Hiding Under the Ninth Earth
Book 02 : A Bit Of All Right
by I Got Tired of Waiting
Part II : Harry and Severus
Chapter Seventeen : What Dreams May Become
2 August 1998
"Mr. Potter. Harry. I know you're in there. Do you hear me? Listen to me."
Visions swam in Harry's head while a familiar voice, low and sultry, wove in and out of flashes of moving pictures, bound by a type of music he knew he'd heard before, but for the life of him he couldn't place. He knew he should remember--it was vital somehow he recall what he was seeing, what the voice was showing him. Trying to focus, grab the fleeting images, there are so many, too many.
"That's right. Remember who and what you are. Take my memories and use them for your own--for now. One at a time--there--you got one."
He saw himself with a group of young people, wand out. There was an older woman and a wolf there as well standing with the students, wands out. To battle? No, his mind recalled they were there to protect. Just in case one went astray. He saw a tall man, casting a spell--a ward--separating them from the spectators. Another spell, surrounding him, surrounding the man--can see the glow of it. He was facing himself--he faced a thin man with ebon hair. He was confused. How could he see his opponent and himself at the same time? Who was this man and why was he fighting him? Why were all his friends just standing there watching?
"You're so close, Harry. Don't let it slip away. Shift the perspective--take this memory to find your own. Heed me, Harry."
The spells flew, he was hit with a curse; his shielding held and sent it back to his opponent. He was hit by his own curse and it bounced back at him--the perspective steadied and he was himself again, watching his curse come back at him from the shield of the man in black. They volleyed it back and forth until with a push of power he sent it back one last time. The man went sailing several feet to land on his bum, bouncing before coming to an ungraceful stop, legs akimbo like a scarecrow falling off the post in a strong wind. He felt rare laughter at the sight; he couldn't remember why it was so funny, why the man had a wry smile on his face. The applause from those around him faded until he was adrift in a sea of white and he recalled no more.
"No, Harry, you cannot avoid it. You must remember. You were trained against the best to give no quarter, given the skill to vanquish your foes; defeat is not an option right now. You must hold onto yourself. Come back. Follow my voice."
He was kneeling on the floor in a room made of stone, panting, his head a heavy burden on the end of his neck. It hurt. He dimly heard a voice, the same one talking to him now, only different, harsher. He struggled to his feet trying ignore the shouted, "Potter, damn you! Concentrate! This is no child's game we play--you did better than this last year. On your feet! Again! Legilimens," ignore how it hurt down to the soles of his leaden feet--he was so tired, all he wanted to do was sleep and here he was in his mind again. Feebly he pushed, the memories squeezed out of him. Mustn't push let NO! the get out of my mind bastard go away win so there! The man stumbled back against the wall, pushing on Harry again. Stalemate. Neither one gaining the advantage over the other. Holding on for what seemed like hours. The pressure gone. Sweat pouring off of them both. The warm feelings when the man said, "Well done."
"I had no choice. You cannot die because of something as idiotic as distraction. Harry, hold on, don't lose me."
Warm hands on his face. Stroking, pushing the hair off his forehead. A breath of air on his cheeks. A kiss?
"Stay with me, Harry."
+ + + +
He opened his eyes to darkness relieved only by a candle off to his side. Blinking the crustiness off of his lashes, he tried to speak but no sound came out. Pain, so much pain, in every limb. His head, barely attached, floating in its own bed of agony. He tried again, a raspy croak--"Where am I?"
Soft cool hands, a woman's, lifting his head and shoulders ever so gently. It still hurts. A soft voice, soothing and plush, like the pillows under his arms. "Hush, Harry. You're in the infirmary--you've given us quite a scare. Here, drink this--" A foul liquid at his mouth, bitter and acrid, his throat protesting, magic there making him swallow. "I know, it's awful, but it will help. There you go, all done." A rustle of cloth, something being shifted, his head eased into downy softness. "It will be better in a moment."
A small noise at his side. Sliding his eyes didn't hurt. He looked at the old man sitting next to him, white beard in his lap. "Who are you? How did I get here?"
Smooth like silk his voice, familiar like a lullaby. "You had an accident, Harry. There will be time to talk later. For now, just sleep"
The pain receded. The room darkened. His eyelids were so heavy. Someone was watching over him--he would figure it out later.
+ + + +
"Harry--keep thinking of them. You must think of them. No time to lose. Pay attention."
