Snape waited until Harry had enough of pretending that he was still unconscious. Draco had been the first to straighten his legs and allow them to take his weight off his shoulders. The boy was intelligent enough to understand that he should also keep his mouth shut. Not that opening it would accomplish anything: Snape had already cast Silencio on both brats. He was in no mood to be a patient listener. They had finally pushed him beyond the limit of his patience.

Once Harry had indicated that he was alert, Snape shifted his glare from one to the other and then back again. From the grimace on Draco's face, it was obvious the boy was suffering from another of his headaches. Harry probably was as well. All that raw, uncontrolled Old Magic would do that to the uninitiated.

He beat the rhythm of his own anger against his robed shoulder with the shaft of his wand as he began to deal with the situation. For some reason, both boys gradually grew very fascinated with the sharp flick of his wand and watched it rather than him as he spoke.

"I'm certain, should I ask you," he held up a hand forestalling them, "which I won't, that you could probably come up with some very plausible explanations for your rolling around on the floor like two cats in heat. But I am not interested in knowing them.

"You," he sneered, "seem to think that your petty grievances are far more important than the matter at hand. You are sadly delusional. Both of you. I had been hopeful that, as legal adults, you might be able to put this childishness..."

Ah, they hadn't liked that. Both of them actually had found the intestinal fortitude to glare at him. Harry, most especially, hadn't liked that comment. Good. It gave Snape great satisfaction to stare the boy down.

"Yes," he reiterated, "childishness...behind you. However, since these grievances have taken on such importance, you have left me with no option other than to deal with them."

He generously shared his displeasure between his now pouty brats. "We could, I suppose, sit around and discuss the issues ad nauseam. We could bring up all the slights Gryffindors have suffered at Slytherin hands..."

Ah, Harry liked that idea: the grin he sent Draco's way was rather malevolent, even for Gryffindor. Draco's scowl would have been muchly appreciated even among those who had refused to speak to him since he'd come over to the Light.

"...and those that Slytherins have endured."

Now it was Draco's turn to smile tauntingly.

"We could discuss the blatant favouritism of a certain Headmaster for a certain House and that of a certain instructor for his. We could ramble on about fouls in Quidditch, hexes cast, tricks played and taunts thrown."

Both his lads suddenly found his wand interesting once more.

"But I doubt that even then we would get to the real source of all this anger that is festering in each of you. Besides, we don't have that kind of time. And, to be frank," he bit out, his voice blunt on each word, "I...do not...have the...patience."

Draco shifted his focus from wand to floor. Snape caught the wince he hadn't been able to hide.

Good. Let the boy's head ache. Much more would eventually.

He caught Harry's eyes peering up at him from under that disheveled fringe of hair but they flickered away when Snape glowered at him.

Snape dropped his hands to his side and continued beating in rhythm to his words against the side of his robes with his wand, making a soft ‘woshing' sound.

"I'm certain that I shall have even less should we wind our way through the list of pettinesses that have accumulated between the two of you. Not to mention your perceived complaints about how life has seen fit to treat you."

He paced a few steps away and then turned, his robe swirling dramatically about him . "Life, gentlemen... LOOK AT ME!"

Oh, yes, they were both dealing with heads that must be pounding away as bad as any hangover. Draco sagged in his chains once more as though someone had kicked his feet away from under him, and Harry, hardier Gryffindor that he was, only paled even further as he tried to pull his head in between his raised shoulders like some turtle.

He didn't yell again: he'd made his point. He waited until two sets of pain- filled eyes finally found the wherewithal to meet his.

"As I was saying," he continued in his normal voice, "life, gentlemen, is not fair."

He went to stand in front of Harry and used the tip of his wand to raise the boy's chin up. He put the conviction of experience into his voice. "It never was. It never is. It never will be."

He turned and did the same to Draco, whose grey eyes were barely visible behind drooping eyelids. "Get used to it."

He stepped away from them, both set of eyes warily following him. "The problem does still remain, and I still have to deal with it. As I said, we could order tea and spend the rest of our time here talking, but frankly, I prefer different methodology. A more direct one."

He flicked his wand: Harry's snake raised him so that his toes barely touched the ground, then moved him forward. When he was out midway in the aisle, it stopped and lowered him again. New chains appeared, attaching themselves to Harry's ankle fetters and, though they allowed him to place his feet solidly on the floor, they did so at a wide stance.

Harry was trying hard to take all this as it happened, but Snape caught the anxiety in those green eyes, the tension rising in the shoulders and the flutter of the stomach muscles.

Yes, his brat had bloody well be worried.

Snape spent a minute or two in silent examination of said brat then slowly walked around him. Yes, the position was just what he needed. But in order to get the boy to where he wanted him to be, Snape would also have to deal with that headache. He stopped in front of Harry, very aware of Draco's eyes, nervous, on him.

With a few words, the boys lost their headaches. The relief in Draco's face was so great that he sagged yet again in his bounds. When this was over, Snape was going to have Poppy look the boy over very carefully. Headaches of that severity were not a good thing. Merlin knew, Snape knew that all too well from personal experience.

Harry had been less affected but the loss of his headache hadn't lessened the tension in his body. That was good. Tension in Harry meant anger was near the surface. And Snape wanted the anger as close as possible in order to deal with it.

He stalked over to his bed and pulled open one of the drawers that was hidden in the base. He stooped and took out an item, which he hid in the folds at the side of his robe as he went back to the two who were watching him with some trepidation and, yes, fear.

Good.

Fear was good.

It would feed the anger.

Snape removed Silencio from Harry. "Have you anything to say before we begin?" as he slowly raised the item in his other hand.

Harry's eyes widened and he tossed his head up like a horse about to take off. His thoroughbred was back and Snape knew it was going to be a hard ride.

"You think, " sneered Harry, at his snapeish best, "that whipping me is going to help?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "No, I don't," he replied, quite calmly. Which startled Harry. Snape smiled and knew that particular tightening of his lips did not do anything for his looks. "I don't think beating you, or hitting you, or whipping you will do anything other than make you hate me even more than you do at this very moment."

He looked at the item in his hand. "But then, this isn't a whip. It's a flogger." He brought it up closer so that Harry could look at it. "It resembles a cat-o'nine-tails, but it is made of soft leather. Deerskin, in this case. There is no way that this will cut you or make you bleed. I doubt that you will even bruise more than slightly. You'll have suffered worse at Quidditch.

"But it will sting, it will hurt. Some, not much. And, most of all, it will anger you, Mr. Potter."

He invaded the boy's personal space: Harry tried to move back but couldn't, of course. Snape spoke slowly, enunciating very clearly, so that his message would be thoroughly understood. "And through its use, I intend to peel away all the things that make you angry until we reach the core of your real anger.

"And then," he promised, in his most threatening manner, "we will deal with it."

Snape placed himself at Harry's back, about an arm's length away, just to the left, so that when he swung the flogger, the tips of the tails landed about mid right buttock. He didn't hit hard, very lightly in fact. He needed to judge the distance and, besides, this wasn't about punishment, it was about release.

Harry must have been expecting pain as he had braced himself quite tightly awaiting the first blow. The gentleness of it startled him. After a moment, when a second did not follow, he glanced over his left shoulder at Snape, who was waiting for a reaction, and dared raise an eyebrow as though to indicate that this was as nothing to him. Snape smiled that smile of his again and was very pleased to see the nervousness flicker in Harry's eyes before he turned his head back to the front.

Snape said nothing. He adjusted his swing as he alternated blows from one buttock to the other, to upper back, and back to buttocks. By the time he'd concluded the positions required for a variety of lashes, Harry was standing far less tense than he had been. He didn't need Draco's silent fascination with Harry's mien to know that the boy was smirking. Harry had obviously concluded that this was going to be only too easy to endure.

It was time to dissuade him.

So the next blow landed a little harder. Not all that hard, but this time the skin had already felt the flogger, lightly though that was, and so the impression was all that bit a little more.

Snape took his time. He wasn't fighting the clock on this, only Harry: moreover, he wanted to save his own shoulder from strain. He intended the strokes to be annoying, like some pesky gnat who kept coming back, forever avoiding being caught.

"Is this it?" mocked Harry.

