn’t be so quiet.

The sudden urge to move was upon him, and Harry followed it, taking his first hesitant steps over the threshold of the vault. Once inside, it was oddly both easier to move and harder to breathe. Harry was used to the piles of Wizardly money, arranged in this vault the same as they were in his own; what he wasn’t used to were the signs of personality scattered untidily around the large area.

Reaching down, he picked up a pile of black cloth, that on closer inspection was a black leather jacket. It creaked slightly as his fingers clenched around a sleeve, and from behind him, he heard Remus catch his breath. The leather was supple and soft, magically preserved to show no signs of age. Without a word, Harry turned to Remus and handed it to him.

There were tears in Remus eyes as he took it and stared down at it. Harry left him there with his memories, and forced himself to keep exploring, giving Remus a moment to collect his composure.

Over in a corner, Harry found a pair of motorcycle boots, the same black leather as the jacket. He knelt down to look at them, surprised to see they were the same size he wore. It was odd to think of himself as being the same size as Sirius in anything; in his memory, Sirius was always bigger than he, a comforting thought. Harry toed off his shoes and slipped on the boots, lacing them up and wriggling his toes in them. They fit as though made for him.

Poking further into the piles of belongings, Harry found a Muggle tool kit, a finely-worked leather belt with a square silver buckle, and a battered broom servicing kit. As he was turning back to rejoin Remus, he nudged something with his boot. It rustled. He bent back down and picked up what turned out to be, on closer inspection, a thin sheaf of documents.

Perching on the corner of the tool box, he opened the packet and looked through the contents. As each treasure was uncovered, the ache in his throat became more fierce and the pressure behind his eyes increased. Blinking back tears, he stared at the most precious fragments of Sirius Black’s life.

A handful of photos, the faces in them heartbreakingly young, so full of mischief and life. James with Sirius, pranking Remus; Remus and Sirius, sneaking up on James and making off with his satchel; Lily and James, talking together, oblivious to everyone else; Remus, legs folded beneath him, reading a book as Sirius threw apples at him, trying to draw his attention; James, flying loops in the sky as Sirius chased him; Lily, shaking her head at Sirius and James for some unseen prank as Remus laughed himself sick in the background; James, an astounded look on his face as he changed an infant Harry, who was in the process of peeing on him as Lily laughed herself sick beside them.

There were no pictures of Pettigrew. All that were left were memories of joyful times. Harry fought back tears as he gathered the photos together and rose to show them to Remus.

As Harry shuffled them back into the packet, they hit a snag. Peering into the corner of the envelope, he saw what looked for all the world like one of Hermione’s little pots of lip gloss. Shaking it out into his hand, carefully putting the photos back in place, Harry looked down into the top of the pot.

Silver swirled. Familiar silver. It was a pensieve. A miniature pensieve. A glimpse into Sirius’ memories, and if they were anything like the photos he’d found, he couldn’t wait to see them.

With the first real enthusiasm he’d felt since he got the summons from Dumbledore, Harry slipped it into his pocket. Perhaps he should have given it to Remus, but Remus had memories of Sirius, and for once, Harry was going to keep something of his godfather for himself.

Remus still held the jacket folded over his arm as Harry approached. He glanced over and saw the boots Harry now wore and smiled, a shade of pain in the expression not outweighing the happiness of seeing them worn again. He held out the jacket to Harry.

“No,” Harry told him, “please. You wear it. It’s yours now.” Then he held out the packet of photos. “Look what I found.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the floor of Sirius’ vault, looking at photos as Remus told Harry stories. Harry laughed at most of them, found himself crying over a few of them, and wasn’t the least surprised when Remus cried right along with him.

Eventually, they brought out the expanding trunk. They gathered more papers, a few more personal effects, and a couple smaller boxes that had Harry’s name on them and stowed them in the trunk. Harry took a look around, and for a moment could swear he heard Sirius’ laughter, echoing in the shadows of the vault.

Then he turned away, and followed Remus back to the bustle of Diagon Alley. Without another word, Remus held out the feather, and Harry held on for the portkey ride back. As the hook caught his middle and whisked him away, a last thought struck him.

Too many ghosts. His world was full of too many ghosts.

Once back at Hogwarts, Harry bid Remus goodnight. Not wanting to face Ron’s or Hermione’s questions, he walked to the hallway where the Room of Requirement was situated, his boots echoing a little against the stones.

If ever he’d had a need to be alone, secured against the outside world (and the pressing concern of his friends) it was now. He felt raw, as if the events of the afternoon had worn off his top layer of skin, leaving his nerves exposed. He needed to escape, he needed to hide, and he needed to know.

As always, the Come and Go Room knew when it was needed, and it showed itself to him.

Harry stepped into the room, noting the low lights thrown from a few candelabra, the soft-looking sofa inviting him to sink down onto it, the hushed feeling of calm in the air. He breathed a sigh of relief he hadn’t known was stuck in his chest until it escaped. Sprawling across the cushions he took the tiny pensieve from his pocket and stared at it.

He must have known, Harry thought. Sirius must have known he was going to be captured, must have taken precautions against the Dementors sucking all the happiest memories from him. Not just by living as a dog, but by leaving them here, in safe-keeping, for him to come back to when his name was cleared.

Anger burned through him like a torch, causing the candles to flicker wildly, and he took a deep breath as he fought it down. Sirius would never get the chance to live as a free man. He’d never get the chance to see these prized memories again, but Harry would. Curiosity was too weak a word to describe his need to know what Sirius most cared about in the world that he would protect it like this.

Staring into the swirl of silver, Harry caught the tail end of a strand and followed it down.

Then nearly bolted in shock.

It was himself, only not; the hair, the face, everything was the same except the color of his eyes and the lack of a scar on his forehead. James, then, of course it was James, but James as Harry had never seen him.

Never really wanted to see him that way, really never had.

James was sprawled across a bed in much the same manner Harry was sprawled on the sofa, only James was stark naked and turned on. Very turned on.

Harry backed away as fast as he could, and the other participant in the intimate scene came into view as Harry separated from him. Sirius, not as Harry had ever seen him, either; healthy, not emaciated, clean and happy and just as turned on as James was.

By James, from the look of it.

Just as Sirius leaned down to kiss James, and James spread his legs to lock them around Sirius’ waist, Harry fought to escape the memory. James gave a moan that sounded like it came from his ankles, and Sirius echoed it, his hips thrusting up against James, making it absolutely obvious what they were doing. Harry whimpered, closed his eyes, and forced himself out of the memory stream by sheer force of will.

Right, then. That was completely unexpected.

“Sirius?” Harry whispered to the empty room.

“And Dad?” The candles didn’t answer him.

“What about Mum?”

Shaking off the shock of discovering his father and his godfather going at one another like rabid, well, rabbits, Harry gulped, blinked several times to clear his eyes from the after-images, and very carefully slipped back into the swirl of memories.

Ah. Much better.

Remus, reading, in the sunlight, under a tree. Remus seemed to have been his parents’ generation’s version of Hermione, with his nose forever in a book. Next to him sat a girl Harry didn’t recognize, although she vaguely reminded him of Neville. She was pretty, with blue ribbons holding her hair back. Her fingers were wound together with Remus’, both seemingly content to sit and read side by side in the sunshine. Nice memory. Very nice memory…

“Shit!” he suddenly exclaimed as he rounded the tree to find his Dad, leaning back against the tree trunk, the heel of one hand stuffed in his mouth, the other hand clenched in a fist in Sirius’ hair. Sirius himself knelt at James’ feet, one hand moving up and down at his own crotch, the other hand wrapped around James’ cock as he did his best to swallow the whole bloody thing.

Thankfully, as they were both memories and Harry was invisible to them, they didn’t hear him. Unfortunately, Harry had a hell of a time trying to force himself away from this scene. For one thing, it looked like both his dad and his godfather were having an incredibly good time; for another, they were doing precisely what Harry had dreamed about doing to Draco many times.

Since he was stuck there, he might as well see if he could get any pointers.

Most of Harry’s mind was in complete denial by this point, but a corner of it was laughing hysterically, and another corner (the subconscious voice he’d dubbed Hermioharry the first time he heard it, when he was eleven and it told him to find the bloody stone) took meticulous mental notes. If Draco and he ever did get to this point, Harry had the feeling he’d surprise Draco.

Particularly if he did that move that Sirius did right before James curled up like a ball over him and screamed into his hand.

“Urgh,” Harry stuttered, then looked around, realizing he was back outside the pensieve again. Also, his pants were unbuttoned, his hand was around his cock, and he was very close to coming.

