Hey, it's Song. I'm back from my ridiculously long fanfiction hiatus with.... a Harry Potter fic? Yeah, technically I should be rewriting my older fics, but when inspiration strikes....

Little tidbits you should probably know: In my world, Snape is alive. The epilogue clearly never happened. Remus Lupin also survived, as did Fred Weasley. Also, Harry's eyes are magically fixed, I didn't just forget about his glasses. If I've forgotten anything, it'll probably become readily apparent.

Disclaimer: I really, really don't own this. Keep that in mind.

Warnings: Slow moving slash, which does mean male male pairings are involved. If you don't like slash, please don't read this story, and definitely don't flame it. Occasional curses. That's it, really.... enjoy!

Had Severus Snape ever made a list of places he never wanted to be, this would have been high on said list.

Of course, he never had completed such a list, as it was clearly an utter waste of time, but that was most distinctly not the point.

The war was over—had been for months, an entire summer without worry or interruptions in the form of an aching Dark Mark. Snape had, through the duration of those months, returned to his scarcely inhabited manor with the dual intentions of healing from wounds gained during the final battle and not being forced into anything. This he accomplished splendidly, spending lazy months doing nothing but reading in his library, walking around his grounds, and ingesting copious amounts of alcohol.

Eventually, as it always did, summer began to threaten to end. And so he had begun to contemplate various places in which he might procure work. He had been, after all, cleared of all war crimes, meaning that, in theory at least, he should be perfectly able to find a job most anywhere. The Order no longer required his services as a spy, and he'd had more than enough of teaching students who grew gradually more idiotic with each year that passed—his Hogwarts career was most decidedly over.

As it turned out, being cleared of all charges by the Wizengamot did quite literally nothing to erase the suspicions of the people. So it was that despite his qualifications, work ethic and determination, Severus found himself turned away in location after location, always given some inadequate excuse meant to mask the real reason why he was being excluded; despite everything he had done, most of the public either despised him or were terrified of him.

With summer's end looming ever nearer, Snape had begun to worry. It became clear, over time, that none of his preferred venues of work wanted anything to do with the Potions Master, and this situation was only worsened when his second and even third choices refused his applications.

Finally, he had been presented with several options. One of them, as a random example, had been working a cash register in a muggle supermarket, and Severus Snape was not willing to stoop so low as that. Other, similar choices had presented themselves, leaving Severus to bemoan the idiots that the wizarding world's populous was composed of and wonder if he had no worthwhile jobs left available. Manors, as anyone who owns one will know, do not pay for themselves—any repairs would pretty much decimate the funds left to Snape.

It had been then that the letter had come, and Snape, reaching the end of his rope financially, had swallowed his pride and written back in acquiescence. He had then packed what belongings he required and Apparated away somewhat indignantly.

And so here he was, sitting once again in the great hall of Hogwarts, watching the student body file in to fill in the seats below. Severus Snape had, somehow, been once again talked into accepting the position of Potions professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Which meant another year of brats and bad grammar and extremely lackluster essays and potions to be graded. Sometimes Snape honestly believed fate had it out for him.

The teachers' table had changed some little bit from previous years, most noticeably in that Minerva McGonagall filled the headmaster's—or, more accurately, headmistress'—chair rather than the seat alloted to the Transfiguration teacher. Dumbledore's loss had been a heavy blow for Hogwarts, and even Severus occasionally had to admit to missing the antics of the meddling old man. Still, Minerva looked every part the role she would be taking on: strict as ever, with new authority to make the entire castle fall under her reign. Filling McGonagall's old seat was a new teacher, a petite blond woman whose name Snape hadn't quite caught. Apparently she had been appointed by the Ministry and was highly recommended. This, of course, had quickly convinced Severus that something in her class was going to go horribly, terribly wrong fairly early in the school year. To his right, in the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's chair, sat Remus Lupin, who had found himself accepted by the wizarding world despite his lupine condition after being declared a war hero.

To make matters worse, more students had attended Hogwarts that year than in any year previous—not only had there been a flood of first years, but McGonagall had somehow decided that it would be wise to allow any former seventh years who felt their educations had been hindered by the war to return to Hogwarts. This 'eighth year' was, quite fortunately, a one-year deal, but it did mean that in addition to the seven years of idiots he was used to teaching, Severus would have to continue instruction for a group of complete morons he thought he would never have to see again after the previous year.

Snape turned his eyes to the Gryffindor table and glanced over the eighth years sitting there, hoping that maybe, just maybe—his hope failed him and he fought back a groan. No, Potter was most decidedly there, with Weasley and Granger by his sides. Granger, Snape had expected to return; the presence of the other two members of the so-called 'Golden Trio' surprised him somewhat, as they had never seemed even slightly interested in the majority of their studies. Weasley's presence was especially surprising—it seemed to him the red-headed annoyance might not even have the intelligence necessary to remember where Hogwarts was, let alone to continue his attendance. He sneered at the back of Potter's head for a moment, then tore his gaze away and fought the urge to run headlong out of the grand hall and out of the castle while he still had a chance to escape his own personal hell. Instead he glared at a group of first year Hufflepuffs, gratified to hear their terrified squeaks. At least he hadn't lost his touch.

Severus Snape was a practical man, with very little faith in divination, premonitions or anything of the sort, but he knew at that moment that he was going to have a very bad year.

.........................

