Harry made a point to join McGonagall and the students in the Great Hall at mealtime. He forced himself to be social and appreciated her announcement that he was here on school business and should not be approached for autographs or pestered by them in any way. He couldn't help but feel touched at all the jaw dropping and wide eyes. It embarrassed him, but he said a few words of thanks to snuff out any expectations they might've had. Might as well let them see he was ordinary and unimpressive when he wasn't killing Dark Lords. McGonagall's speech made it less consequential if any of them caught him traipsing through the castle at odd hours.
There were thousands of paintings, all somehow interlinked by magic, and the more he thought about it, the more he admitted to the unpredictability of all those artistic environments. He enjoyed catching up with the old and new teachers, but was careful not to commit himself to too much conversation. He would've liked to talk with Hagrid and Trelawney, but he couldn't let himself get distracted by sentiment.
He walked the grounds with a notebook and muggle pen, re-familiarizing himself with his former home. He inspected as many paintings as he could, and interviewed them to see how much contact, if any, they had with Snape. The Milk Maid in Shaubert's Luttrel De'l Angel, was particularly helpful. Her portrait hung outside the library, crammed in at eye-level, along with about fifty others near the trophy displays.
She balanced two pails of milk at both ends of a shoulder pole, and pushed her bonnet back on her head as she answered his questions. A brown-spotted cow behind her, chewed its cud slowly and looked at them through long, woolly lashes.
"That youngest Headmaster? Severus? He don't talk to no one, usually. Blue Boy was the first to get a 'good morning' out of him. O'course, he only grumbled like a bear, but we figured that's his way o' speaking. He was surly hurt over it all, can't exactly blame him. He's a good wizard. We've watched him since he was a youngun, like you."
Harry tilted his head, charmed by that. "Is he active at all? I wonder where he goes when he isn't in his portrait. Where do any of you go?"
She looked happy to be asked. "Well, there's more to see than just the walls in front of us. We can still roam the place. When you don't see us at our stations, sometimes we're chatting about with other paintings. Sometimes we retreat back to the center, where living folks can't see us. The magic lets us show the best parts of ourselves, but we draw back into our spirits when no one here calls on us. There's lots to do. An' with him being recently deceased, in such a bad way and all, that Headmaster needed extra time to get used to it. We don't fault him for wanting to avoid people. We saw what he did for the school."
"So you're, you're like a close-knit society in there? You care about each other?"
"We care about everyone in the castle, but yes, with so many paintings in one place, we have our own business and it's separate from your world. When one of you dies in circumstances as dreadful as his, we visit your portrait and watch over you, till you know you're safe. We take you under our wing. He may seem nasty, as he did ever in life, but he bothers no one and deserves peace."
She seemed to answer a question that he hadn't realized he was asking.
"So, to you, he's really dead? You can't tell any difference?"
Now she tilted her head, confused. "Death isn't what you think it is. It's just standing on the other side of a clear wall, where all the living refuse to hear or see you anymore. But there's life on the other side with you. Headmaster Snape died and his portrait arrived. When I see him, he is as alive as I've ever seen. Your 'dead' means alive to us, no matter what."
He deflated. This was just going to be another conversation in riddles. He couldn't expect a two-dimensional painting to relate to life and death the same way he did. Posthumously or not, those people in the portraits were fundamentally changed by their experiences and he wasn't going to understand them. Nor could they understand him, apparently. They weren't real people, after all. Only representations. He kept forgetting that.
He noticed that the more paintings he questioned, the more surrounding interest picked up. Other paintings were quite openly eaves dropping and murmurs began to sound from neighboring frames. He was causing a disturbance and he didn't know if this was good or bad. Would these things actually gossip and get word to Snape? It was nothing he hadn't told Snape's painting, himself. But the way they were starting to look at him, gave him a sense of conspiratorial developments. Were they loyal to one another? Were they so much more than surface magic, that they actually held agendas within the interior of their unknown worlds? Now was the time to face these questions.
He was like a new diver who had never cared about ocean life until now, now that he had to go in. He felt a little uneasy. Both Thella and Eileen had gone out of their way to warn and protect him with extra spells, training, and magic, like he needed a crash course. But why? Just because Snape didn't want to talk to him, didn't mean he wanted to hurt him. That wasn't even a possibility, was it?
A pirate painting above the Milk Maid perked up. "I say, who's that discussing the Professor? You'll be wanting to mind your own affairs, boy. You kids! Never giving him a moment's peace. He's suffered enough, that teacher has."
Harry took a step back and craned his neck. Captain Johnathan Plume, famous for stealing the book collections of wealthy families, had earned his place on the wall, by giving up Thirteenth Century pirate life and building libraries where illiterate people were read to, and taught spells that allowed them to translate any written language into audible words they could understand. Harry and his friends had taken to calling him Pirate Plume, like everyone else, merely because the large brim of his hat, its enormous red plumage, and jeweled decorations, were the most dominant features about him, along with a mustache that extended beyond the edges of his face.
Harry kept his tone respectful. "I wouldn't trouble him if I didn't have to. Me, of all people, I want him to be at peace." He was certain that Pirate Hat should've recognized him. He'd spent seven years coming and going past the trophies.
The reformed pirate, smirked at him. "Not bloody likely. You been pestering him all day. We're watching you, lad."
Harry couldn't help it. "Pirate Plume, don't you remember me?"
"Yeah, you're a bloody hero. We all know that. And we're grateful. But you're sticking your nose where it don't belong. He's earned the right to answer to no one. We portraits honor the dead and won't see him gone after, like you can still kick him around."
"Kick him around?"
"Give up yer vengeance. No good ever comes of it. You kids have bullied him enough."
"Bullied?" He was beginning to think that portraits have a very skewed and distorted perception of three dimensional reality. They would, wouldn't they? If anybody was bullied, it was him, not Snape, all those years ago.
"No, that's not my intention. I'm here to honor him, too."
Pirate Hat looked doubtful. Harry felt for his wallet and pulled it out. He took out his daughter's picture. "Look."
All fifty portraits along the wall leaned down towards the image. Pirate Hat squinted. Harry held the photo and waved it slowly for all of them to see.
"This is my daughter. She's only two, and she's cursed. I came here to find Professor Snape, to ask for his help. In my world, Snape is dead, but in yours, you see and speak to him, so maybe you can help me talk to him. He died with answers. With information that could help her. So don't look at my presence as meddling, I have a good reason for being here and I'm asking for all of your help. Help me to find Snape and talk to him. I understand that this is hard on him, but I wouldn't do it if I didn't know any other way."
There were hushed conversations among them. Pirate Plume appeared to brew over new considerations before saying to Harry, "Boy, the dead make no exceptions. All of us drew our lot in life. You, and definitely Severus. Count your blessings and be with your child as long as you got time left. Don't throw away what's hers, for him. Let the dead be dead."
"No, he's not dead. He's fooled all of you. I'm not leaving here until that portrait convinces me that he is, or until he talks to me. I don't care what any of you say. I'll go through all of you, to get to him."
On the wall, an assortment of nobility, agricultural, and scholarly renderings, gasped at his declaration. Photos peering out from the trophy cabinet and across the hall, stared anxiously from their frames. Harry saw two Gryffindor students and a Slytherin leaving the library together. They stopped when they saw him, sensing a commotion they hadn't exactly witnessed. Instead of answering their stares, he left his words lingering in the air.
He was too amped to sleep, but he forced himself to rest, knowing he'd be up all night if he had his way, sleuthing deeper and deeper onto the heals of Snape's painted version. He unpacked his Marauder's Map to determine when McGonagall left her office for the night. When he was sure it was time, he grabbed one of his generic wands and headed for the portrait.
