A/N: Thanks to Procyon Black for looking this over!
Chapter 7
His first thought was Severus.
His mind unfurled from sleep and he thought immediately: I meant Snape. Not Severus. When did he become Severus? He heard movement, and couldn't help thinking fleetingly, rebelliously, Why not? Footsteps approached, and his heart quickened.
But it wasn't Severus who came.
"Ah, awake now, Mr. Frost?"
The hazy veil of sleep flitted away like a leaf torn away by a gale, and all thoughts of Severus (or Snape) crashed away as he eased open his eyelids and slid on his Gryffindor mask.
Albus Dumbledore smiled down at him. The blazing light from the open windows flooded in from directly behind the headmaster, and the lined face was cast entirely in shadow.
Harry summoned a wan smile onto his face. "Albus," he whispered, the smile widening a bit. There was a silence. Suddenly he realized how easy it was to pretend that this Albus was his Albus—mentor, friend, and silent comfort. But then the headmaster leaned back into his chair, the sunlight caught the cold blue eyes, and Harry was left with nothing but grief and wariness and self-reproach—how could he be so sentimental?
Still the headmaster remained silent. Unbidden, a thought that had been swimming underneath Harry's consciousness surfaced, rousing a spark of worry: Where's Severus?
"Jonathan, my dear boy," Dumbledore said gently, and Harry quickly dropped his line of thought. The old headmaster was smiling. "How are you feeling?"
Harry stretched his lips. "Better." He let the smile fade. "I… what happened?" It was an honest question, even if the lost-lamb expression on his face wasn't. He let his eyes fall to half-mast as Dumbledore sat back with a sigh that would have caught the mind of one unused to the headmaster's wiles. But Harry's mind was groping for memories… Panic, he now remembered, sheer panic; and desperately calling a name…
"It seems as though you fell into a magical coma," said Dumbledore, softly and regretfully.
A magical coma. Harry processed the information, remembering that a magical coma was when one's magical core experienced such a strong shock that it reverberated physically. He recalled that it was a very serious, sometimes fatal condition. I could have died, he thought. I could have died. He couldn't quite process it yet.
Harry swallowed: his throat felt dry. "How?"
"Mr. Snape came to Madam Pomfrey last night," Dumbledore continued, still using that voice of his. "He was quite panicked and told her that you were no longer breathing…"
The sunlight seemed to make the ceiling glow, but Harry didn't see it. His mind was filled with darkness as he saw a boy running down the hall, barreling through doors into a bare, sterile room; Harry could see the dark eyes glinting in the torchlight, wild with fear; could see how the thin lips—red in the smoky torchlight and then pale in the dim wandlight—parting and quivering just the slightest—
He swallowed. He remembered now. He had been screaming for Severus.
"He said that you had been having a nightmare before you had stopped breathing…"
A pause.
"Mr. Frost?" Dumbledore prompted gently.
Care to explain, Mr. Frost? What have you been hiding, viper? Harry closed his eyes. He would have to be careful. There were so many things he did not know, so many things…
"I had been struck by a curse," he said tiredly. He opened his eyes and turned his gaze trustingly to that of the headmaster's. Those light blue eyes were hidden under the thick white brows, but he knew they were probing, scouring the mental shield of images he had constructed. "That was… a year ago? It gave me nightmares that… disturbed my magical core. But they were under control, for the most part. I think the time travel… exacerbated things."
Buy it, old man, Harry thought. Believe it.
"Mm," Dumbledore murmured wisely, softly, cannily. "I see. Mr. Snape told me that you had been having nightmares in the past few days, and that he had awakened you each time…"
…Snape, looking at the ground while sitting, as small as possible, in front of the headmaster. Snape, like a shadowy corner in the presence of a garish lamp, haltingly—sulkily—confessing. Snape, glancing up with fear and uncertainty and distrust, and seeing those kindly, compassionate blue eyes. Snape—Snape— Severus! thought Harry with a thrust of fury at the headmaster. How dare the bastard manipulate Severus in his soft, unyielding way? How dare he—
Snape, he thought, trying to quench this flare of anger. It's Snape, not Severus! He calmed and felt vaguely disturbed by this sudden thrust of anger.
"But this time, Mr. Snape said that he had not heard your movements, and had thus failed to wake you in time."
Harry nodded, almost imperceptibly, though inside he was frowning. Heard his movements? He felt a rush of warm relief. Evidently Snape hadn't spilled his soul to the headmaster: it hadn't been the sound of his movements that had awakened the other Slytherin every night. It had been an intangible sense of magic. But it was equally puzzling how Snape hadn't woken up. Why was it that he had awakened all those times before?
"Oh," said Harry, when the headmaster did not begin speaking for some time.
