A/N: Hey everybody... This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction, and I'd really appreciate a review. :D
Note: This happens about six years after the seventh book, so there might be some spoilers.
Disclaimer: Not one of these characters belongs to me. They are all J.K. Rowling's property.
Enjoy!
And remember before you review: he is what is made of him. Sorry if he's a little out of character.
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"What She Doesn't Know"
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It was one of the desperately few things he hadn't told her. Only five secrets had never left his lips, and this was certainly the biggest. He sat behind the polished mahogany desk, preparing himself mentally. Every time she left he'd dip in and watch it all over again, watch everything that had changed his mind about...
He shook his head slightly, brushing away all outside thoughts, sobering himself. Turning in the swivel chair, he faced a beautiful glass cabinet he'd bought for his wife on their fifth anniversary, not too long ago. A rueful smile hinted on his lips, he thought of the party that had occured, the memorable celebration of their sucessful marriage after the fall of the Dark Lord. His hand tugged the cabinet door open and found a moderately-sized silver flask that looked as if it had seen better days.
The moment the flask had brushed his fingertips he was sober again, his smile replaced somberly by the thought of what was to come. His grasp on and general demeanor about the flask was ginger, almost revenant, as if he were in awe of something small and fragile, for in the flask slept the thing that had erased his doubt, cemented his respect, and elevated his trust...
Turning back to the desk, his eyes fell on the rune-covered stone basin almost immediately. It was somewhat large, taking up a good corner of his desk. Over the years he found it was rather useful and, to him, very important - though its importance lay in his thoughts, in the emotions he felt for it, instead of terms of actual use. It wasn't empty, silvery-blue swirls that were neither liquid nor gas lazily turning in their confines. Tenderly he pulled out each strand, placing them into a glass decanter that sat nearby.
When the basin was empty and the decanter nearly full, he sighed, pulling the basin closer and emptying the flask's contents into it. This one motion was so small, so simple, but so very familiar. He didn't know motion could hold such feeling in it - at least, not a motion this small. It was too... simple? for such a thing.
His eyes watched the strange substance swirl lazily around the basin, preparing himself. Everything he was about to do was so familiar, he could recite each word, imitate each action, emulate each emotion perfectly in his sleep without fail, yet he still felt some sort of heavyness whenever he was about to do it all again. This, his closely-guarded secret. This, his secret obsession, his stolen dream.
At first, everything was as it always was. After diving into the basin, he watched children talk, saw the origin of the hatred and the infamous nickname. He watched the two friends fight briefly and watched an accidental name slip lips as the owner was ruthlessly picked on. The resulting, harsh goodbye. The frightened pleas. The tearful promise. Everything was as it should be, set in stone and never faltering.
The memories began to replay, cycling back through the beginning. He found over the years that intense concentration - perhaps longing? - and a want - need - to see it all again would replay the memories, would continue the cycle without ejecting him. It was priceless knowledge, something he'd been so grateful to discover.
After the second cycle he began to notice it. Sudden skips and missing segments raised his panic. Each replay had longer gaps, each missing piece of memory replaced by white. Panicking, he found he was helpless to stop it. The hallowed halls of Hogwarts suddenly disappeared for good, leaving him in a white place that seemed to stretch forever. There was no way to tell direction or to distinguish one side from the other.
His stomach dropped and he swallowed hard, turning on the spot continually before facing what he assumed to be the same way he had been facing before. He found he was sixteen again, or, at least, was as if he'd just walked out of one of his own memories of school. Panic rose the bile in his throat. What if he were stuck here forever, trapped in the place between the memories of -
"Hello."
The voice made him jump, though, sudden as it was, it was quiet. It was the same voice that had lingered in his dreams and still haunted his memories, attached to every shadow he thought he saw and every silent room. It was the same voice that had always cut through him like a knife, cold and laced with a sneer.
He swallowed hard again, looking over his shoulder reluctantly.
This cannot be happening.
There, in the same large chair that had once sat in a dark office long ago, behind the desk it had once sat behind, sat the very man he had obsessed over for over six years now. Not twenty feet from him, cutting a stark black contrast to the deafening white, sat the greatest Potions master Hogwarts had ever seen, thin and pale and slightly ragged, wearing robes that covered his neck.
There, staring at him coldly, sat Severus Snape.
Slowly he walked towards the figure, his mouth slightly open in the sudden shock. How is this happening?!
"When one becomes greatly attached to a person's memories, the can enter a limbo state, the memories of the person attached mixing with the impression, knowledge of, and memories of the person attached to to create a sort of ghost. A vision, as it were. Sit."
Black eyes regarded him coldly, the voice quiet and emotionless. Snape waved a hand before him in a "please sit" gesture and a chair matching the desk appeared. He fell into it, still dazed, not noticing the fact there had not previously been a chair there and - admittably - not caring.
"So what are you then?" he blurted, unaware the "vision" had known his earlier question.
