Ameda Brown stopped short of stepping into her colleague's classroom. Her
eyes widened at the scene before her.
'Oh, I hope I haven't interrupted anything,' she frowned. Her hazel eyes fixed anxiously on the quivering sixth year Gryffindor, who was now trying to curl into a ball under a desk.
Harry realised the woman's voice wasn't his aunt's, but one of his professors. So he was at Hogwarts still. His eyes darted up.
'Harry Potter,' she murmured, recognising her star pupil. Her gaze turned to Snape. 'Professor?'
He scowled awkwardly and looked down at his feet.
'Due to his colourful past, Professor Brown, Mister Potter has a tendency to suddenly become hysterical at times, for no discernable reason.'
'Well,' she muttered, her voice carrying a hint of suspicion. 'I must remark that to date, I cannot recall Mister Potter ever showing any signs of hysteria in my classes.'
'Some of us are less fortunate,' muttered Snape darkly.
Feeling safer under the table, Harry's trembling slowly died away. Wiping his wet cheeks with a sleeve, he became aware of exactly where he was, and began to make sense of the professors' conversation. Brown looked rather disappointed in Snape, who had suddenly taken an unusual interest in fiddling with the buttons on his cuff.
'I honestly don't want to question your methods, Professor Snape,' she was saying gently. 'Especially since I have been assured of your competence by other colleagues. I am simply rather disappointed that you consider intimidation to be an appropriate method of dealing with distressed students.'
Snape's eye began to twitch. 'The method I use depends on the student.'
'You are not convincing me,' she remarked firmly. She looked down at Harry, who was still wiping reddened eyes. 'Are you okay, Harry?'
'Yes thank you, professor,' he murmured.
Brown tutted, reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue. She offered it to Harry. 'Here, take this.'
Harry smiled weakly. 'Thanks.'
Snape stiffened.
'Now, Professor Snape,' she said briskly. 'Where do you want me to put these books?'
'I - eh - on my desk,' he muttered. Brown crossed the room and placed the volumes on the desk with a thud. She turned swiftly, and crossed to the door.
'Good day, Mr. Potter. Severus-' she nodded, her gaze lingering, before she pulled the door shut after her.
Harry eased himself out from under the table. He shot a wary glance at Snape and moved to collect his bag, giving the Potions Master an extra wide berth.
Snape eyed him darkly. 'And what about the mess you are supposed to be clearing up?'
'Well, sir,' he muttered calmly, 'I'm sorry about that. But as Malfoy said, that potion must cause the drinker to lose control. If he really wasn't aiming to disembowel me, then I didn't mean to smash up your room. So if you'll just excuse me-'
With this Harry mustered the strength to set his jaw, cross to the door, and walk out.
Snape stood motionless watching the boy walk up the corridor. He had not expected Harry to walk out.
He had not wanted him to walk out!
He came to his senses and swept into the corridor menacingly.
'POTTER!'
Too late, the boy had already gone.
Snape hissed to himself as he paced the corridor. He realised he was torn between being annoyed at Harry's last comment, and being impressed.
'That was a sneaky Slytherin lie dressed up with Gryffindor audacity,' he told himself. All the more annoying for it! Why couldn't Potter be completely Gryffindor like his parents?
A predictable, basic, James Potter Gryffindor. Was that too much to ask for?
James had never been half as complex, the arrogant, spoilt bastard. His son, crying? Ha! Gryffindors don't snivel. Of course crying would seem like an inexcusable weakness.
For someone who never felt miserable enough to.
Hogwarts had bent rules over backwards to make their beloved hero happy. But just how brave had been his son's attempted suicide? Would the social magnet of a James Potter sit and sulk by Hogwarts lake?
Snape had spent the best part of a year brushing aside these images. Oh yes, he'd seen him do this not only in memories, but in real life too. The boy often came out there before sunrise, staring out into the white mists over the water.
Even when cloak-less on frosty winter mornings he noticed the boy barely shivered. In class too, he was the same. Unmoved by insults. Like he could disconnect his feelings at will.
Snape narrowed his eyes and let the boy's most recent words to him run through his head again. Bitterness without the emotion. Sarcasm without the bite. The Gryffindor lion without the roar.
