Chapter 9: Nightmares
Harry Potter was having nightmares. At least, that's what he preferred to call them. While his actual dreams had no normal qualities that nightmares often posses—fear, pain, terror, hatred—when he awoke he found himself in such a state of confusion and shock, abject horror and misery, that he could call the dream nothing but a nightmare.
However the correct term, when he was being honest with himself, was fantasy. Or perhaps 'erotic dream'. Either way, Harry Potter wasn't too honest with himself in this particular area. In fact, he refused to even think the word 'fantasy'. The word remained a primordial pressure in the back of his skull—pushing to be recognized, insisting on its existence, but never fully realized.
The reason he refused to recognize these nightmares for what they were was the unusual—even abhorrent—subject matter.
And so, Professor Snape became a prominent figure in Harry's nightmares. It wasn't surprising, Harry would tell himself. The man is the bane of my existence—why wouldn't he be a fixture of my nightmares?
When the small, insistent voice of rationality pressed in on him to take a closer look, he ignored it. Snape is my enemy, and thus I have nightmares about him. Perfectly natural. Even if I'm dreaming about him in a…sexual light, well, that's a nightmare in itself, isn't it? Actually, I think they call it rape.
And thus did he delude himself.
The nightmares—or fantasies—were nowhere near as explicit as 'rape', in all actuality. In fact, had Harry been concerned about proper terminology in his self-imposed fabrication, he would certainly have used the term 'molestation', perhaps even simply, 'harassment'. For the dreams were fueled purely by—repressed—memories of Harrys. The way he had felt a sudden thrill in their most recent verbal battle, the way he had began to contemplate Snapes intensity. These small occurrences were embellished and elaborated upon in his dreams, but his subconscious never went beyond dark and terrible glimpses of what could happen. And to Harry's relief, all this made it even easier to lie to himself. He wasn't even gay, so why would the dreams be anything but nightmares?
The first week of summer had passed, for the most part, uneventfully. Hermione, Draco, and Harry took extended and exhaustive courses in anything that could possibly be relevant to their survival of the impending war. More advanced Herbology, Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, History(though, only recent, relevant history, which the three actually found fascinating), Care of Magical Creatures, Runes—everything they might possibly need. Snape taught Harry Occlumency/Legilimency Tuesday-Thursday, while Hermione and Draco spent their evenings together, and alone.
The Potions lessons were different than the school-year ones. Snape no longer pampered Draco, and Draco learned that he wasn't much better at Potions than Harry, which he admirably took in stride. While Snape still managed to be aloof and cool, even nasty, he concentrated more on teaching than harassing Harry, and Harry soon found that he enjoyed the challenge potions presented him.
Hermione had invited Harry to the musical Les Miserables, with her parents, scheduled for Tuesday night. Harry was disheartened—there was no way that Snape would excuse him from Tuesday night's lesson, but he needed to try anyway. Thus he took himself down to the dungeons Sunday night, ready for battle.
"Sir?" He called as he knocked on the door.
"Enter." He did so and found his professor sitting at the desk in the corner, writing on a very long piece of parchment. Harry stood respectfully aside, waiting for the man to pause, or finish. He didn't want to annoy the man now, not when he had a favor to ask. Luckily he didn't have to wait long—Snape put his quill aside with a sigh and looked up.
"Can I be of some assistance, Mister Potter?" the biting, sarcastic tone made Harry wince. This was not going to go well.
"Sir, I was wondering if you might excuse me from Tuesday night's lesson, and perhaps I could make it up on Friday, or even Monday. You see, Hermione has invited me to see Les Miserables with her and her parents." He cut himself off. He had wanted to say that it was a chance he rarely had, but he knew Snape would no doubt jump on that, assuming Harry was going for pity.
"And in your arrogance, I'm sure you assume that I have nothing better to do with my time on Mondays or Fridays." Snape looked foreboding. Actually, he looked like he was building up to an explosion. He wasn't the only one. Harry was working on a quick boil, and it was him, and not Snape, who exploded first.
"Can't you fucking just SEE ME for a change?" Harry shouted, simultaneously shoving nearly eleven years of memories into Snape heavily barricaded mind. Images of Harry flashed through both of their minds—Harry in his cupboard, Harry coking, Harry cleaning, gardening, taking beatings, going without food. Harry without friends, being excluded, being laughed at, being chased, being ridiculed, teased, and tormented. Harry crying, Harry lonely Harry hurting. All in rapid succession. When it was over, Harry was breathing hard and felt faint—it was quite an effort to do what he had done, and he hadn't even known he had been able to do it.