"What am I? What am I, Potter?" He seemed angered by this question, even hurt, glaring with an eyebrow raised. "I am what you make of me. A memory."
The answer was something he'd half-expect from Dumbledore, not Snape. Shaking his head slowly, Harry sat up straighter, realizing the tone of the man to be cold yet convincing, as if trying to convince himself.
"You're something more than that," he replied. "A ghost..?"
"If I were a ghost, boy, I wouldn't only reside in Pensieves and dreams," Snape replied irritably, his voice posessing the old snap. Harry smiled briefly.
"But you aren't just a memory," he argued. "You're something...more."
"That does not automatically make me a ghost," came the quick, pointed reply.
"You're dead."
His own reply came without thinking. Snape blanched slightly and sat back, having leaned forward before as if to strengthen his position in the matter. Long white fingers brushed the covered neck absentmindedly.
"Yes, Potter," he said, his voice quieter than before and laced heavily with an emotion Harry could not identify. "I am dead."
"So aren't reincarnations of dead people ghosts?" he spluttered loudly, trying to cover his embarassing mistake. Anything, he thought ruefully, to avoid another silence like that. It was disconcerting... and very awkward...
The unfathomable expression on Snape's face changed to annoyance again.
"Not always, boy," he growled, irritable again. "My being dead has got nothing to do with this appearance... well, not entirely."
Frowning, Harry regarded the persnickety Potions master with confusion. "What do you mean, 'not entirely'?"
An impatient noise. "Think, Potter! If I'm here through memories and emotions, what could that possibly mean, assuming I am no ghost?"
A moment passed and Harry found himself staring hard at the intricate molding on the bottom of the desk. A thought of Occlumency lessons floated through his mind and the white was suddenly replaced with Snape's office, complete with strange things floating in jars and a potion of the purest black simmering in a cauldron near the closed door.
He took no notice, as if it were natural, concentrating on the question. "You're... part of my ... mind? A... physical form?"
"Explain." Still cold. Harry swallowed.
"U-um... Well, because you.. you died... and gave me all of those memories, and because I saved them with a reason to watch them." He shot a nervous glance at Snape to see if he was right, but the Potions master was stoic looking and seemed not to notice. He struggled on. "So, because I've been -" -he avoided using the word 'obsessing' here, it seemed too much and he didn't want to believe it - "-coveting the memories, I've fed my own memories and emotions enough of you to create a physical form?"
A moment passed. Harry fidgeted under Snape's intense stare. Finally the man relaxed, his voice becoming a little less harsh.
"Very good. However, I am not a physical form of your memories but a physical representation of your emotions." A thoughtful pause. "Although, I'm not really all that physical... Technically, I do not...exist."
These muttered words seemed to be for Snape's own benefit, as if he were puzziling out his own appearance, but Harry caught every word. Somehow it seemed impossible for him to miss anything spoken here, as if every word was thought and all thought was one.
The sudden heavy deepness of this thought combined with the stifling silence made Harry uneasy. He shifted again in his seat, searching for a topic but unable to find words. Snape, however, who had been staring at his desk, seemed to snap out of his thoughtfulness, breaking the silence with an uneasy question.
"Well, Potter? Why?"
It was not his voice that was uneasy, no - his soft tones were curious, not nervous. It was the question itself, and every unsaid assumption behind it.
"Er... why what?" replied Harry lamely. He fought the urge to add 'sir', knowing full well "what" but wanting to stall in the foolish hope Snape had something different in mind. Harry felt foolish for asking and sunk in his chair.
"Why have you been here so many times?"
Harry blinked. "E-excuse me?"
"Why have you been dwelling so much on the past? Why have you been sneaking into my memories when no one is around? Why have you been... so obsessive?" There is was, that dirty word: obsessive. "Why is it you come here?"
Harry, who's head had dropped, snuck a glance at the Potions master. Any of the guilt or shame he felt was absent in the man's face, replaced by anger and pain. Ebony orbs were set on Harry in an intense stare, looking harsh and hurt. His voice had been low and dangerous, filled with curiosity and something stronger, as if he were ashamed of Harry. His hands were folded on the desk. The general air of the master was ... hard to tell. Concerned? Hurt? Angry?
"Well," started Harry, turning slightly pink and deciding on the truth. There was no reason to hide from this man. Not anymore. "At first it was for Mum, so I could see Mum."
"At first?" repeated Severus Snape coldly, without the hesistation gripping Harry.
"Yeah." He was trying so hard to quash the thoughts. "I wanted to see Mum again."
"At first," Snape said softly, as if to remind, his gaze intensifying. "Then...? What happened?"
"Well," Harry said slowly, dragging out the word, swallowing hard and fidgeting again. "I... started to have... dreams," he admitted in a quiet voice. It felt good in a way to admit this - it was the biggest thing he'd had to keep from her.
"Dreams," repeated the Potions master, his voice lifeless, a dark deadpan.
"Yeah. No matter... how hard I tried to stop them, I kept having these dreams."
"Dreams of?" Snape asked, but Harry paid no mind.
