Insanity.
Sometimes Harry wondered how to describe it.
Perhaps like inky blue mixed with searing red, shades of deep black swirling together- perhaps almost infinitely- turning lightness to darkness, never stopping, never ending. Perhaps he would call it words upon words, screams upon screams, letter upon letter, stacked until everything was a blur, a blissful haze.
To Harry, insanity was no longer seeing the line between good and evil. It was questioning what he loved and knowing he wanted, more than anything, what he hated. Insanity was having ideas- millions of ideas, incomprehensible ideas- and not having a way to communicate them because you're lost, damn it. It was thinking about death more than life but life more than death and having crazy, unsurpassed obsessions and addictions to everything, everything, everything. It was losing yourself within yourself and understanding but not comprehending and seeing the world on a scale so wide you realized that, in the end, you didn't matter. (And nothing does. That's the sad bit.)
Insanity was going crazy but never crying. Insanity was well-hidden and stored away in meaningful places.
Harry Potter was going insane.
On the first day back to Hogwarts, Harry Potter was walking on air. He could hear Hermione and Ron talking, maybe to him, maybe not, but their words were still hollow and empty and he couldn't help but despise it all.
"Harry?" Hermione asked, her tone impossibly concerned.
"What?" Harry replied, agitated. He had been thinking. He couldn't really remember what of, but he had probably been pondering something incredibly important, and he had been interrupted.
Hermione stopped in her tracks and stared at him strangely.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Fine," Harry replied, because that's what he was. What he always was. Fine.
"Mate, if you ever want to talk-" Ron began, nudging Harry's shoulder and smiling slightly -"I'm here. Okay?"
"Okay."
Okay. Harry liked the sound of the word. Harsh. Jagged. Round but sharp, curved but linear. It sounded broken but glued back together. Exactly how he wanted to be.
And then he started thinking about the letter O, and how it was purely infinite, how it was full and roaming and never ending. Harry liked things that had no stopping point, because he couldn't help but wonder when he'd hit his road block. The end of his line.
As he stood in the hallway, contemplating thoughts no one else would understand, his friends stared back at him, worried expressions splayed across their faces.
"Do you think he's okay, 'Mione?" Ron asked a few nights later in the Common Room. He had his books spread out in front of him and a quill in his hand.
"Who? Flitwick? I did notice that his spells seemed a bit off today-"
"No, not Flitwick. Harry."
The mood quickly changed from carefree to grim in a matter of a few words. Hermione gulped and looked away.
"Oh, Ron," she whispered, and her voice dripped with sadness.
"He's been so detached, so unlike himself. I'm really starting to get worried," Ron muttered, setting down his quill and running his fingers through his carrot-colored mop of hair.
"I think he's blaming Sirius' death on himself," Hermione said, biting down on her lip.
"I would too, if I were him. Sirius was a huge part of Harry's life. His last father-figure," Ron replied, his stomach dropping. His last father-figure.
"We need to let him know he has us," Hermione resolved, her voice sounding a little bit stronger. "That he's not alone."
Ron smiled widely.
"Yeah. I miss him," he mumbled, his thoughts journeying back to when he first met Harry on the train. They had clicked right away, even though he was just a gangly redhead and Harry was, well, The Boy Who Lived. It was dream-like, the way Harry had been so incredibly kind for having so much and, come to think of it, Ron had never thanked him enough for everything he had done.
"I do too," Hermione whispered. "I do too."
Harry's thoughts were killing him.
When he closed his eyes, he was met with images of Sirius. When he opened them, he was confronted with the harsh reality of a world that he realized had never really loved him. With every word spoken, Harry had a thousand untamable thoughts which ripped through his skin and spurted blood invisible to everyone but himself.
He could see people's demons, too- they were hidden in their eyes, underneath their long-sleeved shirts, traveling through the holes in their hand-me-down robes. He was painfully, acutely aware of every severe thing that had ever crossed the world, and it was tearing him apart.
Maybe that was why he dragged the blade down across the fragile skin of his wrist that night. Maybe because it felt right, the way his eyes fluttered closed as he hissed in pain. Maybe because he didn't have to remember the sound of his mother's scream when all he had to focus on was the blood, and oh shit, oh God, it's all over.
