Books and Covers

Title: Books and Covers
Author: Downdilly
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: HP/LM, LV/SS, RW/HG, Others Mentioned
Rating: R

Summary: Harry Potter was born to defeat the Dark Lord. Where does the Prophecy say
it's Voldemort?

Note 1: There's a very long list of warnings for this fic. I just wanted to make sure I
covered everything.

Disclaimer: Not mine. After so much fuss I'm not sure Ms. Rowling owns it either, but
that's what the lawyers say.

_____________________________________________________

Mists

Snape watched from the shadows of the bed, fascinated by the change in the two men with him. The Protector/Healer bond was as near sacred in wizarding society as such a diverse civilization could get, but it was rare to see it in action outside St. Mungo’s. True Healers were more often sequestered away lest the need to heal overcome them and they killed themselves by dumping their magic into a hopeless case.

Some things not even Magic could cure. Like Death.

The air began to waver around Goyle’s hands before resolving into a soft, white glow. Crabbe, meanwhile, had removed both his and Goyle’s robes and set them aside. Snape watched while Crabbe hesitated, glancing between Potter’s still form surrounded by a faint green glow, and his Healer. Finally he shrugged and shed his shirt, folding it carefully before moving to peel the shirt off Goyle’s back. With both of them shirtless, Crabbe wrapped himself around Goyle from the rear and grasped the only slightly smaller man’s wrists in his own hands. Neither Crabbe nor Snape missed the sudden hissed breath at the skin on skin contact

“Are you ready?” Snape asked, stepping to the side of the bed.

“Starting now,” Crabbe rumbled back.

It was not the first time Snape had been called on to hold together a traumatized mind, and he was anxious to get on with it. It was Potter, after all, and the less time he had to spend in the filthy brat’s mind the better. Gods, sometimes it seemed like the brat’s presence polluted the very air around him with a self-righteous stench. If it weren’t for the fact that his beloved Lord required it, he’d just as soon slit the boy’s throat and spit on his blood.

He felt more than saw the sudden outpouring of healing magic from his compatriots and quickly sat on the edge to the bed so he could reach Potter’s face. The other two were perhaps two feet away, Crabbe plastered to Goyle’s back, the skin to skin contact both giving Crabbe more control over how fast the healing progressed, but also allowing Goyle more access to Crabbe’s magic.

Sighing, he made himself comfortable and pried back the boy’s eyelids. The eyes were the window to the soul, as well as the easiest route to memory.

“*Legilimens*,” he whispered, pushing his own mind forward, and fell into the darkness.

Snape blinked, taking in the mental landscape around him. He stood on a vast grey plain, with many low lines running helter-skelter across it. Looking closely, he could see they were bricks; the first courses of the walls Potter apparently tried to use to protect his mind. The lines themselves were disjointed, running in no coherent pattern, something that would no doubt make it easier for Snape to enter the boy’s mind once Potter actually returned to it.

He slowly turned in place, realizing that the grey plain faded off into what appeared to be fog or mist. The occasional flash of lightening could be seen through it, and he wondered if they represented thought bursts or perhaps memories. With nothing else to do, he willed himself across the plain to the edge of the mist.

Oddly enough, once there he found himself at the beginning of a footpath leading into the fog. The fog curled around itself, leaving eddy trails in the air and occasionally leaving a fine mist behind when it ghosted over Snape’s animus form. It was only by reinforcing his own iron will that Snape didn’t jump in surprise when a misty tendril uncoiled from the mass and snaked out and around Snape’s ankle before giving a shockingly solid tug.

Impatient, he kicked the coil loose and examined the path before him. It appeared to be red brick, primarily, imbedded in sand and with patches of gravel scattered along it as far as he could see in the fog. Even the edges appeared unfinished, trailing off loosely into more sand before disappearing into greyness. He searched his mind for a word to explain its look, but the only words that would arise were *incomplete* and *impermanent*. Snape never noticed that the word he’d always thought would apply to anything Potter did, didn’t.

Incompetent.