“Fucking hell!” he yelped, then came like a freight train, completely losing any semblance of rationality. When he shook off the residual grogginess and absently wiped his hand on his robe, he looked around again.

The pensieve lay where he’d dropped it, looking so innocent, lying there on the cushion. Harry took several great gulps of air, trying to steady his heartbeat.

“I did NOT just get turned on over Sirius and my Dad. That’s… that’s…”

He couldn’t think of a word strong enough. Creepy was close but unthinkable was better; except of course he’d not only thought it, he’d done it. And sometime during his mental debate his hand, working with no conscious input from his brain, had picked up the little pensieve again. He stared down into it.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he told the pensieve, staring angrily down at it. “Where’s Lily? Where’s my mum?”

Steeling himself for another trip, deliberately rolling over onto his stomach so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch himself so inappropriately again if he should happen to see more sexy scenes, Harry very cautiously dipped back into the memories.

Oh, holy hell. They were at it again. This time it was Sirius, leaning against a wall with his arms folded to cushion his face as James moved behind and into him. At least this time they were wearing their robes, so Harry couldn’t actually see anything, but the swaying of James’ robes as he pushed against Sirius, not to mention the movement of his hands working at Sirius’ crotch, were disturbingly hypnotic.

As were the little noises they made. James was grunting with effort every time he slammed into Sirius, who growled under his breath, whining once in awhile at a particularly hard thrust. Finally, with a helpless moan, Sirius came, causing James to cram up into him and hold fast, guttural nonsense words bubbling up as he shook against Sirius’ back.

“For the love of god stop doing that where anyone could find you!” came an intrusive, weirdly familiar snap.

Harry swung around so quickly he nearly fell over. There, at the end of the hall, glaring at the two who’d just finished having sex, was Snape. Younger, less greasy, but still as cold-eyed and still the personification of an irritated bat.

“What’s the matter, Sniv,” Sirius panted, “jealous? Not getting any?”

Before Snape could answer him, James rapped Sirius on top the head, surprising Harry.

“Watch it, puppy dog, or you’re going to have to beg for your next boning!” James rotated his hips against Sirius’ backside and Sirius yipped.

Snape, with an exasperated snarl, whirled in a cloud of black cloth and disappeared. Harry was rather impressed; Snape really had been practicing that for a long time. Then he shook his head.

That must have been the end of the memory, because Harry was back in his own time, staring down at the surface of the pensieve, as he slowly rocked his hips, grinding his renewed erection into the cushion.

“Bloody hell!” he yelped a bit himself, as he realized what he was doing and forced himself to stop.

He closed the pensieve and stuffed it back in his pocket then rolled onto his back, determinedly folded his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling.

“That was NOT the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he assured himself stoutly, ignoring the erection straining against his trousers that promised him differently.

“I think it might well be the sexiest thing I’VE ever seen,” a familiar voice purred from approximately three inches away.

Harry tried to jackknife to a sitting position, but before he could, Draco’s hand came down, fingers tracing the length of his cock, and all Harry’s strength drained away. He stared at the long pale fingers pushing against him, and decided modesty was over-rated. Since his cock was doing its best to burst right through his trousers he didn’t think he had any room left for modesty anyway. He started to pull his hands away from beneath his head but Draco stopped him.

“Stay right there. Exactly as you are.”

The husky order went straight from Harry’s brain to his cock and he whimpered, sounding a lot like Sirius had. Draco gave him what could only be described as a truly evil grin.

Harry loved it.

He loved what Draco did next even more.

“You’ve been under too much pressure, Harry, you need to relax.”

As he spoke, Draco deftly unfastened Harry’s trousers and freed the aching, wet cock from its cotton prison. Harry whimpered again, with an edge of a growl to it.

“I wonder what your animagus form would be?” Draco mused as he rubbed the end of Harry’s cock with a fingertip. Harry couldn’t begin to follow an actual conversation with all his brain cells centering in his balls, so he let the words washed over him and did his best not to spontaneously combust. “You snarl like a cornered lion, but buck like a horse.”

He tightened his fingers around Harry’s cock and Harry did, indeed, buck like a horse. While howling like a wolf and coming like a geyser. Draco looked mildly impressed, bringing his sticky fingers up to his mouth and licking them as delicately as any cat. Harry, balls emptied from two orgasms in under a half hour, could only moan at the sight.

“You taste like saltwater taffy,” Draco informed him, then leaned down and licked Harry’s skin clean. As the entire area was incredibly sensitive, this resulted in a great deal of writhing and involuntary whimpering, all of which Draco appeared to enjoy enormously.

Determined not to have the fun all be one-sided, Harry gathered what little strength he had and all the willpower he could command, and pulled Draco down onto the sofa with him. Draco gave a small squeak as he landed, which Harry in turn found absolutely adorable.

Then Harry’s hands found Draco’s hardened cock, buried as it was under five layers of material, and it was Draco’s turn to whimper and howl.

Hmm. Harry licked his lips. Saltwater taffy? No. More like… Harry’d had raw clams once, on a dare. That’s what Draco tasted like, only with salt. He liked Draco on his tongue much more than clams. Harry nuzzled the warm flesh, licking sweat and come until Draco was completely clean. Only then did Harry realize that Draco’s hands were wound in his hair.

Just like James’ with Sirius.

Harry groaned. Closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist, and buried his face in Draco’s lap. The half-hard cock beneath his cheek gave a twitch of interest.

“Harry,” Draco asked him breathlessly, tugging at his hair, “are you trying to kill me?”

In answer to that ridiculous question, Harry turned his head, licked an apology across the tip of Draco’s cock, and, completely worn out from the events of the day, fell fast asleep curled up in Draco’s lap.

When he woke, it was early morning, and Draco was getting dressed. Harry watched him, licking his lips at the memory of the previous evening. Draco looked up and caught him. The slightest tinge of red swept through his cheeks and he groaned, smoky grey eyes falling half-shut at the expression on Harry’s face.

“I’ve got to go to class,” he protested. “Don’t get me all wound up when I’m on my way out the door.”

Reminded of the fact that he had the day off, and exactly why, Harry’s face fell. In the heat of the moment, with Draco’s touch to distract him, he’d forgotten for a little while that he still had a trunk-full of Sirius’ things to go through. A gentle touch to his cheek brought his attention back to Draco.

“Unless you want me to stay?”

Harry bit his lip, fighting the temptation. Too seldom in his life had he had anyone to lean on for the uglier tasks he’d faced. Now he had four, Remus and Draco, Ron and Hermione; but this one he had to do on his own. He forced a smile and shook his head.

“No, it’s okay. Go to class. I’ll see you tonight.”

Draco looked at him for a long moment before nodding agreement. Dropping a kiss on Harry’s forehead, just brushing his scar, Draco said, “If you need me…”

Harry smiled and shook his head again. It took awhile after the door closed behind Draco before the smile faded. With a resolve to get to it and get through it, Harry turned to the boxes and opened the first one.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Dobby brought sandwiches and practically hand-fed him, or Harry would have completely forgotten to eat. The room kept him in a comforting cocoon of half-light and warmth as Harry went through a lifetime of memories, Sirius’ and James’ and, eventually, Lily’s.

None of it was what he expected.

There was a birth certificate, and a marriage certificate, but he didn’t believe what he saw on the first and had to question what he found on the second. Along with the other documentation detailing the Black estate, now Harry’s, he found a note telling him precisely how to access specific memories in the pensieve, because it was ‘Harry’s right to know’ according to Sirius.

Part of him wished he’d found the note before he’d dived into the pensieve. The rest of him basked in the aftermath, the next level of intimacy with Draco, and couldn’t regret it. Still, note in one hand and wand in the other, Harry approached the little pot of memories one more time.

This time, he didn’t find sex. He also didn’t find sunlight, or happiness, or lazy days by the lake.

He found fear. Desperation. Deception.

Love.

The memory Sirius led Harry to was centered around James again, but not for any lovemaking. James looked terrified and resolute. Sirius looked like he was in shock.

“No, this can’t be happening,” Sirius told James, even begged him. James grabbed Sirius’ arm and tugged him into an embrace.

“It’s true,” he said quickly, his voice tinged with panic. “She’s pregnant. But she can’t go to Severus…”

“Useless bastard!” Sirius exclaimed, although James shook his head.

“Not his fault, Siri,” he insisted. “It wasn’t his choice. You know what his family’s like. They sold the poor son of a bitch to Voldemort. He didn’t have a chance. He’s already been Marked.”