He found it exactly as he knew he would. Empty, with only the background of a dim interior with a corridor leading into the depths of the picture. He steadied himself. The other portraits behind him, leaned in to watch him go through with it. The odds were slim that any of them had ever seen someone enter a painting before. He sensed their curiosity. Could he actually do it? It was interesting that none of them tried to stop him, as if, on this side of the castle, they were less concerned with Snape's privacy and more intrigued by the challenge facing Harry. This was a bit of entertainment for them, he imagined. He heard the paintings shushing one another. "Let him concentrate," one of them whispered. "He can do it."
They were obviously of a different camp than Pirate Plume and the others near the library. He guessed it was only a matter of time before that fire spread to these paintings and ruined the support.
"He's in for trouble. Someone stop him."
"Shhhhh!"
He remembered Thella's instructions. "When you want something, use love. Reach for the talisman. Hold it for twenty seconds. Then act."
His fist wrapped around it. He focused on the room in that painting, then felt for his love for his daughter. A completely different vibration. It wasn't comfortable at all, and made him wish he didn't have to associate her with his intentions to run Snape down. But then, he remembered that he loved Snape too and the solution to it all lay in seeing them all well past this. He didn't have any reference for that, so he made up the image of Snape holding Iece, as if they were posing for a photograph together. It was the only loving thing he could think of that represented what he was asking for, in being able to get through the portrait successfully.
He felt ready. He charged forth.
His head and shoulders were immediately engulfed in a plastic sensation, like elastic stretching to its limits without breaking, trapping him. It was similar to his first attempt to enter Eileen's portrait. But now he had the talisman and training, and still encountered this tight restriction. He tried to force his way through, but the painting world bent around him like cellophane and would not cooperate with him. That world and his remained incompatible.
He backed out, breathing heavily. His hair was mussed and his glasses skewed. He didn't know why he was still wearing them. Habit, he supposed. They'd always been a part of him. Red-faced, he stepped back to figure out what he was doing wrong. That's when he saw the figure in the painting. It stood at the end of the long corridor, watching him. It didn't appear to be the Snape he remembered, but a shrouded person who's face was hidden. That person stood very far away, lingering like he was waiting to see how far Harry would get. The more Harry squinted, the more it looked as though that person was wearing a mask. A Death Eater mask.
Suddenly, excitement stung him and he tore at a second chance to get inside. He pumped his heart and mind full of the picture he wanted with Snape. "You will hold her one day. You saved her, and you're alive, and I have every right to find you. I love you, you asshole!"
He charged again. This time, he threw so much forceful magic into it, he broke the barrier of paint like ramming his way through a birthing membrane. He tore worldly contracts as he crossed from one plane of existence into another, and actual paint splatters animated his burst into an unnatural world.
But instead of finding a room, just as it had been depicted, with velvet wallpaper, shaded lamps, and dim recesses that a quiet scholar might appreciate, he found that his feet were stuck in oil paint. Greasy, raw pigment, smeared his clothes. The room smelled of it, with fumes attacking his sinuses. It was an aggressive sensation that left a taste in his mouth. His tongue felt coated with it and all he could think was that the painting environment would be poisonous to him.
He tried looking around for the Death Eater, brandishing his wand, but he had to cover his mouth to fend off invasive fumes. His eyes began to water and he squinted to realize the walls were melting. Paint ran off of them, thinning and reverting back to something that could be poured from a bottle. Objects in the room melted in front of him. A table and vase to the side, which could not be seen from outside the painting, lost all shape and form until their colors blended with the dominate wine and forest tones on the canvas. The floor, which had become a sticky tack, got slicker and ran shiny with complete liquification. He wasn't standing on carpet, he was standing in a flowing pool of water-thin oil paint. It began to flow, creating a layer of slickness between his soles and the environment. It wanted him out.
He tried to hold onto something, to keep from falling. There was nothing solid enough. He didn't know any spells to control this situation. Out of the corner of his eye, before he lost his balance, he saw the Death Eater turn at the end of the melting hall. He walked away, wand in hand, just as the corridor melted into a grey mass of dripping wash. Harry gritted his teeth against the flow of paint. He felt it pushing him back, sliding him out. He felt himself losing the battle and screamed for Snape to help him before feeling his body flushed out by the pigment. The painted environment utterly rejected him.
Stunned, he lay in a heap beneath the portrait of Snape. He must've zoned out for a second, because all the other paintings were asking about him.
"Are you all right there, boy? Should we get someone?"
He looked at his clothes. They were clean and devoid of any artist's oil pigment. "No, please don't do that. I'm fine."
He wasn't so sure, but he took a moment to try to figure out what went wrong. He picked himself up and faced the painting. It had returned to normal and looked as though nothing had happened.
"Where are you?" He looked for the Death Eater mask. "How could you show up in there?"
Eileen's warnings that looking for Snape might hold dangers inside of a painting, made him reconsider her chaotic advice. He turned to the other paintings and asked, "Did you guys see that? The painting turned wet."
"Well, it's got to defend itself, doesn't it?"
He looked over his shoulder to see who said that. An elderly portrait, a man with fluffy, grey woolen hair and a conical hat, stared back at him. Harry was in no mood to argue, but he would've liked answers.
"Did you see a man wearing a mask just now? Inside with me? He wore a Death Eater mask. There's nothing okay about that. That's more than self defense."
"Look here, who do you think you're going after? Was he the type to just let you waltz in and have your way? That Headmaster's segregated from the rest for a reason. He knows how to defend himself and he'll fight back. No sense of humor, I'm afraid. He does not find the student populace as adorable as every one else does. His death is too fresh. No doubt he's still doing his job."
"But..." Harry couldn't tell them, but he cared about me. He wouldn't hurt me. They wouldn't understand. This was his battle alone.
Okay, he couldn't give up. How to enter and force the painting to maintain it's integrity? It wasn't the painting collapsing on him, it was whatever spell Snape was using against him? He couldn't be sure. All he knew, was that he needed to deflect whatever the hell was powerful enough to liquefy his perception of reality. There was no spell for this, so he faced the painting and closed his eyes. He changed his image-solution from seeing Snape holding Iece, to feeling himself firmly ensconced in that painted room and the solidness of it reinforced by his own magic all around him.
"Thella, help me." He clasped the talisman. It grew warm. He couldn't see it, but he suspected that it might even be glowing with her response.
I'm here.
He felt her in his mind. He was tempted to try to explain telepathically, but his mind burst with invention and he saw his magic racing op the walls of the painting's interior, weaving stability into the structure like a chess move that beat the previous optical illusion. That's right. It was a game of illusions. That was the whole function of paintings. When he opened his eyes, they were lit with a new way of approaching his challenge. He ran into the painting.
His magic hit it first, creating insulation around any attack. This time, he stormed into the room and found everything in its place, still solid, without fumes. The carpet looked like carpet. The walls were solid. Vase and table held their forms. Over head, vaulted ceiling beams dominated the room and he wasn't sure he had ever seen this part of the castle. It even had a faint mildew smell.
He looked back. Out of the frame, the room behind him looked onto the other paintings. There was a huge scale discrepancy. He went to the edge and peered out. He felt like a miniature figurine looking out onto a huge amphitheater, though his body felt the same. The other paintings stared back at him. Some of them had expressions and anticipation filled the air as if to say, "Well, go on."
They were right, he was in. He looked down the hall where the masked wizard had gone. The hunt was on.
Turning back, his only option was to follow the corridor after Snape. Or so he thought. Once he started down what appeared to be a vaulted tunnel-like enclosure, he saw that rooms opened on both sides of him. Some were classrooms, some were like familiar rooms in the castle, but he couldn't place them. It surprised him to see that they contained people, students and other teachers, as if school life were going on as normal in this painted realm. It felt real enough. He heard his footfalls, his breathing as he tried to quieten it, and the sound of droll lectures being delivered behind almost every door he passed. He peeked in a few times, only to have students he didn't recognize, glance up and stare at him with such offense that he backed away. He passed a number of classrooms, some of which were empty. He stuck his head inside a lab that looked mysteriously like Slughorn's Potions during the time of Tom Riddle, and saw a girl brewing over her cauldron.
