A/N: Jumping ahead by about four weeks here. Enjoy. Oh, and disclaimer still stands. As if you didn't know. Hmph. Rub it in, why don't'cha...
Chapter Two A: Flatulence Farter, Thy Name Be Snape
Footsteps woke him.
He groaned, trying to roll over and wake up, only to find that he couldn't. His stupid leg hurt too much.
What happened this time, Harry Potter thought to himself resignedly. What did Malfoy Senior do? I think I can remember... a sledgehammer. Yes, that's probably it. Luc-the-rat-bastard had taken a bloody sledgehammer to his leg. And pretty much shattered the bone.
Harry sighed and looked down at his throbbing immobile leg. It was twisted in a direction that was definitely not healthy, or normal. It was covered in blood, long gashes of it running from numerous cuts. It was bruised a dark purple black. Harry winced at the sight.
"Well, it always looks worse than it really is," he said optimistically to himself.
"Unless it really is as bad as it looks," and oddly familiar voice said from outside of his cell's bars.
Harry lifted his gaze languorously from his contemplation of his obviously broken leg. The man standing there was a Flatulence Farter (Death Eater), that much was for certain. He wore the pure black and had the sinister appearances down perfectly. Of course, who else but Flatulence Farters and ol' Moldywarts would be here anyway?
"'Ello, m'friend. Have you come to whisk me away to Luc-dear's, Moldywarts' or Morpheus' tonight? Gimme a few minutes and you won't have to carry me around," Harry said with a cheerily false voice. "I've got the minor problem of a shattered leg to take care of. Have a little patience, it'll pay off in the long run."
He didn't really expect the tactic to work, because it never had before when a Flatulence Farter was sent to take him to his next torture session. He was always dragged painfully behind, despite multiple injuries including broken bones. It never hurt to try though, unless you counted those times the Flatulence Farters had gotten irritated at his voice and had started to kick his ribs... that hadn't been pleasant.
"Very well," the voice (why was it so ruddy familiar?!) said, its sinister huskiness failing to intimidate Harry in any way. He'd gotten too used to Moldywarts, who was truly a master of the threatening voice.
"Thanks old bean," Harry muttered mockingly. In the short time he'd known Donnelly and Sleighly, they'd really rubbed off on him. Every time he spoke or acted, he thought, what would they do? And the words would flow out of his mouth, the actions becoming inadvertent but inherently mocking. He enjoyed having bits and pieces of his deceased friends' personalities in him. It made them seem still alive, somehow, like Moldywarts hadn't cruelly murdered them both.
Sighing to himself, he held a hand over his shattered leg and concentrated. There wasn't really any other word for it, just a very deep looking into, an intense mental vision. He pulled the fragments of his bone together, somehow, and melded them together haphazardly. He couldn't do a particularly good job on it, for one because he didn't know what he was doing in the slightest and for another, because he didn't have enough magical reserves to finish it up; the concussion yesterday had depleted the rest of it.
As it was, his leg was now unbroken, though it still ached; Harry was sure that he'd messed up with some of the healing. It was an amazing relief, so much better than when it was shattered in a million different shards and throbbed dully with deep agony. It would allow him to walk, just not all that comfortably.
Sighing regrettably, he tore a strip off of his shirt and called out to the Flatulence Farter, "Do you see a long piece of wood out there? I think I may need one to brace my leg."
The Flatulence Farter sighed exasperatedly (it was such a familiar(!) sigh) and moved around for a few seconds, supposedly looking for the requested piece of wood. Finally, a piece was thrown in through the bars and Harry muttered his thanks.
If he were feeling more like himself, he would've also given a magnificent insult to the guy. He was a bit preoccupied though, dealing with the temporary splint of his leg.
He aligned the wood with his leg then tied it in place with the ripped strip of his shirt, knotting it firmly. He sighed and stood. "All right, m'friend. Let's shake a leg, huh? Wouldn't want to keep what's-his-face waiting."
"Lord Voldemort," the Flatulence Farter corrected tersely and grabbed Harry's upper arm to drag him along more effectively, though he didn't walk too fast out of a strange consideration for Harry's still messed up leg. He unintentionally dug his long fingers into newly made bruises, yet Harry didn't flinch. He was accustomed to the slighter forms of pain, and was becoming used to the more major ones (though he doubted he'd ever really get used to Crucio). "How did you heal your leg without your wand?"
The unexpected question startled Harry and he blinked up at his captor, momentarily taken aback. "I apparently have a talent for focused wandless magic. Anyone can do it, really, but it takes years of learning for most and they never really progress past an 'Accio'. I... bypassed the Accio and went straight to breaking Binding curses. Of course, those didn't help the people I broke out much; they're dead anyway."
Harry inwardly winced at his bitter tone. He didn't mean to sound so bad, yet... Sleighly and Donnelly were dead. And it was mostly his fault. Not all, since Moldywarts had been the one with the wand throwing the curses around. But they'd stayed behind because of him. Had gotten caught because of him.
Harry'd known that he would be tortured and killed. Sleighly and Donnelly would probably have only been ransomed... until they'd tried to escape with him. And then Moldywarts didn't even have the guts to kill Harry, give him what he deserved.
The Flatulence Farter was silent for the rest of the journey. He walked with brisk steps, but kept them small to accommodate for Harry's shorter legs and his broken one.
With a dramatic arm movement, the Flatulence Farter knocked on the door leading into Voldemort's presence. He looked down at Harry for a moment, as if expecting something. More specifically, he was looking at Harry's scar.
"It still hurts," Harry informed him softly, wry grin on his lips. "It's just barely noticeable now. It's really nothing compared to what Malfoy usually gives me, not to mention Moldywarts and Morpheus. Still stings, but more like an annoyance than anything else. I hardly even notice it anymore, really."
As they waited for long moments for the door to open, Harry studied his guard. The man was tall, with long, thin, strong fingers and a distantly familiar voice. He was sure that he'd heard it before, at least once. But the memories of times before being in Moldywarts putrid possession were deeply buried and almost dead.
His face was still a mystery, hidden as it was beneath a dark hood.
Harry studied the way the Flatulence Farter held himself, how he stood. Something /tugged/ in his mind. Something...
The door opened and a gloved hand beckoned them in. The Flatulence Farter swept in, dramatic robes swirling around him. Harry followed, looking more than slightly pathetic and yet oddly defiant at the same time. They both walked to Moldywarts feet, the Flatulence Farter kneeling down to his knees and bowing his head in a gesture of deep respect. Harry just smirked.
"Ah, my two favorites," Moldywarts hissed in deep satisfaction. "And, as well, your most hated adversary, Potter. Have you realized yet that my loyal Death Eater is none other than your most hated Potions teacher: Severus Snape."
Harry blinked, then laughed delightedly. To the uninformed, his laugh was that of a young child's: young, innocent, guileless and free. To one who listened closely and carefully, s/he would hear the darker overtones, the harshness of that laugh.
"Of course! I knew that I knew you from somewhere, Professor Snape-or do I call you Severus now that we are no longer on school grounds? Maybe Mr. Snape is what you'd prefer. Thanks so much for bringing him down here, Moldywarts my friend, I was having an absolutely horrible time trying to figure out my Potions homework. And you bring my teacher right to me! How thoughtful of you." Harry took a step forward, seeming not to notice the sudden jarring of his still stiff leg, and pulled the hood of Severus Snape down. A familiar face, with familiar black eyes, stared at him.
That familiar face looked, startled, at him. Snape had noticed Harry's wild inflection, had detected his odd breathing patterns. He knew that there was something going on inside of Harry, something more than shock. Voldemort hadn't.
Voldemort smiled grimly at the duo, his lips a twisted caricature of amusement. "Indeed he is your Potions Master. But that is not what he will be doing while he is here. No, his job here will be to develop and test new potions. Chemical forms of the Crucio, the Imperio and assorted others. Because the hatred that exists between you two is legendary, I have decided to allow my loyal servant some fun. You will be his test subject, completely at his mercy. Whether or not he decides to give you the antidote for whatever poison he has come up with lately is completely up to him, as is how much he will make you suffer each and every time. I trust you two will enjoy this time together. As I have some other business to conduct right now, I'll let Morpheus have you, Potter, after only one curse." With the slight warning, Harry was hit with Crucio.
He lay on his back, staring up at the fathomless ceiling. It was hard to breathe, but then anything that required effort right now would be hard. He gasped in shallow breaths that barely fed oxygen to his blood cells and wondered vaguely when his vision would start to black out. He refrained from screaming, but only because the last Crucio cast on him had been fifteen hours earlier and his body wasn't really recovered, but recovered enough to deal with the new influx of pain.
It's odd that Moldwarts' curse isn't any stronger than Malfoy Senior's. Is it because they both hate me with an equal intensity? It can't be because they have the same level of power - I don't think Malfoy would've lived to see Malfoy Junior being born if that were true. Maybe the Crucio always feels the same way? But no, Morpheus' is more delicate and the after effects last longer. Strange...
Harry'd gotten used to thinking to himself during these little sessions, trying vainly to ignore his extreme pain. It was a retreat into his mind that seldom truly worked, but served as a desperately needed distraction very well.
After a breath of time that could've been a millennia and Harry wouldn't have noticed, the curse was lifted. From outside of the cocoon-like haze Harry had built around himself, he heard Voldemort say, in his horrible voice, "Take him to Morpheus, Severus. You may watch the torture if you wish. After Morpheus is done, Potter is given half an hour to recover. After that, you may take him for the tests. Lucius is not to go near him for at least two weeks, and you will make sure that that is enforced. You will guard Potter's cell during the night to make sure that Lucius doesn't try to sneak in a visit, as his last one was a bit extreme. And too easily healed."
"Very well, my Lord," Snape answered, his voice softly obedient. Thinly muscled arms picked Harry's limp form up and carried the slight (even more so after his horrible summer with the Dursleys and his subsequent imprisonment) boy out of the room.
