Fair warning: This is a long* chapter.
Chapter 8
Harry slept fitfully that night. He tried to follow Snape's advice, to begin with, but after the first awful nightmare he decided on a slightly different approach. He woke himself up repeatedly throughout the night, only allowing himself to doze and never completing a full sleep cycle in the hopes it would keep his dreams casual, instead of terrifying. In that respect, it worked, but his resulting awful grogginess the next morning made him seriously wonder if it had been worth the effort.
He stumbled to the bathroom to shower, and then stumbled down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Much as the day before, he sat at the Gryffindor table alone, feeling rather dejected. Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall were all absent.
In his distracted state, he didn't notice when Professor Longmire descended from the raised platform and made her way towards him. When he heard the click of high heels on stone, however, he looked up and found her standing just at his elbow, making him jump back in alarm.
"Apologies, Mr. Potter, for frightening you," the elderly woman said with a curious smile. Harry stood up, rubbing his side where his rib had hit the table edge. "Professor Brigit Longmire. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Er, Harry Potter, ma'am," Harry returned, shaking her hand. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
She smiled, though it did not reach her eyes, which were dark grey behind small, purple, wire rimmed glasses. Her robes were the same dark grey as her eyes and lined with navy blue, which made him think she must have been a Ravenclaw, but the grip of her hand in his reminded him more of Slytherin.
"I was so pleased when Headmaster Dumbledore informed me we would be hosting Harry Potter, himself, in the days leading up to the start of term. I heard, of course, of your abduction earlier this summer and am glad you were able to return soundly, young man."
Harry blinked. "Thanks, Professor," he stuttered, for loss of what to say, dropping her hand. He thought it must be his insomnia making his paranoia flare, reminding him of the previous Defense professor to grace these halls.
"I am only sorry," she continued, undeterred by his lack of adequate response, "that I was not able to arrive earlier. I was delayed in Bath with some personal business. I have only just begun to settle in. Such a large castle."
Harry watched her talk and listened to her words, but they were making very little sense to his slowed mind – he was waiting for a punchline.
"I wonder, Mr. Potter, if you would do me the favor of giving me a brief tour?" She continued, finally letting the other shoe drop. "The other staff were unable to do so yesterday when I arrived as they are all, quite rightly, focused on finishing their preparations for the coming year."
"Er," Harry stuttered, thinking desperately for any excuse to say 'no'.
"Ah, Brigit, I see you have met Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall's voice sounded from behind him. He could have melted from relief as McGonagall's sharp eyes caught his and promised haven. When he turned back to Longmire, he noticed her smile was even less convincing than before.
He backed up a step just as McGonagall came up beside them.
"Harry, dear," she said with more fondness than he'd ever heard from her before, "I've just received a package from Hogsmaede in the Entrance Hall. Would you please hover it up to my office and just drop it off right inside the door? I'm quite famished and wouldn't like to leave it unattended for too long."
"Of course, Professor. Right away. Nice to meet you, Professor Longmire." He departed, his heart pounding a little fast as he stole through the door.
"Another time then," Professor Longmire's voice followed him into the hall just as the doors closed behind him.
There were no packages, large or otherwise, waiting to be hovered in the Entrance Hall. He even summoned a house elf and asked if they'd taken it up. The unknown house elf, Berty, had shaken his head, apologized profusely, and then disappeared with a pop. Harry sent a silent but fervent thanks to McGonagall and raced up the stairs to make himself scarce for the rest of the day. Longmire'd left a bad taste in his mouth and he determined to ask the Headmaster about his latest DADA professor selection first chance he had.
Once on his own, the day passed slowly. He'd received another letter from Lupin and one from Hermione, and he stopped by the Owlery to deliver his response to the former. Hermione mentioned what the others hadn't dared to broach, the topic of his 'state of mind' and 'mental wellness'. He sighed and shoved the letter away.
A knot of tension was growing in his stomach again, this time in anticipation of that night's meeting with Snape. He started to worry about what Snape had said to Dumbledore and then also about what Snape had seen in his mind before he'd passed out. He took himself up to the Astronomy Tower again and sat there a long while, mulling over the last few days.
Later, after an awkward lunch of dodging Longmire, he escaped to the Gryffindor Common Room, worked on assignments for an hour or two, and then, finally unable to keep his eyes open but too nervous to sleep, he'd gone out to the courtyard for some sun.
He sat on one of the low stone walls of the grassy area and leaned back against the stone pillar, relaxing. His eyes drifted closed without him even noticing, from one blink to the next.
He woke up sweating and breathing hard. Another Voldemort dream, he thought to himself, adding another notch on his mental tally. He'd started trying to keep track of the different things he dreamed about regularly. Voldemort dreams dominated, followed closely by Dead Friends dreams, and then Torture dreams. The latter were fairly new to this year.
Recently, however, his Voldemort dreams had been distinctive because they now almost always resulted in the four little crescent marks in his palm, probably because Harry was almost always dueling him in his dreams and gripping his wand fiercely.
He brought his hand up to his face and regarded the new marks, just on top of the now faded ones from yesterday that Snape had mended. Only one was openly bleeding, but the rest were reddened.