“He could have told them no!” Sirius broke away from James and paced, hands running through his hair until it straggled wildly away from his head like a rat’s nest.

“How?” James asked impatiently. Sirius opened his mouth but James held up his hand. “Yeah, you escaped, but you have a brother. You’re the younger son. He’s the last of their line, and you KNOW how the purebloods are.”

“The worst of them, anyway,” Sirius grumbled. “But what about Lily?”

James took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked incredibly tired. Polishing them with the end of his sleeve, not looking at Sirius, he said sadly, “She can’t let anybody know. It’d be signing her death warrant. He’s a Death Eater now, even if he doesn’t want to be, and the children of Death Eaters are property of their master. Since she’s Muggle-born, she and her unborn child would be murdered, and there’s not a damned thing Severus could do to stop it.”

“He can’t know.” Sirius stopped pacing and stood in front of James, staring intently at him.

“That’s why she’s going to marry me.”

Sirius blinked. Opened his mouth, then closed it. “Fuck,” he eventually said.

“Hey, the smoke screen’s worked for two years, right?” James asked wearily. “Nobody knows she’s been dating him, nobody but us.”

“And Remus,” Sirius said absently, reaching out with both hands to rub James’ shoulders. James leaned into the touch.

“It’ll work.” He sounded desperate.

“It has to,” Sirius agreed.

Harry turned from the two men now embracing, fighting his way blindly from the memory. Caught up in his need to escape, he fumbled the instructions Sirius had left for him, and found himself in another memory, instead of safely out of the pensieve.

This one was even more fraught with desperation and fear. Harry could practically taste the despair on the air. It was suffocating.

He didn’t recognize the room; it was a tiny cottage, from the look of it, and it was nearly bare. The candles were out, the night air cold, adding to the sense of urgency and impermanence. James slipped in the door and Sirius went to greet him with a quick but heartfelt kiss. Once Sirius let him go, James gave him a strained smile.

“Needed that,” he said. His voice was harsh in the silence.

Sirius gave him an equally strained smile in return. “Not much time. I’ve got a message from Dumbledore. I think it came from Snape.”

All the color drained from James’ face. “What is it?”

“Voldemort is after Lily. Something about a prophecy. You have to take her and the baby and hide.”

“Does he know?” James’ voice rose on the question, his hand reaching out to clutch Sirius’ arm.

“I don’t know,” Sirius answered, “he might. He’s not taking any chances. He’s going to kill her, James. Kill them both. You’ve got to go. Now.”

James pulled Sirius in for a searing kiss, and Harry drifted up from the memory, slowly returning to himself. Staring down at the pensieve, the silver strands now twisting like a riptide, he thought about what he’d just seen.

Voldemort knew, or at least suspected. That was why Lily and James had been targeted. That was why Harry’d ended up an orphan with a scar on his head and a target on his back. Not because he was a Potter.

Because he was a Snape.

The world moved in slow motion around him; he felt as if the air was solidifying as he walked through it. He wasn’t consciously aware of his actions as he left the Room and headed out into the silent halls. The quiet was a harsh contrast to the screaming maelstrom of his thoughts.

Sirius. And James. Who wasn’t his father. Voldemort, targeting Lily, who was in love with Snape. Or at least Harry hoped she had been; she’d been with him since she was sixteen, and she’d had a child by him. If Harry was as much like his mother as Remus said he was, then it would’ve had to have been love, because that was the only reason Harry could think of to stay around Snape, of all people. Who was his father.

Did he know?

Did Voldemort?

If Snape knew, why had Harry suffered through years of neglect and torment at the hands of the Dursleys? Was it all to maintain some sort of cover? Was spying so much more important than his son’s life?

Did Remus know?

Questions swirled and crashed through his brain as he staggered down the hall. There were no other students around, and vaguely he noticed that it was dark, so it must be night, maybe even after curfew. Not that he gave a damn. Let Filch find him; the way Harry felt right now, Filch wasn’t even a blip on his radar.

It suddenly struck Harry as funny that probably only a handful of the hundreds of people around him would even know what he meant with that metaphor. On the heels of that thought came another; no one in his right mind would ever believe what he now knew to be the truth.

Hard hands caught his arms, keeping him from crashing into an oncoming body. Harry looked up dazedly to see Draco’s concerned face staring down at him.

“Harry? Are you all right? I looked for you at dinner, and when you didn’t show, I decided to come find you. But I couldn’t get the blasted Room to appear. Oh, Granger and the Weasel are worried, too.”

“No,” Harry blurted out, then bit his lip.

Draco started to let go, one eyebrow raising in question, but Harry wrapped his hands around Draco’s wrists and wouldn’t let him withdraw.

“I mean, no, I can’t see them right now,” Harry managed to stutter.

His tongue didn’t seem to be working. He didn’t know what to say, or whom he should say it to. Nothing made sense. Nothing but the man standing in front of him. Draco could give him time. Make him forget long enough for his mind to make some sense of the hopelessly tangled mess of his thoughts.

“Don’t want to talk right now,” Harry growled, leaning forward until he was nose to nose with Draco.

Draco’s eyes widened, and a smirk curled his lips. “If you don’t want to talk, what do you want to do?”

“Fuck,” Harry told him bluntly.

Draco sputtered. “Er, that’s a bit abrupt. We’ve barely made it past snogging and you want to dive into shagging?”

Harry gave him a look. “We’re seventeen. We’re guys. We blew each other last night. We’ve been feeling each other up for weeks. If anything, we’re going a lot slower than normal.”

Draco thought it over for nearly a second. “Good point. Well made. My room’s private.”

“I can get the Room of Requirement to open up without having to leave this hallway,” Harry trumped him.

“Do it,” Draco mumbled, words slurring as Harry’s mouth attached itself to his neck and caused him to lose his train of thought.

Harry smiled against the skin between his lips. Draco, promising oblivion, was exactly what he needed. Now.

He stepped back, dragging Draco with him, and a doorway appeared behind him. Without a second thought, Harry kicked open the door and pulled Draco into the room. Shoving the door closed again, Harry backed Draco against it and kept on sucking as Draco began to moan and buck beneath him.

“God, Potter, what are you, some kind of vampire?” Draco slurred, then yelped as Harry worked one hand into his robes and wrapped it around his cock.

“Hungry,” Harry told him, reduced to simple words by the single-minded desire to submerge himself completely in Draco.

“Yes,” Draco answered, stretching the one syllable to eight or nine, as he leaned his head back against the door and hung on to Harry’s shoulders.

Harry couldn’t tell if Draco was agreeing with him or giving him permission or cheering him on, and he really didn’t care, as long as the answer stayed ‘yes.’

“Too many clothes,” Harry complained as he fought with buttons and layers. Draco writhed beneath his touches, then moved sideways, and Harry followed, intent on his prize.

“Easily taken care of oh holy fuck Harry,” Draco gasped as Harry finally got his trousers open and slid down Draco’s legs to catch Draco’s cock in his mouth.

He hadn’t been kidding. He really was hungry. For the taste of Draco, the solidity of him, the reality of him. Harry sucked hard, hands roving over Draco’s hip, down between his legs to play with his balls, back up the cleft of his arse to press against his hole. Draco was stuttering something, clearing his throat, then speaking deliberately, but Harry was too busy to pay attention to what he was saying.

Until he noticed the clothing he was fighting had disappeared. He pulled his mouth off Draco’s cock long enough to commend him, “Neat trick,” then dove back in.

Draco was too busy hanging on to Harry’s hair and bucking his hips like a mad thing to thank him for the compliment. Then Draco was screaming, and jerking in Harry’s grip, and coming down his throat, and Harry was too busy trying not to drown to worry about it.

He tasted good. Alive and warm and messy. Real and right there and Harry could hold onto him, so he did. Draco folded over Harry’s back as if his bones had melted, and Harry caught him, easing him down onto the thick plush carpet the Room had provided.

Magic was a wonderful thing. Rooms that could read one’s mind were even more wonderful. Harry realized he was babbling even to himself and gave up on thinking altogether. Instead he went with instinct, which had seldom failed him even if it did often get him into trouble.

Running his hands up and down Draco’s thighs, over his arse and up his back to his shoulders before making the return trip, Harry waited for the trembling to ease. Draco was breathing like a racehorse, his hair stuck to his face, his eyes closed, a high flush in his cheeks. Harry’d never seen him looking better.

When the need to move became imperative, Harry shifted closer to Draco, continuing his explorations, his mouth joining his hands in his examination of every part of Draco he could reach. Draco did his best to be accommodating, shifting and rolling with Harry’s inquisitive touch.