She was alone. She hummed to herself and her robe hung loose and casually off her shoulders enough that she looked relaxed and approachable. He wanted to see if he could talk to her, ask for Snape, but she beat him to it. "Ha! Harry, you made it."
It was Eileen. A very young Eileen. "Sshhh, no, no. Don't talk. You still gotta go through the fountain. It won't be safe until you do. And even then, you'll have a hard time with Severus."
She couldn't have been more than fifteen. Her dark hair was in braids, which gave her freckles a chance to dominate.
"I know what you're thinking. How'm I here, right? Severus didn't know his school-aged mother, or did he? The answer's no. But these paintings knew me and Severus has me in his heart, so I always have a way of coming and going around this place. I'm here to tell you to keep going straight, no matter what you see. Don't expect things to be linear or to obey physical laws. Especially time. Ahead of you, you'll see a great open square. Many levels up. I tell you, it is like a house in which every room symbolizes one life. And all those from that life, can come out and mix with all the others. That's what death is to my son. But you don't need to pay any attention to the dead. They will try to stop you from crossing into the deeper portions of him. Avoid them. Your body is still physical and everyone here can tell that you don't belong in this painting."
He listened, and each time he tried to interrupt, she shushed him. "Don't talk. Your magic already has everyone on edge. If you speak, it'll be like an alarm that sends them running. He knows you're here and you're being hunted. Lucky for you, my boy doesn't want to face his past. As long as you stay in his past, he might overlook you. But his scouts are on the move. They'll try to stop you from reaching who he is now, since that is where he's most invested. Now go. Keep moving. Run straight through."
She practically shoved him back out the door. "No matter what, you've got to make it past the fountain. That's the gate between what is painted and what is him. Go!"
She was so insistent, that he went. He tried to run as she said, but his feet expressed his confusion by shuffling uncertainly past the next set of doors. He saw things that didn't make sense. Students behind desks, looking like people he should know. Familiar strangers. At one point, a red-haired first-year looked up from writing, and smiled at him. If he had to put money on it, he would've said that that was his mother. Why would such a thing strike him like that? Inside Snape's psyche, of all places.
He kept moving. Ahead, the corridor cleared. Brilliant sunlight reflected off of pavement. He neared the opening, and saw that it resembled one of Hogwart's courtyards, only it was the size of a city block. It was enormous and immaculate, with all the development that went into a planned city. Concrete walkways curved alongside huge squares of grass and flowering shrubs. Modern sculptures, a series of large-scale wand and wind installations, danced around a shallow pool and pointed upwards, releasing jets of colored water that completed a spray of tribute that rose several stories high.
He came out into the light and looked up at the many levels that ascended above him. On every side, the building was attached and stacked in a way that left it winding upwards in a rectangular spiral. Only the fountain bore elegant curves and boasted of an appreciation for architectural wonder that Harry would not've thought lived anywhere in Snape's soul. The square was not only filled with people, but they filled the landing and terraces above, as if everyone had a spot to fill in this private city, and was caught up in their daily business.
Of course, Harry considered. Snape must've populated the place to keep himself company. Or maybe our brains do this automatically. Eileen had told him to keep running, and he wanted to, but it was just so weird to think that the ground beneath his feet, was actually someone's mental projection. Like stepping into Snape's dreams. He had to take it all in before he could move further.
It took him a moment, but he got it. This was where Snape's appreciation for both sides of his ancestry expressed itself. He was the Half-Blood Prince. This open place represented the good side of muggle and magical cooperation and ingenuity. A symbol. And all the people must've been like, thriving commerce or something. A functioning, flowing world. Proof that muggles and wizards can live alongside each other in some kind of magical metropolis.
This isn't so bad, he thought. As far as illusions go. Then the sound of scraping cranes had him looking up. Straight up. The ground vibrated beneath his feet as he made out the miles-high bands of steel, that looked like Eileen's wheels of life, rising over the square. The structures arched over all the levels, appearing and disappearing from behind the buildings. What he could see of it, shifted behind the clouds, the further it went up. It could've been a bending skyscraper, an architectural wonder that spun slowly, orbiting its own center, like a space station. It looked the height of technology, mimicking an atomic spin with seven different counterparts, each one rising from a different direction and horizon, only to reach a summit before falling to the opposite side and collapsing around each other to continue the process.
A generator. A giant generator of life. That's what it was. Snape wasn't dead, because those things kept pumping life into his world, through their many equations and instructions. The wheels were almost exactly like the ones Eileen revealed over him, but there were seven. And instead of sparking with lit spells and symbols, these only showed sleek windows lit from the inside, as if the Heron Tower was bent into a circle. He stared in awe.
The sound of a whistle startled him.
"Are you lost? You can't go any further."
Harry turned. It was a cop.
"Exactly what are you up to? You're not from around here."
The inquiry seemed so casual, Harry was tempted to talk, to answer. But he remembered Eileen's advise to keep running and don't talk. Then he noticed how strange the cop seemed. Out of place. A uniform decades old. He was a stout, extremely robust man, heavy on his feet, wearing an arm band, whistle, and a standard issue club and helmet.
"You'd better come with me, before you cause any trouble."
He stepped forward and Harry moved closer to the fountain. They both knew what he was planning to do. The cop blew his whistle again, then spoke calmly, trying to prevent a chase. "Don't try it, son. I been working these streets longer than you've been living. No good'll come of it. Come with me, and I'll make sure yer escorted out of here safely."
This compelled Harry to try to communicate. "I have to find him. I just want to talk."
"He don't want to be found, now does he? I've called backup, you're surrounded. The living don't belong here. They've got their world, we've got ours. It's not safe for you here."
"I have his mother's permission. Eileen Prince is helping me."
"That means squat around here. He don't talk to his mum no more. The other paintings say you're a good kid, so I'm gonna level with ya. You broke the rules. You're breaking and entering his mind."
"Well, who are you? I don't remember seeing you among the paintings. If you can be here, so can I. I knew him personally. He's saved my life dozens of times."
The cop dropped his whistle and looked exasperated. "That don't matter. This is my beat, and you ain't going through on my watch. He was just a little fella when he ran into me all those years ago. I didn't know nothing about you lot, wizards and magic and all that, but I got him back to his folks okay. Kids get separated from their parents all the time at those big fairs. Didn't think anything of it. When I passed fifty years later, I found these streets and the job that suits me just fine. I didn't know it was 'cause he remembered me this way, that made a spot for me here. In this city, I have one job, and that's to look out for the little fella. If I could, I'd go beyond the fountain and spare him some pain, but that's his other business."
"City? Does it have a name?" Harry tried stalling.
"No. It's just something he wanted to happen so's his dad would stop complaining and hating witches. He brought both people together. I'm just a lost child's memory, but I got a job to do, and I'm doing it. He's a good man, and you kids ought not to provoke him."
"I'm not provoking him. I have to see him urgently."
"You've crossed a line by coming here and I can't let you go any further."
The cop hunkered and Harry thought he was about to be tackled, but just then he heard his name called. Behind him, a familiar wizard in pale grey robes and a chaperon headcap, waved to him from behind the fountain.
"Harry, my boy! This way."
Was it? It was! Dumbledore.
The cop looked just as shocked as Harry, and lost a bit of his determination. "Oh no. Not this guy."
Harry ran to cover the distance. He would've hugged the old man, if Dumbledore had not subdued his sprint with a wave of his hand and smiled as Harry slowed.
Old man wasn't exactly correct anymore. Dumbledore seemed decades younger, less gray, less frail, but still exuded an air of wisdom far beyond that of ordinary people. "Slow down, my boy. The time to run has gotten away from you. You should not engage with Severus's memories."
