“Harry?”

Harry groaned and rolled onto his back. His head was throbbing, and he had a strange feeling like it had been stuffed full of cotton. Kind of like those aspirin bottles...

Oh, what he wouldn’t give for even some muggle aspirin right now.

“Harry? Come on, wake up, dear.”

Well that answered one of his questions...at least partially. He wasn’t back with the Dursleys, as his aunt would sooner feed Dudley to a Hungarian Horntail than call Harry “dear,” and he wasn’t in his dormitory, as none of his roommates were, to his knowledge, female. So he was either in the hospital wing at Hogwarts or back at the Burrow. Harry forced his eyelids open, ready for either sterile white or disheveled comfy-ness.

Perhaps he should have prepared himself for walls of moldy rock, because that’s exactly what he got. Harry coughed as the stench registered in his mind, and immediately regretted his body’s insistence that it perform these involuntary reactions. It sent such a stab through his sinuses that Harry actually felt a tear on his cheek. He would have wiped it away, but he did not want to risk moving again.

“Harry, love?”

Boy, she was insistent. Harry wished he could turn his head to look at this strange woman, whoever she was, and find out what she wanted so that he could go back to sleep. Fortunately, he did not have to look. The woman instead bent over and put herself into his field of vision. A man, whom Harry had not noticed before, did the same. They were an old couple, and looked vaguely familiar, though Harry could not immediately place them. There was definitely something odd about them though. But what was it?

‘Let’s see,’ Harry thought to himself as he studied the woman’s face, ‘Two eyes...a nose...mouth...cockroach...no, wait, the cockroach is on the ceiling...so why do I see it?’

Oh. That’s what was odd about the couple. They were both transparent.

‘Ah. Well I suppose that could happen to anybody,’ was the only thought that came to Harry before he went unconscious again.

* * * * *

“Harry dear, please wake up and talk to us.”

There she was again. That strange woman who kept waking Harry up when all he wanted to do was remain unconscious and unaware of the pulsing pain in his head. Nevertheless, Harry opened his eyes once more to find the two strangers bending over him.

The two transparent strangers.

Again, Harry had a feeling that he had seen them before, but simply could not place them in his current state of mind.

‘Couldn’t hurt to ask who they are, though.’ Harry thought. He licked his parched lips with his parched tongue in an attempt to moisten them. He was only vaguely surprised when it didn’t work. Ah well. He could try to whisper, anyway.

“Who...are you?” he managed to croak, wishing desperately for some pumpkin juice...or water...or even saliva would do at this point.

The woman smiled sadly at him and glanced up at the man before answering. “I am Auralee Potter, and this is my husband Christopher. We...we’re your grandparents, dear.”

And this time Harry really did want to stay awake, but failed miserably as unconsciousness reclaimed him.

* * * * *

“Harry?”

He groaned and winced at the dryness in this throat. Third time’s the charm, right? He opened one eye and looked at the old woman bending over him. He knew where he had seen her now: in the Mirror of Erised, with the rest of his family.

His grandmother.

His dead grandmother.

His dead grandmother who would have been alive had it not been for Snape.

But he couldn’t think of Snape right now. It was too painful. In fact, Harry was sure that he would lose consciousness again if he tried to think about that man. Best to concentrate on the task at hand and not dwell on the fact that these two strangers shouldn’t be strangers.

Harry turned again to his...grandmother...who was offering him a goblet.

“Try to sit up, love. We got you some water,” she said gently, while her husband tried to lift Harry to a sitting position. Something in a distant corner of Harry’s mind told him that it was odd for these ghosts to be able to lift a very solid goblet...or a very solid Harry. A more rational part of his mind reminded him that Peeves had no problem lifting solid objects and throwing them at people.

Odd people, ghosts...

Harry felt the rim of the goblet touch his lips, and he opened his mouth to allow the cool liquid to flow into his parched mouth. He swallowed it in small sips, reveling in the water’s faintly sweet taste, and let it chase away the dehydration as it made its way down to his stomach. When he had finished about half the goblet-full, his grandmother pulled it away gently.

“Best save some for later, dear. We...erm...may not be able to get you any more for a while.”

He nodded cautiously so as not to jar his headache any more than necessary. The water had helped him immensely, and Harry was feeling much more alert. Memories were coming back to him...his knowledge of where his grandparents were last seen...and he suddenly knew where he had ended up.

Godricstown.

Ever since Snape had told him about what had happened to his grandparents, Harry had hoped that they were alive and well, and that they would be freed some day, when the Order (or Voldemort) freed Godricstown. But the truth was staring him in the face. They were both dead, and he had never gotten to know them. Harry’s nostrils flared momentarily as he held back an angry shudder. This caused his grandparents’ ghosts some concern.

“Are you alright, lad?” his grandfather asked, speaking for the first time. “You look like you’re going to be sick...Now, just give him space, dear,” he retorted when his wife put both of her wispy arms around Harry.

“Nonsense, Christopher! He’s frightened, no doubt,” she chastised, pulling back to look at her grandson. “He wakes up in a strange place, with strange people around him...thirsty, probably hungry too...” she doted, wrapping her chilly arms around him again. “He doesn’t need space. He needs us!” and she gave him a chilly squeeze. Harry involuntarily shivered from the oddly comforting cold.

It was nice having a grandmother...even if she was dead.

She had begun talking again, holding Harry to her. “...and of course we didn’t even know who you were until one of those awful Death Eaters told us.”

“He let it slip, actually,” Harry’s grandfather added. “Didn’t even know what he had said till after it had left his mouth...some dense fellow named Crabbe.”

Harry snorted. Like father, like son...

Harry’s grandfather smiled at him and put an arm around his wife. “Oh, he does look like our James, doesn’t he?”

Auralee pulled back from Harry briefly to smile affectionately and nod her consent. “To think. It’s been sixteen years since we left for the expedition. We knew Lily and James were trying to have a child, but we left before you were conceived.” She saw fit to squeeze him once more. “Our dear grandson is almost grown up!”

Christopher shook his head sadly. “We shouldn’t have trusted Severus, Aura. He was too young. We should have known better...”

“Stop it! You can’t blame him for this. We knew the risks going in...” she hesitated at this, as she must have felt Harry curl up slightly. He buried his head in his arms: he really did not want to think about Snape right now. Aura swatted at her husband. “You’re upsetting Harry!”

“Oh...oh I’m sorry, lad. It’s just...I wish I had been there all those years, Harry. James and I would have taught you to play Quidditch like a proper Gryffindor! You...you are in Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

“Christopher! As if that makes a difference!”

“Well no, of course not, but I was just curious...Family tradition, you know, to be in Gryffindor...”

Harry chanced a smile. “I am in Gryffindor, actually. I’m Seeker for the house team.”

The old man was positively delighted. He spent the next several minutes talking excitedly with Harry about the game...Auralee getting more and more annoyed by the second. Finally...

“Enough!”

Both male heads snapped up, wide-eyed, at the sound of her voice.

