Midwinter Sun
Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. – Victor Hugo
My name is Inigo Montoya. You kill my father. Prepare to die. – William Goldman
To say that, by November, I wanted to kill Snape was an understatement of the grandest proportions. I wanted to kill him, to hang his head from the Astronomy Tower, and to hang the rest of his body, by his toe nails, on the Quidditch Pitch, using Filch's infamous, but unused chains. I had it all planned, too. I had had nearly three months to devise his death and desecration.
And every week, Snape would laugh at me and find a flaw in my plans.
I met him twice a week. One would be for my weekly "detention" which would be randomly assigned. It drove me (and Hermione, who devised our study schedules) batty because I could never make any plans. Snape would always point out that I was not supposed to be straining myself and therefore should not be making extensive plans. But, then, he would also tell me that my grades were abysmal and I should be working harder, so I tended not to listen to him.
The sessions were frustrating. I was still having trouble with my Occlumency. And I did not want to talk about my dystonia, but, lucky me, nor did Snape. During the evenings in which he was supposed to mentor me, I sat at a table doing my homework or studying and Snape sat at his desk, grading papers. In September, he explained meditation to me, in the hopes that it would help with both my Occlumency and my dystonia (and might possibly shut me up for a while), but neither worked particularly well. I did not do well simply sitting and being. My mind would be running in another direction as soon as I closed my eyes. I suppose that comes from having to entertain myself as a child when I was locked in the cupboard. If I paused to think I would have despaired, but now I had an overdeveloped imagination and far too much curiosity for my own good. The only thing that pleased me was that no one had noticed my recent problems so I could often ignore them as much as was possible.
Then one night in mid-November, it all changed. I had had a particularly infuriating Occlumency session with Snape, one that had left me breathless and in tears, kneeling on the cold dungeon floors. I had spent nearly half an hour living and reliving some of my worst memories: Cedric's death, Sirius' death, being three and locked in the cupboard without my Blanky, Ron turning on me in my fourth year, being chased up a tree by Ripper, nearly dying in my first year by touching Quirrel. It left me physically and mentally exhausted. Snape and I discovered that I had a mental block: when he raised the memory of Sirius falling, I could not repel him. I needed to work on it, but it was laborious work.
I stumbled into the corridor, my dystonia worsened by the emotional turmoil brought on by my memories. Once again, I was thankful that Remus had thought to find me overly long robes. The old saying was indeed true: robes may hide a myriad of sins. As I made my way to the winding stairs that lead to Gryffindor Tower, I was pulled into an unused dungeon room by an assailant I did not see until it was too late. I stumbled and fell on my rump. I was not pleased; now I had bruises on my knees and my arse.
I turned and took in the room. It was clearly made to be a quiet study room for the Slytherins. It was decorated in House colours, with several private desks and some tables with matching chairs. The wall sconces were dimly lit, but the hearth was cold and empty. And standing in front of me was a very worried looking Blaise Zambini.
Blaise was one of the most unobtrusive Slytherins I had ever met. I would not call him shy, but he did not spend time with Malfoy or the other Death Eater children. According to Hermione, he spent much of his time with Ravenclaws and had arranged his elective classes with that House. I never asked Hermione how or why she knew that. His Italian ancestry was as clear on his face as it was in his name. He had the dark hair and olive skin of his father's country, but his eyes were a bright grey, not entirely unlike my late godfather's. He was the only other boy in my year to be shorter than many of the girls, but he was still taller than me by a good few inches. But I had never seen such a look of worry and pity decorate his face.
After closing and warding the door, he turned to me. If I had not been so exhausted, I probably would have put up a fight, demanding why he was locking me in an abandoned room alone with him. But I did not.
"Harry," his voice was low, nearly a whisper, but urgent and worried nonetheless. "Harry, are you okay?"
I frowned at him. "I'm as tired as all Hell and now I have bruises on my knees AND my arse. Do you think I'm okay?"
Then, to my utter shock, Blaise helped me into a chair. "I'm so sorry! I didn't even think of that!" he told me, in that same low voice, which was beginning to make me nervous. "I just needed – I needed to be able to talk to you. Alone."
I raised an eyebrow, a habit of Snape's that I was fast adopting as my own. It made more seem more intelligent than my traditional 'er?' ever did.
Kneeling by my chair, Blaise rested his arm across my leg, as though protecting me from an unseen predator. "I know… What's been going on. In Snape's office."
To say that I was shell-shocked by this would be accurate. To say that I was frightened that a Slytherin knew my secret would also be accurate. It would be ever more accurate to say that I was scared half out of my wits and nearly ready to soil myself. My life was over. Literally. If Zambini told Malfoy, Malfoy would tell his father or mother or aunt or uncle or cousin, the Malfoy relative would tell Voldemort, and then Voldemort would kill me and slowly torture Snape to death.
"Don't be so surprised," Blaise told me gently, squeezing my knee comfortingly. "Draco has walked in on you several times and he isn't one to keep such secrets to himself."