At the Gryffindor table, Hermione Granger was just having a premonition of a very opposite sort. She had, to her immense satisfaction, managed to convince both Ron and Harry to accompany her back to Hogwarts, and it hadn't even taken her quite so much lecturing as she'd anticipated. All three had stayed at the Burrow in the week before the school year was meant to start, and she had used that time wisely. Finally both boys had promised they would go back to school if she would please just stay quiet for a moment or two—Hermione had beamed, hugged them both, and informed them that she'd known they would agree days before and so had taken the liberty of taking money from both of them to buy their school books in advance.

So there they were, sitting at the long Gryffindor table for the first time in their eighth and final year, and it was almost as if nothing had changed. The war was over, Hermione could study for another year, and Harry and Ron were stuffing their faces with food—the world, in Hermione's books, was all good.

She allowed her mind to focus once more on the conversation her friends were engaging in.

"Seriously, Harry," Ron was saying, pausing only briefly to rip another chunk of chicken away from the drumstick he was mauling, "you'll have to tell us what you did over the summer eventually."

Harry smiled cryptically, something Hermione had not known he was capable of doing, and shook his head. "You'll just have to learn to cope with disappointment, mate," Harry said, eyes bright with internal laughter. "I've all ready told you all I plan to."

Ron scoffed. "You and my sister mutually break things off, and then you disappear for two months, only to come back and tell us nothing more than 'I made some new friends and did a bit of traveling.' What, did you work as an assassin for the Ministry of Magic or something? Are you sworn to secrecy?"

"Call me Potter," Harry said with mock seriousness. "Harry Potter." He then completely ruined the effect of the whole thing by glancing at Ron's mystified face and breaking into laughter.

"It's a muggle movie reference, Ron," Hermione clarified, scooping up more rice on her spoon. "Harry's just joking."

Ron cast his long time crush a scathing look. "I knew that!" he protested, though he'd known no such thing. "You don't need to tell me—," then he winced, stopped his tirade and continued in a low voice, "oy, Harry, don't look now, but Snape looks like he's contemplating killing you in your sleep."

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Gain-Way-Too-Many-Hyphenated-Titles, groaned under his breath, but did not turn. "I'd sort of forgotten he might be here," Harry admitted softly, the gentleness in his voice undermined by the sudden maliciousness he'd adopted toward the food filling his plate. He remained still, save for inflicting abuse on said food with his fork, until Ron quietly informed him that Snape had looked away.

"You'd think he might be done with his whole hatred thing by now," Harry griped. "Was he glaring at me during the final battle?"

"I don't really think he had time to glare at you, Harry. Besides, at least you know a little more of the reason behind it by now," Hermione added rationally.

"Stop acting sensible," Harry said, summoning a faint grin. "You might just convince me to act mature, and I think that might bring the apocalypse down on all of us."

Hermione merely rolled her eyes, as she was far too poised to snort. Well, that, and she knew her red headed friend would do enough snorting for the both of them. Once Ron had produced the sound she'd been waiting on, she continued, "You've really gotten much better at changing topics, Harry."

He had the common decency to flush slightly, though he did it with a smile. "It looks like the end of the world's been held off for another day—I still can't get anything past you, Hermione, so I think we're safe."

"Harry," Hermione warned, in a tone that suggested she was all of five seconds away from invoking his full name and maybe hexing him for good measure, "stop evading and tell us about your summer." Ron deliberately put aside his food for a moment to flash her what was likely meant to be a gracious smile, though it was honestly somewhat nauseating. She supposed the gesture was what counted, really.

Harry smiled at her as well, and Hermione found herself understanding why he had nearly been sorted into Slytherin. It was a dark-humored grin, one that warned her in advance that her friend was going to tell her positively nothing and enjoy doing it. "Well," he revealed at last, "I was in Muggle London for a bit. Bought some clothes, gawked at statues, acted like a total tourist. Anyway, like I said, I met some new people in London. They were," and here Harry paused for a moment, "a bit older than us, I think. I was," he said with a grin, "almost immediately smitten. We talked for a while, and they decided that I was far too old to have done no traveling, so I agreed to go along with them. And then I came back to the Burrow, spent a week with you two, and ended up here, sitting at this table, telling a story about my summer."

Ron blinked. "Is it just me, 'Mione," he inquired, having actually finished chewing this time before speaking, "or did Harry just manage to spend a minute talking without telling us anything important?" Hermione, who had expected as much, was still slightly impressed.

"Yes, Ronald," she supplied, sounding exasperated, "that is exactly what he's just done. And Harry?" The dark haired teen stiffened as she addressed him, likely expecting a rant. Instead she offered a smile and said, "Good choice. Whoever your companions for the summer might have been, they've taught you a lot."

Harry did not look greatly relaxed by this statement. "And here I was expecting the Spanish Inquisition," he said. "Exactly who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger?"

"Oh, haha," she said dryly. "I just know when to stop prying."

"But I don't," Ron added in, raising an eyebrow curiously in Hermione's direction, "so you're gonna have to tell me everything, mate."

Harry opened his mouth, likely to spin off more useless details, when he suddenly went pale. It was slightly fascinating to watch—the red in his cheeks faded away all at once, leaving nothing but white skin in its place—and Hermione would have been amused by the picture it made had she not been worried for her friend. "Harry?"

Speaking through gritted teeth, he muttered, "Snape's glaring at me again, isn't he?"

Ron, being in the best place to view the Potions Master without craning his head at odd angles or obviously staring, looked up to the professor's table. "Yeah," he said, equally quietly. "Did you kill the man's puppy or something? Snape looks angrier than usual—and considering that we are talking about the original greasy git, that's saying something."