“Harry needs rest! You cannot continue wearing him out like this, Christopher. Who knows what these Death Eaters have planned for him!” Here she lowered her voice. “We need to find some way to get him out of here. One of the drawbacks of being dead, you know, is that you can’t send owls,” she added for Harry’s benefit. “The animals just won’t accept post from us. So of course, we couldn’t owl your parents to tell them you’re here. Merlin, they must be frantic by now!”

Harry gulped. He couldn’t believe his ears. They didn’t know. They didn’t know...their only son--dead...and they didn’t know.

How was he ever going to break this to them?

“Erm...grandmother? Grandfather? Th...there’s something you need to know...”

“Yes love?” his grandmother asked, sounding vaguely distracted.

“My...my parents. They’re dead,” he answered quietly, watching his grandmother’s face fall into disbelief. He wished there had been a better way to tell them, but he didn’t know any other way than to just...say it. He turned to his grandfather, who looked just as shocked.

His grandmother, trembling, managed to croak, “How? How could that be? They were so young...Harry, tell me, please! How?”

Her voice had so much hurt in it...so much disbelief. Harry had a difficult time doing it, but eventually managed to recount the story of the first fall of Voldemort: the Fidelius Charm, his mother’s sacrifice, Sirius and Peter...all the way up to the events last term, at the Triwizard Tournament. Christopher was the first to speak after Harry had finished his story.

“Now...now it makes sense. I wondered what Voldemort could possibly want with a fifteen-year-old boy,” he whispered. “Now it makes sense...It’s because...you’re the only one who has ever defeated him.”

Harry chewed on his lip, trying to block out the sound of his grandmother’s sobs. He felt extremely out of place.

“My James...my little baby James,” she said over and over again. Then, “Christopher...we may never see him again!”

And now Harry was confused. All four of them were dead. Surely they could...

“Grandmother,” Harry said, “erm...I mean...in the afterlife, can’t you visit my parents? You’ll see them there, won’t you?”

She only sobbed harder, unable to answer him. He looked at his grandfather, who shook his head and wiped away a silvery tear.

“We’re earth-bound, Harry.”

“Ea...earth-bound?”

“Yes. It means we cannot pass to the afterlife...at least not yet. All the disembodied souls here in Godricstown, and the ones who reappeared in Willingston, are earth-bound.”

“Well why...what I mean to say is, why are you earth-bound? And when will you be able to go to the afterlife?”

His grandfather sighed, and began floating around the room. “It’s complicated, lad. A soul can pass to the afterlife on two conditions: one, if the soul was prepared to die; and two, if it is forced through an exorcism of sorts. None of our souls were prepared to die, Harry. It happened so suddenly, when Voldemort attacked. It pulled Godricstown out of...whatever rift in time it was floating on, and we just...died. And we left our bodies so fast...much faster than we were supposed to.” The man seemed to have forgotten his grief for the moment, but Harry knew this was only temporary. His grandmother’s sobs could still be heard.

“So...so you can never get to the afterlife?” Harry asked, feeling a sense of dread wash over him.

“Well...we can, Harry, but it won’t be easy, and we can’t be sure of exactly how to do it. You see, an earth-bound soul, since it was not prepared to die, feels it still has something left to do on Earth. So for them to eventually pass on to the afterlife, they must help someone with something big enough to make up for the shortened life. The thing is, it is difficult to come across someone who would let a ghost help them with anything. Therefore, few earth-bound souls ever get to the afterlife without being exorcised. And no one really knows what happens to the souls who are sent that way. Probably have some longing in them for the rest of eternity.”

Harry gulped. “You mean, exorcised like...like a Catholic priest would do?”

“No...those rarely work unless a demon is being exorcised. For an ordinary human spirit, it would have to be done by someone with magical powers. There are several ways to do it, but none of them are particularly pleasant or easy to do, and none of them can be used for more than a few spirits at a time.” The old ghost glanced at Harry sadly and knelt by his wife, trying to console her. “We’ll make it, Aura, you’ll see...we’ll make it to the afterlife and we’ll see our James again.”

Harry only wished he could do something to help them.

* * * * *

“Possessed indeed,” Albus mused to himself. He sat for several minutes just staring into space, oblivious to Severus’s mounting annoyance. Finally, he turned to the younger man and said simply, “I believe I should have a look at those mice.”

Severus frowned. What did he want to see those for? “Albus...the mice have nothing to do with Branaugh. They were used to test the potion...”

“Were they alive last time you saw them?” the Headmaster interrupted loudly, pretending to have ignored the Potion Master’s last comment.

Severus nodded warily. “As of yesterday, they were alive, yes.”

“Then I had better have a look at them.” He opened the office door and motioned for his companion to go ahead. “After you, Severus.”

Severus only gave him a puzzled look before stalking down the stairs.

Five minutes later, they had arrived at Severus’s dungeon laboratory. The Potions Master released the wards long enough to admit both men into the room before he immediately replaced them. He turned around to see the Headmaster looking at him expectantly.

He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

Severus sighed and led the way to a side door, which opened to reveal a narrow hallway. He walked all the way to the end and opened a door, waiting rather impatiently for Albus to join him.

The old man finally entered the room, and after taking a brief look around, his gaze fell to the far corner.

“Severus, these are the test subjects?” he inquired, making vague gestures at the eight wire lab rat cages which were spaced about the room.

Severus, who was busy warding the door, only grunted in response.

“Then I think you had better have a look at this one,” he said in a tone that made the younger man whip his head around and go immediately to the Headmaster’s side. The old man was standing in front of a cage of mice.

Ten mice, to be exact.

Ten dead mice.

“These were alive yesterday?” Albus asked.

Severus nodded mutely, a look of puzzlement on his face.

“And the only thing out of the ordinary that you gave them was that potion?”

Again, Severus only nodded as he checked the food and water containers.

“It doesn’t look as if they’ve starved to death...” Albus offered.

“No...no they haven’t...” Severus frowned. “This is the oldest batch of test subjects. Whatever the potion does, it took some time to kill them...” Severus continued to poke and prod at various contraptions around the cage, and eventually poked and prodded at some of the mice. Albus, meanwhile, was staring at the wall and tapping his chin.

“And you say that the mice seemed to work automatically? Without any...individual...characteristics?”

Severus sneered. The man had some nerve saying that. “Black thought that my report was perfectly legible.”

Albus smiled sadly. “And that it was. But my memory is no longer as good as it used to be. Forgive me, but I wanted to confirm the information.”

Severus nodded curtly in confirmation and understanding. “At least it appeared so.”

The old man got a mischievous look in his eye. “Then I believe I have some research to do. Good night, Severus. See you at breakfast,” and with that he left the room, looking like a child with a fabulous new toy.

* * * * *

The Slytherin common room was bustling with activity. A group of first years were huddled over a small table, slaving over Potions homework. Some sixth years were playing Exploding Snap. Pamela Greengrass was trying to teach Crabbe and Goyle how to play chess. One dark corner even held a couple who seemed oblivious to everyone else in the room.

