Harry stared blankly at Malfoy's departing back, all too aware of how his throat had had felt beneath his fingers.  He tightened his grip on the wand in an effort to rid himself of the lingering sensation in his hand, but it was hard to dispel, having woken memories better left buried.

Empty grey eyes staring up at him from an unnaturally pale face; bright red blood all over his hands, his clothes, the body, the floor...

He closed his eyes and focussed on his breathing, in and out, until the memory faded.  Opening his eyes, he righted the toppled chair and sank heavily down onto it.  Before him, the open pages of the history text glared accusingly up at him.

According to the book, Lucius Malfoy should be rotting in Azkaban, if not already dead.  His absence from Draco's life had apparently kept the younger Malfoy free of the Dark Mark.  Of course, that was no guarantee that he was not otherwise a follower of Voldemort, but it served as a reminder of the differences between this world and his own.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and fingered the wand he'd used to heal Malfoy's split lip.  He hoped he would never have cause to regret whatever grain of reason had caused him to look for the Dark Mark before throttling the blond Slytherin, yet at the same time he was intensely grateful for it.  He was far from eager to stain this new world in blood, even righteously spilled.  Surely Hermione would understand?  The healing spell had worked, after all.  If he'd tried to use Ron's wand it would likely have killed Malfoy instead, or tormented him at the very least.

He let go of the wand and clenched his fists.  It wasn't like he'd ever find out what they thought of this situation.  They were dead. Even if he died, and there was some kind of afterlife where they could meet, they had died in another world - one to which he had little hope of returning.  He would never see them again.  What did it matter anyway?  They might forgive him for Malfoy, both here and there, but the others...

Screams and rumbles and crashes and shouts - he felt more than heard the sounds of battle raging around him, and even then it was distant and detached from where he was now.  He grasped his wand firmly and loosely, offensive and defensive spells crowding the tip of his tongue.

Red eyes glinted from within a scaly face, a sinister smile curving too-thin lips.

"It ends here, Harry Potter."

He shuddered away from the memory, staring at the ink on the page in front of him until the words made sense once more.

There are those who caution that the Dark Lord may one day rise to power again...

He flipped backwards through the book to the account of Voldemort's fall from power.  The text was extremely vague as to the circumstances, not mentioning the Potters at all, saying only that the Dark Lord was grievously injured during an attack on All Hallows' Eve, 1981, and had not been sighted since.  Recent editions of the Daily Prophet that Harry had found in the library, however, made it clear that the book was out of date as far as Voldemort sightings were concerned.  Yet the attacks reported here had apparently not yet reached the number and scope they had in his own world, before...

He closed the book.  His memories were harder to shut off.  He concentrated on the headache he was developing instead, trying to focus on physical rather emotional pain.  In one way the attempt worked spectacularly well as a burst of pain blanketed his mind; yet the side effects weren't quite what he had been expecting.
 

It was a full week until the moon would wax to its fullest, yet Peter could not remember seeing his old friend in such a sorry state.  After an interminable hour, his skin was a patchwork of red, white and purple blotches, with open wounds and weeping pustules adding repugnant texture to the horrific display.  His left knee had been shattered, and the bones in his right forearm had broken through his skin where they had been snapped in two.  Sweat and blood mingled together, dripping down his body to pool below the table with the former contents of his stomach.  It smelled awful, and Peter's stomach churned with nausea it induced.

He started to look away, but his eyes were drawn back to the bench as Remus whimpered.  He'd tried to move his limbs again, straining away from the side where the three feared by the wizarding world as the Unholy Trinity had paused to contemplate their next action.  Not a good move for a werewolf pinned to the table by silver stakes through his hands and feet.  Not a good move in any case, as the Lord himself was on the opposite side of the table, even if he had not yet directly cast a curse on the captive man.  His Trinity had been doing an admirable job of torturing the werewolf without his guidance.  Yet it seemed they had just run out of playtime.

"Enough," the Lord hissed, waving a dismissive hand at his three favourites.  They inclined their heads as one, and stepped back from the table as the Dark Lord moved towards it.

"So."  The Lord lifted on hand to touch the prisoner's torso, sliding his fingers down his side, along and into several wounds.  Remus flinched half-heartedly away from the touch, and shuddered helplessly as each involuntary movement further aggravated his injuries.  "Are you ready to talk to me now, Lupin?  Or shall I let my children play with you a little more?"

The question earned a chuckle from several of the Death Eaters in the room.  Peter's lips twitched nervously, and he forced a quick laugh as he felt eyes upon him.  He glanced around swiftly, his blood freezing in his veins as his eyes locked with those of Amanda Lestrange, the sole woman in the Trinity.  He tore his gaze away from her with a wrench of effort, focussing instead on the prone form of his old friend stretched out before them all.  Her knowing smile beneath her half-mask haunted his vision disconcertingly, and his gut twisted further.  The attention of the Lord's Trinity was only slightly less desirable than the attention of the Dark Lord himself, especially with Remus captive - and Peter knew that she remembered he and Remus were once close friends.

