Wow, I got so many reviews last chapter!

/beams happily upon the world. I do enjoy your feedback.

This is a little rougher than I would like, because work is so busy, but I thought I would put it up anyway. It is in the nature of the lull before the angsty storm....

Occlumency?

Harry chewed his lip nervously. His experiences of learning Occlumency so far had been entirely negative, and his sessions with Snape nothing short of disastrous.

But his scar was hurting... this was worrying. And it did mean Dumbledore was sending him back to Hogwarts a week early; he could only be pleased about that. With every day that passed, he loathed 12, Grimmauld Place more. And it pained him, with a dull ache, to be on such cool terms with his friends. Not that they didn't try. It was his own melancholy that distanced him from them.

Occlumency. Snape. He would be staying with Snape again.

Harry closed his eyes as utter embarrassment drenched him. Hot, cold, cringe-worthy embarrassment. He heard his own voice. Oh, yes. Weeping. The last time he had seen Snape, he had blethered on at him about his problems for nearly an hour, then cast himself on his neck in tears. And Snape, poor man, under full body bind, had been unable to respond or protest or move or –

Harry felt cold with shame.

Snape needed to think his outburst that evening was a one-off, caused by shock or something. Harry didn't want Snape's contempt. Given Snape had despised him for years, this was possibly surprising: but Harry chose not to analyse his reasoning over-much. He held his Fireheart in his hand for comfort; he did that a lot recently. It seemed to help.

Harry turned his mind to the problem of how to mask his depression when he returned to Hogwarts and the stewardship of Snape. Cheering charms weren't strong enough and wore off too quickly anyway. He had tried them. A potion?

"Hermione," Harry asked, wandering into the kitchen where the others were gathered. "Could I borrow your NEWT potions books please?"

Hermione looked up at him, blinking. She was obviously suffering from a double shock. Firstly, that depressed Harry had spontaneously and of his own accord approached her and asked her something. Secondly, that what he wanted was a school book.

"Yes, of course, Harry," she said immediately. "Here. What do you want?"

Harry was vague. In the end Hermione lent him all the books she had with her on the subject. There were eight of them. At least five covered material beyond the school syllabus.

It was in one of these Harry found what he was looking for.

Pollyanna Potion, he read. Mood-altering substance that induces a feeling of perpetual well-being and optimism..

Perfect! Harry thought with a touch of genuine pleasure.

He was grateful he had moved to his own private attic room, as he set up his makeshift brewing station. He had his Potions Kit with him, of course. But he had to borrow a little cauldron from the kitchen, and bewitch a tiny Safety Flame to heat it.

The potion actually wasn't that difficult to brew. He supposed it was its properties rather than its difficulty that meant it wasn't on the school syllabus. He considered the recipe thoughtfully. The active ingredients seemed to be Hyperium Magicum and Mimosa.

He was, after all, pretty unhappy. He added a little more of each substance to the recipe than strictly recommended.

It didn't seem to make much difference. The potion didn't change colour. And the instructions clearly said, the more potent the mixture, the more intense the blue colouring.

He threw another handful in of each. This potion had to counteract some pretty deep-seated misery, after all.

Ah. Now that was more like it. Harry watched in satisfaction as the potion turned a very deep dark blue.

Carefully, he decanted it into a potions bottle.

All set. He didn't want to draw attention to his actions, so he would take his first dose just before he Floo'ed to Hogwarts. Then nobody here at Grimmalud Place would know he had resorted to magical means of sorting his head out, and he would arrive at Hogwarts restored to a nice, positive outlook on life. Just the right frame of mind for some bouts of mental invasion games in the shape of Occlumency training with Snape.

The boy, for reasons incomprehensible, actually looked pleased to see me. Not even in a decently subtle, slight upward curl-of-the-lip type way: but in a full-on, face lighting up, hearty shake of the hand type way.

I scowled. I might have known Dumbledore would exaggerate grossly in his efforts to manipulate me. Potter did not look in the least depressed. His little sobbing fit the month before – on my shoulder, no less! - had obviously just been an aberration. That was all to the good, of course, since Dumbledore in one of his senile moments had seen fit to charge me with the task of finding out just why the boy was so miserable.

Personally I thought it was rather obvious. However, perhaps he did need to talk about it - preferably to somebody other than me; but such was not to be, it seemed.

Or: perhaps not. Perhaps Potter had no need at all to discourse on his wholly uninteresting emotional state. I looked down at his jaunty, grinning face. I had gone to quite some effort to groom my mind to a state approaching sympathy. Understanding, even. Clearly it was not required. He bounced along beside me with exuberance as we made for my chambers.

I reflected on the contents of my Potions cupboard. I had just received a consignment of bat livers which needed chopping.

Excellent.

That should dampen his unnatural enthusiasm and irritating good spirits very nicely. And when he began to get annoyed with the task, and began to mutter, I could start to question him about just what in life he was so angry about. Yes. That would be my way in.

To my disappointment, he did not protest his assignment, but began to hack with gusto at the basin of livers I put in front of him. I watched him for a few minutes. He hummed happily to himself.

