I won't be able to update for awhile, so here's an extra-long chapter... some of it is unbeta'd thought, because I sent my beta the wrong chapter by accident. Soz.
Harry returned to the Entrance Hall solemn-face but smiling.
He had missed both breakfast and lunch, and as he had spent the last two hours practising every Quidditch manoeuvre he knew he was extremely hungry.
He walked across the Great Hall and out of a door on the other side, and followed the stone staircase. He emerged into the corridor full of the paintings of food and looked for the one that was most familiar.
Locating the gigantic silver fruit bowl, he tickled the green pear, opened the handle and walked inside.
He recognised the enormous ceiling and the multitude of pots and pans around the stone walls as well as the duplicate four, long tables, but the thing he noticed most was that every elf stopped and stared at him.
"Er... merry Christmas?" he ventured.
Harry became vaguely aware of a squealing noise, growing steadily louder. It reached its pitch as what felt like a cannonball, moving with the velocity of a small rocket, smashed into his midriff. Harry staggered backwards as the elf hugged him tightly around the middle. "Harry Potter has come to see us, sir!"
"Er, merry Christmas, Dobby."
Dobby looked up from under his teacozy, tennis-ball eyes brimming with tears.
"Is there anything we can be doing for you, sir?" squeaked a nearby elf. It looked particularly comical, in a sad kind of way, in a neatly-kept dress made of safety-pinned tea-towels and a curtain rope as a belt. It looked vaguely Romanish, in a chequered-and-tasselled fashion.
"Yeah, I was wondering if I could get a sandwich or something -"
Immediately, a tea-tray supported by three elves came zooming forward. On them was a selection of sandwiches, but also some cakes.
"Er... thanks," said Harry weakly. Dobby had finally let go of his stomach, and was holding his teacozy in his hands.
"Bye, Harry Potter!" he called as Harry made his way out of the kitchens, a sandwich in one hand and a pastry in the other. Harry waved as the painting swung shut, and headed back up to the Great Hall.
llllllllll
And so he did.He wrote every single one of his nightmares down.
It was far from a pleasant experience. It took him sixteen rolls of parchment, two bottles of ink, three hours of writing and two collective hours of sitting in the chair in front of the fire and letting the tears roll silently.
It was painful. It was so unbelievably painful. It was like the time when he had to tell Dumbledore what happened in the graveyard, but not only was the poison being extracted but a hefty number of his emotional back teeth.
The hours he spent in the chair were times when he couldn't write anymore, when his tears became too strong for him to stop them. Anger, rage, fury and low-grade paranoia was dammed up behind thin walls of self-control and reason, and these walls did not need much battering to break them down.
He laughed through his tears when he thought what the world would make of it if they knew. Harry Potter, have a hard time with his emotions? Rita Skeeter would have a field day: Emotionally Unstable, Is Harry Potter Entirely Sane?
The answer would have to be 'yes', he reflected. There was no such thing as insanity. People like, say, Voldemort, simply were men (or whatever the hell he was) with no mental barrier. They believe that the rules didn't apply to them.
And what was more, they were right. For a short period, anyway, just before they got gunned down, but for that brief moment in time, they know full-well that common, everyday conventions did not need to apply.
Seriously: what were the point of rules. You felt strangely obligated to toe (most of) them, like Do Not Murder and so on. But once in a while, a creature would come along that wasn't entirely human and it would see slap- bang through that. Life was short, precious short, and why waste it worrying about the mundane things? Harry supposed that humankind had an amazing ineptitude to see past their own small, private internal universes. For a person their everyday relations and situations WERE the universe; that humankind had no perception of anything else seemed perfectly true. Should someone see beyond that... well. How could the rules be applied if they mattered no more to the wide universe as, as Firenze had put it, the scuttling of ants? One tiny human life would not affect how the planets spun, and one existence would not affect the great cosmic balance. Harry doubted humankind would survive the next thousand years; and when the human race was gone the universe wouldn't distress... hell, it probably wouldn't even notice...
the void can feel but it will not care...