Not that their lapsed friendship could do either of them any good at the moment; in fact, it could only cause further harm.  The Lord enjoyed observing old friends torturing one another.  It added an extra dimension of pain for both parties, and the Dark Lord revelled in causing pain to those he despised.  Peter may have been branded with his Mark, but it would count for little in his favour and he knew it.  He remembered only too well the look on Sirius' face when Peter had been unmasked by the Dark Lord, and the horrible laughter Sirius had spewed forth even as Peter cursed and hexed him over and over until his body finally stopped twitching.

He'd tried to make it fast, for their friendship's sake, and for the safety of James and his family.  He'd failed miserably.  He hadn't been able to use anything too obvious, lest his loyalties become suspect; in the end he had taken too long to kill his friend, allowing them time to extract the information as to the Potters' whereabouts from him with the use of various potions, torture and Peter himself.

He wished he'd never given Sirius cause to trust him - but it was too late.  The obstinate Auror had misinterpreted all the hints he'd dropped.  He'd tried to tell him the truth without actually saying the words, but Sirius had somehow picked up the notion that he'd been talking about Remus instead, and there was no dissuading him from that line of thinking.  They'd all suffered the consequences - including the Dark Lord.

Peter huddled further within his cloak.  He did not want the Lord reminded of that now.  Remus was as good as dead.  There were too many Death Eaters present for Peter to even consider a rescue attempt, just as there had been with Sirius.  Yet as long as Peter remained alive and not out of favour with the Lord, there was still a chance he could save others from the Lord's wrath.  Anonymous tipoffs to various authorities had become the reason for his existence since the Dark Lord's resurrection, and he knew the value of his information only too well.  He had to pick and choose those he could save, and Remus wasn't one of them.  He couldn't even afford to give his friend a swift death.  He could only pray that the werewolf could resist speaking, as Sirius had not.

A sudden crack made Peter jump, and he turned to the table expecting to see Remus sporting yet another broken bone.  Instead, he discovered that a silver dagger quivering slightly in the wood between Remus' legs.  He watched, almost entranced, as the metal slowly stilled, gradually becoming aware of a change in the Lord's demeanour.

The Dark Lord scanned the group as though looking for someone in particular.  Peter ducked his head, and tried to resist glancing up.  No one in their right mind would want to be noticed by the Master in his current mood.  Another Death Eater proved the point by starting to speak, only to be hit with a suffocation charm.  The rest of the group waited for their Lord in dead silence as the fool fell to his knees, then the ground as he lost consciousness.

"We have an uninvited guest," the Lord hissed, his eyes still roving around the room.  His followers quickly followed suit, checking the shadows - and each other.  "Show yourself!"

The Death Eater's stilled.  Peter could see no one who did not belong - but the Lord's red eyes were focussed on an vacant patch of space near the head of the table.

"Who are you to interrupt my pleasure?" the Lord demanded icily of the empty air, his eyes narrowing.

Peter darted quick glances around the room from the corners of his eyes, only to find his fellow Death Eaters doing the same.  None of them seemed to know what to make of their Lord addressing thin air, but none of them were particularly interested in saying anything about it.  Only the Trinity did not seem unduly discomfited by their master's behaviour, instead focussing their attention where his was, as though listening closely.  For all Peter knew, they could be.

"What I know is that you will soon be dead, boy!"

Peter wondered at the term 'boy'.  What mere boy could possibly trouble the Dark Lord to such a degree?  He was not sure he wanted to find out.

The Dark Lord snorted in derision, relaxing slightly.  "You are no more than a mad spirit," he declared, and performed an expulsion charm, intended to clear the room of spirits.  He did not look pleased with the results.

"Get out!"  The air around the Dark Lord seemed to shimmer, waves of anger flowing palpably from him.  Peter drew back as surreptitiously as possible.  He was not alone in his actions.

Remus did not have that luxury, however.  Peter watched as the werewolf turned his bleary eyes to the space the spirit had supposedly occupied.

"Harry," Remus murmured dazedly, and with an audible pop disappeared from the torture chamber, stakes and all.

There was a moment of astonished silence - then the Dark Lord screamed in rage and frustration, and his Death Eaters cowered before him.
 

The library should have been devoid of life at this time of night, with curfew long past and the lights all dimmed - yet it seemed that tonight there was an exception.  Madam Pince usually checked that the library was cleared of students before closing up for the night, yet it was easy to see how she could miss the slight form curled beneath a study desk in a quiet corner of the history section.

He stared down at the boy, taking in his face as well as his posture.  Draco had been correct on both counts.  Harry Potter looked much like his father, but seemed to bear an even greater burden than his father's Sight.  Certainly James Potter had never looked so frail, even when his visions had been at their worst.

He was also far more perceptive in more practical matters, if the alert green eyes - albeit with dark circles beneath them - staring up at him were anything to judge by.

"Professor Snape," the boy greeted him in bland tones.  It was interesting that the boy would identify him as such, especially considering his current condition.

"It is past curfew, Mr Potter.  By several hours, in fact."

"Ghosts can't deduct points, Professor."  Simultaneously blunt and evasive.  How curious.

"No, but we may alert those who can."

"You may," the boy concurred. "But will you?"

Severus did not reply; nor did he move to leave.  After a prolonged moment, the boy lowered his head once more, closing his eyes and shifting his limbs slightly before falling back into slumber beneath the desk.

He watched over the sleeping boy until dawn.
 

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