Eventually Harry found himself kneeling between Draco’s spread legs, hands kneading the length of back spread out before him. Draco buried his face in his arms and arched up into Harry, incidentally giving Harry an excellent view of his next target.

Not being one to miss an opportunity so sweetly displayed, Harry dragged one hand down Draco’s spine and, without pause, slid a finger into him. Draco yipped, but he moved into the touch, not away from it, so Harry slowly added another.

With his other hand, he kneaded the slight rise of buttock, then slid down to press his fingertips to the sensitive skin behind Draco’s balls. He could feel the heat there, involuntary movement as Draco’s hips jerked between the fingers in his hole and the slow pulses of blood filling his cock. Harry followed that pulse with his hand, lingering to pull Draco’s cock in time with the increasing beat of his heart.

“Fuck, Harry, you’re going to kill me,” Draco groaned, pushing back harder, his movements becoming more demanding.

“Nah,” Harry assured him. “Nobody ever died from a good shagging.” He worked a third finger in, easing the stretch, and Draco whimpered, loudly.

“And… will this… be a good one?” he forced out, gasping for breath between the words.

“What do you think?” Harry asked, twisting his hand as he pulled his fingers out. The stretched hole clutched at them and he moved quickly to replace his fingers with his cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Draco ground out as Harry sank into him. “God. Big. Ah, fuck.” Words broke into sounds then degenerated into grunts as Harry worked his way into Draco’s body.

Tight, he’d expected, and heat, too, though nothing could have prepared him for the reality. For an instant Harry’s thoughts flashed back to the pensieve, but he forced those images away, concentrating fiercely on the pale slick flesh beneath him, the darker flush of skin where his cock sank into Draco’s hole, the way the wrinkled skin moved with his cock, almost like a mouth sucking him in, releasing him reluctantly only to suck him in again.

His world narrowed, to the sounds Draco made as Harry pushed into him, the clench of muscle around his cock, the slick of Draco’s cock pushing into Harry’s palm. The unexpected strength of Draco’s thighs as he pushed back to meet Harry’s thrusts, the little sighs he gave as Harry pulled out, the gasps he made as Harry pushed back in.

It was enough, then it was too much, and Harry found his hips twisting, snapping into Draco and back out, in again, out, speeding up his hand as he pulled on Draco’s cock.

Draco’s legs were shaking again, and the sounds he made were louder, more desperate, needier. Harry was making noise himself, but he couldn’t hear it, couldn’t tell where his voice ended and Draco’s began, much as he couldn’t tell, any more, where his body ended and Draco’s began.

With a sharp cry, Draco stilled beneath him, arse clamping down and spasming around him as Draco came. Harry pushed in hard, fingers tightening around Draco’s cock as Draco’s arse tightened around his own. Then Draco collapsed, held up only by Harry’s hands on his hip and cock, Harry’s cock buried to the balls in Draco’s arse. Harry pulled out an inch or so and slammed back in, twice, a third time, then came so hard he felt the world go white around him.

When he could see again, and breathe again, and make some sense of the world again, he was lying beside Draco on the carpet, curled up against his back, arms around his waist, sated cock nestled against messy buttocks, face buried in sweaty hair at the nape of Draco’s neck.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, and didn’t want to do either. With a sleepy “Nox,” he dimmed the candles, and in the darkness felt a light blanket settle over their entangled bodies. Draco’s hands, resting on Harry’s, tightened around them, fingers twining together. It felt… perfect.

That was the last conscious thought Harry had before sleep claimed him.

He woke early the next morning, before Draco. He thought of sleeping in, waking Draco with kisses or touches or sucking him while he was sleeping to watch him wake up with a jolt; but he had a father to confront, and now he was rational enough to do it without accidentally blowing up the entire castle.

For a moment, Harry wondered how Draco seemed to know just when he needed to be distracted to keep his magic from going insane. Then he shrugged, figuring it was yet another mystery he’d have to get into when he had the time, and carefully unwound himself from Draco. Harry’d wrapped himself around Draco like an octopus sometime during the night. From the way Draco was sleeping, Harry didn’t think he’d minded.

Once in the bathroom he took care of the usual morning routine then brushed his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror as he did and being thankful Draco hadn’t been awake before Harry could rebuild his façade.

Over the weeks, with Remus’ help, Harry’d allowed more and more of his true features to show, but it wasn’t complete. Overall, the angles were sharper, the brows narrower, the jaw longer. Another month or so should do it… by the time they left school, he’d be himself.

He had a lot better idea now who that self was, with regards to bloodlines, at least. All the other things that made up who he was were in a lot more doubt.

He knew he was Hermione and Ron’s friend, and Remus’ surrogate godson, but now he was also Draco’s lover, and Snape’s son. Harry found himself hoping desperately that the new life he was discovering didn’t destroy all that was left of the old life he’d created. Because, other than the Dursleys, and the unwanted fame, and Voldemort trying to kill him constantly…

Harry stared into the mirror. Okay, turn that around. Other than his friends, the old life didn’t have anything to recommend it. So his challenge was simple and ridiculously difficult; integrate the sudden surge of Slytherins into the existing framework of Gryffindors while not having either side kill one another or disown him.

Demanding an explanation from Snape seemed like the simplest part of his life, all of the sudden.

Pulling on his clothes, then grabbing his robe on the off-chance Muggle clothes would distract Snape from the discussion at hand, Harry left the bathroom and headed out of the room. On the way, he leaned over and dropped a butterfly-soft kiss on Draco’s lips. Draco didn’t stir. Harry paused.

Taking a piece of parchment and a quill from his bag, glancing for a moment at the packet of photos and pensieve he’d stuffed between the Charms text and DADA essay when he’d shaken out his clothes, Harry stared at Draco and tried to figure out what to write. Not being the most articulate of men at the best of times, especially not when he had so many competing priorities crowding his mind, he settled for a simple, “Had to go see Snape. Tell you later. Harry.”

A moment later, he added, “Thank you. Please don’t be mad.” He wasn’t quite ready to tell Draco he loved him, but he didn’t want to leave with no acknowledgment of what they’d done. It was too important to him for that. Plus, he didn’t want to risk messing up and losing Draco over his inability to write decent morning-after notes.

Placing the parchment on his pillow next to Draco’s head, Harry slipped out of the room and went in search of his father.

He’d been to Snape’s office often enough for detentions that his feet carried him there without having to think about it. Which was just as well because his brain was busy trying to figure out how to approach the bizarre subject of his paternity. And abandonment. Or ignorance of same.

By the time Harry made it to the dungeons his thoughts were so twisted up he didn’t know where to begin. So he resorted to his standard operating procedure.

He pounded on the door. A cold, “Enter,” answered, not surprising even so early on a Saturday morning. He was pretty sure Snape didn’t actually sleep. Calmer than he’d expected to be but still with no idea how to open the conversation, Harry pushed the door open and faced Snape for the first time with the knowledge that the man was his father.

Snape sneered an inquiry at him with his usual air of not caring if Potter lived or breathed as long as Potter didn’t waste his time, which Potter always did. Harry sighed. Opened his mouth and asked,

“Did you know you are my father?”

Right.

So it wasn’t the most tactful way to begin, but it did give Harry the satisfaction of seeing the sneer wiped off Snape’s face for the first time in their acquaintance. Snape paled until Harry was half-afraid the man was going to faint.

Harry stepped up to the desk and lay two photos down on it. Both were of Remus, but in the background were Snape and Lily. In one, they sat close together, holding hands, with Lily occasionally resting her head on Snape’s shoulder. In the other, in the shade of a tree next to the sunny patch where Remus sat studying, Lily and Snape kissed, chaste touches of mouth to mouth that were oddly touching to Harry.

“These photographs prove nothing,” Snape finally said.

His voice sounded parched, as if his throat was desert-dry. Harry shook his head. Then he pulled the birth certificate from his pocket and placed it carefully next to the photos. Snape paled even further. One hand stretched out toward the photos, then was hastily snatched back.

“I’ve got more, if you need it. I need to know. Did you know you are my father?” Harry enunciated each word clearly.

Snape gave a strangled cough. Harry narrowed his eyes at Snape, who was now looking everywhere except at Harry.

“Guess that answers that, then. So tell me, why didn’t Voldemort kill you when he found out I was your son?” He sank into a chair, staring at Snape all the while.

“You’re very calm about all this,” Snape noted, black eyes suddenly pinning Harry in place. Harry shrugged again.

