When he woke up in the morning and the events of the previous day came flooding back, Harry decided he didn't want to get out of bed. If he went down, he'd have to see Snape. He didn't know what to say, what to do, what to make his face look like. But if he didn't go down, Snape would get angry at missing his breakfast, and Harry didn't want that either. So, very quietly, he slipped off his bed. He peeked into the hall, and let out a sigh of relief at the empty chairs and the food on the table. He scurried up, took the toast and gobbled it hurriedly, and ran back to his room.

The books and newspapers he'd loaned for the trial were scattered in the left side of the room, and they stared up at him as if mocking. Harry sat on the bed, wondering how he was going to spend his day if he didn't have anything to do—he did not want to work in the lab, not today—so he settled down to read the books on law.

They were hard, and complicated, and kept referencing laws and bills and things he could barely understand, and though his eyes kept roaming over the lines, his mind began to wander.

He didn't understand why he was so flustered. He'd already known Snape was a Death Eater, and Death Eaters hurt people. Snape would have hurt people too. It was a simple enough equation.

Was it more painful now because Snape had hurt him and not some other stranger? Harry didn't think it was right of him to feel that way, but of course it was easier not to think about Snape killing someone when the someone was someone he didn't know.

But Dumbledore had said he trusted him, and all that Harry really knew of Snape was that he had helped Harry, a lot, with all the potions—

All the potions in the cellar, that had been him too—

And didn't yell at him, much, or hurt him, like Uncle Vernon did, and gave him food, insisted on it, really, Aunt Petunia always preferred he eat less rather than more. In fact, he'd never even had a full meal at the Dursleys. Here he was forced to eat three square meals, every single day.

Snape had been nice. And somewhere in the back of his mind, without actually thinking over it, Harry had decided that Snape wasn't a real Death Eater. Not like the Death Eaters he knew. He was different. And Harry had never seen Snape acting like how he thought a Death Eater would act, so it was easy to think that way.

But now he could imagine it very well.

He shuddered.

He remembered the Death Eater that was Snape. He'd barely ever shown up to the Manor. He'd been there that day though, when they removed his chains and Crucio'd him. He'd been flung into the wall too. Harry wondered if that had hurt.

Did he cast any spells? Going through his memories was like wading through a lake of acid, it hurt, so very much, but Harry hurriedly decided that Snape hadn't shown up much at all.

Oh—oh, but he'd cast one of the Crucios, once.

Harry Potter decided that he wasn't going to think about this anymore.

He read the rest of the book, with half closed eyes, and it took him the entire day.

The next day, too, Harry didn't see Snape at all. Not even a glimpse of him, nowhere in the house, not even at mealtimes. Trippy left out his food, way too much of it, he could usually manage only half of that, and took it away when he was done.

Harry finally had to come to the conclusion that Snape was avoiding him.

His potions had lessened to just a blood replenishing potion and a Dreamless Sleep potion every night, and they were deposited on his table by Trippy. He'd briefly toyed with the thought of not taking the Dreamless Sleep, because he was sure Snape would come if he had a nightmare, but that seemed way too sneaky, and besides, Snape would know immediately that he didn't take his potion, and then demand to know why.

Also, he really didn't want to have a nightmare.

So on the fourth day, he decided he would simply sit in the hall all day. Eventually Snape would have to show up.

He stood at the bookshelf. Snape had pointed out the books he could read, but his progress was abominably slow, what with the preparation for the trials and, before that, his complete inability to stay awake for too long. He picked out the book that Snape had suggested he start with, The Fundamentals of Transfiguration, and flipped to the first page.

He didn't notice when Snape entered the room, stopped at the doorway, and hesitated for a minute before walking forward, so quietly he didn't even hear him until he was right in front of him, which was when he saw his boots in the periphery of his vision, and looked up with a start.

"Hello," he said.

Snape looked distinctly uncomfortable, he noticed. He nodded in reply. There was a silence for a second, and then he said, "I wished to discuss something with you," at the same time Harry said, "I wanted to talk with you."

