Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter and his world are the creation of JK Rowling.
AN: This story is not a continuation of "Lost," nor does it make reference to anything that happened in that story. Sorry. I haven't written a sequel to it yet.
"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares."
-Henri Nouwen
"Potter."
Harry jumped, tearing his eyes away from his best friend who was crying on the floor, gently rocking back and forth in Professor McGonagall's arms. Professor Snape was watching him with interest, his eyes flickering to his cheek where Ron had hit him, as he held out a small vial to Harry. Self-consciously, Harry lowered his hand from his cheek and took the proffered potion, swallowing it down with a practiced motion. A familiar warmth spread from his stomach and through his limbs.
"How are you feeling, Potter?" His voice was low. Not exactly kind, but not the dangerous low he so often employed when talking to Harry.
"Sir?" What does he mean, how do I feel? I just watched my best friend's parents, the closest thing to parents I've ever had, murdered through the psychopath's own eyes. How does he think I feel?
"Potter?"
Harry realized he had been staring off into space and looked back at the Potions professor.
"I've been better."
The professor's mouth quirked as if he wanted to say something back, but thought better of it. Instead, he flicked his wand so the blanket Harry had been wrapped in levitated off the ground at shoulder height. Harry took it and wrapped it back around his shoulders, holding it tightly with one hand as a deep shiver traveled up his spine. He returned his gaze to Ron who was now silent, but didn't really seem to be aware of anything as Professor McGonagall helped him to his feet and guided him back to his bed.
"Potter."
Once again, Harry jumped at his name and saw that Snape had moved to the door, holding it open with one hand and staring back at him, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other. Realizing he was supposed to follow, Harry glanced back at Ron one last time as McGonagall lay him back on the bed, pulling the blankets to his friend's chest. She looked up, seeming to exchange a look with the Potions professor before Harry finally followed him out of the Infirmary.
Though Harry had expected Snape to stop just outside the door, the tall professor continued down the corridor, then disappeared around a corner, his path marked by the echo as he made his way down the stairs. Harry followed him down much more slowly, and was surprised to see Snape waiting for him at the top of the marble staircase. Without a word, the professor turned and made his way down to the first floor, then disappeared down the dungeon stairs.
Harry's feet suddenly felt too heavy to follow. He knew what would happen when they got to the dungeon. Snape would question him about what he'd seen. Perhaps even use Leglimency to look into his memories. After having already experienced Mrs. Weasley's murder once, he didn't want to do it again. Not today. Not ever. Without warning, his limbs began to tremble, leaving Harry unable to move whether he wanted to or not. He was cold again, deep in his bones where no amount of Pepper-Up potion could ever reach.
Mrs. Weasley's voice rang in Harry's ears, but it was not the kind voice he had so often heard. It was harsh, accusing. He had watched her murdered, had been the murderer. A trembling hand reached out to grasp the wall, anything to keep him upright. He closed his eyes, lips forming desperate words in silence in a feeble attempt to ward off the memories now flooding into his brain.
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Snape waited in the dungeon corridor at the bottom of the stairs. Potter should have appeared by now, but he hadn't, and his footsteps could no longer be heard on the stone.
"Potter?" Snape called, taking a step back up the winding stone staircase. No response came, and for a moment, the Potions Master believed the boy to have turned tail and run back to the Hospital Wing. Swearing under his breath at the Boy Who Lived, Snape made his way back up the stairs, each step echoing a satisfying 'clip.'
As he neared the top, Snape found the subject of his annoyance and opened his mouth to scold the boy before snapping it shut almost instantly. Potter seemed to be clinging desperately to the wall with one hand, cringing at some invisible force as he clutched his blanket about his shoulders with the other. Snape moved until he was on the same step as the boy, but nearly an arm's length away. It would just be too inconvenient if he startled the boy into falling down the stairs and breaking his neck. Dumbledore would most certainly not be pleased.
"Potter," he said in what he hoped was a gentle, non-startling voice, but knew was no more than a low growl. "Open your eyes, Potter. There's no one there. It's all in your mind."
