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Chapter 26—Survival of the Angriest

Rufus rubbed a hand over his eyes, and wondered when he would finally go to bed. He'd had an incredibly busy two days, and it didn't seem it would get any calmer soon.

First had come the attack on Hogwarts by enraged Death Eaters. It still wasn't clear what they'd wanted, or why they'd chosen to attack on Christmas Eve, a time when most students would be home with their families and less vulnerable. The wards had held them back, and the professors had fought off their spells that had aimed at weakening the wards, and Rufus had sent Aurors as soon as an owl telling him of the battle arrived. They'd been driven back with minimal loss of blood, only the Charms professor at Hogwarts being wounded.

And then they'd learned Harry Potter was missing.

His Head of House, and even Dumbledore as far as Rufus could make out, seemed utterly convinced the Death Eaters had taken him, and that had been their purpose for coming to the school. Rufus did not believe it, however. Too many clues didn't match the idea that Potter had been violently snatched from his bed, or even from the grounds, where a few Hufflepuff students had seen him walking. His belongings were gone, from the trunk in his room to his Firebolt. Rufus doubted Death Eaters would have lingered to pick up their captive's broom in a bout of consideration for how he'd spend his time when not in chains, and having it near the boy was a dangerous invitation to escape, given how expert he was on it.

Besides, his one witness as far as the trunk went, Neville Longbottom, insisted that he'd seen it fly out through the window of Gryffindor Tower and up as if pulled by a Summoning Charm, not down, towards the gates and the grounds where Potter would have been walking.

And then, Snape was missing, too.

Dumbledore had explained blandly that Snape had been dismissed and would have been leaving after Christmas holidays, and he'd been steadily moving his effects from his own rooms to one in the Leaky Cauldron. But there was no one under that name, or even under a different name and glamours or Polyjuice, at that particular establishment. Tom, the owner, admitted when questioned that Snape had taken a room, but he'd never used it except at odd moments, and he'd left nothing there that could be used to track him.

Add to that the mystery of Draco Malfoy lying senseless on the roof of the Astronomy Tower, his memory broken by a skilled Legilimens, and Rufus thought that Snape must have fled with the Potter boy.

But that didn't explain the spells cast in random corners of the castle that caught the attention of those searching for Potter and forced them to visit those random corners, or the fact that, when trying to cast the Point Me spell to find her young friend, Miss Hermione Granger testified to her wand spinning uselessly for nearly an hour before it finally calmed and pointed away in some vague direction that seemed far to the north.

Snape could have cast those spells, perhaps, but if so, it testified to long and patient planning. And there seemed no particular reason that other signs of a hasty flight—such as Potter's trunk darting through the window, and the broken Malfoy boy—should coincide with that long and patient planning.

Rufus, who had seen the dark shadows in Potter's eyes, had his own suspicions.

And so he'd written out a careful letter to the boy, explaining what they'd found in the school that night, and inquiring whether Potter was well. It was safe, he'd determined. If it found the boy, it would tell him his friends and allies wondered and worried about him. If it found the Death Eaters…well, it wasn't information they wouldn't know already.

And if the owl came back with a befuddled expression on its face, as if it had flown in circles for hours, Rufus would know the worst of his suspicions had come true, and Potter was dead.

He took a painful breath as he watched the owl swoop into the darkness, and turned back to his paperwork. He'd spent enough time on Potter, and now he had to concentrate on the other duties of the Minister's position.

Harry woke, and found himself in agony. He lay still, though, breathing shallowly and trying not to draw Snape's attention. If the bastard found him like this, no doubt he would taunt Harry with his weakness.

It felt as though bars of lead had been laid across his chest and were slowly melting, the molten metal dripping into his veins to replace his blood. Some of the pain seemed centered in the same area he'd felt it when he took the Medea's Draught, too. He supposed he would lose the contest and scream in the end, but the longer he could wait, the more of a victory he would win. He counted his breaths, his heartbeats, and seconds in his head.

Finally, he heard Snape's step coming towards him. Harry tried to relax his face, which he knew was locked in a grimace of pain. Maybe Snape would think he was asleep.

No such luck. Snape snarled an oath, and the next moment, Harry found a vial of potion pressed against his lips. He tried to cant his head back and avoid swallowing it, but those same rough fingers that he remembered prying open his jaws to force the bezoar down his throat pinched his nostrils, and as he gasped, down the potion went. At once, the pain diminished to a whisper, and Harry opened watering eyes—he wasn't crying with the pain, his eyes were just watering—to see Snape near at hand, sneering at him. He wore his glasses, Harry realized, and he wondered if Snape had replaced them on his face or he'd put them on before he fell asleep. He honestly didn't remember.

"Next time you are in that much pain, Mr. Potter," Snape said, eyes fixed on him, "you will tell me."

I at least irritated him, even if it's only because he doesn't want me to die now that he's put so much work into me. Harry lifted his chin proudly. "I won't make any promises, Professor Snape."

"Do you wish to die?"

Harry laughed. "You stopped me from committing suicide. What do you think?"