They both broke off, staring at each other, and then Harry waved a hand. "You go first."

Snape straightened his shoulders. "You haven't been eating well." Harry's heart sank a little. He'd hoped Snape wouldn't know. "Are you having any trouble?"

He shook his head. "I don't feel that hungry, that's all. Trippy serves a lot of food."

"Trippy does not. I expect you to eat everything that he sets out for you." Harry nodded unhappily. Snape looked whiter than usual. He wondered if he had been eating. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Oh—that—I was wondering if I could meet with Remus Lupin," he said, feeling just a little embarrassed.

Snape's eyes seemed shuttered, but his posture stiffened. He seemed to be thinking very hard before he said, "I suggest Albus Dumbledore as a better person to talk to if you want to discuss my loyalties, Mister Potter."

"No, no, I wanted to talk about my father." He was very conscious of the fact that he was sitting and he was standing, and the difference in heights. He wanted to stand now but that would just seem awkward. So he kept sitting, his fingers twisting nervously, his book on his lap.

"Your father," he repeated tonelessly.

He nodded. "You said he was my father's friend. I wanted to ask him what he was like—in school—and after that—" and what was his Death Eater friend like, and how did they not know he was a Death Eater…

There was another long silence. Snape looked rather confused, he decided suddenly. This was definitely a look of confusion. "I will let him know," he said at last, and he almost sighed in relief. Then Snape turned away, and Harry stood up hurriedly.

"I also wanted to tell you, back at the trial," Snape was wheeling around now, "what you asked me to do, it was very helpful. Well, for a while, anyway," he modified, remembering how he'd rushed to the bathroom as soon as he'd gotten back. "I focused on a single thought like you asked me to. That worked."

His voice died away slowly at the look on Snape's face. He looked surprised, and Harry couldn't understand why, but then he quietly said, "Apparently, Mister Potter, I must teach you the basics of Occlumency," and he was just going to ask him wait what's that but then he walked off and he couldn't bring up the courage to call him back again.

He was a Death Eater and he was there when they took me.

Snape didn't know why he felt disappointed. But there was no other term for the sinking feeling in his chest. He'd slipped into the boy's mind, staying as on-the-surface as he could, and this thought was present, though it wasn't right on the surface—if he had to guess, Potter was trying to push that thought down, either because it was too painful or because it made him afraid. Anyway, he was trying not to think about it, and it was there, at the back of his mind.

Lily hadn't ever known he could do Occlumency, as he'd only begun to actively learn it in his sixth year, but if he had, he was pretty sure what he'd say. Snoops deserve what they hear.

Potter did have an obnoxiously blank face; he hadn't been expecting that, since Potter Senior had never made a secret of his feelings, and Lily was quite vocal about her opinions. Still, he should've suspected he would have an affinity for Occlumency, no matter that it was mild.

The normal dose of Dreamless Sleep took just over two weeks of daily use for addiction, but Snape had prepared a modification, a weaker one meant for children, which he thought could safely be used for a month, and it had been a month. Snape had decided that today he would stop giving him the potion, but he'd not been looking forward to the prospect of nightmares every time the boy slept—especially since on waking, he would see him.

Occlumency would be a suitable alternative.

But Snape would have to teach him, and that would mean increased proximity with him, and he knew he would hate that, too.

He pushed away that thought, to focus on the more immediate one—sending a message to Lupin. Oh joy. Could the full moon be a couple of days away? That would be nice. He glanced at the calendar, which had the lunar cycles helpfully added in. The next full moon was a week from now.

He'd have to call him here. Another thought he did not find enjoyable. He sat down, and quickly wrote out a terse missive, and had Trippy take it to the Hogwarts owlery and get it posted.

Then he took a breath.

Occlumency lessons. With the son of Potter.

Perhaps you should think of him as Harry and not Potter, Dumbledore had suggested.

That would have been easier except that every time he looked at him, Potter looked back. And Lily.

Nobody asked me, Potter's voice said in his head.

