Chapter Three: Thoughts, Words, Memories, Questions, Sleep and Surprise!

Time is fluid. That was something Hermione told him and Ron one night, while in the Common Room, sitting in the large armchairs by the fireplace. The flames were blazing and they were sleepily content, heat from the fire seeping into their bones, soaking them in decadent warmth. Out of the blue, Hermione had said that sentence, almost half lost in her own world where everyone understood everything she said without her having to explain it to him/her.

Lids heavy on his eyes, he had asked, "What do you mean Hermione?" He shifted slightly, long bones sliding smoothly closer to the heat. He soaked it all up, a cat in sunshine.

"It exists," she'd said, simply, as if that explained it all. As if those two words clarified everything.

Maybe they did, and maybe, they didn't. In the pre-dawn hours, they floated in the space between them, hovering perfectly, waiting to be devoured by his and Ron's questing minds.

It exists. He tasted those words, swirled them about the tip of his tongue. Time is fluid. It exists.

Maybe in the waking hours, when everything was starkly and unrelievedly real, he would have scoffed at those words. He would not have understood.

But half dreaming, bathed in comfort, mind open and receptive, he perceived the truth of Hermione's knowledge. And accepted it.

When each had stumbled into their beds and woken the following morning, the realization of that truth had faded. Back in his mind was the potential to understand, if only someone could explain it to him.

But class distracted, and the question he meant to ask Hermione was lost in a haze of school and Quidditch.

Shivering in the dregs of his clothes/rags, in the late (early?) hours of night (day?), Harry wishes he had asked her that question. Wishes he had sought the answer. Wishes that he understood, wishes...

He shivers, again, and forgets his wishes as a painful, searing heat devours his thoughts. Time exists. It is fluid. But which way does it flow, forwards or backwards or sideways, maybe, it's not tied down by gravity so it could perhaps go up like a reverse Niagara Falls, or it could just move in circles, or it could not move in any direction at all, could just be vibrating against itself, all aquiver, it cou-

"Potter."

Fevered green eyes, formerly intense, formerly bright, dulled, they stare at Snape. The sallow man's brow draws together, furrows like an edge drawn into clay.

"Give a reason," the fragile boy rasps. "Give a reason for this. I can burn the fever right out, but I could also burn myself right out, why shouldn't I? Give a reason, professor. I'm so cold, and I'm so hot at the same time. I could just die. Why shouldn't I just die? I know there must be a reason, but I can't remember, can't decipher, it. Give a reason, Severus, why I shouldn't burn my veins out of my skin."

"You're fevered, Potter. Why didn't you cure yourself, or tell one of us of your condition before it got to this state?" Snape asks, voice impersonal, but eyes flickering wildly. He stood just outside Harry's cell door, steel bars separating them.

"Because I need a reason," is his answer.

Muttering oaths, Snape paces the short length of corridor in front of Harry's cell. He knows that he should do something, anything. But what? Anything he does could have very serious repercussions; the best thing to do would be to sit back and wait for someone else to discover the brat's sickness, perhaps that maniac, Morpheus Lestrange.

Another glance at the fevered boy, and Snape curses loudly. "Merlin's TEETH!"

"Severus," Harry's tone is stern. "You shouldn't say such things. Not in front of me, anyway. Not proper form for a Professor, or an adult, you know."

The tall, imposing man whirls to look directly into Harry's clear, if tired, green eyes. The slender boy shrugs.

"Got tired of being sick. Thought it might be pleasant to experience the sensation, though. And to see the look on your face when you realized how bad off I was." Tired eyes dance mischievously.

Snape sighs. Though the arrogant boy couldn't physically harm him, Harry could certainly play havoc with his mental health. And his nerves.

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"I want the rest of my story."

He glares. "As I recall, the last time I attempted to tell it to you, you fell asleep. I think that tells magnitudes about your interest of mine and Black's past."

A glare answers him. "I want the rest of my story. Or else." Hinted at threat.

"Or else what?" Threat answered.

"I'll zap all your potions so they lose their integrity and you'll get nowhere fast, making old Moldywarts VERY displeased..."
Slight smirk, striving to make its owner look superior. In all actuality, said owner looks more like a dirty cat, what with his vibrant green, feline eyes and less than note-worthy hygiene (though, to be fair, he didn't have much chance for bathing and whatnot).

"You'll be the one Lord Voldemort punishes for delaying the process." Logic seems to win the argument. Seems.

"Won't he wonder why you can't control me, a fourteen year old boy, when you are a Potions Master, well in the prime of your life?" Apparently logic is not on said Potions Master's side this time.