Ah, his foolish, foolish Gryffindor. Snape kept silent, knowing that his lack of response would only help feed Harry's feeling of offense.

All Snape did was step around in order to face the boy and begin to evaluate positions needed for the flogger to land on the chest of his brat. As the tips landed exactly where he wanted them to, over a pec, he noticed that Harry caught the grimace that he'd nearly allowed loose.

"Christ," swore Harry, a sure sign that Snape was getting to him, "you hit like a girl."

Snape only smiled and the flogger landed on the other pec.

"No," Harry continued, offering a feral grin, "not a girl. Like a Hufflepuff."

Snape didn't bother to hide his own grin at that. It was one of the greatest insults within Slytherin House, to refer to someone as a Hufflepuff. He wondered how Harry had come to learn of it. The tips of the flogger gently wrapped themselves around a drawn-up biceps.

"Are we going to do this all day?" disdained Harry.

Snape only took his time to do a full circuit before giving Harry what he'd wanted: a response. "What's your hurry, Mr. Potter?" he used his most unctuous voice. "Going somewhere?" And this time the blow landed on the front of a nicely muscled thigh, carefully avoiding the groin area.

Snape cocked his head and smiled again. Harry scowled and wriggled, as though trying to find a way of easing the hold of the chains. Yes, by now, his nerves must be tingling. That annoying tingle which demands a walk, or a stretch, or even just a scratch. Harry could do none of that. All he could do was endure and Snape noted that there was a flush to Harry's face that had nothing to do with the flogger.

Well. Not directly.

Snape moved behind him again and added the back of those thighs, the calves to his canvas. The skin was beginning to appear pinkish, nothing severe, more like a reaction to a touch of sun.

"At this rate," Harry scoffed, "we're going to be here forever. Guess that will show the Prophecy and Voldemort."

But Snape noted the slight breathlessness. The blows, never strong, were beginning to affect Harry. Snape changed the manner of his blows, sometimes using a backhand motion, an underhand one, even a sideways figure eight that he kept for the upper back only. Now and then, just to see Draco's eyes widen – which he knew affected Harry who couldn't see – he would twirl the flogger overhand. It was mainly for show as it caused the tails to spread and cover more area rather than concentrate on a single muscled target.

Every few minutes, he would play with the tails, making certain that they hadn't tangled, allowing Harry a little space in which to breathe before beginning once more. He was in no hurry. He knew this was probably the only opportunity he would have to get to the basis of Harry's anger and rushing would only lead to failure.

Snape waited to taunt his brat until Harry actually jerked then he upped the rhythm and variations. Now he added a snapping motion, a relatively sharp stroke that made more noise than caused harm. But it was effective: Harry gasped aloud and Draco winced, closing his eyes.

"So, Harry, is this more your style?" He kept his voice only curious, knowing that more than anything else would get to the boy. "More of the kind of things that Muggles did to you? Or did they prefer to use their hands? Their fists?" Snape supported every question with a different kind of blow so that Harry was off rhythm. "Did you like it?"

"NO! FUCK YOU, NO!"

Ah, yes. Snape permitted himself a sign of relief: Harry's anger had come to the forefront. Actually, he was surprised that it had taken this long.

"Are you certain, Harry? I understand that if it's what you've known, it may be something that attracts you, even knowing that it's more than a bit kinky." He allowed his voice to dip into condescension. "It's all right to have a kink, Mr. Potter. I'm certain that in the grand scheme of things, we all do."

"FUCK YOU!"

"Not yet," Snape concentrated on Harry's back, annoying all the spots he'd sensitised. "You haven't gotten to that yet, Mr. Potter. But I have fucked you and what a delight that was."

"Hope you enjoyed it," growled Harry, "‘cause it ain't likely to happen ever again."

"Ah, yes. And that would be because?"

He gave Harry the opportunity to spit in his face: he came round to face the boy and wasn't disappointed.

"Because...I HATE YOU!"

Snape's smile mocked as his flogger landed ever so lightly on the boy's groin. "Is that so?"

"I HATE YOU, YOU...FUCKING...COCKSUCKER!"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mr. Potter, profanity is the first line of defense of a fool. How good to know that you are running true to your heritage."

Snape was surprised to hear the litany that came out of Harry's mouth. Not only a good variety of Muggle swearing but wizardry ones as well. He paused and took out his wand. The Magic in the Chamber needed to be kept under control or it would grab hold of Harry and that would put an end – probably quite a painful one for him – to what he was trying to achieve here.

He cast a sphere of protection about them. Harry could now curse all he wanted but the Chamber would not be able to feed his powers. And Snape could continue to feed his anger.

He waited until Harry had to gasp for breath to interject, "How proud James would be of you! A gutter-mouth, just like your father. Mind, Black was much better at it when he got going."

"Don't you DARE! Don't YOU dare bring up my father and Sirius! They were both better wizards than you could ever hope to be!"

Stepping in front of Harry, Snape played at untangling the tails. "Oh, please, Mr. Potter," he insulted, "I was a better wizard before I got to Hogwarts than they were on leaving it."

"That's NOT TRUE!"

Snape made a production of shifting his weight onto a hip, resting the hand with the flogger on the same hip. "Of course it is. You know that. You know that I never would have betrayed a dear friend out of vanity."

If Harry's face had been flushed before, it now grew red. "HOW DARE YOU! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO TALK ABOUT SIRIUS THAT WAY?"

Snape's smile was downright evil. He gestured negligently with the flogger. "Oh, I wasn't talking about ‘The Dog'. I was talking about your father."

That caught Harry with his mouth open. He closed it and opened it again. "What the hell are you talking about? My father never betrayed any friend of his."

Snape twirled the flogger over his head, his eyes not the only ones watching the tails as they flicked through the air. "No?"

"No."

But Snape noted the slight hesitation, the wariness in Harry's tone.

"What about Pettigrew? One of the Golden Gryffindors. Whatever do you think might have made Voldemort so attractive to the little rat?"

"Not my father!" Harry snarled. "Pettigrew betrayed my father, not the other way around."

"Oh, Harry, so naive." Snape leaned forward a little and twisted the knife he had in the boy a little. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, how do you think Mr. Weasley feels being in your shadow all the time? Being known as ‘the Sidekick'? I believe there have been difficulties in the past about this very matter. Several times, in fact, if I remember well." He gestured over to Draco with the flogger. "In fact, wasn't that the source of Draco's little campaign to celebrate Mr. Weasley as his ‘king'?"

"Fuck you!" growled Harry, deep in his throat.

"Yes, well. I assume that you dealt with that as much as your father did Peter's unhappiness. Lily was very good at domesticating James Potter, but she was no Hermione Granger. Such a sacrifice on her part, shagging Mr. Weasley, just to give him something you don't have."

"SHUT YOUR GOB!"

Snape stepped back to avoid the spittle flying then moved to behind Harry and began using the flogger once more. He tried to keep Harry off guard with sudden changes in target and the timing between his attacks with the flogger.

"Then there's the fact that even though you arrived here, knowing so very little of your own nature, you'll always be more important that he'll ever have a chance of being. Who would not prefer The Boy Who Lived over Weasley Is Our King?"

"It's not that way!"

"Isn't it? I have noticed that lately neither Mr. Weasley nor Miss Granger seem to be attached to your cloak strings."'

As the flogger wrapped itself – gently as Snape had known it would – around his hip, Harry bit out, "I hate you!"

"Of course you do. So much easier to hate the Greasy Git than one's self. Tell me, Mr. Potter, I'm just curious: who else do you hate as much as you do me? For example, do you hate Albus Dumbledore more or less than you hate me?"

"I don't..."

The flogger and Snape's voice came down particularly hard. "Don't lie to me, Harry. I can tell when you're lying to me. I always have. You hate Dumbledore. You hate what he's done to you. What he expects of you. You hate that he's quite willing to sacrifice you, your childhood, your youth, your future, just in order to get Voldemort."

"Is that what you want, you fucker? Well, all right! Yes, I do hate him. I shouldn't but I do. He'd almost as big a fucker as you are." The chains rattled as he tried to shift his body away from the flogger. "Stop that! Stop hitting me!"