And a group of Death Eaters’ children were huddled under the staircase, romanticizing about the duties they would have when finally rewarded with initiation.

Draco Malfoy was disgusted by them. They had absolutely no idea what they were in for. They probably thought that initiation would be a proud moment for them. They probably thought they would be appreciated. Well, in fact they would be appreciated...just not in the way they wanted. Draco smirked. Stupid kids. He couldn’t help but feel superior to them.

So why did he still feel so horrible?

His pride had been crushed, that much was obvious. He was a Death Eater now. But what did that really mean? It was obvious that the others had absolutely no respect for him. And the only reason Draco had wanted to be a Death Eater was to gain the respect of so many purebloods. To gain the respect of Voldemort himself. But he didn’t have that respect. In fact, he had just the opposite. The Death Eaters had treated him like a plaything. A piece of trash. A muggle.

They had treated him like the very thing they were against. The nerve of them to do that to a pureblood! Perhaps he just needed to prove himself to them. But, more likely, this was what it would always be like. His own father had come home in pain so many times last summer. Occasionally, he suffered from the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse. But other times, Draco knew that Voldemort had forced his father to do things he couldn‘t stop himself from doing. Did Draco really want to risk being so heavily under anyone else’s control?

According to his father, even the most loyal Death Eaters failed their master from time to time, and it was right for Voldemort to punish them. But Draco knew what a loyal Death Eater his father was. He did everything the Dark Lord asked him to do, if it was humanly possible. And if it wasn’t humanly possible, he tried his hardest anyway. It had got to the point that Draco’s mother often didn’t see his father for weeks at a time. Yet Voldemort still saw fit to punish the man. Would Voldemort be doing these things to him if he remained in his service?

Wait a minute. Remained? Where had that word come from? Draco had been a Death Eater for barely twenty-four hours, and already he was thinking of leaving?

But what could be gained from staying? Pain? More humiliation like that of his initiation?

Potter had seen the whole thing, and he had not made fun of Draco for it. He had not taunted Draco, even though he had had the perfect opportunity. Instead, Potter had warned him not to go. Begged him not to go. And for his sickening kindness, Draco had stunned and kidnapped him.

So Draco was already like them. Why leave? To avoid Azkaban? To absolve his conscience? Draco had always been wary about joining Voldemort. He wasn‘t ready to have his life controlled that way by a mudblood who didn‘t even recognize that he was a mudblood. And, frankly, Draco didn’t think he would ever be ready. So what if he confessed? What would Dumbledore do? Expel him? Send him to Azkaban? Order him to sever all connections with Dark Wizards?

But then again, Dumbledore probably already knew that Draco had been marked. Potter had seen it, after all, and he most likely told the Headmaster all about it. Yet, the Headmaster still had not had him arrested, still had not expelled him. Could he be trusted, then? Would he be merciful? Perhaps he could help...

He should at least tell the Headmaster what had happened to Potter. Stupid Potter. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t been so sickeningly noble, Draco wouldn’t have felt this bad about possibly helping to end his life.

“Draco!”

He looked up at the sound of his voice, barely managing to cover up his surprise. Thomas Nott was standing over him, looking morbidly amused.

“What do you want, Nott?” Draco drawled in his most annoyed tone of voice.

“Thought you had a late night Quidditch practice to go to? What‘s the matter? Don‘t you still want to win?” The words themselves spoke of concern. The tone of the voice, however, was a taunt. Nott was trying his best to get a rise out of Draco. So the elder Nott had informed his son about the new inductee, and now Nott was jealous.

Draco found this childish stupidity disgusting.

“Why practice? Gryffindor is the only team that ever stood a chance, but with Potter gone...” and here Draco paused, giving Nott a meaningful look. He didn’t mean to, it was automatic: it was just too much fun torturing the other boy this way, “...they can‘t win.”

Nott narrowed his eyes and sat down next to Draco. “So, about Potter. Was that...I mean, was our Lord responsible?”

Draco nearly wretched at the thought of that half-blooded, snake-like bastard being his Lord. Nott didn’t miss it.

“You alright, Draco? You look sick.” Again, the words were concerned, but the tone was taunting.

Draco thought quickly. “Of course I look sick. Our Lord? Since when is he our Lord? Last time I looked, you had not yet earned your place in his circle.”

Nott looked slightly ashamed and very indignant. “Well, I just thought that...”

“No, it is apparent that you did not think at all. If you don’t learn to watch what you say, he’ll never accept you.”

Nott looked as if he wanted to say something apologetic again, but was cut off when Blaise Zabini scampered into the common room from the girls’ dormitories and threw her arms around Nott’s neck.

“Thomas! I thought you said you needed some help with Charms tonight?” she said to him.

“I...I do. I’m coming, love,” he answered nervously, disentangling her arms from around his person.

“Alright, then. See you in a few minutes,” she winked, before seemingly noticing Draco for the first time. “Oh, hello Draco. Good night, then.”

“Night, Blaise,” he answered sweetly, making Nott go red with jealousy.

“Now just see here, Malfoy...”

“I’m not after your girlfriend, Nott. Save it.” Then Draco shut him out completely, turning back to Crabbe and Goyle’s chess game. Neither of them had lost any pieces yet, despite Pamela’s efforts, so it gave Draco a wonderful atmosphere in which to think.

An hour later, Vincent Crabbe was asleep and drooling on the chessboard. Gregory Goyle was attempting to flirt with a pretty seventh year, who was making a valiant effort not to retch in his face. Pamela Greengrass was complaining to her brother about Crabbe and Goyle’s obvious lack of anything resembling intelligence. The first years were still slaving over Potions, the sixth years were teasing them for doing homework on a Friday night, and the couple were now asleep in front of the fire. The wannabe Death Eaters meeting had broken up, and it’s members had moved on to other activities, or gone to bed.

Draco Malfoy, however, had finally come to some conclusions: he didn’t like being forced to do anything against his will. He didn’t like being controlled by mudbloods. And he wasn’t going to get the respect he deserved from the Death Eaters.

He would be speaking to Dumbledore tomorrow.

* * * * *

Severus turned his face up to the shower spout and allowed the warm water to wash down his face and neck. It felt good, and it almost relaxed him. He had gone to bed very late the previous night (or very early that morning, depending on how you looked at it). It had been a very long day: Harry had disappeared, Branaugh had died, Severus had done the autopsy, and Dumbledore had examined the mice. It was no wonder that Severus had not needed the help of a potion to get to sleep. In fact, he was still exhausted now, having slept for only a couple of hours, and, considering the pain in his stomach, he probably had an ulcer...again. But he had to get to breakfast so he could see if Dumbledore’s research had been fruitful.

Though he tried to prevent it, Severus’s thoughts turned inevitably toward Harry. Where was his child now? Was he alright? Had he been taken straight to Voldemort, or was he staying with some Death Eater until the Dark Lord was ready for him? Whatever the case, would he be able to get away this time, like he had last year?