"If defeating the Dark Lord requires you, Potter, then by all the gods, you will be prepared!"
An unfamiliar hex followed these words and he saw a wave of magic coming his way across the duelling field. The Flamma Schema. Latin. Used to cause flames or incendiary spells. Counter spell Aqua or Suffoco. Contains a Ferus Schema. Latin. Used in Wild and untamed magic. Counterspell Pax Together--hybrid wildfire--nasty--only have one shot at this. The spell almost on him, he shouted, "Suffuco Pax". Damn! Almost. A little scorch on his sleeve marked the remainder of the spell.
"Not bad, Potter, but as usual, you left it a bit too late and you entirely missed the Impervius Schema. You must be quicker. Try again. Confuto Desirum!"
"That's good, Harry. Use your own memories. Remember who you are. Who you are with. What you can do. I have every confidence you will succeed. Watch and listen."
Jumbles of memories. Moving faster than his inner eye can see. A silent sigh. They slow, like horses on a carousel--take hold of the reins to stop them moving.
Watching two men demonstrate swords and daggers. Remus? Snape? Were those their names? Going to Ollivander to get a staff--18" extending to five feet, Ipé with dragonheart string, strong and unbending. Sparring with staves, the magic crackling between his hands gripping it loosely, a sheen of sweat and concentration on Snape's face as sparks fly with each contact. Always losing to him. Delighting when Remus bested him.
A man with a white beard, the one he saw earlier, calmly throwing hexes to strengthen his shielding. Dumbledore? Yes, Dumbledore. Feeling sweat run down his face as he held the shield, while the old man made it look so easy.
Dumbledore in front of him, wand out--watch out for him, he's tricky. Sensing Snape behind him, not fast enough on the turn, hearing the dreaded Legilimens, falling to the floor, can't fight them both. Hearing the sneers from the Potions Master, "Mercy will get you killed someday, Potter. It's an emotion you can ill afford--"
Waking in the Infirmary, a woman stridently speaking to the two men, telling them "I'm tired of seeing this poor boy here. Surely there is another way to train him? Albus?" Listening to their firm replies telling her "he must be prepared." Prepared for what?
Sitting by a fire reading from a book, what was the name? "The Art of War" by Sun Something Chinese. Questioning Snape on it, learning the strategies alongside the red-headed man. Ron. His name is Ron and he understands the concepts better--Snape doesn't yell at him.
Ron is distant, he's either with the girl--Hermione--or with friends. It didn't use to be this way. Missing his friends--No time for friends--Too busy--Too dangerous--It's not safe to know me.
Me? Who am I? Why am I here? Why can't I move? Why am I so separate from myself?
Panic. Must get out. Thrashing.
A cool hand on his lying on a soft surface. Whispered words of encouragement. Who is talking to me? Who is touching me?
"Calm, Harry--you must remain calm. You cannot heal if agitated. Find your center. Control it. Bury your fear, your anger. Wrap them in a ball and spell them away. Your emotions must be discarded for the Sanos to work. Please."
Harry. I'm Harry. I remember.
+ + + +
Waking slowly, only half here, half there--hearing a muted conversation.
"How is he, Severus?" There was deep worry in the voice.
He saw the shrug through half-closed eyes. "As well as can be expected for someone thrown halfway across the room after being hit with a Cruciatus while fully open in a Legilimens. His memories are slowly returning. I told you this was a mistake."
"Perhaps, but he must learn, Severus. You were right in this--nothing we can do to him will truly prepare him for what is coming. Mercy is not Voldemort's strong suit as you have good cause to know."
"True." A long silence. "And maybe--for the future--it had a purpose. If the combination of spells could do this much damage to someone as strong as Harry--"
A pause, the old man's eyes glazing, suddenly sharpening. "Ah, yes--I see where your thoughts go, my friend. A formidable weapon indeed--we must give this some careful thought after he awakens."
"Ever the optimist, Albus?" The feel of a warm dry hand on his arm, concern on a tired face. "He's so young--"
"No, Severus." A shake of the wise old head--in sorrow?. "Like you, Harry has an old soul."
+ + + +
"Take the good with the bad, Harry. Make the most of it. Dig deep. That's it. Remember. Take them back into you, awaken them. You're almost there."
Young. Too young? No, not too young. Not to care. He cared. He saw the Potions Master lying in the bed. Unconscious--had been for days.