On one extreme the boy had gained control of himself to an extent Snape couldn't even fathom. Deaf to all jibes, cool to the point of inhumanity. Yet this same boy could suddenly drink poison, or go hysterical.
No need to point out it was disturbing.
Well, he had certainly been confident enough once to predict that Harry Potter's sorting into Gryffindor would set his character. Confident enough, because that very first lesson, had been the first time he had cared to say the name for years. The unwelcome feelings had been mounting up even before the roll call had reached the 'P's,
'Potter.'
It was the full name printed on the list that did it. That middle name which had glared so insolently out the page at him. And then the boy had answered in his father's same loud, bold tone. And it had been just as if James had come back from the dead. As if the boy actually was his father.
Wrong, Severus, wrong. For you too look like your father.
Are you your father?
Snape swallowed so hard he hurt his throat. A tense knot had begun to form in his stomach earlier, but he had ignored it. Now he was alone, the tightness began to spread to his chest.
What was this?
Bewildered, Snape tried to stifle it. When the attempts failed, he grew alarmed.
It was restricting his breathing.
Taking out his wand he managed to choke out the words to shut, and cast an imperturbable charm on the door.
This calmed him slightly. He sneered and crossed slowly back over to his desk.
He had essays to mark. He pulled the first one out of the pile and placed it in front of him. He stared dumbly at the cream parchment. His eyes tried to read the words, but they kept on focusing on a place somewhere behind them.
Empty your mind of emotion-
Dumbledore's voice. Snape breathed in deeply, reached for his marking quill, and forced his eyes to focus on the words.
Control-
His fingers clenched before they even touched the quill.
'Oh - no.'
The words had fallen out in a loud, rasping sob.
He jumped. The noise had echoed, and frightened him. He scowled, feeling foolish, and potion jars rattled as he slammed an angry fist down on the desk.
The scowl quickly twisted itself into a mask of pure anguish. The pain in his body and throat had become taut and almost unbearable. Years of pain. Ignored, dulled. Silenced.
He had drowned them with potions. But now they had come to the surface to drag him down. Threatening to drown him.
'Damn!' he croaked out vehemently.
This would NOT do!
But he couldn't prevent his fingers from gripping into the desk like claws. His body quivering with charged feelings. He swallowed again, choking back more sobs.
And he well knew what others would say about this.
One in a voice, which still made his skin prickle all over with dread. A soft, mocking tone which he would never forget.
'Still unable to rid yourself of your humanity, I see? Odd for such a capable, intelligent boy to still be so indecisive and weak. But, of course, the runt of the litter is expectedly the weakest.'
Snape remembered the eyes, which had looked so coldly at him. Remembered the eerie laugh, which had rung out after addressing the gathering with the question.
'Should I be gentle with my youngest DeathEater, even though he is weak?'
And the other was an aristocratic, well-bred accent, always with an insult at the ready. Connected to much older memories. A long dead voice, the smell of damp plaster and rotting wood.
'Watch and learn, wretched child.'
'Watch me!'
No, no, no, no.
I can't-
NO!
Snape froze. The realisation that he had just been whimpering the last words aloud made his jaw clench shut in a fierce anger.
Merlin's arse to casting spells! Now he felt like smashing something!
His dark eyes flashed once around the dungeon, before finally looking down. Grinning insanely he gripped hold of his desk, and with a yell of defiance, violently flung it with all his might.
The echoing bang as the heavy table hit the floor was deafening. But, of course, nobody else could hear. Snape watched triumphantly as the desk slid along the stones, sending parchment, ink, books, and jars of potion ingredients skidding and smashing everywhere.
As the mess settled, and the last jar had stopped rocking, Snape finally picked up the sound of his own heart hammering. He leered stupidly, breathing more freely again.
'Now that had been more satisfying than waving a bloody little twig about and cursing,' he thought. Yes, it was a decidedly Muggle attitude, but physical might left a sense of achievement magic never did. One advantage of working in a classroom full of satisfyingly breakable objects.
Potions could be therapeutic in more ways than one.
He took out his wand and levitated his desk back into its original position.
In a gloomy corner of Snape's dungeon, a teenage boy looked on silently, as his professor began to clear up the classroom. Shivering, he wrapped his father's invisibility cloak more tightly around himself.
