Disclaimer: By no means do I own or have any claim whatsoever to Harry Potter and his world. I'm just extending my over-active imagination into Jo's amazing creation.

Author's Notes:

This fic is my attempt to respond to a challenge set forth by EmySabath. I took this challenge because psychology has always fascinated me, and this gives me a chance to explore it—even if I think anything similar to this plot has a snowball's chance in hell of occurring in canon.
Readers should note that the concept of time is pretty hazy and undefined in this first chapter, but it will be easier to follow after Part I.
(Also… the poem is not mandatory, but everyone should give it a chance… it sets the tone, plus Sylvia Plath is amazing.)

Elm

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhibited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?---

Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.

-Sylvia Plath

The Atrocity of Sunsets

Part I

Harry was aware that he was currently sitting in the living room of Number 4, Privet Drive, across from Professor Dumbledore and next to Lupin. The Headmaster was speaking.

"—so, we are taking you back to Headquarters in order to begin your extra tutelage straight away."

The last thing Harry remembered, before this moment, was walking away from the train station with the Dursleys. He needed to reorient himself—just as he always did after a blackout—and he need to figure out why he would need 'extra tutelage' in the first place.

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder gently, and looked over at Lupin.

"Harry," he said softly, "I know it will be hard to go back to Grimmauld Place so soon after—after what happened to Sirius, but you need to do this."

Sirius. The veil. Padfoot…gone. But there was a voice in his head saying, 'No, Padfoot isn't gone… I'm right here.'

"I'll be fine," Harry said quietly.

"You're sure?" asked Lupin.

Harry nodded.

Snape sat impatiently in one of the parlors of Grimmauld Place, waiting for Potter to show up so they could begin this farce of a lesson. If the boy was late, he would be sorry. Contrary to popular belief, the potions professor had much better things to do in the summer than tutoring incompetents in occlumency. In fact, the only reason Snape was doing this at all was that Dumbledore had ordered him to, in his capacity as leader of the Order of the Phoenix.

'Potter needs to be trained to protect himself,' Snape thought bitterly, 'and that, of course, means he receives dispensation to do under-age magic outside of school so he can learn garden-variety skills from aurors and Order members…'

Yes, not only was Snape conscripted to attempt to teach Potter occlumency again, but the boy was also being taught 'specialized transfiguration' by Albus, the animagus transformation by McGonagall, dueling techniques by the werewolf, and various other skills he probably wouldn't apply himself to.

'They're all taken in by his celebrity and his false sincerity, and I am the only one who sees him for what he is,' he mused.

After waiting for about a minute more, the door opened slowly and Potter tentatively made his way inside the room.

"Shut the door," instructed Snape. The boy did so.

"You cut it very close just now," he continued sharply, "and I will tell you now that I will not allow tardiness to these lessons—whether you're mourning the mutt or not."

The Professor expected the boy to lash out at that remark, but all that happened was that a blank look passed over Potter's face before he simply replied, "Yes, sir."

"Have you practiced shielding your mind at all since you violated my privacy last term?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then," he sneered, "Let's see if you managed to retain anything from our previous lessons.

"Legilimens!"

The boy looked proudly upon his latest work as he set down his brush. Though it was slightly darker than most of his other pieces—a result of the gloom-and-doom atmosphere of the house, he was sure—it felt good to do something productive. The fact was that everyone had been so busy in the three weeks since Harry had come to Grimmauld Place (especially Potter and the resident Slytherin) that this was the first chance he'd had to be by himself for any significant period of time, and he'd jumped at the opportunity to use his creative impulses. Painting was always such reprieve.

However, he knew that very soon he would be needed to help out with the others, and he would be called to do more important things than simply painting. So, after quickly signing the canvas, the boy cleared away his paints and supplies and stashed them—along with the painting itself—where nobody could stumble upon them accidentally. When this task was completed, he glanced at his watch: it was ten minutes until two. There was to be another lesson with McGonagall on the animagus transformation at two o' clock.

"These lessons have been going very well," the boy murmured, "Harry can handle them on his own for now."

Though he couldn't recall walking to where he was now, Harry saw that he was standing before the doors to the Black Library. He quickly checked his watch and saw that it was just about two—he was exactly on time for his animagus lesson.

It was always disconcerting to wake up from a blackout, but Harry wasn't overly concerned with their frequency—they usually occurred year-round, but were always more frequent during the summer. Pushing his musings aside, Harry quietly entered the library and approached the table where the Transfiguration Professor was waiting.

"Hello, Professor McGonagall," he greeted her.

"Hello, Harry," she returned, giving him a small smile. "As you have so far shown a most sufficient understanding of the basic theory and mechanics of the transformation, I'm planning on soon starting you on the actual process of becoming an animagus. However, before we begin that endeavor, I'd like to go more slightly more in depth in explaining how a wizard gains his particular form as an animagus."

Harry nodded to show he understood.

"I am sure that you have realized this already, from your studies and experiences with animagi, but one cannot choose his own animagus form. The form that one receives reflex his or her personality- demeanor, interests, and many other components that contribute to one's personality all have an effect on the outcome of the form. It is for this reason that it is only one animagus form per wizard is possible—not, as some scholars hypothesized, because it is impossible to expend the magical energy for multiple forms. A wizard or witch has one personality, and so can only have one form. Do you have any questions?"

McGonagall smiled when Harry indicated that he had no need for clarification.

"Very well," she said, "now, we can begin the process of determining your animagus form. This is only the first step on the way to a successful transformation, but it is also very complex.