It would seem that Harry's inability to deal with his ‘gnat' was building up his frustration. Snape made certain that the next touches of the flogger were particularly irritating.

"You can make me stop hitting you. Tell me what really pisses you off. How is he almost as big a fucker as I am?" Snape made his way to the front, facing Harry, flogger never still.

"He let me think he was on my side. That he cared what happened to me. Me, Harry Potter. As a person, not just some...tool. But that's bullshit. He doesn't care about me...only that I stay healthy and sane long enough to deal with bloody Voldemort. FUCK YOU! STOP IT!"

"Not enough, Mr. Potter. Not if you want me to stop. Keep on. So far I don't see him anywhere near my level of fucker-dom. How else did he fail you?"

Harry was so angry he was on tip-toe, trying to get close to Snape, his body leaning forward in his bounds. "Doesn't do anything to protect me. Let me deal with Quirrell on my own...with Tom Riddle and the Basilisk. Said he believed me when I said I hadn't put my name in the Goblet, but in such a way that it made people think he was only saying that. He was ready to sacrifice me to the Wizengamot except the bloody Prophecy made him come to my defense...and then he allowed Umbridge to come to Hogwarts...he could have protected, not just me, but the others. The twins could have finished school...Sirius..." Harry was so angry that he chocked on his rage. "Sirius shouldn't have been made to feel so fucking useless... Fuck, the Order was using his house and they...Dumbledore...made him feel like less than nothing."

Snape wanted to wince at the pain he saw in the boy's eyes and face, but kept on. They hadn't reached the real heart of the issue as yet.

He sounded incredulous. "You blame Dumbledore for Black's death?"

"YES!!!!"

"How that, Mr. Potter?" He kept the flogger in contact with Harry's body, but now more as a gesture.

"If Sirius had felt useful, he wouldn't have... Sirius was one of the Marauders. One of your fucking ‘Golden Gryffindors'. Dumbledore had always protected them while at school. Hell, you know that better than anyone else."

"Yes, I do."

"Dumbledore should have protected him and my parents but he didn't."

"And he didn't protect you?"

"He left me with them. THEM!"

"Who the...Oh, the Muggles."

The chains were the only things holding Harry from flying at Snape: he was tugging at them, trying to pull away, to get free all the while he spoke, all the while Snape's flogger seemed to continue touching him on its own accord.

"He told me it was necessary. What the fuck was so necessary that I had to be placed with people who hated me, who hated my parents?"

Harry's voice roughened, nearly broke, but he kept on.

"CHRIST! What was so important that I had to live in the fucking cupboard...that I had to be Dudley's personal punching bag." He was so angry, he was sputtering. "There...there were people...who would have taken me in... who were wizards...who would have taught me what I still don't know...who would have...who would have lov..."

And he stopped there, out of breath and spittle.

Snape held the flogger still at his side as he concluded the thought for Harry, in as neutral a voice as he could produce. "Loved you."

There were tears in Harry's voice though not his eyes. "No one loves me. Not really. All a game," he gasped.

"Your parents loved you."

Harry tilted his head back as though to keep the tears from falling. His voice betrayed him. "Yeah. That's what they all say. But if they loved me all that much, why the fuck did they have to set themselves up to die?"

Snape stepped back, astonished at the boy's reasoning. "I don't think they did it on purpose, Harry."

There were still no tears. Snape wondered how anyone could carry that much pain and not weep.

"Like fucking hell! She knew. She knew they were going to die. She..."

There were finally sobs, but they were dry. Snape had to hold himself back purposely in order not to touch the boy.

"She set up all that fucking love stuff...gave me a lifetime of love protection in one year. Just so that I would survive. That's what Dumbledore says." He managed a laugh that was raw like an open wound. "As if it would make up for the years with the Dursleys...with their hate. Did she really think...that her love...would do more than protect me from Voldemort? That it would remain...with me?"

From the corner of his eye, Snape saw that Draco's face was wet with tears. Was he crying for Harry because Harry couldn't?

Snape braced himself as Harry looked at him, into his eyes as though searching for his answers there. "Why the fuck didn't she use that magic on herself and live? Why couldn't she live for me? Did the spell use up all the love she had and that was it? There you go, Harry. You're alive and that's the best I can do for you.

"Oh, God! Why the hell did she think I would want to live without her? Without her touching me. Without her holding me. Without her care...without her love?"

"I want my mum! I want her! Why can't I have her, Severus? What did I do that she didn't want to stay with me? What?"

And, finally, when Snape could barely stand it any longer, the tears came.

"I want my mum! I want..."

Snape tossed the flogger aside, slid his wand into his hand and quickly unspelled the bounds. As Harry sagged to the ground, Snape caught him, but clumsily, so that they both ended up on the floor of the Chamber, Harry in Snape's arms.

The sounds Harry made were horrible. As if being dragged involuntarily out of him, ripping him apart as they finally escaped.

Had the boy never mourned? Snape wondered if he should try and stop the tears, but then the boy had sixteen years of loss to rid himself...

He rocked him awkwardly in his arms. Saying nothing. What could he say? He couldn't give the boy the one thing he had really needed all those years. He couldn't bring back Lily and her love for the boy. Like Harry, he wondered why she had dispensed her love as she had. He didn't, for one moment, think that she hadn't loved the child but Harry was right: it did seem that she had prepared for his survival and not been concerned about hers. Had she thought that Dumbledore would take better care of her child than he had?

Harry was going to make himself ill at this rate. Snape looked about and found Draco's eyes, wide with pain, watching in his enforced silence.

Snape managed to wriggle his wand free of Harry, who was holding on to him as for dear life, and gave Draco back his voice and his liberty. Draco just stood there, shifting gracelessly, looking as lost as the boy in his arms sounded. He needed to give the boy something to do.

"Get me a blanket, please, Draco. And some water."

After a moment, Draco nodded, several times, then staggered off to do as requested. He picked up the cover of his own bed and brought it over. He stood, not moving, as though he were embarrassed by all this raw emotion, before leaning over and carefully placing the blanket over Harry. He rested his hands for a moment on Harry's shoulders, which were shaking from the force of his pain, before going off to fetch the water Snape had requested.

Snape was tucking the blanket a little more tightly around Harry when Draco placed a glass of water near the side of his free hand. Snape looked up and thanked him with a nod then watched as the boy sat down a little distance away, far enough to be out of arm's reach, close enough to be of use if needed. Draco drew a leg up to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, as though for comfort, resting his chin on his knee as he, like Snape, waited for the keening to end.

There had to be a limit to the intensity of Harry's weeping.

Hadn't there?

Snape noted that Draco was watching, his face stripped of all that innate Malfoy arrogance and superiority. He was only a boy listening to another in pain and, not so strangely, feeling some of that pain himself. Snape reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which he tossed to Draco. It landed on the ground, a few inches short of its target. Draco looked at it then back up at Snape, as if he didn't know what to do with it.

"Wipe your face, Draco." Then he gently added, "And maybe your nose needs blowing."

Draco raised a hand to his cheek in surprise. So his Slytherin brat had not been aware that he'd been crying. He reached for the handkerchief and wiped his face before blowing his nose delicately. Loud honking was not a Malfoy mannerism.

Snape turned his attention back the boy in his arms. The initial force of his grieving seemed to have lessened a little. "It's going to be all right, Harry." Snape hoped that wasn't an outright lie. "You're not alone, you know."

Harry may have heard him: he nestled in closer, as if that were possible. Snape rubbed his chin on the top of the boy's head and looked up from his murmuring to catch a flash of emotion on Draco's face.

Jealousy.

Oh, dear Merlin! Why hadn't he caught on before...

Damn it, jealousy was such a common Slytherin emotion, he was so used to seeing it that it didn't register any more.

But Harry wasn't a Slytherin and had probably responded to that as much as anything else since they'd been down here.

Fuck! Snape was going to have to deal with Draco and his feelings much too soon for him. Hell, maybe it served him right: he'd tried hard to avoid any emotion other than anger in his life. The gods were laughing at him. He had Harry breaking down and Draco both sympathetic and jealous at the same time.

Still, he waited until Harry finally calmed and drifted off into exhausted sleep before asking, "Why does it bother you that I'm holding Harry?"