Looking behind him at the field of low berms, he suddenly felt the same sensation of incomplete and impermanent the path was giving him. Was this the remains of Potter’s defenses, or was it the remains of Potter’s mind? Had the injuries and whatever led to them broken what passed for heart and soul in the Potter line? A part of Snape laughed gleefully at the thought that he would be able to watch it happen. Perhaps he would pensieve it; could one pensieve the memory of a memory? He’d certainly give it his best shot.

Another strand of mist unrolled itself and curled around his wrist. This time he gave into the pull, and stepped onto the path, following it into a wall of grey.

Between one step and the next, he was completely enclosed in cool, damp cloudiness, only the gravel and red clay under his feet keeping him from becoming disoriented. It was, he conceded, a fairly sophisticated defense for somebody as untrained as Potter.

*Of course to do it properly, one would eliminate the pathway and completely enclose the intruder so as to create the maximum disturbance to their balance. Once the boy is healed, perhaps I can—*

He cut of the thought abruptly, mentally slapping himself at the merest *hint* of wanting to teach the idiot brat *anything.*

Really, what *was* he thinking?

He continued along the path, letting it lead him wherever it wanted; time was meaningless in the mind, so as much or as little time would pass once he decided to leave. The only limit would be dictated by Goyle’s healing ability, and he’d yet to feel any touch of the other man’s magic in the mindscape.

As time had no meaning, he rambled on, mentally creating and discarding research ideas or theories he’d like to explore. He’d just discarded the idea of adding anemone acid to asp venom as a way to counteract sties when he realized a second set of footsteps dogged his own. Only his iron will kept his steps even while he listened.

The other’s steps were light, almost lighter than Snape’s own, and almost entirely in sync with his. A slight scuff of careless sole against brick had given it away, but now he was aware he could pick out the other easily. He deliberately mis-stepped, and when his shadow stumbled Snape pivoted around, a repelling spell ready should this be an active guardian rather than a passive one.

Snape blinked. James Potter stood behind him.

Taking in the lopsided half-smile, Snape studied the construct that had been following him. Tall but not lanky; perhaps three or four inches shorter than Snape was, but broader across the shoulders and narrow-hipped, length and breadth emphasized by a loose, white poet’s shirt tucked into dark leather trousers, in turn tucked into the tops of highly polished, sturdy leather boots.

The feet in the boots shifted uneasily and Snape flicked his gaze to the face, eyes caught and held by *Avada Kedava green. Those slightly almond eyes sat in a face too broad to be Potter senior; cheeks to high, mouth slightly wider and lips fuller. Even the hair was tamed, grown long and tied back.

Of course this would be how Potter thought of himself; tall, strong, handsome and heroic. No matter that the little shite was shorter than most fourth years, couldn’t walk without falling over his own feet, had the intellect of a camel on a good day (Potter’s not the camel’s—all camels were smarter than Potter), and the fashion sense of a gutter thief. Not to mention those glasses!

All things considered, Snape realized, it was no wonder Potter fancied himself like this!

“If you’re finished, Professor?” the guardian asked, one eyebrow lifted in sardonic inquiry.

The Hell? Guardian’s weren’t supposed to speak! Leave it to Potter to break any rule he came in contact with, the arrogant little twit. Ah, perhaps this was Guide rather than Guardian.

“Quite, Potter. Where are your memories?”

The figure chuckled. “Straight to the point as always, Professor. Come with me, I’ve something to show you.”

The Potter lookalike gestured down the path, and the two fell into step. An indeterminable number of split-seconds passed before Snape allowed himself to end the silence with a question.

“Why do you look like yourself, rather than your father?”

The look the figment walking beside him threw Snape was identical to one he’d seen on that same face hundreds of times before.

“What are you talking about? Why would I look like my father?”

Snape restrained himself from giving in to the juvenile practice of rolling his eyes. “Really, Potter, your Patronus is your father’s stag form. It’s no stretch to think any Guardian for your mind would be him or his likeness.” Snape sneered at having to once more explain the obvious. Heroic the image might be, but it retained the retarded intellect of the original.

Snape was stunned into silence when the Potter next to him threw back its head and laughed.