"Very good Potter. Tell me, do I need to make you angry for you to succeed in our lessons? Because if that is the case, then I can think of a numerous amount of ways to get you…riled." Snape sneered—an expression of such complete loathing it nearly took Harry's breath away.
"I can see you're a man completely devoid of compassion, or any other human tendencies. Forgive me for ever doubting it." Harry said with such a deeply returned amount of anger that, had rage not already been in complete control of him, he might have been surprised at himself. With that he turned on his heel and left the room.
"Tuesday, 8'oclock," Snape called after him, apparently completely unaffected.
Harry was fuming. Had he really been so…so fucking stupid to think that Snape—Snape!—would be able to empathize, be able to understand why Harry needed the infrequent but vital social activity? What the fuck is wrong with me? He thought to himself, trying to get a grip on his rampaging emotions.
And really, like the git couldn't move whatever he had planned for Monday/Friday to Tuesday if he wanted to! Not like he had anything planned. He was a bloody loner, without friends or a social life. And he had to inhibit Harry's social life just to be a bloody prick.
He got halfway down the hall before he was forced to stop and take out his anger on the nearby, innocent wall. Fucking great. Just fucking bloody perfect. He was finally away from the Dursleys and he still didn't have a fucking social life. Hermione and Draco spent most of their free time together—this outing was supposed to be for him, his and Hermiones friendship. His social life. And he'd shared most of his fucking life with the goddamn bastard—true, not the really bad stuff, but bad enough! How insane had he become?
Fucking prick.
Harry was prompt to his Tuesday night lesson, not for any particular responsibility he felt towards his Professor, but rather because he had nothing better to do. At least he manages to piss me off every time, he thought to himself with a bit of morbid humor. It can't be said he doesn't elect passionate responses…
That thought led him to thinking about his nightmares, and he quickly brushed it away. None of that, he told himself.
He entered the living room when he was given permission, and Snape was standing near the fire, an uncharacteristic —so Harry thought—glass of firewhiskey in his hands. When Snape heard him enter, however, he quickly set aside the glass on the small bar and began talking—all of this so fast that Harry didn't have the time to consider the strange occurrence of spirits.
"The Headmaster has asked me to instruct you on certain things that you will need to know in order to face this war. While I have argued that you are too young, the man insists that events are already moving ahead of us, and that you have already seen much—too much, for a child your age." This was uncharacteristic as well—Snape never explained his motives. Harry began to feel uneasy, but the mention of his being too young had made him defiant, as well.
"What exactly do these lessons…entail?" He asked, almost hesitantly. The firewhiskey and Snapes odd explanation had made Harry cautious—how bad could the lessons be, to make this man—this man—cautious when approaching them. Even…nervous? Perhaps…hesitant?
"We will start with the unforgivables. You need to be able to withstand the Imperious and the Crutiatus, as well as cast all three of them. Not that I think you'll be able to manage most of it, but that will be where we begin." Harrys face had taken on a serious cast. He knew the gravity of the war—the amount of death and pain it would entail. The amount of resolve it would take, for him, personally, in order to help them win in. That amount of resolve had to be enough to fuel his unforgivable curses.
"I understand, sir." Snape gave him a mocking smile.
"Do you? Before we begin with the unforgivables, let's talk about the war. Why do you want to fight The Dark lord and his followers?" Harry very nearly spluttered.
"Because—he's evil! They're evil! He killed my mum and dad and so many other people—rape and slaughter and—" Snapes glare cut him short.
"Really, Mister Potter? So, to follow your line of reasoning, if you were to think me evil, it would be acceptable to kill me?" Harry looked apoplectic.
"No—" He took a deep breath, stood a minute to think. "It's because—this is a great evil. Because if we don't fight, the world will be cast in the shadow of darkness for a very long time. Because if we want to preserve things like love, and honor and goodness, we have to kill the ones who would desecrate all things pure, for no other sake than death. Because…because they fight for death, and we fight for life. Lives lost, as well as those still standing, still being born, still living." Harry was breathing heavily when he completed his speech, and he also looked vaguely proud of himself for something so well-composed. Snape was surprised as well, but he didn't show it.
"Very eloquent, Mister Potter. So do you believe you can kill other people—other human beings—if necessary to preserve other lives?" Harry gave a firm, resolute nod.