Draco, who had been resting his head on his knee, didn't move. Snape wondered if the boy would continue ignoring his question when he looked up, chin propped up on knee. Eyes wary. "I assume," he spoke softly in order not to wake Harry, "that, if I don't answer, I'm going to get the same treatment as he has."

Snape sighed. "No. What worked with Harry would not work with you. You are two very different persons." Yes, they were, in spite of so many of the similarities Snape was beginning to see.

Draco shrugged then propped his chin back on his knee. He shifted his arms, pulling himself into a tighter embrace. Snape was certain that would be it when Draco said, "You hold him. Every time I wake up after you've seen to it that my head's been blown off with sex, you're holding him. You don't hold me."

"Ah."

Draco shrugged again. "No one ever thinks of holding me." His voice was neither complaining nor whiney. Just a statement of fact. "Malfoys must never be held, I guess."

Snape knew he was heading into more of that emotional quagmire territory. He tried to gain some time and ground to find a way through this one. "You envy that of him? The fact that I, the Greasy Git, holds him."

Draco cocked his head, considering. "He's Gryffindor. Not really one of us, yet..."

Snape interrupted. "Us meaning Slytherin?"

"Well, you are our Head of House. I always thought that we came first for you."

"You have, Draco. And as long as I am Head of Slytherin, my House will always come first. No matter what."

Draco thought about that for a moment or two before nodding. "I suppose, being what he is, the Boy Who Lived and all that, he needs it more." Then he added, rather wistfully, Snape thought, "But...sometimes..."

Snape had to admit that this confession stunned him more than a little. A Malfoy, even this particular one, revealing an emotional need? And only probably because the high drama of the situation had permitted Draco to let that barrier down.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I didn't realise. I can only offer that I am as new at this as you are."

He got another of those shrugs. And then there was more, as though admitting to one need, Draco could actually speak about another.

"At least his mother held him. He seems to have memories of that. I certainly don't. And I doubt that my mother would raise a finger to help me, let alone save me."

Snape winced. Oh, hell! Well, at least here he could supply a few answers. "Draco. There's so much you don't know. Harry's not the only one who has things to learn."

Draco's expression pretended that he didn't care.

"Listen to me, boy... No, better yet, go over to my bed."

His brat thought about that before slowly unwinding himself off the floor.

"You'll find a knot in the right post at the foot of the bed. Higher up. About there. It's small. You're going to have to feel around for it. Found it? Good. Now push against it as hard as you can with your finger."

Snape heard the small click that indicated the spring had released. He knew that Draco was now seeing a small drawer open in the wider part of the base of the post.

"On the top, you'll find a lavender paper. Take it out and bring it here."

Draco walked back, his eyes on the note paper. "It's mother's. I can smell her scent on it."

"Yes," scoffed Snape, "very recognizable stuff, her scent."

Draco actually found a small smile. "Considering what it costs father, I don't think she would like to hear you call it ‘stuff'." Then he handed Snape the note.

"No. You read it. Aloud."

Draco slowly sat down. His eyes flickered between the note and Snape.

"Read it, Draco."

He unfolded the note and did so.

‘Severus:

Take care of my Treasure. Should anything happen to him, I will wear your balls as earrings.

Narcissa'

Snape wanted to curse: the boy didn't really understand. Damn Narcissa and her breeding!

"What's the date, Draco?"

Draco was very silent as he looked at top of letter.

"It's dated the day after I asked Dumbledore for sanctuary."

"Yes, it is. And if you have any doubt as to just whom her treasure is, you'll find another note towards the bottom of that drawer, which she sent to me just before you began at Hogwarts."

This time, Snape noted that Draco acted a little more quickly to his instructions. While he was hunting that particular message, Snape checked on Harry. He was sound asleep, his closed eyes still streaming as if his heart continued weeping though his body hadn't the energy for it.

It was time to move them both off the floor. Snape used his wand to spell Mobilicorpus on Harry and managed to get to his feet. He was not getting any younger and sitting on a stone floor, warm though it was, brought on aches that he would prefer not settle in.

As they neared his bed, Draco found the lavender paper. He held it up but Snape gestured that he was to read it. As he did so, Snape set Harry down on the far side of the bed.

‘Severus:

I've persuaded Lucius to send Draco to you rather than that fool Karkaroff at Durmstrang. You know how I feel and I trust you to keep an eye on my Treasure. Make certain that when the time comes, he makes the right choice, Severus.'

It was unsigned, but Draco would know his mother's hand.

His nervous giggle was rather watery. "She cares for me?"

Snape had cast off his robe and was settling himself in the centre of his bed. "Yes, of all the things Narcissa is capable of loving other than herself..." He wouldn't lie to the boy as it was a truth that would be hard even for Draco to deny. Still, what he had to add was also a truth. "...you are her most precious." He wriggled against a couple of pillows to support his back and then pulled a restless Harry into an arm. Looking at the boy who was rereading both notes with a palatable hunger, he raised the other arm to Draco. "There's room for another, if that's what you'd like."

Draco chewed his bottom lip, eyes still on the lavender note paper. "Not because you feel you have to."

"Draco. You're my..." Fuck, he'd been about to say responsibility. That wouldn't have gone over well. So what was he? "My godson." Grey eyes darkened, ready to deny him. "Not your official one. I wasn't considered important enough by Lucius. But I am, by Narcissa's choice." Well, he was, wasn't he? She had given the boy over to him. "And," here he added a glare for effect, "there is no ‘I feel I have to' about it on my part."

Still, Draco was not quite ready to believe.

"I know I am not a warm man, Draco, but I have cared for you since you were confided to me by your mother. Otherwise we would not be here."

"Not just because of the Prophecy and my part in it?"

A token objection if Snape was reading the anxiety for his answer correctly.

Snape scoffed. "Do I look like Albus Dumbledore to you, Draco Malfoy?"

The shy smile made Draco look as though he were a young child. "No, sir."

"Then come here. Brat."

And that turned out to be the right tone to have taken. Snape found himself, emotionally wrung out, in his bed, a brat on either side, wrapped around him in varying degrees of need.

It was a novel experience, to say the least.

Harry coasted between a dreamy haze and a soothing rhythm that called, more and more, to his consciousness.

He knew this lazy semi-wakefulness was not his normal method of waking, but it was too comfortable for him to try and overcome.

And he didn't want to. Just wanted to continue enjoying this rare experience of...

Of what was it?

His curiosity won out.

He lay not moving, not even wanting to, but slowly pulled away towards consciousness. Bit by bit he grew aware of the material against his cheek, rougher than that of sheets or pillowcase. Even, when he thought about it, itchier than the blankets at Hogwarts.

Of some steady rhythm, gentle and regular, under his ear.

For some reason, it was also very comforting.

He sighed.

Something brushed the hair off his face.

He was wondering if he should find that worth investigating when, before he could decide, a touch, barely there, traced the line of his eyebrow.

Not just the once, but again.

And then went away.

If it had touched him again, he could have ignored it, but waiting for it to return...

He forced himself to open an eye.

Only to find another close by watching him.

Grey.

And then he remembered.

He closed his eye and waited for the comfort to disappear.

But, much to his astonishment, it didn't.

"How are you feeling?"

The voice was different. Soft, almost gentle. Without a trace of its usual sneer.

He'd have to think about that, but first he had a question to answer. How did he feel?

"Empty," he whispered, not really wanting to leave his protective haze.

"Hm."

And he was. Empty.

Empty of tension.

Empty of muscle and bone.

Empty of feeling, save comfort.

The touch came again, on his cheek this time, and once more it didn't feel intrusive. Even knowing that it came from Draco.

But what it did do was make him grow more aware of his position. When he'd opened his eye, he'd also seen that Draco's face had been resting on black. And now, that muted, steady rhythm – when he thought about it – had to be a heartbeat.

It wasn't his. Wasn't Draco's. That left only one person. Snape.

He waited for the usual anger to flicker into being at the thought of the man.

It always did.

He waited.

Nothing.

It was as though he was so...so empty...that he couldn't rouse the merest hint of anger.

He nestled his cheek more comfortably as he tried to dredge up some feeling as to the man and what he had done to him.

Couldn't.

The touch explored his ear, not teasing, just as though it were something it had never touched before and was examining it.