Severus squeezed his eyelids tight. Most likely not. Considering Voldemort’s obsession with killing the boy, security would be very tight on him, and his wand had probably been confiscated before he even reached his destination. He probably would not get into another duel with the Dark Lord, unless Voldemort got careless, because of the wand core fiasco last year. It had been by pure luck that Harry had escaped last time. He would not have that luck again. The only way for the boy to make it alive was for him to be rescued in a timely manner. Assuming, of course, that he was not dead yet.

Severus groaned and banged his head on the shower wall. Even if he was still alive, they had no idea where to find him. Whomever had kidnapped the boy had not left any clues. So Severus’s only hope was that he would be summoned soon to the location where Harry was being kept. But what were the chances of that? For all anyone knew, Harry could be prisoner at Malfoy manor.

Severus banged his head twice more on the wall for good measure. “Where are you, Harry?” he croaked to the compassionate wall. There had to be a way...

Fifteen minutes later, Severus was dressed, mostly dry, and on his way to the Great Hall to talk to Albus before any of the other staff arrived. His hair was dripping slightly on his robes, as he had not bothered to dry it. It would be greasy again soon anyway, so why do anything with it?

Just as Severus had hoped, Albus was alone in the Great Hall when the younger man sauntered through the side door. The Headmaster smiled sweetly.

“Good morning, Severus.”

Severus grunted something unintelligible in return, and took a seat beside him. That was usually Minerva’s place, but she would get over it.

“Did you find anything last night?” Severus asked, interrupting whatever Dumbledore had started to say. He started to reach for a piece of bread but, remembering how his stomach had reacted to food the last time he had an ulcer, decided against it.

“Indeed I did: a spell that will tell us what we need to know. I’d like to test it after breakfast,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“What we need to know,” Severus repeated.

“Yes.”

He took a deep breath, trying to remain patient. “And just what is it that we need to know?”

Albus took several leisurely bites of sausage before answering. “It will tell us precisely what that potion is doing. I have my suspicions of course...”

Severus scowled at this.

“...but I need to confirm them. We may need another test subject though. One less...rodent-like.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. Less rodent-like? He didn’t mean...he didn’t want to test the potion on Branaugh...on a dead staff member?! The Auror’s family would have a fit! What if the body were not fit for burial afterwards?

“Albus, I’m not sure that that is the wisest course of action. We don’t know what the potion will do to the bod...”

“...which is precisely why I will be using the spell first. I will not test the potion on Branaugh’s body unless the spell tells me what I want to know.”

Severus frowned, but decided not to question the Headmaster anymore. The old man knew something, and Severus would undoubtedly find out all about it shortly. He took a single sip from a goblet of water, but then decided that that hurt too. Instead, he waited for his mentor to finish breakfast, throwing the occasional scowl at the teachers and younger students who had begun trickling into the hall. Minerva arrived a few minutes later, looking quite flustered. She did not reprimand Severus for being in her seat as he expected her to, however. Instead, she simply took the seat to his right and gave his hand under the table a motherly squeeze. He did not respond, but acknowledged her by not glaring at her as he had the other teachers.

Finally, Dumbledore rose from the table just as Granger was entering the Great Hall. Severus was glad that he would be able to avoid her accusatory, panicked expression for one meal, and led Dumbledore back to the dungeon lab.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me what is going on?” Severus asked once the pair were descending the staircase into the dungeons, a safe distance from the Slytherin dorms.

Albus sighed and stared at the ground while they walked, seemingly oblivious to the pair of inky black eyes watching him. But Severus knew he was not being ignored. At this point, Albus’s delay was for dramatic effect only...

A third year Slytherin walked by at that moment and smiled to her Head of House.

...or perhaps it was for discretion. Either way, it would not be long. The lab was only a few hallways away.

But how long it seemed to take to traverse those hallways. It had been only a matter of minutes before they were once again inside the rat lab, but Severus was sure that it had taken near to an hour. He finished replacing the wards on his lab door as quickly as possible and strode to stand in front of the Headmaster, leveling the man with a stare that had, in the past, sent many a student away screaming.

The Headmaster was, not surprisingly, un-phased by it. “Perhaps it is time I told you what I plan to do with your mice, Severus.” But then the old man paused for so long that Severus thought he had gone catatonic. He was about ready to get the old man some sort of potion when the Headmaster resumed his narration. “When you told me the results of the autopsy, particularly the part about Branaugh’s soul leaving his body so quickly, an idea came to me. It reminded me of something I had read many, many years ago, when I myself dabbled in necromancy.” Albus ignored Severus’s double-take. “Particularly, I was reminded of the symptoms a body experiences when its soul is taken from it prematurely--which, until quite recently, could only be done through an exorcism of some sort. These soulless bodies can survive for a time--how long depends on the species of the animal--but cannot function as normal living things do. Namely, they have no individual behavioral characteristics.” He paused to let this sink in for the younger man, and continued just in time to interrupt whatever Severus had been preparing to say. “ I also seem to remember a spell that can be performed on a leaking soul to see precisely where it is headed--to see whether or not it survives the transition.”

Severus’s eyes were wide open, his brows shaped into a frown. Was Dumbledore saying what he thought Dumbledore was saying? It was impossible...had to be. But there it was. Unknown potion, brewed by a Death Eater, tested on mice who lost their personalities and died soulless deaths weeks and weeks later.

“Leeching potion. You’re saying, that the potion in Harry’s dream...is a soul-leeching potion,” he deadpanned, running a tired hand through his damp hair. It explained a lot, certainly, but was not welcome news. He had just brewed a leeching potion for Lord Voldemort...simply because he had seen himself doing it.

Albus cleared his throat. “Of course, what we don’t know is what kind of leeching potion it is. Will it mimic an exorcism...or a Dementor’s Kiss?”

But it seemed as if Severus hadn’t heard him. He was pacing the small room, mumbling to himself. Finally...

“Dammit! Why did I have to be the one to brew the world’s first soul-leeching potion?!”

Dumbledore looked across the room at his distraught friend. “It is fate, my dear Severus. You saw yourself doing it, and you wanted to know what you were doing so that you could prepare a counter-potion.”

“We wouldn’t need a counter-potion if I hadn’t brewed the original in the first place. Now it is only a matter of time before it reaches Voldemort’s hands. No doubt he’ll be asking me soon to brew it for real.”

“You don’t know that, my boy. Remove the idea from your head for the moment, because I will need your help with the test spell. We still do not know for sure what kind of soul leeching potion it is, or even if it is a leeching potion at all.”

Severus voiced a non-committal grunt and wrapped his heavy robes more tightly around himself. The dungeons seemed to have gotten colder since he and Dumbledore had arrived. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the fire, intending to light it, but was interrupted.

