Harry had busied himself with completing his backlog of homework. He'd put a lot of things to the back-burner recently. The only reason he was working now was because the Transfiguration Essay on Transmutation of Complex Substances was due tomorrow, and Professor McGonagall accepted no late work.

Already his facade was unraveling. Hermione and Ron had noticed all the times he'd been early to rise and late to bed. If he had to make excuses for late assignments, that could be the nail in the proverbial coffin. He could tell it weighed heavy on Hermione, Ron was different, never giving any indication he noticed, and always inviting him to games of chess.

He needed to prepare himself for when it all came crashing down, it was inevitable. The only only thing he could do was mitigate.

Even with those thoughts clouding his mind, he finished his essay with a flourish. He didn't think that his revisions during the summer had been all that inspired, but it had served to give him a foundation in which he could better answer things. Practicals, if anything, were easier than they'd ever been. It was only in moments like this that he had to actively engage his mind for the task at hand.

Harry check the time, and then started packing up his books and papers he'd scattered across their work table. Hermione had yet to return from dinner, so Ron had setup on the other side of his table when he'd entered, and busied himself with pretending to study. Harry had seen him nod off more than once. As he passed, he gave Ron a pat on the shoulder, which prompted the boy to speak.

"Don't let that bastard bother you, mate, just do your detention and come back. We'll be here." Rons words, if anything, made the growing tension in his shoulders grow. Harry knew that the boy was only trying to console him, but words only went so far.

Glibly, Harry replied, "Yeah, it'll be fine. I'm sure I'll just be scrubbing cauldrons. No worries." Internally, he regretted the steps that had brought him here. Antagonizing Snape should be at the bottom of his list of 'Things to do while High.'

His steps carried him swiftly into the dungeons and soon he stood outside the door to Snape's office. He could feel the cool walls against his face, and could hear his footsteps resonate in the distance despite no longer moving. He took a deep breath to bolster his resolve before knocking on the door.

On the second knocked the seal was broken, the door opened fully; Harry peered into the room looking for its steward, but seeing no one. He stepped fully into the room, not waiting for an invitation and let his eyes roam the walls. Jars of pickled animal parts, and dust adorned both sides of the room, a spartan desk against the far wall, with only a single chair in front. Behind it, was the man himself, hunched over and scribbling furiously on a stack of parchments.

"Sit." Snape said, never once looking up from his markings.

The straight back chair in front of the desk looked ominous, when Harry eased himself into it, he fully expected so manner of restraints to appear and hold him in place. Snape had yet to acknowledge him besides his softly spoken command. Harry let the scratching of the quill lull him into serenity, losing track of time, until he noticed that finally the scratching had stopped.

He focused his gaze then, on the man in front of him, whose gaze bore into him, coal black eyes inscrutable. Harry knew better than to hold his gaze for long, so he quickly broke his eyes away from him instead let his eyes roam over the mantle of the fireplace directly behind him. The only illumination in the office came from the fireplace, but Harry could just make out the silhouette of picture frames.

Snape standing abruptly startled Harry from his thoughts of what the pictures could contain, again, the silence between them again allowing his mind to wander.

He didn't walk, so much, as he stalked. Even in the confines of his own office the man couldn't stop the forceful gait he kept when walking the halls and corridors of Hogwarts. He stopped at a recessed shelf in one of the walls of the office, having escaped Harry's earlier scan of the room.

The sound of a cabinet opening and closing and liquid being poured into crystal filled the small space of the office. "Was he fixing himself a drink?" Harry thought. It was an absurd thought, but was quickly proven true the man sat himself back behind the desk, drink in hand.

Harry met him eye to eye then, fearless. "What is this about." he thought, and as if a dam had broke, Snape spoke, his voice sibilant.

"Loathe as I am to entertain the yappings fo dogs, Potter, Lupin has expressed some concerns."

Harry didn't react. His mind already racing to conclusions. Snape opened a drawer on his right, pulling something from within, and threw it across the desk. The waxy white exterior of the packet caught Harry's eye as it landed in front of him.

"Yours, I believe," Snape stated rather than ask as he shut the drawer with a hard push. Harry fought the urge to check his shirt pocket to see if he was missing something. He didn't want to give the man any clues, not realizing he was already caught.

"I've examined the substance within. Imagine my surprise at what I discovered."

Harry made no attempt to respond. He knew better; the same excuses that worked on Remus, Ron and Hermione would not work on the pit of apathy and anger that sat across from him.

"Clearly Dumbledore's faith in you is misplaced, Potter. I can't wait to disappoint him."

Harry warred with himself then, Sanpes words had wiggled themselves deeply into his mind. If he took the bait, it would only be playing into Snape's hand. He resolved himself to remaining silent.

"Nothing to say for yourself? I can't pretend I'm surprised, Potter. You're nothing but an addle brained, simpering child. Every bit as spoiled and entitled as your father. I should have known you would do something as foolish as this."

