Author: Evelia
Email: kaptainsnot@hotmail.com
Rating: PG13 (rating may go up in future chapters)
Summary: Perhaps our heart's desires are meant to remain merely that; a dream. What happens when what we have always longed for is finally laid out before us, and will one recognize the difference, between the true and the illusive? Harry gains an unexpected mentor, and learns the craft of growing up.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: I cannot claim to be a religious person, but rather am interested in religion itself. Many Biblical writings are as bizarre as Greek myths, some tales told by the Jews or Christians I find are as fantastical as any children's story I might've heard. So one day, from the help of my eldest sister, we developed a plot that would mix both religion (of more than one kind), with legendary wizardry. While the first chapter shows only the bluntest of normality, I assure you, this story will develop in ways I myself know little of.
I hope you like what I have to give, dear Readers. I'll try my best and trust it's enough.
Chapter One
He was slowly enveloped in a thick wave of consternation, falling into a black abyss of forgotten secrets and the truth behind lies.
Sorrow seeped through every corner, and screams of pain reigned through all.
This is the place from which nightmares are made of, he thought. Of all things Dark and Evil.
"You are wrong," a voice said. "This is the place from which Hope is created, and laughs become tears, and tears become Joy."
"I told you Hermione. You have nothing to worry about. I'm perfectly fine." Harry's voice was now tainted dour with annoyance, and Hermione couldn't help but become even more alarmed. He was reading a book on legends of the Middle East, or trying to, anyway. More or less, he was glaring menacingly at the stiff, yellowed pages, and for a moment the young Prefect was sure he'd burn two holes straight through the cover.
She was simply worried, and with reason. Since the first day back at Hogwarts, Harry had behaved in a manner that implied the fact that he was troubled. To make matters worse, he was becoming rather sickly, and ate very little. That is, when he ate anything at all. In spite of all this, he seemed intent on not talking about it, giving flimsy excuses before suddenly grinning and talking Quidditch. In other words, Hermione was very upset, and was slowly coming to the conclusion that all of her efforts where entirely hopeless. Harry would speak only when he felt ready, and that was obviously not now.
This really was a side of Harry she wasn't used to seeing, and so wisely decided she'd let it go and end her questions. She was undoubtedly disturbed, however, and knew Ron had noticed as well. "Okay, Harry. Just---if anything's wrong, you know you can tell Ron and me anytime, right? That'sthat's what friends are for."
Harry closed the book quietly, and looked up into Hermione's dark brown eyes, which at the moment, swam with feelings of hurt and concern. "Hermof course I know. It's just--" how could he explain to them what they could never understand? That he was destined to carry out the weight of his past mistakes and clouded future, utterly alone? He couldn't. So he denied it instead. "--there isn't anything to discuss right now. Not really. But I will tell you if anythingcomes up, okay?" Those words. "I promise".
Hermione continued to look at him with that expression of uncertainty, before finally giving in. She smiled. "Alright Harry. WellI've got to go to bed now. You won't stay up too long, will you?"
He had opened the book again, and now briefly glanced up from the elegant letters, an amused smile gracing his lips. "No. I'm almost done, I think." A moment's silence. "Goodnight Hermione."
"G'nite Harry." He's lying. But what else could I do?
I have no choice but to trust him.
____________________
Damn. I'm late.
His footsteps echoed loudly down the dungeon corridors, as he desperately tried to get to Potions on time. Harry knew he was much too late, but he wasn't about to get more points taken from Gryffindor House than he really needed to.
When he finally reached the classroom, Snape was writing something on the board, his back to the students. Harry quietly slipped in between Ron and Hermione and took out his materials in haste. Maybe Snape had yet to noti-
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mister Potter." He slowly set down the small piece of chalk before turning to face him and the rest of the class. "What, pray tell, was so important, that it kept you from getting here on time?"
"Nothing, Professor. I simply lost track of the hour." Gods, he knew how pathetic that sounded. Unfortunately, he just couldn't for the life of him think of something better.
Snape continued to glare at him. To Harry's secret amazement, his scowl was even more obvious and hateful than before. "I see", he said softly. "You will come to me at the end of class. In the meantime, I suggest you catch up with the rest of your classmates, unless you wish to find yourself further behind than you already are."
Harry, flushed and angry, began to copy everything off the board. Bat's blood, crushed beetlestongue of dog, pulverizedHis hand worked madly, its grip tight yet careless, unknowingly earning a look of complete disapproval from Hermione's side. She, however, did not comment.
____________________
Potions passed by quickly, and all too soon Harry found himself walking up to
the Professor's desk. Figuring Snape was mad enough as it was, he merely stood
there silently, not daring to say a word.
The man in question finally put down his quill, looking up wearily into Harry's face. "Five years, Potter. And you have yet to learn a thing."