Snape walked to the hall where he was sitting quietly, reading. He'd barely ever seen James Potter with a book in his hand, he didn't even think Potter studied, although by some miracle he did get top marks every time.

The boy looked up, his hair falling into his face, as he heard him come. Snape walked to the dining table. "Come."

He trotted obediently behind him. Sat down, carefully. Staring. He made it way too easy. "Occlumency is the magical branch of defending your mind against external attack," Snape began, and his eyebrows furrowed. "It is a highly useful, if obscure, skill. Its primary purpose notwithstanding, the effect of Occlumency is essentially enhanced control over one's emotions and thoughts. I believe this is a suitable solution to the Dreamless Sleep potion. We will be practising every day till you are adept at it."

His brow was furrowed again. "External attack? Like how?"

"It's called Legilimency, attacking another man's mind."

"Why?" he looked utterly bewildered. "To make them go crazy, or—"

"—or to know their thoughts, or other more nefarious reasons."

"Whoa." He looked mildly impressed. "So you do Occlumency?" He nodded, with a sneer that said, obviously. "And Legilimency too?" He nodded again. "Shouldn't it be, like, illegal?"

He hesitated. It was, technically, but since the only people who did it were Death Eaters and Dumbledore, that law couldn't really be implemented very effectively. "Yes," he said. "Let us begin. Clear your head, empty your mind of all emotion—"

Harry held up a hand. "Wait, what does that mean?"

"You focused on a single memory, did you not? Do it again."

His eyes goggled. "Wait, that was Occlu-thing?"

"Yes, Potter, why did you think I was teaching you Occlumency if I didn't think you would be able to learn it?"

He shrugged. "…Because I'm a wizard?"

"That has very little to do with Occlumency, Potter," he said, with another thin smile. "Occlumency takes a natural self-control and mastery over thoughts. Which you apparently do possess to a small extent, otherwise you wouldn't have been able to follow my instructions so efficiently. Now. Focus on that memory, and let us begin."

He waited for a moment, then, "Legilimens!"

It felt really, really weird.

Like someone was scraping his mind out, although scraping was slow and this was fast. No, more like swimming through his mind. He tried to focus on his memory, sitting at the table with Snape looking exasperatedly at him over his newspaper, he focused on the news article, he focused on the hard wood of the table, the smell of the food, the—

Dudley was crowing over his presents as Harry looked on silently—Harry was sitting at the cafeteria, the only one sitting at an empty table—Uncle Vernon was throwing him out of the house , yelling at him to finish the gardening—

Sitting at the table, eating fish and chips, sipping on what Snape had said was pumpkin juice, the taste of it in his mouth—

Harry was struggling not to cry as they slashed his arm to take blood—Harry was running toward a tree and climbing it as Aunt Marge's dogs chased him, and Dudley and Uncle Vernon laughed and went back in the house as the dogs stayed at the foot of the tree and barked at him—Mrs Figg was lying motionless on the ground, a blade of grass poking into her nose—

Safe, you're safe—

"That's not enough, Potter!" Snape shouted, and with a yank he felt him pulling out from his mind, and he nearly slipped to the floor. "That's not a strong enough memory!"

"It worked well enough last time," he said, gasping for breath. It had been a mental attack, but it was still physically exhausting, apparently.

"It barely worked," he retorted, looking quite furious. Harry had just about given up trying to figure out what sorts of things set him off. "You'll have to think of a much stronger memory than that to exercise full control over your emotions."

The beach, then.

"Legilimens."

Sand between his toes, building a sandcastle-a masked Death Eater holding him up and pouring a vial of some horrible liquid down his throat as he struggled-no Dudley, no Dudley, a couple of boys deigned to allow him to join their ball game, no Dudley-

"You're not trying hard enough!"

Dudley pushing him down the stairs in anger after Harry accidentally broke one of his toys-the sandcastle slowly melted away after multiple waves crashed into it-Mrs Figg was welcoming him into her house-Harry was crying, it was his second day at the cellar and he hadn't yet figured out that the mask people enjoyed seeing him cry, and so he cried and begged them to let him go-

"No, get out get out!"

