Warning: Not for Snape-fans.

"There you are, Potter!"

Harry resisted the urge to groan loudly. Of all the people he had to run into this late in the day. . .

"Yes, Professor?" he said in tone of forced politeness.

"Don't give me that, you spoiled brat!" Snape snarled. "Why did you not report for your detention last night?"

Because I've got better things to do. Aloud Harry said, "I'm sorry, sir. But I was preparing for the Tournament. . ."

"And you believe that means the rules no longer apply to you, do you?" Snape sneered.

"Actually, the Tournament rules say that Champions can skip classes or other school activities. . ."

"Don't you dare quote rules at me, you insolent whelp!" Snape bellowed in a voice that caught the attention of all the students in the Entrance Hall. "Just like your father! A little bit of attention and your ego is suddenly larger than this castle! If you think you can use the Tournament to avoid your punishments, then I suggest you think again!"

Harry seethed silently at the injustice of it all. With the way Snape was raving and ranting, one would think he'd blown up his lab or something!

It wasn't fair! He didn't even deserve that detention Snape had assigned him the previous day. It was Malfoy who had stealthily lobbed a piece of rat spleen into his potion in the last class, causing it to melt his cauldron and half the bloody table. But Snape, as usual, had been deaf to his complaints and promptly assigned him a detention on the spot for his supposed "incompetence". Harry didn't really know what hurt most: the sheer injustice of it all or the fact that none of his Gryffindor classmates, including Ron and Hermione, had uttered a single word in his defence.

"You are an utterly incompetent and useless child, who should never have been allowed to set foot inside this school!" Snape spat, his obsidian eyes flashing menacingly. "You think you are above the rules, that you can do whatever you please because you are the Boy-Who-Lived!? Think again, Potter! In my eyes you will always be a useless dunderhead, you. . ."

Harry clenched his fists in rage. He'd just about had enough of this! Ever since his name had come out of that thrice-damned Goblet, his whole life had gone to hell!

He'd become a social pariah in the castle. Not a single one of the student body (including his so-called 'friends') believed him when he protested his innocence. While most of them didn't go out of their way to cause problems for him (unlike the Weasley Twins, who seemed to delight in hitting him with tripping jinxes whenever they could), nobody was willing to interact with him in any capacity outside of classes either.

It was only thanks to his daily training regimen that he was able to maintain his sanity. After wallowing in misery and self-pity for the best part of three days, an encouraging letter from his godfather (along with a very useful tome of advanced combat spells) had snapped him out of his funk. He had spent the whole of last week sequestered in an abandoned classroom, practicing combat spells on desks and chairs. In addition to helping him blow off some steam, they also greatly improved his chances of surviving in this Merlin-damned Tournament.

For that was what Harry Potter truly was: a survivor. At his core he'd always been someone who never gave up, who overcame his obstacles due to sheer stubbornness. . . and he was going to use this to survive this bloody Tournament. No matter who or what stood in his way!

He'd survived a possessed teacher, a thousand year old basislisk, the shade of a Dark Lord, a hundred Dementors. . . and by Merlin he would survive this. No matter how many people had died before, no matter how many were going to die in the future. . . it didn't matter. Harry was not going to join the ranks of the dead any time soon.

He would survive this bloody Tournament at all costs, and as soon as this year was over he was going to flip Hogwarts and Britain the bird and run away with his godfather. Then they could. . .

". . . . I don't care what delusions you entertain in your over-inflated head, boy, to me you will always be. . ."

Harry gritted his teeth in anger. 'Boy'. How he hated that word! Every time someone called him that he was reminded of Vernon's beatings, his aunt's taunts about how he was worthless and someone who would never amount to everything.

To hear Snape say the exact same things to him, using those very words. . .

Harry saw red.

". . . you will report to my office tonight for your detention, boy! For every night for the next month! And fifty points from Gryffindor for your impertinence!"

Snape whipped around and stalked away, his robes billowing behind him. He'd barely taken a dozen steps before Harry's voice rang out.

"No."

Snape stopped dead in his tracks; and then slowly, very slowly turned around.

"What did you say?" his whisper was like death.

"I said 'no'," Harry said in a perfectly level voice. "I will not attend any undeserved detentions with you. No this night, nor any other night."