“Been a night for revelations,” he understated, refusing to give further explanation. “I ask again, did you know…”

“Yes!” Snape hissed. The expression on his face had passed uncomfortable and was edging into tormented. Normally this would have made Harry’s day, but no one could say these were normal circumstances.

“So why didn’t Voldemort…”

Snape cut him off mid-sentence again. “He’s not positive you are my son. Not nearly as positive as you seem to be,” he added, again peering intently at Harry.

“Got it from the source,” Harry told him, then asked before Snape could demand further information, “Voldemort went after Lily without knowing for sure, so why didn’t he kill you?”

Snape sighed, eyes falling from Harry to stare down at the papers on his desk. He poked a photo at random with a fingertip, then brushed his hand over the birth certificate slowly, as if it would burn him, before answering, “Because I repudiated both Lily and yourself, on Dumbledore’s advice. In order to continue spying, after Lily… was killed.”

The last two words held more regret than Harry thought Snape capable of feeling, much less expressing.

“Did you love her?” Harry asked, eyes not leaving Snape’s face.

Snape looked up again, and Harry saw unusual honesty in his eyes. “In my way. I knew we had no future. My family, our culture, my own narrow vision, Lily’s refusal to back down from any conflict and the streak of stubbornness you have so obviously inherited… from both of us… but in my own way, yes, I loved her.”

They sat in silence for a long moment as Harry digested that. So Snape had gone on with his life. Hadn’t had a grand affair, give-up-the-world for love passion for his mother, but had loved her. Wasn’t spending his life in mourning for her, but did regret losing her.

“Yes,” Snape answered, and only then did Harry realize he’d been talking to himself out loud. “She was not the love of my life. I’m not sure such a thing exists. But I did care deeply for her, and she for me.”

“Good,” Harry told him firmly. “At least I know I was conceived in love.”

Snape snorted. “Sounds like some awful Muggle song lyric.”

Harry grinned at him, and Snape relented enough to give him a hint of a smirk in return, quickly losing it to regain his usual sneer.

“Unfortunately, as long as I remain of some use to the Order as a spy, I will have to continue my charade of dislike toward you.”

“It’s a charade?” Harry asked, surprised.

Snape glanced upward as if asking heaven for patience. “Should I show any fatherly, or even friendly, attention toward you, I would be rendered useless to Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord would kill me the next time he summoned me.”

“In other words,” Harry clarified for his own satisfaction, not that it was any, “nothing changes.”

Snape nodded. A shadow fell over his face. “For whatever it may be worth, Harry, I am sorry. This war cannot continue forever, and should I survive it, I would be proud to claim you as my son.”

The words were low, nearly silent, and sounded like they hurt. Harry nodded.

“If we survive it, I’ll hold you to that.”

Standing, he turned on his heel and left the room, feeling Snape’s eyes burning into his back all the way out the door. Clenching his jaw to make damned sure he didn’t say it out loud, Harry privately determined to kill Voldemort as soon as possible.

Bad as Snape was, he was still a hell of a lot better than the Dursleys. Harry didn’t let himself hope, because he’d learned as a toddler that hope merely led to disappointment (usually painful), but the fact that he had a father that would actually claim him voluntarily if it wouldn’t lead to his immediate death cheered him up immeasurably.

It had all been going so well, for a little while. Lucius delicately pressured his thugs to ensure their sons (Draco’s thugs) knew that Draco was wooing Potter on the Dark Lord’s behalf, and so not to interfere. Of course, ‘delicate’ when applied to Crabbe and Goyle (seniors and juniors) amounted to words of one syllable repeated often with the force of a blunt instrument to the head, but eventually it got through.

With the Hogwarts front taken care of from the student perspective it was time to approach it from the faculty perspective. Lucius created and discarded several scenarios for explaining to Severus how Draco was within an inch of buggering up their lives thoroughly, any of which would work, except he didn’t get the chance to use any of them.

Voldemort, in his ever-decreasing grasp of reality, was keeping Lucius busy covering up his tracks. Some things even Fudge couldn’t sweep under the rug, and with the experience the idiot Minister had with plausible deniability that was saying something.

After several weeks of aborted fire-talks and missed meetings, running to and fro like a deranged garden gnome at the Dark Lord’s beck and call, Lucius gave up trying to actually make it to Hogwarts and elected to meet Severus at the Manor during one of Narcissa’s frequent (although not nearly frequent enough) absences.

He was standing in his favorite room, his Library, staring into the flames, holding a glass of brandy in one hand, the other tracing the line of the mantel, when a house elf opened the door for Severus.

Part of the pose was because he really did think better staring into the fire. Most of it was because he knew he looked very good with the firelight playing off his skin and hair, and it had been awhile since he’d had Severus to himself. The dry chuckle Severus gave him assured him his ruse was transparent, and he glanced over at Severus with a crooked smile.

“I can’t help it, you know,” Lucius excused himself graciously.

“Of course you can’t,” Severus called him on it, then took the snifter from him and put it on the mantel. Catching up Lucius’ hand and bringing it back with him, Severus brought it to his lips and ghosted a kiss across the palm. Lucius felt his breath catch.

Ridiculous. Necessary as air. Over half his life he’d had this, and he would never have it often enough.

In a way, it didn’t matter that he seemed to feel this more intensely than Severus; although they’d never talked about it, and never would. What mattered was that it was there, it was his, and he wouldn’t let it go for the world.

He reached up with his free hand and caught Severus’ robe, pulling him into an embrace that didn’t end until they’d kissed one another breathless.

“How much time do we have?” Severus muttered against his lips.

“Not nearly enough,” Lucius admitted.

“Then let’s not waste any more of it,” Severus told him, and kissed him again.

Lucius closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss, letting Severus guide him. Long clever fingers were quick with his robes, quicker yet with his buttons, and in moments he was bared to Severus’ touch. Not that Lucius was slow, by any means; familiarity bred anticipation, between them, and he stripped Severus nearly as quickly.

What treasures hidden behind heavy black cloth, he thought, as he traced lean muscles and soft skin with fingers and tongue and teeth. Severus moaned into his hair as Lucius moved against him, then it was Lucius’ turn to moan as Severus lowered him to the thick fur rug in front of the fire and proceeded to return the favor.

Time sped too swiftly as Severus brought Lucius to completion with skilled hands and a voracious mouth; time slowed nearly to a standstill as Severus moved within him, as Lucius wrapped him in a strong embrace and held him through a shaking climax.

They lay there forever and a heartbeat, holding one another, murmuring nonsense, grounding themselves in each other. It was a necessary oasis of sanity in an insane world.

And as all such moments must, it passed all too soon. Lucius sat in a deep leather wingchair, watching Severus finish the last of the tiny buttons along his sleeves.

“Severus,” he finally said. Dark eyes gazed down at him, completely calm, allowing him to speak freely. “You must stop Draco. He’s befriending the Potter brat, and intends to turn him over to the Dark Lord. I don’t want either of them anywhere near him. For the sake of all of us.”

A slow nod, then Severus reached forward and ran his hand gently across Lucius’ cheek. Lucius leaned into the touch, his eyes closing.

“I will ensure that both our sons are safe,” Severus said quietly.

Lucius’ eyes opened wide and he stared up at Severus, wondering if he’d heard what he thought he had. Severus nodded again, and Lucius caught his breath.

Then Severus leaned down to kiss him goodbye. Lucius told him to be careful, and Severus said the same, in that kiss.

Neither saw the rat that scurried from the room, hidden in the shadows. For once, the mighty Malfoy wards failed dismally, corrupted by the scheming of the Black in their midst.

A fact Lucius learned immediately upon his wife’s arrival home.

“Did you have an enjoyable visit with Bellatrix?” he asked.

“Petrificalus totalis,” she shot back.

He didn’t even have time to get to his wand.

The smile on her face set his teeth on edge, but he couldn’t so much as roll his eyes much less kill her and escape, as he so longed to do. She reached down and ran her fingers along the side of his neck, digging in with her nails directly over the carotid artery, sending a shooting pain into his skull.

“This will be such fun,” she whispered, then pulled his face to her bosom.

She began to laugh as she took a scrap of velvet ribbon from her pocket; as the portkey whisked them away, she was still laughing. Lucius knew he was in for a long, probably mortal, definitely painful night.

It was everything he expected, and worse.

Severus barely made it back to his chambers at Hogwarts when his arm began to burn.

“Damnit, not tonight,” he whispered to uncaring stone walls. As the pain flared to nearly unbearable levels, he tossed a pinch of powder in the fire and contacted Dumbledore.

“Hello, Severus, what can I do for you?”