"You're here! You can talk to me, too? If I'd known, I'd have tried this earlier."
"Calm, Harry. This is not a place to catch up. I'm not what you think I am. I'm merely a memory that remembers you and wants to help you. You have precious little time. You must understand some rules.
This world is a compromise between Snape's mind and the paintings. I have no authority here."
"But that cop doesn't look like he's going to challenge you." They both looked at the officer, turning red-faced. Other people from other portraits had started to creep up behind the cop, as if they were curious themselves. Harry recognized some of them, particularly the The Fat Lady, Milk Maid, Pirate Plume, and a few of the older Headmasters. They were murmuring amongst themselves and not looking very happy with him.
"Headmaster, you've got to tell them that I mean no harm."
Dumbledore's raised hand shushed him. "I'm afraid this is Severus's domain, quite apart from Hogwarts. You're on your own, my boy. But I will give you some help. Just because you are an intruder, doesn't mean you can't find your way. You simply have to obey the rules and respect Severus's privacy."
"I will. I do."
"For you are like an invader in his world. A virus in his body, if you'll excuse the reference. Every part of him knows you don't belong here and will try to insulate you from him and cast you out. The threats you encounter, are nothing more than antibody equivalent, if I'm using muggle terminology correctly. I don't recommend chasing after Severus's shadows. Their only job is to take out his threats before they harm him. You might find it helpful to introduce yourself if you encounter the Death Eater again."
"How'd you know about that?"
"That particular shadow watches everything, ready to attack. You shouldn't speak really, but if he attacks you, you can try introducing yourself and tell him that you mean no harm. It's no guarantee, but remember everything you encounter here, is, was, or will be alive in Severus's experience at some point. It affects him, wherever he's at, at whatever level of life he's functioning on."
"So the paintings are only dead to the world of the living. In here, everything is alive and goes on with whatever life is connected to all that went on before?"
Dumbledore did a thing with his head that wasn't quite a commitment to a nod. "Not precisely. You must give up trying to understand this place. It doesn't work the way you're used to. Suffice it to say that the fountain square is the most neutral ground in Severus's mind, and even here, his thought-forms still want to throw you out. Every path in this environment, leads to a very real place for Severus. You must not abuse the access that you have. The fact that you've made it this far, means that his oversoul is willing to help you reach him."
"Oversoul?"
Dumbledore pointed to the wheels in the sky. "That's where those come from. We all have them, but Severus has many."
"What's an oversoul?"
"It's something we are. An entity of enormous proportions and infinite scope, but we don't have time to get into it. That mob forming behind the cop will chase you down and throw you, bodily, from this painting. That's much kinder than what the shadow of Severus would do to you. Don't let any of them get their hands on you. They'll hold back as long as I'm talking to you, but I can't hold them forever."
"Why is this so hard? He would want to help me. That's all he ever did, really, if you think about it. Why is his mind fighting me?"
"He's injured, Harry, and not himself. So far in this painting, you've only seen some childhood impressions and imaginings, mixed with adult secrets. But beyond the fountain, that terrain is comprised of his time at Hogwarts and on into adolescents and adulthood. Very personal environments. It is a violation to run around so freely in another person's experiences, no matter how you justify it. As you go further, you will encounter less and less friendliness. Hostility awaits, and your judgment cannot falter."
"I can't die here, right? This is a painting."
"But where does the painting end, and Severus really begin? Ask yourself, how do the dead know they're dead, if they walk and talk and simply cannot find their way back home? There are worse things than death, Harry. Being trapped in an isolated and dark corner of a victim's mind, might just be one of those things."
"So I have to move on. I have to find him."
"Since you've made it this far, means that Severus feels conflicted. You're right, he helped you in life, and therefore his intentions flow towards helping you. He would want you here, and any friendliness you encounter, you do so from that standpoint. But he is very troubled, Harry. He is in pain and goes to great lengths to make sure no one hurts him the way he was hurt before, and that part of him is incapable of trusting your presence. It wants you gone and will show you nothing but hostility until it drives you out. I think, as long as you stick to your purpose and don't abuse the information you find, you could safely accomplish what you set out to do."
Harry knew he could. Dumbledore's assessment only added to his determination. "If the part of him that's hurt is calling the shots, then the part of him that gave me his memories in the boathouse, is here too. He's just as much on my side, as he might seem against it. I'm going."
His feet started before the rest of him, and he twisted, waving to Dumbledore.
The cop, and all the accompanying painted subjects, took off after him. Dumbledore waved, allowing himself to disappear as the citizens of Snape's inner world ran past.
Harry was tempted to use magic to slow the others, but Eileen's warning about speaking, made him think that would be disastrous. He'd already called enough attention to himself, so he kept running. On the other side of the fountain, the rectangular square brought him to the entrance of official looking buildings. There were open arches at each end, but he wasn't sure he could make either one of them in time. He jumped the steps, with no intention of going inside, and ran along a terrace that wrapped around the building. The painted crowd followed, with new people joining their numbers. He noticed that every time he saw someone new, that person immediately started chasing him. More appeared in front of him, coming up from the side of the building. He had to climb over the terrace railing to escape becoming sandwiched between all of them. They were yelling like a mob, and it made him think that the Death Eater shadow, would be on him at any second.
He jumped down from the terrace and landed at one of the tunnel-like archways that connected all the building's in the formation. Inside, the structure was made of dark bricks that went on for a hundred meters. He could see sunlight hitting the pavement of the other side, and people walking around. It was like stepping into the shadow of a sleeve, and trying not to alert anyone else. But something was up telepathically in this place. No matter how he averted his eyes, the minute he caught someone's attention, they stopped and shouted, "It's him!"
Ahead, on the other side, stood trees. Not just shrubbery, but a pretty dense greenway. Dumbledore and Eileen both said he needed to get past the fountain. That must be where he needed to go. Snape's later years were somewhere over there.
He broke into a run, no longer dodging anyone's stare. He hardly saw anything around him as he cleared the archways, beat across the pavement, and slammed into the trees. In doing all of that, he'd had to cross a road, shrug off someone's grip, and ready his wand. He didn't even know if he could use magic here, but he had to be prepared if he could. That happened so fast, he didn't have a chance to really look. It was too strange. The road he'd ran across was like a muggle highway. Freshly paved and painted with yellow and white lines. He wondered what part of Snape's life had held onto such a modern and muggle symbol.
Across the road, all the painted people stopped. They no longer chased him, and from the looks on their faces, they couldn't. The cop shouted, with Pirate Plume beside him, "You go into those woods boy, you won't come out. The castle in there, is not like the castle out here. It's his own and you'll be trespassing."
"All his dark stuff is done there, lad. We can't protect you if you go."
That reminded Harry. He gripped his talisman. He had plenty of protection. He turned and vanished into the trees.
It wasn't like the Forbidden Forest. This landscape had its own brand of eeriness, maybe because it was really creepy, or maybe because he knew it was all a part of Snape's mental landscape. Trees were closer together, and were of a dominant species that cloistered the ground, choking out the sun. Thin trunks hinted of young trees standing in naked vulnerability, like victims. There should've been a sense of thriving, but he couldn't hear any noise, not one bird, and even the ground beneath his feet hushed every crunch of leave and grass. If there was life here, it was afraid of making a sound. As he walked, it surrounded him on all sides and he was relieved to see a structure up ahead. He could already tell that it was a platform of some sort, made for the outdoor gathering of many people. But no one was there.
A peculiar thing happened as he walked. Daylight grew dim, blatantly shifting into afternoon and evening colors. He stopped, gripping his wand. Even as he told himself that it couldn't be, he stepped backwards, testing his theory, and sure enough, light filtering down, returned to morning brightness. When he moved forward again, the entire sky fastforwarded itself into a sunset evening. It was too weird. He toggled his steps a few more times, trying to make sense of it. Did it mean that his very perception could not be trusted? His every move had some kind of an influence on what he could experience? That Snape's psyche was responding to him?