Snape felt a vein throb in his head. "One hundred points from Gry. . ."

"Make it five hundred," Harry interrupted. "Or a thousand. I don't care."

Snape's jaw nearly dropped in shock. "What. . .?"

"I don't give a damn about House points anymore," Harry shrugged, oblivious to the glares from the Gryffindors in the crowd. "Take as many points as you want. Hell, you can empty the entire hourglass. . . I don't care. But I won't attend any more detentions."

"You arrogant little worm! You will attend those detentions or else. . . !"

"I won't. You can do whatever you feel like: shout, scream, take it up with McGonagall or Dumbeldore. . . I don't care. But I'm not listening to anything you have to say anymore. Oh, and I won't be attending your classes either."

And to the utter shock of the watching crowd, Harry Potter nonchalantly walked right past Severus Snape into the Great Hall.

"Potter! You get back here this instant! Don't you walk away from me, you. . !"

But Harry was way past caring by this point. He didn't care how much that greasy bastard screamed and shouted, he'd never. . .

"Stupefy!"

Reflexes born of intense Quidditch training kicked in as Harry dived to the ground just in time to avoid a bright red Stunner.

Why that wanker. . .

He rolled to his feet, wand coming out in one fluid motion and pointed it at the greasy-haired teacher. "Expelliarmus!"

Snape side-stepped the curse. "Diffindo!"

Harry's eyes widened in shock and he barely had time to jump aside as Snape's cutting curse flew at him, clipping him slightly on the left shoulder. He watched the blood blossom on his robes in surprise, unable to believe that spell had been aimed at his face.

That. . . that utter bastard!

He narrowed his eyes at Snape's smirking face.

Fine! If that's how he wants to play it. . .

With a roar of rage, Harry fired off a volley of curses at his opponent. Snape threw up a shield, surprised that the teenager was actually familiar with duelling tactics. He attempted a passive legilimency scan on the boy, wondering who had taught him such moves.

A memory of a book floated up. A gift. . . from that mutt no less! Dumbledore would have to be informed. . .

Unfortunately for Snape, this brief lapse in concentration cost him. As Harry's Stunner punched through his shield, Snape dodged to the side. . .

. . . right into the path of a Bone-breaking hex.

He screamed in pain as his right leg snapped like a twig. Frothing at the mouth like a mad dog, he thrust his wand out at the Boy-Who-Lived. "Sectumsempra!"

Harry hit the ground as the Dark cutting curse sailed over his head and struck a stone pillar, shearing off a good portion of it and showering them all with chunks of rock. Rolling forward with his momentum, Harry jumped to his feet and pointed his wand straight at Snape's wand hand. "Reducto!"

It was then that the inexplicable happened. Snape, who'd flinched to avoid the fragments of rock peppering his face, lost his balance. His damaged right foot tangled with the hem of his robes and caused him to fall sideways, straight into the path Harry's reductor curse. The Potions master barely had the time to widen his eyes in surprise before his greasy head exploded in a shower of gore. Blood and brains splattered everything and everyone in a ten foot radius, as Severus Snape's body fell to the floor.

For a few moments, the only thing that could be heard was the sound of Harry's heavy breathing as he stood before Snape's headless corpse, drenched in blood from head to toe.

Then someone screamed, and all hell broke loose.

". . . .how on earth . . ."

". . . in the middle of the Entrance Hall, no less. . ."

". . . . never would have dreamed. . ."

". . . .told you to keep him on a leash, Dumbledore. . ."

". . . .attacking the Boy-Who-Lived. . . ."

It was a stunned Harry Potter who found himself sitting in the Headmaster's office some time later, surrounded by Hogwarts professors and Ministry officials. He listened half-heartedly as the assembled witches and wizards passionately argued about the horrifying events that had unfolded a scant half an hour ago. Only one fact registered in his mind, repeating itself over and over again. . .

He had killed.

He, Harry, had taken a human life.

He was a murderer.

Harry could have laughed if he could. Fate, he mused, seemed to have it in for him since the day he was born. As if losing his parents and living with the Dursleys for the better part of his life hadn't been bad enough, now he had to go and become a killer at the age of fourteen.

Well, I guess Vernon wasn't completely wrong about me. . . he thought bitterly. I guess I really wasn't going to amount to anything, after all. . .