Twinkling eyes, lemon crumbs in his beard, teacup in hand; the picture of normalcy. Severus winced and curled instinctively to cradle his arm. The Dark Lord WAS in a mood this evening.

He tried to force words past the clenching of his throat against the howl of agony that threatened to escape. The Headmaster lost his twinkle.

“Go, then, Severus,” Dumbledore told him gently, every one of his long years showing on his face, “and God be with you to return to us in one piece.”

As Severus no more believed in God than he did the immortality of Merlin, he merely clenched his teeth, nodded once, and hobbled as fast as he could past the anti-Apparition wards on the perimeter of the school grounds.

The two things Severus did believe in were the reality of hell existing on earth, and the concept of penance on a grand, possibly unending scale. Both were laid out in fine style as he arrived at the meeting place.

He was stunned before he finished staggering; it had been a long way to apparate. His fingers were curled an inch from his wand, close but not close enough, as one robed Death Eater held a wand on him while two others took his arms and dragged him through the halls.

This was not good. Not good at all. Somehow he’d been betrayed.

Not by Lucius; he was quite certain of that. The primary reason for his certainty, as Severus knew anyone could be broken, was the fact that Lucius was already in custody.

Chains wound round his wrists and weighted down his ankles, not that he needed much restraint. The session had been ongoing for some while, judging by his condition. His fine black robes were in tatters. Blood streaked his white skin, his limbs trembled from the aftereffects of prolonged cruciatus, and his hair was tangled in his face.

Severus tore his gaze away from his damaged lover to find his lover’s wife, wand in her hand, unholy glow on her face, staring down at Lucius’ shaking body. The woman was enjoying herself immensely, and for a moment Severus allowed himself to think this might be the extent of it; Narcissa’s revenge for Lucius scorning her embrace and turning to Severus.

Except, of course, Voldemort knew he and Lucius were lovers, had for years, and couldn’t care less. Considering that they were now the Dark Lord’s prisoners rather than his lieutenants, it was much more apt to be the case that they had both been discovered.

Or Severus was discovered and Lucius was punished for not turning him in. Or for not knowing.

Before Severus’ thoughts could twist into a Gordian knot, Voldemort ended his increasingly fevered imaginings with a single, “Snape.”

The word echoed in the chamber, still ringing faintly from Lucius’ screams. Severus swallowed against a dry throat, thankful he was still stiff from stunning and couldn’t genuflect as he usually would. He’d rather see the killing curse coming, when it came right down to it.

“Join your fellow traitor,” Voldemort hissed, and the hands holding Severus threw him down beside Lucius.

As a hint of serendipity in the sheer weight of ill luck that surrounded them, Severus happened to fall in such a way that he lay face to face with Lucius. He looked into grey eyes, pupils blown, awash with agonized tears, and wished, for the thousandth time, that life, just once, would show a little mercy.

It was not to be, for hours that stretched like an eternity, as curses and hexes broke against his body and battered his mind. He stared into Lucius’ eyes, and wondered if they would survive the night.

To his surprise, they were granted a respite, out of stupidity on Narcissa’s part more than anything. Severus fought his way past the shock and pain that made words slur into meaningless noise, and heard Voldemort offering Narcissa the opportunity to take her revenge upon her faithless husband.

Fortunately for Severus and Lucius, Narcissa always had been self-centered.

“Let me kill the traitor, my lord,” she begged, pointing her wand at Severus instead of immediately killing Lucius as Voldemort wished.

“Snape is mine,” Voldemort told her, red glinting eyes narrowed at Severus, affirming the fact that this would be a very long night, and he would long since be insane from torture before he was given the release of death.

Unfortunately for Narcissa, she didn’t want Lucius dead. She wanted to play with him some more. It was Severus she wanted dead. And so she made a fatal mistake; she ignored Voldemort’s warning and aimed her wand at Severus’ heart.

“Avad-“ she began.

“Avada kedavra!” Voldemort roared, green flame shooting from his wand to incinerate Narcissa’s life force before she could finish the curse. “I said, Snape is mine,” Voldemort repeated, voice echoing eerily in the silence.

The rest of the Death Eaters stood completely still. Even Severus found himself holding his breath. He looked over at Lucius, who had passed out sometime during the side-drama.

“Now, where were we?” Voldemort continued, his voice a mockery of a pleasant conversational tone. “Ah, yes. Crucio.”

Very shortly thereafter, Severus joined Lucius in unconsciousness. It was better that way.

Harry was in the Common Room, attempting to concentrate on a Transfiguration essay, when the pain struck. It was as if someone had rammed an ice pick into his brain through the scar on his forehead. He wasn’t aware of slumping to the table, or moaning, or thrashing about. He only knew pain, and twisted satisfaction that was not his own.

Images flashed through his mind. Snape, screaming. Lucius Malfoy, of all people, slumped in a pool of blood. More agony streaming through Snape, and the thought struck Harry, that’s my father! You filthy bastard, stop hurting my father!

A moment later he was on the run to Remus’ office, Ron and Hermione following, pelting him with questions he didn’t take time to answer as he went.

Once they’d reached their destination they skidded a stop. Harry pounded on the door with one hand and held his forehead with the other. The way it was pounding, if he didn’t, it would fly to pieces.

The door opened to Remus’ concerned face. Ron was shouting something, Hermione was tugging on Harry’s sleeve, and it was all Harry could do to look up at Remus and whisper, “help.”

Then he fell forward into Remus’ arms. The two of them were then pushed bodily back into the office by Ron and Hermione.

Remus looked over Harry’s head and barked, “Quiet!”

Ron and Hermione were so taken aback at his unusually stern tone they both stopped talking mid-word. Harry would have laughed but the sudden silence felt so good all he could do was sigh.

“Harry?” Remus asked gently. “Shall we go to see Pomfrey, then?”

Being all too aware what sort of circus that would create, and knowing they didn’t have time for it, Harry shook his head an emphatic no. Remus had been with him through these ‘seeings’ before, and to a certain extent, he trusted Harry’s judgment. That trust was borne out when Harry felt the pain and the images dissipate.

“Perhaps the Headmaster…?” Hermione ventured.

“Is it you-know-who?” Ron asked, his voice shaking.

Harry turned to face them, stepping away from Remus’ supportive arm, and Hermione gasped. Ron looked even more confused.

“Harry? What happened to your face?” he asked.

“Shit,” Harry muttered.

“Language,” Hermione and Remus said at the exact same time.

Harry had to grin, even if it hurt. “No time right now. Quickly. Voldemort has Snape and is killing him. We have to get him out. Now.”

“Why?” Ron asked with what in other circumstances would have been commendable calm, and no yelling about greasy gits.

However, since Harry only had one nerve left and it was shrieking for action, he didn’t bother with anything but the unvarnished truth.

“He’s my father and I’m going to get him out of there.”

While that had the commendable result of stopping Ron’s voice even as his mouth continued to hang open, it caused a veritable cascade of questions to flow from Hermione.

“Later!” Remus interjected, not in the least surprised by Harry’s revelation.

Harry gave him a narrow look, but Remus said again, “Later,” more quietly but with equal conviction. He turned to throw powder in the fire to open up a channel to the Headmaster’s office, and Harry backed out of the room.

Hermione started to say something, and Harry shook his head fiercely at her. Two steps into the hall, Ron and Hermione following, Harry ran into Draco.

“What the bloody hell…” Ron began, but Hermione put her hand over his mouth.

Ignoring the by-play, Harry asked, “Draco?” The usually pale skin was chalky white, and grey eyes were shocky.

“They have my father,” he said, his voice low and thready.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione told him evenly.

“The Dark Lord is killing my father. And Snape.” Draco looked more closely at Harry. “Your father,” he guessed, and Harry nodded. “Fuck,” Draco spat.

Harry looked alarmed, and Ron surged forward almost far enough to escape Hermione’s hold. Draco shook his head, and held out a hand to Harry, who took it and squeezed it.

“They’re both spies,” Harry surmised, and Draco nodded.

“Either that or you-know-who finally figured out who’s been helping Snape escape all these years,” Draco added wearily.

“Of course,” Hermione said, her face lighting up. Ron, still confused, looked between the three of them as if they’d lost their minds. “But how can we find them?”

“How did you know what was happening?” Harry asked Draco.

“Same answer to both questions,” Draco said, fingers untangling with Harry’s and taking a small silver dish from his pocket.

“Harry?” Ron asked, the word quivering in the air. “Malfoy?” Disgust, bewilderment, and anger showed in his voice and expression.