He tried to let it go, unable to make sense of it. But the closer he got to the platform, the darker it became. The platform had a roof, and he saw that it was held up by hundreds of slender, square poles. It looked old and mugglish, like a train station in a small town, from the earl 1900's. There were wooden benches in rows. Everything was dark and dusty, as if abandoned for years. He stepped inside and eased by the benches, half expecting a ghost to call his name. At the center, he saw that it was quite dark outside and stood worrying about the implications. Keep going straight. Wasn't that what Eileen had said?
As he stared, an orange smudge of embers on the horizon, began to glow. He saw something catch fire out there, on the other side of the trees. He calmed the alarm in his heart and reminded himself that it was an illusion, like everything else. Accidents don't happen here. Everything is already set from a memory. As he watched sparks light up the night, he wondered if he was staring through time. The platform was obviously connected to decades of passing time, maybe even more. Sure enough, he continued walking forward to the opposite side and saw the distant fires put themselves out. The sky lightened, and from this side of the platform, he saw the open sky again, uncluttered with trees.
It was full daylight and the sun beat down on the old train yard. Tracks stretched out in a pit. They were from a bygone era, disappearing in opposite directions. He had to leap down into a pit to cross them, and vaguely wondered if a train station existed in everyone's mental landscape. Depends on the era and the private experiences of the person, his instincts told him. Some people surely had airports. But if you've ever been an eleven year-old having your first experience on the Hogwarts Express, then you will create a train for all your travel needs in the after life.
When he was done entertaining this idea, he crossed all the tracks. The stench of heavy smoke filled his nostrils as he did so. At first he told himself it was just Snape's memory of coal-fuel for the trains. But the stink was too present and too thick, and it smelled like something else. Something incredibly unsettling. With the tracks to his back, he braced himself and still wasn't ready to see the bodies. He might've mistaken them for heaps of burnt trash, if the smell, and the ones slumped into charred balls amid black embers, hadn't alerted him the piles of them. He didn't have to be told not to look any closer, to keep away and keep moving. If his steps controlled time, then he didn't want to make any move that might possibly wake these things up. Whatever had done this, he had to let it sleep. The sight was too upsetting. It was a wasteland of burnt timber, houses, and corpses frozen in their last moments of agony. He refused to believe that Snape could've lived through something like this, that he had anything to do with this at all.
No, this was just something he learned in childhood, Harry reasoned. Something someone told him, that scared him, and now it's like his boogie man or something. It's not really. No one burns people anymore. Do they?
He tried to block out the details as he stepped around piles of bodies. It was better not to engage his mind even a little bit. He couldn't let himself become emotional or distracted, no matter what he saw. He passed a number of ruined homes, realizing that it was an entire village that had been burnt to the ground. So that's what he'd witnessed while entering the train station, without realizing it. And now he was on the other side of that time. He kept walking, grateful when the last of the village fell behind him and the stench died away. A fog seemed to lift, bringing brighter sun with it. Another stretch of trees lay before him, this time shimmering with invitation. He thought he saw that they were warded and that meant safety. He ran, testing his ability to enter them.
Whatever spells protected the area, they opened up to receive him and he was suddenly walking out of the trees towards Hogwarts castle. The epic structure rose up to meet him in full view. It had not been visible from the village. Now it lay in expansive testament to a world of magic. Everything from the grounds to the sun hitting off every stone, shouted that he had just come through challenge after challenge and deserved the reward of finding this place. Now there were birds again. There was even the sound of students far off. He kept running, but something told him to slow down. Come up with a plan. How was he gonna be treated here? This wasn't his Hogwarts, after all.
He suddenly wished he'd had his invisibility cloak, but he couldn't know whether something like that would work in a place like this. Walking anxiously, he stumbled through a ward without realizing it, and found himself within a courtyard full of students, ready or not. He froze, waiting to see who's attention he would arouse, who would try to run him off or call him out for not being natural to Snape's world. But looking around, he saw only students eating their lunches on the lawn or studying between classes. It looked to be an unusually relaxed day and there was lots of chatter. No one appeared to notice him. He did notice that their uniforms were a bit different, hearkening to a stricter era, but once in the sun, students slipped out of their robes and lounged in the grass chattering like Harry remembered during his time at Hogwarts.
He was almost relieved, with barely a moment to enjoy it, before someone knocked into him from behind. He fell forward violently, almost losing his balance.
"Watch it! Fucking hell."
Harry was about to apologize when he turned. Nothing prepared him to see his seventeen year-old father yelling at him. James Potter was taller than him, and bent down to yell directly in his face.
"I know, you know how to use these." He tapped Harry's glasses with his wand. "If you need pointers on how they work, just open your eyes, kid. I'm two years your senior. Show some respect."
"Yeah, some respect," another seventh-year added in. Harry couldn't be certain, but it sure looked like Sirius without his beard and mustache, seventy pounds thinner, and a nasty gleam in his adolescent grin that looked like trouble waiting to happen. Both boys paused, expecting something from him.
Harry cut off the instinct to call out to his Dad. He currently choked on it, which aroused amusement in James and Sirius.
"Don't make him shit himself, James. The kid looks like he's seen a ghost."
James smirked. "What's with you, kid? Can you talk? Who the hell is this kid, anyway?" He asked around. "You new, here?"
Lighter hair, that same square jaw, and with a heavier build, James looked at him like he was just another body standing in his way.
"James! Leave him alone."
They all turned to see a young girl storming across the lawn towards them. She looked put off, from her whipping red hair to the set in her jaw. Students moved out of her way. Sure enough, she gripped her wand and Harry recognized offense body language when he saw it. He didn't have to be told that this was his mother, decades ago. Speechless, he watched it play out. He wanted to interrupt them. He wanted to talk, but something told him not to interfere. If he could meet with them like this, he might be in enough trouble already. He could possibly make things worse. So he watched, fascinated more than afraid.
"I told you, "Lily warned, "One more time, and we're through. What you put Sev through, is bad enough. You don't even know this kid, leave him alone."
James winced for the spectacle he was making, but then made a show of brushing Harry off. "He bumped into me, I was just letting him know he ought to be more careful. Right, kid? No harm."
The three of them clearly expected Harry to answer, but he could see that this really didn't have anything to do with him. His mother swung her wand with a tricky twist of her wrist and knocked James's out of his hand. "You promised me."
Sirius laughed as James picked up his wand. They had started to gain a crowd and some students thought the sight of him being so easily disarmed, without any spells, was a chance to openly guffaw. Judging by the glare his father gave them, Harry suspected they'd pay for it later.
"What are you, the patron saint of scrawny losers? We're just fooling around. Right, kid?"
Being in his parent's crossfire, left Harry completely stunned. While coming to terms with not knowing how to handle this situation, he saw two more familiar kids walk up behind James. Before they opened their mouths, their lean towards their leader, robes unfastened and slack on their shoulders, hands in pockets, told Harry who they were and who their allegiance lay with.
"He didn't mean any harm, Lily," Remus answered. Harry was shocked to see what a bean pole he was. Super slender, but healthily so. He wore his hair parted, slick with pomade and cut a handsome figure, if a little acned. He was the very portrait of a teenager trying to trick everyone into seeing him as an intellectual far beyond his years. "I promised to keep my eye on him for you."
Remus's words didn't match the gleam in his eye, and Harry knew, along with anyone seeing this, that in his own subtle way, he was trying to charm Lily while remaining true to his friends at the same time.
"You're too nice to stand up to him, Remus." Lily looked at Harry. "Pay no mind to James. I know I'm done with him." She turned her nose up and walked away.
Sirius poked James and snickered, "You'll have her back by dinner. A sickle. That bird never means what she says."
The chubby kid beside Remus piped up, "Yes, that's why she's so upset. She knows she can't be rid of you and is destined to suffer your ways. A sense of humor is what she wants. It wouldn't be so hard on her then."