Catching himself up, Snape snapped his hanging jaw shut with a click, slowly grinding his molars in frustration. Now what?

He was contemplating hexing the creature and disregarding any damage it might do to the original’s psyche when the Guide/Guardian finally reigned in its guffaws.

“Oh, Professor! Such a brilliant intellect, yet you can’t see outside the box unless it involves newt’s eyes in a crock pot.” ‘Potter’ wiped tears of laughter from its face and sniffed before turning back to Snape. Emerald eyes darkened to jade while they studied the nearly apoplectic professor. “I wonder…,” it said, voice trailing off into the mist.

“It requires an original thought to ‘wonder’, something I sincerely doubt your creator has ever had cross his mind. Therefore, you cannot possibly ‘wonder’ about anything.”

Irritated almost beyond tolerance, Snape turned on his heel and strode along the pathway, set on ignoring the Guardian/Guide creation. Potter was like an unreachable itch, or an eyelash in his eye; something that grated and annoyed until it was either assuaged or removed, and Snape had never had any kind of inclination to assuage a Potter.

“How long have you taught at Hogwarts?”

The voice called out from behind him. Caught unawares, Snape spun back and glared at the thing that would interrupt him.

“What does that matter?”

The Potter-thing bounded forward to catch up to him before answering. “Just…trust me on this, Professor; if it reassures you, remember that I’m based on the personality of the ultimate Gryffindor. How long have you taught at Hogwarts?”

Snape felt a sneer curl his lip at the reminder. “Nearly twenty years; what of it?”

Potter’s image nodded thoughtfully. “And before Harry Potter came to Hogwarts, did you ever give him a thought? The son of the man that saved you from a thoughtless prank that nearly killed you?”

Snape opened his mouth to spit out his answer; of course he had!

But before he could, he closed his mouth and thought again. Had he really? Ten years of peace, did he ever truly think of James Potter’s son? Searching his memory, he couldn’t remember ever addressing the idea, although he could recall some excitement in the staff room when they discussed the event on occasion.

Anger and frustration rose up in Snape’s throat, and he had to swallow it down before he could reply.

“No, I can’t say it was a concern of mine. What of it?”

The image shifted in place, crossing its arms and frowning thoughtfully for a full minute before nodding.

“Another question, Professor; what if Sirius Black’s son had come to Hogwarts?”

Snape shuddered at the idea of the irresponsible mutt breeding. “Again I ask, what of it?”

The replica took a half step forward into the Potions Master’s space. “How would you have treated Black’s son? The son of the man who nearly lured you to death or destruction? The same as the Potter boy?”

Snape snorted and glared at the creature in front of him until it took that half step back, opening up space between them. “Ludicrous. I would never place the sins of the father on the child’s shoulders; no rational person would.”

‘Potter’ nodded, looking thoughtful at Snape’s answer. Snape believed he’d seen something flickering in the green depths, but whether it was actually thought or a trick of the light was something he’d consider another time. If anything relating to Potter could hold a thought, and if that was actually what the expression was trying to convey.

Blue light flickered through the grey mists, a sign to Snape that he needed to get on with things. Goyle and Crabbe had started the healing, meaning he’d been inside the vast emptiness that was Potter’s mind long enough for time to have physically passed in the real world.

“Get a move on, Potter,” Snape snapped, “the healing has begun, and I need to cushion your tiny little mind against the shock of it.”

“Healing?” ‘Potter’ looked shocked at the idea. “Am I at Hogwarts then? Did Dumbledore come for me?”

There was something about the way ‘Potter’ said the Headmaster’s name that flicked something cold and uneasy along Snape’s spine.

“No, not at Hogwarts,” the Potions Master answered carefully. This was something he’d not considered, but then he’d not considered he’d have to face the remains of what looked to be fairly serious defenses.

“Mungo’s then,” the construct answered, tone flat and eyes narrowed. “But you’re here. Why?”

Impatient, and a bit anxious as the greyness became streaked with blue, the Potions Master snarled. “What does it matter? You’re being healed, and I am, once again, in the midst of saving your arse, Potter! Now, I need to access your mind and memories, so the two brain cells you rub together to create a simulacrum of mental processing don’t boil away to nothing! WHERE! ARE! THEY!”