His student didn't have anything to say, or rather, didn't have the nerve to say it. Instead, he resigned himself to staring into the other's eyes, and trying hard not to shuffle his feet on the floor below.
Snape, however, was deep in thought. He had noticed Potter's change in behavior as well, and was beginning to grow quite suspicious. That is to say, more than usual. The boy seemed moredistant? Even his two sidekicks, Granger and Weasley, were acting differently towards him. They still sat together, of course, but something lay between them. A question of trust, perhaps? Whatever it was, even Dumbledore had taken notice.
Not that it was difficult, he mused. The boy hadn't a subtle bone in his body, and couldn't lie to save his life.
"You have a choice, Mister Potter. Either you have detention to serve for me tonight, or you tell me the truth concerning your whereabouts earlier this morning." Harry thought he saw something flicker in those black depths, but it could have been the light.
As for the question, he wasn't so sure. Detention with Snape was royal hell, and he didn't fancy the thought of spending his Friday night cleaning toxic jars, thank you. Then again, he couldn't possibly tell his Professor he had daydreamed for half an hour, falling asleep in a deserted hallway after more than a month of wakeful nights. Or could he? It was worth a shot, he decided. Anything, if it meant getting out of detention.
"II fell asleep, Sir." That wasn't what he had planned to say at all. Oh well.
Snape's eyebrows were raised high in disbelief. Surely the boy didn't think him that stupid. "Fell asleep?" he smirked. "Surely, Potter, even you can do better than that."
Great. He doesn't believe me. "I hadn't slept in days, Sir." His mind was running wild, and his tongue was out of line. At least, as far as he was concerned. All he needed now was to be laughed at and sent to Madame Pomfrey. He definitely didn't want to be there, of all places.
Snape, however, seemed intrigued. "Oh really? And why is that?" The Potions Master was surprised he had gotten this far in his little interrogation, and was determined to go on.
Harry broke into a cold sweat. This did not go unnoticed under the Professor's piercing gaze, but he decided to push him anyway. "I asked you a question, Mister Potter." He built a steeple with his long, thin hands. "And I expect an answer."
Every person has a weapon, a certain quality that can be of great use when known how to handle. It just so happened, that Professor Snape's was his voice. Velvety soft when needed to be, cold and demanding when he wanted something done. He could manipulate the sinful, persuade the headstrong, crush hopes and corrupt the young with a single word. Surely it had other purposes, but that they were less sinister is somewhat unlikely. Yes, his voice was indeed his weapon, and he wield it well.
In the end, it was this ability that finally earned him an answer.
"Nightmares, Sir." It was merely a faint murmur, but Snape caught it anyway. Harry, on the other hand, mentally slapped himself silly. He had yet to tell his two best friends this burden, his secret, and here he was, telling Professor Snape. Guilt, swallow me whole.
The Potions Master's eyes narrowed, first glancing at the dark shadows lingering under Harry's eyes, and then taking in his overall distraught appearance. After a few moments of internal conflict, he stood. "Come." With that he turned and walked over to the class storage. Harry followed him into the small chamber, and shivered as the air around him dropped some few degrees more.
Snape took out a small bottle, fingers entwined in an elegant yet leisurely manner. "Do you know what this is, Potter?"
Harry glanced briefly at it before answering. "Era Dreamless Sleep Potion."
Snape merely nodded, before reaching out his hand in order to give it to the boy.
Harry stared, transfixed. Had Snape gone insane? After a moment's hesitation, he too reached out and got it. The man then turned and walked over to his desk. Sitting down, he finally looked up to find that Harry had yet to move. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
Harry scurried out the room and over to the door. Fingers on the knob, he hesitated. Should he? Harry turned. "Thank you, Professor." Before he could get a response out of the startled man, he slipped through the doorway and closed it quietly behind him.
Snape looked down at his hands, wondering what on earth had possessed him. "You're welcome", he whispered.
____________________
"Seamus, you bloody cheat. That's not a valid rule!" Obviously, it
was not the first time Ron said this.
" 'Course it is." Seamus bit the head off his chocolate frog. "Ain't that right, Harry?"
The boy being discussed looked up from his Transfiguration textbook, and seemed startled at the call of his name. "What?" He glanced at Seamus, who was looking at him apprehensively. "Sorry Seamus. I wasn't listening"
The truth was, Harry wasn't reading at all. Every time he tried to, thoughts of Professor Snape's odd show of---caring? He laughed inwardly. No, he must be wrong. Snape wasn't capable of such a thing. Slimy, heartless monster, right? Even in his mind that statement sounded silly.
Maybe it's poison, he thought suddenly. NoEven Snape's not that bad.
unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand slips--
Memories of Snape's threat last year resurfaced in his mind, and he couldn't help but cringe.