Harry lost his struggle then, and made to speak. But was stopped when Snape slammed his hand down on the desk. "You will listen." Snape had stood to his feet, and Harry had joined him; the straight back chair knocked to the floor behind him.

Harry could feel the malice that radiated off the man's words, setting his teeth on edging. He caught himself before he could reach for his wand. Snape had read his intent, and the mans face dared him to take a chance. Harry knew it would be a fool's gambit.

"Did you consider the disastrous implications of mixing intoxicants with spellwork? Your stupidity has truly reached new heights—- if just for once you had listened to a single one of my lessons you'd know the reasons a wizard would never willingingly alter their inhibitions or their mind."

"Your point, sir?" Harry asked, his voice neutral. He wanted this to be over with, he had more things to do than listen to the ravings of someone that had never once had a nice thing to say about himself or his father.

Faster than Harry could blink, Snape was on him. The man had made it around his desk with supernatural ease, and had grabbed him tightly around the collar, his hand wrapped in the gold and yellow of his tie. His eyes were wide with madness.

"Dumbledore thinks he's protecting you. But he's not. He's making you weak. You stink of incompetence." Snape said, his voice low. Harry struggled against the mans grip, but he used his age and size to its full advantage — he gave his struggle up and detached himself from the moment. The mans breath stank, but Harry didn't care, his mind already far away.

"You had a chance to be something, but you choose to do this. You're not worth the time Dumbeldore spends on you. You are nothing."

Harry could tell the moment the fight left him. Shoulders slumped and his tightly wound fist letting go of his tie; Harry's feet touched against the rough stone of the floor tand he struggled for balance.

Snape moved away from Harry, back to his chair behind his desk, where he fell into it.

"This is all much too late. I'm wasting my breath, your damnation be on your own head. I wash my hands you and Dumbledore."

Harry watched the man's frantic energy seep into the floor around him. A caricature, set in stark relief of the glowing fireplace. Snape picked his glass up and downed his drink in one smooth motion.

"Leave."

Harry turned to leave then, not knowing what he'd just witnessed. If he was honest, the mans words stung his pride, but saying anything would be tantamount to suicide. Who was he to judge, after all? He had his own demons, that much was evident in the bits and pieces he'd gleaned from Sirius and Remus the year before — a death eater, a spy, and an absolute bastard.

He'd nearly reached the door when Snape's voice calling out gave him pause. Hand on the knob, he didn't turn back to face the man, only listened to his words.

"Your days are numbered Potter, and when the time comes, I hope I can be there to see the look on your face. Dumbledore is dying, and I'm going to enjoy every moment of watching you struggle. Hide all you want, but the truth will find you."

Harry's heart fluttered then, a bone chilling panic seeping from every pore. He wrenched the door open, and fled into the hall, Snapes laugh following him as he feet slapped against the stone, with only one direction on his mind.

—

Harry's cloak slapped against his legs as he walked through the corridors of Hogwarts, similar to, but not quite imitating Snape. He'd calmed his frantic flight from the mans office once he breached the archway leading from the Dungeons into the Great Hall, but that didn't mean that his heart had calmed or his thoughts had settled.

Snapes words echoed through his head, his last parting statement crafted so finely as to slip past any armour and wound. Harry felt it, like a bleeding ulcer in his gut, reality was closing in, and he could almost make out its eyes —they looked the same as when he and Snape had been face to face. Crazed, ugly, and unforgiving.

Despite that, Harry refused to believe that Dumbledore was dying. The man was immutable, a piece on the board as old as time itself. He'd been there for the first war, and Harry had always assumed he would be there for the end of the second.

Harry's steps brought him to the second floor corridor, the familiar gargoyle statue stood there, waiting for him. As Harry walked up to it, it moved aside, like it had been waiting for him. His thoughts had calmed now, a reality of his own making had overlayed itself before him. Dumbledore wasn't dying. Snape was lying. When he stepped into the office at the top of the spiraling stairwell, the white haired old man he'd come to view as family would be there, unharmed and unchanged.

The door was closed when he came to it, but before he could knock, a raspy voice greeted him.

"Enter, Harry."

His calm facade cracked, if only for second. Harry ran his sweaty hands across the front of his robes in search of peace, but he remembered it now, sitting on Snape's desk three floors down. There was no going back. He was here.

He solidered himself forward and pushed the door open. Afraid of what he might see.

The Headmaster's office was the same. Gadgets and trinkets sat in their places, glimmering with untold purpose. Fawkes rested on his perch behind the old man before him, his head nestled under a wing — he was asleep.

One look at Dumbledore was all it took for Harry's calm facade to crack. The golden permanence that had graced his vision since he'd started using was still there, it was something that stuck with him even in sobriety. The air around Dumbledore was fetid and stank of despair. The light from the dim lamps throughout the room doing little to bring the shining luster of his white hair or the twinkle to his eyes.