Harry's shoulders grew tense. "I haven't done anything to him," he affirmed, then shuddered. "I can feel his eyes on the back of my head." Disgust filled his voice at this comment. Still pale as snow, he seemed to toy with an idea before saying softly, "Look, I'm gonna go before Snape decides to actually get up and kill me himself. I think I'll go for a walk around the grounds or something. I'll meet up with you guys in the tower later."

"Harry," Hermione protested softly as the boy stood, her eyebrows furrowing, "you can't—"

Ron's hand pressed lightly on her upper arm. "Go ahead, Harry," he said. "We'll see you later." Their eyes met at this, before Harry nodded sharply, turned away from the table and strode towards the doors that marked the main entrance and exit to the Great Hall.

Hermione turned to watch the staff table, choosing not to watch the other students' reactions. Harry had to know there would be gossip about this—no one left the opening feast before they were all dismissed—but more importantly, one of the teachers might be upset. Snape, she discovered, was still glaring at Harry's back as he walked away, but otherwise the teachers' expressions showed no more than a mix of confusion and worry.

The doors swung open under Harry's hands, he slipped through, and they clicked shut once more.

Instantly, the entire Great Hall was consumed by chatter.

Hermione, much to her irritation, had to raise her voice to be heard over the din. "Ron, do you have any idea what that was?"

Ron shrugged. "It's Harry, 'Mione. Sometimes he has to go off and do things on his own. It's just the way he is. 'Sides, the Sorting is over and the feast is almost done, it's not like he's missing out on much."

She frowned slightly. "I hope he's feeling alright," she said lightly. "He was awfully pale."

Ron promptly distracted her as only he could: "Look, Hermione, are you gonna eat what you have on your plate, or can I have some of your chicken?"

Hermione fended the red head's fork away from her plate, eyes lingering on the doors for a moment. Then, shrugging, she put Harry's disappearance aside and focused on dinner.

.........................

Potter, Severus Snape reflected, had clearly inherited his father's penchant for melodrama. Not even the first day, and the boy was storming out of the Great Hall like he had a ghost on his heels—could the boy do nothing normally?

Snape mustered a sneer all throughout the rest of the welcoming feast, fueled by dislike for the arrogant, time-wasting bane-of-his-year that Harry Potter was as a general rule.

It was odd, really, to hear Minerva McGonagall speak to finish up the banquet, to look up and see the austere woman standing in front of the students rather than the long-bearded old man who had spent so much of his time manipulating Severus. The change was not necessarily a bad one, but then McGonagall had known Snape since in his school days and he was still not entirely sure whether she liked him or not. Regardless, McGonagall warned students away from the Forbidden Forest and wished everyone a good night, and Severus allowed his mind to wander.

Finally it was over, and Snape was free to spend his last night for what was likely to be quite some time without essays and tests to grade. He bade his fellow professors a polite, if somewhat dry, good night, before slipping through the door behind the teacher's table that offered a direct route to the dungeons.

.........................

Harry wasn't exactly sure where he was.

It was happening again. They'd said it wouldn't, probably, they'd said he'd be able to function normally without having to worry about anything. But clearly what they said was not necessarily what had occurred, because Harry was walking familiar passageways without any concept of where he might be in the castle.

The stones of the hallway floor were moving—they had to be, because Harry's balance was much improved but he was swaying from side to side like a drunk regardless. He couldn't quite make sense of his thoughts except to know that they were rambling and likely morphing into run-on sentences. But those were okay. If he was thinking in run-ons and walking unsteadily and seeing fog, he still had a little bit of time. Not much, judging by how grey his vision was becoming, but enough time to get away from the castle. He wasn't thinking in sentence fragments yet, he had time, he would be okay.

He'd meant to get out the entrance before anything went too wrong, but that hadn't worked so well, clearly, because if he was outside and seeing stone hallways anyway, he was worse off than he thought. He was starting to hurt, the dull ache that built up in his chest and arced outwards until no part of him felt healthy—his breaths were deeper, but he felt like he was about to hyperventilate anyway.

He stumbled to a stop. He was thinking in circles, getting nowhere—he had to make an actual plan before something went wrong. Where was he?

Footsteps. He heard footsteps, weight shifting on stone, just around a corner, close. Too close. Couldn't be found. Couldn't afford to be found. Trust, promises, couldn't break. Couldn't think....

Step. Left, right. Nice and easy. Don't fall. Step.

Footsteps fading. Safe.

But still lost. Still inca—incompra—incomprehensible. Where?

Step. Pain, need air. Step. Keep going.

Damn. Thoughts in fragments. Almost gone—move faster, not much time.

Footsteps again. Laughter. Where? Down the hall. Can't run. Footsteps. Hide.

Footsteps. Footsteps. Footstepsfootstepsfootsteps—door. Handle. Turn; locked. All—Alho—Alohamora! Open!

Harry, still thinking in pieces, slid through the door his hands had met and shut it quietly behind himself. He couldn't see—his vision was fogged with swirling grey—but he stepped away from the door and felt for a wall. Making contact, he leaned himself up against it and tried to remain standing.

Beyond the door, the owners of the footsteps and laughter passed down the hallway, around a corner, and down another.

Safe. Footsteps gone. Can't. Stand. Up.

Harry's knees buckled, and he slid down the wall, bumping roughly into the ground. Something made a metallic clink on contact with the stone floor.

What?

Lethargically, he moved a hand to his back pocket. Inside was a small flask of metal, which he drew out with numbing fingers. A quick shake had liquid sloshing inside.

Idiot. Uncap—come on. Turn away.

Good. How much? A few swallows. Better safe than sorry.

Nasty. Never tastes good. Always makes me tired.

Sleep. Just a little bit of sleep.