I made a small choking noise. I was going to die. And the Wizarding world would be plunged into darkness. The Muggles, even the good non-Dursley ones, would be rounded up and routinely exterminated. Half-breeds and mixed bloods would be killed or isolated. The world was going to end because Draco needed help with his "Stink Sap and Veritaserum: Compare and Contrast."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
I could not answer him. I could barely breathe. I repeated the small choking sound.
"Oh, Harry." Blaise reached up and grasped my shoulder. "I'm not trying to judge you. This isn't your fault. No matter how much you might think it is, it is not your fault. It's Professor Snape's fault and that's that. Talking to me about it might make you feel better."
I thought that Blaise was finally off his rocker. He had gone barking mad. And, as a Slytherin, no one had noticed until he locked up the Boy-Who-Lived in a dungeon room. Damn it! Where was my wand? Damn it, again! It had been loosely in my pocket; no doubt, it was probably lying in the stone corridor, waiting for my return.
Suddenly, Blaise pulled back away from me, removing all body contact, and took a nearby chair for himself. "I'm so sorry. I suppose holding you like that was the bloody stupidest thing I could have done. I just wanted to make sure you were safe. When you left Snape's office, you looked like you'd been through a whirlwind while riding lightning."
I shrugged. "It was a hard day. Even if it's Remedial Potions, it still isn't my best subject." Perhaps if I stuck to the lie, he'd believe it.
Blaise frowned, marring his handsome face. "You don't need to lie to me."
"I'm not lying," I snapped. "You're the freak who dragged me out of the corridor, into a silent and warded room, and then started interrogating me!"
The frown became a scowl. "I'm trying to help you, Potter! The Slytherin Common Room is full of stories and no one will openly doubt the word of a Malfoy, not in that group. It's only a matter of time before the rest of the school finds out."
"Merlin! What am I going to do?"
Blaise very tentatively leaned forward and grasped my forearms in a gesture of friendship and support. "You can stop?"
"Stop?" I gasped. I could not do that. Too many lives were in the balance. I needed this skill. My right leg started to shake slightly. I crossed my legs in the hope that it would stop. The hope was in vain, but it did make the tremble less noticeable.
Nodding, Blaise continued. "You don't have to do this, Harry. I know he hates you and you need good grades, but… Sweet Merlin, ask old McGonagall for help!"
"McGonagall can't help me," I said, confused. How would the Animagus be able to teach me Occlumency?
"She can make this stop," Blaise pointed out. "She can keep Snape from giving you all of these detentions. And if she can't, she's Deputy Headmistress so she can go to Dumbledore. He can stop this."
I was still very confused. "But Dumbledore knows about this. He's the one who conned me into doing it again after last year."
"Dumbledore knows?" The blood seemed to drain from Blaise's face, Mediterranean complexion or not. "He knows- he encouraged-" He seemed to choke on the words.
I frowned. "Why are you so upset about this?"
"Why wouldn't I be upset?" Damn Slytherins and their mercurial emotions. Blaise had gone from horrified to offended in the few seconds it took me to ask a question.
"I don't see how this pertains to you." I narrowed my eyes. "Is this because of the whole Boy-Who-Lived garbage? If it is, you're going to learn-"
I did not have to finish that sentence: Blaise raised his hands as though to protest his innocence. "I think it's happening because you are the Boy-Who-Lived. But you're another student; a fellow student. Even if this were, Merlin, that Creevey brat, I would still be worried."
"It's happening because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived? What the bloody Hell are you talking about Zambini? This sort of thing just happens… It isn't because of who you are or aren't."
"Do you mind if I touch you, Harry?"
"What the bloody- As long as you aren't a human Portkey, I don't care. You touched me earlier, didn't you?"
Without any clear warning, Blaise pulled me into a hug. Completely startled, I just froze; unsure of what to do when a relative stranger did what only devoted guardians – Sirius, Remus, and Mrs. Weasley – had done for me.
"I'm so sorry, Harry," Blaise murmured. "But it isn't just something that happens. I can't believe Dumbledore is… encouraging this…"
I wriggled my way out of his arms. "I think there… Just what do you think is going on in Snape's office?"
Blaise blushed a delightful cherry red. "Well… Er, to listen to Draco tell it, you're doing it willingly, but I thought that you two… you hate each other… I mean, if it is willing and everything, I'm sorry for the mess I'm making of everything… But you seem to… I can't imagine that…"
"Out with it!"
"Draco says that he's walked in on you two, you kneeling between Snape's legs, panting for it." This shocking statement was addressed to Blaise's robe-covered knees and it seemed to me that his blush deepened. "I've seen how he treats you in class, Harry. Even this year – and last year, especially – he treats you like shite. He insults your family, your House, your intelligence – anything you might have pride in. I can imagine you wanting an affair with him, but you are ambitious for a Gryffindor and he's crafty, even for a Slytherin."
I gaped at my classmate. "Slytherin House thinks that I'm giving Snape sexual favours in exchange for grades?"
Blaise continued staring at his knees. "Well, even though you're down here twice a week, your skills aren't improving. I just… It isn't above a Death Eater to con another into sex."
"And you think that he's molesting me."
Blaise finally looked up at me and nodded slowly.
I buried my face in my hands. "This is absurd. Completely absurd."