But somewhere, in a dark corner of his heart, another emotion began to well up inside him. Apart from the horror and the melancholy he was feeling over his actions, Harry began to feel an almost overpowering rage.

Rage against Dumbledore, who had yet to say a single word in his defense. Rage against the incompetent Minister Fudge, who merely wrung his hands and looked helplessly about him. Rage against McGonagall, who despite being his Head of House and de-facto guardian while in Hogwarts, had not even looked him in the eye even once since his name had come out of the goblet.

He felt the bile rise in his throat. Black rage, rising from the depths of his soul, against his life. At the blatant unfairness of it all. . .

What had he, Harry, ever done to deserve all this!? The constant pain, the humiliation, the innumerable bad hands life had dealt him at every stage. . .

He was sick of it all. Sick of being fate's whipping boy, sick of being the golden Gryffindor, sick of. . .

"Mr Potter."

The booming voice interrupted his increasingly dark thoughts. Harry blinked and focused his eyes upon the witch standing before him.

She'd introduced herself as Madam Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry couldn't help but wonder if she was probably the only person in the room who was even remotely on his side, since she was the only person in the room who had first enquired about his well-being upon her arrival.

"We've spoken to some of the witnesses of this incident, and we have a basic understanding of everything that's happened," she said in a brisk, no-nonsense tone. "I'd like to hear your version of the events, if you please."

Haltingly, Harry narrated the events of last hour, right down to the last detail he could remember. The assembled adults listened to him quietly, the only sound apart from his voice being that of the enchanted quill that zoomed across a piece of parchment of its own accord, recording his statement.

Bones listened impassively as his tale came to an end, and stretched out her hand. "Wand, please," she commanded.

Harry obliged, and the two aurors accompanying her began to examine the wand closely, noting down their observations. After a few minutes, they handed a piece of parchment to their boss, who glanced at it and nodded.

"Very well," she said in her booming voice. "Now Mr Potter, I'm going to have to ask you let us view your memory of the event."

"Um. . . what?" A confused Harry asked.

"Amelia," Dumbledore protested. "I really don't believe there's a need. . ."

"Albus, the testimony of the present eyewitnesses is much too unreliable for us to say for certain. Unless you'd rather I dose the Boy-Who-Lived with veritaserum, I really don't see any other way for us to determine the truth of the matter."

"Of course," Fudge said quickly, sensing a PR disaster waiting to happen. "We can't go around using something like that on Harry Potter. Why, the very idea is preposterous! Do as you see fit, Amelia!"

"Thank you, Minister." Bones withdrew a small cauldron from her robes, which she enlarged by tapping three times on its rim. "This, Mr Potter, is a solicitor's pensieve," she said. "It can be used to view a person's memories of an event, no matter how long ago they have occurred."

She dimly noted that the Boy-Who-Lived widened his eyes in surprise at this nugget of information before turning around and shooting a dirty look at the Headmaster. Something to think about later.

"Do I have your permission to use this, Mr Potter?"

"Er. . .yeah. . ." Harry muttered. "I mean. . . sure. What do I need to do?"

Bones drew her wand and gently placed it against his temple. "I need you to focus upon the events of the last hour, Mr Potter. Try to recall as many details as you can."

Harry screwed up his eyes and pulled up the memory of his confrontation with Snape. He watched with slight surprise as Bones slowly drew her wand away, a silvery thread connecting his temple to its tip. Then with a slight jolt, the gossamer thread snapped, and Bones placed the silvery thread into the basin.

With the exception of the aurors, all the adults in the room disappeared into the basin one after another. Harry waited twenty nerve-wracking minutes before they re-emerged.

Bones and Dumbledore looked grim, while Fudge looked about ready to faint. McGonagall had tears in her eyes and seemed to be trying her hardest to not meet his gaze.

"Well," the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement began. "I know I'm not supposed to be making any statements yet, but this looks like the most clear-cut case of self-defense I've ever seen."

"Come now, Amelia," Dumbledore chided her. "Mr Potter was hardly in any danger back there."

Harry could hardly believe what he was hearing. Nor, apparently, could Bones.

"Professor Snape was the one who drew his wand and fired the first curse, Albus! At Mr Potter's back, no less!"