"I thought that if I stopped coming in, if I stopped the memories, I'd stop the dreams, so I did and, well, it worked for a little while..." Swallowing hard again, Harry continued, determined now not to look at Snape. "But then they got worse and worse and I couldn't control them so I came back..." A sheepish, weak little grin. "I figured out coming here stops the dreams, so I have been, ever since."
"Dreams OF?" asked Snape again, his voice quieter than before, holding an emotion Harry couldn't identify but was terrified of. The tone had made Harry look up at him suddenly, and he gasped, looking away quickly, but it was too late - !
Unbidden images burst into Harry's mind. Secret meetings in the library, detentions with no reason but for a good cause. Soft cold lips meeting his with lust and then tenderly, the feeling of surprisingly soft hair on his fingers. Sweaty bodies meeting in happy ecstasy, a simple falling into the arms of a cold and hidden and deeply loved comfort...
With another gasp he stood, breaking the rush of memories suddenly, the chair clattering to the stone floor. He was breathing hard, sweating slightly, and feeling very uncomfortable. Snape, however, was as calm as ever, though his face had whitened.
"I was watching them for you!" Harry cried, tears welling up in his emerald eyes. "I tried, I tried so hard to forget, to just stop the memories, but I... I just..."
Sobs took over and he fell to his knees, feeling no pain at impact but paying no mind.
"You.. tried to erase me," Snape stated flatly, his voice once more a deadpan.
"Yes! I had to... I was getting married, and I loved her, I loved her! I couldn't stay devoted to a lie, to a memory!" Harry looked up to the man, his eyes pleading. "You would have done the same..."
"I would not," replied Snape simply after a moment. "Do not assume you know me, Potter." He had made his voice harsh again, as if to cushion the blow to himself. "I would never."
This seemingly simple truth filled Harry with an inexplicable rage. His sadness disappeared, tears evaporating, as he stood, stalking over to Snape and grabbing the front of the man's robes, pulling him close.
"Don't LIE!" he roared, shaking with rage and slightly shaking the Potions master. "Not to me!"
Snape didn't reply, looking up at Harry unafraid. This made it all the worse. How dare he lie, how dare he destroy the trust, how dare he!
"I can't believe you'd LIE to me!"
Snape leaned forward. "I'm not lying," he said quietly, looking straight into Harry's eyes, which had filled with tears again, though they refused to fall. "I would never have hidden you."
They were so close... Their lips were so close...!
"Harry."
The word seemed disgusting. It hadn't come from Snape, however, and Harry looked up. Panic now replaced rage and he glanced at the ceiling.
"Ginny!" he whispered hurriedly, afraid. "How... How do I get out of here?!"
The question was shot at Snape, who had looked away at her voice.
"You have to want it," he said, his voice solemn, sad, quiet. It seemed to break. "You have to want to leave. You have... to let go."
Harry let go of the Potions master's robes slowly. "Won't you... won't you still be here?"
"No," replied Snape, his voice laden with a scary air of finality. "It would do well for you to forget anyways. You have to let go... of me."
"No!" started Harry loudly, his eyes allowing the tears to fall. Again he took hold of Snape's robes, the panic no longer at being found but at having to forget this man, as if letting go of the robes meant he'd disappear forever from all memory.
"Harry! Harry?!"
She was becoming frightened, frantic at his missing. Her voice was wavering as she began to search the house hurriedly.
"Go!" hissed Snape, pulling Harry's hands off his robes, taking his wrists, he looked like he had something to say, like he had something he wanted to do -!
But the Potions master merely shoved Harry from himself, turning away.
The sudden force knocked Harry off his feet. He fell backward with a yell, not connecting with stone but with soft leather. He was back in his study, back in the real world, out of memory. He felt only an overwhelming silence, a sadness that seemed to lace itself into his life and sober every thought.
The door opened suddenly.
"There you are!" cried Ginny, running to hug him. "What were you doing in here?! Didn't you hear me?"
"No... I'm sorry," replied Harry quietly.
"What were you doing?!" Ginny repeated crossly, hands on hips.
"Oh... just.. reminiscing," he replied solemnly, looking at the Pensieve.
"Honestly, Harry!" She was exasperated, placing a hand on her chest and glaring at him. "You really gave me a start!" Her tone, though angered, was relieved he was okay.
"Sorry...," he mumbled again, standing.
Still angry, she grabbed his hand and pulled him from the room. "We've got so much work to do for the baby - we have to get ready!"
"You've just gotten pregnant, though," he said absentmindedly. His thoughts were fixed on the last look on Severus's face, the fleeting glimpse of absolute sadness he had seen before returning.
"So? We have to prepared! I want it to be perfect..."
She'd pulled him to the fireplace, beaming over at him. He grinned back weakly. "Diagon Alley?"
Ginny Potter nodded, throwing powder into the grate, where green fire roared up suddenly.
Goodbye, he thought sadly as the emerald flames engulfed him, whisking him to London.
end