Once out of the stifling room, Harry moved slightly. "Put me down, Snape. I want to walk. I feel slimy touching you." His words were weak, but the tone behind them fierce. Harry had had to live these past few weeks completely independent and wasn't going to start letting anyone touch him without fighting it to the extreme, even if the touch was to help him.
Snape ignored the command and kept on walking. Harry bit him.
"We really must start feeding you more Potter, if you're going to resort to cannibalism." Snape's voice was wryly amused, though Harry's teeth had sunk in deeply and drawn blood.
Harry spit to the side. "Would you believe that you taste better than the crap they call meals? Now put me down."
"Or what Potter? You'll bite me again? You know how well that works."
"I'll fight you all the way to Morpheus'. It won't be pleasant for you, believe me."
The only answer he got was a tightening grip and a reminding hand on his bad leg. He subsided, but glowered up at Snape petulantly, much as a young child would. Only he hadn't been a young child since he was six and Uncle Vernon had... Well, that was a lifetime ago and it did no good dwelling on it now.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, neither one acknowledging the others' presence, when Harry abruptly noticed that they were headed in the entirely wrong direction.
"What's going on? Are you getting me out of here now?" Despite himself, Harry's voice sounded just a bit excited.
Snape sent a scornful look his way, then looked slightly embarrassed. "Of course not! I'm just... well, I'm sort of... lost."
Harry blinked incredulously. "You're kidding. No, you're not. Well, much as it pains me to direct you to my torturer's chambers, his presence is vastly more preferable to yours. Turn left here."
They finally made it to Morpheus' torture room, after many misadventures and snarky comments (the misadventures due to Snape's inability to take directions and the snarky comments being said equally between them). Before they could knock on the door, it opened and Morpheus' head poked out.
"Little Raven, you're late. We will have to move faster than usual to make up for lost time. How's your hand?" His voice was unusually focused, but Harry had learned to take his tormentor's oddities in stride.
"It's still got a hole in it. Remember, you poke that iron thingy in it just about ever time I see you." Harry's voice wasn't sarcastic, despite its mean words. It didn't give off any emotion at all, in fact.
Neither of them noticed Snape's startled look at Harry's hand at those words, or his slight blanching at the sight of the still unhealed hole in the middle of it.
"It's called 'maintenance' little Raven. It's to make sure that it doesn't heal naturally, or with your help."
"Haven't we already had this conversation? I believe the second time you ran that thing through my hand?"
"Yes, I believe we did. You can put him down on the table, Severus, he hasn't tried to get away from me since the seventh session we've had together. He decided to not exactly cooperate, but to not fight as much as he would for Lucius. In return, I try not to curse him very much. It's an odd arrangement, but we both enjoy it," Morpheus said to Snape and Snape complied.
Harry was laid on the table, wincing at the impact to his leg. He did notice that Snape was trying to be a bit gentle, although staying inconspicuous. Snape started to back out of the way, but Morpheus blocked his path.
"Stay a bit, Severus, I'd like to know what's going on in the wizarding world. It's been a while since I've been allowed into it," Morpheus said friendlily while he went to retrieve the iron rod from the cupboard. He stepped over to Harry's prone form and held the boy's hand down, spread-eagling the fingers.
Snape started to talk, in a low disjointed voice, of current events. He seemed sickeningly mesmerized by what Morpheus was doing to Harry.
Harry himself was completely focused on Morpheus' eyes, taking in the intent way they seemed to look at Harry's hand and the iron rod. Looking at the grim satisfaction they held when the iron rod was protruding from Harry's hand, filling in the gaping space left by the hole that had yet to heal since the first time it had been made.
"You don't really enjoy seeing people in pain, do you Morpheus? It's more when you're causing it that you're happy."
Morpheus nodded, not lifting his face from its concentrated position. "Of course. You know this, little Raven, and soon you will feel it too."
"I wouldn't bet on it. I don't really relish the idea of making others writhe in agony."
Morpheus looked up at that. "Are you saying you never even fantasized of doing to Lucius what he does to you? Of casting Crucio on my Lord? I don't believe that."
"You know me, Morpheus. I might fantasize about it, but I'd never do it. I'd kill them in a heartbeat, but I'd never cast Crucio on them, or take a sledgehammer to their leg."
"No, you wouldn't. You're far too... compassionate. That is one quality that is quickly beaten out of you in many pureblood families. You must be ruthless to get what is needed for the furtherance of your family. We all learn very young that lesson... Yes, we do." Morpheus sounded slightly mournful as he spoke, but didn't pause in his ministrations. Snape had long been forgotten by now.
"Compassion isn't something that can be beaten out of you," Harry argued vehemently. "Merlin knows my Uncle tried enough times when I was younger. It can be forced into the background, changed and distorted until no one can even begin to recognize it... but it's still there. It never goes away. It'll always be a part of you, ingrained into your heart and mind and soul. And no matter how many times you try to ignore it, there'll always be an echo of it in your mind, urging you to go out and help someone, to ease suffering and despair."
"That's just your view of compassion, little Raven. But for every person alive, there is another view, another version of what compassion is. Just because you think of it as a noble thing, does not mean that others do as well. While it is true that compassion exists with everyone, it's not true that everyone has the same kind. Rather, everyone has a unique kind, one only they possess. So what is considered as compassion to you could also be considered as cruelty by another." Morpheus slowly and laboriously traced a simple, elegant design onto Harry's arm with a razor blade, watching intently as the blood welled and encased Harry's arm slowly, tiny dots slowly becoming larger and larger.
"You're looking at it from the person who is doing the action's point of view," Harry pointed out reasonably. "When really, everything should be looked at from the person-who-is-being-affected's point of view. They are the ones who must endure the action, after all, and so they are the ones who should have the right to define what compassion is."
"Yes, I see your point Raven. However, do you really think the person who is doing the action takes this into account when he or she commits the action? Rarely they think of themselves in the other's position and contemplate what their definition of compassion would be at that instant. I think that is the real reason why many horrendous things have occurred over the centuries and also why revenge has been born time and again, despite repeated examples that it simply does no good. But you must also see it from the person who does the action, because the fact that they are committing an act that not many would consider as compassionate means that they hold an alternate point of view and have more information about the situation, which also means that they may, in truth, act compassionately in the truest sense of the word. It is all a matter of how much information a person has, and how far that person will go to make sure that the information is used in a way that will either benefit him, or humanity, or even a select group of persons. Do you see?" Morpheus drew the blade further up Harry's arm, and then looped it back down to meet the previous design he had been making. He seemed unconscious of his actions, concentrating solely on the words exchanged with the boy lying before him.
"Not really. But then, it's a little hard to concentrate when you're carving designs into my skin," Harry gritted out, distantly polite.
Morpheus looked at him sharply. "Are you distancing yourself from the pain Raven? I've told you not to do that; it just slows the process down even more than Lucius has already done. Honestly, I cannot comprehend why my Lord even contemplated the idea of letting him near you, at least until you're conditioned to like it... He should know Lucius is too brutish to deal with the developing stages adequately."
"I somehow doubt he really cares whether or not I'm adequately conditioned," Harry said wryly, wincing slightly as he inadvertently moved his bleeding arm. "I honestly don't know why he hasn't already killed me. He's being awfully arrogant about it, you know. I mean, there are probably dozens of people looking for me right now. I could be found at any moment, and yet he still keeps me alive. It's delusional." Harry sounded baffled. He took his eyes off of the blade to look at the fluorescent-lighted ceiling.
Morpheus paused in his work for a moment. "My lord has his reasons, Raven. And you'd do well not to question them... You're better off not knowing what he plans for your future."
Harry looked at him, face calm. "Can it seriously be worse than this? I don't think many things could be."
And the grayed, prematurely aged man looked tiredly into Harry's weary, yet still brilliant green eyes and sighed. "There are many things, Raven, that are worse than this. You haven't experienced them yet, but there are. And when you do know them, you feel as if your bones are imploding and melting to water, no longer strong enough to support you. You feel like the world is dead and so are you, only you still breathe and you can still see the life that you should have had, that you deserved to have, and it is not yours anymore. That is what is worse than what you call torture, little Raven, young one. That is Azkaban."
"Was it really so horrible?"
And Snape, who had been watching their verbal sparring, felt his breath catch in his throat at the infinite compassion and understanding in Harry's voice, the sheer depth and perception of it that hadn't been there before, mere months before, and was there now. He listened, awed, as Morpheus replied.
"It still goes on every day for me. Every breath is death; every glimpse of the sun is a hope that died so long ago. The only thing that brings clarity to my life is when I see something so beautiful and primal and real. That is the only thing that is not Azkaban. The only thing." Morpheus' voice resounded with quiet desperation and his oh-so-steady hand shook.
"Couldn't you find a new primal beauty, that is clarifyingly real? Something that isn't so evil and twisted? Couldn't you? Sirius Black doesn't deal with his years there as you do, and although you are two different men, I don't imagine that you both deal with it so dramatically differently. Isn't there any other route to take?" Harry's voice was full of gentle questioning, one that a mother would assume while talking to her youngest child.
"Sirius Black had something to live for outside of Azkaban. Both myself and my Dove were in there, together, and Dove... You know what happened to Dove. If you have something to live for outside of Azkaban, something to keep breathing and fighting against the welcoming bleakness death offers for... Then you can avoid taking comfort in primal beauties. But I have nothing save them, and my Lord of course. Sirius Black always had you, and always will." In that moment, Snape could have sworn that Morpheus sounded wistful.
"Did you see him at all in Azkaban?" Harry asked now, his voice slightly eager.