“Later,” Hermione told him. “We have a rescue mission right now. Is that a two-way mirror?” she asked Draco.

“Something better,” he answered, waving his wand over the top of the dish and whispering a phrase too low for anyone to hear.

A mist appeared atop the dish, gradually forming into a sphere. Within the sphere were several indistinct figures, which quickly separated and solidified into Lucius Malfoy, writhing under a curse, next to Snape, also writhing, and Voldemort, holding a wand on them. Over to the side lay a female figure, who wasn’t moving.

“Who’s the woman?” Ron asked, fascinated despite his disinclination to help any Slytherins, with anything, ever. “She looks dead.”

“My mother,” Draco told him, his voice choked. “She is.”

“Oh my god,” Hermione whispered.

“Sorry,” Ron muttered, paling.

“Draco,” Harry began.

“No time now,” Draco told him, eyes locked on the action taking place within the sphere. “This is showing us what’s happening real time. The device has locator, tracer and transplacement spells on it.”

Hermione had turned away after discovering Mrs. Malfoy’s fate. Ron put a hand on her shoulder, then said stoutly, “So how do we get there?”

Harry looked at him, and Ron shrugged. “He’s your dad, right? I know, you’ll tell me later, but unless you’re going to be an orphan, again, we have to go get them now.”

To Harry’s surprise, Hermione didn’t bring up the headmaster again. Draco nodded once and held the dish out between the four of them.

“There’s a portkey attached, keyed to my father’s presence. We’ll land in the middle of the snake pit.”

“Then we’d damned well better be ready,” Ron said.

“We will be,” Harry told him, resolve burning in him, moving his magic in ways he’d never felt.

Bellatrix LeStrange had told him after she murdered his godfather that a person really had to want to hurt someone to use crucio. If all the unforgivable curses worked along the same lines, killing Voldemort would be no trouble at all, because never before had Harry so wanted to kill anyone. Given his history, that was quite a statement.

“Yes, we will,” Hermione told him, reaching into her book bag and removing, of all things, a handgun.

Draco and Ron stared at it. Harry reached for it.

“Eight rounds,” she told him, “with one in the chamber. Aim for the middle of his chest. We’ll keep the Death Eaters occupied while you kill him.”

“What’s that?” Ron asked, his words overlapping Harry’s, “I didn’t know you had a gun,” and Draco’s “Rounds? Round whats?”

“My dad got me trained up over the summer,” she told Harry, ignoring the others. “Most Muggle weapons don’t show up on Wizardly wards. I’ve carried it all year. I may not be strong enough to fight off a bunch of Death Eaters alone but this would even the odds.”

Harry held the pistol firmly in one hand and reached for the dish with the other. Ron and Draco swallowed their questions, and they along with Hermione took out their wands. Faces showing identical determination, three young wizards and one young witch touched the portkey, and went forward to meet their fate.

Back in Remus’ office, Dumbledore had just answered the fire call when Remus realized he was alone.

“Damnit!” he snapped, wheeling around to find the teens before they did anything unforgivably brave and stupid.

“Ah, Remus,” Dumbledore’s voice caught him before he got two steps. “Let it come to you.”

Remus looked a question over his shoulder, wondering what Dumbledore was talking about, when he saw it. A thin silver chain, misty spell-induced as it was, led through the door. Along it bobbed a bubble, and in the bubble Remus could see a tiny figure torturing two other tiny figures.

A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he jerked away to find Dumbledore beside him, absently brushing soot from his beard and staring intently at the bubble.

“A location spell wrapped with a tracking spell trapped by a communication spell… very clever. I sense a Malfoy touch. And sent to us just in time for us to bring reinforcements. A Malfoy touch with a Granger embellishment.”

He touched the bubble with the tip of his wand and a glow emanated from it along the wood to his hand, then disappeared beneath his sleeve. Remus watched in fascination as the glow crept along the side of Dumbledore’s face and lit his eye, making the twinkle there positively gleam.

“I believe our young friends would benefit from some assistance,” Dumbledore told Remus before turning back to the fire. He pointed his wand at it and said clearly, “Exeunt omnes, para bellum!”

Remus clearly heard the flames spit and explode, but before he could ask what was going on, Dumbledore said, “Come along, then,” and reached for Remus’ hand. He’d no idea where the headmaster hid the portkey, but in an instant, he was gone from Hogwarts and inside the bubble.

Or at least that’s what it felt like.

Fighting to keep his balance, envying Dumbledore his rock-solid stance, Remus lifted his wand and joined Dumbledore in firing off hexes to take some pressure off the teenagers who were circled around Harry, fighting off Death Eaters. As he fought, the air cracked around him, and every teacher on Hogwarts’ staff, supplemented by Order members he knew and Aurors he didn’t recognize, popped into existence around them.

The final battle was joined.

The abrupt appearance of Harry, Draco, Ron and Hermione in the middle of Voldemort’s stronghold caused an uproar.

Of immediate importance, they bodily blocked Snape and Lucius from Voldemort’s wand, Draco throwing up a displacement shield that deflected the cruciatus onto an unsuspecting Death Eater who’d been standing, gloating, at the side of the action.

The teens used the distraction well. While Voldemort roared, Ron and Draco closed ranks between him and Harry, aiming their wands at the Dark Lord and throwing everything they had at him. The resulting hex/curse was a weird mixed version of light and dark magic, successfully slipping past Voldemort’s personal wards, as they couldn’t quite distinguish what to fight. It didn’t hurt him but it did knock him off-balance.

Hermione took the flank, shooting hexes as fast as she could speak them. Harry sighted around the bulk of his best friend and boyfriend, and squeezed the trigger on the gun as fast and as steadily as he could.

The first explosion of bullets made Draco jump. Ron, reacting with instincts honed by years of being the younger brother (and most often chosen victim) of the Weasley Twins, grabbed Draco and pulled him out of the line of fire. He looked as astonished as Draco that he’d done so. Before they had a chance to say anything to one another, hexes began to rain in on them from the surrounding Death Eaters, and they instinctively went back-to-back, fighting off their enemies.

Voldemort didn’t die as the bullets ripped through him; he didn’t even bleed, though a thick, black, oily fluid seeped from the holes left in his chest and abdomen. The wounds did slow him down, however, which was enough. Harry stepped past Ron and Draco, fighting together as if they’d been brothers in arms their entire lives, and Hermione, forming a third to their combat unit, and walked up to Voldemort.

“So arrogant,” Voldemort hissed, raising his wand with an unsteady arm.

“Shut up and die,” Harry said, and thrust his wand like a dagger through Voldemort’s right eye.

It felt as disgusting as it looked. The eye burst, more black liquid squirting from the mess. Harry felt resistance and shoved with every ounce of anger and hatred within him; after a very brief moment, the resistance gave and he felt his wand go through Voldemort’s brain until it hit the far side of the inside of his skull.

Ignoring the violent spasms of Voldemort’s limbs, Harry held on and hissed, in parseltongue though he didn’t know it, “Avada kedavra!”

Green light exploded from Voldemort’s skull as it melted away. Harry let go of his wand, leaving it wedged in the eye socket where he’d thrust it. The wood glowed, and through the green-gold aura he could see the outline of a feather. Even as he watched, it crumbled.

The light threaded down through Voldemort’s body, along his limbs to his clenched fists, exploding out the ends of his fingers and, further down, out through the soles of his feet. As the curse worked its way down, the body combusted from the inside out, leaving nothing but ashes.

Harry stared, exhausted, drained, and stupefied, at the remains of his mortal enemy. A bony hand suddenly grabbed him by the robe and pulled him out of the way of a curse, and he looked over to see Professor McGonagall, aiming her wand over his head to take out a Death Eater.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. He dropped his head in his hands, dizzy from the effort of killing Voldemort, and realized something was different.

His scar was gone.

So was the last of the mirage magic.

He was finally showing his true face to the world. Because he finally could.

That triggered another thought, and he looked up to search for his father. Through the mass of bodies, living and dead and stunned, he saw Lucius Malfoy, leaning over Snape. Lucius was cradling Snape’s head against his chest, rocking him slightly back and forth, staring into space.

For a horrible moment Harry thought they’d been too late, and his father was dead. Then he saw Snape’s hand move, slowly, unsteadily, to stroke Lucius’ hair back from his face in a movement Harry recognized, as he’d done it often enough to Draco.

With the last of his strength, Harry dragged himself over to his father’s side. He looked up to find Lucius staring back at him.