Practising the Unforgiveables with Snape. His spells were so weak. Hard to dredge up the hate. Snape baiting him, trying to goad a response. No success. Almost at the end of his patience for the evening. His scathing comment "I suggest you not come back, Mr. Potter, until you finally decide to get serious about this." Feeling the anger, white and hot. How dare he! How dare he presume to know his motives. No friends. No Hogsmeade. No time. No sleep. All work and study and spells and Sanos and Schema and exhaustion.
"Avada Kedavra!" He saw the mannequin detonate as the poison green spell hit it. He'd done it--he'd cast the curse! Delight turning to dismay. Oh no! Too close. Snape was too close. A black bird flying through the dungeon. Had he done that? Had his petty anger killed the only man he'd ever loved? Loved? Trusted. That's it. He trusted him. What had he done? Bending over him. A pulse, thready and weak, thank the gods. Don't leave. Please be all right. Hitting the panic spot on the mantel. Throwing his robes over the crumpled figure on the floor, a trickle of blood winding out from his head, flowing in the joints between the stones. Hurry. Hurry! Dumbledore and Pomfrey running into the room, the flight to the Infirmary.
So still. So still on the bed. Sitting for hours, holding the long elegant hands. Hands he's longed to caress him. No, he's a Professor. Wanting to touch his hair, his face. He would never be interested in a child. Giving into temptation--soft and fine, an odd texture, not unpleasant, not greasy. An idiotic spoiled child. Sallow skin like corn silk, dry and smooth and raspy like a man's. Yet--a trusted child. Made him play Hopscotch singing 'Oranges and Lemons' while learning Imperius. Made him sweat and scream with Crucio--gasping it was well done before passing out.
Tired. So tired. Always tired. Dozing at the leaving feast. Dumbledore'd made him come. Made him leave the infirmary. Muttered whispers among the students. 'Snape is missing. Where could the Greasy Git be? Good riddance--would have soured the food anyway.' Hearing Ron call after him, Hermione too. Wanting to know why he was leaving so soon, in such a hurry. Can't stay. Can't listen to it. Can't bear them maligning him. Wanting to shout--He's a good man--you don't deserve what he's done for you, for me. I think I killed him. No, can't have done that. But he's been so still.
Running to the bed, checking on him. No change. He's still away. Day following night following day. A slim hope. Black eyes staring, he tried to pull his hand away. Not this time. I'm sorry. So sorry. Didn't mean to hurt you. I won't be angry anymore. I know it can hurt. I learned it. I'll control it. Please don't leave me. Was it spoken? Did he hear? The eyes closed. No! Stay! They open and, oh, it's there. Absolution. In his gaze. Warm. In the squeeze of his hand. Firm and yet something else. Something hopeful. Staring at each other for eternity. Madame Pomfrey pulling him away. Sending him to his rooms, but it's all right now--he has given me mercy.
Warm hands stroking his arm. Soft words willing him to sleep. Fingers in his hair. Touching his cheek, his lips.
*Silence* "I never knew. Sleep, Harry. Just sleep."
+ + + +
"Can I have some water?" a young voice croaked, eyes closed.
A whisper of rich heavy robes. Water being poured in a glass. A firm hand raising his head, cold smooth wetness at his lips. Drinking, feeling it slide down parched tissues, being absorbed before it made it all the way down. Another sip. Heaven in something as simple as water.
Dumbledore's quiet soothing voice. "Feeling better, Harry?"
Mumbling sleepily. "I don't know. Been having dreams. Memories of things. Can't tell what's real. My head hurts."
"You took quite a knock to it, my boy. We'll talk more on it later. Right now you should sleep."
A cranky whine. "All I've done is sleep."
"Well, yes." A touch of irony. "Now you will do it some more until you are healed." A wand out. "Sopophorus" spoken in a whisper.
He slept.
+ + + +
"Dumbledore says you woke. You need to sleep. You need to remember. Your connection to your memories was severed when you were hurt. Take mine to help make yours. Listen to them, Harry."
Is that why he was having all the dreams? They were memories? So many. Swirling around in his head. Confused images. He remembered those he remembered.
"Hush, Harry. I will help you sort them. For now just find them. They are all there. Bind them back into you."