The headmaster sighed. "I do not know the nature of this curse, though rest assured that I will do my best to find a way to undo it. But for now I have found a solution that I am sure is amenable to you." Harry could hear the smile in the old coot's voice. He sharpened his gaze: sure enough, Dumbledore was smiling, and his eyes were twinkling menacingly. "Hogwarts, I assume you are aware, is maintained by quite a few house-elves. Just last night I found a house-elf who is more than willing to look after you while you sleep and wake you up ate the slightest sign of any sort of disturbance."
Dumbledore beamed.
"Oh," said Harry, carefully. Those eyes were still twinkling. He has something planned. He must've told the elf to monitor me, to spy on me, or something. "It seems like a good idea, headmaster, but perhaps it would be better to first consult Mr. Snape…"
"How considerate of you," Dumbledore said, cheerily. "But Snape has already agreed to move in with Mr. Crabbe. You'll have the room to yourself."
Harry felt his stomach turn to lead. "Snape has already agreed?" he echoed.
The headmaster nodded, still smiling sunnily.
The word was on the tip of his tongue: no! But he said nothing, his mouth paralyzed by the words: Snape has already agreed… And even Dumbledore couldn't tell so blatant a lie as this.
Harry forced out a smile. It was like squeezing blood out of a rock. "That would be best, I'm sure." He remembered the darkness of the room and a sneering voice that was both warm and cool, the flare of a torch and a hand on his back, and he felt a sharp and endless pain. Snape has already agreed…
"Excellent!" Dumbledore said, looking jubilant. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I already had Mr. Snape's things moved. Your things are undisturbed. And—ah." Footsteps and the rustling of a stiff robe. "Poppy."
Madam Pomfrey steered into view, casting the headmaster a disapproving glance. "Albus, you should have notified me that Mr. Frost had awakened! It's extremely dangerous, this magical coma." She turned to Harry and clucked sympathetically. "Now, dear, let me take your temperature…"
Harry let himself be propped up and poked and prodded. Dumbledore had left with a smile and an extra-twinkly twinkle. Harry wondered what Dumbledore, who could misshape lives and mold fates with the sleight of his hand, would look like without those eyes. He wondered what the headmaster would look like if, instead of orbs of clever blue, there were only gaping pits of torn nerves and flesh…
He banished the thought with a start. What am I thinking? he thought, as the image, suddenly nightmarish, whirled away.
"Now, dear, open your mouth… yes, say 'ah'…"
He stared straight ahead, obeying the mediwitch as though he were under the Imperius. He kept his mind blank, his emotions numbed. It was only after the nurse had cheerfully told him that he was free to go, after he had felt a sudden wave of reluctance, that he realized he had been waiting.
Don't be ridiculous, he chided himself coldly, angrily. Don't be a sentimental fool. He walked out the door, swiftly and silently, and ignored the flicker of disappointment when no lips greeted him with a sneer and no black eyes flickered darkly over his face.
The hall was empty. He was alone.
-
The four great tables seemed to throb with noise and chatter. Half the Gryffindor table was laughing uproariously at some joke; the Hufflepuffs were discussing something seriously; little clusters of Ravenclaws were hotly debating some topic or other; the Slytherins were sneeringly crowing the Quidditch tryout results.
Harry headed straight for the end of the Slytherin table. He easily spotted Snape, hunched over slightly as he always was, silent as stone as he methodically ate his lunch.
"H'lo," Harry greeted as nonchalantly as he could as he slipped into the empty seat next to the other Slytherin.
Snape stiffened immediately, losing his slouch and donning an ice-cold mask. Harry noticed it but said nothing as he grabbed his fork. He opened his mouth to speak, but Snape had already begun talking.
"Per Professor Dumbledore's suggestion, I am now rooming with Crabbe," he said. His voice was cool, polite, clipped, without a trace of disdain or sarcasm. "I presume he has already informed you of this new arrangement?"
Harry shut his mouth with a snap. "Yes," he said at last, his lips and tongue and mouth moving with a life of their own. "Yes, he has." He stared at Snape a moment longer before looking down unseeing at his mashed potatoes. He prodded them with his fork, suddenly not very hungry at all. But he forced himself to go through the motions of eating, stuffing a load of potatoes in his mouth and chewing it without tasting. His mind whirled with fragmented thoughts.
He cleared his throat. "Pomfrey wouldn't let me out until now, so I missed Potions and Arithmancy." He paused and glanced at Snape. Snape said nothing. "Did anything important happen?" he added, almost desperately.
Snape stiffly shook his head. "No, nothing." Again, that clipped, lifeless tone.
Harry reached for a roll and sank his teeth into it with more force than necessary and observed the other Slytherin, trying to find clues, secrets in the hooked nose and stringy hair. Something was wrong. Snape had lost his slouch and was now sitting as primly as an elderly pureblood; his eyes, half-lidded, stared ahead stonily, and the slim fingers moved like animated sticks.