Sleep never hurt anything....

.........................

First years were clearly demons in disguises, minions of Satan sent to irritate Hogwarts' Potions Professor to no end—Snape concluded as much shortly before nearly bowling over a group of giggling eleven-year-olds. Not that they'd been giggling before the raced around the corner, no, Snape would have heard and avoided that; they'd been almost perfectly silent until he was too far gone to avoid a collision entirely. It seemed the first years were quickly becoming ninjas as well, Snape thought, albeit nonsensically, as he knocked into them—his next and equally pointless thought was that of course Harry Potter had something to do with it, clumsy as the boy generally was. Vaguely disgusted with his line of thought, Snape was inclined to think that somehow, someone had spiked his mildly alcoholic beverage with something significantly higher in alcohol content; Severus had always been something of a lightweight, and it would explain why his coordination seemed to be failing horribly. It was at this point that he realized his mind had been wandering, and the near-yet-avoidable-collision with the first years had rapidly become a full-on-collision. Oops.

He refused to do something as undignified as fall down in front of students, and as such managed to stay upright. This, of course, had meant disrupting the balance of several of the aforementioned first years, but then they were only eleven and had little in the way of dignity to lose in the first place. With a slight sway, Snape regained his footing with the full intention of carrying onwards and pretending the whole thing had never happened.

One of the students stood, brow furrowed in what was likely supposed to an intimidating manner, and got out, "Hey! Look where you're—," before realizing precisely who she was talking to. Then she slipped into a stutter and took an unconscious step backwards.

Snape dryly said, "Quite."

"I'm sorry, Professor, I-I-I didn't recognize you for a moment and..."

"Fifteen points from Hufflepuff for being bumbling oafs." At this the girl looked ready to cry. Snape was rather pleased he hadn't lost his knack. "Walk carefully," he said, voice pitched just right to turn what might have been a concerned warning into a sharp threat.

He swept away in his peculiar fashion, the same one that had earned him a great many lovely names within the confines of the Gryffindor tower, and continued on to the dungeons.

McGonagall was going to have to be reprimanded, he decided. It really should not be quite so difficult to walk in a straight line. Also, whatever the hell his drink had been laced with, he was going to need to borrow, because damn but the stuff was effective.

Snape reached his classroom door, extremely glad that he had a night to himself before he had to teach any students—he didn't fancy lecturing with a hangover, something he'd done before and really didn't feel the need to repeat. He flicked briefly through his mental list of potions, calling the hangover remedy to mind as he passed the slightly opened door, mind already going to the procedures required for proper brewing...

Wait. Back a second there: slightly opened door?

Severus paused, pushing aside his potion related thoughts. His classroom door was not supposed to be open; last he'd checked, the lock spell he'd keyed to it was holding strong, and he couldn't remember opening it himself. Had a student tried to break into his private stores?

In a moment, survival instincts had Severus' wand out of its holster and into his hands, held at the ready as he slowly approached the door. He didn't hear anything suspicious, and he couldn't sense any muffling charms to cancel noise, but then he hadn't survived years of spying by trusting his senses blindly.

Snape curled a hand around the doorknob warily, searching out the locking charm. It had, much to his disappointment, been opened by a single alohamora, though admittedly the spell had been about three or four times more powerful than was average. Feeling around the remnants of the spell, he realized that the magical signature felt a little... unusual. And, also, it felt a lot like one of Potter's spells.

Brandishing his wand, hoping the worst he would see within would be Potter, caught in the act, Severus threw the door open.

To his great relief, Potter caught in the act was the worst thing his eyes revealed. No former Death Eaters out for blood, ready to torture and maim and kill one Severus Snape. To his disappointment, 'the act' turned out to be sleeping.

Why the hell was Potter sleeping on his classroom floor?

Snape took a moment to view his student, who was sprawled out somewhat awkwardly. His legs, from the appearance of things, had buckled under him, making him slide down the wall. For all that Potter had no smell of alcohol about him, he looked, to use a useless colloquialism (Snape blamed this on Minerva's drink-spiking, as he would never indulge in such pointless words otherwise) completely and totally smashed. This theory was seconded when Severus saw the glint of a flask clasped between Potter's fingers.

With an expression that was a sort of hybrid between a smile and a smirk, Snape leaned down and lifted the metal container from Potter's hand. The boy stirred slightly, head tossing to one side, but he did not wake. Severus straightened up and set his fingers to unscrewing the cap. It wasn't like the students at Hogwarts were perfect little angels who never drank—they were teenagers, after all—but getting drunk enough to pass out in a teacher's classroom was not acceptable behavior, and Snape had really been hoping for something to hang over the Gryffindor's head all year.

The cap reached its last, topmost rotation, teetering on the brim of falling off, and Snape tugged at it absentmindedly, hoping to find firewhiskey within at the very least. The Potions Master was somewhat undoubtably surprised when, abruptly, the cap did not come off but rather spun furiously in the opposite direction, sealing the flask completely shut again.

Snape sneered. Well, apparently the boy had enough of a brain to key the flask to himself; anyone else who picked it up would be unable to get the thing open. But then, Severus Snape was not just anyone else, and he somehow doubted the Golden Boy had created the spell with him in mind. He spun the cap again, and once more it moved fluidly to the top; as he pulled the cap upwards, he did so with a pulse of magic not formed into a spell, as that might also trigger the protective spell.

The cap shocked his fingertips lightly, made a noise very similar to a raspberry being blown, and wound downwards once more.

