this is what we are fighting for?

The end of sixth year came and went with nothing worth a mention happening. The summer was spent at Grimmauld Place, the old house that belonged to Sirius Black. There was no need for any sort of blood ward and the ex-convict had had his name cleared, which left Harry with a choice of where to live. Like any other person would have done in his place, he chose to move out of his tiny bedroom with bars on the window and into a large room with multiple large windows. Though the house was still under the Fidelius charm, as Harry did not want the many reporters to find him, loads of people did visit over the two month holiday.
The house had no Room of Requirement or any secret chamber that would endlessly supply the Saviour with booze; therefore he improvised. He would sneak out several nights a week, as many as he could manage. He would go to clubs and bars, though not for the dancing or the pretty people that frequented the places. He was after the alcoholic drinks and the pounding music that was always being played. The Boy-Who-Lived found that the throbbing rhythms did almost as much for his nerves as the steady presence of flickering flames.
It was here in the muggle clubs that he would let his glamour drop; he knew he was dead sexy and that the scars he had enhanced the ‘bad boy’ image that only he could pull off so well. Under the strobe lights, tightly rapped in leather and fishnet, the wizard saviour was a God amongst mortals. He would sit darkly in the corner drinking scotch that was, luckily enough, not watered down; he appeared dangerous and appealing to everyone in sight, both female and male. Harry would come often to relax, knowing there was always someone willing to help.
His time with the Dark Lord had marked him, physically and mentally, but even now he was not scared of sex. He found that sexual relations often helped, even after…Voldemort’s intimate attentions. He just wouldn’t think about those times; instead, he would loose himself in the ecstasy of it all. He would enjoy it and live only for the moment. Or he tried to at least, but nothing could compete with his addiction; nothing could drown out the memories so well as the alcohol that he tried to marinate himself in. Climax only lasted seconds and gave him only a moment of mental relief, whereas vodka and the like completely took away his ability to think, giving him peace for a lot longer then he dared hoped was possible.
After drinking and dancing and occasionally having sex, Harry would return to his inherited home, replace his glamour and feel content. It really was a wonder that no one ever noticed his absence. He would muss up the bed so it would appear to have been slept in, at least sporadically. Harry had not actually slept in the room since he and Ron had shared it.
With no-one being any the wiser as he slipped in, past dawn once again, he shed the clothes that clung to his body. He would wash away the smell of sex, smoke and alcohol before heading downstairs to look every bit as innocent as the world thought he was.
The few times he couldn’t get away he would lock himself in his room and remove his small but vital stash of Firewhiskey that he had asked the Room of Requirement for. He would drink himself into unconsciousness, hoping against hope that no-one would ever again notice his absence. No one would notice his quick and silent departure from the land of the living as he revelled in the burning darkness of nothingness. Of course, had someone noticed a certain black eyed Potions Master per say, they said nothing. Instead, they left their Saviour to his only pleasure.
When school started (it was Harry’s seventh year) he was reunited with everything in his haven, returning to his routine. The Room of Requirement was always unchanged whenever he approached it; the place was a perfect constant in his life. The Saviour was more grateful for that then anyone, if they knew, could ever imagine.
He went to classes day in, day out, without struggle and always perfect and always easy. The onyx eyes watched him permanently though unnoticed, and the saviour called himself trained? A warrior?
Half a year passed without any great disturbance, until Christmas came around yet again. Harry Potter had never known a good Christmas at the Dursleys; he had only experienced the joy of the holiday at Hogwarts, though he no longer did anymore. He wished it would pass, as it did in his youth when it ignored him. The second since…the experience…
There was a party, and it came complete with the constant flash of cameras and small hurried steps that signalled Harry’s escape. He ran to the magical room and barely stopped to open the door. It was with an impressive twirl that he landed in his chair, a bottle already in his hand. He started drinking the Firewhiskey and he closed his eyes as the burning liquid passed scorched his gullet and went down into his grumbling belly. He drank more as he tried to forget the faces-millions of faces-that were staring at him. He was surrounded, with eager people all around, but he, the Boy Who Lived, was not remembering the glamorously dressed people in the Great Hall; he was seeing a different circle of eager participants. They closed in on him, dressed entirely in black, faces masked in white; they had their wands raised.
He finished the contents of the bottle in his hand and then hurled it across the room; he watched as it shattered into a million shards.
A second one appeared in his hands, filled to the brim with yet more amber liquid. He didn’t even look at it as he raised the new bottle to his mouth and ridded it of the addictive contents. He threw it against the wall again and Harry was now desperate to repress the unwanted memories, but his efforts were being done in vain. The alcohol though was only just beginning to take affect, as the edges soon started blurring.