Harry rolled the parchment into a cylinder, and then pressed it flat. He removed everything remaining in his trunk, and was about to throw the rolls in carelessly when he saw something that made his breath catch in his chest.
Fragments of silver littered the bottom of the trunk. The empty frame of a mirror stared resolutely at him, insulting the world by its presence.
"Repairo," Harry whispered, and the shards of glass and silver collected themselves and flew back into the mirror.
Harry picked it up, hands shaking. The glass winked at him, shining in the dull light from the fire.
A lump rose in Harry's throat, but he had nothing left to cry with. What had left him so unbelievably unhappy in the first place was sat in front of him: Sirius' disappearance. With Cedric, he would have gotten over it in a while, but knowing that Sirius was gone made it so much harder to heal. And it didn't help when your subconscious kept knocking the scab from the wound.
Harry let his finger run over the mirror's bright surface, fingertips leaving misty trails along the glass. The surface of the mirror was cool and pleasantly so.
Harry carefully wrapped it in a strip of parchment and placed it reverentially at the bottom of the trunk.
Strangely, his heart felt lighter. It was like he could release a small part of Sirius from within him; this kind of burial helped him feel like he was saying goodbye.
The heavy burden had lightened a little, but it was still there, and as oppressive as ever. Harry supposed, somewhat detachedly, that he couldn't start to heal until he could cry over Sirius one last time, and let him go.
He couldn't do that, not now. He couldn't let go of him now. Grief was too heavy and too desperate, thrashing around inside him like some weighty parasite.
Harry noticed the forgotten scrolls of parchment. He supposed they had made him feel a little better. The knowledge that everything wasn't weakly dammed up, like a paper cage for a rhino, made him feel a little more consoled.
llllllllll
Snape looked up momentarily as Harry entered the living room (if you could call it that. Snape didn't live much. He just, sort of, existed.), but went straight back to marking his papers. He had more important things to worry about than one(possibly suicidal enraged saviour of the whole-friggin-world)
miserable teenager.
Harry paused, looked round for a second, then settled into the armchair by the fire.
Snape felt his metaphorical hackles rise. The boy was sitting in his chair. The nerve -
He calmed himself down by trying to imagine what he would say to the boy. All his results made him sound weak, pathetic and foolish. He absorbed himself into his marking.
Harry returned to his thinking.
The human species.
He remembered, those seven years ago, when he was nine years old and in primary school a single science lesson. He'd done okay in science, his marks were fair, and he'd always thought it was an okay lesson.
His perception of his lessons did not change that day, but his perception on life did. They had been covering the human body insofar as you did in year four of school. They were coming to the bit about infection, and the teacher was giving a brief summary of why you felt ill. All of it modified so a nine- year-old could understand, of course.
The teacher had briefly explained about viruses, and someone had asked: but miss, don't they kill whoever they get into?
Only if it gets bad enough, Stephen, and few people die from viruses nowadays.
But, miss, right, why do they do it if it kills whoever they're living in, right, and then they die too?
No-one knows, Stephen. Now sit down.
And Harry had understood, in his simple, childlike simplicity, that that was exactly how the human race operated. They stripped the Earth of its minerals, of it resources, and one day they would pay the price. Global Warming was something generally accepted but thought of in a its-never- going--to-happen-to-me kind of way, and Harry felt detached from the human race - watching and wanting to yell you're all going to die! All of you! You're killing the world, you're killing yourselves, you're killing me –
And no-one would care, or listen.
Harry had understood, then, at a mere nine years of age, that humankind was as significant to the universe as a sneeze.
It hadn't been a happy thought, but it hadn't been a sad one either. The knowledge that he was inferior both saddened and delighted him: he was not cared for, and he was not cared for. No-one could care about him but that also meant that what he did was of no consequence. There were no rules. The understanding here made him feel dizzy. He didn't know why, but he went back to the Dursley's that night, his head reeling.
He'd woken up in the morning and, amidst the chaos of Dudley not wanting to get up because he'd spent all night on his Playstation, his thoughts had been forgotten.
For a whole seven years.
Well, now they were back, and instead of knocking on his brain they had brought out the iron boots.