"...."

"I want the rest of my story. We made a deal, Sev." Intensity distilled to the gaze of steady emerald eyes.

"Don't call me Sev." An aimless retort, pointless protest.

"Tell the story." An imperious command, weakened only when the boy's voice cracks.

"I will not. Not that story, anyway." A compromise offered.

"And why not?" And denied.

"Because it's not a story I enjoy recalling!" Loud denial of... what?

"Yes, well, your potions aren't the kind that I enjoy swallowing." And there is that, accusation, plain and simple.

"...."


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His hand is a shriveled mess.

Every time it attempts to heal over the small circle punctured through it, it is thwarted by a repeat procedure. Muscles have been severed, bones beginning to jut out. He can barely move his fingers, let alone grip anything.

Sometimes he sits, mindlessly contemplating his hand, his life, or whatever it can be called now that he is where he is. His hand and his life, perfect parallels to each other. Both shriveled, and both unable to solidly grip anything at all. Not that his life was anything that could be called normal, before, but at least... at least there had been something that he could hold onto. Friendships, comfort, familiarity, stability. Gone, now, as he doesn't think that Morpheus quite qualifies as a friend and the moment he starts thinking of Snape as a comfort is the moment he really does burn his veins out of his skin.

His hand is a shriveled mess, just as his soul, and his mind, are beginning to be.

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:: stare ::

:: stare ::

:: stare ::

"Alright! I'll tell you your bloody story! Just stop looking at me already!"

:: satisfaction ::

"We went down the secret passageway, the one that lead us straight past the Great Hall in the castle. But Black seemed singularly incapable of being quiet, and so someone heard us passing by...

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Severus leads the way down the dark and winding secret path, Sirius bumbling after him. Severus rolls his eyes at Sirius' exclamations of delight and discovery, jaded already at the wondrous offerings secret passageways can give to young boys with adventurous spirits.

He passes a particular notch in the wall and turns around completely. Sirius walks straight into him, and Severus glares.

"We've got to be very quiet going through this part. It's important, the walls are particularly thin at certain points around here, and this is going past the Great Hall, where the party is being held now. If we're too loud, Father will hear; he's got ears like a cat's."

Sirius nods, but doesn't seem to hear Severus' words. They walk on, Severus making an extra effort to be unheard, Sirius making no effort whatsoever.

Maybe it's chance, or bad luck, or some nasty deity deciding to get his jollies in, but at the part of the passageway where the walls are the weakest, and during the part of the party just before someone starts a very important speech, where all the guests are quiet, Sirius finds the old battle-axe (laying, innocently, in some dank corner, just waiting for innocent and unsuspecting boys to stumble over it, cry out their joy, and therefore betray their presence to a majority of people, most of the Dark Arts wizards, all of them gleeful at the chance to torment a child) and yells happily, just knowing that if he can convince Severus to let him have said battleaxe, his older brother could never make fun of him again.

All the guests' heads swivel, in eerie unison, to the wall. All the guests have heard Sirius, and all the guests know that he who spoke was no ghost. Tiberius Snape, in particular, knows well that his son has disappeared and also knows the castle, and its many secret compartments, quite well.

Humiliation burning in him, the powerfully tall man strides to the wall, fully aware that a secret passageway runs through that part of the castle. He raps on it sharply, three times in succession. "Who is in there?" He thunders, knowing, just knowing, that his son will speak up and embarrass him, make him the laughing stock of all his associates and peers.

Inside the secret passageway, Sirius and Severus stand stock-still, eyes wide.

"Oh, sh-" Sirius begins to say, but Severus clamps his hand across the taller boy's mouth.

"Don't. Speak." He whispers harshly into Sirius' ear.

Scared out of his wits ("If in fact he had any," Snape says dryly), Sirius nodded. Severus slowly backed up, bringing Sirius with him. Then slowly, very, very slowly, he starts to edge sideways, towards freedom.

"Come out now, whoever you are!" Tiberius bangs fearfully on the stone wall. And Severus, conditioned by a lifetime of obeying those words, stands stock-still, fear shaking him to the very tips of his greasy black hair.

Sirius squirms, not understanding just why Severus hasn't yet moved. Severus clamps his grip harder down on Sirius and his breathing gets ragged.

"Don't move, you nitwit," he whispers, tone belying the fact that he is not truly angry. Just terrified, that's all. "Don't you understand what'll happen to me if he finds us? Crucio, that's what. So don't move, and don't speak, and if you can help it at all, don't breathe. Thanks for being such a help, you lackwit. Remind me not to get into any more messes with you."