The silence between them became unbearable. "I was wondering…" Harry began and quickly cast his mind about for something to say. He kept his eyes on Snape. Snape didn't even seem to have heard him. "I was wondering when we might get together in the library to research the Dreamless Sleep Potion."
Snape's fingers, breaking open a roll of bread, faltered for the briefest of moments. Harry caught that movement and played it over and over again in his head as he chewed his mince pie, trying to fathom what it meant.
"Not today, I'm afraid," Snape said at last in that same, clipped voice. "I need to—to study for an Ancient Runes exam."
Ancient Runes exam? Harry frowned. He's not telling the truth. The thought continued to whirl in his head: something was wrong. Was it Dumbledore? He clenched his teeth for the briefest of moments to suppress a swell of anger. He had to be dispassionate about the whole thing. He had to be. Calm. Detached. He glanced up at the head table. Dumbledore was grinning like a skull and gibbering like a puppet.
Harry looked down quickly, his heard pounding. His fork. It was slightly bent.
"Snape, don't lie to me," he said tersely. The words came out by themselves, unplanned by his mind. He looked up. Snape had frozen, still staring ahead. "Snape."
"I think it would behoove you," the other Slytherin said, slowly, still with that maddeningly polite tone, "to find a more… suitable candidate to work with on the potions project."
A pause. "What?" Harry hissed. The word came out sharply and involuntarily, and Snape stiffened.
"I said—"
"I heard what you said, Snape," Harry whispered angrily. He closed his eyes for a moment. He was losing his temper. He never lost his temper. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been driven to madness by the flames of anger. He couldn't— he swallowed. Keep calm, keep calm, he whispered in his mind; keep calm, keep calm, keep calm… His voice was curt. "Since you are the one who"—he searched for the correct phrase—"has decided to terminate our partnership, I think I at least deserve an explanation."
He opened his eyes. Snape looked quickly away.
"Our personalities are not compatible," Snape said icily, "and we have not been productive."
"Snape, we've been only been researching for—what—two days? I know you're brilliant with potions and everything, but I hardly think it possible that we invent the Dreamless Sleep Potion in less than half a week."
Snape stabbed viciously at his meal and stayed silent. Harry stared at the piles of tasteless potatoes. He willed himself to eat, but the voice of his mind was drowned in a veritable maelstrom. He couldn't eat. It was impossible to stuff the white blob of starch into his mouth and not puke. It was useless to even try. He simply couldn't swallow past the—the raw pain in his throat. All of a sudden, he felt as tired as death, so tired that his entire being ached with weariness.
Why are you feeling like this? he thought to himself. It was a mixture of frustration and annoyance and hurt. It's only Snape. It's nothing—personal. He'd long learned that the key to almost anything was never to let it be personal, and it had been so easy. Why was it suddenly hard? Why did he suddenly care?
"It doesn't matter," he said aloud. He stood up and pushed in his chair. He had to get away. Snape tensed immediately, as though expecting Harry to make a drastic move. "I'll be working in the library after classes, looking over some of Mengele's experiments." He paused, wondering if he should add anything, if he should make a blatant invitation for Snape to join him, but he turned abruptly and left. It was up to Snape now—but what Snape chose didn't matter. No, it didn't matter at all.
He kept telling himself that, letting it whirl around in his head as he walked past all the noisy students. He knew he was being stared at, and—it didn't matter at all—he tried to ignore it, pretend that he didn't know which two pairs of eyes were watching him leave: one blue and one black. He clenched his fists and then slowly—it didn't matter at all—unclenched them.
But as he left the Great Hall, he became aware of a third set of eyes, a third gaze, far darker, coming from the black-haired prefect. Harry paused, for the barest of moments, and then left the hall.
-
Harry finished his Transfiguration and Charms homework within an hour, and his essay for Defense Against Dark Arts in two. He thought it would be extraneous to plow ahead and take notes on the next chapter in Shielding Yourself from Those Who Wish to Hurt You. The book itself was impossible to read: not only was it boring and convoluted but it was also incorrect in so many places that Harry wondered irritably what potion the author had ingested before writing. He hoped fleetingly that this was not a reflection of Professor Matellan's character.
He fidgeted.
The spot he had staked out was in the corner of the library, just outside the fringe of light that filtered through the gently stained glass of the tall, narrow windows. He was undisturbed. The library itself had very few people. A cluster of quiet Ravenclaws were working studiously while a bunch of—he squinted—Hufflepuffs were giggling over something that obviously wasn't homework.
Heaving a sigh, he got out of his seat and returned a minute later with a stack of books on dreamless sleep research. As he seated himself, he thought he saw movement near the doorway. He glanced up immediately, but it was only a Gryffindor second year.