The boy's eyes opened slowly, as if trying to detect danger before easing himself back into reality. Snape waited patiently as Potter relaxed his grip on the wall and glanced up at his Potions professor. He was standing straight now, as if the images in his mind were being held at bay. Saying nothing, Snape merely began down the steps again, glancing over his shoulder to be sure the boy was following him. Sufficiently convinced that he was directly behind, Snape made his way down the steps, neither he nor Potter saying a word, until a loud gasp caused Snape to spin around. Potter was half-crouched on the step, both hands pressed against his forehead. A small cry escaped the boy's throat as one foot slid off the step.
Potter fell forward down the steps, banging both knees and his elbow before Snape was able to catch him, saving him from a nasty concussion.
"He's angry," the boy gasped, seeming to not notice that he had nearly fallen head first down stone steps and broken his neck. Snape pushed him against the wall, then slid him down so he was sitting. Potter was teetering on the edge of the step, his elbows on his knees pressing his palms harder onto his head. The professor grabbed both his wrists and pulled them away, an involuntary hiss escaping as he spied the scar glowing a violent shade of red. Curious, he reached up to touch the scar, feeling the heat radiating from it even before his fingers brushed the jagged mark. Potter pulled away suddenly, banging his head against the wall, his eyes scrunched shut. "He's- I-I've never-." Whatever it was the boy was trying to say never made it into a coherent form. The scar blazed again, and Potter's body stiffened. His mouth wrenched open, expelling a long terrifying scream.
"Harry? Severus?"
"Albus! Down here!" Snape called back, unable to tear his eyes away from the Boy Who Lived. Albus Dumbledore appeared around the corner with Remus Lupin directly behind him, and knelt before the boy.
"What happened?" he asked.
"It's his scar, I think." Snape noticed Lupin looking at him strangely, and for good reason. It wasn't often that Severus Snape sounded unsure about anything. He had experienced the atrocities of both Death Eaters and the Dark Lord first hand, but this was unnerving, more so than hearing Potter spout Parseltongue for the first time. He had, afterall, never been present when he sensed the Dark Lord.
Dumbledore laid his hand firmly across Potter's forehead, and for an instant, those green eyes whipped open, his searing gaze screaming murder as they locked on the Headmaster. Dumbledore, however, did not seem affected by this as he whispered in a low voice. Potter's breathing became erratic, his hands clutching at the stone around him, as he squeezed his eyes shut. Time seemed to stretch in the narrow staircase leading to the dungeons. None of the men spoke, but for the whispered words of Dumbledore, though Snape could not make out what he was saying. Tears were streaming down the boy's face. Dumbledore too closed his eyes as Potter cried out again. Lupin moved swiftly around Snape so he was crouching on the step directly below, reaching out to take Potter's hand, but was stopped by the Headmaster's stern voice.
"Do not touch him."
Lupin pulled back, looking both angry and terrified, a rare reaction for the docile werewolf, but his eyes never wavered from Potter's face. The boy began to relax against the wall, his breathing evening out. Drunkenly, he eyes flickered open, rolling about before finally focusing on Snape just over the Headmaster's shoulder.
"He didn't find out." His eyelids drooped, but he held the spy's gaze. "And he's angry about it." With this said, his eyes closed and his head dropped, causing him to slide sideways off the step against Lupin. Snape remained where he was, staring dumbfounded at the boy.
"Albus." Snape's eyes moved toward Lupin's, whose face was twisted with pain. "I- I can't-." Dumbledore jumped forward rather agilely for a man his age and pulled Potter from Lupin. It was only then that Snape realized that the werewolf hadn't yet made it to the Hospital Wing since his attack. His arm seemed to hang limply from his shoulder, his shirtsleeve and chest spotted with blood.
"Remus, we must get you to Poppy, and I must speak with the Weasleys. Severus, if you could take Harry to my office? Stay with him until I return."
Snape nodded absently, pulling Potter to his unsteady feet, so Albus could help Lupin up the stairs and to the Hospital Wing. He then began leading Potter very slowly up the stairs. As they came to the landing, Potter seemed to regain some strength.
"I'm fine," he said, pulling out of Snape's grasp. "I don't need your help."
Snape obliged him, allowing the boy to struggle more slowly, but staying near his elbow in case he fully collapsed. He wanted information, and arguing with the boy wasn't going to get it for him.