"To start off, I will be instructing you in how to reach the meditative state required to access your center, where you will eventually identify the animal that will be your form…"

She didn't like being holed in Grimmauld Place—not that anyone did, really. Left here for too long, anyone would start to go stir-crazy; the house was much too gloomy, too musty and suffocating, to be pleasant for anyone. However, she knew that it was necessary to her safety to stay in Headquarters, and so she didn't complain… most of the time.

It was only that everyone else had things to do to keep them distracted from dwelling too much on wanting to be anywhere but this dismal house. It might be raiding the Black Library, or painting, or (like Potter), training almost endlessly. In fact, Potter had just returned from a training session with Shacklebolt, working on Auror-grade defensive spells and shields. Everyone had things they could do to distract themselves but her.

The primary reason for this was, of course, that she wasn't allowed to even step out of Number 12. As she mostly found her refuge in gardening and looking after plants, not being allowed out-of-doors was a fairly major hindrance to her means of distraction. All she wanted was a nice, small garden to tend to. It didn't even have to be for long—maybe thirty minutes a week—she wasn't greedy.

But, as it was, she and all her companions had been at Order Headquarters for almost two months now, and she had not yet been able to find even five minutes for her reprieve. She just wanted to spend time in her garden again.

The dark and dour Potions Master approached the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office. After speaking the inane password—Everlasting Gob-stoppers—Snape ascended the winding staircase and came to the door. He was about to push it open, so he could get the appointment he had with Dumbledore over and done with, but he hesitated when he heard voices speaking inside.

"—wondering, Albus, if you've noticed anything odd about Harry in the lessons you've had with him?"

There was a brief silence, and Snape assumed that Dumbledore was contemplatively sucking on a lemon drop whilst formulating an answer to the Deputy Headmistress's question.

"I have noticed nothing strange when I have seen him. He has been picking up concepts and spells very quickly, but that is not unexpected when coupled with his added determination, as a consequence of what happened at the Ministry.

"Why do you ask, Minerva?"

Snape heard McGonagall sigh and then begin to speak.

"You know that Harry has been progressing quickly in the process of becoming an animagus. In our lesson, he reached the point where he was able to determine his form."

"Go on," the Headmaster prompted after a moment of silence.

"It's just so unexpected," she explained. Snape had never heard the strict transfiguration professor sound so flustered. His interest was piqued.

"What was his form, Minerva? Was it—"

"A snake?" she interrupted him, "No. No, nothing alarming like that. He's… well, his form was a chameleon."

The Potion's Master's eyebrows went up. This was unexpected. Potter was the quintessential Gryffindor; Snape had been expecting him to be something loud and flashy—a lion, a wolf—but to be a chameleon?

"Hmm…that is a surprise," said Dumbledore mildly. "Well, Harry has always been averse to his fame and the attention that he gets, perhaps his form is simply an expression of his desire to blend in and be like his peers."

Deciding that he had heard enough, Snape knocked on the door to Dumbledore's office, as if to announce that he had just arrived.

"Come in," called the Headmaster. "Ah, Severus, here for our meeting, yes?"

Snape nodded stiffly.

McGonagall stood from the chair she had been sitting in, and bid Albus a good day.

"Minerva," said Dumbledore, "I will keep in mind what you said, and keep my eye out for anything odd."

"Thank you, Albus," she said, and then nodded at Severus as she left the office.

"Come, sit down, Severus," said Dumbledore, once the door was once again closed.

Snape was about to launch into the information he had gathered at the last Death Eater meeting, when the Headmaster once again spoke.

"I trust that you will be discreet about Harry's animagus form, and will also be on the lookout in regards to any strange behavior in the future?" Dumbledore was looking at Severus very seriously, employing the expression which made many people feel as if he was looking through them.

Though he was a bit irritated at being found out by Albus, Snape agreed.

"Now, on to business. Were you able to garner any information in the last meeting...?"

Harry's birthday came and went—celebrated with the Weasleys, Remus, and other sundry members of the Order—and the last of the summer continued on, much the same as it was before. He made further progress in the animagus transformation, and continued going to all of his other lessons. He continued experiencing black-outs. Sometimes, he would see McGonagall send concerned, confused looks his way, and he would note that Snape seemed to be glaring at him with a bit more confusion mixed with his sneer than general, but overall, the days passed in an unremarkable way.

Finally, it was the last day of summer, and he was sitting in his room with his trunk packed—Mrs. Weasley had picked up his needed supplies, once again, a week beforehand—and was speaking with Professor Dumbledore.

"You have done remarkably well this summer, Harry," said Dumbledore, "And I cannot say how proud I am of you."

"Thank you, sir."

"Not at all, my dear boy," the Headmaster replied, smiling at him. "Now, you will be resuming some extra lessons at Hogwarts, but they will not begin until the second week, to allow you to settle into classes once more, and even then they will not be at the intensity that they were this summer. We want you to be prepared, but we also want you to be able to concentrate on classes and have some time to yourself, as well."

Dumbledore waited for Harry to say something, but it appeared as if he wasn't going to. He tried to push down the worry he was feeling for the boy—the worry which had been slowly growing since that meeting with McGonagall. He was just about to speak again when he saw Harry's expression become a bit happier, and slightly hopeful, leaving behind the unsettling almost blank look that had been on his face previously.

"So," said Harry, "I'll still be able to play Quidditch?"

The twinkle came back to Dumbledore's eye as he smiled at Harry. "I imagine that your schedule will be a bit tighter than in previous years, but I see no reason why you wouldn't be able to keep playing."

The old Headmaster felt a small part of the worry fall away as the boy grinned up at him.