He flipped open a book at random, ignoring the disappointment and subsiding wave of adrenaline. This was ridiculous, getting so worked up, and getting so worked up over Snape…
The words rambled through his mind. Josef Mengele, a warlock who had masqueraded as a Muggle and harbored a deep resentment against Muggleborns. Harry thought that the name sounded vaguely familiar: he must've read it somewhere. Experimented on Jews and gypsies… Oh, I remember now, Harry thought. The Auschwitz concentration camps. Apparently, Mengele had furthered experiments done by the ancient ruler Kyrus "the Cruel" and proved, in the most categorical way, that dreamless sleep led to insanity, a loss of magic, and death. Ah, what fun. Here be pictures, Harry thought.
A movement he espied from the corner of his eye made him look up, and in that split second, his heart sped up. But he saw, moving towards him through the streaks of pale sunshine, not Snape, but Lily Evans.
"Hi, Jonathan," she said.
Harry managed a smile. "Hello," he said, flipping over the page with gruesome illustrations. As Lily approached, he thought that she seemed a bit more nervous than he'd last seen her. She stopped in front of his table and paused for a moment.
"You missed class today," she said. "You weren't in Arithmancy."
Lily isn't in my Arithmancy class, he thought. Someone must've told her. Or she asked. "I wasn't," Harry replied calmly, busily fabricating a lie.
"Were you sick?" Lily asked, looking down at the books cradled in her arms.
"Yeah," Harry said. He shrugged elaborately. "It wasn't much, but Madam Pomfrey made a fuss, and so I missed a few classes."
"Oh, okay," she said, and sounded a bit relieved. "I thought"—she glanced up hesitantly—"that, perhaps, you were hurt by the ritual we did yesterday. I'm terrible sorry that you—uhm—passed out while I was invoking it, and I'd understand if you want a different topic, or perhaps find a different partner."
He hesitated, for the barest of moment, but he realized that it was an easy decision. I must've guided her through learning the spells of sacrifice, he thought; I must have been there—been here. And it wasn't painful seeing her, working with her, as it would be if he had been forced to partner with Black or Potter. She was—he could separate her from his mother. He could pretend that she wasn't of special significance, that she was just another person in the crowd that teemed on the other side of his mask.
"Don't feel so bad about it," Harry said, smiling reassuringly. "I wasn't hurt, and it wasn't your fault at all." In fact, the ritual shouldn't even have worked.
"Thanks," she said, smile genuinely. "But honestly, if you ever want to switch topics, or something, just tell me." As her smile faded away, her eyes strayed to the book Harry had open. Her mouth opened, and she looked up, as though about to say something, but she decided against it, and closed her mouth. "Well, bye then," she said at last.
"Bye," said Harry, getting the distinct impression that she wanted to say more. Interesting. She only smiled again, though, and turned around, and left.
Harry watched the doorway for another while. Beyond it was the corridor, where light dimmed away in curious patterns upon the wall. There would be a shadow, every so often, and Harry would sit up eagerly, but the shadow would leave, or come in and chip away at his hope, and…
Why the hell are you staring at the doorway? Harry looked down angrily. How could he be so easily distracted? How? Why? Before, he had been able to concentrate for hours on end, working like a dead man through the timeless hours of the night, decoding and encoding garbled messages, reading over Hermione's endless notes, interrogating prisoners, soothing those who had, in the hour of the dead, had ceased to be human, and were only trembling things locked in a nightmare—or, he would wait. Wait with sleepless vigil (sometimes with Dumbledore) for the rise of the sun.
Waiting. That was what he was doing now.
Waiting? he asked himself as scornfully as he could. For what? Snape? He tried to toss the thought away with the flippancy it deserved. He flipped to the page with all the gruesome black-and-white photos. He studied each contorted face, each bloated dead body, willing himself to immerse himself in the ghastly pictures before him.
He looked up at the doorway.
The sun began to sink, and the streaks of light that filtered into the library turned from white to orange to dusky red. The people came in and wandered out, some silently, others while giggling under their breath. And none of them stalked inside fiercely with glittering black eyes; none of them swiftly scanned the room and focused on him with a disdainful sneer.
Harry shut the book and stood up. After a moment of hesitation, he picked up his book and strode to Madam Pince. His mouth moved, his tongue worked, the muscles of his cheeks directed his lips into a smile, and he glanced at the doorway. When the librarian handed him the book, he thanked her in a subdued tone, and he walked rapidly out of the library and into the darkened corridor.
The hallways were dark when he made his way down to the Slytherin dungeons. He moved from shadow to shadow, staying out of sight and sound as much as he could.