‘Potter’ crossed his arms and scowled back. “Not until you tell me where I am.”

Furious, Snape started to stride off along the path, letting the cool mists wrap around him like a comforting embrace, hearing the gravel crunch under his heels or ring sharply off the occasional brick. His long legs ate the distance with every step as he moved smoothly along. Surely he couldn’t be that far from the center, not if the construct was doing everything it could to keep Snape in one place. An interesting defense; distract the intruder until he could be dealt with, possibly even extracting information that could be used later. It was something he’d have to consider incorporating into his own defenses.

A second figure loomed large in the mists, completely blocking the pathway. It would be easy enough to go around, but Snape was loathe to step off the marked way; no telling what could be roaming about in Potter’s subconscious. He approached cautiously, spell at the ready.

“You’re going in circles, y’know,” ‘Potter’ stepped towards him, the mists parting before him. “You won’t get any farther until you tell me where I am.”

Snape stared. Circles? Damn! On the one hand, who knew how the construct would react, but on the other, what would be the likelihood that the insolent brat would believe Voldemort would order the Boy-Who-Insisted-On-Living healed?

“All right; your body,” *such as it is,* the look Snape flicked up and down the Potter-construct’s form said, “is currently at Briarwood Manor, being healed at the order of the Dark Lord.”

Severus Snape, Spy for the Light and Viper held close to the breast of Albus Dumbledore, his Lord’s sworn enemy, a man feared by an entire generation of Hogwarts’ graduates even years after they’d left, stared, dumbfounded, as the Potter construct broke into what could only be termed a victory dance.

“Yes! It worked!” ‘Potter’ yelled while leaping awkwardly in circles on the path. “This way,” ‘Potter’ shouted, grabbing Snape by the wrist and charging off into the mists, leaving the pathway to disappear behind them.

The construct’s hand was—warm. Solid.

Stunned shock became a roaring in his ears, until he looked up and realized he was at the base of a waterfall.

Instantly, Snape wrested his wrist from the creature’s grip. This was neither Guardian nor Guide; neither would have any solid mass to it, so this thing must be something else. But what?

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” ‘Potter said softly. A wide grin adorned its—his—whatever’s face. Potter was watching millions of gallons of water spark and froth as it fell a thousand feet below them into a raging pool, the pool in turn flowing away from them, lost in the twists of the canyon under their feet.

Snape took a step back, then another, rubbing lightly at his reddened skin. His wand was a firm, reassuring presence along his forearm. He thought about drawing it, but the creature had offered no real harm to him.

“Indeed,” Snape offered, stalling while he bent his mind to the puzzle before him.

“Who *are* you?” Snape finally asked, drawing the other’s attention away from the constantly falling water.

“Harry James Potter, Professor Snape,” the young—man answered him.

“Impossible!” the Potions Master snarled, but before he could draw breath to berate the thing keeping him company, it held up a hand and stopped his words cold.

“Impossible, indeed,” ‘Potter’ nodded. “Impossible, as the world has passed around me. But I am Harry Potter; just simply the Harry Potter that *would have* existed, had Dumbledore kept his nose to himself. This,” it waved a hand, encompassing the figure standing before Snape, framed by a wall of falling water, “this is what I should look like, what I should be, had not everything that happened to me, happened.”

Snape took in the construct again, thinking. The brat he knew was a short, runty, ugly little thing, something put together from bits and pieces of the two he’d known in school. The imbecile had neither the looks nor brains of either of his parents, who’d both been tall, athletic, intelligent and extremely talented in their fields. Almost as if the brat was the construct, while this one was locked in here, in what passed for Potter’s brain, waiting for release.

Blue lightening crackled across the sky, and Snape took that as a signal to shove his thoughts aside for now.

“I still need to reach your memories, your thoughts,” he said, trying to muster up a scowl.

‘Potter’ once again waved him off. “Not necessary; I’m a survivor, if nothing else.”

“Potter….”

“No,” ‘Potter’ said, softly, insistently. “Look up,” it added, and matched action to words, indicating the top line of the falls. “What do you see?”