It should have bothered him, but it didn't.

Was rather soothing, in fact.

Why?

The urge to slip back into sleep was tugging strongly at him, but this was a matter that demanded investigation.

He pushed back against the comfort of sleep and opened his eye again, looking for the other.

Draco was near. Head propped up on a hand. On the other side of the black-clad body of the man who lay unmoving...except for the slight rise and fall of his chest...and the soothing rhythm of his heart.

"He's sleeping."

Draco spoke in his normal tones. Harry wondered how long Snape would be.

The touch left him and a wand appeared in the range of his vision.

Harry forced himself to consider the meaning of that. "His?"

His voice was rough, his throat raw. Oh, yeah. He'd cried, hadn't he?

Draco smiled. That was more like it: it was his rather-pleased-with-himself grin. The world was slowly coming into focus.

"He was tired, the poor dear. So when he finally slipped into sleep, I slipped it away from under the pillow where he'd put it and cast Morpheus on him."

Harry was stunned into full awareness.

Poor dear? Morpheus? Poor dear!

He wasn't certain which was more astonishing, but he went with the lesser one.

"Morpheus?" he whispered.

Draco nodded. "Just on him. You were already out like a light. And there were things I needed to think about."

Normally that last would have caused Harry to go on full alert. Whenever Draco thought, it paid for Harry to be on his guard.

He waited for the feeling to come to life.

Nothing.

Why did that not worry him?

He frowned. Why was he worried about not worrying?

Draco continued, his voice calmer than Harry could ever remember hearing.

"He was worn out and I knew he wouldn't get the kind of rest he needed unless I did it. Would you like something to drink? Your throat sounds raw."

Harry blinked. What was going on? Draco courteous? Concerned?

"Yeah," he rasped. "Would be nice."

"Back in a mo."

And the bed trembled a little as Draco pushed himself away.

Harry had to think about raising his head. He wouldn't be able to drink in the position he was in and the thought of a drink had suddenly become paramount. Still, he was reluctant to do so, afraid that, by moving, he would wake from what had to be a dream of some kind.

But then he had always had to wake from his dreams, the good ones as well. He waited for the feeling of loss and, when it didn't arrive, raised his head ever so slowly.

They were all still in the Chamber. On Snape's bed. Who was truly sleeping. Propped up on a stack of pillows as though he hadn't meant to fall asleep. Head at an angle. Mouth partially open. Fully clothed in that old-fashioned suit of his. The arm farther away was stretched out, as though waiting for something to be placed in it so that it could cup it close to the warm body.

Like his other arm was doing.

Draped on Harry's shoulders.

He was reluctant to dislodge it. Not only because he wasn't quite certain of that Morpheus of Draco's, but because he found it surprisingly – another in this time of surprises – comforting.

"He didn't wake when I moved. You know that if the spell hadn't taken, he would have."

So Harry slowly slipped from under that comforting arm and turned to face Draco.

Draco had been very careful when withdrawing the wand from under the pillow. He, more than Harry, knew what kind of man Snape was.

He'd lain very quiet while Snape had fought off sleep. The man was exhausted. It hadn't taken the paler than normal complexion, the deeper lines that bracketed the nose and mouth, the purple smudges under the black eyes to tell him that.

Harry's breaking had been hard on all of them. At least Harry had gotten to vent himself of all that hurt and pain: they'd had to listen to it.

It hadn't been easy. Draco had felt it in his guts and had wondered how much it had affected Snape who had been the instrument of Harry's break- down.

Then, instead of using the time after to get himself in hand, Snape had had to deal with him.

Draco sat at the foot of Snape's bed, looking at the two others, Harry curled tightly around Snape who, even in deep sleep, held him close.

As he had held Draco until Draco had decided to take matters into his own hands.

He looked down at the two lavender note papers and read them yet again, even though he knew both by heart.

Her Treasure.

He smiled, feeling a warmth in him. The easing of a hurt that he'd barely acknowledged all these years.

He knew that, to his father, he was but a tool whose usefulness would be determined by Lucius himself. He, Draco, was to have no say in his future, only do as he was told, for the betterment of the Malfoy name and status.

Well, it was, after all, why Malfoys bred the next generation.

It was why Lucius Malfoy had been born.

Draco had understood that and had thought that he'd accepted that role for himself. Well, he had tried to live up to those expectations, but there had been a part of him, a very small part he'd learnt early to bury deep inside, that had wanted something different.

Now and then, that part had slipped out and Draco had been punished for it. But, no matter what, it hadn't left him. Only buried itself deeper within him, as though it knew it couldn't leave him.

It had been the fear of losing that wee, hidden part of himself that had made Draco begin to think the unthinkable: refusing to take the Dark Mark.

Harry made some sobbing, hiccuping noise and Draco checked to see that he was still sleeping.

Maybe, he thought, settling back against the footboard, that part of himself had been the love that Narcissa had felt for him.

Oh, he had no delusions about his mother and her self-love. It had been, he remembered hearing at some party that he'd eavesdropped on as a child, the main reason she had been selected to wife Lucius Malfoy.

"After all," had said the catty female voice, "they had to find someone who would not be jealous of Lucius's mirror, hadn't they?" Then there had been laughter. "I wonder if he's jealous of hers?"

It hadn't taken him long to understand that other parents were somewhat different than his. Even Goyle's had paid some attention to him.

Thinking about his home, Draco could not remember a time when he hadn't been afraid of his father. Even when he'd wanted to please him, he knew that Lucius would always find something not quite perfect in what he was doing. Not quite Malfoy enough.

But he couldn't remember a time he hadn't found his mother beautiful. As a child, he'd loved to slip into her room unnoticed...

Suddenly, Draco found a grin splitting his face apart.

Shit, of course she had noticed. How could she not have? Wasn't like he was invisible and his mother noticed if a jar on her table was a millimetre out of alignment after the house elves had cleaned her room.

Now that he thought about it, she usually shifted a little in her chair as she put her make-up on, so that he'd had no trouble watching her, from his secret place, making herself even more beautiful. And had she paraded a little more when she dressed, checking the flow of a gown, twirling to see if it draped properly?

Draco hugged his knees to his chest. He felt like a child who'd been told to make a wish and it had come true.

Oh, his mother was not a Molly Weasley, not even a Gertrude Goyle, but she was his mother as much as she could be, and she had cared.

Yes, he had no delusions about her. She was not be kind of mother Harry wanted and needed. But then, he wasn't Harry Potter.

Maybe, if they survived all this...

He allowed his heart to feel.

He tried to think back on the little ways in which she might have shown he was important to her.

There had been the salve that had appeared that time his father had had him disciplined. No house elf would have dared.

The books. Every year for his natal day, his father presented him with something that was worthy of a Malfoy, but he always found a book on his bed that night. He'd been smart enough, on getting the first when he'd been six, not to say anything about it: it had been an old book, with the previous owner's name scratched out, with lots of pictures about wizard style throughout the centuries.

His mother was acknowledged to be an expert in style. Even Voldemort...

Draco shook his head, chasing away that memory.

And he knew his father's thoughts about such things, that a man paid his tailor to keep up on fashion.

He'd loved looking at that book. Always in secret, when there were none of his father's spies about. He still had it, along with the others he'd found every following year – most mainly about style and its history, a couple about Quidditch, many with a name scratched out – hidden away in a secret compartment he'd created himself in the old classroom he'd been tutored in before leaving for Hogwarts.

Funny how he had never questioned anyone as to the source of these books. Never even mentioned them. But he had known to make his occasional comment on style – never in his father's presence – to his mother. Her response, when there'd been one, had been almost negligent, but she had never expressed surprise.

And then the season of the Quidditch Cup, when his mother had insisted...insisted that he was old enough to accompany her in public. Oh, he'd heard her say to his father, who hadn't been keen on the notion, how else was Draco to learn to behave as a proper Malfoy? Surely Lucius didn't want the boy to embarrass them at more important outings?

In spite of that, he'd been delighted to escort her, but only now, as he thought about it, did he realise that had been the right argument to use on his father.

And when he'd done or been about to do something that might call his father's attention to him, she'd whispered her correction to him so that Lucius had had little to criticise in his behaviour.