"Carnificina," he snapped, and the entrance to the common room opened. He stepped in and looked around: the aristocrats in their well-lit corner, the lesser years scattered here and there, the Quidditch enthusiasts bypassing all boundaries and clustering in whispering groups.
He strode down the curved hall and pushed open the door to the seventh year boys' dormitory.
"…by Merlin, I will slice off your skin in strips and fry them and force you to ingest it, you Cro-Magnon degenerate, not that you would even understand what I am saying—"
Snape stopped in mid-rant and looked up, startled. Harry stared back. The door was open, and Harry could see the two beds within. Crabbe was sitting dumbly the one closest to the door, and Snape, moments ago striding furiously from one of the room to the other, flinging aside underwear of the size that Harry estimated only Crabbe could wear, was standing between the two beds.
"Hello, Snape," Harry said, after an endless pause.
Snape stiffened. His face closed, and his back straightened. "Hello, Frost," he said with stiff politeness.
The silence stretched. I should be walking away. I should be going to my own dorm, Harry thought. He knew that he shouldn't be there, that he should have turned his head seconds ago, that it was a mistake to stop and watch Snape walk angrily from one end of the room to another. I should go, he thought, but he didn't.
Crabbe turned his head. "Who're you?" he mumbled stupidly.
Harry didn't reply. Neither did Snape—Snape, who had tightened his fists at his sides and was staring fixedly at the ground.
"You didn't go to the library today," Harry said at last. His voice was quiet.
Snape's eyes flickered up to meet Harry's, and he sneered in reply. "I'm well aware of where I was over the course of the day, Frost!" But in the next moment, the mask of politeness fell over the sharp features once more.
A pause. "If you'll excuse me, I must manage the unpacking," Snape said, with the toneless articulation of a butler. He turned around and muddled with something on his own bed.
"Hey, don't ignore me," Crabbe demanded. "Who are you?"
"I am Jonathan Frost," Harry replied. He turned away and pushed open the door to his own dorm.
It seemed barren.
Snape's bed was gone. Where it had been was just more stone floor, unmarked and gray, a vast empty space.
Harry leaned back, gently pushing the door shut. Snape hadn't had very much stuff, but it had been much more than he, Harry, had… The room looked deserted, in fact. And it wasn't just the absence of stuff, it was—more.
Harry sighed and ambled to his bed. Why am I getting so worked up over Snape? he thought morosely. You've been living alone for three years. Why have you suddenly started wanting company? This is insane. He buried his face in his hands and massaged the bridge of his nose. And I'm hungry.
Sighing, he stood up, wondering if the Great Hall was still open. Or he might sneak down to the kitchen. Yes, think of food, he thought with a grim, inward laugh. Think of food. He glanced involuntarily at the wall.
Don't think of him.
-
He was unsure if this was a good idea. Back in his previous life, it had never worked. But here, in the world his mother had promised he would be great in—here, perhaps it would be different.
He took a deep breath and said the password: "Janus."
The gargoyle jumped aside. He crept in cautiously. The password he had heard from old Professor Oparin while hiding in the shadows. That fox Dumbledore had come around as well, but he hadn't dared creep closer to hear the password; even though he was safely ensconced in shadows, he wondered if Dumbledore knew he was there.
He shivered and knocked on the door.
"Come in."
He pushed open the door and shut it behind him. He remembered to keep his head up, his eyes calm and unrevealing, his shoulders back, and his face composed—just as his mother had told him to.
Dippet looked up, and the aging headmaster's eyes widened in surprise.
"Hello," he said. "Did one of the professors send you here?"
Tom shook his head. He gathered up his courage and launched into the speech he had prepared beforehand. "Headmaster Dippet, the ancient laws of Hogwarts govern that a student may bypass all authority to a direct appeal to the headmaster if the student feels a threat to his or her well-being. By this rule, I am here."
Dippet blinked. "That's fine, Mr.—?"
"Riddle," Tom said, reluctantly. Riddle wasn't his name. He hated it. But one day, he'd be rid of it.
"Mr. Riddle, what is it that is—er—threatening your well-being?" Dippet asked.
Tom swallowed, conjuring his next words. He didn't like the look in the headmaster's eyes. They seemed too kind. There was a word for it, a word he remembered reading somewhere, but he couldn't remember it now. "As you might already be aware,"—unlikely, Tom thought—"I am an orphan, and so I would be returning to a Muggle orphanage for the summer." He curled his lips slightly the way he remembered his mother did whenever she talked about that filth. "However, upon arriving at Hogwarts, I realized how low the standards of living really were at the orphanage." Standards of living: that was an impressive sounding phrase he had found in one of the books he'd read. "I request therefore that you allow me to remain on Hogwarts grounds over the summer, or situate me in a different place, perhaps in an orphanage for magical children."
