Chapter 20: Control and losing it

Summary:

Controlling emotions

Controlling others

Controlling magic

Controlling reactions

Losing control of curiosity

Losing control of your words

Losing control of yourself

...in that order

Notes:

Oh my word!

You guys all deserve chocolates. Honestly.

I did not expect any response as I had left the fic so long, but so many of you have left comments, and Kudos, and even reread the whole fic (which again, I suggest because MANY changes have been made :P).

I feel honored, so here's my thanks in the form of a quick chapter update!

Thank you for all your birthday wishes!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Harry has had an odd week.

Severus has run hot and cold, and Harry can't decipher his actions. At some points, he is walking on eggshells around her. He keeps moving slowly in a manner that, it is painfully obvious, is aimed at not making her flinch. He's barely spoken to her, like he has forgotten how, now that he feels he shouldn't snark. His well-known prickly exterior showing only insofar as his now total inability to socialise with her. At other points, seemingly at random points in the day, to Harry's utter consternation, he'll sooth his hand over her back, or pull her into a hug. He even complimented her dicing skills when they made calming draught for Poppy. /Snape/. Compliment /Harry/. Over potions, of all things.

Harry was fairly certain that was the highest honour of which Severus was capable.

The back pats were comforting at first, as much as she'd hate to admit it. She didn't know how to speak to him either, and she was so seldom shown affection, that she felt positively doted on by this upsurge in 'comfort'. For the first time in her life, however, she was starting to understand why Ron, for instance, got sick of being shown affection by his mother. She doesn't want it to stop. Not really. She does however want him to stop treating her like something wounded. Severus could always be relied upon to be a snarky git, so this forced persona was irritating in the extreme. It did nothing to abate her sense that to him, this was still an act.

He still hadn't let her see his emotions as he had a few nights ago, and it was starting to feel like she had imagined it. She certainly no longer trusted that he gave a damn for her sake. His obvious pretence was eating at her. The only benefit to all of this was that he had not once, since the discovery after the new moon, attempted to question Harry about the Dursleys.

There were also the dreams: since the odd dream about the door at the end of the long, dark, corridor, Harry had opted not to take dreamless sleep for another night, in the hopes that she might again see it, and perhaps, even see past it.

She had seen the door, and woke again with a pounding heart. When Severus had tried to question her, she had been elusive, and he quickly gave up. If he wanted to be secretive – well she could be too.

For some reason, she felt the urge to doggedly guard this particular, seemingly insignificant secret about the dream. She told no one, not even Dray, and went back to taking dreamless sleep most nights, to halt any cause Severus might have to question her in the future.

Then there was her magic. After cracking the stone walls of the charms class with an aguamenti the day after discovering the strengthened bond, she decided it was best not to attempt spells for the time being. If the teachers notice that she is no longer practicing magic, they say nothing.

Ron and Hermione are gigantic flobberworms, as Dray is fond of calling them. They haven't so much as looked at her since Harry kissed Hermione, and Harry has very nearly convinced herself that she doesn't care. Nearly.

There are two bright spots in the stormy sky that has become her life. The smaller is that Neville, Ginny and Luna have started speaking to her again. By far, the brightest spot however, is Malfoy.

They sit together in every class they share, Malfoy usually giving an admittedly hilarious running commentary on the goings on, or muttering truly idiotic puns under her breath, or writing them on a spare bit of parchment that she leaves between them. It's like she has made it her personal mission to lose Gryffindor house points, by making Harry laugh.

"And there goes that gormless idiot, Thomas, too busy swooning over a clearly disinterested Brown to realise that he's about to lose his finger to the fanged geranium he's supposed to be pruning. I suppose no thumb is better than a black thumb."

Or:

"Unlike Finnigan, Potter, I don't need his prodigious skill in pyrotechnics to blow your mind". This comment was accompanied with much eyebrow wiggling.

Drays 'humour' is enough to induce an aneurysm.

XXX

"Cast again, Harry." Snape says, standing in the centre of the room Harry had called 'the room of requirement'. "before you do, I want you to visualise your magic again."

Harry's eyes are closed, a look of intense focus on her face. "Can you see it?" he prompts.

She nods.

She has previously described it like an undulating body of glowing, blue fluid 'stuff', so Severus tailors his description of control. "Good. Now imagine pulling a drop of that magic to the borders of your consciousness, and cast the spell again, utilising only that drop."

Harry's magic is unbelievably strong, so at the moment, Severus is trying to teach her control. Sweat is beading on her forehead.

Wilfully controlling magic to this degree is draining to even the most powerful, so Severus isn't surprised that it tires her.

Harry's 'reducto' shatters the concrete-like structure the room had provided for practice and Severus feels the draw on his magic, foreign and strangely uncomfortable, making his knees go weak. "Better!" Severus shouts. She still has a long way to go; that was more bucket than drop.

Harry sags, sweat dripping from her forehead, her breathing laboured. She shouldn't be tiring this quickly. "It's like I can't take just a drop. I pull at a bit of it, and more follows. It's like it's magnetised, or something." Harry rakes her fingers through her hair in frustration. Her breathing is heavy with exertion.