He had just watched Snape cry.
'Oh, I hope I haven't interrupted anything,' she frowned. Her hazel eyes fixed anxiously on the quivering sixth year Gryffindor, who was now trying to curl into a ball under a desk.
Harry realised the woman's voice wasn't his aunt's, but one of his professors. So he was at Hogwarts still. His eyes darted up.
'Harry Potter,' she murmured, recognising her star pupil. Her gaze turned to Snape. 'Professor?'
He scowled awkwardly and looked down at his feet.
'Due to his colourful past, Professor Brown, Mister Potter has a tendency to suddenly become hysterical at times, for no discernable reason.'
'Well,' she muttered, her voice carrying a hint of suspicion. 'I must remark that to date, I cannot recall Mister Potter ever showing any signs of hysteria in my classes.'
'Some of us are less fortunate,' muttered Snape darkly.
Feeling safer under the table, Harry's trembling slowly died away. Wiping his wet cheeks with a sleeve, he became aware of exactly where he was, and began to make sense of the professors' conversation. Brown looked rather disappointed in Snape, who had suddenly taken an unusual interest in fiddling with the buttons on his cuff.
'I honestly don't want to question your methods, Professor Snape,' she was saying gently. 'Especially since I have been assured of your competence by other colleagues. I am simply rather disappointed that you consider intimidation to be an appropriate method of dealing with distressed students.'
Snape's eye began to twitch. 'The method I use depends on the student.'
'You are not convincing me,' she remarked firmly. She looked down at Harry, who was still wiping reddened eyes. 'Are you okay, Harry?'
'Yes thank you, professor,' he murmured.
Brown tutted, reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue. She offered it to Harry. 'Here, take this.'
Harry smiled weakly. 'Thanks.'
Snape stiffened.
'Now, Professor Snape,' she said briskly. 'Where do you want me to put these books?'
'I - eh - on my desk,' he muttered. Brown crossed the room and placed the volumes on the desk with a thud. She turned swiftly, and crossed to the door.
'Good day, Mr. Potter. Severus-' she nodded, her gaze lingering, before she pulled the door shut after her.
Harry eased himself out from under the table. He shot a wary glance at Snape and moved to collect his bag, giving the Potions Master an extra wide berth.
Snape eyed him darkly. 'And what about the mess you are supposed to be clearing up?'
'Well, sir,' he muttered calmly, 'I'm sorry about that. But as Malfoy said, that potion must cause the drinker to lose control. If he really wasn't aiming to disembowel me, then I didn't mean to smash up your room. So if you'll just excuse me-'
With this Harry mustered the strength to set his jaw, cross to the door, and walk out.
Snape stood motionless watching the boy walk up the corridor. He had not expected Harry to walk out.
He had not wanted him to walk out!
He came to his senses and swept into the corridor menacingly.
'POTTER!'
Too late, the boy had already gone.
Snape hissed to himself as he paced the corridor. He realised he was torn between being annoyed at Harry's last comment, and being impressed.
'That was a sneaky Slytherin lie dressed up with Gryffindor audacity,' he told himself. All the more annoying for it! Why couldn't Potter be completely Gryffindor like his parents?
A predictable, basic, James Potter Gryffindor. Was that too much to ask for?
James had never been half as complex, the arrogant, spoilt bastard. His son, crying? Ha! Gryffindors don't snivel. Of course crying would seem like an inexcusable weakness.
For someone who never felt miserable enough to.
Hogwarts had bent rules over backwards to make their beloved hero happy. But just how brave had been his son's attempted suicide? Would the social magnet of a James Potter sit and sulk by Hogwarts lake?
Snape had spent the best part of a year brushing aside these images. Oh yes, he'd seen him do this not only in memories, but in real life too. The boy often came out there before sunrise, staring out into the white mists over the water.
Even when cloak-less on frosty winter mornings he noticed the boy barely shivered. In class too, he was the same. Unmoved by insults. Like he could disconnect his feelings at will.
Snape narrowed his eyes and let the boy's most recent words to him run through his head again. Bitterness without the emotion. Sarcasm without the bite. The Gryffindor lion without the roar.