--three drops could have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear--
He suddenly felt the urge to hide. An urge so strong, so overwhelming, he found himself somewhat lightheaded and weak. Missing Seamus' repetition of his former question, he gave a quick excuse before sprinting to the dormitories, heading for the boy's stairs.
Making sure to close the curtains, he jumped in bed and pulled the covers up to his neck. He was suddenly freezing. Tiredbut sleep was the farthest thing from his mind.
--three drops could have you spilling your-
/--Blood of the enemyforcibly taken--/
--innermost secrets-
/--you willresurrect your foe/
A sharp pain penetrated his scar, before leaving abruptly. Harry was left gasping for breath, his body still shaking with cold, and a fear he could neither explain nor comprehend.
/Kill the Spare/
It was with trembling hands that he finally took the small bottle from his robes. Holding in his breath, he easily removed the cork and drank deeply.
That night, Harry slept without a nightmare, and only saw darkness in his rest.
____________________
The Headmaster's office always gave off a certain warmth that Snape found rather
comforting, which was odd considering he preferred the dungeons for the very
opposite reason. Nevertheless, he felt at home here. Something he found incredibly
amusing, but would break someone's neck over if ever they said it aloud.
At that moment, Dumbledore walked in. He wore robes that, in Snape's opinion, could fit no one but the Headmaster himself. His pace was calm and steady, and his stature intimidating for a person of such age. Dumbledore had outlived so many, and outdid them all as well. Not only that, but he had the amazing ability to always get what he wanted.
"Hello Severus," his voice cheery. "I trust your first week was not too terrible." He sits down behind the large desk, and motions his hand for Snape to sit as well. "Tea?"
The Potions Master shook his head slowly before walking smoothly to a chair before the older man. He sat. "No thank you, Albus." Raising two pale hands to his head, he silently commenced to rub his aching temples. "Define 'not too terrible' ".
Dumbledore smiled. "Well, Mister Longbottom has landed in the infirmary a mere three times. If that says anything at all, it is that he is improving." He paused, looking thoughtfully at the brooding professor in front of him. "When were you last called, Severus?"
"That's what I came to tell you." His voice was more tired than anything. "I am beginning to worrytwo weeks have passed without so much as a word of news."
For the whole of a minute they each were lost in their own thoughts. At last, it was Dumbledore who broke the silence. "Do you suppose he suspects?" His voice was not as grave as one would have thought appropriate for such a question. However, Dumbledore was an awkward man, and Snape had long stopped being surprised by his many quirks. In fact, he rarely even noticed them.
Snape was staring out the window, the sky a burning red. He seemed to be deciding what way was best to answer. He sat there for a long time, and no sooner had the sun, a gigantic orange orb, disappeared behind the Forbidden Forest, that he spoke. "I don't think so. After my first night, I was back in the circle. The Dark Lord's servant once more." His gaze was deadly cold, and for a moment, his eyes seemed infinite. Pits of darkness with no end. "It is amazing, Albus. When he accepted me, when I kissed the hem of his robesit was as if nothing had ever changed." A sigh escaped his tinted lips. "I was in the fold again. He treated me as if I had never left at all."
Dumbledore's voice became unusually quiet. "Do not become such a great performer, Severus, that you forget it is merely a play." He gave a would-be reassuring smile. "Please keep that in mind. Do not overrule the fact that inside, you are indeed innocent."
Snape let out a harsh bark of laughter, bitter in all its glory.
Dumbledore was a strong person, of strong will, and of strong principles. His courage was amazing, and he never seemed to lose hope. However, deep down, Snape's reaction scared him. He was frightened, for this man before him, a man just as strong as he, looked nothing but defeated.
"Albus. That is one thing I am not." He stood and walked over to the door. "Innocence." His lips curled in distaste as the word left his mouth. "I ended with what little of it I had, for the rest was already stolen. I might be on the right side, but to say that cleanses me of my sins and wipes my conscience empty is another thing entirely."
Dumbledore stood. "Severus--"
Snape held up his hand. "Nevermind. It has been an exhausting week. Thank
you for having me, Albus." He opened the door, and without waiting for
a reaction from the other man, left the office.
The journey to his quarters was both fast and instinctive. It wasn't until he finally found himself sitting before a dying fire, that he noticed the folded parchment that lay on his desk.
Once opened, he immediately knew whom it was from. Potter's handwriting. His frown deepened, and his scowl was, as always, the prominent feature of his face.
Professor Snape,
I slept all of last night, and for that I have you to thank. Please except my gratitude. You have no idea just how tired I really was.
H.P.
He settled himself into the chair once more, not taking notice of the thin smile that had formed on his lips. Shadows played on his sallow complexion, and after a moment, he closed his eyes.
Well, he thought, that was unexpected.