Morpheus chuckled. "Yes, yes, he was an odd one all right. Not a bird, no, not at all... He was more canine. You could tell in the way he held himself, the way he spoke. He was strange... Never screamed as much as everyone else did. Very quiet man he was, though sometimes he would rant to the empty walls. I always ranted to my Dove. But I never liked him all that much. Too canine. The same with your father's other friend, Remus Lupin. And Pettigrew was always too cowardly to even contemplate soaring the skies. Of the whole group your father was in, only he had even the slightest chance of being a bird and that chance was very slight indeed. Now, your mother on the other hand... She was a lovely Phoenix, Raven. Utterly fiery and so very passionate. And you have inherited much of that, although you are much more polite. She had the worst mouth you're likely to ever hear on a woman. If I hadn't had my Dove I could easily have been distracted by her..." Morpheus sighed regretfully at the thought of things left undone. "It's a shame that my Lord killed them both, Raven. The Phoenix and the Crow and the Raven, a family of birds... I would have enjoyed visiting you all. I have no doubt it would have been an interesting household. Ah well, my Lord knows best after all."
Harry sighed slightly. "You know I won't respond to that. Is our time up yet? I need to sleep for a bit."
Morpheus glanced at a strange machine on the cupboard and frowned. "Yes, I hadn't realized we'd gone on for so long. Now, you won't be healing your arm will you?"
Harry shook his head. "And ruin your hard work? No, I haven't enough magical reserves to do anything right now, and I'm too tired to focus properly. Your newest work of art is safe for the next few days or so. Would you mind sparing a cloth or something? I wouldn't want to get my clothes any bloodier than they already are."
"Now that would be a hard thing to accomplish," Morpheus chuckled to himself. Indeed, Harry's clothes were bathed in blood. It was hard to tell what hadn't originally been rust red. Morpheus grabbed a long strip of material from off of one of the nearby tables. "You may use this. Don't worry about giving it back. Good day, Raven. You may take him now Severus."
Snape stood quickly and walked to Harry's prone form. With careful, but not too careful, arms, he picked the boy up and lifted him gently into his arms.
"You know, I can walk on my own," Harry said idly, though Snape could tell that his voice was more than mildly annoyed.
Snape looked coldly down at him. "Do I look like I care? Besides, I don't want you giving yourself internal damages walking around and putting your body through unneeded stress. It could affect my potion's integrity, and that is something that is intolerable. Now shut up and let me leave in peace."
Harry glared but subsided, and the unlikely duo left, Morpheus' amused gaze following their retreating forms.
Snape carried Harry to his new cell, only letting his guinea pig out of his arms to open the door. Harry limped into it, then looked on amusedly as Snape locked the door.
"No one really cares if I stay in my cell anymore you know," he said conversationally. "It's not a big issue. I'm bound to the castle. I couldn't leave even if the walls were toppling in on me."
Snape glared meaningfully at him. "Formalities, Potter, must be observed regardless of what people may or may not mind."
"Ah, that's my old professor all right." Harry sighed and hobbled to the far wall. He slid down it, his back supported by its strength. His eyes closed tiredly as his breath became more and more labored. After a few minutes of this, he opened his eyes and looked at Snape. "What are you still doing here? I thought you'd be anxious to get back to adoring Moldywarts with the rest of the Flatulence Farters."
Snape looked coldly at him, though his eyes glittered distantly with amusement at Harry's nicknames for his captors. "My Lord told me to stand guard over you for the next little while, if you'll remember. And so I stand guard. Get some rest, we leave for my rooms in half an hour for the first round of tests to begin."
Harry sighed. "I can't really relax with you right there, you know. Would you mind... going to the side a bit or something like that? I'm sure I'll manage to yell if Lucius suddenly comes into the room."
Snape glared at him, and did not move.
"Guess not," Harry groaned slightly in dismay, then doubled over in pain. "Dammit!"
"What's wrong?" Snape moved closer to the cell door in alarm, hand clenching the bar tightly.
Harry looked up, black hair stark against deathly white skin. His green eyes burned intensely for a moment before the flame died just a bit. "Nothing to worry about, professor, just a reminder of something that was done a while ago that I haven't had a chance to fix just yet. Nothing serious, I assure you."
Snape glanced suspiciously at the boy's still form, but didn't question his words. He sighed and settled next to a wall, waiting until half an hour had gone by. It was a tense wait in which Snape pondered how the hell he was going to get the idiot Potter out of the latest mess he was in (while a little section of his mind recoiled in horror at what he'd already witnessed being done to the young-yet-old-and-still-dreadfully-skinny boy) and Harry just... rested.
Not a second past the half hour mark, Snape entered Harry's cell and roughly picked the boy up. He hefted the slight weight in his arms, trying to find a comfortable position, and grunted when he couldn't.
"This would be easier if you had more padding on your bones," he scolded the boy, voice reproving.
"Sorry," Harry remarked with a twisted smile. "My family was never really concerned with how much I got to eat, so I pretty much starved for the ten years I was with them. I gained a bit at Hogwarts, but lost it all again when I got here... they don't care how much I eat either, so I usually only get scraps of bread and have to drink the water off of the floor. It's enough to keep me alive and I stopped feeling hungry a few days ago."
Snape snorted. "Right, if you're going to feed me a sob story, at least make it a bit more believable, thanks."
Harry raised an eyebrow at his disbelieving expression. Then he shrugged. "Fine, don't believe me. I don't really care, y'know? The teachers at my elementary school didn't believe me either. Neither did the neighbors. Or the one babysitter I had other than Mrs. Figg. No one believes anything I say because I'm just a little liar, isn't that right?" His tone wasn't bitter or cold, just innocently questioning. It was almost as if he'd already asked himself these questions long nights ago and had come to these conclusions.
Snape's smirk disappeared and silence reigned from then on to Snape's dungeon testing room. Harry laughed helplessly when he saw it.
"Merlin's teeth! Do you ever escape the dungeons Severus?"
"Don't call me Severus," Snape growled irritably. He set Harry down on a stool leaning against a wall and strode with long steps over to the far wall. With his back turned to the boy, Harry couldn't see what he was doing.
"Why not? It's your name. Since you aren't acting in the capacity of a teacher in this situation, I decided it would be inappropriate to call you Professor Snape and in the words of Morpheus Lestrange, torturers and torturees need to have a deep bond in order for the necessary training in pain to take place, so Mr. Snape is out. You're stuck with Severus, Severus. Or maybe Sev. How do you feel about other nicknames? I'd name you Snuggles, but you really don't seem the type. Give me time, I'll come up with something for you," Harry's voice was mocking as the immobile (because of his leg) boy stretched and strained to see what Snape was creating.
Snape growled from where he stood, a low, menacing sound that didn't affect Harry in the slightest. It was just an intimidation tactic, after all, and he'd learnt all of them already from Morpheus (by way of explanation) and Lucius (by way of demonstration) and Moldywarts (by breathing). Snape had nothing on them, for the most part, though his voice got quite impressive when he was trying especially hard.
The tall and dark man swung unexpectedly around and faced Harry, small glass bottle clenched tightly in his hand. "Don't call me 'Sev' Potter."
Harry looked mildly surprised at the expression of pain, hatred, and sorrow reflecting from Snape's face. He hadn't expected such an extreme reaction to that particular nickname. Reminder to self: use Sev on Snape to get him unsettled. Works remarkably well, he thought.
"Don't call me 'Potter', SEV."
Snape glared at Harry and his flippant tone. Harry was long past the point of caring. He wasn't, however, past the point of curiousity. He looked at the glass bottle inquisitively and gentled his voice. "What's that?"
Snape smiled nastily, finding a way to get back at Harry for what he'd just done. "Your first test potion. The first task my Lord has given me is to find out how to make a chemical form of the Crucio. This is the first batch of the first attempt. You will drink it."
Harry looked incredulously. "Riiiiiiight, like I'd willingly let you come near me with that bottle. Stay away, psycho, or be prepared." Just in case Snape did come closer, Harry started to ready his hands and prepare his magic in a panicked attempt to get organized.
"If you resist, I'll just cast Crucio on you," Snape threatened, though his voice, face and body posture lacked conviction. Harry wasn't used to reading these yet, and could only tell that neither of them wanted that to happen. He wasn't, however, about to become Snape's guinea pig.
Snape could tell this, somehow, and sighed tiredly. "If you drink this, and any others that I make later on, I'll do something in return as a favor to you," he offered weakly.
Harry looked at him speculatively, back resting against the cool stone wall. "You have to tell me all about my parents, Sirius and Professor Lupin, when they were young. And I do mean everything. I'll know if you leave anything important out." It seemed a fair trade to him. He'd never known anything of his personal past and here was a golden opportunity to get it out of someone who'd been there. Besides, he already knew that they would find some way to force-feed him the potion without ruining its integrity. It was easier to take it on his terms and get something he wanted out of it.
Snape glowered at him and thought for a few brief seconds. In the end, it wasn't really a choice. "Fine. Drink first. I'll tell you your story," he sneered, "after." He walked dramatically over to Harry's prone form and handed the small glass bottle to him.
Harry took out the little stopper at the top of the glass bottle and looked inside. He brought the object to his nose and took a sniff - smelled like crushed mint and clementine, with sickly sweet scents blending subtly in the background.
His brilliant green eyes looked up at Snape's glowing black ones, not with malice, hatred or fear, but with wry understanding. "Here goes."
And he drank the potion.
It was kind of like floating, Harry thought dreamily as he drifted in a haze of yellow cloud. For a supposedly vicious poison, it really didn't hurt at all. It was strangely euphoric.
That only lasted for all of two seconds. Then deep, driving pain imploded inside of his skull, mini explosions setting off within his brain. He dropped the small vial and dropped to the floor, clutching his head as if trying to protect it. When that didn't work, some ancient, animalistic instinct caused him to start slamming his head against the floor, a desperate attempt to force the pain out.
"Potter!" He heard, distantly. Strong hands tried to hold him down, stop his convulsions. By now it wasn't just instinct that was causing him to jerk uncontrollably; it was an involuntary act, his brain seizuring out of control and sending spasmodic messages to all his muscles.