"I know I won't be able to, at first. I know I'm still…innocent. But I want to learn, and I need to know. I trust you to teach me what I need to know—I trust your judgment." Snape felt affronted. He probably even looked it a little bit, because Harry rushed to explain.
"I mean, I don't trust you on everything. But you're certainly the only person who knows this much about this subject."
"Indeed," Snape responded snidely. Good think the brat had followed up with an explanation—the man didn't need any reason to feel inclined towards the boy.
"So, what…first?"
"First you will withstand the Crutiatus curse until you can last three minutes without going into muscular spasms or muscular atrophy."
"Three minutes?"
"Ten minutes is the longest record—be glad I'm not forcing you to that. As it is, most people cannot withstand even one without becoming paralyzed. You must build a tolerance, and few people are inclined to do so, for obvious reasons. However it might become necessary for you to be able to make a quick retreat after three minutes of the curse, and Voldemort will not be expecting you to have a tolerance."
"That's actually…a great idea. Who holds the record?" Snape was moving pieces of furniture to the sides of the room, to clear a large empty space in the middle.
"I do." There was a smirk even in his voice, with his back turned and everything!
"No wonder." Harry said dryly, smirking himself.
"Enough. Crucio!"
And thus Harrys evenings became very long and torturously painful.
Two weeks later, Harry lay panting on the plush carpet of Snapes living room.
"You're improving. 4 minutes." Snape delivered in a brusque tone as he paced back and forth near Harrys head.
"Can we...make it five?" Harry said through gasps of air.
"Glutton for punishment, are we?" As one might guess, Harrys nightmares had gotten worse with such remarks as they became more and more frequent—prompted by Harrys stubborn wish to exceed 3 minutes on the Crutiatus curse.
"No...I just…want to be…prepared." Snape nearly snorted.
"You realize your tolerance level must be…maintained." He commented.
"Fuck me." Was Harrys exasperated and disheartened response.
"Riveting vocabulary, Mister Potter, as always. However I suggest you restrain from using that particular exclamation around you little…fan-girls." Harry winced.
"Uhg! So this means you're going to have the pleasure of torturing my poor helpless form for, what, three more years? At least? Why did we start this now?"
"To prepare you. You could easily be put under this curse as soon as this school year. And…also because this is the least painful of the lessons I have been ordered to teach you." Passing over the thought that Snape wanted to spare him, Harry responded with sarcasm.
"What, there's stuff more painful than this?" He hadn't moved from the floor—his body was still reacting to the four-and-a-half minutes of physical torture.
"Psychological and emotional pain tend to be more lasting than physical, Potter."
"Oh." Now he understood. "C'mon, let's shoot for five minutes."
"Potter, you're already able to throw off the Imperius curse completely, you can cast both on spiders transfigured into children, but you still haven't been able to perform the most critical, even on spiders in their natural form. Once you get that last down, I would be happy to crucio you into oblivion. Now get up." Harry groaned, but he rose. It was true, what Snape said. He had been able to force himself to use the first two unforgivables, but he had a block about the last.
"Maybe…" Harry mused as he massaged his lower back, "Maybe if you made me angry, you know, I could do it. Just to start. Just to get over this block I have." Snape thought about it.
"I've restrained from doing so thus far because I don't want you to get so angry you kill me. Tell me, why do you think you have a block about this particular curse? You've surprised both the headmaster and myself with your resolve to learn the first two. Why this one?" Harry looked down.
"Because I can remember that night. I can remember…my mother, screaming my name. 'No, not Harry, please not Harry!'." He took a ragged breath. "Because I can see that green light, in my dreams. Because I know death—and I am loathe to re-create it." Snape was struggling to get ahold of his emotions. Neither of them had mentioned Harry's parents—ever. And Lily…Lily had been Snapes one, true friend. The vivid image Harry painted was enough to send wracking pain through him, accompanied with shame, guilt, and loss.
"Shouldn't have asked." Snape mutter gruffly, and Harry looked curiously at his professor. The man wore his usual mask, but his eyes…his eyes held some emotion Harry could not name. The mention of his parents—and, more specifically—his mother, had elected a response from this man—a feat that that Harry had thought impossible. He felt uncomfortable again, and to break the uneasy silence that had sprung up, he spoke more loudly than was necessary.