Harry felt his heartbeat steadily increase, as his panic grew again. His eyes landed but for a moment on the old man's decaying arm. Nausea and horror swept through Harry, making his knees weak.

Dumbledore took pity on him then, and gestured to a chair. "Please, have a seat." His voice was hoarse, tired.

Harry fell into the offered chair, his carefully crafted reality crashing around him. He struggled to find the words to speak, all the while, Dumbledore's gaze cut right through him, understanding flashed for a moment on the old mans face, but he didn't speak.

Harry finally found his voice. " I — " he changed gear. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what, my boy?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were dying?"

"Ah." Dumbledore said. Harry watched his eyes glance above his head, knowing there was a clock on the wall. "You've just came from your detention with Professor Snape. I hope there was no lasting damage to my school?

Harry snorted. "Only my ego. I'm sure Snape will recover."

Harry's anger seeped from his feet and into the floor where he'd kept his feet firmly placed. He was nervous to speak, because it wasn't his place to demand answers of Dumbledore, the man had always been the stern father figure he never had, directing him in the ways that he didn't know how.

He felt a brief moment of embarrassment at that.

Dumbledore gestured to a chair in front of his desk.

"Take a seat, my boy."

Harry did, complying to hide himself from further embarrassment.

"Tell me Harry," began Dumbledore, " Do you remember when I came to you this summer and asked you for your help in recruiting our newest professor, Mr. Slughorn?"

"No."

"And why do you think that is?"

Harry felt offended. What was he implying? If he'd been to Privet Drive this summer, he would have remembered that for certain. He'd driven himself crazy at first, hoping for anything to do, for any bits of information.

He tried not to sound confused. "I've not seen you since last year, when we were in your office…
" he paused, "after Sirius." Harry hated himself that even now he couldn't stop the bubble from forming in the back of his throat.

He needed to better control of himself, he wasn't some grade schooler with no composure.

"Ah." said the old wizard in front of him. "Then let me elaborate."

—

The next hour was the most grueling and illuminating conversation Harry had ever had with Dumbeldore. The man was never one to share his secrets so easily, and every bit of information that Harry gleaned was hard won, and pried from the old mans hands.

He learned quickly that demanding got him nothing. The residual anger he felt with Snape was now dead and done. He would never forgive the man for being who he was, but he better understood his motivations.

It had been startling for him to realize how sober he was currently, as Dumbeldore shifted some of the weight he'd been carrying onto Harry's shoulders.

Voldemort, or Tom Riddles school days.

Horcruxes.

The Ring.

Dumbledore's eventual death.

Magic was beautiful, endless, and outright terrifying. The things that it could do, and that Harry didn't know anything about. Harry had always likened the glimmer in Dumbeldore's eye as amusement. He knew now that it was the weight of time, of hard decisions, and long nights as he outlived everyone around him, while trying his best to foster them into a new era.

Harry knew that he wasn't being told everything. But he'd went in not expecting to be told anything. Dumbledore had said, "I've been remiss in my duties as your mentor and instructor. You deserve to know more than you do, but you've got to act with the responsibility and impetus that I've placed before you this night, Harry."

It was sobering. Literally and figuratively. Chemical induced calm had long erased itself from the canals of Harry's brain. He felt turbulent, adrift in a sea of information that was threatinging to consume him.

The task Dumbledore laid before him felt insurmountable. How was he supposed to do this? Even with help? It was too much to ask of Ron and Hermione. They were the best friends he ever had, but there was no way he could tell them.

Dumbledore, atleast, had been operating on the same thought pattern. "I would wait to bring your friends in on this Harry. Until you've fully understood everything. I know you've been struggling with the death Sirius, but its time that you grew up. I don't have the time left to nurture your curiosity like I once did."

"But I can't do this by myself, sir."

"I don't expect you to my boy. When I'm gone, you will have the full support of the Order, as well as your friends, in confidence. I've been making choices likes these for longer than you've been a thought in most people's minds."

When the clock above the old man struck two a.m, Dumbledore released a large sigh. Harry had sunk down in his seat a far as the cushioning would allow him. He was pissed at himself for his prior actions, running around and acting the fool.

Maybe this was what he'd been looking for all along? A purpose, that one moment in his life, the bit of direction he'd been missing.

If he was a different person, he'd throw himself to the library and not come out until he was a master of all magics, but Harry knew that he had no such timeline to become even competent. While he had power, he lacked the drive Hermione had to research new spells, but for now he could settle with making his promise to Dumbledore come to fruition. He would see to the old wizards legacy.

As Harry walked down the spiral staircase outside of Dumbledore's office, Harry came to a realization. He'd end Voldemort's reign. He would slay the wizard that had caused him such pain, of that he was certain.

His fingers flicked at the small packet of wafers in his pocket, but he didn't take one.

He needed the centering pain and turmoil of being sober to keep his thoughts focused.