The hands succeeded in holding him down, and then a firm weight settled on his upper chest, holding him immobile. His wildly shaking head was stilled with hands, and his mouth pried open. A liquid spilled into it and threatened to choke him. He swallowed quickly, not registering the taste as pain continued to attack.
Within seconds, he was out cold.
"Well, that was certainly unexpected," Severus Snape said, still sitting on the small boy.
Harry Potter woke up in an unfamiliar cell, to the familiar face of his professor. He groaned. "You weren't just some strange dream," he muttered slightly and winced at the overwhelming pain in his head.
Snape glared at him, black eyes icy. "You, Potter, are an idiot." The Potions Master straightened up from his crouch and stalked out of the cell, locking the door behind him.
Harry blinked slightly in shock. "Yeah, well, from what Sirius and Professor Lupin have told me, you weren't the brightest bulb yourself," he muttered rebelliously.
Snape sent him a forbidding look. "What happened with the potion?"
"Uh..." Harry tried to think in vain. "I don't remember."
"Hmm. So, side effects of that batch are loss of memory, which is bad for making a lesson stick, uncontrollable convulsions and an extreme headache afterwards. Maybe I should exclude the mugwort and dilute the clementine some more next time..."
Snape thought out loud.
"Hey, how do you know that I have a headache?" Harry asked loudly, and then regretted it. Vibrations from his own voice were only making his head hurt more.
Snape cast a contemptuous glance his way. "Aside from the fact that two minutes ago you were awake and complaining about it, you winced when you spoke the first time, indicating that sound causes pain."
"I was awake two minutes ago?!"
Snape shook his head. "That's part of the oddness of it all. You weren't really awake, but you were talking quite a bit. Something about a 'Dudley' and 'Hedwig'. And your headache."
"Oh." Harry was still for a moment. "Did I say... anything?"
"No," Snape said softly. "You didn't. Except for that bit about Dudley being a miniature rhinoceros and for Hedwig to stop hooting so loudly as your head hurt enough as it was."
Harry visibly relaxed. "That's all right then." He shifted around awkwardly, trying to find a comfortable position for his head. He tried desperately to remember what the potion had felt like, but the only thing he could remember was the conversation leading up to him drinking it. And wait a minute - Snape had promised...
"So when do I get my story then?"
"What?" Snape sent a startled look his way. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't tell me you're going to go back on your word now," Harry said, indignant. "Apparently that potion really hurt, so I'd better be getting my pain's worth out of this. Start talking."
"Oh." Snape sighed. "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that part." He shifted from his position into a more comfortable one.
"I may as well start at the very beginning... the first time I met them all. And Potter, don't interrupt. This story will take long enough as it is."
Harry nodded solemnly, though unseen by Snape.
"The first person of your parents' group of friends that I met was Sirius Black. He came from an old, pureblood line that had strong ties to the Dark Magicks - you could say that your Godfather is the black sheep of the bunch, being so affiliated with the light side. His entire family, save his dead parents and brother, were deeply ashamed of him and in fact helped to plot his being framed, and then prevented him getting a trial." Snape snorted. "Family love indeed. Anyway, the meeting took place before Sirius began to show his do-gooder tendencies; those really only began to show themselves when in the company of your father or Lupin. We were eight or nine and my family was throwing a party. I'd gotten bored of it all early on and was hiding in one of the armory rooms. Black literally fell into it as well, fifteen minutes later..."
An eight-year-old Severus Snape stands in the shadow of a suit of armor, nervously watching the door in case his parents decide to search him out and ready to bolt through the secret passageway in case they do come in. He'd gotten extremely tired of having his cheeks pinched by funny-smelling old witches with green gunks in their teeth when they smiled, and so had decided to hide.
The door creaked open hesitantly and within a second, Severus had darted halfway into the hidden passageway before he realized that his parents would have announced themselves before entering a room, even though it would give away the element of surprise. It was one of their (many) flaws.
Slowly, Severus crawled out of the passageway and stood stock still, waiting to see who the intruder was.
A nine-year-old boy stood in the frame of the doorway, almost hesitantly. He looked over his shoulder and whatever he saw must have convinced him to come in because he darted through the doorway and slammed the door shut.
For a few minutes, all that could be heard was that boy's breathing, as Severus could hide the sound of his own. Severus watched, slightly puzzled, as the boy walked around the room, lightly fingering the dusty pieces of weaponry and armor that lay around.
"Who're you?" Severus asked bluntly from his shadowed corner. The boy jumped three feet straight into the air, face extremely startled.
"What? Who's there?"
"Severus Snape," Severus took a step forward, bringing him into the very dim light. "Who're you?"
The boy grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark. "Sirius Black. Nice ta meet'cha!"
Severus stared impassively at him, serious even at this young age. "Whatever. Who're you hiding from?"
Sirius shuddered, grin disappearing. "Those witches - y'know, the ones with the funny smell and the green gunks in their teeth? - well, anyway, they wouldn't stop PINCHING MY CHEEKS! I mean, of all the nerve! I had to make a run for it or else I wouldn't have any cheeks left by the time this party'd be done... they'd be pinched off. What's your story?"
Severus smiled a grim little smile. "Same as yours. Only I had to stick around for a few hours to be polite or else Father would have Crucio'd me after the ball was finished. He's very big on propriety."
Sirius nodded understandingly. "Ah, I feel for you man. Caught between a rock and a hard place - you're in pain anyway."
Severus inclined his head almost imperceptibly. "Quite. Do you think they've even noticed that we're gone yet?"
Sirius grinned again. "Nope! Last I saw, the old witches were heading off in the direction of that horrid Malfoy. He's a bit old to have his cheeks pinched though... He's starting at Hogwarts this year isn't he?"
"Last year," Severus idly corrected him. "You should have seen him, boasting and bragging as if it were special that a wizard of the appropriate age was to go to Hogwarts. He's a stuck-up prat. Almost failed his Potions class, from what I've heard..."
"I can't wait until I get to go to Hogwarts. It's gonna be a blast, especially all the Quidditch! What House do you want to be Sorted into?"
Severus gave him a scornful look. "Slytherin, of course. What other House is there to be in?"
Sirius shrugged. "I dunno... wouldn't it be surreal if we were Sorted into Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor? I mean, I could stomach Ravenclaw - the family's got pretty close ties with Ravenclaw - but the other two... no way! I'd die before I became a Gryffindork."
Severus sighed and slumped against a nearby, handy wall. "I would too, if only because Father would kill me. He wouldn't even want me in Ravenclaw: he was very clear about that last year when my cousin, Lezille, got Sorted into Ravenclaw and he disowned her. Not that she was really depending on him at all, since she's got her own family that supports her, but still, he was quite clear on what would happen if I dared become anything other than Slytherin. Thank Merlin that I wasn't born Squib, or else I probably wouldn't have lived to see my second birthday, and my first only so that he could show me around to all his relatives before it was discovered that I had no magical talent whatsoever. Father is quite good at manipulation."
Sirius looked solemn for a moment. "I don't really know what the big deal is... I mean, even if you're not Slytherin, it doesn't mean that you're a horrible wizard, or are going to go to the light side. It just means that you have different traits, you know? My brother explained that to me a few years ago, when he was Sorted into Gryffindor. My parents didn't even mind, come to think of it. They almost seemed... happy."
Severus frowned. "Odd. Weren't they in Slytherin?"
Sirius nodded. "Of course, and so were Grandda and Grandmere. Those two were a bit upset, but they got over it after Dad talked to them. They still treat him kinda cold, y'know? But they're getting back to how they used to be. Nice 'n all."
The two boys were silent for a while, both moving over closer to the shadows that the buildings of armor cast. They'd prefer not to be easily visible from the doorway, just in case smelly old witches with green gunks in their teeth burst in unexpectedly, long fingers waving threateningly to pinch their still stinging cheeks.
After a few minutes, Sirius spoke up. "So, what's it like living in this big castle?"
Severus pursed his lips in thought for a second. "It's freezing in winter, and cold in summer. There's no fall or spring and the house-elves all try to beat themselves if you even go near them. Almost every room is layered in dust, since Father doesn't want the house-elves muddling around in them, and when I go through them, bored, my sneezing alerts my Mother as to where I am and then she tells Father. Then I am punished and that leads to me walking through more old rooms. Quite tedious, really, though it has its up points... the secret passageways, for example."
Sirius blinked in happy shock. "You've got secret passageways?!"
Severus shrugged. "Well, yes. Doesn't everybody? With a castle, I mean."
Sirius shrugged too. "No. Well, not that you can really realize it. I mean, most of the supposedly 'secret' passageways aren't really secret... they've got instructions glued to them telling you exactly how they work. Quite bloody annoying, especially since they're spelled to say who used them last."
"Yes, I can see how that would be a problem, especially when you just used one to escape a particularly nasty fate and someone comes along and sees where you've disappeared to. You'd be better off just going a different route, at least it wouldn't be so obvious," Severus thought broodingly, shoulders hunched. "All the secret passageways around here are secret. No one knows all of them, and I discover new ones every day. It gets interesting."
Sirius frowned in pensive thought. "D'you think that we could go in one? I'd like to see what it's really like, with the dust and spiders and cobwebs and everything... all of our secret passageways are dusted and some of them have paintings hung along the inner wall."
"I don't see why not. No one knows where we are, so they won't be able to find us and even if they do, I know more of the secret places than anyone alive, though some of the ghosts could probably teach me a thing or two. Come on, there's an opening over there," Severus gestured to a far wall, one where the hidden passageway was. "We can go now, if you like."
Sirius nodded eagerly. "Yeah, that'd be great!"
A soft snore interrupted Snape's storytelling. He snorted, and crossed his arms. Just like the brat to demand payment, and not even pay attention when it was being given.
a familiar voice echoed in his thoughts.