Sirius stiffens with anger at Severus' words, but at the moment can't retaliate, and at the same time, doesn't really want to. He's the one who got the both of them in this mess, and he knows it. He just wishes that Severus wouldn't vocalize it quite so loudly, though of course Severus speaks in the barest of whispers.

Severus begins to sidle his way down the passageway, headed for the nearest out. Outside the passageway, in the Great Hall, Tiberius has the same idea.

The elder Snape walks, and is followed, by most of his guests and he leads them to an isolated and dust-covered bedroom (not the same one that Severus originally escaped to, as did Sirius later). He hushes his guests and waits for someone to appear. It doesn't take long until they hear light footsteps thudding their way.

The guests, apparently greatly amused, talk quietly among themselves while waiting for the culprit to arrive. Two of them (a Crabbe and a Goyle, Snape says with some amusement) get into a heated argument just as the passageway entrance is being opened, and everyone can hear a terrified eep.

Tiberius, now, knows that he has his man. He steps forward, grips the entrance and pulls it the rest of the way open.

To reveal a lone Sirius Black, staring reproachfully back into the darkness that he previously walked through. He turns forward to face the many people that have come to see him emerge. And gulps.

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"So you abandoned Sirius to your father and some Dark wizards because you were too afraid to own up to your own crime, which was what, exactly? Showing a guest around?" Harry snorts.

Snape sighs. "There was more to it than that, such as the fact that my father was not a reasonable man and would have Crucioed me at the mere thought that I caused him embarrassment... but essentially, yes."

"So that's why you two have had it in for each other? All these years, come down to that single incident? An act of betrayal, and that set the tone for it all?"

"There was more than the one incident, Potter. But yes, after that night, Black no longer trusted me and made sure no one else did either. From the lowliest Hufflepuff, to the most intelligent Ravenclaw, to the craftiest Slytherin... I was mistrusted. All because of the word of Sirius Black. Because he, along with your father, was everyone's golden boy." Snape's voice holds no end of contempt, and an eternity of bitterness.

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Another torture session.

Another potion.

Another whispered conversation in the dead of the night, a time at which neither one can sleep.

Another sob that is choked back, another wound that burns with infection before his magic touch can get to it, another verbal spar with a man-snake who, with one word, dissolves the world into agony.

Another day among however many that he has ceased to count. They already seem long enough, anyway; what's the point in counting hours?

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"Give a reason."

A game they play, now, one that increasingly becomes macabre and depressing.

"Weasley and Granger will miss you."

One wound healed.

"And another."

Simple request, so hard to fulfill.

"Your mother died so you could live."

One infection purged.

"More."

Whispered demand.

"To spite Him."

Bone set straight, merged two pieces together.

"Please. Give me a reason. Just one more."

The begging of desperate man, searching for something to drive him on to continue living.

"Black would... Black would be devastated. Most likely self-inflict an Avada Kedavra."

A little smile, and the last of the wounds are healed. Green eyes blink wearily, their glow diminished to a mere ember spark.

"Thank you, Sev."

For once the nickname is not contested.

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Everyone had always said that Potter resembled his Father most. The infamous James Potter, the beloved of all who met him.

Severus can't see it himself: he looks at the young fourteen(?), fifteen(?) year old and sees only signs of Lily. The burning green eyes, though Lily's never did burn that brightly, if at all. The curve of his face, the slightness of his build. The fragile delicacy that seemed to overshadow the small boy, no matter what situation he is put in. Even flying, Harry Potter doesn't look like he is strong enough to hold onto his broom firmly enough to stay on.

Severus looks at Harry and where once he saw only the loathed face of James Potter, he sees only the much admired and respected visage of Lily Evans-Potter, the only person he had ever met that knew him without judging him.

Maybe the resemblance isn't physical. Maybe it's that one trait that mother and son share: they do not judge, or pass judgment.

Be that as it may, all Severus sees is Lily and Harry himself. There is no James, except perhaps in the wildness and blackness of the teen's hair. And the glasses. Mustn't forget the glasses...

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Harry sleeps in small doses, waking every few hours from nightmares that shadow clear eyes. Severus watches, shrewd-gazed, when Harry starts to reality, gasps echoing out of him.

Sometimes he thinks that maybe he should ask Harry what he dreams. Sometimes he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could counsel the poor child, help him understand his nightmares. Then he takes a closer look at the fetal position that the fearless boy takes every night, the way his gasps slowly morph into carefully stifled, hitched sobs.

And he knows that nothing can ever help the savior of the wizarding world. Some things are just too big.