"Sorry. Shouldn't have been so detailed, so personal. Anyway, lets try making me angry. I don't think I'd cast it on you, professor. I'm going to need your help in this war. I'll remember that." Snape nodded.
"Fine. We'll give it a try."
"You're stalling, god damnit!" Harry finally burst, four weeks in to the summer.
"Excuse me?" Snape asked coldly, not looking up from his parchment.
"You're stalling. I've been able to shake the Imperius for weeks, I've got the Crutiatus down at six minutes, I can Avada Kadavra a spider transfigured to look like my dad in a fucking second. I'm ready! Let's step it up! Dumbledore thinks I need to know whatever it is you have to show me, and you're prancing around it like a cat around a mouse. Show me, for Gods sake! What, do you care so much about me that you don't want me to know? FUCK!" Snape stood swiftly, disposing of his quill as he advanced on the disheveled boy before him. Harry, knowing he had gone too far, steadily backed up for every step Snape took forward, but soon he was against a wall. That didn't stop Snape. He took the boy by the throat and shoved him against the hard, cold wall, snarling in his face.
"You want to see, you impudent boy? You could not even dream what I've seen—not in your worst nightmares."Snape was growling, and Harry, frantic, said the first thing to come to mind.
"Funny—my nightmares all center around you!" he yelled. The mere mention of his nightmares had begun a chain reaction that Harry was unable to halt. Being pressed between the wall and Snape as he was, the mental wall he had built in his mind began to crumble, then utterly collapse as his 'nightmares' flooded his conscious mind. Horrified, Harry felt himself growing hard against his Professors leg, and he closed his eyes in utter embarrassment. Even stranger, he felt a similar hardness growing against his belly. Just as he realized exactly what was happening, Snape spoke again, with vicious pleasure and equal rage.
"You want to see, little boy? Then see," And with that a torrent of images thrust themselves into Harrys mind, more controlled, detailed, and elaborate than his attack on Snape had ever been. His consciousness of the real world quickly dwindled, and soon he was entirely immersed in a memory.
-~!~!~!
A young, beautiful woman and her unmistakable daughter stood, chained to a dirty wall in a large, well-lit basement. The woman could not have been more than twenty-six years of age, and the daughter, not above twelve. A small group of Death Eaters, mask-less, formed a semi-circle around them. Lucius Malfoy, and four others Harry could not name, then Snape himself, whose eyes Harry saw through.
"Our Master gave us full leave," One of the nameless Death Eaters said with glee, a malicious grin painting his ugly face.
"Correction, Aminous. The Dark Lord gave Severus and I full leave. You, on the other hand, are allowed only the remains." Lucius smirked at Snape, sharing the pleasure of the take town. Snape smirked in return.
"Awwwe c'mon Lucy—"
"Do not call me that." The other man said with such formidable loathing that Aminous fell immediately silent. "Well, Severus? Shall we begin?"
"Indeed, my friend." Snapes voice held sadistic pleasure for the impending torture.
After, Harry became confused and disoriented. While the memory was still clear and vivid with detail, he was no longer able to process it—no longer able to comprehend—and thus it came to him as flashes of images and disembodied voices.
"Here, my dear Lucius. I know you prefer the younger ones. Take her, before I do." That silky, beautiful voice that Harry had often heard in his dreams…
"Why…thank you, Severus." A knowing smirk.
Blood. Horrifying images—things Harry didn't even know were possible. And very, very slow death.
LET ME OUT! He screamed at Snape, to no avail. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Snape released him from the memory.
"Do you see now, Harry?" Snapes voice was scathing but ragged. It had taken effort to force such a long and detailed memory into an unwilling subject.
Harry was gasping, now sitting against the wall as Snape stalked away from him, tears streaming down his face, unnoticed. He slowly curled up into a ball, gasping and shaking, against the hard, cold floor.
"How—how—" he tried to speak, but it wouldn't come between the rapid breaths.
Snape was beginning to feel a great weight settle on him. It had been too soon—far too soon—for that particular memory. He had lost his temper—terribly—and then the curious incident that occurred directly before he had shared the memory had disoriented him to such an extent that he pushed even harder—nothing made him angrier than confusion. Now, while he didn't regret sharing the memory—they would have come to it sooner or later, and there was no use in coddling the boy—he regretted that he had shared it in a fit of anger. He berated himself for losing control. Never had he lost control…until this boy had arrived.
Finally, with much gulping, Harry was able to get the words out.