Ah, wonderful, the Potions Master groaned. I now have an inner-Albus. As if the real one doesn't pester me enough...
Chapter Two A: Flatulence Farter, Thy Name Be Snape
Footsteps woke him.
He groaned, trying to roll over and wake up, only to find that he couldn't. His stupid leg hurt too much.
What happened this time, Harry Potter thought to himself resignedly. What did Malfoy Senior do? I think I can remember... a sledgehammer. Yes, that's probably it. Luc-the-rat-bastard had taken a bloody sledgehammer to his leg. And pretty much shattered the bone.
Harry sighed and looked down at his throbbing immobile leg. It was twisted in a direction that was definitely not healthy, or normal. It was covered in blood, long gashes of it running from numerous cuts. It was bruised a dark purple black. Harry winced at the sight.
"Well, it always looks worse than it really is," he said optimistically to himself.
"Unless it really is as bad as it looks," and oddly familiar voice said from outside of his cell's bars.
Harry lifted his gaze languorously from his contemplation of his obviously broken leg. The man standing there was a Flatulence Farter (Death Eater), that much was for certain. He wore the pure black and had the sinister appearances down perfectly. Of course, who else but Flatulence Farters and ol' Moldywarts would be here anyway?
"'Ello, m'friend. Have you come to whisk me away to Luc-dear's, Moldywarts' or Morpheus' tonight? Gimme a few minutes and you won't have to carry me around," Harry said with a cheerily false voice. "I've got the minor problem of a shattered leg to take care of. Have a little patience, it'll pay off in the long run."
He didn't really expect the tactic to work, because it never had before when a Flatulence Farter was sent to take him to his next torture session. He was always dragged painfully behind, despite multiple injuries including broken bones. It never hurt to try though, unless you counted those times the Flatulence Farters had gotten irritated at his voice and had started to kick his ribs... that hadn't been pleasant.
"Very well," the voice (why was it so ruddy familiar?!) said, its sinister huskiness failing to intimidate Harry in any way. He'd gotten too used to Moldywarts, who was truly a master of the threatening voice.
"Thanks old bean," Harry muttered mockingly. In the short time he'd known Donnelly and Sleighly, they'd really rubbed off on him. Every time he spoke or acted, he thought, what would they do? And the words would flow out of his mouth, the actions becoming inadvertent but inherently mocking. He enjoyed having bits and pieces of his deceased friends' personalities in him. It made them seem still alive, somehow, like Moldywarts hadn't cruelly murdered them both.
Sighing to himself, he held a hand over his shattered leg and concentrated. There wasn't really any other word for it, just a very deep looking into, an intense mental vision. He pulled the fragments of his bone together, somehow, and melded them together haphazardly. He couldn't do a particularly good job on it, for one because he didn't know what he was doing in the slightest and for another, because he didn't have enough magical reserves to finish it up; the concussion yesterday had depleted the rest of it.
As it was, his leg was now unbroken, though it still ached; Harry was sure that he'd messed up with some of the healing. It was an amazing relief, so much better than when it was shattered in a million different shards and throbbed dully with deep agony. It would allow him to walk, just not all that comfortably.
Sighing regrettably, he tore a strip off of his shirt and called out to the Flatulence Farter, "Do you see a long piece of wood out there? I think I may need one to brace my leg."
The Flatulence Farter sighed exasperatedly (it was such a familiar(!) sigh) and moved around for a few seconds, supposedly looking for the requested piece of wood. Finally, a piece was thrown in through the bars and Harry muttered his thanks.
If he were feeling more like himself, he would've also given a magnificent insult to the guy. He was a bit preoccupied though, dealing with the temporary splint of his leg.
He aligned the wood with his leg then tied it in place with the ripped strip of his shirt, knotting it firmly. He sighed and stood. "All right, m'friend. Let's shake a leg, huh? Wouldn't want to keep what's-his-face waiting."
"Lord Voldemort," the Flatulence Farter corrected tersely and grabbed Harry's upper arm to drag him along more effectively, though he didn't walk too fast out of a strange consideration for Harry's still messed up leg. He unintentionally dug his long fingers into newly made bruises, yet Harry didn't flinch. He was accustomed to the slighter forms of pain, and was becoming used to the more major ones (though he doubted he'd ever really get used to Crucio). "How did you heal your leg without your wand?"
The unexpected question startled Harry and he blinked up at his captor, momentarily taken aback. "I apparently have a talent for focused wandless magic. Anyone can do it, really, but it takes years of learning for most and they never really progress past an 'Accio'. I... bypassed the Accio and went straight to breaking Binding curses. Of course, those didn't help the people I broke out much; they're dead anyway."
Harry inwardly winced at his bitter tone. He didn't mean to sound so bad, yet... Sleighly and Donnelly were dead. And it was mostly his fault. Not all, since Moldywarts had been the one with the wand throwing the curses around. But they'd stayed behind because of him. Had gotten caught because of him.
Harry'd known that he would be tortured and killed. Sleighly and Donnelly would probably have only been ransomed... until they'd tried to escape with him. And then Moldywarts didn't even have the guts to kill Harry, give him what he deserved.
The Flatulence Farter was silent for the rest of the journey. He walked with brisk steps, but kept them small to accommodate for Harry's shorter legs and his broken one.
With a dramatic arm movement, the Flatulence Farter knocked on the door leading into Voldemort's presence. He looked down at Harry for a moment, as if expecting something. More specifically, he was looking at Harry's scar.
"It still hurts," Harry informed him softly, wry grin on his lips. "It's just barely noticeable now. It's really nothing compared to what Malfoy usually gives me, not to mention Moldywarts and Morpheus. Still stings, but more like an annoyance than anything else. I hardly even notice it anymore, really."
As they waited for long moments for the door to open, Harry studied his guard. The man was tall, with long, thin, strong fingers and a distantly familiar voice. He was sure that he'd heard it before, at least once. But the memories of times before being in Moldywarts putrid possession were deeply buried and almost dead.
His face was still a mystery, hidden as it was beneath a dark hood.
Harry studied the way the Flatulence Farter held himself, how he stood. Something /tugged/ in his mind. Something...
The door opened and a gloved hand beckoned them in. The Flatulence Farter swept in, dramatic robes swirling around him. Harry followed, looking more than slightly pathetic and yet oddly defiant at the same time. They both walked to Moldywarts feet, the Flatulence Farter kneeling down to his knees and bowing his head in a gesture of deep respect. Harry just smirked.
"Ah, my two favorites," Moldywarts hissed in deep satisfaction. "And, as well, your most hated adversary, Potter. Have you realized yet that my loyal Death Eater is none other than your most hated Potions teacher: Severus Snape."
Harry blinked, then laughed delightedly. To the uninformed, his laugh was that of a young child's: young, innocent, guileless and free. To one who listened closely and carefully, s/he would hear the darker overtones, the harshness of that laugh.
"Of course! I knew that I knew you from somewhere, Professor Snape-or do I call you Severus now that we are no longer on school grounds? Maybe Mr. Snape is what you'd prefer. Thanks so much for bringing him down here, Moldywarts my friend, I was having an absolutely horrible time trying to figure out my Potions homework. And you bring my teacher right to me! How thoughtful of you." Harry took a step forward, seeming not to notice the sudden jarring of his still stiff leg, and pulled the hood of Severus Snape down. A familiar face, with familiar black eyes, stared at him.
That familiar face looked, startled, at him. Snape had noticed Harry's wild inflection, had detected his odd breathing patterns. He knew that there was something going on inside of Harry, something more than shock. Voldemort hadn't.
Voldemort smiled grimly at the duo, his lips a twisted caricature of amusement. "Indeed he is your Potions Master. But that is not what he will be doing while he is here. No, his job here will be to develop and test new potions. Chemical forms of the Crucio, the Imperio and assorted others. Because the hatred that exists between you two is legendary, I have decided to allow my loyal servant some fun. You will be his test subject, completely at his mercy. Whether or not he decides to give you the antidote for whatever poison he has come up with lately is completely up to him, as is how much he will make you suffer each and every time. I trust you two will enjoy this time together. As I have some other business to conduct right now, I'll let Morpheus have you, Potter, after only one curse." With the slight warning, Harry was hit with Crucio.
He lay on his back, staring up at the fathomless ceiling. It was hard to breathe, but then anything that required effort right now would be hard. He gasped in shallow breaths that barely fed oxygen to his blood cells and wondered vaguely when his vision would start to black out. He refrained from screaming, but only because the last Crucio cast on him had been fifteen hours earlier and his body wasn't really recovered, but recovered enough to deal with the new influx of pain.
It's odd that Moldwarts' curse isn't any stronger than Malfoy Senior's. Is it because they both hate me with an equal intensity? It can't be because they have the same level of power - I don't think Malfoy would've lived to see Malfoy Junior being born if that were true. Maybe the Crucio always feels the same way? But no, Morpheus' is more delicate and the after effects last longer. Strange...
Harry'd gotten used to thinking to himself during these little sessions, trying vainly to ignore his extreme pain. It was a retreat into his mind that seldom truly worked, but served as a desperately needed distraction very well.
After a breath of time that could've been a millennia and Harry wouldn't have noticed, the curse was lifted. From outside of the cocoon-like haze Harry had built around himself, he heard Voldemort say, in his horrible voice, "Take him to Morpheus, Severus. You may watch the torture if you wish. After Morpheus is done, Potter is given half an hour to recover. After that, you may take him for the tests. Lucius is not to go near him for at least two weeks, and you will make sure that that is enforced. You will guard Potter's cell during the night to make sure that Lucius doesn't try to sneak in a visit, as his last one was a bit extreme. And too easily healed."
"Very well, my Lord," Snape answered, his voice softly obedient. Thinly muscled arms picked Harry's limp form up and carried the slight (even more so after his horrible summer with the Dursleys and his subsequent imprisonment) boy out of the room.