Then one night, maybe two and a half weeks into their association (though neither one has really kept track), Harry stumbles/crawls to the bars that separate them and he breathes out, "Why does everything have to hurt so much?"

Snape can't say anything, but his hand, long and thin and bony, reaches between the bars and smoothes down the filthy, matted mess called hair, passes over damp cheeks, drying them. He can't say anything, but he can offer comfort.

Harry grips the bars that separate them loosely in his hands, leaning as far as he can towards Snape. His eyes burn so bright, so fiercely, they burn straight into Snape's soul. And illuminate.

A timeless moment, and Snape says, "Go back to sleep. I'll guard your dreams."

Harry smiles a tired smile and closes his eyes. "That's right. You're bigger and meaner than any of the monsters, so you'll chase them away for me, right?"

"That's right. That's it, exactly." They are both masters of intensity, the slight teen and the Potions master. Now Snape brings all his skills to bear, and wills Harry to believe him.

Harry breathes out, relaxes, and sleeps. His hands stay wrapped about the bars, as Snape's stays laid against his cheek, a gentle benediction, a parent's gentle touch.

And in the morning, Snape stands impassively by as Voldemort casts Crucio on Harry. Watches clinically as the boy he previously comforted writhes and moans and twists soundlessly, trapped in a universe of pain.

And in the morning, Snape picks the senseless boy up from the stone cold floor, by Voldemort's scaly feet. He walks with the boy held carelessly in his arms. Somehow, probably by the odd positioning that his carrying Harry entails, his hand once again finds a resting place against Harry's cheek.

Dazed with pain, the boy smiles.

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It's a mystery why he hasn't died yet. It makes no sense. Why should someone keep him alive when they have no obvious reason to do so?

The Slytherin in Snape searches out the less obvious reason, then, and can still find none.

He watches Lucius, in hopes that Voldemort's most favored will let something slip. He watches Morpheus, in hopes that Voldemort's most trusted will vaguely mention something that will make everything click into place. He watches Voldemort himself, as the Dark Lord tortures his favorite victim, sickened internally at the look of utter malevolent glee on Voldemort's face, but still searching for that ever elusive clue.

He never could find it. This bothered him, sure that Slytherin intellect and cunning should have garnered him his answer by now. And. It. Has. Not.

So he must watch helplessly as Voldemort casts Crucio. So he must watch helplessly as Morpheus shoves an iron pole through a trembling hand, and bath young flesh first in a liquid mixture, then in flame. So he must watch helplessly as Lucius cruelly hurls a bundle of rags and blood into a barren cell. And so he must helplessly concoct potions that bring indefinite agony and feed them to a caustic, conversely gentle man-child.

Sometimes he has 'mistakes'. Sometimes the potions he makes, ones that should bring unbearable pain, bring unequaled bliss instead. He explains these off to Voldemort as accidents in dosage: too much of something, too little of another, or maybe an exclusion of this ingredient entirely... The scaled monster quickly blocks out his Potion master's droning, subservient voice, and dismisses him back to his dungeons.

Snape prowls his testing rooms, smirking slightly as he recalls Harry's initial words to seeing them. "Merlin's teeth! Do you ever escape the dungeons, Severus?"

Almost as if the boy is there now, in the dungeons with him, that's how clearly Snape can hear his voice.

But Harry can't be, since currently Lucius has him. Snape winces at the reminder; after a session of Lucius right before nighttime, the boy has worse nightmares than ever before. He sleeps, of course, too exhausted to do anything else. But it is Snape who has to watch as Harry twists and turns, protesting against the pull of new wounds starting to heal over.

It really is amazing, Snape marvels, what that boy can do with wandless magic, with no previous training. Really quite amazing, especially considering the fact that he seems to hardly ever tire past the point of not being able to cast a spell in the next half-hour or so.

Something that Albus Dumbledore, with years of training, has never been able to accomplish.

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They hardly ever talk about Hogwarts, or Dumbledore, or Hermione, or Ron, or Sirius, or Remus. They hardly ever talk about the world outside of their little circle of pain.

After this long, Snape too is in the dark about what's going on in the outside world since he hasn't been allowed to leave Voldemort's castle, or to send messages out either. If he needs any supplies, he requests them of Voldemort, who contacts a supplier in Norway, who owls them to Voldemort, who has them thoroughly checked over, and then given to Snape. A lengthy process that doesn't take up too much time, surprisingly.

Aside from their little games of 'Give a Reason', no mention is made of anyone but the two of them in any of their conversations, unless Harry is pushing for another story courtesy of SnapeMemoryExpress.