It hurt, and the blood was crimson, the color of roses and war and the devil, and it was horribly beautiful.
The gashes weren't deep. Deep enough to return him to the normality he had missed and craved, yes, though not deep enough to take him away forever. Not yet.
He didn't cry, though. He breathed heavily and thought about everything he regretted and it made his insides quiver with some sort of pitiful delight.
And, quietly, almost silently, he leaned over to the toilet and hooked a single finger down his throat. Nothing came up the first time, so he tried again, and again, and then he felt his stomach empty itself and his mouth tasted like bile and there was something sort of numb about it all, something with which he couldn't help but fall in love.
A few minutes later, he could feel everything return to him, and he was only able to crawl back into bed when the others started waking up.
"Hey, Potter!" Someone shouted from across the hallway. Harry closed his eyes, opened them, closed them again.
"What, Malfoy?" He asked as the blonde Slytherin came running towards him, a snarl on his face.
"How was your summer? Did you bask in the guilt of killing your flea-ridden godfather?" Draco asked, his expression quickly changing into a snide grin.
Blue. His eyes were blue. Like robin's eggs and the sky and Hermione's eyeshadow. Blue like the ocean and all of its infinite molecules and atoms, spreading for a distance that's almost incomprehensible-
"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry answered, struggling to keep his voice even. He almost went dead with anger, clenched his fists by his side because keep it all in, keep it all in.
"Poor little Potter, doing everything wrong. You're a freak," Draco spat, and Harry, desperate, sucked in a deep breath as the pale-skinned boy walked away.
I'm not a freak. I'm not a freak. I'm not a freak. I'm not a-
freak.
"Are you going to eat anything, Harry?" Hermione asked a few mornings later. Harry stared down at the pancakes and fruits he had piled onto his plate, and although his stomach growled, he shook his head,
"Not hungry."
He was, though. He was desperately hungry. How long had it been since he'd last eaten? Two days? Three days?
He wasn't sure why he had stopped eating. Not really.
Maybe it was to lose weight. To see the bones hidden beneath folds of whitened skin.
"You didn't eat dinner last night, though," Hermione whispered, and Harry shrugged.
"I don't know. I feel kind of sick, now that you mention it," he explained, rubbing his concave stomach for effect. Hermione, however, didn't seem convinced.
"Just have some toast. Or drink some pumpkin juice. Maybe that will make you feel better," she suggested, her voice breaking and growing higher.
"I'm really okay, 'Mione. Promise."
Harry stood up and walked away before either Ron or Hermione could say anything else, his eyes burning with uncried tears.
Maybe, just maybe, if he didn't eat, the demons inside would starve, and he could be happy.
Harry stared at himself in the mirror.
He was pale. His skin had grown pasty. His hair was its usual messy mop, but his eyes looked sunken and hollowed. His eyebrows were bushy, at least in comparison to his slimming face, and his glasses suddenly looked a little bit big for his narrow temples and bulging forehead.
"I'm fine," he said to himself, thoughts of dragging pin-sharp metal across desperately vulnerable skin suddenly overtaking his mind, disorienting him.
"I'm fine," he said again, straightening his posture. His adam's apple stuck out of his throat like a knife. He gulped.
"I'm fine," he yelled, resting his hands on the edges of the bathroom sink, dropping his head and drawing in great mouthfuls of air.
His breath grew hoarse as he sat down on the frigid bathroom floor and thought about life, because it was so goddamn transient,, and it confused him to an impossible extent. He was bewildered to the point where he felt like his head was going to explode and his hair was going to fall out and his brain would burn under white-hot flame because it was torturing him.
He did not sleep that night.
Severus Snape was not happy.
He had just finished grading the most recent essays, and, not unusually, everyone did horribly. (Not the damn Granger girl, though, who, not uncharacteristically, got a perfect score. Still.) There was something unnerving about the essays, and it had to do with the fact that Harry Potter had not turned one in.
He didn't like the boy. Not one bit. He was a rule-breaking, nasty, Gryffindor, James Potter-esque brat, but there was something off about him, at least this year.