"A mere stunning spell," the Headmaster shrugged. "It would have done him no lasting harm."

That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Everyone in the room, even the mentally slow Minister, looked at him in astonishment, and in Harry's case, with sheer hatred.

Bones arched an eyebrow. "It's been many years since I've left Hogwarts, so refresh my memory, Albus: under what circumstances is it considered acceptable for professors to curse their students behind their back?"

Dumbledore deliberately ignored the jab. "If Mr Potter had simply obeyed Professor Snape in the first place, perhaps the situation would not have gotten so out of hand."

The casualness of the statement goaded Harry out of his silence. "I did nothing wrong!" he said loudly, startling everyone in the room. "I didn't deserve that detention. . ."

"Then you should have taken it up with your Head of House, Harry. In private," the Headmaster replied with a touch of heat. "To defy a professor so brazenly, and before your peers at that. . . what were you hoping to accomplish?"

Harry could hardly believe this was happening. Albus Dumbledore, the one man he'd respected above everyone, who'd almost been like a grandfather to him these last three years, was blaming him for Snape's death!? He felt the bile rise in his throat once again.

The miserable, old, toothless, lemon-drop sucking wanker! After everything Harry had done for him and the school, all the times he'd risked his neck for his bloody principles. . . and the senile old codger was practically rooting for him to be sent to Azkaban. Over Snape, no less! In that moment, Harry would have gladly accepted even the Dementor's Kiss as punishment for a chance to reach out and wring that self-righteous bastard's scrawny neck!

Fortunately for Harry, one of Bones' aurors chose that moment to enter the office. The young, pink-haired witch strode forward and passed a piece of parchment to her boss, who read through it quickly.

"I see," she said neutrally. "Yes. . . good work, Auror Tonks." She then turned to the others. "Upon examination of Professor Snape's wand, we've found that the last spell it cast was a Category 2 Dark Curse."

McGonagall gasped. "You mean the horrid curse that cut into the pillar at the very end?"

"The very same," Bones replied grimly. "Upon searching his quarters, we discovered a notebook that suggests it was a curse invented by him specifically to use against his enemies. Had Mr Potter been struck by that curse head-on, I very much doubt if he'd survived."

She narrowed her eyes at the headmaster. "Your professor purposefully cast a Dark Curse to seriously maim or kill one of his students. Do you still contend that he meant 'no lasting harm', Albus?"

Dumbledore had the grace to look ashamed.

"Minister," Bones formally addressed Fudge. "If you wish to pursue these charges, we can go ahead and take Mr Potter under custody. But in my experience with the law, it's an open-and-shut case. Mr Potter was attacked by a Category 2 Dark Curse, and Ministry regulations clearly state that a person finding their person under such an attack is free to retaliate however they see fit."

"That law was instituted in a time of war," Dumbledore chided her. "It has no relevance now."

"It was never formally repealed," Bones shrugged. "So the last time I checked, it's still in effect. Under the law, Mr Potter is not guilty of murder."

For some strange reason, Dumbledore still wasn't ready to back down. "Nevertheless, that law applied to adult witches and wizards. As Mr Potter is still a minor, he must be subjected to some modicum of punishment. . ."

"Ah, but is he, really? A minor, I mean?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Bones smiled viciously. "Mr Potter was chosen by a magical artefact participate in a magical tournament that was restricted to adult witches and wizards. And by agreeing to let him participate, you, Dumbledore, and the other judges, have practically deemed him of age."

Everyone goggled at her in surprise. "Does that mean Mr Potter is legally an adult now?" McGonagall asked.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Magical law is never so cut-and-dry." She turned back to the stunned looking Headmaster. "Are you prepared to argue this point in the Wizengamot, Albus?"

The mention of the Wizengamot seemed to remind Dumbledore of the political realities behind tonight's scene. "Yes, well. . ." he cleared his throat. "I was merely suggesting. . . with all said and done, Mr Potter has taken a life. He must be motivated to show some remorse. . ."

"He did what he did to survive, Albus," Bones said quietly. "No one can be made to feel guilty for that."

She took a step towards Harry. "Mr Potter," she said, not unkindly. "In my official position, I'm required to tell you that you will be closely monitored for the duration of this year, perhaps longer. In the meantime, I must ask you to not speak about the details of this case with anyone, not even your friends, until the DMLE releases an official report of our investigation."