This guy, Harry knew, was Wormtail. Peter Petigrew. For a moment, his vision went dark with the potential of attacking him and thwarting some future where Peter betrays his parents to their deaths. But this wasn't a dream and it wasn't time travel, either. If he acted on his feelings, he'd just end up wreaking havoc in Snape's head, he reckoned. It wouldn't bring his parents back.
Before Harry could work out why neither of his parent's recognized him, Sirius tapped James on the shoulder. "Speaking of…" He pointed.
There, across the grass, a lone student moved like a ripple within an oasis. A slippery illusion. His dark robe and long legs afforded him a stealth quality, even in broad daylight, as if he were willing people not to notice him. There was something about the way he looked down as he walked, not meeting anyone's eyes.
It took Harry a moment to recognize Snape's seventeen year-old self. He had not expected so much hair. Really full and flowing, and unlike anything he knew of his old teacher. Snape looked like a kid. These days, if they were nice about it, he would've been called goth. It wasn't just the clothes, everyone here had black robes, but it was the dense air about him. It was the way he trudged over the grass, in utter isolation, as if there were no other kids drenched in sun and fun conversations around him. He walked in his decision to move through the world alone and it parted the way for him. It was a powerful decision and in another moment, Harry realized that he could feel Snape's magic.
That was astonishing, because he'd always thought it was something distasteful that Snape was exuding, like hatred. But this pre-Voldemort Snape, was just a kid with more magic than he'd learned to use. This fascinated Harry. Not to mention, what the hell was going on with all that hair? Really, it couldn't be ignored. Harry even looked around, and couldn't find anyone else with hair that unruly and beautiful. It was a living issue. To want to be so alone, the guy sure was a target, looking like that.
After having met Eileen, he could actually see a bit of Snape's mother in him. Definitely a wild woman's influence, trapped inside an awkward wizard who didn't fit securely into the worlds of men or women. He had no click, no friends, and no preconceived pattern of being, that could easily be seen. Therefore, he was weird.
James perked up, catching the scent of fresh prey. "Snivelous. What a beaut." James's crooked smile appreciated the view. Jumping from one distraction to another, he was off, walking in Snape's direction. His friends followed.
The minute Harry saw Snape, he knew he had to have a closer look, regardless of any agenda. You can't see something that young and graceful and powerful, and not compare it to the sour, middle-aged man who drilled you with vinegar insults, from your childhood to his last days, and not need further proof that it was really the same person.
He did his best to wait an appropriate amount of distance and hoped they were all too caught up to spot him following them. Entering the castle from the courtyard seemed real enough, with the passage of time, but once he caught up to them, the scene changed, depositing him outside an alcove under the library stairs. The door was closed and guarded from the inside by Sirius, Remus, and Wormtail, while James spoke close to Snape. Harry would've killed to know what was being said. He withheld from using his wand to perform spells that would let him eaves drop, but his magic ignited anyway, so curious was he to hear what was going on. The talisman around his neck grew warm against his chest and started to glow green. It felt more like a prompt of his magic, to be of use, than a signal from Thella that she sensed something wrong. He gripped it and willed the message, I want to be in there, but I can't let them see me.
He was so desperate to be on the other side of that door, and holding himself back, that he could've pissed himself. He'd even forgotten what the damn glow was supposed to actually mean. It was a reminder. Use love, then take action. Now was not the time for rogue magic. If he botched this up by making up some unproven spell, James would have a new target. He didn't come here to upset things even more.
He squeezed his eyes shut and prayerfully remembered his love for his father. He had always wanted to meet him and knew that he had to be a better man than this rotten kid. "I love you, Dad. I know you're a good person. I'm going through that door and you're not going to see me. No one is. My magic can do that."
He took a breath. Upon exhale, he was already on the other side of the door, inside the room. He froze, unsure of whether it worked. The group stood only meters away from him, and when they didn't turn around, he figured out he'd been successful. What had Eileen said about raw magic? It worked, not because of clever spells, but because of the wizard wielding it, or something like that. Spells were just training wheels for people who aren't fully convinced of what they can do.
They had Snape cornered, seated by a window of stained glass, with a book. Harry was ready to raise his wand in defense and sort out the mess later. But so far, they were all standing around talking icily around the real issue.
He knew what he could expect from his father's immaturity, but he had no idea what to expect from Snape's.
James Potter leaned into Snape's personal space. To Harry, it looked like his father and his friends, had Snape in a vulnerable spot. But such an unbothered air of control, smoothed his young teacher's features, that Harry couldn't be sure the odd boy was in trouble or not. He was taller than James and wore his hair parted in the middle, making it fall demurely on either side of his face like a veil. Honestly, he was more attractive than Harry could ever remember or imagine, and it was startling to see that his dad obviously thought so too.
James stepped closer to the kid he and his friends had trapped. "People are starting to wonder why you don't like them, Sev. Come out and be social. What gives?"
Snape closed his book. His hands were reverent, as if they were holding a holy relic. "I've taken extra classes this term. Tell them I'm sorry, I've no time for friends."
Harry tensed, knowing someone like his dad wasn't going to do well with rejection. The question was, could James see what he was doing? What he was asking? Harry had to blink twice, to admit to himself that this was the most blatant denial of a crush he'd ever seen.
James bated, "I bet you planned it that way. I bet you hate people. I know, people are arses. But I know a reasonable bloke when I see one. You and I haven't always seen eye to eye, and that's my fault. I'll take the blame. The only reason I'm in here disturbing your reading, is because I'm being the better man and asking you to join my pals out on the lawn. Tell us how you got Slughorn's potion in under an hour. You won the award, the whole school's talking about it. There's no reason why a Gryffindor can't be friends with a Slytherin, is there? We just want to congratulate you."
Harry saw Snape's recoil in the sudden flat line of his mouth. His eyes dulled with humorless dismissal.
"I can't join you, Gryffindor or no."
"How about tomorrow? Sirius and I are looking for some extra help with our potions. You could give us your take on things. How you find it so easy?"
"I study."
"Yeah, but that doesn't come easy for some of us. Let's face it, you don't have a lot distracting you. I've got Quidditch, a girlfriend, and a ton of friends. We can't all be studious." James chuckled.
Snape stood and regarded him with a look so prim and reprimanding that it filled Harry with cold dread. It put him back in his first year and having those flared nostrils take aim at him when he was too young to figure out what he'd even done wrong. The Snape he remembered could take care of himself, he knew. But could this guy?
James suddenly exclaimed, "I've got it. You sound and act like a really confident woman. A spinster. Are you close to your mother? 'Cause I think it's rubbed off. That's what's been bothering me about you for a long time. Feels good to figure it out."
He and his friends laughed, while Snape grew even more rigid. "Am I right? Doesn't he fit somebody's mother, or some old maid witch, than he does a wizard? All that long hair, hiding in closets with books, come on. I mean, at least put it up in a bun or something. I'm sure Professor McGonagall's got a lovely pointy hat you can borrow."
They laughed at James's joke as if they'd never heard one before. Harry saw the exact moment when Snape had had enough. Instead of storming off, he drew himself up, lifted his arms, and lifted his hair away from his shoulders. His long back stretched, drawing attention to the narrow waist of his uniform as he let go of his hair and let it fall. It was an act of vanity, and it had the effect of denouncing James's less attractive presence, as inferior. It was the act of a woman who knew she had something that others wanted. It wasn't that Snape looked like a woman, because he didn't. But he did look, sensual, for lack of a better word. None of them were used to seeing men look this way. No wonder his dad was unbalanced and just too dumb to say it.