"I think, Potter, we'd better start in on our second little chat a bit early," Snape's voice sounded in his ear. Harry whipped around to find Snape standing just a step away from the pillar where Harry'd been leaning. The dark eyes swiveled from Harry's damaged palm to his sweaty face.
"Come along, Potter," he breathed. He spun on his heel and walked away, leaving Harry to scramble to follow him.
It took considerable energy, that Harry didn't have, to keep up. The man did not slow down even when they reached his office and they marched right past it, delving deeper into the dungeons. Harry did everything he could to keep on Snape's heels, which resulted in him huffing and puffing, a sound which echoed eerily off the walls of the many cool, dark corridors.
Finally, when Harry was about to collapse, Snape stopped abruptly. Harry almost careened into him, but the man turned on the spot and caught him by the shoulder. He held him for a moment as Harry fought for breath and then leaned Harry up against the stone wall, which Harry was deeply grateful for.
They'd stopped at a dead end. Before Snape was a plain narrow stretch of wall. The light from the lit torch just above Harry flickered onto dark grey, circular stones set in mortar. Harry watched as Snape drew his wand and tapped a number of the stones, large and small, in a pattern while mumbling a string of latin. When he stepped back, the wall trembled, and began to part down the middle, like the archway to Diagon Alley.
The doorway open, Snape stepped back over to Harry, who looked at him with dull, tired eyes. Strangely, Snape grabbed Harry's arm and wrapped it around his own neck, accepting nearly all of Harry's weight since he was much taller.
"Professor, what – " Harry started to say, but Snape shushed him with a glare and walked them through the entryway which sealed closed behind them. A few feet more and they were standing in a spacious sitting room.
Snape gently deposited Harry on the couch, told him to wait, and then disappeared down another hallway. Harry watched him go with confusion, but he didn't have the energy to protest. The walk shouldn't have left him so winded, he realized. He looked around.
He'd never been in this room before. He was sitting on a dark brown leather couch with low arm rests, facing the fireplace which was unlit but fully stocked of fresh wood. Beside him on the left was a leather winged back chair like the one in Snape's office, dark green, facing a low wooden coffee table and, on the other side, was a simple loveseat colored to match the couch. There were no paintings on the walls, no picture frames on the mantle, no personal trinkets of any sort in the room except for three bookcases lining the back wall which were filled with books, tomes, grimoire's, and empty potion bottles. He leaned his head up against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling, wondering a little headily why in Merlin's name Snape had brought him to his personal sitting quarters.
Snape did not return immediately, and the couch invited him to relax, so he did, letting his eyes close again. He drifted in and out of conscious thought like he had the night before, not allowing himself to broach real dreams or to acquire real rest.
"Potter," a voice called and he reluctantly opened his eyes. Snape was sitting across from him on top of the coffee table. He'd removed his outer teaching robe and was just wearing his buttoned black suit. Harry noted groggily to himself that he liked Snape better this way.
The man held out a cup of water and Harry forced himself to accept it.
"Drink this first," Snape instructed, placing a single dose vial in Harry's other hand. Harry brought it up to his face to look at it and frowned.
"This doesn't work anymore, sir," he said. It was the same Dreamless Sleep potion from before.
"I am aware," Snape responded. "Drink it anyway and follow it with the water."
Harry looked back at the bottle, shrugged, and then chugged it and the water down obediently. Again, he asserted to himself, Snape wasn't likely to poison him while in his own quarters.
He handed both the bottle and the glass back, and Snape placed them on the table beside himself.
"Remove your shoes and lay down," he instructed, in the same neutral voice. Harry frowned again, but driven by curiosity and exhaustion, he complied.
He lay down lengthwise on the couch, his head pillowed by the arm rest, and turned to look at Snape, who remained seated on the coffee table and was watching his movements.
"Where's Dumbledore?" Harry managed to ask, already feeling the soothing effects of the potion dragging at his consciousness. He plucked off his glasses and Snape took them silently, placing them beside the glass of water.
"He will be here shortly. Go to sleep."
Harry did.
He did not wake screaming. Nor did he wake with a jolt. This time, he was lured back to waking by the soothing touch of a palm resting on this forehead. His eyes opened blearily, his breathing still steady and smooth.
"Good evening, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly. "I'm sorry, my boy, to have woken you but we have much to discuss."
Harry blinked up at him a second, taking in the worried smile, shining blue eyes, and precariously positioned pointed blue hat on his head. He rubbed at his face, remembering suddenly the morning he'd awoken after the abduction to find Dumbledore sitting at his bedside. He'd been worried about Snape's fate that morning. This time was different. This time, as he slipped on his glasses, he turned his head to find Snape seated in the leather chair, regarding him with an indecipherable expression on his face.
"What's going on?" Harry asked. The headmaster shifted to let Harry swing his legs around and sit up properly against the back of the couch. His head felt clearer than it had been even earlier that morning. Dumbledore settled beside him, and Harry looked between him and Snape curiously.
"What am I doing here?"