Severus told himself that he didn't care. He told himself that the Boy-Who-Lived could ruin his own life all he wanted, that it didn't affect him.
That was the thing, though.
It did.
"Harry," Hermione whispered the next day in Potions, hair frazzled from working.
"Yeah?"
"Do you have any more mint leaves? I've run out," she replied, looking desperate and agitated. Harry was about to hand them over when he saw the daunting figure of Snape approach.
"Were you giving Miss Granger mint leaves, Potter?" He asked, his voice dripping with disgust.
"Yes," Harry said simply. Truly, he was in no mood for any of Snape's incessant rudeness.
"Yes Sir. It's time you insolent Gryffindors learn some manners."
"There's no need to call me Sir, professor," Harry mumbled, and when he looked up, he had never seen Snape looking so irate. His inky eyes quivered with anger.
The rest of the class silenced their laughs.
"I will take none of your childish nonsense today, Potter. Say anything of the sort again and you'll be booked with detentions for the rest of the year. And while we're on that same desperate topic, might you care to tell me why you didn't turn in my most recent essay on bezoars?"
(Eyes. Harry couldn't help but become distracted by them, the softness of them, the hardened edges, Really, it was all quite poetic.)
"Potter," Snape said slowly, staring down at the boy. Harry looked as if he hadn't even processed anything the Potions Master had said.
"Potter!" Snape snapped again. Hermione looked over at Harry with a desperate look- God, pull yourself together.
"Snape," Harry began, "I-I-I really feel quite faint," Harry stated, his eyes glassy. A thin layer of sweat coated his forehead.
"Harry," Hermione breathed, reaching out for his arm.
"Granger," Snape muttered. "Don't touch him. As for you-" he said, gesturing to Harry- "you will go to Madam Pomfrey's. Now."
Harry left without another word.
He didn't go to Madam Pomfrey's. No, he went back up to his dormitory, where he laid down on his bed and, for the first time in days, ate an apple he had stolen from the Great Hall that morning.
And then, as he looked down at his bony stomach and hands made of nothing more than flabs of pallid skin, felt the sudden need to weep.
"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed that night at supper. Harry forced a smile onto his face.
"Hey."
"What happened? Where's Ron? Oh, I'm so glad you're okay," she said, wrapping her arms around the wiry boy.
"Lack of sleep. I rested for a few hours. And I think he's over there," Harry said, pointing to where the gangly redhead sat with a girl named Lavender Brown. Harry could have sworn he saw Hermione's lip quiver, but he wasn't sure.
"Lack of sleep?" She asked, kind of tentatively, turning her gaze back to his.
"Yeah. I feel fine now, though," he answered, and his throat hurt and his wrist throbbed and he just wanted to feel okay again, dammnit.
"Good," Hermione replied, sitting down and beginning to eat her meal.
After everyone had gone to sleep that night, Harry punched a mirror. He couldn't explain what made him do it. Maybe it was because he had lost all sense of of control: and, maybe, all sense of self (he didn't even know who he was anymore.)
He picked up a piece of shattered glass. It was eerily beautiful, and when he drew it across his wrist, there was only blood, blood, blood. He focused his attention on the pain- God, the pain- and he was feeling, but he wasn't, he really wasn't, and it was all terribly confusing.
But then he remembered his mother, whose love had kept him breathing and walking and cutting and starving, and he was able to carry himself to bed and fall asleep.
"I'm fine," Harry said.
He wondered if time would slow down if he were to fall off the astronomy tower.
"Harry," Ron said, running to catch up with his friend on the way to Double Potions.
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry for not talking to you recently. I just thought I should give you some space," Ron replied, shifting his bag on his shoulder. Harry shrugged.
"It's fine, mate. You ready for Potions?"
"No. The homework confused me. Did you get it?" Ron asked.
"No."
Harry thought about the fact that he shared air with Merlin.
"Potter," Snape sneered the second Harry walked inside the dungeon for class.
"Yes, Sir?"
"I would like a word after class."
Harry breathed. In, out. In, out.
"Okay, Sir."
Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.