Snape doesn't know why, but he finds that he enjoys this fact. That for the moment, only he and Morpheus and Lucius, and of course Voldemort, exists for the boy. He derives some sick, twisted pleasure from knowing that it is from him that Harry seeks protection and comfort from nightmares, companionship in conversation.

He likes being needed.

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It hardly seems right, Harry reflects, that I should think of Snape as a comfort. Wasn't it just a few weeks ago that I was saying to myself that if I ever thought that Snape was a comfort, it was sure sign that I've gone off my rocker and should really consider the 'burn my veins out of my skin' route?

It hardly seems right.

And it somehow is.

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Harry looks down at the small glass goblet filled to the brim with some unidentifiable potion he holds and then looks up at the expectant Snape. His lips quirk into a smile and he says,

"Give a reason."

Snape stares for a moment, then starts to chuckle, a sound that Harry has never before heard.

"I'll tell you a story if you do," he offers.

Harry cocks his head, considering it, or appearing to anyway. "No, I don't think so," he denies the offer.

"Hmmm," Snape taps long fingers against his chin, apparently lost in thought. "It would make Voldemort happy."

Harry snorts. "As if I want ol' Moldywarts to get his rocks off on me drinking this."

Snape chokes on the mental imagery Harry provides, a sputter rising up through his throat and transforming into a strangled laugh on its way out of his mouth. He calms after a few seconds, Harry watching him amusedly.

"It would make me happy," Snape finally says.

"Would it really?" Harry asks in a whisper, staring straight at his Potions Professor. Offers his trust.

Snape smiles a secretive smile that would seem vaguely sinister to anyone who didn't know him as well as Harry now does, and nods. "Yes. It would."

And so Harry quirks an eyebrow and swallows the slightly bubbly concoction down with no trouble. He is hit by a feeling of delight and joy, the feeling tingling down to his littlest finger and to his littlest toe, and he begins to laugh and laugh and laugh for the feel of it.

In his mind, Snape begins to create an elaborate lie to satisfy the Dark Lord's oppressive and angry curiousity. 'In all honesty, my Lord, I sincerely think that your supplier has been tampering with some of the ingredients. Or someone else down the line, perhaps? The potions are being adversely affected by something, you may as well know.'

Yes. That should do quite nicely.

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And on this one night, Severus is away, mixing up new potions to test on his human guinea pig come morning. And Lucius has gone back to his manor to play attentive husband and father to his perfect, illustrious family. And Morpheus has retired to his chambers to remember fondly the vibrant woman that once was his wife, and to hold the shriveled, comatose husk that she is now, a product of Azkaban, his perfect, broken Dove. And Moldywarts plots the doom of the wizarding and muggle word.

In his cell, for once in a very long time, Harry Potter is completely alone, with not even the threat of immediate pain hanging over him.

He resolves to rest, and enjoy his quiet solitude. He moves to the farthest wall in his cell, staying in shadows, as they offer comfort of a sort. A Death Eater of a lower order stomps by, pauses in front of Harry's cell. He peers in, and Harry feels a moment of panic at the thought that some random wizard will now have the chance to hurt him, instead of the carefully calculated torturers he had received in the forms of Morpheus, Lucius and Severus.

But the Death Eater has not seen the small, broken boy. Indeed, though he has opened the door, he has not made any move to enter. Instead he motions with his wand for a man, clearly under the Imperio curse who is carrying in his arms the lankily long body of another man, who is still breathing, thankfully, to go inside. Strangely, there is something in the way that the man walks that is completely familiar to Harry.

Once both men are inside, the Death Eater closes the cell door and locks it. He then breaks the Imperio curse, and watches with pleasure as the man blinks and shakes his head in confusion, not understanding where he is.

Before the man manages to regain full control of his mental facilities, the Death Eater casts Binding spells on the both of them and chuckles as he walks off.

The man, who looks so amazingly familiar, blinks again, confused, and looks down. Sees the man he carries who is knocked out, and he cries out in sorrow.

He sits, slumped against the wall, and rapidly checks for the other man's pulse.

It's night and the torches around aren't very many in number. Harry can barely make out that the man wears glasses and that the unconscious man's dark hair overflows to the ground. But he can tell how much the awake man is worried about the man who has been knocked out, and how much seeing him in such a state hurts the man who is still awake.

"Hullo," Harry says, to get the man's attention, and steps forward.

The man whirls around to look at Harry, blue eyes vivid even in the darkness. And Harry feels something leaden sink into his stomach, because the man's face, before invisible because it had been clothed in shadows, the man's face...

The man's face is his own. Or more accurately, James Potter's.