“Severus...perhaps we should get started?” It was voiced like a question, but Severus knew an order when he heard one. He lowered his wand without lighting the fire and retreated into his storeroom to retrieve some of the unused potion he had stored. He choice a vial from his freshest batch, as well as grabbing a medicine dropper to use in administering the potion to the mice. He swept wordlessly by Albus to a cage of rats which had not yet been subject to any experimentation, handing the old man the potion and medicine dropper so that Severus was free to handle the animals. He magically bound all the animals before reaching into the cage for the nearest one. After setting the chosen animal in a small, open box, Severus closed the cage and released the other rats from the spell. Then he turned back to Albus, who returned the potion and medicine dropper to him.

“I assume you will activate the spell after the potion is given?” Severus asked.

Albus shook his head. “Actually, if you will stand aside I want to confirm that this particular animal’s soul is not yet leaking. Lab mice have such short life spans that I don’t want to take chances.”

Severus nodded and stood aside, watching Albus and his subject intently. The Headmaster hovered his wand over the petrified rat and began to chant “Spiritus monstrare, spiritus monstrare.”

Severus watched in fascination as a swirl, similar to the one in Branaugh’s eyes appeared from inside the rat’s skull. It was swirling around, but seemed somehow contained and complete in a way that Branaugh’s had not. But what made this spell any different than the one Severus had used on Branaugh? A few seconds later, when Dumbledore released the spell, Severus got a partial answer.

“It seems this animal is sufficiently young that its soul remains anchored within its brain. At least, the spell did not show otherwise. So please, administer the potion, Severus.”

The younger man, very curious now, drew some of the potion into the medicine dropper, and, without a word other than that required for the spell to open the rat’s mouth, fed the potion to the animal. Then he replaced the cork and set aside the vial of potion, turning back to Albus.

“What now?” he asked rather impatiently. Severus hated it when the Headmaster knew what was going on and refused to tell him. It was aggravating at best, and dangerous at worst. Severus was the only one in the castle who really knew about potions, so if Albus suspected something about it and wanted to test it, shouldn’t he explain the procedure fully to Severus? What if Albus intended to do something that would react dangerously with the potion? Was the spell Albus had just used the same one he had been talking about using when they had first arrived? Shouldn’t Albus tell Severus what the workings of the spell involved, so that he could prepare for any negative effects it might have when combined with the potion in question?

Or perhaps Severus just despised being a step behind anyone, and was therefore being paranoid. But then again, Albus still had not answered.

“Albus?” he asked again, rather more loudly, and the older man jumped in surprise.

“Severus...I will need your help with the incantation, but...it will be very taxing on both of us physically, if the potion really does what I think it does. Are you up to it?”

“Yes,” Severus lied immediately. In truth, he was exhausted and in considerable pain from his ulcer, but he was too curious now to not take part in this experiment.

“Are you certain? Because if you are not, I can ask Minerv...”

“I am quite certain,” he interrupted gruffly. He seriously doubted that Albus believed him, but also doubted that he would deny Severus this opportunity. He pulled out his wand as Albus did the same.

“Now,” the Headmaster began, “we will have to hold our wands over the rat and chant Spiritus monstrare until we see what we need to see.”

“And how will you know if we‘ve seen it?” Severus asked. He got the impression that Albus had no idea what he was doing.

“Are you ready?” Albus answered, completely ignoring the other man. But that was the way the Headmaster was. If he couldn’t answer a question, for whatever reason, he would pretend he hadn’t heard it.

Severus nodded. ‘He really has no idea...’

The two men raised their wands then over the small petrified body, chanting “Spiritus monstrare, spiritus monstrare...” over and over again. At first, Severus didn’t feel much. Didn’t Albus tell him this would be very taxing on his body? It took more effort than most spells, yes, but nothing tremendous. In fact, it hardly seemed like Dark magic at all.

But soon Severus felt the air grow very cold. The swirling had returned from inside the rat’s skull, but it seemed to be rising out of the animal this time. No. Not rising...dragged. The luminous substance was drawn in thin strands to a smoky mass near the ceiling, all the while spinning faster and faster.

Cold. It was getting colder. Severus began to notice presences about the room. Nothing he could see, or hear, but something he just knew in the back of his mind. A growing presence, just beyond his consciousness. It was beckoning to him...he should follow it. The room grew colder as the presence grew deeper, a blackening pit inviting him to fall, stretching its arms out to him...pulling...drawing...beckoning. He would follow it. He reached out to the figure, now clear and horrifying, and felt himself being pulled out and drawn into the growing mass that was at once the essence of life and a void utterly barren of it.

The presence was calling to him. He had to come more quickly.

‘I am coming...’

But that was not the presence. The presence fought the voice. He knew that voice.

The presence grew angry. It began pulling harder, and Severus felt himself snap. He couldn’t hold on. He felt himself falling...falling...

* * * * *

“Severus!”

Severus felt a hand slapping his face lightly and allowed his eyes to flutter open to the panicked face of Albus Dumbledore. The old man was bent over him, trembling...seemingly on the verge of tears. But before Severus had time to register all of this information and reconcile it with what had happened, Dumbledore scooped him up in a suffocating hug.

“Oh, Severus, I’m so sorry! I thought I had lost you. I would never have let you participate if I‘d kno...but that doesn’t matter now. I’m sorry...I’m sorry...I’m so sorry...”

While Albus continued to apologize and squeeze Severus, the younger man tried to put all of the events together into something that resembled cohesion. Now, what had happened? He remembered that...shadow, for lack of a better word...sucking him towards a strange mass near the ceiling. He glanced back up at the ceiling where the thing had been, but there was no longer anything there. At least, he couldn’t see anything there...

By now, Dumbledore had pulled him the rest of the way up into a sitting position, and was brushing back the hair that was clinging to his face.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright,” Severus snapped back after a slight hesitation. In fact, he was freezing, he felt weak and lightheaded, his head was pounding, and his ulcer was burning with new-found fury.

Apparently he had hesitated too long. “You’re not alright. Come with me, to your quarters, and I will get you some food. You need to rebuild your strength.” He remained un-phased by Severus’ deepening scowl. “Can you walk?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Albus. Of course I can walk. I’m not an invalid,” he barked. He stood then--with Albus’ help of course, to his chagrin--and walked to the door. He stopped sharply and turned to look the old man in the eye. “What happened, Dumbledore?”

The old man looked back at him with sad eyes and said, “I will tell you, Severus, but wait until we reach your quarters. Please. You need to rest...”

“Fine,” Severus replied shortly, and stalked out of the lab, using the walls for support.

Several achingly slow minutes later, Severus was sitting on his sitting room sofa with his eyes closed. Dumbledore had insisted on bringing him a special tea that he brewed himself, but had yielded when Severus insisted that he did not want any food. It probably meant that Dumbledore knew his ulcer was back, but Severus could have cared less at the moment. Soon he heard the door open and close, along with the chinking of china tea cups. He felt the other end of the cushion sag as Dumbledore sat down, and opened his eyes when a cup was placed in his hands. Instead of drinking, or even acknowledging the refreshment in his hands, Severus leveled a glare at Dumbledore and asked again, “What happened?”