Once out of the stifling room, Harry moved slightly. "Put me down, Snape. I want to walk. I feel slimy touching you." His words were weak, but the tone behind them fierce. Harry had had to live these past few weeks completely independent and wasn't going to start letting anyone touch him without fighting it to the extreme, even if the touch was to help him.
Snape ignored the command and kept on walking. Harry bit him.
"We really must start feeding you more Potter, if you're going to resort to cannibalism." Snape's voice was wryly amused, though Harry's teeth had sunk in deeply and drawn blood.
Harry spit to the side. "Would you believe that you taste better than the crap they call meals? Now put me down."
"Or what Potter? You'll bite me again? You know how well that works."
"I'll fight you all the way to Morpheus'. It won't be pleasant for you, believe me."
The only answer he got was a tightening grip and a reminding hand on his bad leg. He subsided, but glowered up at Snape petulantly, much as a young child would. Only he hadn't been a young child since he was six and Uncle Vernon had... Well, that was a lifetime ago and it did no good dwelling on it now.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, neither one acknowledging the others' presence, when Harry abruptly noticed that they were headed in the entirely wrong direction.
"What's going on? Are you getting me out of here now?" Despite himself, Harry's voice sounded just a bit excited.
Snape sent a scornful look his way, then looked slightly embarrassed. "Of course not! I'm just... well, I'm sort of... lost."
Harry blinked incredulously. "You're kidding. No, you're not. Well, much as it pains me to direct you to my torturer's chambers, his presence is vastly more preferable to yours. Turn left here."
They finally made it to Morpheus' torture room, after many misadventures and snarky comments (the misadventures due to Snape's inability to take directions and the snarky comments being said equally between them). Before they could knock on the door, it opened and Morpheus' head poked out.
"Little Raven, you're late. We will have to move faster than usual to make up for lost time. How's your hand?" His voice was unusually focused, but Harry had learned to take his tormentor's oddities in stride.
"It's still got a hole in it. Remember, you poke that iron thingy in it just about ever time I see you." Harry's voice wasn't sarcastic, despite its mean words. It didn't give off any emotion at all, in fact.
Neither of them noticed Snape's startled look at Harry's hand at those words, or his slight blanching at the sight of the still unhealed hole in the middle of it.
"It's called 'maintenance' little Raven. It's to make sure that it doesn't heal naturally, or with your help."
"Haven't we already had this conversation? I believe the second time you ran that thing through my hand?"
"Yes, I believe we did. You can put him down on the table, Severus, he hasn't tried to get away from me since the seventh session we've had together. He decided to not exactly cooperate, but to not fight as much as he would for Lucius. In return, I try not to curse him very much. It's an odd arrangement, but we both enjoy it," Morpheus said to Snape and Snape complied.
Harry was laid on the table, wincing at the impact to his leg. He did notice that Snape was trying to be a bit gentle, although staying inconspicuous. Snape started to back out of the way, but Morpheus blocked his path.
"Stay a bit, Severus, I'd like to know what's going on in the wizarding world. It's been a while since I've been allowed into it," Morpheus said friendlily while he went to retrieve the iron rod from the cupboard. He stepped over to Harry's prone form and held the boy's hand down, spread-eagling the fingers.
Snape started to talk, in a low disjointed voice, of current events. He seemed sickeningly mesmerized by what Morpheus was doing to Harry.
Harry himself was completely focused on Morpheus' eyes, taking in the intent way they seemed to look at Harry's hand and the iron rod. Looking at the grim satisfaction they held when the iron rod was protruding from Harry's hand, filling in the gaping space left by the hole that had yet to heal since the first time it had been made.
"You don't really enjoy seeing people in pain, do you Morpheus? It's more when you're causing it that you're happy."
Morpheus nodded, not lifting his face from its concentrated position. "Of course. You know this, little Raven, and soon you will feel it too."
"I wouldn't bet on it. I don't really relish the idea of making others writhe in agony."
Morpheus looked up at that. "Are you saying you never even fantasized of doing to Lucius what he does to you? Of casting Crucio on my Lord? I don't believe that."
"You know me, Morpheus. I might fantasize about it, but I'd never do it. I'd kill them in a heartbeat, but I'd never cast Crucio on them, or take a sledgehammer to their leg."
"No, you wouldn't. You're far too... compassionate. That is one quality that is quickly beaten out of you in many pureblood families. You must be ruthless to get what is needed for the furtherance of your family. We all learn very young that lesson... Yes, we do." Morpheus sounded slightly mournful as he spoke, but didn't pause in his ministrations. Snape had long been forgotten by now.
"Compassion isn't something that can be beaten out of you," Harry argued vehemently. "Merlin knows my Uncle tried enough times when I was younger. It can be forced into the background, changed and distorted until no one can even begin to recognize it... but it's still there. It never goes away. It'll always be a part of you, ingrained into your heart and mind and soul. And no matter how many times you try to ignore it, there'll always be an echo of it in your mind, urging you to go out and help someone, to ease suffering and despair."
"That's just your view of compassion, little Raven. But for every person alive, there is another view, another version of what compassion is. Just because you think of it as a noble thing, does not mean that others do as well. While it is true that compassion exists with everyone, it's not true that everyone has the same kind. Rather, everyone has a unique kind, one only they possess. So what is considered as compassion to you could also be considered as cruelty by another." Morpheus slowly and laboriously traced a simple, elegant design onto Harry's arm with a razor blade, watching intently as the blood welled and encased Harry's arm slowly, tiny dots slowly becoming larger and larger.
"You're looking at it from the person who is doing the action's point of view," Harry pointed out reasonably. "When really, everything should be looked at from the person-who-is-being-affected's point of view. They are the ones who must endure the action, after all, and so they are the ones who should have the right to define what compassion is."
"Yes, I see your point Raven. However, do you really think the person who is doing the action takes this into account when he or she commits the action? Rarely they think of themselves in the other's position and contemplate what their definition of compassion would be at that instant. I think that is the real reason why many horrendous things have occurred over the centuries and also why revenge has been born time and again, despite repeated examples that it simply does no good. But you must also see it from the person who does the action, because the fact that they are committing an act that not many would consider as compassionate means that they hold an alternate point of view and have more information about the situation, which also means that they may, in truth, act compassionately in the truest sense of the word. It is all a matter of how much information a person has, and how far that person will go to make sure that the information is used in a way that will either benefit him, or humanity, or even a select group of persons. Do you see?" Morpheus drew the blade further up Harry's arm, and then looped it back down to meet the previous design he had been making. He seemed unconscious of his actions, concentrating solely on the words exchanged with the boy lying before him.
"Not really. But then, it's a little hard to concentrate when you're carving designs into my skin," Harry gritted out, distantly polite.
Morpheus looked at him sharply. "Are you distancing yourself from the pain Raven? I've told you not to do that; it just slows the process down even more than Lucius has already done. Honestly, I cannot comprehend why my Lord even contemplated the idea of letting him near you, at least until you're conditioned to like it... He should know Lucius is too brutish to deal with the developing stages adequately."
"I somehow doubt he really cares whether or not I'm adequately conditioned," Harry said wryly, wincing slightly as he inadvertently moved his bleeding arm. "I honestly don't know why he hasn't already killed me. He's being awfully arrogant about it, you know. I mean, there are probably dozens of people looking for me right now. I could be found at any moment, and yet he still keeps me alive. It's delusional." Harry sounded baffled. He took his eyes off of the blade to look at the fluorescent-lighted ceiling.
Morpheus paused in his work for a moment. "My lord has his reasons, Raven. And you'd do well not to question them... You're better off not knowing what he plans for your future."
Harry looked at him, face calm. "Can it seriously be worse than this? I don't think many things could be."
And the grayed, prematurely aged man looked tiredly into Harry's weary, yet still brilliant green eyes and sighed. "There are many things, Raven, that are worse than this. You haven't experienced them yet, but there are. And when you do know them, you feel as if your bones are imploding and melting to water, no longer strong enough to support you. You feel like the world is dead and so are you, only you still breathe and you can still see the life that you should have had, that you deserved to have, and it is not yours anymore. That is what is worse than what you call torture, little Raven, young one. That is Azkaban."
"Was it really so horrible?"
And Snape, who had been watching their verbal sparring, felt his breath catch in his throat at the infinite compassion and understanding in Harry's voice, the sheer depth and perception of it that hadn't been there before, mere months before, and was there now. He listened, awed, as Morpheus replied.
"It still goes on every day for me. Every breath is death; every glimpse of the sun is a hope that died so long ago. The only thing that brings clarity to my life is when I see something so beautiful and primal and real. That is the only thing that is not Azkaban. The only thing." Morpheus' voice resounded with quiet desperation and his oh-so-steady hand shook.
"Couldn't you find a new primal beauty, that is clarifyingly real? Something that isn't so evil and twisted? Couldn't you? Sirius Black doesn't deal with his years there as you do, and although you are two different men, I don't imagine that you both deal with it so dramatically differently. Isn't there any other route to take?" Harry's voice was full of gentle questioning, one that a mother would assume while talking to her youngest child.
"Sirius Black had something to live for outside of Azkaban. Both myself and my Dove were in there, together, and Dove... You know what happened to Dove. If you have something to live for outside of Azkaban, something to keep breathing and fighting against the welcoming bleakness death offers for... Then you can avoid taking comfort in primal beauties. But I have nothing save them, and my Lord of course. Sirius Black always had you, and always will." In that moment, Snape could have sworn that Morpheus sounded wistful.
"Did you see him at all in Azkaban?" Harry asked now, his voice slightly eager.