Dippet leaned back in his chair and frowned slightly. "As much as I would like to help you, Mr. Riddle, Hogwarts is not authorized to withhold students in Hogwarts over the summer. Since you are an orphan, Mr. Riddle, you are under guardianship of the Ministry. I suggest you direct your appeal there."
Tom clenched his jaw. The Ministry? That hellhole of filthy Muggle-lovers? And he knew that they'd find his mother's maiden name and deny him anything. He'd know. He'd tried before. "Please, sir," he said, trying his last card. "I—at the orphanage, I'm"—he lowered his eyes, hoping this would work—"I'm hurt a lot, and…Sound helpless, he thought, sound like a pathetic little idiot. "And please, sir, I really don't want to go back there." He blinked and willed some tears into his eyes.
He looked up.
Dippet was looking very uncomfortable. "Mr. Riddle," he said at length, "as much as I wish I could help you, really cannot. And I am sure that conditions at your orphanage are not so terrible." The headmaster managed a smile. "It will only be for three months, and then you will be back."
Tom kept his head down.
"Mr. Riddle? Don't be so morose, Mr. Riddle. I'm sure it'll be fine."
He didn't look up. Let the old fool blab, he thought coldly, angrily. He should have known better. This was how it was in the orphanage, and this was how it was going to be like here. His mother had lied to him. A dagger of hurt cut his heart in half. His mother had said that it would be easier and better here, but that first, terrible night had showed him the truth. His mother had lied.
But he realized suddenly that his mother had been lying to herself as well. He remembered the way she seemed to be convincing herself that his father's blood didn't matter, that her blood would be able to cover the filth from that Muggle. She said it to convince him, herself, and he had nodded, pretending to be convinced, when it had only made him feel dirty—disgusting—filthy—a freak, a bastard——
Darkness tilted dizzily around him as he sat upright. The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears, and his entire body was wet with sweat. He took in the dim red light from the coals, the nearly invisible wall of the opposite side of the room, the cracks between each block of stone, seeming to shift in the darkness…
After a moment, he sighed and squinted at his palms. There were deep marks where he had clenched his fingernails had dug into his flesh. He closed his eyes, and the memory of that dream—or memory—swelled through him. He shivered, fighting a losing battle to keep it at bay. It's not real, he thought. It's not your memories—it's Voldemort's. He shivered. Even if the memories weren't his, the emotions had been all too real: the terrifying surge of self-hatred, of disgust, of hurt and vengeance…
He caught a movement in the corner of his eye. "Stupefy!" he hissed, a jet of light flashing through the air. He rolled off the bed and crouched in the darkness.
He thought he heard a high-pitched squeak and a very faint thud.
His wand was already in place, aiming at where the sound had come from. Slowly, cautiously, forcing calmness into his being with steely resolve, he peered over the bed.
Something was huddled in the lightless corner of the room, something about the size of a pillow. Harry frowned, and, after hesitating a moment, whispered, "Emoveo lumos."
A small ball of light drifted out of his palm and floated towards the thing. Harry squinted, unused to the sudden brightness. As the light drew closer, he could make out a grubby piece of fabric, and ears…
Of course, Harry thought immediately, feeling relieved and stupid at the same time. It's only the house-elf.
"Ennervate," he said.
The creature stirred. Then, like a stretched spring coiling, it snapped upright. Its eyes bulged like bloated tennis-balls, and its ears quivered with fear.
"Hello," Harry said, in as friendly a tone as he could muster.
The house-elf stayed unmoving, like a mouse caught in a basilisk's shadow.
"I am sorry I attacked you," Harry said gently, feeling a bit uncertain.
The elf seemed to be carved from stone. Harry felt faintly unnerved by the house-elf's terrified eyes. They seemed really to fall out of the tiny, misshapen skull at any moment.
Harry fidgeted. "Don't be frightened," he said, hesitantly. Why is it looking at me as though I were some terrible kind of monster? "I won't hurt you."
The elf let out a tiny, high-pitched squeak. And then it flung itself onto the floor.
"Forgive Cushy, Master!" it sobbed, and Harry winced as it pounded its head onto the floor repeatedly. "F-Forgive C-C-Cushy!" It leapt to its feet, and Harry saw blood—colored black in the half-light—streaming down from its forehead.
"Stop it!" Harry shouted hastily when the elf began to throw itself against the wall.
The creature froze instantly, its bulging eyes swiveling madly. "F-F-F—" Its thin throat worked and the word choked into a formless squeal.
Harry found his fingers trembling. Why was this elf so terrified, so terrified… of him? Ice washed through his heart. Terrified—of him. Harry remembered the Dark Mark that was branded on his face and chest, the memories of black hatred and anger that swamped his mind and soul, and his wand—thirteen-and-a-half inches—just like Voldemort's. He felt sick.