"Sir? You wanted to speak with me?" Harry said after all the other students had left. Snape stood up from his desk and walked over to his vast array of cauldrons.
"Yes, Potter. I was wondering what that-fainting episode- a few days ago was all about."
"Episode, Sir?" Harry asked, suddenly lightheaded.
"You know exactly what I mean by that," Snape said smoothly, pulling out a cauldron and several ingredients. Harry turned away, closed his eyes, and counted to three (he would stay calm; he would not panic.)
"I was exhausted, Sir. I hadn't been able to go to sleep the night before."
"No?"
"No, Sir."
Snape paused with his work and turned to face the distraught student. He noticed how Harry's cheekbones suddenly looked very jagged, and something in his stomach churned as he sucked in a short breath.
"Well, I don't need you to act so delirious in my class again. Perhaps you should eat more," Snape suggested, tone cool and collected. Harry sucked in his breath.
"I've been eating plenty, Sir," he whispered, gulping. Snape raised his eyebrows.
"Whatever you say. You may leave, Potter."
Harry didn't need to be told twice.
Hollow.
Maybe that was what he was trying to be.
Harry's hand hurt like hell.
It was okay, he decided, to be in pain. It distracted him from everything he didn't do.
"Harry," Hermione said tentatively, sitting down beside her blank-faced friend.
"It's been awhile. Are you mad at me?" She asked, biting her lower lip. Harry sniffed. He could smell the embers of fire, and it was the scent of anger and death and he loved it.
"No. Why would I be?"
Hermione looked close to tears.
"You're so...detached. I worry about you," she mumbled, picking at the skin around her nails.
Harry imagined himself in a straightjacket, confined to nothing but himself, and he shivered.
"I'm fine."
Fine. Fine. Fine fine fine fine fine fine.
Hermione took one of his hands in hers. Her skin was warm and soft and Harry closed his eyes, trying to teach himself to remember how to breathe.
"What have you done to your fingers?" Hermione whispered, and tears streamed down her cheeks and onto the bruises and scabs that cloaked Harry's knuckles. He looked away, not daring to let her see the emotion that was written on his face.
"Nothing."
"Have you gone to see Pomfrey? Harry, what happened?" She asked, running a gentle finger over one of the bruises. Harry squirmed and tucked his hand back underneath his robes.
"Nothing, Hermione."
His voice was icy. Frigid. Hermione let out a shaky sigh and disappeared, leaving Harry feeling more alone than ever.
Harry reached his lowest possible point when the first snow of the winter fell.
He hadn't eaten in what seemed like months. He had resorted to glamour charms, for his appearance was, in his mind, disgusting. His bones stuck out everywhere. His skin was yellowed and pasty. His hair was thin and spare. His teeth were no longer their pristine white.
He was going insane.
He laughed deliriously to himself when no one was watching. He ran through the corridors at night, not stopping until he had collapsed and he honestly thought he was going to die, right then and there.
He liked the feeling of his body hitting the floor. He liked the feeling of reaching limits. He no longer felt the need to push them.
He was losing his mind, and no one noticed.
Harry first went to see Snape on a particularly fretful night during Christmas holiday.
It was four o'clock in the morning and he was depressed. Every breath was painful; every movement was agony.
He wanted to die. God, he wanted to die.
Snape hated him. That much was obvious. Maybe he would give him a potion. A potion that would put him to death. A potion that would take away the pain that he was going through.
He knocked at the dungeon door, glamours down, cheeks red, and hair more disheveled than ever.
It took three minutes for Snape to answer.
"Potter," he seethed, his expression unreadable. And then, as his eyes traveled down Harry's body, "Potter."
"Professor," Harry wheezed. "Professor, professor, professor," he mumbled, closing his eyes, opening them, unable to say anything more."Professor professor professor."
Snape stared at the Golden Boy, mouth open ever-so-slightly, and he gently grabbed Harry's shoulder, leading him inside. Harry began to cough frantically, his head lolling from side to side.
"Potter," Snape said, and then, a little more kindly, a little more softly, "Potter."
Harry stopped his frantic movements.
"I'm crazy. I'm crazy. I'm out of my mind, Professor. Crazy. Out of my mind. I'm lost."
