Chapter 2
Harry was not good at controlling his emotions. Forget about control – Harry wasn't even any good at deciphering his emotions. He had seen once, on the telly, a shot of a giant rubber band ball – all wrapped around each other – jumbled. He felt like that most of the time. That his emotions were wrapped around each other and he couldn't figure any of them out. The most he recognized were the physical signs of his emotions – the pounding heart, the tear-pricked eyes, the urge to yell – or sometimes even hit something. Or someone. More often than not, Professor Snape. Few people or situations could evoke the rubber band mess like that man. Sometimes Harry got so overwhelmed he couldn't even see straight. Snape treated him so unfairly. But Harry was used to it: the Durselys, Snape, Umbridge, Voldemort. Harry decided he was a magnet for injustice. What he didn't understand was why with Snape, it was like he lived off the emotional high the man gave him. The fear, the anger, everything associated with a Snape encounter, it was like Harry craved it. He knew it was unhealthy, but what could he do?
It was this unhealthy addiction Harry attributed his actions to that evening. As Snape lay dying in the Shrieking Shack, Harry knew he should be cheering the man's death with both hands. Instead, he found himself Accioing the dittany from Hermione's beaded bag and a bezoar from somewhere. He shoved the stone down Snape's throat with one hand and poured the liquid onto the wounds with the other. If Hermione or Ron said anything, he didn't hear them.
"Stay with him," Harry commanded his two friends as he grasped the vial of memories and made his way back up to the castle.
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Harry sat in an uncomfortable armchair by the hospital bed. He had his arms crossed so he wouldn't fidget as he engaged in a silent staring battle with the bed's occupant. Things had gone from bad to worse and Hermione had had no choice but to Portkey herself, Ron, and the Professor to St. Mungo's, where she insured he would be cared for with the highest level of attendance and security provided before she and Ron returned to the castle. And now Harry sat across from the man. He looked oddly frail and dangerously human in the hospital gown and against the sterile white sheets. So used to seeing the man in black, Harry assumed the cause for his feelings of discomfort. Clearly tired and unwilling to fall asleep with Potter within arm's reach, Severus broke the stalemate.
"Why are you here, Potter?" His voice was tenuous at best, and Harry had to nearly strain to hear him.
"I had to see for myself that you weren't dead." Harry thought that was a plausible substitute for his real answer, which would have been a combination of 'I don't know' and 'Because the adrenaline I get from you screaming at me and making me feel terrible is like some ridiculous drug that I've been without for what feels like forever.'
"Well, I trust I have satiated your doubt. Now, if you don't mind, I believe I am under strict orders from the healers," he said the word with a twist of sarcasm on his lips, "to rest as much as possible. Feel free to leave at any point."
"I have your memories," Harry blurted out after a short pause. "If you want them back."
"What memories?" Severus snapped, trying to sit up as if he could throttle Harry.
"The ones you gave me in…in the Shack. You don't remember?" Harry shifted in his seat, interested in the new development.
"Don't be daft. I remember giving them to you, but seeing as how they are no longer in my head, I don't know which ones I gave you. It is possible I do not want them returned." Severus settled back against the pillow, eyeing Harry with a look that would have passed for vitriol, if he hadn't been recovering from a near-fatal wound.
"Well," Harry hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. "Some of them were of you and my mum, others were with Dumbledore…" he trailed off at the sight of Snape's hand raised a few inches off the bed in what appeared to be a signal to halt.
"Enough. I will take them back," he nodded minutely.
Harry reached into his robe pocket to draw out the vial.
"Not now, you idiot boy, can't you see I am in no fit state to have memories dumped back into my head? We'll have to arrange a meeting after I am out of hospital."
"Right, well, erm," Harry shifted in his chair again, unsure of what to do with his hands.
"Go," Snape said with undisguised impatience. "I would like to sleep. Alone."
"Erm, sure," Harry said, rising from the chair and heading for the door. "I'm glad you're…getting better." In the absence of a response, Harry made his way into the hall, but halted when he heard Snape's voice.
"Potter," the soft sound didn't carry. Harry turned in the doorframe, his features covered in shadow from the backlight of the hall. "Why in God's name did you save me?"
Harry's mouth opened, but no sound came out, since there was no answer to speak. Finally, he decided on the truth. "I don't know." And before he could earn any more of the drug he craved, he turned and left the private room.
