Author's Note: Wow, it's been a while. Thanks to the maybe four people who have read my other stories. This story heavily implies things from the seventh book, so if you haven't read it, I advise you to piss off. Please leave a review, even if it's correcting my spelling/grammar. And without further hubbub...
Deer
The stag reared his head and jumped through the lush grass. There were not a lot of obstacles; the day was true, the padding of hooves sounded sweet. Overall, not a bad place to live. A little boring, but it was better than some.
This field that was in the boy's mind was almost always honorable, and he knew because he inhabited there. The stag was a Patronus, belonging to a boy called Harry Potter.
Harry Potter was not an ordinary boy. All the wizarding world knew his story (or at least parts of it), about how he had vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But the stag was probably the closest thing to Harry, whether real or imaginary, and Harry didn't even know it.
The stag was like all Patronuses. He dwelled in the maker's imagination until needed, and when summoned, he would send away Dementors or herald what was requested. And he could feel, think, and sense everything that Harry had.
When a witch or wizard experiences something, it is stored in their memory forever, even when they cannot access it any longer. It is the Patronus' job (perhaps the most important one of all), to protect them from these memories, even if the witch or wizard does not know how to produce the Patronus Charm. Somethings were meant to be forgotten, or stored away until the maker was ready to experience it again. Sometimes they never got ready, and that was okay.
The stag (as was common amongst Patronuses) could go and visit other Patronus whilst Harry slumbered. And though Harry was very tired in his Potions class, he did not fall asleep, and therefore, the stag was stuck guarding in case something happened.
But though Harry did not fall to dreams, his hand did not avoid the bottle of corrosive sitting foolishly close to the edge of the table.
CRASH!
Professor Snape looked at the acid soaking the floor and said "5 points from Gryffindor Potter, and I expect this mess cleaned up before it eats through my floor." Professor Snape swooshed away to his desk, where he inked his quill and began to write. _ _
The ink drenched the paper, and parchment soaked up more still. The doe cast a frightful look at her surroundings. It was not soft and comforting like the boy's mind, for the doe had been there and had found it delightful.
This was a fleshy cavernous hell. There were only tunnels. Tunnels all made out of tar covered, cancerous vocal cords. Tunnels that lead no where, tunnels that lead where you had started, and none that lead out for him.
At night, the doe longed to escape the dark rotting place; she longed to escape Severus and the hell he refused to leave. His nights were worse for it, but one can only care so much. She loved Severus, for she was his, but it hurt her to see him like this. She would leave him stuck there for all eternity if it meant she could escape.
For there were only tunnels. Tunnels that lead no where, tunnels that lead where you had started, and none that lead out for him. Save for the little lily white crawlway that was buried deep under the skin. The lily white crawlway where she was born, and where she would forever be...