It was quite some time before Dumbledore answered. “Well, it seems the potion is indeed an exorcism potion...”

“Go on...” Severus coaxed when Dumbledore fell silent once again. “You know very well what I’m asking. What happened to me?”

Albus turned to Severus with a rueful expression. “Oh, child...I am not sure how to tell you this but...I stopped the spell as soon as I realized what was happening. I was afraid it would be too late...”

“What happened?!”

The old man swallowed and turned his eyes away. Severus realized he had never seen Dumbledore so nervous. This was bad, then...very bad. Severus took a deep breath and prepared for whatever he was about to hear.

“Severus, please allow me to finish what I want to say. This is going to be extremely difficult for you to hear, and I know you will be furious with me by the end of this explanation--you will have every right to be--but you must listen.”

Severus warily nodded his consent, and Dumbledore continued.

“Now, in order for us to find out whether the spell acted as an agent of exorcism or an agent of a Dementor’s Kiss, we had to make a close enough connection to the afterlife--and to the soul of the wee mouse--to be able to see what was happening to it. It requires a much stronger connection than the spell you performed on Branaugh yesterday evening.”

“Yes...?” Severus said, feeling that the old man needed prompting.

“You see, Severus, the souls of all living things are interconnected. They call to each other, want to be near each other...Ordinarily a living organism, whether man or mouse, is not affected by this connection to an extent which can be detected under normal circumstances. However, the spell we used forged a strong enough connection that our souls...answered the call.”

Severus felt his chest tighten. “Answered? What do you mean ‘answered’?”

Dumbledore took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. He did not have the right to panic--it was his fault. “Severus, my boy, I am so sorry. I stopped the spell, but it...”

“You said that already,” came Severus’ biting tone. “What happened to me?!”

“When that...being...called to you, your soul answered. It began to follow. It...Severus, part of your soul...has passed on.”

The two men sat in absolute silence, both waiting for Severus to break. In truth, he was having a hard time grasping the concept. What did that really mean? Part of his soul had been sucked from his body. Part of him was already dead. Already dead.

“Part of me is already dead...” he whispered into his hands. “What is going to happen to me, Albus?”

Dumbledore reached over to rub his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t know, Severus. For several minutes after I broke the spell, I thought I was too late to save you. But what ever you do, please stay away from that potion. I do not want you working with it anymore, not even to find an antidote. I don’t know how further exposure will affect you, but if you avoid the substance, I don’t think any more of your soul would pass.”

“It won’t,” Severus stated with such gruff assurance that Albus whipped his head around in surprise. Severus glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before leaning back against the cushions. “I felt it tear. That part of me is gone and no longer has any claim over me.”

The Headmaster frowned at his companion’s words. What kind of emotional toll was this going to take on Severus? Albus knew what he was likely to start thinking: that he was even less human now than he was as a Death Eater. Albus had worked so hard to try to bring Severus out of this mindset decades ago. Would he have to do it again?

No use trying now, though. Severus desperately needed to rest...and most likely would not do so without a direct order from Albus. But the old man need not have worried.

“If you will excuse me, Headmaster, I am feeling ill and would like to go to bed,” Severus said emotionlessly as he stood and prepared to let Albus out.

“Has your ulcer returned?” Albus inquired, and when the younger man nodded in assent, he added, “I will have Poppy send you a potion. I believe she made a fresh batch just yesterday.”

Severus did not voice his conjecture that Albus, knowing his spy’s record, had likely forced her to make that very batch. He also found he could not put forth the effort to argue about not being able to use his own potions, as was his wont.

“I will see you at dinner then, child, or perhaps at breakfast tomorrow?”

Severus nodded, ushering his mentor out the door, and headed to his bedroom. He did not bother taking his robes off before crawling under the covers.

* * * * * *

Draco took one last look around the hall, squinting into the shadows. Most of the Slytherins were lounging in their dorms, or in the Great Hall munching on early lunch/late breakfast. But he had to be certain that no one was watching him do this, or he might not live long enough to regret it.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped up to the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s office. Now, how was he supposed to get in? Knock? Really hard? But that was ridiculous. There was obviously some sort of password or charm, or something. But what?

“Er...Alohomora!” No, of course not. Too obvious. “Gryffindor,” Draco offered, to no effect. “Erm...Order of Merlin...Godric...er...Potter?” No, too much, even for the Headmaster. “Quidditch...Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak...lemon drops...Still nothing, eh?” Perhaps the password was something juvenile, like Slytherin-be-damned. Draco promised himself that he would not say any such thing, even to gain access to the Headmaster’s office. He decided to appeal to the gargoyle once again. “Come on, can’t you just let me in?”

“Access granted, Mister Malfoy.”

Draco shot several feet into the air from the shock of hearing the voice behind him. “Headmaster Dumbledore! I need to...well, I wanted to...”

“Speak with me? Yes, I gathered as much.” Dumbledore spoke the password (Smarties), and led Draco up the rotating stairway into his office. “I apologize for my absence, but I was attending to a staff member who has fallen ill.”

Draco desperately wanted to know who this staff member was, but decided that this was not the appropriate time to ask directly. He would be able to work it into the conversation, though. He wasn’t a Slytherin for nothing.

“I hope it is nothing serious. I will consult Professor Snape about sending him a care package.”

Draco noticed an odd, suspicious twinkle in the old man’s eyes as he answered, “There is no need. I am sure he will be quite well by Monday.”

“Very well, sir,” was all that Draco said, but inside he was furious that he hadn’t been told who the ill professor was. Branaugh, perhaps? He had not looked well yesterday...

“Now, what was it that you wanted to tell me, Draco?” the Headmaster asked kindly. He looked so trusting...so naive...so foolish. No wonder Draco’s father and his friends hated Dumbledore.

‘No! Mustn’t think that way,’ Draco reprimanded himself. He was about to ask for this man’s help...this man’s mercy. It would do no good to have contempt show through.

“Well, what I wanted to say was...” Draco took another breath. Calm. Easy. He had to stay calm. But how could he when the sweat from his palms were showing on the wood of the chair arms? If he could see it, Dumbledore could. The innocent didn’t act like this. He would condemn Draco before he even had a chance to speak!

But he would speak. He was a Slytherin. No one could keep him from doing what he wanted. No one. He would speak!

“I know what happened to Potter!” he blurted in a rush, before he could even plan his words. He watched, wide-eyed, for any reaction from the Headmaster. It seemed that Dumbledore enjoyed this...taking as long as possible to answer. Torturing Draco. In fact, the blond was ready to get up and walk out of the room, convinced that he was having a horrible dream, when the Headmaster finally spoke.

“Well, that is some news. And just how do you know what happened to Harry?” he spoke gently. Why didn’t he sound upset? Shouldn’t he be furious with Draco? Suspicious at the very least? What sort of trick was this? His father always told him that Dumbledore couldn’t be trusted. Bloody Gryffindors...