"Ok. . ." Harry said slowly, still struggling to process everything. "Does this mean I'm . . free?" he asked timidly.

"You are," Bones agreed. She returned his wand to him. "I would suggest that you spent the night in the Hospital Wing. I also believe that in the light of recent events, it is best you avoid sleeping in the Gryffindor dorms for a while. Perhaps something can be arranged. . . ?" she gave McGonagall a questioning glance.

The Deputy Headmistress nodded. "I'll order the elves the clear out the room in the East Tower."

"Good." Bones cast another look at the forlorn looking young man, seeing the same look in his eyes she'd seen in so many rookie aurors. A child. . . barely her Susan's age. And such a mark to carry on one's soul. Her gaze softened slightly. "For what it's worth, Mr Potter. . . I'm sorry you had to go through all that."

"So am I, Madam Bones," Harry said quietly. "So am I."

If Harry believed that the school merely hated him before, he had no idea how to describe their feelings towards him now.

By noon the next day, word had spread to every student in the school that Harry Potter had gone Dark. Watching him move around the castle freely after brutally murdering a teacher in full view of everyone struck barbs of fear into everyone's hearts.

The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, who'd been mocking him a scant few days ago, avoided him like the plague. The Gryffindors, for all their hatred of Snape, glared at him from afar whenever he sat down at the end of the table, as though unable to believe that a Dark Wizard like him would dare to sit with them at meal times. The Slytherins' reactions, however, were the most surprising.

Harry, who'd been expecting a violent reprisal from the House of Snakes, was surprised to learn that most of the Slytherins didn't even care. Severus Snape, it seemed, hadn't been particularly popular even in his own house. The more astute members of Slytherin house had always blamed Snape for the way the rest of the school treated them and shed no tears over his demise, and the rest were determined to stay out of Harrys's way as far as possible, since it was clear that the Boy-Who-Lived was no longer an easy target. Even Draco Malfoy took special care to avoid attention, no doubt acting on his father's advice to keep his head down.

For someone who'd been dealing with the entire school's ire for the last couple of weeks, this new behavior came as a relief for Harry. Sure, it stung a little when he watched younger students flee the library in his presence, but at least no one was firing jinxes at him from behind corners.

Everyone seemed to be eager to leave him alone, which suited Harry just fine.

Okay. . . maybe not everyone.

Harry shot a slightly annoyed look at the person sitting opposite to him. The young witch smiled over the rim of her upside-down magazine, continuing to hum tonelessly.

Her name was Luna Lovegood, a third-year from Ravenclaw, and since the last week she had taken to following him around like lost puppy. She was, even by Harry's standards, a singularly weird person: she had large protuberant eyes, a perpetually dreamy expression, wore a necklace of butterbeer corks, and constantly prattled on about all kinds of strange magical creatures.

When asked for why she'd chosen to tag along with him when the rest of school worked so hard to avoid him, her mysterious reply was that the "nargles" were less mischievous when she was around him.

While Harry had no idea who or what these "nargles" were supposed to be, he was by no means an idiot. If anything, he had a knack for spotting things that other people missed. The way Luna turned up with mismatched shoes and her clothes in a state of disarray, her fixed smile whenever he asked her if everything was alright reminded him too much of his time with the Dursleys.

It was plain to anyone with a working brain that Luna was being severely bullied, but as usual the Hogwarts professors chose to turn a blind eye to this blatant injustice that was going on right under their noses.

Harry found that he didn't give a damn. He could protect Luna on his own just fine. If nothing else, at least someone was benefiting from the highly negative reputation he'd developed of late.

Besides, having someone like Luna is his life had its own interesting repercussions.

"He's late."

Luna looked up dreamily from her magazine. "Probably just delayed in Herbology. You know how Professor Sprout ends her classes, Harry."

The Boy-Who-Lived scowled, resuming his pacing in the empty classroom.

"What does he want to talk about, anyway?"

"Why don't you ask him now that he's here?"

Harry turned and glared at the doorway as the newest visitor hesitantly stepped over the threshold. "Zabini."

"Potter," the boy nodded back.