Aggravated, Snape took a minute to probe the spell Potter had placed on the little flask. It was good, much better than his usual ones—the flask seemed just like any other until the cap made its inevitable last spin, and then the defenses snapped into place. It was certainly one of Potter's spells, however, as his essence seemed to linger all over the damned thing. How a mere boy could possibly cast a spell of that quality was beyond him, but Severus was more than confident that he could get the thing open and be done with his incrimination already.

For what he felt would be the final time, he twisted open the cap. This time, when it reached the top, he did not blast out with his magic; instead, he sent tendrils of it into the framework of the coding spell. The work was difficult, which bothered him immensely as Potter had never been this good before, but slowly Severus' magic slid into the core of the spell. He pushed one of the threads of power further, closing his eyes to visualize the delicate maneuver, and carefully wrapped it around the spell's center. Then, ripping that center out, he pulled at the cap.

Electricity crashed through his hands, numbing his fingers, and simultaneously a wave of magic swept around his, throwing his power away from the flask. A message was carried along his nerves quickly and efficiently, processed in his brain as: don't. He wasn't sure what had prompted the overenthusiastic response, but he was positively sure that Potter had never been able to do anything like that in the previous year.

The flask slipped from between his desensitized fingers, falling quickly to the ground and landing with a muffled crash.

Immediately, Potter was bolt upright, sweat beading on his skin. Even Snape, who admittedly spent as little time around the boy as possible and thus had no idea what constituted normalcy for the Gryffindor, could see he was clearly not quite himself. Severus wasn't quite sure of how accurate his perception was at that moment—he had been plied with alcohol not twenty minutes before, and had been basically assaulted by a little metal bottle besides—but it seemed to him that Potter's obnoxiously green eyes were a shade darker, ringed with grey. Both the boy's hands flew out, one grabbing his wand from a pocket and bringing it to the ready, and the other securing the flask and dragging it back against his body.

Then Potter blinked, and his eyes were perfectly normal. He bit his lip upon realizing where he was, then quickly shoved his wand and the silvery container back into a pocket. It seemed he was unaware of Snape's presence—he stood in a way that denoted stiff muscles and tiredness. The boy rolled his shoulders once, then turned with the intention of walking to the door, and in doing so proceeded to walk right into Snape.

That made twice in one day, Severus noted dully, watching Potter fumble for balance. At least this time he'd managed to avoid senseless thoughts while losing his grasp on the fight against gravity.

"P-professor Snape," Potter said, voice hoarse. "I didn't see you there."

Snape in no way missed the lack of a voiced apology, and he considered taking House Points for impudence, but decided Potter might just run off at that and then he would never get answers. "Mister Potter," Severus said, raising an eyebrow imperiously, "seeing as it is my classroom we are presently occupying, I should think I have an reason for being here. Your excuse, however, is not forthcoming. Enlighten me."

"Erm," the Gryffindor said as articulately as ever, scuffing a sneaker against the floor, "I got lost, sir."

Snape sneered again. "Do you mean to tell me, Mister Potter, that after eight years at Hogwarts, during which you spent considerable amounts of time wandering the halls under your blasted invisibility cloak after hours, you still have not learned the way to the Gryffindor tower? Because, if that is the case, I'm certain that infernal map you've always seemed so fond of might provide aide. If you are going to lie to me, Potter, at least bother to come up with a plausible justification for your actions."

"I'm not lying," the boy said vehemently. "I got lost."

Quirking an eyebrow, Snape spoke smoothly, "Fifteen points from Gryffindor for persistently lying to a teacher, and speaking without proper respect. I'll only ask once more, Potter—why are you here?" The words were said in a stiff staccato, the sort of tone he'd found quite effective when used in conversation the so-called Golden Boy.

Potter turned his eyes to meet Severus', and his voice, when he spoke, was full of a subdued fire. It was a significant improvement on the boy's previous tendency to yell. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking, professor, and I got lost. I am not lying to you. Now, if you don't mind, I think I should head off to the hospital wing, sir, as I'm not feeling well."

"Does the poor little Gryffindor have a headache? Or might you actually be suffering from something so serious as a stubbed toe?" Severus couldn't quite catch the boy's next words, muttered under his breath as they were. "Care to repeat that, Potter?"

"I said," Potter began, looking fully intent on starting yet another juvenile argument—then he paused. "I said that I'll be leaving now, Professor."

Severus opened his mouth to make some scathing retort—and doubtless set off Potter on yet another tirade—and then, looking at the boy, paused. There was most definitely something wrong with the boy, not only in his peculiar behavior but also on levels controlled subconsciously; the Gryffindor's body language and posture were all off. There was no arrogance in the boy's stance, no triumph in apparently rendering his professor speechless. Instead a sense of inexpressible exhaustion surrounded the Gryffindor, whose defiant pose was completely undone by the slight sagging of his shoulders, the hunched-in tenseness of his muscles. The boy would have seemed entirely lifeless if not for the energy still smoldering in his eyes. Snape had seen that sort of bodily expression many times before, in the mirror after exceptionally long meetings with the Death Eaters. But what right had a pompous eighteen-year-old brat to look like some greater issue was slowly taking a toll on him?

Potter, clearly taking his silence for a dismissal, stepped quickly around the Potions Master and exited as fast as he seemed to be able to manage. The metal of the flask glinted in the back pocket of his jeans, reminding Snape of his earlier questions, but by the time he'd mustered words the boy was long gone.

Snape stood for some time, puzzling over the oddities of the situation. He'd not even deducted points after Potter's abrupt departure—though he blamed that entirely on the alcohol. Shaking his head, he put the entire experience out of mind and left his classroom, renewing the locking charm and making for his quarters.