Snape nodded slowly and walked over to his potions cabinet. In a matter of seconds, he had pulled out several vials.
"Drink these. Now."
"I want to die. Will these kill me?" Harry asked softly. Snape stared at him in shock. What was he to say?
"No. Drink up."
"I want to die," Harry groaned, sitting down on one of Snape's chairs and running his fingers through his thinned hair. "I want to die. I want to die. I don't want to be here. I want to be with Sirius," he moaned, scratching at his face. Snape pulled his hands away, waiting several moments before letting them go.
"Drink."
Harry took the four vials into his bony, scabbed hands and brought them close to his face. Calming draught, dreamless sleep, nutrition potion, blood replenisher.
Finally, he drank them, and his eyelids began to droop.
"Meadows. Windows. Ron. Hermione. Goodnight, Professor."
What was Snape to do? Bring the boy back up to his chambers? No, that wouldn't be safe. Clearly, Potter was in a very unstable state, both mentally and physically.
So, as a last resort, Snape picked up the boy, sighing. He brought him to his spare bedroom and laid him beneath the covers.
He looked…. sick.
"Gryffindorian fool," Snape whispered before he, too, headed back to bed.
When Harry awoke, he felt ready to throw up. But, surprisingly, feeling a little less ready to catapult himself off a very tall bridge..
"Potter? Are you up?" Snape said curtly, opening Harry's bedroom door slightly.
"What am I doing here?"
"You had a little...issue last night. I didn't think it wise to bring you back to your chambers."
Harry stood up, knees wobbling slightly beneath him.
"I'm fine. I'm ready to go back."
"Fine? Don't be an idiot. You're a mess."
Harry closed his eyes and sat back down on the bed. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and searched for the pointy bones that stuck out of his back. When he found them, he relaxed, as if reminded that he was strong.
"Breakfast is in five minutes' time," Snape said, closing the door and walking to the kitchen. "Don't be late." His voice was a little caustic, a little biting.
And then Harry was left alone with his thoughts.
"Eat."
It was a command. Harry looked down at his plate that was piled high with food, sniffing.
"I'm not hungry, Sir."
Snape rolled his eyes and scoffed, cracking his knuckles.
"Don't lie to me."
Harry smiled slightly, his lips cracking in the process.
"I'm not hungry, Sir."
"Then have some pumpkin juice. I've enriched it with several nutrition potions because, Mr. Potter, you are severely underweight," Snape explained, voice lacking emotion. Harry's stomach growled.
"Oh. Okay."
His voice was a mangled mumble. Snape smiled coyly and poured Harry a tall glass of the orangey-brown liquid.
"Drink it all. You'll feel better in no time," he said slowly, and, after three hours of patient waiting, Harry was done.
"Good. Now I think it's time we talk," Snape said, and Harry's stomach dropped. Talk. He wants to know. He's going to find out about your craziness and he's going to kill you. Kill. It won't be so bad.
Harry walked over to the sitting room and sat down across from Snape, who looked excessively tired.
"I will permit you to go back to your dormitory once-and only once- you have answered all of my questions. Truthfully."
"All, Sir?"
"All. Am I understood?"
Harry looked down at his stick-sized legs, at his bony fingers, at the scars that covered his hands and wrists-
"Yes, Sir. Understood."
Snape stared at Harry, straight into his brilliant green eyes- Lily's eyes- and he realized that he had failed. He had failed Lily in his promise to protect her son. He had failed the Order and Dumbledore when promising to keep an eye on the child.
God, he was stupid.
"Why have you not been eating?" Snape asked, his question cutting and crude. Harry stared at the ceiling, then back down to his hands, which were tangled up in each other.
"I don't know-"
"Truthfully."
"I wanted to starve them. Not me."
Harry winced at his own words.
Snape sucked in a breath. Of all possible answers, this was not what he had been expecting.
"Them?" His voice was quiet. Not exactly caring, but without its usual acidic edge. Harry carded his hands through his hair and, for a moment, stayed silent.
"The demons."
"Oh?"