"You don't eat enough." He says, and Harry's eyes dart up to his, her face startled. Severus thinks again that he wants to see how she truly looks, and after days of avoidance, he finally says: "Drop your glamours for me."

As he suspected she would, she shakes her head vigorously. "Why?" she demands. "You've already seen…" she doesn't need to say more.

"May I?" Severus asks his wand held aloft. Intent as he was on making Harry feel safe, he had avoided this line of questioning for nearly a week, but he needs to know. She looks at him wearily, but eventually nods her head, looking resigned.

"Finite incantatum!" Nothing, whatsoever, happens. Harry looks as surprised as Severus feels. Her magic has benefited the most, as Dumbledores incantation in the bond named Severus as the primary protector. His magic is used to amplify hers, so that she is better able to protect herself, but his magic has been amplified too, if his casting is any indication. His spell definitely should work.

The only explanation Severus can think of is that perhaps spellcasting of an offensive nature does not work against each other.

He shakes his head in disbelief, and looks to Harry, intent on making her drop the glamours herself, but his expression softens at what he sees: her eyelids are drooping.

It's a school night and she has potions first thing on a Friday. Severus would rather not have his bondmate fall into a vat of shrinking solution tomorrow because she can't stay awake.

"Come on." He says, exasperated as he helps her up. "It's time for bed."

XXX

In Friday's Transfiguration lesson, McGonagall reminds Harry that she has to meet her that evening. By five minutes to seven, Harry is waiting outside her office.

McGonagall calls Harry inside moments later and starts giving her spells to attempt. McGonagall tells her what each spell is supposed to do, and then has her attempt it.

After almost twenty minutes of this, with McGonagall looking increasingly perplexed she says "Miss Potter, I want you to imagine your hair changing colour. I don't want you to cast a spell, just picture it in your mind."

Harry frowns, but does as she is told.

Professor McGonagall makes a sound somewhere between satisfaction and confusion. "I need to do a tad more research, but I should be visiting you and Severus soon with some news." She's midway through ushering Harry out of her door when she speaks again "Oh, and dear? You should probably turn your hair back to red. Blue doesn't suit you.".

Harry looks down, startled, and sure enough, despite not having cast a spell, her hair is dead straight, and navy blue.

XXX

McGonagall sits in their chambers by lunch time on Saturday. "The descriptions I gave to you, Miss Potter, before I instructed you to cast, seldom matched the true function of the spell. Yet, despite the sheer impossibility, the spells you cast matched my made-up descriptions, every time."

Severus narrowed his eyes; that didn't seem likely.

"Tell me, Miss Potter:" she says curiously, "Were you aware that you are a metamorphmagus?"

Severus stiffened noticeably beside Harry: "That's… not possible." He said haltingly.

"Her parents..." He fell silent. There was no history in the Potter line, and Lily was a muggle-born. Besides, Severus had seen her medical file. What with him being a potions master who provided potions for all the students, and with all of the brat's visits to the hospital wing, he had looked extensively through her file for potential allergies and so forth, and seen no mention of Metamorphmagi ancestry. Minerva, being an expert in her field should know that, with no genetic link, and no signs of the talent in her infancy, it was not possible for Harry to be a Metamorph.

Unless…

Surely not. It was incredibly rare. As far as Severus was aware, there were only a handful of recorded cases. But the evidence was not non-existent in Harry's case. Possessing the talent of metamorphmagi would certainly explain a lot; like the reason that his Finite Incantatum had not worked whenever he attempted to remove what he thought were glamour charms.

"You believe she's self-induced?" Severus asked, his face a mask of impassivity. The implications were too profound to be considered here. He needed time to think it through on his own. He didn't trust that his face would not betray his emotions at this moment, and it was not his secrets at stake.

Minerva's gaze was hard, and calculating. "I do."

Harry was looking between the two adults, with the air of an outsider. She had no idea what a "metamorphmagus" was, and certainly had no idea what "self-induced" meant or why it had engendered such a strong response from Professor McGonagall, or her potions master.

Minerva's steely gaze flitted back to Harry. "You didn't know then?"

"What's a metamorphmagus?" Harry asked, truly clueless.

"A person who is able to change their appearance at will." Severus was the first to respond, although the question had not been directed at him. "Typically, one can only possess this skill if there is a history of it in their family. That is to say, it is supposed to be hereditary."

"I got it from my father then?" Harry asked, still confused as to why the two professors were so stone-faced.

"No Potter has ever possessed the skill." McGonagall responded. "I spent time with your family when you were an infant. I never once saw you change your appearance."

Andromeda had regaled a fascinated Minerva, in the Order meetings, with tales of her sweet toddler, changing her hair to bubble-gum pink, or sprouting a beak and snouts, enough for Minerva to know with certainty that the signs presented early.

"In rare cases" she went on, "when one finds oneself in a situation where a change in appearance is a necessity, for survival say," her gaze flickered back towards Severus, gauging his reaction, "they might develop this skill independently. When this happens, they are referred to as 'self-induced metamorphs'."