After all, if he was already bordering on tipsy, getting just a little more drunk really wouldn't hurt anything.

.........................

The Gryffindor Common Room, when Harry reached it, was very much as it always was. Cheerfully decorated, largely in Gryffindor colors, the room offered a sense of comfort that Harry was badly in need of, especially after that bizarre episode with Snape. He really ought to have been more careful, even in the state of mind he'd been in—how in the world have he ended up in the Potions classroom, of all places?—but then again it hadn't been entirely his fault. He hadn't known to expect another attack.

Harry shook his head, dismissing the thoughts. He was safe, in a warm room full of people he liked; he could worry later. Stepping fully through the portrait's opening and into the room, he scanned the room for familiar faces. Sure enough, Hermione and Ron were occupying one of the couches near the fire, looking rather content. Harry wasn't quite certain that he should disrupt the moment, and made to walk towards the stairs to his dorm—then his decision was altered as Hermione caught his eyes and waved him over.

Sinking into an armchair next to the couch, Harry spread out his legs and sighed happily. He had a nasty cramp in his back from falling asleep on the stone floor of Snape's classroom, but it was slowly working its way out. Meeting his friend's eyes, he gave a vaguely feline grin.

"Hello, Harry," Hermione greeted pleasantly. Ron echoed the sentiment. Still, Harry could feel a slight guilty feel hanging around his friends, and decided to prod.

"So, what have you two been conspiring about on this lovely evening?" Harry said lightly, stretching his arms over his head and leaning back. As both his friends gifted him with expressions of awkward reluctance, he knew immediately that he had been the topic of discussion.

"Well," Hermione started, voice apprehensive, "we were just wondering," and here Ron elbowed her, "fine, I was just wondering where you went after leaving the Great Hall."

"I took a walk around the grounds," he lied fluidly. "Fresh air did me some good. I just never really thought I'd be back here again, I guess. This place is still like a home to me, and coming back was a bit overwhelming. I suppose I have to thank you for making me come, Hermione."

That diffused the situation as well as he'd hoped, as Hermione's concerned look gave way to a beaming grin, and Ron rolled his eyes. "I knew you'd thank me later," she said, sounding almost ecstatic. "We still have so much to learn, and this extra year will really be beneficial in the long run."

"Thanks a lot, Harry," Ron said lowly, "you've gotten her started again."

Hermione cuffed him gently over the head, not even faltering in her this-year's-education-might-be-all-that-stands-between-you-and-unemployment rant, the very same one that had proven so effective in motivating the boys to attend Hogwarts. Finally Ron interrupted with a, "Look, Hermione, we're already back at Hogwarts, you've won, we need no more convincing, you are truly the Mistress of all things insightful or whatever."

The brunette grinned. "Just making sure you knew."

Harry grinned at his friends' antics, glad of the distraction they provided. Later, there would be restless sleep and worry in store for him, more nightmares and panicked thoughts—for that moment, he was content to sit and banter and laugh until Hermione deemed it time for sleeping.

.........................

To Hermione, the proceeding week veritably flew by.

She'd always enjoyed school, enjoyed the learning and experience she gained there, and even above that loved being able to spend time with her best friends. Out in the wizarding world, who knew where they might all end up—but in Hogwarts she saw them every day without fail. And, true, at first she had been a little worried that the newly instated eighth year might not be as beneficial as the previous ones, especially considering the fact that Headmistress McGonagall had announced her choice late, giving the professors little time to prepare. Despite that, however, Hermione found that almost all of her classes were everything she'd hoped they might be.

Almost all of her classes, that is, because, of course, the end of the war had not brought out sunshine and daisies in Professor Snape. He was the same snarky, Gryffindor hating professor she had grown up learning from, which meant that the learning she gained was coupled with mockery and disdain. But that, at least, she was used to, and after a while Potions class became something nearly enjoyable, even though neither Harry nor Ron had taken the advanced course with her.

The only other real disappointment in her schedule had been Transfiguration under the newly appointed Professor DeWitt, who might have gotten along exceedingly well with the previous Ministry-appointed professor, Dolores Umbridge. DeWitt, however, lacked Umbridge's cruelty and prying tendencies, though both women shared a hatred of anything hands-on and a distinct love for textbooks.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was most decidedly shaping up to be Hermione's favorite class. Professor Lupin had lost none of his brilliance over time; indeed, the acceptance of his lupine condition seemed to have fueled the man to new heights. The werewolf's lesson plans were ingenious, and carried out brilliantly—he had an instinctive skill for teaching, and made even the dullest topics well worth paying attention to.

Hermione, in short, was thus far having the best year of her life. Unfortunately, the same could not always be said of her male friends.

Ron, somehow, was already in over his head. At her prompting, he'd grudgingly signed up for a far wider range of classes than he had previously attended. The experience, she'd argued, would serve him well—and it would, providing that he survived the year. Work and Ron had never gotten along very well, and the additional studying appeared to be making the Weasley increasingly miserable.

It was, however, Harry whom she worried over the most. He was mostly behaving perfectly like himself, laughing and joking and skipping homework to go flying, but every now and then she caught the barest hint of some alien behavior in her friend. Hermione was vastly intelligent, and as such it bothered her that she was completely unable to categorize her friend's actions. She could not truly express the minute differences in words, save to say that she sensed them—and, though it was clear something was on Harry's mind, he had not yet approached her to tell her what that might be.