"Can I go back to my dormitory now?" Harry whispered, resting his head in his hands. His eyes prickled with tears, but as usual, he held them back. This time, though, it took more effort (maybe breaking down would feel good. He pushed the thought from his head.)
"I'm not done. Did you hurt your hand on purpose?" Snape asked, and almost instantly, tears began to drip down Harry's sunken cheeks. He began to sob, his whole body quivering with the sudden onslaught of emotions that he had held back for so long.
Snape didn't move from where he sat. He watched Harry cry, though, eyebrows furrowing together.
When Harry was done crying, the boy's breaths were ragged and his eyes were puffy and red. It was quite pitiful, really.
"I'm sorry, Sir."
"For what, Potter? Living?"
Harry offered Snape a tiny, broken smile, but a smile nonetheless.
"For crying, Sir. For crying."
"It's a natural human reaction. Nothing to be sorry about. Are you feeling better?" Snape asked, his voice somewhat kind but still very stiff. Harry rubbed his nose with the sleeve of his robe.
"Yes, Sir."
"Are you sure?"
This time, Snape was met with silence. It was the kind of silence that hung in the air, heavy and rigid. It was the kind of silence that was sort of hushed, sort of muffled.
"It's hard, Professor."
Snape didn't have to ask to know what Harry was talking about.
"I know," he replied, offering nothing more than that tiny amount of commiseration.
"May I go back up to my dormitory, Sir?"
"If you take another nutrition vial. And may I ask what happened last night?" Snape asked, walking back over to his cauldron set and pulling out several small brown bottles and handing them to Harry.
"I don't know, Sir. I don't remember," Harry answered truthfully. "I know I haven't been able to sleep in over a week. I hadn't eaten in days. I think I just needed food and a night's rest."
"You hadn''t slept in a week?"
"No, Sir."
Snape was quiet. Harry blushed slightly under his intense stare.
"I can't give you another dreamless sleep. They're highly addictive," Snape said softly. Harry wiped his eyes with his robes.
"I wasn't expecting one, Sir."
Harry turned around to leave, his stomach, for once, full, and his head a little less filled with that goddamn voice: put yourself out of your own fucking misery.
"Potter," Snape called softly, and Harry turned around, a grim look on his face.
"Yes?"
"Do you have any wounds that might need an infection treatment?"
In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out.
"Yes, Sir. Maybe," Harry replied, quietly, impossibly quietly, yet Snape heard him. Harry walked over to where the Potions Master stood, and slowly, tentatively, he rolled up his sleeve. What seemed like endless white hairline fractures covered ghostly skin, which were accompanied by a few red and pink gashes, some still caked in dried blood, some healing.
"Potter," Snape said again, voice almost a whisper. He summoned a simple first-aid kit and quickly bandaging up Harry's damaged arm.
"May I go now, Sir? If I take another nutrition potion?"
"Yes. Also, stop putting up glamours. They drain your magic."
"Alright, Sir. Good day, Sir."
Harry walked out into the hallways, and almost as if on cue, lost his mind once again.
That night, Harry couldn't sleep. He rolled out of his bed, out of the Common Room, and through the portrait hole.
He didn't know where Filch was. He didn't care.
He walked through the hallways, once again trapped within himself.
Bones, Harry thought to himself. Bones and muscle and tissue and blood. Blood.
And then he found himself in front of a small room, the door hardly visible next to the stone of the walls. He pressed his hands against it and found that it was icy and cool.
He pushed the door open, softly and slowly, careful not to make a sound. Inside the room, it was pitch black. There were no windows.
"Lumos," Harry whispered, the tip of his wand turning a soft yellow. He could immediately see that it was not a room but rather a storage closet, which was filled with nothing other than a single item.
The Mirror of Erised.
Harry's breathing grew heavy and rapid.
"After all this time...It's been right here?" He whispered to himself, walking over to it on light feet and gently running a finger over the cooled glass.
Look. Look into it. Look. Look into it.
He stepped backwards slightly, his eyes closed and his body burning in anticipation. When he opened them, he was confronted with his reflection, only it was healthy. Glowing. Beautiful. He was smiling and laughing with Ron and Hermione. His arms, which were exposed, were free of scars. His wide grin was innocent and sweet. In the background, fleetingly, he saw Sirius, walking with his parents, and for the second time that day, Harry began to cry.