"What happened back there, Potter?" he asked, trying to keep his tone as non-threatening as possible.
"Why? Did you fall asleep?" Snape raised an eyebrow at the moodiness that had seemed to set in since Potter's apparent vision. After a few more steps, the Golden Boy's energy seemed to falter, and Snape grabbed his arm before he could fall. The boy, perspiring and breathing heavily, did not pull away this time, but allowed himself to be pulled upright and led forward. "It was Him," he said at last. "He knows I'm weak. He was trying to get information."
"But he didn't?"
"Not from me." They stopped so Potter could catch his breath. "He wanted to know who the spy is. You're who he's looking for. You're the reason the Weasleys were killed." The look Potter threw at him could chill blood, full of loathing and hatred as it was, but he said nothing more. Snape didn't need to hear anything more. It was enough to know that the Dark Lord suspected a spy in his circle, knew enough about the Order to attack four of its members in one night.
"How long have you been ill, Potter?" he asked at last when they were at the foot of the Headmaster's Tower.
"Why do you care?"
"Answer the question," he replied sternly. The boy was beginning to get on his nerves again.
"A week. Why?"
"And how long has the Dark Lord been trying to break into your mind again?"
"A little longer." Potter became quiet as the gargoyle leapt aside, revealing the winding staircase that led to Dumbledore's office. "Odd though. He's been quiet for so long. He hasn't tried since the Headmaster took over my lessons last year."
"Odd indeed. And your health has become steadily worse?"
"Yeah," he answered with a slight nod. "But it was a lot worse last night."
A redoubled attack after so long would make it possible for the Dark Lord to break into the boy's mind, but what of the failing health? Perhaps the strain on the mind was now beginning to affect the body as well, but so swiftly?
Snape helped Potter to Dumbledore's couch, then sat in a nearby leather chair, eager for the headmaster's return.
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Remus hated being presently in the Hospital Wing. It wasn't the forbidding Madam Pomfrey, who was attempting to rotate his arm back into his socket. Or searing pain as his ribs mended themselves. It was the sobbing on the far end where the Weasley children had gathered around Ginny and Ron's beds as Dumbledore spoke to them. He felt like an outsider intruding on a private moment, despite the distance across the room.
The ball finally snapped back into the joint, causing Remus to bite down hard so as to stop any cry from escaping. It hurt like hell, and he wanted to scream out, but somehow his pain was nothing compared to what was going on here. His was almost superficial.
"How's that feel, Mr. Lupin?" Poppy asked softly.
"It's fine. Thank you." He rotated his shoulder a few times, as if trying to work out any kinks as his eyes drifted back to the family. They were all looking at Dumbledore now, except for Ron, who was, surprisingly enough, watching Remus. The look on his face was- queer. Pained, angry, curious, scared… as if it showed every emotion he was capable of, yet none at all. And yet, meeting the boy's eyes, Remus felt almost guilty that he had survived while this boy's parents had both been killed. Was he silently accusing him? Should he feel guilty?
"Mr. Lupin." Remus tore his eyes away and looked toward the mediwitch who was holding a small bottle out to him. "Take this for the pain." She held up a hand to stave off Remus' argument. "It's not very strong. Just enough to take the edge off. I'd rather you stay here and get some sleep, but I know when there's work to be done." Her eyes traveled to the Weasleys, and Remus noticed Ron was now facing the Headmaster. Had he imagined the look on his face?
Remus tugged his shirt on, amazed at how little pain he felt in his shoulder and how much was still in his ribs as his long fingers deftly buttoned it up the front. Madam Pomfrey had been kind enough to attempt to clean his blood from the fabric, but it had been allowed to stay for so long, that much of it still remained in small brown splotches. Not bothering to tuck his shirt in, Remus stood from the bed where he had been sitting and, gathering up his robes, prepared to convey his condolences now that they had been left to themselves. Albus and Minerva remained, he with Bill and Minerva standing next to Ron's bed, but they seemed to dwell most assuredly outside the small cluster of redheads. With a heavy heart, Remus stepped forth to convey his condolences.
A/N Sorry this chapter is so short. It hints at things to come and is important. Next chapter will be much longer, though probably won't be out until next week or the following. Thanks for all the reviews so far!