When Luna had told Harry that Blaise Zabini wanted to have a private chat with him, his first impulse had been to suspect a trap. In all the years he'd attended classes with the Slytherins, he'd never exchanged two words with the boy. There was also he wouldn't put it past the Slytherins to attempt to ambush him in an abandoned classroom. But Luna had insisted, which was very unlike her, and his unwavering faith in her had convinced him to hear Zabini out.

"Well, get on with it."

Harry's suspicion must have been more evident than he'd thought. "I didn't come here to fight you, Potter," Zabini said with a wry smile. "If my word isn't enough, you can hold onto my wand for the duration of this meeting."

"No need," Harry said quickly. "Just. . . get on with it."

The other boy took a deep breath. "I came here to offer my formal thanks to you, on behalf of my entire family."

"For what?"

"For killing Severus Snape," he answered simply.

"Wait. . . you're thanking me because I killed Snape!?" Harry asked incredulously.

Zabini gave a bitter laugh. "Despite what the rest of the school thinks, Potter, Snape treated his own house only marginally better than the others. In some ways, you could say he was even worse."

"Worse? To his own Snakes?" Harry snorted. "You really expect me to believe that?"

"Don't be so quick to judge the whole of Slytherin house, Potter," Zabini's eyes flashed. "If you knew how things work in the House of Snakes, you wouldn't be so eager to pick a fight with us all the time."

"I'm not the one who goes around picking fights. . ." Harry began hotly.

"That's not what I meant," Zabini put up his hands. "It's just. . . well. . ."

He sighed and scratched his head. "One of the first things every Slytherin learns as a firstie is that what happens in the House of Snakes stays in the House of Snakes."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"One of the most strongly-held prejudices within the British Wizarding community is that Slytherin is a house of Dark Wizards," Zabini explained. "A reputation like that doesn't exactly make seven years of schooling very easy, especially when the Sorting Hat announces every yeah without fail that your house is known for its cunning."

"Some folks would say that that reputation is well earned," Harry sneered.

"And those same folks people would say that all parselmouths are evil, and that people who murder teachers in broad daylight shouldn't get to walk around freely," Zabini shot back. "Prejudices cut both ways, Potter."

Harry winced at the hard truth behind that statement. For all the time he'd spent lamenting the fickle nature of his schoolmates, he'd never once considered that he too was not above prejudices of his own.

After all, wasn't it because Hagrid had told him that Slytherin was a house of Dark Wizards that he'd begged the Hat not to put him there? This, despite the fact, that he'd never truly interacted with any Slytherin before, apart from that ponce Malfoy,

His mind went back to all the times he'd seen the entire school celebrate whenever Slytherin lost at quidditch or the House Cup, and suddenly he couldn't help but feel sick to his stomach.

"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for," Harry said quietly. "But that still doesn't explain why you asked me here."

"I'm getting to that. It's just. . . well. . . in the absence of support from the rest of the school, we Slytherins have no one else to rely on but each other. And when your Head of House is a piece of trash like Snape was. . ."

"What did he do to you?" Harry wondered, unable to recall any instance where he'd seen Zabini be at the receiving end of Snape's ire.

"Not me. . . not personally. But my sister. . ."

Zabini took a deep breath, his fists clenched. Harry noticed that they were shaking slightly. "She was a seventh-year here before we joined. Working on her Potions Mastery. She was always brilliant at Potions. Just like my mother."

"Trouble was, she needed an experienced Potions Master to sign off on her thesis. And Snape was Hogwarts' resident Potions Master. So she went to him for help."

"That wanker. . . he messed up everything, Potter! He misplaced her notes. Wouldn't give her access to the Restricted section. He cost her months of work . . . and then when she was falling short on time, he. . . took advantage of her. . ."

Harry felt like the bottom had dropped out of the pit of his stomach. "No way. . ." he croaked. Even Snape couldn't be that horrible.

"Oh, yes way. . . trust me, this isn't the first time he's done it either." Zabini gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Greasy bastard had a thing for redheads too, from what I've heard. . ."

"Why. . . why didn't anyone. . ." Harry was struggling to form words in his revulsion.

". . . notice?" Zabini asked. "They probably did. They just didn't care! She wasn't anyone important, just another Slytherin. . . a rich one perhaps, but who gave damn?" Zabini snorted. "Snape may have been a loser, but with people like Dumbledore and his Death Eater buddy Malfoy backing him up, he had some powerful political capital."