Being taken to the train by Lupin and the Order--be discreet--hugging the new Head Girl--sharing chocolate frogs with the new Head Boy... Struggling with classes... Turning in work late or in an illegible shaky script, sometimes writing in a half somnolent state--McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout looking the other way--he would pass even without distinction... Helping Remus demonstrate a technique to his Fifth Years... Watching Neville stun Snape and getting away with it... Hermione and Dean and Ron helping him in the library with his Potions homework--Neville helping with Herbology... Feeling Hermione's puzzled gaze on him--the hated feel of hiding from her, turning her away--finding small ways to make up for it... Late night sessions with Firenze in the open field by the lake--watching the movements of the heavens even if he knew not what he saw--feeling some satisfaction as Lavender and Parvati failed the class... Spending meals eating and revising for the NEWT's, studying whenever there was a chance to do so... Pranking Draco--Ron turning him into a human skunk--adding the scent--ewwww--getting detention from Flitwick for using a private spell--supposed to feel guilty, but didn't... Opening the special room with all the piles of Schema forms, hundreds of them--working late into the night while everyone slept--the Potions Master covering him with a blanket when he dozed near dawn... Watching his friends go to Hogsmeade from the window of his room, Ron and Hermione holding hands, snogging when they thought no one was looking--Seeing the couples, knowing he could never really be part of one until the day one of 'them' died--Knowing that the one he wanted, he could never have--ever... Fighting off the dreams Voldemort still sent him... Rendezvousing with Justin in a deserted classroom, not a permanent thing, but relief all the same... Ignoring Malfoy in the halls--wanting to hex him for his comments to Hermione--heeding Snape's glares at him... Earning less than adequate grades on papers in Potions, hearing the sneers in class, silence outside... Gazing in awe as the dragon hatched--Hagrid's proud face--Snape's eager pen across the parchment--Learning its Schema, cataloguing it late into the night... Research in the library--Learning all the nerves in the body--His first controlled Sanos spell on Moody... His 18th birthday--The party at Grimmauld Place--Tonks' wild hair--Remus revealed as his guardian as well as Snape--A rush of love for both men... The treacherous accident--Waking in the night screaming from a dream--Pushing Voldemort out... Stunning Dumbledore and Snape in one move--Learning the duelling ward... Sneaking through the hallways in his invisibility cloak... Holding the picture of his parents as he went to sleep... Studying by wand light in his bed... Snape's laughter in the dungeons... Dumbledore pranking his bed... McGonagall slipping a rock in his bag set to Transfigure into a frog while in Herbology... Remus visiting him in the infirmary... Remus in a stout cage in the dungeons letting them catalogue the Schema of his horrible transformation on a full moon without the Wolfsbane--both of them comparing notes, making sure it's right--they would never ask again... Snape stirring a cauldron while reciting the Schema of each ingredient as it was added--seeing and mapping the synergy for the first time--basking in the rare approval... Another 'wet' kiss from Cho in goodbye... A kiss on his cheek--A perfect kiss on his lips--Feeling safe while a low sultry voice in his head told him to remember.
He remembered it now. The ruthlessness of the Headmaster--Sparring--Warming up--Dumbledore casting the Legilimens--So strong--Struggling with the unexpected attack--Feeling his memories sucked from him--no time, no guard. He never guarded against Dumbledore for this. Why should he? Sneaky bugger. Pushing back made him vulnerable; he was so strong--Didn't register the nod from Dumbledore until afterwards--Not sensing the Potions Master until it was too late--"Crucio!"--Flying through the air, screaming in pain--Remembering no more as he hit the ground.
Sleeping dreams filled with the dulcet tones of the Potions Master--talking to him. Holding onto the voice like a lifeline. Low and silky, it kept him connected when his hazy mind wandered into places it did not want to go. Once, hearing the hoarse and harsh voice repelling Voldemort's attempts to enter his dreams. The worry-filled trip to the infirmary. The fear of losing him. Was this his memory? No, it was another's. Or was it his of another time? Dreaming of his touch.
"That's it. Bring them forth. See them. Listen to them. Hear what they tell you. Make them yours again. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
+ + + +
Harry woke in the depth of the night, when dreams turn real, with the secure feeling of one long fingered hand sunk in his hair, the tips touching his scalp, the other, pale and elegant in the moonlight, holding his as it lay still on the covers. Moving his eyes, he saw an exhausted Snape slumped forward in a chair by the bed fast asleep, his head on his arm, the inky hair spilling softly across Harry's wrist. He wanted to touch the silky strands, but smiled in deep satisfaction as his lids closed without his volition and the vision sank back into the realm of his dreams.