"Dah – da – di – dah " He was obviously happy in his work.

I gritted my teeth.

"Da-da-DOO, dah, di-dah-"

It was merry little tune. It grated on my nerves.

This was not going as planned.

"Well?" I inquired, after some time of this.

He looked up, surprised. "Sorry? Am I doing something wrong?"

If anyone could find a way to make a mess of pulverising bat livers, it would be Potter. But no. He wasn't doing anything wrong. Except raising his voice in joyful song.

"Are you not wondering what this has to do with Occlumency?" I inquired. He was ruining my strategy to throw him off-balance as a prelude to my pastoral interrogation. Interview. Chat. Whatever.

"Not really. I just supposed you weren't ready to begin teaching me yet," he replied brightly.

I considered him narrowly. This was – odd. Why was he so…cheerful?

Well. No time like the present to find out, I supposed. I had promised Dumbledore, after all; I had agreed I would at least try to talk to the boy, in an almost certainly futile attempt to untangle his warped psychological processes.

All right. So. Here we go, I thought. I cleared my throat and contemplated some opening gambits.

I rejected the first one that came to mind: 'So, Potter. Have you finally pulled together yourself together and stopped moping about your psychopathic godfather's long overdue demise?' It had the advantage of directness, but I suspected Dumbledore would consider it lacked a certain warm and caring quality.

Fine. How about: 'Hey there, Harry. How's things with you, then?' – Oh, yes, that one would just trip oh so naturally off my tongue; perhaps I could even give the boy a cuddly toy at the same time. Emphatically: no.

Surely, asking somebody how they were feeling wasn't that difficult. I coughed again. There seemed to be some sort of blockage in my gullet.

"Potter," I said finally in an aloof tone, turning my back on him and sorting out some potions ingredients. "You were rather upset last time you spoke to me. Are you feeling better now?"

There! I congratulated myself. Non-judgmental, open-ended, giving at least the impression that I might actually be interested in the answer…

He beamed at me.

"Oh yes, Professor," he said happily. "Much better. I'm so pleased to be back at Hogwarts. I just know everything is going to be all right now."

Hmm. Rather surprising. I had never looked on Potter in the light of a soul-mate, but in recent years I had at least acquitted him of possessing a chirpy and optimistic personality.

"Oh. That's, yes, that's good, Potter," I responded. Cautiously, I ventured further. "So – you're not worried about anything, then? The – er – Dark Lord, for instance?"

There. Now I had fully discharged my promise to Dumbledore. I had inquired. The boy would answer. End of story.

"What, Voldemort?" Potter chuckled. "No, of course not. No need to worry about him, is there? I mean, we'll just get the Order together and go, well, you know, obliterate him."

"Oh," I said, again, rather faintly this time. "Just, 'well, you know, obliterate him'. I see."

I supposed it was a good thing the boy had ceased to tear himself apart over the issue. Only there was a certain lack of, shall we say realism, about his response which I found rather disconcerting.

He gave me a blinding smile. "You know something, Professor Snape," he declared at last. "You're so kind to me. It's really, well, sweet, the way you keep wanting to know how I am and so on."

Horrified, I watched him blink tears of emotion from those green eyes of his. He continued to smile at me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Thoroughly unnerved, I retreated at speed, and took refuge in my Potions cupboard. When did Harry Potter become Happy Potter? It was unnatural. It was all wrong.

Yes, I realized suddenly, cursing myself for being so slow on the uptake. It was unnatural, and it was all wrong.

Just what had that damned idiot boy been taking! I thought furiously, comprehension dawning.

Grimly, I advanced. I took his chin in my hand, tilted up his face, and stared into his eyes. I wanted to see whether his pupils were dilated.

He giggled.

Yes. He giggled.

"Oh, Professor Snape," he snorted, batting his eyelids, "I always thought your eyes were black, but now I look more closely –"

"Shut – up," I snarled. I dropped his chin with speed. I put 'Foolish Babbling' right at the top of my list of secondary symptoms.

"Potter," I said, in dangerous tones. "What did you do. What did you take."

He laughed again. In that thoroughly silly way. I ground my teeth. If it were a potion, he would need to keep it somewhere close by for refreshment purposes.

I investigated his outer robes, cast aside on a chair, while Potter chortled to himself.

Hmm. There was a bottle, full of a very deep blue stuff. Pollyanna Potion? I thought: but that shouldn't be this colour.

"Potter," I said. "How much active ingredient did you put in this?"

He was too - well - happy - to lie, or pretend he didn't know what I was talking about.

"Oh, about double, I suppose," he said airily. "Professor, can I just say to you how much –"

"Potter!" I said again in strangled tones. I ran back into my cupboard. Potter showed most worrying signs of wishing to embrace me fondly.

Antidote, I thought firmly. What – is – the –antidote?

"Professor," Potter said, "I don't think I've ever told you -"

"SHUT - UP! " I repeated.

I decided I was coming down with a cold. My voice sounded like a strangled cat.

And Potter would just keep on smiling at me….