That day, in the viewer's stand, had been, till now, the best memory he had of her. She'd spoken to him, listened to his comments and had actually smiled at him. She'd been pleased with him.

No, she was not kind of mother Lily Potter had been, but she was his and he loved her. And he was her "Treasure".

Draco looked over at Harry. If it hadn't been for him, would he ever have known? If Harry hadn't broken down and Snape been pre-occupied, would he ever have learnt of the existence of these notes?

Usually, Harry called up feelings of envy in him. But, right now, he felt only a kind of pity. Harry's mother was dead and Draco's was not. He may not have been consciously aware of it before now, but she loved him, had loved him all these years. Years Harry had done without.

Draco read the letters again, tracing every loop, every curl, with his finger, engraving the words into his mind. Then he carefully folded each and held them to his chest, over his heart.

"Thank you, Harry." With reluctance, he placed the letters back in their drawer and slowly forced himself to close it, keeping his hand on it long after the click of a hidden lock.

They would be safe there.

He would reclaim them when this was all over.

Harry's body wouldn't respond as he wanted. He ended up face down in the covers next to a long black-clad leg. Hands helped him turn over and pulled him up into a sitting position. He sagged over, his sideways fall stopped by the sudden support of shoulder. A hand steadied him.

"Here."

The glass of what turned out to be warm, soothing water was held to his mouth.

"Thanks," he croaked.

"You'll be more comfortable against the footboard."

And he was. Supported by its own small mound of pillows, his body finally found its balance. After about a minute, Harry no longer felt as though Gilderoy Lockhart had spelled the bones from his body.

Once he was in control again, Draco joined him, propping himself against a side of his mound.

They said nothing. Harry slowly stretched out his legs while Draco crossed one ankle over the other. It took a while before Harry realised they were both watching Snape as he slept.

Draco crossed his arms over his chest. "He's ugly really."

Harry turned his head slightly, expecting some sneering expression, but instead found only curiosity. Not quite certain if this was a prelude to another of their arguments, he responded with as neutral a "Hm," as he could produce.

"Especially now. He really looks like hell."

Harry wondered just how he was going to defend himself when Draco attacked him: his arms were still wobbly enough that they were protesting their having to do their bit in keeping him erect.

Draco slouched down a little, making himself more comfortable.

"So how come all I can think of is how fucking sexy he is?"

Harry licked his lips. He leaned his head back and thought about that. "Guess there's nothing that says that he can't be both."

Draco looked at Harry and then nodded. "The French have a term for it, did you know that?"

Harry shook his head, his eyes on Draco.

"Beau/laid. Beautiful/ugly."

Harry settled himself a little more sturdily against the pillows and contemplated Snape.

"That's as good a way to describe him as any," he finally agreed.

Draco startled him by snaking his arm around Harry's back, anchoring him in place. Harry found it easier on his neck to rest the side of his head against Draco's.

The glass of water suddenly appeared in his range of vision. Draco had Snape's wand in hand again. Harry accepted the drink with a nod and was pleased to see he could handle the glass without spillage. He kept hold of it, sipping every now and then, until swallowing grew a little easier.

"Do you still hate him?"

Again, no accusation, only that calm interest. What the hell had happened? Harry sipped again, buying time. "Is that what I said?"

"Yes. You meant it at the time, I don't doubt that. I don't blame you either. But now, do you hate him?"

Harry had to think about that. He dug for the space within him that had been filled with anger and hatred, but found only a void.

Draco, he noticed, didn't hurry his introspection. He used the wand to spell himself a glass of cool pumpkin juice and transfigured the water in Harry's glass to some as well.

"His wand works for you?" Nothing like trying to change the subject.

Draco smiled and Harry knew that he wouldn't be allowed to get away with his attempt.

"Yes. Haven't you felt it? Since we've been down here?"

Harry grabbed onto the tangent. "Felt what?"

"Maybe you're not Slytherin enough," a tease eased with the first open smile Harry had ever seen on Draco's face, "but surely you've felt your Magic affected in some way?"

Harry thought. Funny how he had to think about everything: nothing sprang to his mind spontaneously.

"Now that you mention it... Yes. And the time I was down here with Tom Riddle, it did grow stronger. It must have, ‘cause even memory Riddle was quite powerful."

"That's probably why his wand works for me. On small stuff. I haven't tried anything else. So do you hate him?"

Harry leaned more into Draco who pulled him closer against him. Heads resting against each other's, they both stared at the man who moved restlessly until he found a more comfortable position. Then he sighed and settled once more into deep sleep.

"No," said Harry. "I don't hate him."

"Do you hate me?"

Harry turned his head at the same moment as Draco turned his so that they ended up nose to nose. "What's different about you?"

Draco's knuckles lightly skimmed Harry's jaw line. "I... I learnt a few things about myself today."

That he'd also learnt them about Harry was left unsaid.

"Like what?"

There was that touch again, the one that brushed the hair off his face, that slowly traced his eyebrow. Harry found he couldn't push for an answer any more than Draco had. So he moved his hand to Draco's shoulder, for balance, he told himself.

"I learnt that I'm more Black than Malfoy."

Harry couldn't see how that was much of an improvement, but Draco seemed to think it was. "And that's good?"

Draco's smile was against his mouth. "That's very good."

And the tip of his tongue slowly outlined Harry's mouth.

Harry let him, even going so far as to open his mouth to invite that tongue in.

After a few minutes, Harry pulled back enough to ask, "And how is that good?"

Draco rested his forehead against Harry's. "Well, I don't think Madam Black would find me Black enough, and cousin Sirius would probably find me too Black. But I think that's better for all of us than my being a Malfoy."

Strangely enough, when Harry finally got around to thinking about that, it made perfect sense.

"I guess I don't hate you either."

Draco grinned wickedly at Harry's pronouncement. They were lying at the foot of the bed, wrapped around each other. They hadn't shagged: Harry hadn't the energy for that as of yet. But he'd had enough for a fairly satisfying snogging session.

"That's good." Draco placed a last kiss on Harry's slightly swollen lips. "Now that that's settled..."

"Not settled yet. Do you hate me, Draco?"

Draco propped his head up on a hand and stared at Harry. "No, but that doesn't mean you haven't pissed me off, because you have. And," he sighed, "you probably will again in the future."

Harry turned so that he stared up at the canopy. "Well, yes, probably. As you will me. So how are we going to handle that?"

Draco was pleased that Harry hadn't argued the point with him, had agreed and was now seeking a resolution. "How about we promise to talk about whatever it is before we get to the hitting?"

It was Harry's turn to sigh. "You have a point." He faced Draco. "I owe you an apology..."

Draco waved it off. "No. The past is the past. We start new and fresh as of now."

The smile on Harry's face warned him. "Well, that's bloody mature of us."

Draco smiled back before answering, as intently as he could, "We have to be if we're going to get out of this alive, Harry Potter."

Harry lost his smile. "With you backing me?"

Draco nodded. "You can't do it alone and...I'm willing."

Harry slowly propped himself up. They looked into the other's eyes, each evaluating what he saw there.

"All right, Draco Malfoy..."

"No, Black. I'm not a Malfoy any more: I'm taking my mother's name."

Harry nodded. "All right then, Draco Black. We have an agreement. Together we'll get rid of Voldemort."

A snorty snore got their attention.

"Yeah," muttered the old Draco, "but first we have to deal with Severus Snape."

Harry's stomach growled.

"How about food first," suggested Harry, "then we'll deal with him."

Snape knew that he wasn't waking in his usual manner. His resembled Harry's, not Draco's.

Not this languid rousing. A sure sign that someone had cast some spell – probably Morpheus – on him. Usually Poppy. But he was aware enough to know that he wasn't in her care: no medicinal smells.

He had to fight against the urge to remain asleep: he needed to know where he was and who had cast this sleeping spell on him.

As he slowly pulled himself towards awareness, he realised that his body was unclothed. He tried to remember if it had been in his last conscious memories. Hell, if he was in Voldemort's hands...

But he couldn't remember having been summoned: he usually remembered something like that. And his arm wasn't aching as it did when he had been, or when he was in Voldemort's vicinity. He concentrated on the arm and, yes, he could feel the slight tingling that indicated the glamour was still holding. He hadn't wanted his brats to focus on...