There was silence then, which wasn't a reaction Harry had expected. Snape simply studied his face thoughtfully. Then he said, "And yet, I thought you wanted to kill me the last time you were awake."

Harry clenched his fists under his blankets. The rush of rage restored him wonderfully, more than the potion could. "I do," he said softly. "I promise I'll do it. At the moment, I rather favor boiling you in hot lead."

"When you're on your feet and have your wand back in hand," Snape said, his voice sly, "I can teach you a spell that mimics that effect."

Harry stared at him. Snape seemed—amused. He didn't believe Harry could actually get to him, of course. Damn it.

But Harry bit back more angry words and futile lunges against the cocoon of blankets that held him. While his rage against Snape was invigorating, he didn't want it to make him tired. The efforts it prompted him towards should actually make sense, and get him to realize his goal. Tears had been useless once he started thinking about ways to defeat Voldemort. Waving his fists in the air would be equally useless when he started thinking about taking revenge on Snape.

Perhaps the best way for the present would be to make Snape think he was sullen—that he wanted to be glorious in vengeance, but knew there wasn't much help for it. He sank back down and fixed his eyes moodily on the blankets in front of him without replying. Snape chuckled again, but Harry forced himself to show no reaction. The Occlumency shields did help with that, allowing him to compartmentalize his mind and shove the emotions that really would be useless to the very back.

"It's going to be months until I can walk around," he muttered.

"Not so," Snape replied. "Weeks until you are off the potions, yes. But your bodily strength will recover quickly as long as you do nothing to test it, such as racing about while you are still in a vulnerable state." He paused a moment, then continued, "Not that you could do so. There are only seven rooms here, and you could not find your way outside."

Harry immediately resolved to do just that.

Severus felt another twitch of amusement at the boy's closed expression. His eyes still gave him away, though much less than they would have last year. It was obvious he meant to find a way outside as soon as possible.

He moved a step backwards, catching Potter's attention, and motioned to the books floating behind him, which the boy didn't appear to have noticed. "You cannot yet move fast, nor cast dueling spells, Potter," he said calmly, "but you can study some things while flat on your back. Occlumency, for example. These are books that will stand you in better stead than the single one I found in your trunk. And you can study the theory behind potions."

"Why should I?" Potter, of course, had latched on to the one thing in Severus's offer that he thought would be useless. "I brewed the Medea's Draught, but that took trial and error and far too long. I'll be useless at most potions."

Severus eyed him thoughtfully, wondering if he should announce what he suspected. Then he had to smother a dark grin. Presented neutrally, the information might not affect Potter. Given the spin he intended to give it, it would drive a coffin nail of horror and nagging fear into the boy's mind.

"I do not believe that to be true," he said quietly. "You forget, Potter, that I observed your performance in Potions for the last five years—"

"And interfered with it."

Severus shrugged, unrepentant, and more than a little delighted with the hot glare he was getting just then. The boy struggled further and further from sinking back into despair with each emotion he felt like that. "And there is one occasion where I remember your talents truly shining. Do you remember it?"

Silence. Glaring.

"I thought not," Severus said, and ignored the boy's clenched jaw. "The memories of the young are so malleable. This particular potion was called Hellebore's Delight. It is meant as a powerful sedative for those patients who cannot calm their minds from a state of nervous excitement. Often used on witnesses at criminal trials and for those whose 'dearly beloved' has just died—"

"I don't see what this has to do with me."

Severus was not sure what he enjoyed more: the failed attempt to imitate his own bored drawl, or the way that Potter flushed immediately afterwards, realizing he had failed. "Hellebore's Delight is easy to ruin—"

"I'm sure I ruined it, then."

This time, the interruption was not worth noticing. "Its variation is an extremely powerful compound that at first imitates the sedative, but then causes a coma, and death within a few days. I noticed, when I passed behind your cauldron, that you had correctly brewed that variation."

"Told you I ruined it."

"Hellebore's Delight in either form is not easy to brew," Severus said softly. "Just as the Medea's Draught is not."

Potter folded his arms. "I told you, Snape, I know nothing about any potions except one."

"Have you ever wondered, Potter, why Potions is considered a magical class at all?" Severus asked the air above the boy's head. "If it were not, then a Muggle could put the same ingredients together in the same measures and produce the same results, and Squibs could practice that one art if nothing else. But both Muggles and Squibs are useless at it. It does require magic. The potion takes its own impress from the will and strength of its practitioner, and responds to the magic in his body. That is why so many subtle variations of the same brew exist in our world. The right emotion at the right time produces the right result. A slightly different emotion produces a variation."

Abruptly, Potter flinched. Severus coughed to conceal his laugh. The boy understood.

But still he said nothing. It was left to Severus to openly state the knowledge that hovered between them, and which he'd come to accept once he'd fully accepted that Potter had brewed the Medea'a Draught. "You have little talent for the potions that are meant to heal or achieve some other helpful result. With proper training, you can brew them, but then, with proper training in art, anyone can produce an indifferent drawing. Your talent is for poisons, and the malevolent emotions that produce them. When you brew those, you will shine." He cocked his head to the side, and delicately added the tap to the coffin nail. "Needless to say, Dark wizards have been particularly skilled in the brewing of poisons, even when they flubbed up other potions beyond repair."