Snape followed the line of ‘Potter’s’ arm with his eyes, tracking along an invisible line. “I see the top of the falls.”

What in the Inferno was ‘Potter’ playing at now?

Green eyes met his own. “You are a wizard, Severus Snape, an accomplished Occlumens and Legillimancer, something rare in itself; look with your magic.”

And Snape did, slowly lowering the necessary barriers in his mind to let that part free, the part that all those who used magic had if they only knew; the part that could sense kindred power.

And near instantly slammed his defenses shut from the blinding light that pierced his brain. Nausea wracked him and between the pain in his head and the unsteadiness in his stomach. The world spun around him and only slowly settled right way up. Coming back to himself he felt strong hands steadying him and a soft pulse of sheer energy flood through his body and smoothing out the last of the rough edges.

“What,” he gasped, feeling the sharp edges of imaginary gravel scrape across his palms. “What was that?”

“My magic,” ‘Potter’ replied. It took Snape a long look to realize the twist of the lips was wry, humor turned inside rather than aimed at Snape.

“Try again, but this time a little slower, yeah?”

Snape only nodded, lifting himself slowly from the ground. He hated the idea that he needed the steadying hand on his elbow, but was honest enough with himself to know he’d never stand up without it. He lowered his walls again, reaching out, but this time he was prepared for the vicious bite of power against his mind. Slowly he focused, taking it in bit by bit, until he was able to look around with only the slightest hint of a squint.

Awe battled with resentment; if this was the power the boy held inside, it was no wonder Dumbledore fawned on him. It was enough power to reshape the world in any image the Boy Wonder chose.

Finally, he was process exactly what he was seeing. Potter’s magic was blue, from the pale crystal, nearly white of the Arctic sky, to the deepest blue of midnight. Here and there he caught the faintest trace of something that felt—polluted, and realized deep inside what it had taken Goyle moments to realize.

Should Harry Potter attempt to use his strength in all out combat, it would turn on him and destroy him.

It was tempting to just let Dumbledore have his way; let him continue to train the boy, twist the magnificent gift the ignorant twit had been given at birth, and laugh in the Headmaster’s face when all his scheming on behalf of the Light blew up in his face. But the risk to all of them, and to the plans that had been made those long, fateful nights almost a decade ago, was too great. Potter had to be either killed or turned.

Snape looked over at the image of Potter that had shown him this, and saw the same realization in the construct’s eyes.

“Before you decide, look up,” ‘Potter’ said.

Craning his head back, Snape look again at the top of the waterfall and gasped. The flood of power that thundered around them was only the tip of the iceberg if what he saw was real.

Inside Potter’s mind was a dam, close packed and woven tight with long threads of multi-hued power. The waterfall itself represented only a fraction of the true width. Snape examined the restraining weave closer, and sensed something familiar, but somehow strange.

“Dumbledore,” ‘Potter’s’ voice softly interrupted Snape’s thoughts. “It’s his signature; I’d know it anywhere.”

And Snape could only agree, seeing the delicate filigree work that so often marked the Headmaster’s magic

“But why? Why deliberately block--,” and in the asking of the question, Snape knew the answer. He cut himself off when he saw agreement, and perhaps resignation, in the familiar face next to him.

“Time to go,” ‘Potter’ said, glancing up at the blue lights playing through the mists above them. He gave Snape another one of his almost-smiles. “Come back soon, and bring our Lord with you.”

*Our* Lord?

“Potter, what do you mean?” the Potions Master snarled. The scene was beginning to twist and break around him. Time was short, and he still had more questions than answers.

“Wait! Potter! What happened?” Snape shouted, feeling himself beginning to fly backwards, retreating into the safety of his own mind while pieces of mist and rock flaked off and dissolved. “Who did this to you?”

Dimly he could see ‘Potter’ waving and hand in farewell and…laughing? It was so hard to hear over the roaring around him, to see past waves of created rock as they tore themselves apart.

“I did, Snape,” ‘Potter’ yelled back, “I did!”

And then all he knew was slicing pain and blackness.