Harry forced herself to maintain an expression of benign interest.

"Was there a necessity for you to change your appearance, Miss Potter?" McGonagall asked, her tone one of concern.

"No Professor." Harry responded, feigning confusion. "I honestly don't know how this happened. I didn't even know it had happened." – that last part, at least, was true

"You are certain?" The transfiguration professor's assessing gaze focussed on Harry, disquiet etched in the lines of her face.

"The child has given you a response Minerva." Severus spoke sharply, sensing his bondmate's building anxiety.

Minerva's expression was one of startlement, but then she nodded crisply, smoothing her hands down her robes as she stood. She had no intention to outstay her welcome, but she did not believe Potter for a second. The two of them were hiding something, and she intended to find out what it was.

XXX

Harry wasn't meeting Severus' gaze. She was fidgeting with her hands, hoping that his pronounced caution around her of late will extend to avoiding an inquiry now.

Severus let out a long, suffering sigh. "You know what I am going to ask Harry. We cannot avoid this forever."

We can try, Harry thought to say, but she doubted Severus would be amused, so she said nothing.

"Harry" his tone is warning, and Harry, finally, looks at him.

"What will it change? Seeing again, I mean." She says in a near whisper.

"Precisely Harry. What will it change? I already know. Why hide how you truly look, when I've already seen everything."

Because you look at me like I'm wounded, Harry thinks, grateful once more that he can read only her emotions, and not her thoughts.

With her eyes obstinately on Severus, Harry pulls back her disguise.

XXX

Severus watches the change with a sort of horrified fascination. It was easy to forget the details. All too easy to blunt the jagged edges of his recall, and imagine that she was not /as thin/, or /as damaged/ as she truly was.

The stark evidence of her abuse: the hollowed cheeks, the lustre gone from her hair, the crooked nose and scarred flesh made his heart twist and his insides burn with hatred for those muggles.

Before he could stop himself, the words escaped him; "Gods, you're so thin."

Her skin was discoloured with malnourishment, pale with what must certainly be anaemia. Her muscles, wasted from the summer's starvation to the point of showing her bones, were only now beginning to bulk up.

Harry ate very little. He'd seen it. He'd watched her for months, in the great hall and in their chambers.

He had seen how little she ate, but her disguise had assuaged any concerns he may otherwise have felt, for she looked healthy. His mind was already cataloguing the ingredients he would need for nutrient supplement potions. She would also most definitely require appetite enhancers. He understood that she likely couldn't eat enough to correctly sustain her because prolonged starvation would make strong foods, or a large portion of food nauseating.

XXX

Harry had shrunk at his words, her face burning in shame.

Still, Severus hid from Harry how he felt, and her mistrust, once a crack, was widening into a chasm, draining away her hope.

She had begun to notice a pattern in his hot/cold treatment. He showed no affection - only comfort when it was absolutely required. Was she truly so repulsive, now that he had seen the treatment she deserved? Or was it her appearance. Harry held no illusions as to her attractiveness. Aunt Petunia had told her often enough what an ugly little freak she was, for that fact to never be forgotten.

He wasn't looking at her. From what she could read on his face, he was thinking. Fear was a dark, churning ocean of hopeless thoughts that threatened to engulf her. She was monstrous, and he resented her. He would definitely tell someone. He pitied her. She was dirty, and unwanted, and he was going to find out everything she had done to deserve this.

Panic burgeoned inside of her. She didn't know how to handle this. No one was ever supposed to know, and this, this pity, this disgust, this sick curiosity, was precisely why. Her chest was heaving. She felt as if her airways were constricted, and she couldn't suck enough air into her lungs.

Her limbs tingled, and she felt dizzy and weak. She was going to suffocate. She was sure of it.

She couldn't breathe, and her chest burned with the pain of it.

XXX

Severus was on his knees in front of Harry, trying to shake her, to bring her back to awareness. The idiotic child was hypoxic, her lips blue-tinged. He transfigured a summoned glass into a brown paper bag, and held it to her mouth.

"Breathe, Harry." He said, his deep baritone soothing. "That's it, breathe deeply."

The bag would help return her carbon dioxide levels to within a normal range, so that her body no longer thought she was taking in too much oxygen, which had caused her airways to constrict in the first place.

Harry's breathing returned to normal, and she sagged in a mixture of exhaustion and relief, sucking in grateful lungful's of air from the bag.

Severus noted with concern that his sense of her emotions was rapidly diminishing, which meant the bond was weakening. He hadn't even noticed the onset of the panic attack, until it was already full blown.

He vacillated on the brink of reaching out to her, or leaving her be, as he had over the last week, ever since his own consideration that Harry may have been sexually assaulted.

He didn't ask her. His guilt at forcing his way into her memories had made him more intent on allowing Harry privacy.

With a sick, heavy feeing around his midriff, he decided to leave her be, and stood to move away.

Harry watched him go, her expression shuttered.

Notes:

I'm doing my best to respond to all your comments. I wish I could give you more of a thank you, but please keep them coming. They bring me so much joy!