"Wait. . . Snape was a Death Eater!?" Harry repeated in shock.

"You don't know. . ." Zabini looked at him strangely. "I always figured since you were so close to Dumbledore and the Weasleys. . . yeah, Snape was a Death Eater. But he had Dumbledore vouch for him at the end of the war, so he never went to Azkaban. But I digress. . ."

"My sister. . . you have to understand, she's not the bravest girl out there. I think Snape threatened her, or she thought she'd put it all behind her once she got her Mastery. Either way, she played along. And then, when the greasy bastard failed her anyway at the end. . . she. . . she couldn't take it. . ."

Zabini swallowed. "They never did figure out what kind of cocktail she used to try to kill herself. Whatever it was, it was extremely potent. . . the Healers barely managed to save her. But she was never quite the same, after that. My family sent her away. . . back to Italy. . . mother and I visit her occasionally. She doesn't even recognize me."

Despite his iron self-control, a few tears leaked from the corners of Zabini's eyes. Harry, his heart heavy with sadness, reached out and patted the other boy's shoulders.

Zabini took a few minutes to compose himself. "It took all of my mother's self-control to not march into this school and cut Snape into pieces. Only the thought of me being all alone convinced her to hold back." He sighed. "You know, Potter, I always dreamed of the day I'd graduate Hogwarts and celebrate by blowing that greasy git's head clean off his shoulders. But you saved me the trouble."

He reached out and gripped Harry's hand tight. "I want you to know, Potter. . . I owe you a huge debt. One I couldn't hope to repay. You avenged my sister, you saved me from doing something that would've landed me in Azkaban someday. . . I. . . anything you ever need is yours to ask. Including my life!" The boy's eyes shone with determination. "This, I swear to you."

Harry had no idea how to respond to that. But a part of him realized that it would be rude, positively insulting, to say that it was no big deal. So he merely looked the other boy in the eye and nodded.

"You take care of yourself. . . Blaise."

For the first time since they'd met, a smile broke out on the other boy's face. "I will, Harry. Thank you." Then, to Harry's surprise, the boy bent down and kissed the top of his hand.

"Grazie, Don Harry. . ." And Blaise Zabini walked away with a grateful smile.

Harry watched him go with a confused expression on his face. "What the heck was that all about?"

"It's a sign of respect," Luna answered, causing him to jump slightly. She had put down her magazine and was looking at him directly, her usual vacant expression replaced with one of intense concentration.

"Respect?"

"The Zabinis are an old family from Italy. Sicily, to be more precise. They live and conduct their affairs by their own code. 'Don' to them is a title given to someone who they respect above many others."

Harry snorted. "And you're saying the Zabinis respect me?"

"They aren't the only ones," she replied in a matter-of-fact way. Luna walked up to him, continuing to fix him with her piercing gaze, so very different from her usual look. The dreamy lilt was gone from her voice as well.

For some reason, this was rather unnerving to Harry. It felt as though he was speaking to the real Luna Lovegood for the first time.

"Why did you bring me here, Luna?"

"Because I wanted to see for myself," she said simply.

"See what?"

"What choice you're going to make."

She placed a hand against his cheek, her silver orbs boring into his bright green ones.

"Choice?" he whispered.

"Yes, a choice," she replied. "You can choose to walk the path Fate has chosen for you, or you can reject it and make your own destiny."

"Now, Harry Potter, tell me: what do you choose?"

AN: So, it's been a while since I've written a HP fanfic. But this idea popped into my head, and just wouldn't let go. Fairly sure something of this sort has been done before, but I'm hoping to add my own flavor to it.

Some of my older readers will see a few elements from my other major HP fic, 'Renegade', incorporated in here. But I plan on making this somewhat realistic, so no Super!Harry or Machiavellian/Political Harry. Our hero here will definitely act more intelligent than his canon counterpart, but only upto an extent. He'll still face challenges but he's not going to be running rings around Dumbles or Voldy anytime soon.

Apologies to all Snape-fans if you've made it this far, but I've always hated the greasy git. Might seem like I've stretched things a little, but had to be done for the sake of the story.

As usual, reviews will be greatly appreciated.