Morpheus chuckled. "Yes, yes, he was an odd one all right. Not a bird, no, not at all... He was more canine. You could tell in the way he held himself, the way he spoke. He was strange... Never screamed as much as everyone else did. Very quiet man he was, though sometimes he would rant to the empty walls. I always ranted to my Dove. But I never liked him all that much. Too canine. The same with your father's other friend, Remus Lupin. And Pettigrew was always too cowardly to even contemplate soaring the skies. Of the whole group your father was in, only he had even the slightest chance of being a bird and that chance was very slight indeed. Now, your mother on the other hand... She was a lovely Phoenix, Raven. Utterly fiery and so very passionate. And you have inherited much of that, although you are much more polite. She had the worst mouth you're likely to ever hear on a woman. If I hadn't had my Dove I could easily have been distracted by her..." Morpheus sighed regretfully at the thought of things left undone. "It's a shame that my Lord killed them both, Raven. The Phoenix and the Crow and the Raven, a family of birds... I would have enjoyed visiting you all. I have no doubt it would have been an interesting household. Ah well, my Lord knows best after all."
Harry sighed slightly. "You know I won't respond to that. Is our time up yet? I need to sleep for a bit."
Morpheus glanced at a strange machine on the cupboard and frowned. "Yes, I hadn't realized we'd gone on for so long. Now, you won't be healing your arm will you?"
Harry shook his head. "And ruin your hard work? No, I haven't enough magical reserves to do anything right now, and I'm too tired to focus properly. Your newest work of art is safe for the next few days or so. Would you mind sparing a cloth or something? I wouldn't want to get my clothes any bloodier than they already are."
"Now that would be a hard thing to accomplish," Morpheus chuckled to himself. Indeed, Harry's clothes were bathed in blood. It was hard to tell what hadn't originally been rust red. Morpheus grabbed a long strip of material from off of one of the nearby tables. "You may use this. Don't worry about giving it back. Good day, Raven. You may take him now Severus."
Snape stood quickly and walked to Harry's prone form. With careful, but not too careful, arms, he picked the boy up and lifted him gently into his arms.
"You know, I can walk on my own," Harry said idly, though Snape could tell that his voice was more than mildly annoyed.
Snape looked coldly down at him. "Do I look like I care? Besides, I don't want you giving yourself internal damages walking around and putting your body through unneeded stress. It could affect my potion's integrity, and that is something that is intolerable. Now shut up and let me leave in peace."
Harry glared but subsided, and the unlikely duo left, Morpheus' amused gaze following their retreating forms.
Snape carried Harry to his new cell, only letting his guinea pig out of his arms to open the door. Harry limped into it, then looked on amusedly as Snape locked the door.
"No one really cares if I stay in my cell anymore you know," he said conversationally. "It's not a big issue. I'm bound to the castle. I couldn't leave even if the walls were toppling in on me."
Snape glared meaningfully at him. "Formalities, Potter, must be observed regardless of what people may or may not mind."
"Ah, that's my old professor all right." Harry sighed and hobbled to the far wall. He slid down it, his back supported by its strength. His eyes closed tiredly as his breath became more and more labored. After a few minutes of this, he opened his eyes and looked at Snape. "What are you still doing here? I thought you'd be anxious to get back to adoring Moldywarts with the rest of the Flatulence Farters."
Snape looked coldly at him, though his eyes glittered distantly with amusement at Harry's nicknames for his captors. "My Lord told me to stand guard over you for the next little while, if you'll remember. And so I stand guard. Get some rest, we leave for my rooms in half an hour for the first round of tests to begin."
Harry sighed. "I can't really relax with you right there, you know. Would you mind... going to the side a bit or something like that? I'm sure I'll manage to yell if Lucius suddenly comes into the room."
Snape glared at him, and did not move.
"Guess not," Harry groaned slightly in dismay, then doubled over in pain. "Dammit!"
"What's wrong?" Snape moved closer to the cell door in alarm, hand clenching the bar tightly.
Harry looked up, black hair stark against deathly white skin. His green eyes burned intensely for a moment before the flame died just a bit. "Nothing to worry about, professor, just a reminder of something that was done a while ago that I haven't had a chance to fix just yet. Nothing serious, I assure you."
Snape glanced suspiciously at the boy's still form, but didn't question his words. He sighed and settled next to a wall, waiting until half an hour had gone by. It was a tense wait in which Snape pondered how the hell he was going to get the idiot Potter out of the latest mess he was in (while a little section of his mind recoiled in horror at what he'd already witnessed being done to the young-yet-old-and-still-dreadfully-skinny boy) and Harry just... rested.
Not a second past the half hour mark, Snape entered Harry's cell and roughly picked the boy up. He hefted the slight weight in his arms, trying to find a comfortable position, and grunted when he couldn't.
"This would be easier if you had more padding on your bones," he scolded the boy, voice reproving.
"Sorry," Harry remarked with a twisted smile. "My family was never really concerned with how much I got to eat, so I pretty much starved for the ten years I was with them. I gained a bit at Hogwarts, but lost it all again when I got here... they don't care how much I eat either, so I usually only get scraps of bread and have to drink the water off of the floor. It's enough to keep me alive and I stopped feeling hungry a few days ago."
Snape snorted. "Right, if you're going to feed me a sob story, at least make it a bit more believable, thanks."
Harry raised an eyebrow at his disbelieving expression. Then he shrugged. "Fine, don't believe me. I don't really care, y'know? The teachers at my elementary school didn't believe me either. Neither did the neighbors. Or the one babysitter I had other than Mrs. Figg. No one believes anything I say because I'm just a little liar, isn't that right?" His tone wasn't bitter or cold, just innocently questioning. It was almost as if he'd already asked himself these questions long nights ago and had come to these conclusions.
Snape's smirk disappeared and silence reigned from then on to Snape's dungeon testing room. Harry laughed helplessly when he saw it.
"Merlin's teeth! Do you ever escape the dungeons Severus?"
"Don't call me Severus," Snape growled irritably. He set Harry down on a stool leaning against a wall and strode with long steps over to the far wall. With his back turned to the boy, Harry couldn't see what he was doing.
"Why not? It's your name. Since you aren't acting in the capacity of a teacher in this situation, I decided it would be inappropriate to call you Professor Snape and in the words of Morpheus Lestrange, torturers and torturees need to have a deep bond in order for the necessary training in pain to take place, so Mr. Snape is out. You're stuck with Severus, Severus. Or maybe Sev. How do you feel about other nicknames? I'd name you Snuggles, but you really don't seem the type. Give me time, I'll come up with something for you," Harry's voice was mocking as the immobile (because of his leg) boy stretched and strained to see what Snape was creating.
Snape growled from where he stood, a low, menacing sound that didn't affect Harry in the slightest. It was just an intimidation tactic, after all, and he'd learnt all of them already from Morpheus (by way of explanation) and Lucius (by way of demonstration) and Moldywarts (by breathing). Snape had nothing on them, for the most part, though his voice got quite impressive when he was trying especially hard.
The tall and dark man swung unexpectedly around and faced Harry, small glass bottle clenched tightly in his hand. "Don't call me 'Sev' Potter."
Harry looked mildly surprised at the expression of pain, hatred, and sorrow reflecting from Snape's face. He hadn't expected such an extreme reaction to that particular nickname. Reminder to self: use Sev on Snape to get him unsettled. Works remarkably well, he thought.
"Don't call me 'Potter', SEV."
Snape glared at Harry and his flippant tone. Harry was long past the point of caring. He wasn't, however, past the point of curiousity. He looked at the glass bottle inquisitively and gentled his voice. "What's that?"
Snape smiled nastily, finding a way to get back at Harry for what he'd just done. "Your first test potion. The first task my Lord has given me is to find out how to make a chemical form of the Crucio. This is the first batch of the first attempt. You will drink it."
Harry looked incredulously. "Riiiiiiight, like I'd willingly let you come near me with that bottle. Stay away, psycho, or be prepared." Just in case Snape did come closer, Harry started to ready his hands and prepare his magic in a panicked attempt to get organized.
"If you resist, I'll just cast Crucio on you," Snape threatened, though his voice, face and body posture lacked conviction. Harry wasn't used to reading these yet, and could only tell that neither of them wanted that to happen. He wasn't, however, about to become Snape's guinea pig.
Snape could tell this, somehow, and sighed tiredly. "If you drink this, and any others that I make later on, I'll do something in return as a favor to you," he offered weakly.
Harry looked at him speculatively, back resting against the cool stone wall. "You have to tell me all about my parents, Sirius and Professor Lupin, when they were young. And I do mean everything. I'll know if you leave anything important out." It seemed a fair trade to him. He'd never known anything of his personal past and here was a golden opportunity to get it out of someone who'd been there. Besides, he already knew that they would find some way to force-feed him the potion without ruining its integrity. It was easier to take it on his terms and get something he wanted out of it.
Snape glowered at him and thought for a few brief seconds. In the end, it wasn't really a choice. "Fine. Drink first. I'll tell you your story," he sneered, "after." He walked dramatically over to Harry's prone form and handed the small glass bottle to him.
Harry took out the little stopper at the top of the glass bottle and looked inside. He brought the object to his nose and took a sniff - smelled like crushed mint and clementine, with sickly sweet scents blending subtly in the background.
His brilliant green eyes looked up at Snape's glowing black ones, not with malice, hatred or fear, but with wry understanding. "Here goes."
And he drank the potion.
It was kind of like floating, Harry thought dreamily as he drifted in a haze of yellow cloud. For a supposedly vicious poison, it really didn't hurt at all. It was strangely euphoric.
That only lasted for all of two seconds. Then deep, driving pain imploded inside of his skull, mini explosions setting off within his brain. He dropped the small vial and dropped to the floor, clutching his head as if trying to protect it. When that didn't work, some ancient, animalistic instinct caused him to start slamming his head against the floor, a desperate attempt to force the pain out.
"Potter!" He heard, distantly. Strong hands tried to hold him down, stop his convulsions. By now it wasn't just instinct that was causing him to jerk uncontrollably; it was an involuntary act, his brain seizuring out of control and sending spasmodic messages to all his muscles.