To James, Snape's exotic display, was a very clear, 'fuck you' and he wasn't going to let it slip. He tried to laugh it off, but Snape's body and manner, stretched the full length of James for appraisal. It stood tall, slender, and long muscled. Harry figured that he must've weighed a quarter of his weight as a forty-year old professor. For a split second, Snape looked like a really beautiful version of his mother. But there was nothing weak or effeminate about him. He even looked as though he might've had natural athletic agility beneath all that preference for books. He looked strong, just incredibly young and so very different from the wizard he became.
Snape picked up his books to leave.
James blocked his path. "It's just a joke, come on, Severus. Don't be so serious. I know I'm talking utter shite. I led you into the trap, just to get to have some fun. Sue me."
"Step aside." Snape was done being friendly.
James couldn't allow him to go. "You know, you can't take everything so seriously. If one of us doesn't play the fool, nobody would ever make friends."
Behind him, Sirius, Remus, and Peter had grown silent. Snape's refusal to play nice, no doubt alerted them to trouble. Harry could practically feel their wands at the ready. He tensed. Could he take them all on? Would he hurt his dad over Snape?
James gave in. "Okay, Severus. Sev. I'm going to let you go, but first let me say -"
Snape stepped around James, prepared to push past his friends. James grabbed Snape's robe and pushed him against the base supporting the staircase above. But he hesitated, and even Harry could see what he wanted to do. The moment stopped awkwardly.
Snape didn't fight at all. In fact, his stare appeared to challenge James. Daring him. Everyone in the room saw the kiss coming a mile away. When James did muster the courage to lean forward, Snape waited until he was a hair away from his lips, before turning his face aside. With the act out there for all to see, Snape's actions asked James, 'Now who's laughing? Now who looks like an idiot?'
Embarrassed, James let go. "Like I said," he joked. "Friends." There was nothing funny about losing his nerve in front of Snape. His friends had seen enough. He backed away, slipping past them. Remus ran after him. Peter looked undecided before backing out the door. Only Sirius stayed, eyeing Snape like he had a bone to pick.
Harry couldn't bring himself to strike against his God-father, when Sirius leapt to grab Snape.
"You, you piece of shite!" In front of Harry, Sirius did what James had been too slow to do. He didn't give Snape a chance to dodge his mouth. He shoveled himself deep inside, making the kiss as savage as he could. He didn't stop until Snape gagged.
Harry's wand was raised to fire, but he didn't. He just couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Snape wrestled the shorter, stronger man off of him. Harry wished he couldn't see the red bruising around Snape's mouth, or his stinging pride. He wished he could be certain that it was right to stop something that was already a part of someone's life and memory, but he wasn't, and so he watched their hatred of one another.
Sirius wiped saliva off his chin. "That's for my friend. Take my advice, you ugly git. If somebody takes pity on that scowl of yours, have since enough to fucking let them kiss you if that's what they want."
He left. Snape glared after him. Young Snape put on a brave enough face while he watched Sirius go, but when he was by himself, he turned into a rather shaken boy, and sat back down by his book. His hands shook and he clasped them to stop them. He frowned in thought, like someone very disappointed in themselves.
Harry was tempted to approach him, to offer comfort and reveal himself. He started forward, but a spark of wandfire exploded past his ear and he turned to see a swarm of shadowy figures coming towards him. They were apparating, appearing distorted in the ethers, as he saw them mid-flight. They moved like Voledemort's black knights, all shooting shadows and masks. They weren't yet in the room, but their spells warned him of their arrival as their magical wormhole bore down on him. He had to run, though he didn't know where. He couldn't check his magic and make sure that he wasn't being seen. He reached for the door to escape, and that's when the room itself disintegrated. Like a memory collapsing on itself, that was all he was allowed to know of it. In its place, the castle reformed around his intent to get away. Unlike Snape, the guys chasing him were not memories, they were an active security system and they'd finally found him.
In the chaos, stone paths formed in front of him. Bits and pieces of rooms that were familiar, yet strange, zipped in and out of view. He sensed that heated emotions, whether his or Snape's, had made the psychological terrain unstable. Stairs collapsed as he tried to climb them. Wandfire sent columns splitting in a spray of crushed stone, hitting him in a way that was real enough to convince him that he needed to fire back. There were only five Death Eaters that he could see, but that was more than enough to keep him busy with deflection spells as he ran. He couldn't slow down long enough to try to signal Thella for help. There were moments when his feet wasn't touching any ground and he was falling through castle levels, only to be caught by swinging staircases and thrown to another set passing by. At some point, he found himself free-falling, killing curses all around him, until a body of water caught him. Bewildered, he surfaced in panic, splashing for his wand and knowing he was a sitting duck.
He told himself he had to calm down. That didn't help, especially when he realized he was in the lowest part of the castle, closed off to the main school. He was in the canal system where he had fought Tom Riddle during Riddle's possession of Ginny. Connecting these thoughts was enough to conjure something he didn't want to see. Scales slithered out of the water, on a body thick as a car, and wound back into the water. Nope. He didn't have enough strength or desire for another bloody battle like the one in his second year. He swam for the platform, commanding his magic to "Get me bloody out of here."
Mid-stroke, he found himself collapsing on the platform. He just appeared there, without having to pull himself up. In the water, the basilisk caused waves to splash onto the floor. He had no intention of being around when it broke the surface. He spotted his wand floating. Just to see if he could, he held out his hand and thought of the summoning command. The wand floated to him. It more or less swam against currents and arrived at his outstretched hand. He had to admit, getting his way like that felt very powerful. Was it because this was all imaginary? Like a dream? Everything happening here, if it couldn't have anything to do with Physics, then was it based entirely on psychological climate, and not even the real integrity of memories at all?
Not only did he have no point in trying to figure this out, he had no time. Something came at him. A large shadow so swift, it knocked him into a different room and a different memory. He struggled against it, seeing through the facade of smoke, that it was indeed another Death Eater. Up close and personal, the guy was strong, and Harry felt muscle behind his grip, not just magic. His wand was the first to go, ripped from his hand the moment of the attack. Pride was shortlived as he rolled with the masked fiend to try to gain the upper hand. They rolled into a lab, over burners and cauldrons. Students scrambled out of their way, fleeing the room. Screams followed them. Harry knew that he was at a disadvantage, not just because his wand was gone again, but because he lacked the body mass of this bigger guy, and therefore the strength.
There was no time to consult with Thella, he wanted this Death Eater off him at any cost. What he couldn't do with strength, he did with magic. The Death Eater went flying backwards, colliding with a cabinet of vials and jars. Before Harry could congratulate himself for his use of wandless magic, the guy was up and shaking glass off of him. Harry backed away.
"You made me do that. I don't want to hurt you," he warned. "I'm looking for someone. I don't belong here and I didn't come to start trouble."
"You have no right to be here," the Death Eater replied in a manner that sounded filtered, like a voice distortion.
"I need help. Please, I don't want to hurt anybody. This just got out of hand."
Instead of discussing it, the Death Eater sent a shard of magic that speared out of his wand and elongated into a lash of rope that cut Harry across his chest. The magical wound burned as it cut, and
Harry felt hot blood pour from it.
Holy fuck! Could he die here?
It was a deep gash, followed by another, and another. The ropes of magic slapped his body any way that it wanted. He could hardly hold his mind still to retaliate. All he knew was that he was in trouble and he wanted the guy to stop. There was already too much blood to come back from this. This guy, apparently, was going to slice him to death.
Harry shouted in delirium, "You don't know who you're killing!" His arm shot out to catch the next lash and let it wrap around him. At the same time, he pulled with surprise determination. His magic supported him, bringing the Death Eater to him so that he could wrap the rope around the guy's neck. The Death Eater's arm caught in the roped magic, preventing it from wrapping around his neck. He evaded Harry's grip and yanked on the glowing strand of magic they were both fighting with. Harry had no choice but to lurch forward, or lose his arm. He screamed, feeling it leave its shoulder socket. At that moment, nothing else in the room mattered but surviving the pain.