His brats.

He had been dealing with Harry and Draco when..

A warm wetness dropped onto his cock and he couldn't prevent the gasp of surprise when a sucking motion added to the heat.

What...?

Before he could open his eyes to see what was going on, another of that wetness landed on his chest, on the ringed nipple, and he couldn't prevent a second gasp.

There was the vibration of muffled laughter against his chest and a hand skimmed up his rib cage, fingertips dragging downward as another hand cupped his balls and the suction on his cock made his hips jerk.

With a final effort, he managed to get his eyes open.

He recognized the canopy, the bed curtains. He had to work at lifting his head. Not because he was tied down or restrained in any of Voldemort's usual ways, but because his body was too focused on the sensations those mouths and hands were rousing. And because his eyes really wanted to close in order to better appreciate those rousings.

Still, he had learnt not to follow the dictates of his body and forced his eyes to remain open as he looked down at himself.

A white-blond head was on his chest, whose mouth and tongue were busy amusing themselves with the nipple ring. A dark, disheveled head was playing around with his cock, which most certainly seemed to be enjoying all the attention.

The blond paused long enough in his ministrations to lift his head and chirp,"Good evening, Severus," before dropping to take the ring between his teeth and tug – not all that gently.

Snape hadn't realised beforehand just how much the nerves of that particular nipple were tied directly to those in his cock.

The brunette's mouth was too filled for him to say anything, though he did make some sound that vibrated against Snape's cock.

At that point, Snape gave up. As long as he wasn't in Voldemort's presence, or that of the Death Eaters... His head dropped back onto the pillows, his eyes closed, and he surrendered without a fight.

His brats must have realised it because they were all over him. A mouth closed over his – Draco's, because his taste was tangier than Harry's, which was sweeter – and never allowed him to control the kiss.

Kiss? He wasn't being kissed, he was being devoured!

His tongue was pulled into Draco's mouth, sucked upon until Snape thought Draco was trying to inhale it, and then released. After which, Draco's tongue made its way into Snape's mouth, flickering around, the tip rubbing his palate, preventing him from doing anything other than snort through his nose in an attempt to continue breathing.

"My turn!"

A slicked hand took over from the mouth on his cock and Draco's mouth went away...to amuse itself with his balls! ... while Harry sucked on the lower lip of his open mouth, allowing him to fill his much depleted lungs with air before demonstrating that Harry had indeed been paying very close attention during that kissing lesson.

After that, it became impossible to determine who was doing what to him. Only that there was too much of it at any time for him to do anything other than accept. Breathing, such as it was, took all of his concentration, as much as he was permitted to have.

There were hands touching him, caressing him, cupping his balls, stroking his ribs, holding his chest or hips down, moving his legs further apart, rubbing his arse, teasing his hole.

There was hair...dragged along overly-sensitive parts of his body.

There were mouths... Dear Merlin! There were mouths! All over him. On his nipples, both at the same time. On his balls and cock! Attacking underarms, the soft skin of elbow or inner thigh or back of knee, collarbone, ribs. And feet! Oh, bloody hell! Licking, sucking, tonguing, biting, nibbling.

And then, with the blood rushing through his body to pool in cock and balls, he was held on the tip of a pin for so long that he actually managed to think...the thought that Voldemort would be kinder.

And that was it for thinking. A finger wriggled its way into his arsehole, found his prostate and rubbed against it as a hand squeezed his balls and one of the mouths did its best to swallow him whole.

He shattered.

"That was nice," said Harry to Draco as they sat back against the footboard and examined their handy work.

Draco leaned over and, using a finger, wiped off the dribble of Snape's cum that clung to Harry's chin. He popped the finger into his mouth to clean it off before snuggling closer to Harry. "It's good ploy for getting his attention off something."

"We'll have to remember that."

And Draco thought that Harry's grin was positively Slytherin.

Snape lay on the bed, arms and legs spread out. He was sweat-drenched, hair sodden, mouth open, gasping in air, and looked absolutely...

"Beautiful," whispered Harry.

Draco glanced at his partner and offered a Slytherin grin of his own. "So, we're going to keep him?"

Harry pretended to think that over as a hand dropped to his own erection. This had been for Snape, not themselves, though Harry certainly hadn't been unaffected by what they'd done and by the results. "Oh, why not?" he tossed out at his most nonchalant. "He's worth the effort, isn't he?"

As Draco pretended to consider the question, he draped a leg over Harry's, slapped his hand away from his cock and took over. "He's high maintenance."

Harry sighed dramatically as he returned the favour. He had enjoyed finally getting his mouth on Snape's cock and wasn't reluctant to admit he wanted more of it...and of Draco's. "I suppose he thinks we are as well."

Draco challenged that with the rise of a pale eyebrow and Harry wondered if he'd learnt to do that from copying Snape. He countered with one of his own, though he knew it was not nearly as effective.

"Well," continued Harry, "on the plus side, he is high performance." Then he ruined his part of this ‘serious' debate by gasping, "Slower. I like it slower than that."

Draco grinned in acknowledgement, "He is that. Harder. And I like rubbing the head with my thumb."

"Like that?"

"Ooooohhhhh, yeah, just like that."

Harry grinned as Draco's eyes closed, his hand harder on Draco than he himself liked. But Draco was not objecting in any way and Harry himself found nothing to complain about the way the hand on his cock was amusing itself.

He was licking Draco's cum off his hand with Draco watching him, a very relaxed smile on his face, when it suddenly went very serious. "And then there's this bounding thing."

Harry licked a last trace off a finger. He leaned a bit more into Draco, who had kept his hand on Harry's thigh, fingertips lightly outlining the muscle there. Harry crossed his arms over his chest and thought as they both watched Snape's hand, trembling from the aftermath of his orgasm – an orgasm they had made him wait for – managed to push the hair off his face before dropping to rest on his head.

"Mind," he finally offered, "it does work both ways, doesn't it?" He turned to look at Draco who was using Snape's wand to finish cleaning them both. "If we're bound to him, that means he's equally bound to us."

"Hmm?" But the thought certainly didn't seem to displease Draco.

"And let's face it, we're not fighting off offers for our young, nubile bodies."

"Sadly true," agreed Draco. "Who wants to take on all the baggage that accompanies us?"

"He seems to."

After a moment, Draco added. "He comes with a lot of baggage as well."

"Yes, but there are two of us. We can handle that."

Draco raised that eyebrow again and grinned. "So, we're taking him on?"

Harry felt his eyebrow rise was much better this time. "Why not?"

Snape stared up at the canopy. He had dozed a little, needing less sleep than these brats of his, who had certainly managed to surprise him.

Draco had handed over his wand, with just a comment about the Slytherin- ness of the Chamber. But that had been after Harry had used it to conjure up a meal.

"Must be Christmas by now," he'd said casually as a small goose with all the trimmings along with wine and three pies – mince, apple and lemon meringue – had appeared on the side of the bed.

They'd eaten, sitting cross-legged, naked all three of them, on his bed, amiably talking – of all things! – about the past Quidditch season and the possibility of whether England or Ireland would make it to the next World Cup.

Snape had found himself wondering if he had hit his head somehow and was hallucinating.

After he had used his wand to clear up the remnants of the meal – not that there had been much left: he'd been amazed at his own level of hunger – his brats had calmly decided who would sleep on which side of him and done so.

Snape slowly pulled himself up, careful not to disturb Draco, who was sleeping on his left, and Harry, on his right. He managed to make his way off the bed without rousing either one. Mind, after the amount of food the two had put away, they were probably hibernating!

He draped his robe about him as he quietly spelled his chair close so that he could watch them as he tried to figure out what had happened while he'd been asleep.

Somehow, while he'd been under the influence of Morpheus, cast by his own wand upon him, there had been a settling of differences. And if he'd understood correctly, from the friendly laughter and the gentle nudges, this one was different from those of the past days. This one seemed to be without the usual tension, whether overt or underlying.

Harry was the most changed. There was no anger in him, in his voice, in the manner of his gestures. Snape knew that he had taken a huge chance with the flogging. It could have so easily backfired, imbedding Harry's anger to even deeper depths. But, for once, a plan of his seemed to have accomplished the good he had set out to do. The boy was relaxed, his eyes more at peace than he could ever remember seeing since Harry had arrived at Hogwarts.