“Mr. Malfoy? How do you know what happened?” he asked once again, kindly. Maybe he just pitied Draco because of what happened to him at the initiation. Potter must have told him. Stupid Potter. But Potter had warned him first. He had told Draco not to go.

“Erm...well you see, my father had this plan. Branaugh distracted Potter while I knocked him out...with a spell, of course. I didn’t hit him. Then I cast invisibility and levitation charms and took him out to the forest so father could kidnap him.” Draco paused a beat. “So...I suppose now you’re going to put me in Azkaban?”

Dumbledore ignored the last bit. “Where did your father take Harry?”

“I don’t know,” Draco answered truthfully. “The Death Eaters are guarding some fortress someplace. I suppose maybe he took Potter there.”

“And do you know where this fortress is?”

“No, sir,” Draco answered a little bit impatiently. Hadn’t he already answered that? Why was Dumbledore asking so many questions? Shouldn’t he just send Draco to Azkaban?

“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Malfoy?”

Of course. Dumbledore didn’t even believe he was loyal. Why should he? “Well...I suppose it’s because I can’t get what I want from Voldemort.”

“And what is it that you want?”

The boy bit his lip. He had thought this through last night. It had made sense then. “To be my own man, live my own life. I don’t want to be his slave.”

The old man sighed and nodded. “I am sorry about this, Mr. Malfoy, but I cannot be sure that you are sincere. I will have to subject you to a truth potion.” Then, seeing the faint betrayal on Draco’s face, added, “I promise I will only ask you questions related to your loyalty. I will not attempt to gain enough information to control or blackmail you.”

Draco only stared down at his lap and nodded.

“Now, I will have to leave you alone for a few minutes while I fetch some of the potion from your Professor Snape. I trust you will be quite alright by yourself?”

“Yessir,” he mumbled.

Dumbledore smiled a forced smile. “Very well. I shall return shortly.” And with that, he left the office.

* * * * *

Trying his best not to wake the occupant, Dumbledore let himself into Snape’s quarters, knowing his friend kept the truth potions in a compartment under the floorboards. He frowned and studied the room. Now where was that compartment? Four left from the wall, five north...Ah, yes! Dumbledore hurried over to a spot near Snape’s bookcase and pried the floorboard up. There, lying quietly in glass vials, was an arsenal of potions for the war...anything from healing potions to truth potions to poisons. Albus picked up a vial labeled “Veritas Serum,” and another labeled as the antidote, and put them into one of the many pockets of his robe. He reached for the floorboard, intending to replace it, when he heard a soft rustling. Looking up, he found a freshly-awoken Severus Snape staring down at him. He remarked to himself that the young man look absolutely horrible.

“What is wrong, Albus? What do you need that potion for?” He sounded very accusing. Why wasn’t he resting?

“There has been a development. Apparently, young Mr. Malfoy was involved in Harry’s kidnapping. He came to me to confess, saying that he did not want to be Voldemort’s slave.”

“And you’re using Veritas Serum to confirm his loyalty? Do you have his permission to do so?”

“Naturally,” was all Dumbledore said. “Now, why aren’t you resting, Severus?”

“You triggered the alarms,” he answered simply. After a pause, he added, “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not. You need to regain your strength and preserve your cover. The last thing you need is for Draco to see that you are no longer loyal to Voldemort.”

“If he is sincere in coming to you, then I don’t think we need to worry about revealing myself to him.”

“And if he is not sincere? What then, Severus? Risk your position? Or, more importantly, your life?”

“We can Obliviate him if...”

“No, we cannot. You know why that is unethical. Need I remind you?”

“Using Veritas Serum on a child is also unethical.” When Dumbledore didn’t respond, Severus took it as a cue to continue. “I need to be there, Albus. That way, I can hear any information he has directly. I know the Death Eaters, and I know how they work. I can pick up on subtle clues that you would miss.”

The Headmaster let out a long-suffering sigh. It wasn’t often that he lost an argument, but he seemed to be doing it more and more lately.

“Alright, Severus. Fine. But at least take a strengthening potion before we go upstairs. You had barely twenty minutes of sleep.”

With a glare saturating his features, Severus shoved the old man’s hands away from the compartment and rummaged through it for what was presumably a strengthening potion. He chose a bottle containing a thick, light green potion, removed the cork and gulped down the entire contents. He shivered and nearly wretched from the taste, but Dumbledore noticed that he instantly looked somewhat healthier. The Potions Master tossed the empty vial back into the secret compartment and replaced the floor board. Then he stalked across the living room and out the door before the old man had even stood up.

“After you, Severus,” Dumbledore said quietly to the spot where Snape had stood. The young man was weak, but at least not sick enough to lose his impatient personality. The old man smiled sadly and rose to catch up with the Potions Master.

* * * * *

Dumbledore found Severus sitting on the stair around the corner, holding his head. He really should not be involved in this. He needed to rest and recover from the spell. He needed a potion for his ulcer. He needed to not see one of his charges under Veritas Serum. He needed to not see one of his charges under Voldemort. But most of all, he needed to not see that one of his charges was responsible for what had happened to Harry.

“Severus? Come. Let me help you back to your room.”

“No.”

“Yes. Don’t be foolish, child. You’re weak. You barely made it down the hall, even with the strengthening potion.”

“And whose fault is that?” It was a juvenile comment, but Severus didn’t care. He felt it was justified. But then it took so long for Dumbledore to answer that Severus glanced up to make sure the old man was alright.

“I know, my boy. That is why you should not burden yourself with this. Rest today. You’ve been through too much in the past few hours.”

Seeing Severus’s sneer lightened Dumbledore’s heart slightly. “No. I am coming. I need to hear this.”

“Will you promise to step out of the room if you become ill?”

Severus made a dismissive gesture. “Of course. It would hardly be beneficial to any involved party if I were to collapse in front of Mister Malfoy.” Then, refusing the Headmaster’s offered hand, Severus pulled himself up with the help of the handrail. “Come,” he growled anxiously. “We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

* * * * *

It was a slow trip back to Dumbledore’s office, owing to Severus’s present inability to keep up his usual brisk pace, but when the wizards finally burst through the door, Draco looked as if he expected to be boiled alive. What could the boy possibly be thinking? That Severus was a loyal Death Eater and Dumbledore only thought he had turned back to the light? That Severus would turn him in to the Dark Lord immediately for his defiance? Severus could only hope that the boy was being truthful in his own actions. If not, he would have to alter the boy’s memory...and that could only scar him further: even if he did not know exactly what happened, he would be aware of the gap in his memory.

Without a single soothing word, Severus took the vial of Veritas Serum from Dumbledore and approached the trembling child.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, and poured the potion down his throat when the boy complied.

Draco’s eyes glazed over immediately, and he took on the expression of a blank slate. After a nod from Dumbledore, Severus began to ask test questions to make sure the potion was functioning correctly on the boy.

“What is your name?”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” came his robotic answer.

“Is your father a loyal servant of Lord Voldemort?” Not a typical sort of test question, Severus knew, and perhaps a bit unfair, but as he and Dumbledore already knew the correct answer, Draco wouldn’t be revealing anything new.