Snape acquiesced silently, but Harry was too furious to notice. "You stay away from there! You stay away!"

"Potter, I assure-"

"Are you enjoying seeing that, seeing me like that?"

He looked like he'd been slapped. His lips pressed together, so hard they almost disappeared. Harry's eyes stayed on his face. He wouldn't look away. He was not angry with Snape. He was not. Snape wasn't evil, he just wasn't, Malfoy would have captured him with or without Snape, and Snape had saved his life

Snape stood up abruptly. "We will continue this later, Potter."

"No, wait, I didn't—" he said, suddenly worried, what if Snape didn't teach him at all?

"We will continue this, Potter, but we will do so later," he repeated, and then he went to his lab and shut the door and that was that.

After a minute of staring blankly at the door wondering if Snape would change his mind, he went back to his book. After a while, he switched it with Charms: The Basics, and then, after lunch, The Art of Potions. Snape didn't exit his room at all.

It was only after dinner that he mustered up the courage to take down the book that Snape had said was for Defense Against the Dark Arts, which was apparently a subject in Hogwarts. The title was Defense: How to Protect Yourself From All Manner of Spells! which, he supposed, was their way of livening up an otherwise terrifying sounding subject.

He read it till his eyes started to close, it wasn't at all like he'd expected, it was about different kinds of magical creatures who weren't actually Dark (there were classifications) and how to defend yourself from them. It had a lot of pictures, and curly flowy text, as if it was made for a toddler. The word Dark was only used once, and that very briefly.

He glanced at his other books, more serious-looking ones, with more specific titles—'All about Great Circles', 'Apparition: How To Do It Without Killing Yourself', 'Grade XIII Potions'—and then his eyes fell on a black cover of a book with the title 'The Darkest Arts: The Complete Guide'.

He would not be looking at that. He flew to his room and shut the door. He stared at the door for a while, trying not to think about — well, anything at all.

When he turned around, he was a bit surprised to see that there was just one potion on the table. From the look of it, he knew it wasn't the Dreamless Sleep. So Snape had decided that he could do the Occlu-thing and go to sleep—or, atleast, that the potion had to be stopped.

He shuddered. So far, he'd managed to not think about the cellar or Mrs Figg. But now he'd just had someone glance through his memories and they were fresh in his mind. He stood at the doorway uncertainly.

Anyway, he definitely wouldn't be able to get to sleep. With this fortifying thought, he climbed into bed and under the covers. He kept his eyes open, trying to think about nothing—he could hear Uncle Vernon saying, in the tone of voice he usually reserved for Harry and the few people at his workplace who were stupider than him, impossible!

Focus on one memory.

A strong one.

He actually didn't say that the memory had to be a happy one.

The cellar was too painful. Perhaps the incident with the glass— no, also painful. He needed something not too strongly negative.

His cupboard! Nobody ever came inside his cupboard, it was his own little alcove. Not a happy memory, because it was dark in there and every time his elbow or his head hit something in the confined space, he'd remember again how Dudley had two bedrooms and he was here.

He remembered the soft covers of his bed, and the warmth, and the pitch black dark.

And he fell asleep.

Snape had thought that Potter would not want to be around him. He'd expected it. It was natural to not want to think of someone who are involved in a murder one had been a witness too.

And yet he'd picked a memory—such a benign, normal one, too—of sitting at the dining table with him! With the word safe floating in the background, the way he'd said it to his when they'd patched him up, given his nutrients, and then finally stopped spelling the Sleeping Potion into his stomach. You're safe. Snape wouldn't even have remembered how he'd said it, except now he'd witnessed the memory.

He didn't want to think about what it meant. Potter was getting better, and soon he would go to live with his uncle and his family, and then the next time he saw him, he'd be a Hogwarts student, and he would definitely not go to Slytherin, even if the Hat suggested that House, so he'd have to be horrible to the boy and that would be that.

About an hour later, the tinging of the alarm told him that Harry Potter was having a nightmare. He was halfway to his room when he heard a crash, a series of crashes, really, as if something was being thrown around the room, and almost in the same instant, the second alarm went off.