____________________
When Harry woke up, the world was a pallet of blues and grays, dim and frosty
even in the common room. It was not a good day to spend outside, unless one
was a lover of bad times and enjoyed the act of savoring a foul mood. The world
was coming to know these days quite well, and Harry didn't like it at all. A
dark cloud was descending on them all, feeding on the remnants of what some
call hope, and destroying any chances of ignoring the evil that stirred within
the air itself, growing with every passing moment. It was, he thought, becoming
harder and harder to see a way out.
Today, however, would be different. Snape's potion had worked, and he suddenly felt extremely foolish for ever doubting that it would. It had done wonders. Sure, Harry knew he had needed sleep, and of course, he hadn't been feeling very wellbut this was beyond sleep. This was healing.
He felt the night leave him as he stepped under the shower, warm needles of pressure running over his bare skin. For more than a month he had fought sleep with all that he had, pushing this human need into the far corners of his mind. He knew that wasn't good, but he also knew his dreams were worse. Not only did he see Voldemort, in his greatest moments of hate and greed, but he also saw his victims, and what they went through before merciful death took them from their pain.
He saw the streams of blood running through homes as dead as could be, and muggleborn children crying in confusion. They have no part in this! he remembered screaming. He had woken up with his throat gone raw, and been locked up in the cupboard for waking the Dursleys. That had been the last night he really slept, determined to forget the blank eyes that gazed at him by the dozens. Eyes so much like Cedric's he thought he would vomit.
Ron had once shaken him during one of these fits, as he lay between restless sleep and stubborn wakefulness. He had seen the lines of worry etched on his friend's face, and lied about what he saw. What would Ron think, if he had told him that Death Eaters not only killed, but raped as well? And that they did it to both the grown and the young, not caring for all the world how much they hurt them, as long as it served as a show of their power? No, he would not end with Ron's childlike naivety, or shatter his beliefs of what he thought was happening beyond the safe castle walls. Harry had seen things no other fifteen year-old should have been allowed to see, and constantly experienced a burden of guilt no child should have to carry. So many things haunted him, and all he could do is keep them hidden from all others. Especially those he loved.
Most people grow up knowing what love is. Knowing what a bedtime story sounds like, or how it feels to be hugged. Most adults could remember their childhood with fond smiles, and most had parents that saw them with proud and shining eyes. Love being the center of what they had grown to know, it had kept them safe from all other things that could harm them.
Harry hadn't really known these things as a child, and when he actually saw such acts of kindness, they were met with utter perplexity.
Once, when he was five, Dudley had fallen from his bicycle, and Aunt Petunia had come running out of the house to help him. Harry had stood unnoticed on the sidewalk, and had watched as chubby cheeks were showered with kisses, and his cousin was hugged again and again for what seemed an eternity. Harry had been confused, and instead of being disgusted at this spoiled behavior, he had felt what he would later recognize as jealousy.
This show of affection had left him scarred, even if he himself did not know it. After much time had passed, this jealousy slowly turned into hate, hate for something he had never really understood.
During his infancy, he had been afraid of the dark. It was something quite normal, for when he finally left it behind him, Dudley had not. However, that was merely because Dudley was not forced to live in a closet, becoming almost part of the dark, as Harry once had.
In the cupboard, he had experienced fear that only a few could comprehend. How could he forget the countless times he had spent the night crying, his voice a shrill noise that merely scared him all the more? The cupboard had not only been his room for ten long years. It had been a chamber made for torture. Torture, for a two year-old to sleep in a hole-of-a-room filled with cobwebs and forgotten trash, to be among the spiders and the worn out bedspreads, when his cousin was bought new ones twice a month.
Harry barely remembered any of this, and yet in a wayall these things remained on his mind, always. It was his life, his past, as terrible as it was, and it was therefore part of his being. Those times were now over, buthe suspected that worse would soon come. He wasn't ready for it, but had that ever stopped Voldemort before?
For now, at least, he had something else on his mind. How could he thank Snape, without actually seeking him out? The idea of telling the man how much it meant to him was utterly ridiculous, and the whole of Slytherin House finding out wasn't to his liking either. Thus, Harry came to the conclusion that writing him a note was indeed the best choice.
The majority of that day was spent almost like the years before. Hermione reading on the carpet, with Crookshanks curled up on her legs; Ron and Harry sitting right next to her, eating candy and finishing their essays. Nothing of great importance had been said, and Harry was grateful for it. He merely wanted to drink in his friend's presence, as if to last him for the years to come. Their happiness was noticeable, like an aura of light shining through their skins, making their faces glow in the firelight. Harry didn't realize exactly why they were happy, didn't really know that they laughed because of him, because he seemed so much better, so much more like the old Harry, the one they loved and preferred. But he didn't care.
It was that afternoon that he slipped into the Potions classroom, quickly placing the note on the Professor's desk. Perhaps he wouldn't get yelled at, and perhaps the man would keep his mouth shut. For now, however, all that mattered was that his head no longer hurt, and the voices had nearly all gone away.