“Yes.”

Now came the trickier test questions. They all seemed to be asking the same thing, but there were differences that someone under Veritas Serum would automatically answer truthfully. It all depended on precise wording. If the serum was truly working, Severus would know it.

“Did you swear to serve Lord Voldemort?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a Death Eater?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a loyal servant of Lord Voldemort?”

“No,” came the answer in the same robotic tone as the others. Severus was almost satisfied, but he had several more questions to ask to be certain.

“Am I, Severus Snape, a Death Eater?”

“Yes.”

“Am I, Severus Snape, a loyal servant of the Lord Voldemort?”

“Yes,” Draco answered emotionlessly. This was not the truth, obviously, but Veritas Serum did not cause the person to tell the absolute truth, only the truth as they perceived it.

“Are you happy that I am here during your interrogation?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think you will be angry. I think you will turn me in. I think I will be punished.”

“What do you think you will be punished for?”

“For betraying the Dark Lord.”

Severus nodded to Dumbledore, finally satisfied that the potion was working. Draco would never have given those answers if he’d had control over his own body. It also proved that the boy was not loyal to Voldemort...at least not at present. But would he be loyal to Dumbledore?

Severus moved to sit in Dumbledore’s chair as the older man approached Draco.

“Draco, did you have anything to do with Harry’s disappearance?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How were you involved in it?”

“I stunned him and cast invisibility spells. Then I took him to the Forbidden Forest.”

“What did you do then?”

“I gave him to my father.”

“And what did your father do next?”

“He disapparated.”

“Where did he disapparate to?”

“I do not know.”

Dumbledore sighed. What had Draco mentioned before? “This place that your father went to, were there other Death Eaters there?”

“I do not know.”

Dumbledore frowned. Of course Draco would not know. Not even Severus knew. But perhaps he could get Draco’s opinion? This was sometimes possible under Veritas Serum, and Severus had managed it just a few minutes ago. “Do you think there were other Death Eaters there?”

“I think yes.”

“Where do you think this place might be?”

“A place with more Death Eaters.”

Albus heard Severus sigh with frustration at that. This sometimes happened to those under Veritas Serum. If they really did not know the answer to a question, they would sometimes answer it in terms of another question. It was extremely irritating to the interrogator, and usually resulted in much wasted time. The best thing to do in such situations was to abandon that line of questioning altogether.

Dumbledore tried a different approach. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because you asked.”

Of course. Obvious, honest answer. And not specific enough.

“Draco, why did you come to me today to confess?”

“Because I want to defy Voldemort.”

“And why do you want to do that?”

“Because I do not want to be his slave. He hurts his slaves. He let them rape me.”

It chilled Albus to hear those words spoken so lightly, so free of emotion. He caught a glimpse of Severus hunched over the desk, his head buried in his hands. He had heard words like these before. In fact, he had spoken them himself when he had come to Dumbledore to confess years ago. The difference was that Severus had also come because he was tired of all the killing. To their knowledge, Draco had not killed anyone yet. But did he feel guilty for what he had done?

“Are you happy that you helped kidnap Harry Potter?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because that is what Voldemort wanted. I do not want to obey Voldemort.”

Less-than-honorable intentions, but at least it was something. “Did Harry deserve to be kidnapped?”

“Potter breaks rules. Potter hexes Slytherins. Potter famous loved favorite Boy-Who-Lived survived saw a vision they raped me his fault saw it all told it all...”

“Stop,” Dumbledore interrupted before the boy could become any more disconnected. His question had been far too open-ended, causing Draco to blurt out anything that came to mind along his train of thought. Obviously, the boy did not know if he thought Harry deserved what had happened to him. He was too confused. Perhaps they could sway him in the right direction.

“Draco, do you feel guilty for kidnapping Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I helped Voldemort. He told me not to go. I went anyway.”

“Who told you not to go?”

“Potter.”

“Where did Potter say you shouldn’t go?”

“To the initiation.”

“Did Harry say why you shouldn’t go to the initiation?”

“Because they would hurt me. They hurt me raped me slave I‘m a slave I‘m their slave help I want out I...”

“Stop.” Reaching into his pocket and handing another vial to Snape, who had risen to approach him, Dumbledore explained, “Professor Snape is going to give you an antidote now, Draco. Please open your mouth.”

The boy opened his mouth and accepted the liquid without protest. Severus lowered himself into a seat next to the boy, his eyes never leaving the young face. Dumbledore moved back to the chair behind his desk, similarly watching the pair in front of him. In a matter of seconds, awareness had jumped back into Draco’s eyes and the boy was coughing from the bitterness of the potion. But when he finished sputtering and realized in whose company he was in, all he could do was stare at Snape with overwhelming fear and deference.

Snape wouldn’t have that. “It’s alright, Draco. Everything you said is safe with me. In fact...” he paused to look at Dumbledore, seemingly requesting permission for something. Draco assumed he must have gotten it, because the professor continued, “...I once approached the Headmaster with a similar dilemma, years ago.” He chuckled lightly as understanding appeared in the boy’s expression. “Did you think Headmaster Dumbledore would have let me teach here if he weren’t certain of my loyalties?”

Draco frowned. “I suppose not,” he muttered. “Did he use a truth potion on you too?”

“Several times, in fact,” Severus winced. Rather unpleasant, Veritas Serum. But sadly, often a necessity.

“So...erm...what’s going to happen to me now?”

Snape looked ready to answer, but Dumbledore’s voice was heard instead. “That is what Professor Snape and I will have to discuss. You will not be going to Azkaban...”

“Even though I kidnapped Harry Bloody Potter?”

“...but you will need to stop thinking of him as ‘Harry Bloody Potter,’” he finished sternly. “To anyone except Professor Snape and I, you must pretend that this never happened. To everyone else, you must appear to be a loyal Death Eater. Don’t go out of your way to be cruel, but don’t avoid doing things that you would have done before.” Here Dumbledore held up his hand to silence whatever Draco had been about to say. “That is all temporary, of course, while we try to decide what is best for you. If you find out anything about the activities of the Death Eaters, report it immediately to either Professor Snape or I. Now, will you be able to meet with us tomorrow after dinner?”

The boy nodded mutely.

“Good,” Dumbledore said, smiling and rubbing his hands together. “Now then, I would like Professor Snape you escort you to the hospital wing, as he has a potion to pick up there,” Dumbledore said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he looked at Snape. “I want you to stay there overnight, Mr. Malfoy. Feel free to come up with a colorful reason to tell your friends. Eh...make that colorful, but believable and non-thought-provoking.”

“Non-thought-provoking? Headmaster, I’m friends with Crabbe and Goyle.”

Dumbledore smiled lightly. “Right you are. Now, I believe I have held you both too long already. Madame Pomphrey is waiting for you.”

Draco saw Snape sneer--and Dumbledore return a grin--before his Head of House put a hand on his shoulder and led him out of the office.