"Don't be frightened," Harry said softly, pleadingly. "I won't hurt you. I promise."
The elf made a kind of high-pitched squeak. "C-Cushy is s-s-sorry, Master. Cushy will—Cushy will b-b-bake his stupid head in the o-oven—"
Harry shook his head frantically. "NO, don't! Don't—"
The elf cringed. "Bad Cushy, bad, bad—"
"You're good, you did nothing wrong!"
The elf shook its head vigorously. "Cushy so bad! Cushy woke Master and Master going to kill Cushy now." The elf's voice dropped until it was barely audible. "C-Cushy see it in M-Master's eyes. All elves know it—the l-look before they are k-k-killed by their master."
Harry felt a ball of ice form at the pit of his stomach. "Kill you? I—of course I won't kill you, Cushy. I'm not at all mad at you." The words rolled out of his mouth on their own accord in a meaningless tide. "Cushy is a good house-elf. Cushy did all the right things, and Master won't hurt Cushy. Cushy won't hurt himself either."
The house-elf had a look of skeptical disbelief. "But… but Master is mad at Cushy, and…"
"I'm not mad," Harry said, a bit sharply, and the house-elf recoiled. Damn it, Harry thought, closing his eyes. Relax, relax, calm down. "Cushy is good. Cushy will not hurt himself. Cushy will not punish himself. Do you understand me, Cushy?"
The house-elf nodded reluctantly. "But can Cushy still bake his head…? Master can have Cushy's head on a platter and spit on it like angry Masters do."
"No," Harry said, shaking his head vigorously. "If you do that…" He lowered his voice. "If Cushy dares hurt himself, then Master will be very, very mad."
Harry let his voice fade into the walls. The house-elf was stiff as bone, and its eyes were so big and round they resembled the bloated faces of drowned bodies. Harry leaned back slowly. He felt rather—satisfied, somehow…
"Y-yes, Master," Cushy stammered, and Harry lost his train of thought.
"Good," Harry said gently. He paused. "Do you want to make Master happy?"
"YES!" Cushy squealed, nodding its head like a spell gone out of control.
"Then if the master with a long, silver beard asks you about me, don't tell that you were scared. Don't tell him I was mad either. Otherwise, Master will be mad."
"Oh, yes, yes!" The house-elf was ecstatic. "Cushy knows what to say! Cushy will not make Master mad! Cushy will say that Master is kind and good and not mad at all, and that Master wasn't scary, no, not at all!"
"Yes," Harry said, smiling encouragingly, "and don't call me Master when the wizard with the silver beard is around. Call me Master Frost."
"Yes, yes! When white-beard wizard is around, Master is Master Frost! Master Frost is always kind to Cushy! Always!"
"I'm proud of you, Cushy," Harry said gently. "Now, Master would like to sleep…"
"Then Cushy will leave now," the house-elf said, still in throes of rapturous joy. "Master Frost so kind, always so kind! A great wizard, Master Frost, a great wizard…"
The house-elf bowed so low that its head hit its knees, and then it disappeared with a loud crack!
Silence descended. Harry stared at the spot where the house-elf had disappeared. Cushy's grating voice seemed to echo endlessly in his skull: Master, Master is so kind, so kind…
Harry shivered and stood up. Why had the house-elf been so terrified of him? Why did he feel a tide of fierce pleasure, reminiscent of the hazy hot nights under sweat-soaked covers when the madness of battle became too much for two wearied bodies? Why did it seem to—itch, like a rash that spread even as he reveled in unholy relief and scratched it?
He buried his head in his hands. Why had it felt so good being called Master?
Something clicked inside him. He looked up at the smoldering coals. I can't wait, he thought. Or else I'd go mad. He had to leave, and he had to leave soon. There was no more waiting.
He picked up wand (thirteen-and-a-half inches) and steadied himself. He was going to throw off Dumbledore's tracking spell, damn the consequences. And you've already tried transferring spells, and that doesn't work, Harry reasoned. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his beating heart. This is the only thing you can do. The only way.
He opened his eyes and quickly cast several perimeter spells. Then he shut his eyes and held his wand in both hands.
He could feel it. Intangible threads, attached to his own magic like a burr. He gripped the body of the tracking spell and then turned his attention to the individual threads that bound it to him. Dumbledore's spellwork was distinctive: seemingly light and airy, but as deceptively powerful as the calm sea. Harry gathered his own magic, remembering how powerful Dumbledore was. They had crossed wands in training, and they had been evenly matched in power… Harry readied himself, for he knew that the old wizard was a fighter, if nothing else, and he cut—
The filaments ruptured as easily as skin.