"Then there are no sexual favours?"
"Draco Malfoy is a perverted prat."
"While I couldn't agree more… Merlin, I feel like an idiot."
"Don't. It's- Malfoy is a pervert."
Blaise nodded. "Then why are you coming down to the dungeons so often?"
"Remedial Potions."
"Don't give me that. I'm not stupid. And neither are you. If you were as bad as Longbottom, I might believe you, but you aren't. If you were having twice weekly tutorials, then you would not be doing so badly in Potions."
I uncrossed my legs. "Maybe I am that stupid. Potions is a difficult subject."
"Um… Harry?"
"What?" I snapped. Then I realized that he was staring at my leg, which was still shaking. Suddenly, I had never been so embarrassed as I was at that moment. I honestly wanted to just disappear. The slight fear and total shock that registered in the Slytherin's eyes was more than a little horrifying, to me. This is what I had wanted to avoid. Now a relative stranger from a Rival House knew my secret. For all I knew, his family might have been nearly as involved with Voldemort as the Malfoys. "Shit."
Blaise looked up at me, concern mixing with the shock and fear. "Harry, what's going on?"
"Nothing. It's nothing."
He pressed his hand to my knee. "I don't think this is nothing."
My leg started shaking all the worse. I was close to having a panic attack. I was in a locked, warded, and silenced room with a potential enemy and in no state to be able to do anything about it. And this had never happened to my leg before. I realized then why Snape had given me those vials of serums, but like the fool I was, I had left them in the bottom of my trunk in Gryffindor Tower. I tried to stand, but the pressure and weight only made things worse than they already were. I fell back into the chair.
"What's happening?"
"N-nothing."
He returned his hand to its previous position. "Look, I'm not an idiot; don't treat me like one. This isn't just nothing." He saw the fear in my eyes. "And don't you be an idiot, either. If something is wrong, I won't just blab it to the whole of Slytherin House. I'm not Malfoy or Parkinson and I'm not a Death Eater. Not every Slytherin is evil. I only want to help: isn't that why I dragged you in here in the first place?"
I was shocked to notice that Blaise's touch was soothing. My leg was also beginning to hurt from the constant trembling. It was shocking; nearly as shocking as it had been when I first began to shake. If it were helped with something as simple as human touch – something I was sure Ron or Hermione would be pleased to provide – and I could take a calming serum, this might not be as terrible and earth-shattering a symptom as I had originally thought. It still hurt, though.
And before I could answer Blaise's question, his dark head shot up in alarm, like a rabbit who has caught the scent of a wolf.
"What is it?" I asked worriedly.
Then I felt Blaise's wards drop suddenly and the door to the small room opened, revealing Snape, who looked none too pleased. He eyed Blaise's hand on my leg suspiciously. He had spent enough time in my mind to know that I was not friendly with this Slytherin boy. "Just what is going on here?"
Bravely, Blaise stood, half in front of me as if to protect me from his big, scary Head of House, as if I did not spend time alone with the man. "I was just talking to Harry, sir. Nothing important."
Snape scowled at him. "Nothing important? It isn't important when you malign the name of your Head of House? Do not think that I have not ways to hear things in my own dungeons, Mr. Zambini." He motioned to an empty portrait frame. "Paracelsus decided to warn me when you began your suggestion of my… sexual deviancy. I can only imagine what else you have discussed since Paracelsus' departure."
Blaise had the decency to blush, a rush of burgundy to his dark cheeks. "I was only trying to help Harry, sir. Something seems to be wrong." A classic Slytherin, Blaise knew that Snape had more information on me – and he was willing to use his professor to get at it.
A dark eyebrow rose when Blaise used my first name. "I don't believe that is any of your business, Zambini. Return to the Common Room. Ten points for insulting a teacher and report to Filch for detention. For the next week."
Blaise paled to a surprising white. Clearly, Snape usually did not remove points from his own House, even when snooping Gryffindors were not around to hear about it. He straightened his robe and quickly walked out of the room, too dignified to run and too embarrassed to defy Snape again that night.
Then Snape looked at me sharply. "You should know better than to trust a Slytherin, Potter. We always have our own agenda."
As he left in a swirl of black robes, I understood what he meant. Even if Blaise was not evil or a Death Eater, he was still a Slytherin. But Snape did not know that I was nearly a Slytherin myself.
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and to my beta, Danijo, who listens to me moan and groan about everything and my other beta, Toasterlicious, who is becoming used to random, sporadic e-mails.
Reviewers:
Ethlele Sylvia: Thank you. I try.
JuliedeCarson, Tombadgerlock, avidreader, starangel2106: Thank you!
Padawan Jan-AQ: Thank you so much for the praise. There will be slash, but in the distant future. This focuses on Harry, and he has enough to deal with at the moment without giving him a disastrous love life. Or a loved one a disastrous love life.
Quoth the Raven: Nevermore. Okay, my childishness aside, yes, life sucks when you have a disability like this. Part of the reason I'm writing it is to have others understand what it's like. I've had dystonia since I was six and it can make life miserable (not mention difficult). I'm happy you like the fiction.