He begged his magic to let him stay alert and strong, as he convulsed through shock waves of pain. End it, end it, he commanded his abilities. End the pain.
It died down to a bearable pitch, as easily as it had ignited. But that took seconds, and he lost those to being straddled as he slumped to the floor. His head and shoulders were wedged against one of the lab tables and his right arm hung loose inside his muscles, the socket inflamed. He couldn't move it. His right hand flopped uselessly, trying to push the Death Eater off of him and searching for his wand at the same time. Coherent directions were not getting through to the hand. Pain, although not as explosive, still short-circuited his control over his body. Everything had gone wrong so quickly. He'd underestimated his influence in this environment. Memories weren't supposed to be this painful and this deadly.
In front of him, the Death Eater leaned in. "Did you think you could invade me and nothing would come of it? I protect what's mine."
The masked guy used both hands to close around Harry's throat.
As Harry felt his air pinch off, his vision went hazy and he did his best to stare into the molded shape of that ugly mask. But then he noticed something. His glasses were gone. Flown off. And now that he had to rely on his eyes without them, he saw something amazing. Wheels of fire. They presented themselves in the form of those giant wheels that Eileen had shown him. Their outlines burned with the intensity of a welder's sparks, as they turned from one dimension into this one, behind the Death Eater's shoulders. There were seven of them. Seven lives, Eileen had explained. As big as Ferris Wheels, but taking up no physical space as they intersected invisibly with the physical world.
Harry reached out to touch the illusion.
Those things soared up into clouds. Just like his had done. They appeared so real and close, yet sat suspended in some unreachable space, spinning and pumping life into this person. It was the same spiritual machine that rose over the square at the fountain. It was the same as the one he'd seen of himself, only multitudinous and spinning faster in arches that he sensed took eons to complete. He understood in that moment, what is eternal, cannot be translated into what is not. We get segments and half-truths, and we have to make do with that.
Whatever Eileen had done to him, when she rearranged the magic written on his wheels, he not only saw Snape's raw magic and lifeforce, but he saw the diagrams and the old language. He saw spells, activated and lit in symbols, each one siphoning from the wheels to shape magic to specific instructions. It was so beautiful to finally match the power to the person. He knew in an instant why this boy confused his senses, why he confused his father. That kind of power, doesn't compromise itself to fit in. It doesn't take sides. It doesn't cling to human fears, it doesn't play the male-female game. Only ego does that. This magic is whole, while men and women are halves.
Of course, his father was curious. Of course, Snape would only show a little of this as he lay dying. He'd been unable to hide it, and left, confusing Harry from that moment on. Harry thought he'd known him, until then. Is that what this whole odyssey was about? Needing Draco? The curse? His daughter? Making peace with using one's whole power, in a world where only halves and split energy, are considered normal. All this, to help him see the magic behind the mundane. He saw it now.
His hand, instead of reaching the wheels, fell upon the Death Eater's mask instead. That symbol, meant to inspire fear and awe, was going to be the last thing he ever saw, if he didn't find the strength to aim one more magical thought. Whether he was more powerful here, or if it was all in his imagination, he didn't know. But it was worth a try. In his split-second plea for help, for the right spell, the right defense, his hand released its feeble hold on the Death Eater, and clasped his talisman.
Thella, he pleaded. There was no time to tell her what he needed, so his magic did it for him. He couldn't even summon a feeling of love for his daughter. His thoughts were no where near the vicinity of love, so he left it in Thella's hands and hoped her little Cheerio was doing what she said it could do. He faded, but held onto those eyes willing him to die through the mask. Such dark eyes. Like obsidian pearls. Like Iece's. How could eyes so dark, hold such a bright light? A bright soul.
He had to see his killer's face. Strangulation was a crime of strength and he could tell this guy was willing to hurt himself to see it done. He used his last push to knock the mask away. It fell off, releasing a spillage of hair that poured out from the mask. Seventeen year-old Snape stared down at him, shaking to force Harry's life out of him. His mouth trembled and sweat beaded on his forehead. His voluptuous hair, spelled to advertise his magic as a warning to all, lay in stark contrast to the repulsive mask that had kept it bound back. Harry could see that now. Snape's smooth face was tight and determined. That peculiar shape to his wide mouth, engrossed Harry in this moment, as strongly as it had when Snape lay dying in his arms. This boy was beautiful. How that mystery must've mesmerized his father.
Harry marveled. He was older now than Snape was then, and the boy's efforts looked so desperate to prove that he could kill. Not only kill, but watch with open eyes, unflinchingly. He had earned his mask. In that moment, Harry forgave him and his one dying wish was that this Snape could see how wonderful the other Snape was. The one who had died in the boathouse.
With eyes locked, this was his chance. He summoned that memory and fed it directly into the mind of this boy Death Eater. Snape, forty-two years old and dying from Nagini's bite and Voldemort's blade, on the boathouse floor. Harry holding him, hearing his confession in garbled, blood-soaked words. Seeing his memories and the pact he made with Dumbledore. Seeing everything he did to protect the school and how it all felt as Harry tried to squeeze Snape's life back into him. Instead, it had slipped slipped slipped away. He remembered feeling small and inadequate with that imposing man in his arms. He remembered crying uncontrollably, unable to bring him back. He remembered how the truth revealed itself in those final moments. Revealed Snape to be the fragile one, the one living in fear, the one with secrets to hide, and having given the last of himself to save Harry. Everything he recalled, he poured it into young Snape's mind. He let him see it all.
One day, Harry thought into Snape's mind, you're gonna love me. One day, you're going to choose me over death.
His trachea couldn't let air in, but he pushed what he had out. "I'm here because I love you, not because I'm invading you. I'm not trying to hurt you."
He should've passed out by then, but Snape's grip had loosened and air crept its way back into Harry's lungs. His vision cleared. The last thing he saw, was confusion and alarm on this boy's face. The other dropped him, and threw himself away from Harry's body as far as he could get. Shock, holding Snape's mouth open, was beautiful to Harry. It meant that those memories had gotten through. It must've been unimaginable, to see your future self saving the life of the person you were presently trying to kill. And not just a future self, but an older and wiser self, who didn't look anything like this anymore. Not to mention all the details of his life that were now revealed to him.
Snape backed away from him and ran.
Whatever damaged this was doing to the fabric of space and time, Harry didn't know. He didn't care. All he knew was that this Death Eater version of Snape, was just a terrified kid, and wouldn't come after him again. He was free to go deeper into this psyche, to question his Professor. But something slithered up to his side then, asking him, after seeing what his father and God-father had done, did he really want to know more?
A/N: Seventeen year-old Snape is not a separate Severus from the current one. This is a part of his psyche that didn't develop beyond what happened to him when he was 17 years old. It's traumatized and feels threatened by everything. It's making sure no one ever hurts him again and doesn't recognize anything about Harry because they've never met directly, and because this part of Snape is largely cut off, psychologically, from the adult he forced himself to become. Seventeen year old Snape is like an island, so separated from the mainland that it develops at a slower rate, in a completely different way.
Also, the painted environment is different from Snape's psychological environment. The deeper Harry goes into the painting, the more he's dealing with Snape's living mind and spirit, which has consequences.
Harry is able to affect Snape's memories and environment because everything is based on Snape's mentality, which responds to Harry because it knows, at a subconscious level, that Harry is very important to him, whether his younger, Death Eater self, realizes that or not. In fact, Harry goes straight to his parents, because that's where his emotions are the most deeply invested, and Snape's psychology picks up on that and delivers it to Harry. Harry's emotions disturb Snape's greater emotions, the way a stone tossed in the water creates ripples. It's a living, violatile environment, made of personal meaning, instead of flesh and blood. This is why Snape's world is so responsive to Harry's emotions and wishes. As far as magical energy goes, it isn't clear what belongs to Severus and what belongs to Harry, because Harry is affecting everything.