The next night, yet again, Harry could not sleep, and he resolved to go back to the mirror.
He was feverish as he opened the closet door.
When he stepped inside, however, he realized that he was not alone. Someone else's wand had lit up the room, and there, sitting by the mirror, head and hands against the glass, someone was crying, sort of quietly. (Very heartbroken-ly.)
Harry's mouth dropped open slightly as he saw jet-black robes, greasy ink-colored hair, and paper colored skin.
"Lily," Snape was crying her name. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've failed you this way. Come back; please, please come back..."
His voice trailed off and was again replaced by throaty cries.
Harry, heart pounding in his chest, backed out of the room, his mind whirring.
What had he just seen?
Harry visited Snape once more on the last night of Christmas holiday. It was not yet midnight, and it had been a long time since he'd slept, but he'd been eating more and taking nutrition potions and, all in all, he looked much healthier.
"Potter," Snape said, opening the door, silently inviting Harry inside with a nod of his head.
"What brings you here this late, late night?" Snape asked, sitting down on one of his chairs and taking a sip of his tea.
"I don't know, Sir," Harry replied, and it was the truth. What was he doing in Snape's dungeons?
"Potter," Snape said a few minutes later. "I have something to show you."
Harry looked at him quizzically but followed him towards another room anyway, too worn-out to care.
"This is a pensieve-"
Harry smiled wroughtly.
"I know, Sir. I've used Dumbledore's," he explained. Snape raised his eyebrows.
"Professor Dumbledore's. And I want you to see something in my pensieve."
He pulled out several glass bottles and poured them into the watery liquid. Harry watched them swirl together, momentarily distracted by the vibrant colors.
"You may enter," Snape said, and Harry did as he was told, plunging headfirst into the darkened water, his stomach dropping.
What was he doing?
He was falling. Ink swirled around him, warming up his cold and icy skin. And then, all of a sudden, he had landed somewhere.
Grass.
He saw a small redheaded girl skipping towards a gate, which she promptly pulled open.
"Goodbye, Sev!" She called, waving and grinning. Harry turned around to see a miniature Snape lying in the grass, propped up on his elbows.
"Goodbye, Lily!" He called while waving back, a small smile playing at his lips.
However, the second she had left, young Snape began to cry. Fat, watery tears dripped from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and the sound of muffled sobs echoed across the hills. He laid down in the grass, his fists clenched into tiny balls, his knees tucked to his chest.
"I'm going to lose her," he whispered to himself, and his tears ebbed.
Harry was falling again. This time, however, he landed in a small bedroom, nearly empty. There was only a bed and a small dresser for furniture, and a dirty mirror was the only piece of decoration to be seen. It was grim and gray and practically colorless. A slightly older Snape sat on the bed.
His sleeve was rolled up, which revealed a wrist lined with milky white scars. A muggle razor blade was gripped between his fingers, and, slowly, he dragged it across his thin, pale skin. Blood immediately erupted from the wound, but Snape was careful to mop it up with a few grayed towels.
Tears, again, were dripping down his hooked nose.
"What am I doing?" He muttered, and he did it again, and again, and again, until his arm was soaked red, brilliant and ruby.
The scene changed. Harry saw Snape at Hogwarts, probably in his second or third year, wandering aimlessly about the halls.
" Sev!" Someone called. Snape turned around to see who it was.
" Hey, Lucius," he replied quietly, looking sad as the blonde approached.
" You okay?"
" Fine. Fine. Fine," Snape murmured, turning away and running his fingers through his greasy hair. Lucius, confused, shrugged and walked away.
" Fine," Snape said again, as if for good measure. "Fine."
The scene changed one last time. Harry was in some sort of manor, and the only people in the vast room were Snape and a younger, less snake-like Voldemort.
" My Lord, I-" Snape began, but Voldemort interrupted.
" Save it, Severus. Do you or do you not want to join my forces?"
" I can get a job at the Ministry, report as a spy-"
" You may be a spy if you join me. I know you do not wish to," Voldemort said, his long, white fingers tracing the intricate patterns of his wand.