Truly puzzling was Harry's apparent tenseness in doing things that had once been second nature to him. Ron had talked her into watching them practice Quidditch two days previously, and, though the aerial maneuvers had done little to spark her interest, she had been hugely intrigued by the wary glance Harry cast his broomstick before taking to the sky. And, though DADA had always been Harry's favorite class, he'd taken to shooting worried glances at Professor Lupin every now and then, though the moon was nowhere close to full.

Knowing Ron would think nothing of the minor changes in their friend, she'd taken it upon herself to discover what was ailing their famous friend.

Had she known then the scale of was she was attempting, even Hermione might have been discouraged.

.........................

Over the grounds of Hogwarts, a waxing moon was setting.

The air which filtered in through the open window was cool, though not yet cold enough to necessitate the closing of said window. Sitting within the shadowy confines of his four-poster bed, drapes shut around him, Harry listened pensively to the breeze ruffling the window's curtains. He drew one leg closer to his body, reveling in the cold.

It was well past the time he probably should have been asleep, as he knew daybreak was no more than a few hours away, but Harry Potter could not bring himself to rest. He had decisions to make, thinking to do, and he'd put those things off more than long enough.

Absentmindedly, he shifted his ever-present metal flask from hand to hand, listening to the familiar sloshing of liquid within. He'd been using the stuff for long enough to gauge the levels left within—the metal container was nearly empty. Could he afford to replenish it here?

He shook his head. Even if he did manage to spirit some of the liquid away without anyone noticing, he would be sacrificing quality for convenience's sake, and it had been impressed upon him that he should never do any such thing. Getting more of his own was a painstaking process, yes, but worth it in the end.

Then the first of his decisions was easy to make. He needed to go out tomorrow night anyway—he would pick up what he required along the way. It would be only too easy to stake out an abandoned room for his purposes.

Listening to waves of liquid crashing quietly into walls of metal, Harry moved his body into a more comfortable position and surrendered himself to thought.

.........................

"Harry," Hermione asked for what was probably the fifth time over one dinner, "are you sure you're all right?"

Harry rolled his eyes and gazed levelly at his friend. "'Mione, yes, I'm fine. I was fine the last time you asked, I'm fine now, and I likely will be the next time as well. Is there something bothering you?"

"You're being quiet." And pale, and shifty, Hermione added mentally, but she did not voice the thought. The boys were already sharing glances of annoyance mixed with amusement when they thought her back was turned; any additional observations would likely have the whole topic discarded as paranoia on Hermione's part.

With a quirk of his lip and a raise of his eyebrows, Harry said, "You were talking, Hermione. I was listening. When you're done, if I think of anything to say, I'll say it. 'S called conversation." He then proceeded to stick out his tongue immaturely and return to eating his food.

"Hermione's just working on her motherly instincts, Harry," Ron said lightly. "'Cause you know how thrilled she is that we'll be handling baby Blast-Ended Skrewts in Care next week."

"'Course, the 'experience'," Harry emphasized this word particularly, as it had become a regular in Hermione's rants, "of raising the bloody things the first time around was just so fulfilling."

"Maybe we'll learn something worthwhile this time around," Hermione said haughtily. Then, noticing her friends' expressions, she conceded, "It is far more likely that we'll just be singed and clawed, though."

"Have you seen Hagrid since school started, mate?" Ron asked. "I thought maybe we could stop by later for tea. No cakes, mind you, I've not lost my mind yet, but tea." The red-head then leaned in closer before saying conspiratorially, "If we used your invisibility cloak, Harry, we could go tonight. Hagrid wouldn't mind."

Hermione, rather than looking at Ron while this was said, had been casting a cursory glance at Harry. It was because of this that she noticed, just for a split second, a flash of something like panic in Harry's eyes.

She was half-way tempted to leave the situation as it was and see how things played out—and if it meant revealing Harry's new secret, it might be worth it—but Hermione was, first and foremost, a loyal friend. She was smart enough to know that without any interference, Harry would be forced to make up some uncharacteristic excuse, which would get Ron on his case. So, speaking casually, Hermione said, just as quietly as Ron, "Ronald, we're eighteen. That's a bit old to be running around the castle at night under an invisibility cloak, don't you think? We could just go tomorrow afternoon like normal, civil people rather than imposing on Hagrid's hospitality in the middle of the night."

Harry and Ron met each other's eyes and shrugged as if to say, "It's Hermione, what are we going to do about it," but Hermione didn't let that faze her. She'd had more than enough thanks in the brief light of gratitude in Harry's emerald-colored eyes.

She didn't know what was going on with her old friend, but she vowed to remedy that situation soon. Harry was a good liar now, yes, but she could still read him like a book through his eyes, and she knew it wouldn't be long now before her friend had to confide in someone. And, with a little careful planning and questioning, she knew she would be able to make herself that person.

.........................

The Gryffindor Common Room was quiet.

Just up the stairs, where the dorms lay, rested nearly all of the eighth year Gryffindor boys, fast asleep in their beds as morning loomed ever closer. Had anyone thought to pull back the drapes of the beds and check on their sleeping inhabitants, they would be met with the sight of four sprawled, snoring teenaged boys.

It might have taken an earthquake to wake Ron Weasley—certainly he had not seemed to notice the sound of someone stumbling around the dorm in the dark, not even when that someone bumped into an end table while groping blindly for a wand.

Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who happened to be somewhat less clothed than their red-headed yearmate, and also happened to be sleeping in the same bed, had most definitely not been woken by the sound of a zipper sliding open, and something being extracted from a worn suitcase.

As chance had it, Neville Longbottom, the lightest sleeper of the four, had been plagued by nightmares and chosen that night to down a certain amount of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Because of this, the ray of light let into the room by the door sliding open had done nothing to undermine his rest; he continued to sleep evenly as the door clicked back shut.