And something seemed to have happened to Draco as well. Had all it truly taken to soothe this brat was to give him the letters from his mother?

He really wished he had been alert enough to have at least heard what had transpired after he'd tucked Draco under his arm. Because, somehow, peace had been made.

And, if he wasn't mistaken, his role in Harry's coming to that peace had been forgiven. How else could he read that incredible blow job on his awakening?

And the way Harry – Draco as well – had included him in that surreal conversation about Seekers and Keepers. Asking him for his opinion. Pulling out his memories of the World Cups of his childhood, long before they had been born. Opinions and memories he had been a little surprised to find he actually had. Surprised to remember that he too had been a fan in those long ago days.

He took out his wand and examined it carefully. It was not unknown for a wand to be used by another but never to the degree of ability as its owner. Yet both Draco and Harry had used his with the ease of their own. Yes, the Chamber did augment powers, but now he truly had to consider the extent.

Maybe...

He stopped that thought before it went any further. There were things that had to be considered before he went there.

Such as Dumbledore had never felt the Chamber as Snape had. Had never sensed the manner in which Snape's magic had been affected here. Probably since it hadn't, it may not have crossed Dumbledore's mind even to think it might have affected Snape. And Snape had done his best to keep it that way.

Not just from the Headmaster, but from Voldemort as well.

There was Old Magic here, old when Salazar had used it to protect his Chamber, to set up his part of the foundations. Old Magic that only someone trained in its ability would recognise. Who would, in turn, be recognised by Old Magic.

Dumbledore, powerful as he was, did not descend from any of the Defensive families. But Snapes did, to a greater extent than many other of the old families. The Blacks did as well. And Draco's mother was a Black.

Snape sighed. Well, that explained Draco, but Harry? Could his early encounter with Voldemort account for the Chamber's affecting him? Voldemort was known to have occasionally dabbled in Old Magic even if he found it sadly lacking for his needs: after all, Old Magic had been more about defense than attack. Or was there something in the Potter line?

That would definitely need to be researched when they rejoined the upper world.

But right now, he had a decision to make. One that would affect them all. One that could lead to his punishment should either of his masters discover he had taken it.

He pointed his wand and called up a calendar. Harry had been off by a day: it was December 26th. Which, should he decide, gave him a week to...

Not enough time.

He looked at his brats, who had moved close to fill in the space he had vacated. They were wrapped one around the other, something before the Peace, as he now thought about it, would not have happened. Not in their sleep.

This was not what Dumbledore had wanted. He had wanted them to be able to work together, but he doubted that the old man would be pleased at the extent. The boys would have to hide...

They would have to hide so much. Would they be able to? Would they want to?

So much of his decision was dependent on...on their acting abilities. Could he trust them to pull it off? Could he trust them period? He would be literally putting his life into their hands.

And a week...so little time.

Then his eye caught sight of the small hourglass that still hung from the post on his bed. The hourglass that Minerva had placed there, in case he might need it.

Funny how sometimes, though he knew she was firmly in Dumbledore's camp, she saw more than the old man did. He knew she would not have mentioned the Time Turner to Dumbledore.

He stood up and went to remove the hourglass from the post. He looked at it and tried to calculate how many days he could play with before anyone would notice. Here, in the Chamber, was the remnant of Salazar's power, now over a thousand years old, strong enough to protect them?

Snape carefully turned the hourglass once...twice...three times. An hour for each turn. He blanked his mind of all but counts. Twenty-two. Twenty- three. Twenty-four.

And he waited. Other than a slight waver, he felt nothing. Would they have felt anything above?

He waited for some kind of response. A message appearing from Dumbledore? By now, the old man must have figured out where he'd taken his brats. He had spies among the house elves who would have reported to him – he had but to ask – where food was being sent.

As he waited for something to happen that didn't, he tried to figure out just how few days he would need to teach his brats the Old Magic that he knew.

Because he had taken his decision.

Whether it would lead to his death...

"Draco?"

Draco muttered as he buried his face deeper into the pillow.

Harry nudged him a little harder. "Get up, Draco."

Who turned his face only enough to make himself understood. "Why?"

"Our clothes. He's given us back our clothes."

Draco's eyes opened wide and he sat up to see that Harry had indeed been telling the truth: their clothes and robes were stacked neatly at the foot of the bed. But he hadn't told the whole truth. Their wands were lying on top of each pile.

They found Snape standing by the fire in the open mouth of Salazar Slytherin.

"Shower. Get dressed. Hurry. We don't have time to waste."

"Fuck,"whispered Harry as he joined Draco in the shower for a quick wash, "what the hell's gone wrong?"

There was coffee and buttered bread waiting for them by their clothes. They ate as they dressed.

"Sir. Where are our shoes?"

"You won't be needing them. Have you eaten? Good. Then join me here."

Barefoot, the two did as he asked, exchanging silent questions when they noticed Snape was also without shoes or socks.

He gestured that they were to stand to one side then he used his wand to move everything in the Chamber they had brought with them from above to the small alcove just off the giant head. That left them with almost the full Chamber in which to work.

"What do either of you know about Old Magic?"

Harry chewed his bottom lip before shaking his head and looking to Draco for his response.

Draco cocked his head and, frowning, thought carefully. "I know that it predates the arrival of the Malfoys to this island. That it is considered to be of little use."

"By?" asked Snape.

Draco looked a little sheepish. "Well, by...from what I've heard at home and other places...by Voldemort and...the Death Eaters."

Other than going very still, Harry made no response. Draco met Snape's eyes.

"There are a few Old Magic spells that Voldemort has found interesting, but they are in fact derivative rather than actual Old Magic."

Harry went to raise his hand as though in class. Snape shook his head. "Just speak when you think you have something to say, Harry." He'd used his classroom voice, but he had tried to keep his usual biting tone out of it.

"Which means they are not pure Old Magic."

Snape actually smiled. "Very good. No, they are not. There are very few sources still in existence that contain the spells as they were used back when Magic began being recorded."

"And you would know they were not pure Old Magic," offered Draco, "because...you...have had...access to these ‘sources'."

Snape waited before responding. "These documents were burnt many centuries ago, not just by Muggles on order of their religious people, but by the Light Lords who feared their contents just as much. For basically the same reasons: many of the Old Magic spells came from what they referred to as Dark Magic." He hesitated. "The...Snapes...were never great proponents of following orders, even more than a thousand years ago."

"Merlin!" whispered Draco, almost reverently, "let me guess. The Snapes still possess some of these what? Folios? Tomes?"

"Such knowledge," Snape said with great caution, watching the faces of his brats, "would land the owner of these manuscripts in Azkaban." Then he added, "Should he be allowed to live."

Harry and Draco exchanged looks. Then Harry made himself stand straight. "Then no one other than us will possess such knowledge."

Draco understood a little better. "We won't betray you, Severus. We will swear it by any oath."

Harry nodded. "By any oath."

Snape made them wait a full minute. "You have done so, just by giving your word. In Old Magic, a wizard's word is his bond."

He went to stand in the middle of the Chamber, in the aisleway, feet wide apart, firmly planted on the stone. He raised his hands over his head and dug in deep within him, for a space so secret that he had spent most the remainder of the night searching for it. Chanting words that were older than old, he traced an arch that included the entire Chamber lengthwise then turned and did the same widthwise.

He noticed that the Magic affected both his brats. They looked around nervously, obviously waiting for something to happen.

It did. The fire in Salazar's mouth roared as if in protest...or support...Snape couldn't tell. His brats were startled but held their places.

"We are warded," announced Snape as he approached them. "Protected from outside interference."

"Protected why?" asked Draco.

Snape smiled. "Because Old Magic needs limited space in which to work. And because we don't want anyone from above noticing its presence." He looked from one brat to the other. "We have at most eight days in which you two must learn as much as you can about its use."

Harry's eyes were wide behind his glasses. "Is this what we need to defeat Voldemort?"

Snape took a deep breath. "I won't lie to you, Harry. I don't know. But I do know that it will be something he won't be expecting."

Go To Part 8

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