"How can you stand it?" he asked, obviously stupefied by the amount of severe self-control and concentration it must take for Snape to be a double-agent in the war.
"Maybe I enjoy it, Potter," Snape snapped, yet again unable to restrain himself while he wrestled his emotions under control.
Harry was quiet, and Snape turned to him, still enraged.
"Get out, Potter."
"But—"
"Get OUT!"
Harry quickly fled.
A week had passed, with Snape in complete absentia. Finally deciding that he needed to address the most recent lesson, and its ensuing effects, Harry decided to write Snape a letter. He had contemplated and gone over every detail of their last lesson, and had come to some very harsh—even cruel—conclusions.
When he had finished writing the letter, he handed it to Dobby, who 'most assuredly assured' him that it would reach Professor Snape, seal in-tact.
Good then.
Severus was surprised to find Dobby the house-elf waiting for him in his living room. For the past week he had done nothing but read, write several papers for different academic reasons, brew potions, and drink. Heavily. Now, as the house-elf handed him a sealed envelope, he wondered if Albus was checking in on him in a round-about and obscure way. With a slight prick of curiosity, he sat down at his desk and unsealed the letter as Dobby vanished.
Dear Professor Snape,
I have contemplated our recent lesson with the severity I imagine you might devote to a complex potion, and I am writing now to share my conclusions and to plead for a recommencement of our lessons.
I will start from the end of our lesson, and work our way backwards.
In response to your scathing comment; 'perhaps I enjoy it.'—well, perhaps you do. You wouldn't be the first sadist to exist, nor the last. But I doubt very much that you wanted to do what you did in the first place, and that's the crux of it, isn't it? I've had a long time to contemplate (for more personal reasons) the difference between enjoyment of such acts, and actually wanting them, and I believe there is a difference. If a masochist is brutalized and raped by a stranger—and they enjoy it—does that mean they wanted it? I think not, and I think it is also true of the reverse—for sadists. Now, whether or not you are sadistic is entirely your own affair—perhaps you said what you did simply to disgust or repel me. But there is my response, in case you were serious.
Secondly—the memory itself. I was shocked, yes. Horrified. I'm afraid that memory, and, if our lessons continue, many others, will forever stay with me. However, it was also insightful. I understand why I must see these things in preparation for the things to come. Undoubtedly I may even be forced to witness such things being done to people I know, god forbid, people I love. I need to be prepared. Moreover, I understand that it was not your intent to force such brutal a memory upon me for the first one. I provoked you to it and I take full responsibility, and I do not blame you.
Lastly, I want you to know that I respect you, and the work you do for the Order, and for me. I am not unaware of the ways in which you have denied danger—even death—from shadowing me. I also found respect for you in fourth year, with the way you approached the minister in the hospital wing. Even more now, when I am aware of the things you must do in order to maintain your place as a spy—a desperately needed spy—in Voldemort's inner circle. I have denied these feelings of respect and—to be honest—admiration within myself because it was far easier to simply hate you. After the past month, I can no longer lie to myself on that matter, and I hope that this honesty from me might compel you to return it in kind—though I'm aware you likely will not. I feel better for being honest, so I suppose that's all that matters. I understand better now why you ac the way you do—towards me, and others—and I will attempt to remember that understanding in the future. Perhaps we may even form—dare I say it—a truce of sorts.
I hold nothing against you and I would like to resume our lessons as soon as possible. Whatever has kept you from doing so thus far, I hope this letter has addressed those issues.
-Harry
PS: I know I'm more eloquent in writing, you need not comment on it.
Snape sat for a moment, practically dumbfounded at the amount of careful thought, eloquence, and deliberation in the boys letter. Who knew he had the brains?
Granted, he had been given a week to compose the letter, but it was still a remarkable piece of writing, especially for a fifteen-year-old. Severus found himself intrigued by the mention of 'personal reasons' in the letter, as well as the Harry Potter that the letter revealed—a deeper understanding. He also found it curious that Potter did not mention—or even hint at—the odd occurrence that took place before the sharing of the memory; the mention of nightmares that turned drastically into arousal, on both of their parts.
Contemplation, he reminded himself, is not healthy.
Sighing, he knew he now had no reason to keep their lessons suspended. He penned a hasty reply.
Tomorrow, usual time.
And that was all.
A/N: what do you think? This will be it for a while, until I get more reviews on chapters 7-9. I need some feedback before I keep going, but I have some ideas that you readers should find –quite—delectable. :P Please review!