Potter dug his hands into the blankets. Severus could see him fighting to keep his angry emotions at bay.

"I might have noticed before," Severus continued in a musing tone, "but, of course, we do not brew known poisons in Potions classes at Hogwarts. That default will be corrected now. I expect you to have a fine touch with any potion that kills."

"I'm not a Dark wizard," Potter spat.

"Yes, you are," Severus said calmly. He had to be calm, or he would burst out laughing in his sheer pleasure at Potter's reaction, and then the boy might think he was joking. He was not. "There are types of Dark wizards, Potter. Hitherto you have encountered only one, you think: those like Bellatrix Lestrange and the Dark Lord who are more than slightly insane and delight in torture. But if all Dark wizards were like that, they would have been killed long ago, as little more than nuisances at best and mad dogs at worst. Then there are those who use the Dark Arts. The Ministry labels them as Dark for that, even if they used the spell to save a life."

The boy's eyes flashed in spite of himself, giving away his opinion that the Ministry was idiotic for doing so. Better and better, Severus approved. His rebellion would have emerged sooner or later. Better it be directed at the Ministry than at me. He can hate me all he likes, so long as he does not fling his books from him with petulance as a means of rebellion.

"There are those, as well, who use any means to an end in the hunger for power," Severus continued blandly, "rather like Lucius Malfoy, or Dolores Umbridge, though most would not consider her Dark by the ordinary definitions. And then there are those whose own emotions and experiences push them towards rage and hatred." He held Potter's gaze for a long moment.

The boy sat with eyes half-lidded, as if he were thinking. Perhaps remembering last year, Severus thought, and the way he'd tended to explode into temper at the drop of a hat. Even Severus himself had had a passing thought or two that the boy might be Dark in that way he'd described—as he himself was Dark at root through his own bitterness—but he'd dismissed the thoughts almost at once. The boy was Gryffindor, and heir of the Light to hear Albus talk. The rage was simply the result of hormones.

But Severus no longer believed that was true.

"You will brew poisons well," Severus said. "You have mastered Occlumency through intense study, but you will excel even more at those varieties of Legilimency whose purpose is to destroy and ravage the mind. You would perhaps be a natural at the Dark Arts, though I intend to foreground the other studies for you first. All of that comes from not outside, but inside." He leaned forward, making the boy's eyes meet his. "If you had grieved and climbed over your godfather's death, perhaps it would not be true. But it is. You have had nearly one-and-a-half years, now, where you let your darker emotions have free reign. This close to seventeen, the legal age of majority, the age at which a wizard's magic becomes fixed? That length of experience can settle you into one mold for life." He leaned back again, eyes still intent on Potter's face.

"What if I wanted to go back?" Potter whispered. "Try to dismiss the rage and hatred and use my other talents again?"

Severus let his own contempt show on his face. "When your Darker aspects might make you able to defeat the Dark Lord? Or me?"

Potter bowed his head. Severus could feel the intense struggle in his head, if not see it. He might be trying to convince himself it was better to turn back and find some other way to defeat the Dark Lord, and he would bring his friends' voices and the advice he had received all his life about morality to bear.

But on the other side were his determination, and the long months of concentrating intensely on one goal—and the experiences of his childhood in his Muggle home, which Severus had discovered and read in Potter's trunk, along with the intriguing will. At last, Severus thought he understood how Potter could have as much rage and hatred as he did. And the pull of those experiences and emotions together would probably lead Potter back to Darkness—the variety Severus had talked about, only. It was not even recognized as Dark by many people, just a normal reaction to what some wizards and witches had gone through. Many survivors of the war with Grindelwald had ended up the same way.

It was not to be expected that Potter would begin to torture people. But it was to be expected that he would lose some of his moral inhibitions. He'd lost some of the more delicate already, as his use of the Siren Song on Severus and Draco, his brewing of a deadly, illegal poison, his use of the Memory Charm, and his manipulation of his friends and the Headmaster proved. Severus only needed to urge him a little further, and after that the boy would do most of the work, sharpening himself into the weapon that alone could defeat the Dark Lord.

Severus intended to be the one to hold the hilt of that weapon, of course.

Finally, Potter lifted his head, and held out one hand. Severus arched an eyebrow.

"Give me the Occlumency books."

"So gracious," Severus murmured beneath his breath, and flicked his wand so that the books flew past his head and landed on Potter's lap. Potter's gaze fastened on his wand longingly. Severus noticed it, and laughed inwardly. Yes, Potter still had his prejudices as to the best ways of fighting someone with magic. That would probably change as he studied Legilimency.

He said nothing else, but began to read, so Severus turned and left the room. He had the strange letter he'd received that morning to study. It was from the Minister of Magic, and addressed to Potter. Certain readings he'd done between the lines had convinced Severus that Scrimgeour suspected Potter of suicidal tendencies almost before anyone else. It also contained important, useful news about the outside world.

They needed someone who had an eye on the Death Eaters to pass news to them; that was undoubtedly true. Severus wondered if it was possible to make Scrimgeour into that ally.