At the point that just came before welcome unconsciousness, the door opened and admitted a smirking Severus Snape and an utterly piss-drunk Remus Lupin. As he was even more intoxicated than the werewolf was, Harry almost forgot to reapply his glamour; luckily though he was not forgetful when he was influenced, so he managed to build the illusion that hid his true face. Shooting a Sobriety charm first at himself and then at Lupin, he turned to face the glowing embers of the mounting fire.
He heard, but mostly ignored, the hushed conversation, between the Potions and the Defence Against the Dark Arts professors. He preferred to complete what the two adults have interrupted, and after a short while he heard a door slam shut. Harry thought himself alone, he let the glamour snapped and it left the boy Saviour vulnerable but completely relaxed.
That is until Snape dropped into the armchair beside him. Harry quickly reconstructed the illusion of flawlessness, which would leave him perfect, like he had never been. The words that the Potions Master spoke stopped him from commenting though.
"You are ruining my fun, Potter. And you can drop that glamour I have already seen what is beneath it."
Not knowing what else to do, Harry let the illusion slip. The scars were set in harsh light, courtesy of the glowing fire. The older wizard gasped softly when the younger turned to look at him. The glaring Saviour placed the glamour back up within seconds; he had grown quite proficient at building it up quickly.
"I thought you said you’d seen it," he accused, annoyed at having revealed himself.
"And now I have," was the smug reply. "I knew you were wearing glamour, just not what was under it. Now that I know, I would ask you to please remove it. I will not gape at you."
"You already have." Murmured Harry as he dropped the illusion again. He saw no point in keeping it in place if Snape already knew and had partially seen.
The Boy Who Lived jumped when he felt a gentle touch on his face; he tensed and froze. The finger traced the scars that marred his features and it trailed a line that went from his forehead to under his shirt, by which time the whole hand had gotten involved.
"How far down does this go?" asked Snape entranced with the angry shiny red lines.
"All the way down," replied Harry as he took a sip of the burning alcohol, signing with the pain as he did so. Severus didn’t seem to notice.
"All the way down?" The Potions Master queried, intrigued despite himself.
"Down to my toes," Harry confirmed as he extracted a fag from the ever present box at his elbow. He lit it and a lengthy silence passed between the two wizards. They both drinking steadily from separate bottles until the quiet was finally it was broken; it was actually Harry who spoke first and shattered the peace.
"Remus?" He made the name a question. Snape seemed to understand because he replied.
"The mutt refuses come near me now. He will not even drink with me in the room anymore. The werewolf was the only substitute. I am most positive that he is an animal in the bedroom and it would have been amusing and no doubt educational."
"Sure," muttered the other in disbelief. He finished off his bottle and it was instantly replaced with another full one. "And you have to do it in here?"
"It is hardly my fault that you are always occupying this room when I wish to entertain someone," Snape half complained and half explained as an answer to Harry’s question; it was almost a whine and the greasy man must have been drunker then he let on if he was doing such.
"And this could not be accomplished in your own rooms," retorted Potter.
"Yes, and get murdered in the morning, brilliant plan Potter. It really is a wonder that you have survived this long." Snape snorted and swigged from the bottle of fiery liquid. They lapsed into silence once more and Harry was angered by what the oily Potions Master had said. The man knew nothing of what he had to do to survive. No one did and Harry preferred it that way; he held his tongue. The glances of affection and admiration he already received were bad enough; he did not want looks of disgust and pity following him as well.
"Do you want to explain the glamour and what’s beneath it?" Snape questioned after he’d drunk his fill.
"Not particularly," replied the boy moodily. He was still put off that he’d revealed himself, and to Severus Snape of all people. Then again it could be worse, he thought; it could have been Hagrid who couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, or worse yet, Molly Weasley. Harry gulped at the thought. That would be scary.
"Though posed as a question, Mr. Potter, it was not one. Now explain yourself," Professor Snape suddenly thundered, raising his smooth voice somewhat.
The boy saviour snarled nastily and refused to answer.
"I am still your teacher, Potter, and you would do better to remember that," the Potions Masters threatened.
"Yes, sir," Harry muttered as he barely managing not to snarl again.
"I am waiting Potter," Snape snapped after several moments of brittle silence.
Harry sighed.
"The other day upon the stairs I saw a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today. How I wish he’d go away," recited Harry to the music only he could hear. It confused his waiting mentor enough that he didn’t say anything for minutes, allowing Harry to mutter the rhyme to himself again.
It was only when the shock had worn off that Snape was able to pronounce one syllable, but it was enough to prompt Harry into speaking. With a dazed expression, as if still hearing the silent music Harry began to explain his rather odd out burst.