On one extreme the boy had gained control of himself to an extent Snape couldn't even fathom. Deaf to all jibes, cool to the point of inhumanity. Yet this same boy could suddenly drink poison, or go hysterical.
No need to point out it was disturbing.
Well, he had certainly been confident enough once to predict that Harry Potter's sorting into Gryffindor would set his character. Confident enough, because that very first lesson, had been the first time he had cared to say the name for years. The unwelcome feelings had been mounting up even before the roll call had reached the 'P's,
'Potter.'
It was the full name printed on the list that did it. That middle name which had glared so insolently out the page at him. And then the boy had answered in his father's same loud, bold tone. And it had been just as if James had come back from the dead. As if the boy actually was his father.
Wrong, Severus, wrong. For you too look like your father.
Are you your father?
Snape swallowed so hard he hurt his throat. A tense knot had begun to form in his stomach earlier, but he had ignored it. Now he was alone, the tightness began to spread to his chest.
What was this?
Bewildered, Snape tried to stifle it. When the attempts failed, he grew alarmed.
It was restricting his breathing.
Taking out his wand he managed to choke out the words to shut, and cast an imperturbable charm on the door.
This calmed him slightly. He sneered and crossed slowly back over to his desk.
He had essays to mark. He pulled the first one out of the pile and placed it in front of him. He stared dumbly at the cream parchment. His eyes tried to read the words, but they kept on focusing on a place somewhere behind them.
Empty your mind of emotion-
Dumbledore's voice. Snape breathed in deeply, reached for his marking quill, and forced his eyes to focus on the words.
Control-
His fingers clenched before they even touched the quill.
'Oh - no.'
The words had fallen out in a loud, rasping sob.
He jumped. The noise had echoed, and frightened him. He scowled, feeling foolish, and potion jars rattled as he slammed an angry fist down on the desk.
The scowl quickly twisted itself into a mask of pure anguish. The pain in his body and throat had become taut and almost unbearable. Years of pain. Ignored, dulled. Silenced.
He had drowned them with potions. But now they had come to the surface to drag him down. Threatening to drown him.
'Damn!' he croaked out vehemently.
This would NOT do!
But he couldn't prevent his fingers from gripping into the desk like claws. His body quivering with charged feelings. He swallowed again, choking back more sobs.
And he well knew what others would say about this.
One in a voice, which still made his skin prickle all over with dread. A soft, mocking tone which he would never forget.
'Still unable to rid yourself of your humanity, I see? Odd for such a capable, intelligent boy to still be so indecisive and weak. But, of course, the runt of the litter is expectedly the weakest.'
Snape remembered the eyes, which had looked so coldly at him. Remembered the eerie laugh, which had rung out after addressing the gathering with the question.
'Should I be gentle with my youngest DeathEater, even though he is weak?'
And the other was an aristocratic, well-bred accent, always with an insult at the ready. Connected to much older memories. A long dead voice, the smell of damp plaster and rotting wood.
'Watch and learn, wretched child.'
'Watch me!'
No, no, no, no.
I can't-
NO!
Snape froze. The realisation that he had just been whimpering the last words aloud made his jaw clench shut in a fierce anger.
Merlin's arse to casting spells! Now he felt like smashing something!
His dark eyes flashed once around the dungeon, before finally looking down. Grinning insanely he gripped hold of his desk, and with a yell of defiance, violently flung it with all his might.
The echoing bang as the heavy table hit the floor was deafening. But, of course, nobody else could hear. Snape watched triumphantly as the desk slid along the stones, sending parchment, ink, books, and jars of potion ingredients skidding and smashing everywhere.
As the mess settled, and the last jar had stopped rocking, Snape finally picked up the sound of his own heart hammering. He leered stupidly, breathing more freely again.
'Now that had been more satisfying than waving a bloody little twig about and cursing,' he thought. Yes, it was a decidedly Muggle attitude, but physical might left a sense of achievement magic never did. One advantage of working in a classroom full of satisfyingly breakable objects.
Potions could be therapeutic in more ways than one.
He took out his wand and levitated his desk back into its original position.
In a gloomy corner of Snape's dungeon, a teenage boy looked on silently, as his professor began to clear up the classroom. Shivering, he wrapped his father's invisibility cloak more tightly around himself.
He had just watched Snape cry.