He steeled himself for wild magic.

Potter was raised above the bed, hovering in the air, and judging by his posture he was still asleep. Great circles of air surrounded him, and the drawer and chair were being flung about the room.

He aimed his wand at the drawer and spelled it to come down. He was relieved when it floated down obediently. The same went for the chair. The mirror had crashed into the wall and glass shards were floating in the current, and he Vanished them.

Now for the boy. He pointed his wand at him, too, but the same spell that worked for the furniture did not work on him, ensconced as he was by the little circle of air. Apparently it worked as a Protego. Interesting. Quite unhelpful, right now, though.

He slipped into his mind, although it took some more effort as he was not looking at him directly.

Blood, blood, blood—screaming—the green bolt of the Avada at Mrs Figg—

Potter.

The memories stilled.

Potter, focus.

He could feel the distress in the boy, and he tried to send calming thoughts his way—not that that was a practice that had ever been tried, by anyone, considering that the most accomplished Legilimens were all Dark and they had no reason to calm or comfort someone

The circles disappeared suddenly and he fell onto the bed, and sat up straight with a loud gasp.

Snape was at his side almost instantly. "It's all right, it's all right." Babysitting, he'd called this job when talking about it with Albus. Babysitting indeed. He should ask Albus for a raise.

Potter was breathing heavily, but Snape sensed the moment when he began to count his breaths in, out, in, out, and he hadn't taught him that, but it was a common thing in Muggle circles, he probably didn't know it was a practice for Occlumency as well—

"What happened?" he said, staring up at him with wide eyes that looked too bright to him.

"That, Potter, is a symptom of withdrawal from Dreamless Sleep," he said heavily, and fell into his chair.

He looked at him like he didn't understand the words. "Withdrawal."

"Yes. You were on it for a long time, and now your body is finding it hard to cope without."

"To sleep without a nightmare, you mean?"

"You had a nightmare before, without such…dramatic side effects. I imagine the withdrawal is making the nightmare's effects more potent."

"Great." Flatly. Then he peered at him. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. A small part of his mind was pointing out that Potter was far too quick to inquire about his well-being, and trying to figure out the reasons for that. The other part was trying to silence the first part.

"Mister Snape?" Potter looked distressed, his face drawn and pale, and he remembered that he'd seen the cellar again in his nightmares.

"So what are we going to do?"

"You, Potter, are going to Occlude again before you go to sleep."

He looked alarmed. "But I did that last time too. I can't risk that happening again—"

"You did nothing permanently damaging to me, or anything in this house. Do remember who the adult is in this situation." He was suddenly starkly aware of the fact that the adult in this situation was also a Death Eater, and so his next statement about trust would be rather inappropriate.

Potter was looking at him. Why did he stare like that?

"Are you sure? You don't want to…I don't know—magic up a wall or something?"

He stared at him. Concern. This was new. Albus was probably the only one he knew who cared about him—and maybe, just maybe, it was about more than being a useful spy. And this concern from an entirely unexpected quarter.

Also entirely unnecessary and downright harmful. For both of them.

"I will be perfectly safe, Potter." That came out harsh, as he had intended it to, and the boy blinked, hiding the hurt that Snape had deliberately inflicted. He Accio'd some scented candles and his Walkman, along with a few cassettes.

Potter looked at them with surprise. "You have a Walkman?"

He held it out to him and he slipped the headphones over his head. "A distraction in the form of music would increase the effect of the Occluding. Now lie back and focus."

He burrowed under the covers. "Focusing." He pressed the play button and lit the candles.

He stared at the ceiling for a whole minute.

"I can't sleep when you're just sitting here looking at me. Bit awkward."

Snape Accio'd a book and moved his chair so it was parallel to his bed and not facing him.

He could hear his breathing when he listened carefully.

Then he heard him sniff, and cry, very softly. He could plausibly have not heard it. And because he was a spy and an Occlumens, he was able to block out the resulting emotion and focus on his book.