This was probably exactly how murderers thought before they committed their crimes, Harry mused; every single crime started out with thinking of people as objects that were not worthy of attention. Morality, compassion, non of these things existed.
Harry managed a twisted smile, watching the flames dance wildly in the hearth.
But somehow... humanity prevailed. Why? Simple. Humans did not think beyond their own sphere of existence. Their genes kept telling them they had a reason to live, the world they saw was the only one that existed, and that their survival was crucial.
Harry breathed a sigh, pleased to have gotten to the bottom of his mystery. Humankind existed because humankind wanted to.
the void can feel but it will not care...
Introduce something that does, then. It may make no impact... a few little strands of DNA ... but at least something thought beyond the blank exterior of the Universe, and invented a little something: emotion.
Emotion was the reason for living. It was like a candle in a black room: it would die eventually, but whilst it was there it was different, it was noticeable, and it didn't change the darkness but it changed its own surroundings. What was dark became white heat, and it would got back to dark again, but whilst it as there it was seen.
And that was all that mattered.
Harry considered getting up from the chair, but he'd just gotten comfy, the firelight was playing flamboyantly over his eyes, and his lids were closing of their own accord.
He didn't fight them.
Severus' Wife: what do you mean, as close to canon as possible... 'behaviour-wise anyway'? Am I missing something? Yes, there will be more...
kraeg001: Yep, more coming.
Shada Bay: I'm flattered! I can feel my head swelling. When I started writing this fic, my intention was that I would eventually let up on Snape... he's my favorite character, after all. Watch this space... (not literally.)
kateydidnt: I'm still kinda fuzzy about the whole 'Severitus' thing - I've had so many definitions.
hrry ptter: How do you mean, channeling Dumbledore? I always try to do nighmares as creepy as I can, even if they do freak my friends out.
Nadezhda: working as hard as I can, although updates will be few and far between the next two months...
wolfawaken: Glad you enjoyed chapter
'unregistered person': Hmm, re-reading your reviews... you're smart. The whole dream-diary thing... I'd been trying to avoid it, the whole cliché scenario (ugh) but I may slip it in somewhere... I'll go with the flow.
Foureyedsnail: Yes I'm giving the Greasy Git an conscience. Snigger. Update speed... uh oh... read the reply for Nadezhda... Yup, that's the story I'm following (I think I have it on Author Alerts.) It's good. From my point of view I'd keep writing it from Snape's POV because switching between POVs is a dodgy business - you have to be careful. As for the title... I've seen a hell of a lot worse.
leggylover03: interesting name. Unfortunately, updates are gonna slow down a bit. I lie. They're gonna slow down a LOT. At least for a little while.
starinthedark11: I'm amazed you've followed this story nearly all of the way through. Very flattered! Anyway, updates are going to be tediously slow from this point onwards.
enahma: groovy. Updating will be tricky...
Etzgo: hanks! Are you referring to the chapter, or to the story? No, wait, don't answer that. It sounds somewhat bigheaded, donchathink?
Mikee: very formal. Trying hard...
ThePlatypus: Great name. Yeah, trying hard, but struggling with the whole updateability.
EireVerde: My head is visibly swelling. I'm glad I don't come over all twelve-year-oldy (I know what you mean... there are some truly terrible angst fics out there.) but considering I was twelve a meagre three years ago... sorry, I'm leaving year/grade ten (choose according to nationality) and I keep coming over all nostalgic.
Jioiudfeascoiuoheroilfljckm/ A.Person: and, of course, to my faithful beta. Thankyou so much!
Thanks, everybody so much for reviewing! Because of the HUGE amounts of reviews I am receiving (!!!!! KEEP 'EM COMING) I'm finding it a lot easier to respond if you leave an e-mail address. It's the personal touch. If you don't want to leave an e-mail add. that's fine, I'll get back to you via my next chapter although it is faster by e-mail. And by the way, if you like angsty stuff, check out and check out the poem about the storm. It's in the summary. It is very cool. Leave a review there. No, it's not my poem. It's someone else's.