"That’s what was going through my head when it happened. It’s funny, while they were carving me up, the only thing I could think about was that rhyme. The other day upon the stairs, I saw a man who wasn’t there. It just kept re-playing through my mind, almost drove me over the edge, something so simple." The Saviour was staring intently at a single spot on the wall, glaring at it for all the intensity he was giving it.
"As interesting as that is," drawled Snape dryly, "it explains nothing of which I want answers for."
"I was getting to it, Professor," said Harry, emphasizing the last to remind the man to have patience. "As I was saying, while the words were running through my mind, Death Eater’s cut patterns into my body, imprinting their mark and designs upon me."
Harry looked down at himself, a look of pure loathing. He knew were every scar and imperfection was; he traced them through his clothes with his eyes, his bottle of fire whiskey and the fag, the lattermost of which was forgotten in his hands. His eyes abruptly eyes caught something through the clothes that he obviously did not like; his gaze of revulsion intensified tenfold.
The older wizard cringed at the self-disgust that was issued in that one green gaze. He honestly pitied the boy for one so young shouldn’t hold that much hate, especially not self hate.
"What is it?" The Potions Master couldn’t help but ask. The said green eyes hadn’t left the spot he stared at so intently for several minutes, the repulsion never lessening or diminishing in his eyes.
The boy spoke, as if only to himself, softly and almost brokenly. "The Dark Mark."
The bottle in that Snape was holding fell to the stone floor and shattering into a million pieces. Harry’s jerked back to himself at the sound of breaking bottle, he seemed to realize what he’d just said, and to whom, because he stiffened and froze, hardly daring to even breath.
"Can I see it?" Asked the spy, again in that uncharacteristically low and soft voice. Harry mutely stood and raised his shirt. He pulled his pants down several inches as well and thrust his pelvis out. The Mark was as ugly on Harry as the one Snape had on his forearm. The tattoo was a crude brand in the shape of a snake slithering out of a leering skull; it was horrifying in its perfection and vivacity.
"I can feel it pressing down on me, wanting to break me. It tries to and it speaks to me," Harry whispered. Severus Snape had never seen or heard the Golden Boy sound so lost and alone. "It reminds me of where it came from and how it got there. It whispers so sweetly in Parseltongue so only I can hear it and understand it."
The Boy Who Lived forcefully hauled himself out of that particular memory; he would rather die then relive that experience again. That had been the first time and therefore the worst time that Voldemort had forced his attention on the raven haired youth.
Harry sank into his comfy chair and picked up the bottle and fag that he had dropped on the table when he’d stood earlier. He violently poured enough alcohol down his throat, more than enough to choke a lesser man. It did nothing more then make him sigh.
He had forgotten that a Professor of his was still in the room. The man spoke and made him jump.
"What does it say?" he asked again in his softer voice; the other shiver.
"Doch nu ein Hure schoin," hissed Harry in Germen. "But I am not, I am not," the Saviour whispered to himself as he stroked the bottle, finding comfort in its presence. He then smiled, but not a happy one Snape was surprised to see.
"It’s funny," Harry Potter spoke without humour, "that the snake from the Mark is germen. Usually I just hear parseltongue English. How odd. I guess there are different types of snake language." He laughed, not knowing why; he just feeling it was the right thing to do.
The older wizard was severely disturbed by the ever changing moods that the boy displayed, but he decided to try and ignore it, opting to just continue drinking from the bottle that replaced his broken one.
Neither spoke for a long time as both were content to just sit and drink with Harry occasionally lighting up another fag. Unknown hours passed in silence, and it was Snape who was the first to drop off into the alcohol induced darkness. Harry, having a high tolerance, lasted nearly another full hour before he too linked his succumbed and joined his teacher in the land of unconsciousness.
They woke, almost simultaneously, with the fire still roaring and spreading its heat around the room, which had apparently decided to keep it going. The two looked once at each other before they both turned away as if repulsed by the company that they had kept. Snape rose from his chair and smoothed out his wrinkled robes. He scrunched up his nose as well as he watched Harry reach for the bottle that had just appeared from nowhere.
"Do you ever stop?" the teacher asked the student; he sounded disgusted and yet intrigued.
"To stop would be to quit, Professor, and quitting is just not in my blood, sir. It also keeps the hangover away," was the response he got before the other let the physical burning of the liquid take away the mental anguish.
The Potions Master, who was feeling the effects of the alcohol generously himself, said nothing more about the drinking, but he could not resist a comment about the Potter bloodline.
"Still the same idiotic brat as always, I see," he snarked, as he left the room with a swirl of black robes.
"Only when the mask is on," the Saviour said to the empty room, his face already perfect… once more.