" No, my Lord. I do. I do wish to join you. Trust me on that, if nothing else," Snape answered, the intense fear obvious on his face.
" Then give me your arm," Voldemort instructed, and Snape, shaking violently, surrendered his left arm, handing it over to the tall, pale man, who took no notice of the array of scars in front of him.
Voldemort pressed his wand against Snape's arm, who began to scream, and the last thing Harry saw were the first few lines of a tattoo.
"Well?" Snape said upon Harry's return.
"Sir," Harry began, out of breath and quivering slightly. "I'm sorry."
"There's no need to be. Do you know why I showed you those memories?" Snape asked, rubbing his hands together. Harry shook his head.
"If you continue down this dangerous path, Potter, you'll fall into nothing but trouble."
Harry stared at the greasy haired Potions Master, and once again, he felt the sudden need to cry.
"I don't know how to stop. I'm going insane," he whispered. Snape pressed his lips into a fine line.
"Just try, Potter. Just try."
Harry was in the first floor bathroom. It was pitch black, but the piece of glass in his hand glinted like silver. He gulped as he stared at it, a thousand thoughts running rampant through his head. He wanted to press it to his wrist-God, more than anything- but he remembered the mirror, and he remembered Snape, and somehow, he was able to keep it away from his skin.
He ran his fingers through his hair, which was growing back, and he wanted to give in more than goddamn anything, but he held himself back and tried to fill his head with thoughts of the few things that made him happy and safe-
and then someone was sitting beside him. Harry didn't open his eyes, but as the figure gently pried the glass from his hands, with warm, confident fingers, he knew exactly who it was. Snape.
The figure didn't leave. The figure sat next to Harry until, in a shaky voice, Harry began to whisper.
" I'm okay."
"Harry?" Hermione asked one day in the Common Room. Harry looked over at his friend, smiling slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Are you working on Defense Against the Dark Arts? I don't understand this spell," she said slowly, tracing the picture in the textbook with her finger. Harry grinned at her.
"It's easy. You just have to flick then swish. Use your wrist, not your whole hand. It's a delicate movement," he replied, happy to have been of aid.
"Oh," Hermione said, and then- "Oh!"
Harry's heart warmed and he suddenly wondered why he'd never allowed himself to be this happy before.
Harry stared at Ginny, and he smiled a true, golden smile.
God, she was beautiful.
On the first of March, Harry, one last time, went to go see Snape.
"Hello, Sir," Harry said as Snape opened the door and invited the young Gryffindor inside.
"Potter. What brings you here?" Snape drawled, sipping at his tea. Harry shrugged, sitting down across from the older man.
"I don't really know, Sir."
"You look much healthier. Do you feel any better?" Snape asked, and Harry nodded slowly.
"I guess I just wanted to say thank you. For helping me," Harry mumbled, and Snape's lips twitched.
"You should thank yourself, Potter. Not me."
Harry then rolled up his sleeves, revealing hundreds of thin white lines. Scars, but nothing new. Snape stared at Harry's arms before meeting his eyes.
"Progress, Potter," he grumbled, and Harry found himself grinning as he rolled his sleeves back down.
"I haven't been perfect," Harry admitted, standing up and brushing his sweater and trousers off. "I've skipped a few meals. I've not gone to bed a couple of times. I've thought about razors and just letting go more than I probably should have."
Snape looked at the boy, really looked, and he saw a damaged Gryffindor, broken but slowly repairing, and he felt his skin warm.
Lily. Perhaps I haven't failed you.
"That's okay. You're okay," Snape said, because at the moment it was the most human thing he could say. Harry sniffed.
"I know."
Snape raised his eyebrows, causing Harry to smile.
"Anyway, I better get going, Sir-"
Snape stood up. Walked over to the boy. Took Harry's hand in his.
"Goodbye, Harry," he whispered.
"Goodbye, Professor Snape."
They stood in that same position for several seconds before Harry pulled away. And with a final look back, he opened the door and walked away.
My soul wandered, happy, sad,
unending.
- Pablo Neruda-