“Safe now,” he forced out, his throat sore though he didn’t know why. He didn’t realize he’d been screaming the entire time Voldemort was dying; he also hadn’t known his scar glowed with the same unearthly green light that consumed Voldemort, before it disappeared altogether.

“Thank you,” Lucius told him gravely.

“You’re welcome,” Harry rasped, then passed out cold.

From his place at the apex of the Order attack, Dumbledore was in the best position to witness Harry destroying Voldemort. Ducking a curse with the agility of a man a century younger, he let Shacklebolt and Tonks, Arthur Weasley and Remus take on the brunt of the Death Eaters as he maneuvered his way closer to the young hero.

Harry’s unusual use of his wand gave Dumbledore pause, but it worked and in the end that was what mattered. The horrific shriek Voldemort gave as he disintegrated was matched by a howl of agony from Harry; Dumbledore could see the power whipping between the two wizards, the epitome of evil and the personification of Light.

Death Eaters stumbled in their combat as they saw their leader’s grisly demise, but the warriors of the Order pressed forward in their efforts, through which they did, eventually, prevail. Dumbledore kept part of his attention on the course of the battle as a whole, but most was centered on young Harry, now pulling himself away from his defeated foe and making his way to his father.

Stepping into the space Harry left behind, Dumbledore leveled his wand at the pile of ash and ill will that was all that remained of Voldemort. With a deep breath, he used the binding spell he’d been waiting so long to put into place.

“Ut sementem feceris, ita metes,” he intoned, and a localized whirlwind appeared.

It swept the ashes into a column, then continued on, growing ever more compressed, until like a spear thrown with all a man’s might, it flew straight down into the earth, spinning deeper and deeper until it disappeared altogether. In the brief moment before the ground closed behind it, Dumbledore saw a flash of crimson flame, and heard the echo of a soul’s final tormented scream.

Voldemort was gone. The greatest evil this generation would face was vanquished. It was not gone forever; evil never was. Neither was the good needed to fight it. But for now, for this little while, for this generation… now there would be peace.

Around him, the last of the Death Eaters were conquered or fled. The Aurors left in pursuit of those few who’d escaped. The remainder of the Order gathered up the fallen, the wounded and the dead, and returned with them to Hogwarts.

As he stared over the mercifully few bodies covered in white cloth, and the beds full of cursed and injured in the infirmary, Dumbledore smiled. At Draco, holding an unconscious Harry’s hand. At Ron, holding Hermione, standing at Draco’s shoulder, by Harry’s bedside. At Lucius, side by side in a bed with Severus, refusing to let him go.

His glance sweeping over the survivors, Dumbledore gave thanks in his heart for the courage and the loyalty of those few, Gryffindor and Slytherin, who’d stood together to save the future.

For one another.

For all of them.

Waking up didn’t hurt nearly as much as he’d thought it would.

Harry pried open his eyes to find a redhead, a brunette and a blond all staring down at him. Draco held his hand like a lifeline. Hermione handed him a small cup full of ice chips; he thanked her with a grin. Ron cleared his throat, and Harry winced.

“Is it later yet?” Ron asked plaintively.

Draco, of all people, laughed. Ron pushed his shoulder in a friendly way that left Harry waiting for Draco to hex him, but instead, Draco gave Ron a mock-glare. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Pushy much?” she asked.

Ron protested, and the bickering began. Draco leaned forward.

“Are they always like this?”

Harry’s grin widened. “Only with people they like.”

Wondering what sort of alternative reality he’d woken in, and liking it, Harry settled back and got comfortable.

All too soon, the couple realized they were providing entertainment without getting any answers. With a swat at Ron’s arm for distracting her, Hermione brought them back to the questions at hand.

“So, Harry,” she said, pushing Ron onto a chair and perching on his lap.

Draco raised a brow. So did Harry. Ron was too busy blushing to say anything. Except… “Ooh, wicked, you REALLY look like Snape when you do that!”

“Spill, please,” Hermione requested in that no-nonsense tone that made it quite clear to Harry he’d better Explain All Immediately or Face the Consequences.

Draco snickered.

Harry sighed. Tossed back an ice chip, coughed, and started at the beginning.

The reaction was about what he’d expected.

“Poor Lily!” from Hermione.

“Bloody hell. But Harry… Snape!” from Ron.

“Sirius Black and James Potter?” from an interested Draco.

Harry looked over at him. Draco leered back. Harry blushed. Draco’s leer dropped into open-mouthed shock.

“That night? In the Room of Requirement?”

Harry’s blush deepened. Draco’s shock turned to hilarity.

“I guess we owe one to the Marauders, then!” Draco laughed out loud.

“Owe what to the Marauders?” Remus asked, coming up behind Ron.

Harry threw the blanket over his head. Above Draco’s laughter were more questions from Ron, and Hermione giggling madly as she figured out why Draco and Harry reacted as they did.

Eventually Harry got bored with hiding under the blanket and peeked out. Remus grinned at him. Harry asked the first thing that came to mind, not realizing it would tell Remus precisely what pictures he’d been looking at.

“Who was the pretty girl with the blue ribbons in her hair?”

Remus’ jaw snapped shut. Draco, Hermione and Ron all looked at Harry like he’d lost his marbles. Harry blushed again. Remus shook his head, his eyes growing sad.

“Haven’t thought of Elizabeth in years. She was a lovely young Ravenclaw who was my friend in sixth year. Her father found out she was seeing… me… and forbid her to continue the friendship.”

He paused, and Harry whispered, “I’m sorry, Remus.”

Remus shook off the memory, and gave Harry a reassuring smile. “It was a very long time ago, Harry. There’s no reason…” He stopped and stared at Harry, then the smile turned sly. “How exactly did you find out about Elizabeth, Harry?”

Harry sputtered. Draco started laughing again, but managed to choke out, “Photos!”

“Naughty ones, too,” Hermione put in. Ron looked at her incredulously. “Later,” she told him.

“Not again!” he muttered rebelliously.

She leaned down and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was, it gave him a grin to match Draco’s and a blush to match Harry’s. “Right. Brilliant.”

Hermione smirked. Then her eyes widened. Harry’s head snapped around to follow her gaze, only to see Snape, sitting up on his bed, watching them. Lucius Malfoy sat beside him, one arm around his waist.

“Dad,” Harry said, his voice overlapping with Draco’s equally relieved, “Father!”

“Harry?” Snape asked, his normally acerbic tone overtaken by incredulity.

“How are you feeling, dad?” Harry asked, accentuating the last word.

“Better than expected,” Snape said slowly.

“Anything’s better than dead,” Lucius added. Giving his son a restrained smile, the equivalent of a bear hug in the Malfoy range of public expressiveness, he then nodded at Harry. “Welcome to the family,” he said simply.

Harry choked. Ron opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Hermione elbowed him in the stomach.

Draco patted Harry on the back and muttered, “Malfoys falling for Snapes. A family tradition.”

Harry gave a garbled noise that might have been agreement, or argument, or simple humiliation. It was impossible to tell. Draco sighed and kissed him, leaving Harry too busy drowning in Draco to worry about their audience. When they finally broke for breath, Harry protested inarticulately, reaching out for Draco to pull him close again.

“As eloquent as his father, I see,” Lucius noted dryly. Snape grumbled at him.

“Now I know they’re related,” Ron put in. When everyone looked at him, he shrugged. “Same growl.”

Snape and Harry looked at one another, and it was Harry’s turn to shrug. Then he grinned. Looked around at the people crowding his bed; his surrogate godfather, his two best friends, two old enemies who now claimed him as theirs in their own Malfoyish way, and his newfound father. It was weird, but it was his. Made it worth all the pain he’d lived through to get there.

Family.

FIN

Notes:

Latin:

Exeunt omnes, para bellum : All turn out, to war!

Factum est : It is done.

Ut sementem feceris, ita metes - As you sow, so shall you reap. (Cicero)

Story based on the Severitus challenge: http://www.geocities.com/challengefics/thechallenge.htm

1. Severus Snape must be revealed to be Harry's father. (met)

2. Remus Lupin must have returned to Hogwarts for some reason or another. (met)

3. Harry must undergo some progressive physical change starting on his birthday. No *tada!* and suddenly he looks like Snape, at first anyway. (twisted)

4. The story must be based mostly around Harry and Snape. (mostly)

5. Optional (not taken).

6. Make note somewhere that it's in response to this challenge, so all the other nice people can give it a shot too, if they want, or be able to find the other challenge responses. (given)

7. LET ME KNOW! I WANNA READ 'EM! I'm keeping a list in the 4th chapter, too! Feel free to either email me or let me know in a review. (announced to list)