The hands succeeded in holding him down, and then a firm weight settled on his upper chest, holding him immobile. His wildly shaking head was stilled with hands, and his mouth pried open. A liquid spilled into it and threatened to choke him. He swallowed quickly, not registering the taste as pain continued to attack.
Within seconds, he was out cold.
"Well, that was certainly unexpected," Severus Snape said, still sitting on the small boy.
Harry Potter woke up in an unfamiliar cell, to the familiar face of his professor. He groaned. "You weren't just some strange dream," he muttered slightly and winced at the overwhelming pain in his head.
Snape glared at him, black eyes icy. "You, Potter, are an idiot." The Potions Master straightened up from his crouch and stalked out of the cell, locking the door behind him.
Harry blinked slightly in shock. "Yeah, well, from what Sirius and Professor Lupin have told me, you weren't the brightest bulb yourself," he muttered rebelliously.
Snape sent him a forbidding look. "What happened with the potion?"
"Uh..." Harry tried to think in vain. "I don't remember."
"Hmm. So, side effects of that batch are loss of memory, which is bad for making a lesson stick, uncontrollable convulsions and an extreme headache afterwards. Maybe I should exclude the mugwort and dilute the clementine some more next time..."
Snape thought out loud.
"Hey, how do you know that I have a headache?" Harry asked loudly, and then regretted it. Vibrations from his own voice were only making his head hurt more.
Snape cast a contemptuous glance his way. "Aside from the fact that two minutes ago you were awake and complaining about it, you winced when you spoke the first time, indicating that sound causes pain."
"I was awake two minutes ago?!"
Snape shook his head. "That's part of the oddness of it all. You weren't really awake, but you were talking quite a bit. Something about a 'Dudley' and 'Hedwig'. And your headache."
"Oh." Harry was still for a moment. "Did I say... anything?"
"No," Snape said softly. "You didn't. Except for that bit about Dudley being a miniature rhinoceros and for Hedwig to stop hooting so loudly as your head hurt enough as it was."
Harry visibly relaxed. "That's all right then." He shifted around awkwardly, trying to find a comfortable position for his head. He tried desperately to remember what the potion had felt like, but the only thing he could remember was the conversation leading up to him drinking it. And wait a minute - Snape had promised...
"So when do I get my story then?"
"What?" Snape sent a startled look his way. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't tell me you're going to go back on your word now," Harry said, indignant. "Apparently that potion really hurt, so I'd better be getting my pain's worth out of this. Start talking."
"Oh." Snape sighed. "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that part." He shifted from his position into a more comfortable one.
"I may as well start at the very beginning... the first time I met them all. And Potter, don't interrupt. This story will take long enough as it is."
Harry nodded solemnly, though unseen by Snape.
"The first person of your parents' group of friends that I met was Sirius Black. He came from an old, pureblood line that had strong ties to the Dark Magicks - you could say that your Godfather is the black sheep of the bunch, being so affiliated with the light side. His entire family, save his dead parents and brother, were deeply ashamed of him and in fact helped to plot his being framed, and then prevented him getting a trial." Snape snorted. "Family love indeed. Anyway, the meeting took place before Sirius began to show his do-gooder tendencies; those really only began to show themselves when in the company of your father or Lupin. We were eight or nine and my family was throwing a party. I'd gotten bored of it all early on and was hiding in one of the armory rooms. Black literally fell into it as well, fifteen minutes later..."
An eight-year-old Severus Snape stands in the shadow of a suit of armor, nervously watching the door in case his parents decide to search him out and ready to bolt through the secret passageway in case they do come in. He'd gotten extremely tired of having his cheeks pinched by funny-smelling old witches with green gunks in their teeth when they smiled, and so had decided to hide.
The door creaked open hesitantly and within a second, Severus had darted halfway into the hidden passageway before he realized that his parents would have announced themselves before entering a room, even though it would give away the element of surprise. It was one of their (many) flaws.
Slowly, Severus crawled out of the passageway and stood stock still, waiting to see who the intruder was.
A nine-year-old boy stood in the frame of the doorway, almost hesitantly. He looked over his shoulder and whatever he saw must have convinced him to come in because he darted through the doorway and slammed the door shut.
For a few minutes, all that could be heard was that boy's breathing, as Severus could hide the sound of his own. Severus watched, slightly puzzled, as the boy walked around the room, lightly fingering the dusty pieces of weaponry and armor that lay around.
"Who're you?" Severus asked bluntly from his shadowed corner. The boy jumped three feet straight into the air, face extremely startled.
"What? Who's there?"
"Severus Snape," Severus took a step forward, bringing him into the very dim light. "Who're you?"
The boy grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark. "Sirius Black. Nice ta meet'cha!"
Severus stared impassively at him, serious even at this young age. "Whatever. Who're you hiding from?"
Sirius shuddered, grin disappearing. "Those witches - y'know, the ones with the funny smell and the green gunks in their teeth? - well, anyway, they wouldn't stop PINCHING MY CHEEKS! I mean, of all the nerve! I had to make a run for it or else I wouldn't have any cheeks left by the time this party'd be done... they'd be pinched off. What's your story?"
Severus smiled a grim little smile. "Same as yours. Only I had to stick around for a few hours to be polite or else Father would have Crucio'd me after the ball was finished. He's very big on propriety."
Sirius nodded understandingly. "Ah, I feel for you man. Caught between a rock and a hard place - you're in pain anyway."
Severus inclined his head almost imperceptibly. "Quite. Do you think they've even noticed that we're gone yet?"
Sirius grinned again. "Nope! Last I saw, the old witches were heading off in the direction of that horrid Malfoy. He's a bit old to have his cheeks pinched though... He's starting at Hogwarts this year isn't he?"
"Last year," Severus idly corrected him. "You should have seen him, boasting and bragging as if it were special that a wizard of the appropriate age was to go to Hogwarts. He's a stuck-up prat. Almost failed his Potions class, from what I've heard..."
"I can't wait until I get to go to Hogwarts. It's gonna be a blast, especially all the Quidditch! What House do you want to be Sorted into?"
Severus gave him a scornful look. "Slytherin, of course. What other House is there to be in?"
Sirius shrugged. "I dunno... wouldn't it be surreal if we were Sorted into Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor? I mean, I could stomach Ravenclaw - the family's got pretty close ties with Ravenclaw - but the other two... no way! I'd die before I became a Gryffindork."
Severus sighed and slumped against a nearby, handy wall. "I would too, if only because Father would kill me. He wouldn't even want me in Ravenclaw: he was very clear about that last year when my cousin, Lezille, got Sorted into Ravenclaw and he disowned her. Not that she was really depending on him at all, since she's got her own family that supports her, but still, he was quite clear on what would happen if I dared become anything other than Slytherin. Thank Merlin that I wasn't born Squib, or else I probably wouldn't have lived to see my second birthday, and my first only so that he could show me around to all his relatives before it was discovered that I had no magical talent whatsoever. Father is quite good at manipulation."
Sirius looked solemn for a moment. "I don't really know what the big deal is... I mean, even if you're not Slytherin, it doesn't mean that you're a horrible wizard, or are going to go to the light side. It just means that you have different traits, you know? My brother explained that to me a few years ago, when he was Sorted into Gryffindor. My parents didn't even mind, come to think of it. They almost seemed... happy."
Severus frowned. "Odd. Weren't they in Slytherin?"
Sirius nodded. "Of course, and so were Grandda and Grandmere. Those two were a bit upset, but they got over it after Dad talked to them. They still treat him kinda cold, y'know? But they're getting back to how they used to be. Nice 'n all."
The two boys were silent for a while, both moving over closer to the shadows that the buildings of armor cast. They'd prefer not to be easily visible from the doorway, just in case smelly old witches with green gunks in their teeth burst in unexpectedly, long fingers waving threateningly to pinch their still stinging cheeks.
After a few minutes, Sirius spoke up. "So, what's it like living in this big castle?"
Severus pursed his lips in thought for a second. "It's freezing in winter, and cold in summer. There's no fall or spring and the house-elves all try to beat themselves if you even go near them. Almost every room is layered in dust, since Father doesn't want the house-elves muddling around in them, and when I go through them, bored, my sneezing alerts my Mother as to where I am and then she tells Father. Then I am punished and that leads to me walking through more old rooms. Quite tedious, really, though it has its up points... the secret passageways, for example."
Sirius blinked in happy shock. "You've got secret passageways?!"
Severus shrugged. "Well, yes. Doesn't everybody? With a castle, I mean."
Sirius shrugged too. "No. Well, not that you can really realize it. I mean, most of the supposedly 'secret' passageways aren't really secret... they've got instructions glued to them telling you exactly how they work. Quite bloody annoying, especially since they're spelled to say who used them last."
"Yes, I can see how that would be a problem, especially when you just used one to escape a particularly nasty fate and someone comes along and sees where you've disappeared to. You'd be better off just going a different route, at least it wouldn't be so obvious," Severus thought broodingly, shoulders hunched. "All the secret passageways around here are secret. No one knows all of them, and I discover new ones every day. It gets interesting."
Sirius frowned in pensive thought. "D'you think that we could go in one? I'd like to see what it's really like, with the dust and spiders and cobwebs and everything... all of our secret passageways are dusted and some of them have paintings hung along the inner wall."
"I don't see why not. No one knows where we are, so they won't be able to find us and even if they do, I know more of the secret places than anyone alive, though some of the ghosts could probably teach me a thing or two. Come on, there's an opening over there," Severus gestured to a far wall, one where the hidden passageway was. "We can go now, if you like."
Sirius nodded eagerly. "Yeah, that'd be great!"
A soft snore interrupted Snape's storytelling. He snorted, and crossed his arms. Just like the brat to demand payment, and not even pay attention when it was being given.
a familiar voice echoed in his thoughts.
Ah, wonderful, the Potions Master groaned. I now have an inner-Albus. As if the real one doesn't pester me enough...