Harry Potter, grateful for his stealth training in the previous year, had found it all too easy to leave the room full of his sleeping classmates, though he had been slightly impeded by the dark. He'd not even bothered to take his invisibility cloak—the thing would likely hinder him rather than help him. Once the light of the dying embers settled in the Common Room's fireplace had met his eyes, moving silently had been even easier for Harry. Crossing the abandoned Common Room without making enough noise to wake his whole house had been a simplistic enough thing.

Upon reaching the exit of the Gryffindor rooms, Harry coaxed the portrait open and stepped out into the halls. Moving quickly, being careful to keep to the shadows where ever possible, Harry had set off towards the forest-facing entrance of the school.

.........................

Severus Snape had not become a spy for nothing. Admittedly, it would not have been his first choice of professions, but he could at least some claim some modicum of skill in all the required skills—stealth, intelligence, guile, and, of course, certain powers of observation. It was because of this last trait that, casting a cursory glance towards Harry Potter in the Great Hall that evening, Snape had noticed an oddness to the boy. Outwardly, he looked normal enough; the change seemed to be mostly in how he held himself, shoulders slightly hunched and back ramrod straight. Every now and then, whenever the Gryffindor thought no one was watching, he allowed some strange combination of emotions into his eyes, emotions Severus Snape had seen more than enough times to correctly interpret. It then became a matter of finding out just why the so-called Golden Boy was feeling guilty, exhausted and restrained—though Severus did not know the boy well enough to guess, he knew almost instinctively that patrolling the corridors that evening might just reveal something.

Something was not an adequate word, he considered as he lurked within a shadow, watching Potter's movements throughout the hall. The Gryffindor had ceased trying to hide anything, no doubt thinking himself alone; his entire body was tensed, and his movements were, suprisingly enough, silent and efficient. The boy was not out for a stroll in the moonlight, but no doubt moving with purpose, likely to meet up with some of his irritating friends or (and Snape couldn't help but be amused by the thought) a secret girlfriend. Severus Snape's smiles were rare, but he allowed himself a grin as he stepped into the corridor and enunciated clearly, "Well, well, well, Mr. Potter. What ever might you be doing out of bed at this late hour?"

The boy spun, lowering his center of gravity as he did so. The Gryffindor's right hand raised, clenched to a fist, before he seemed to realize who he was facing. "Oh," Potter said in an inexplicably rough voice, relaxing visibly, though clearly he was still prepared for physical combat. Had Potter learned to fight? "It's just you." Snape's grin faded and his fingers grabbed at his wand, a quiet lumos filling the hallway with light.

For just a moment, as the light reflected on Potter's eyes, the tell-tale sparkle of emerald was absent—instead Snape could swear he'd seen the faintest glimmer of silver clouding the boy's irises. By the time the Potions Master had managed to blink and look again, all hint of the metallic tone had gone. The boy looked at him with a expression just short of hatred, and his posture mirrored that feeling. "Who might you have been expecting, Mister Potter?" Snape's voice was very nearly a hiss, but the boy refused to flinch. "Even one with your insufficient mental capacities should be capable of realizing that, as a student, you should not be wandering about so late at night."

"Professor," Potter spat the title with all the force of an insult, "I'm legally old enough to be out of school at this very moment if I should choose to leave, I'm adequately prepared to handle anything that might or might not chose to attack me at night, and—" here he paused, and Snape realized the stretch he underwent at that moment was designed to hide an involuntary shudder, "—and," the boy continued, voice slightly weaker, "if you want to avoid a catastrophe, you might just let me go this once."

Snape frowned, and the boy shifted uneasily, his left hand moving into the professor's line of view for just a moment. Snape lunged forward, fingers clenching around the boy's left wrist and dragging it into sight, only to find that he had guessed correctly—the brief shine of reflected light had indeed been from the illumination of Severus' spell bouncing off a knife blade. Potter sagged in his grip, clearly caught in the act. "A knife, Potter?" Snape asked. "What—"

Severus put two and two together and got a rather unlikely four, memories sliding into place. Harry Potter, pale and slightly unsteady, walking out of the Great Hall—and then a sleeping Potter in his dungeons, with color in his cheeks but no proper explanation as to how he came to be where he was. A metallic flask designed for potions stored in Potter's back pocket. Silver in his eyes, a knife in his hand, a voice made rough by something other than shouting. Guilt, exhaustion, restraint—and, in hindsight, hunger. Severus Snape smiled again, a predatory smile he'd not had an excuse to use in some time. The Golden Boy of Gryffindor, the Boy-Who-Lived, the savior of the wizarding world: who would have believed it? And he had seen it first. Severus was not a noble man, especially not where the insufferable brat named Harry Potter was concerned; he was going to exploit this just as much as he could. "Well," he said sharply, coldly, noticing with great satisfaction that Potter was no longer willing to meet his eyes, "this is interesting. I wonder if the Wizarding World would be intrigued to know that their dear precocious savior, their hero, is a vampire."

If you got this far, please leave me a review. Did you see the end coming—if so, when did you guess? Or, if you don't want to discuss that, feel free to tell me about the clouds outside your window or your pet rock or whatever. Just drop me a review so I know you're there. Reviews make me write faster.... and just as soon as I have the third chapter started, I'll be posting the second.

Also: If any of you lovely readers happen to know the meaning of the title of this story (and don't just Google it, please, that ruins all the fun) tell me what you think it is in your review. If you get it right, I will be seriously impressed—anyone who guesses correctly gets the next chapter dedicated to them. :)