Harry's eyes flew open, and he blinked. Is this a ploy? he wondered. It shouldn't have been this easy to undo Dumbledore's spellwork, unless the other wizard was much weaker than he had been in the future, or—
Harry froze. Every fiber of his being was suddenly aware of the fact that he was holding the tracking spell. He was holding it with his magic, as he had been unable to days ago: it had not fallen apart, or scattered like dust; it was intact, meekly shimmering in his presence. He was holding it.
Harry inhaled sharply. Transfer it, you dolt! He passed the tracking spell through the curtains, but it didn't attach; he let it hover close to his body, and he felt the threads awakening, reaching towards him—
Maybe it only attached to other humans, Harry thought. He stood up and glanced at the wall the separated him and—and Snape.
He swallowed, feeling something he couldn't name rising through his body like an electric shock. He remembered that Snape was angry at him for some reason—but Snape wasn't awake right now.
The floor was cold under his feet. In a few steps, he had slipped outside his room. He squinted in the light of the torch that lit the little space outside of the three rooms and tightened his hold on Dumbledore's magic. It was like cupping water in his hands.
He opened the door quietly and walked in, grateful that the door didn't creak. It was like moving through a dream. In another instant, he found himself standing in front of Snape's bed.
The curtains hung limply around the bed, but through the crack, Harry could see Snape's face. He stared at it, transfixed. The face was mostly lost in shadows, but Harry could make out the little frown that had creased Snape's forehead, the lines of the eyebrows that led to the hooked nose. He doesn't look at peace even when he's sleeping, Harry thought. I wonder what he's dreaming about. Snape had long eyelashes. Strange how he hadn't noticed before…
The sleeper stirred. Harry drew back, ready to dart into shadows. The tracking spell pulsed in his hand.
Now or never, he thought, bracing himself. He felt a sudden stab of fear: what if Dumbledore's magic somehow mutated and hurt Snape in the process? Snape, of harsh remarks and cynical retorts, suddenly seemed terribly vulnerable. Harry briefly considered trying it on Crabbe instead, but—he was already here, and as he reached out and touched Snape's face…
He sucked in a breath. The tracking spell quivered. With utmost care, he let the nets of his own magic loosen slightly, letting Dumbledore's spellwork trickle in the only direction it could—towards Snape… When the flow of magic strained to burst forth, he immediately tightened his hold like a clam snapping shut, and then slowly, gradually, let out a few drops, a soft stream…
Harry breathed a sigh of relief. It was done. He had transferred the spell. He had transferred it to Snape. He had done it.
I wonder how I could manage it, Harry thought. He reached for the tracking spell, prickling like a spiny burr, and felt it attached to the other Slytherin's magic. Gently he pulled it off, and let it hook back onto his own magic. I wonder why I couldn't do it two days ago and why I can do it now. A memory rose languidly: the sacrifice ritual. He frowned. Might that have done something? He remembered how the wild magic had risen, scattering the flimsy sticks and pathetic sacrifice, diving into him like a vengeful spirit, awakening something inside him…
His mind hit a blank wall. What was it that it awoke? Magic, obviously, but—where did it come from? It's highly unlikely that this load of magic was just sitting inside me and waiting… He was, after all, no stranger to wild magic. The lessons in the nest and more 'practical lessons' in the forest had assured him that.
And that house-elf, he thought, feeling the giddy happiness of his success sudden die away. What did it mean?
Harry realized then that he was sitting on the ground, and that his hand was still on Snape. It was no longer touching the other Slytherin's face; instead, it was resting on a shoulder. He was suddenly aware of the warmth beneath the worn nightgown, the bones and muscles under the sallow skin—
Harry took back his hand as though he had plunged it into scalding water.
I'd better go back, he thought, standing up. His heart was beating madly, and he felt strangely reluctant to leave. He'll wake up, Harry argued, but he found himself secretly hoping that Snape would awake, that he'd see those glittering black eyes…
But Snape didn't wake, and after a moment, Crabbe gave a loud snore. It broke Harry's reverie, and he was out of the room, door firmly closed behind him, and in his own room before the whirling fragments of thoughts could arrange themselves in his mind.
He threw himself into his bed. His heart was beating hard. For once, it was easy to keep his mind blank. There were too many things trying make themselves known, too many thoughts at once, too many emotions…
This is crazy, he thought and shut his eyes. The image of Snape rose in the darkness: Snape, with the slight frown on his forehead, the long eyelashes, the pale, vulnerable face…
He's angry at me right now, Harry reminded himself sleepily. He's not talking to me, for some reason. The memory of it cleared away some of the sleepiness, and he felt the contentment disappear. I'll find out why, then, Harry retorted. Then I'll make him talk to me, no matter what…
His mind drifted away, and with it went all memory of the terrified house-elf and the itching satisfaction of being called 'Master'…