"If you'll recall, Potter," Snape intoned, "I told you we would complete our conversation from yesterday after I had a moment to discuss certain aspects with the headmaster. I have done so. Now, we may continue."
"But why are we in your quarters? Sir. Instead of your office."
"Ah," Dumbledore said, gathering Harry's attention. "I'm afraid that is my doing, Harry. Given the nature of this discussion, I felt you and Severus might prefer a more comfortable setting."
"Oh," Harry said. He thought back to the nap he'd just had and had to admit that he'd feel more comfortable anywhere outside Snape's office.
"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore continued, "Severus has explained some of your conversation from yesterday and has made it clear that you do not wish to speak with anyone, friend or otherwise, concerning the things you endured while abducted." Harry fiddled with his fingers and noticed idly that someone had tended the cuts on his palm again as they had been reduced to little pink lines. Dumbledore reached over and tipped Harry's chin up so that he was forced to look him in the eye. "Dear boy, you cannot continue as you are. Let me tell you plainly that it pains us to see you so assaulted by these memories, even now, when you should feel safe and secure. This will and must end." Harry blushed at the fervent tone in the man's voice.
"As such," Dumbledore said, "we shall be approaching this situation from a different avenue." The headmaster met eyes with Snape and nodded. Snape sighed.
"Potter, look at me," he commanded, and waited until Harry shifted his eyes. "As I expressed yesterday, nightmares are born of stress and by tackling that stress at the source, you can diminish their frequency. However, as you don't feel yourself capable of doing so at this time, the alternative is to treat the symptoms as they come, instead."
"Symptoms?" Harry repeated, doubtfully. "As in, my nightmares. You want to eliminate each of my nightmares one by one? How is that even possible? Sir." Snape pursed his lips, clearly biting back a sharp retort. When he did speak again, it sounded like he was straining to be patient.
"Yes, Mr. Potter," he said, "each nightmare can be looked at as a symptom of an underlying issue. The Dreamless Sleep Draught had been one treatment option but your body resisted it rather quickly. We must move on to the next."
"Which is what?" Harry looked from Snape to Dumbledore, and then back again, as the silence extended.
"Which is a form of Occlusion, Harry," Dumbledore finally responded. Harry looked at him, non-plussed.
"But…but I'm terrible at Occlusion." Harry looked at Snape. "You said so yourself."
"True," Snape responded dryly, "however, in this circumstance, I am hopeful you will succeed. The techniques I'm going to teach you are not focused on defending your mind from external assault, but from internal. This will make it less complicated, and, therefore, potentially achievable," he finished with a smirk.
"You're going to teach me?" Harry asked sharply. He sat up, tensed, remembering the mental battering rams this man had hit him with the previous year, coupled with the millions of scathing remarks. "Why can't Professor Dumbledore?"
"Why indeed, Potter?" Snape returned, equally sharp. "If I am not mistaken, you told me yourself you did not wish to discuss the matters of your dreams or disturbing memories with the headmaster." Harry stilled. He looked over at Dumbledore, who was still watching him with a concerned, but sympathetic smile.
"You do not need to explain, dear boy," Dumbledore said, holding up a hand to forestall Harry's apologies. "Believe me when I tell you that I quite understand the difficulties that come with being honest, even with those whom we love, about the tragedies and trials we face." He claimed Harry's eyes. "That is why I believe Severus is exactly who you need at this time. He knows, Harry. You do not have to like someone to trust them, and I would like you to come to trust Professor Snape to teach you how to overcome your memories. He knows this road." Harry was silent for a long moment and then turned back to Snape.
"What do I have to do?" He asked quietly, his voice steeped in resignation.
"We'll come to that shortly," Snape responded cryptically. He steepled his fingers and regarded the slouching boy. "Tell me, Potter, do you recall the dream you had just now as you slept?" Harry thought back, frowned, and then shook his head. "I thought not. This effect was achieved by the potion I provided to you, the one you incorrectly identified as the same Dreamless Draught you had been taking previously. I allowed you to continue with this assumption, but now I will tell you that it was actually a variation of that potion, a much stronger one."
"A restricted one?" Harry asked, feeling he already knew the answer.
"Precisely."
"Meaning I'm not going to be allowed to take it again," Harry continued.
"Very good, Mr. Potter."
"Then..." Harry said slowly, working through the logic, "what was the point of taking the potion?" Snape raised an eyebrow.
"So that you would have the energy for this conversation," he said, a touch snidely. Then, glancing at Dumbledore, proceeded more somberly. "Potter, what I am trying to impress upon you is how very close to the brink you are in terms of your health." Harry scowled but did not protest. "I practically had to carry you inside when we reached the front door. Do not be fooled – you are fighting for your life again, except now you are fighting for victory over your own subconscious." The urgency in Snape's voice chilled him. Harry wrapped his arms around himself and slouched even further towards the floor. "The solution we propose now, like the potion, is only temporary," Snape continued. "It will buy you time, but that is all. You must be prepared to take the next steps when they come, and we must hear you acknowledge it now, or all of this is pointless. You will one day soon sit down with someone trusted and you will tell them all that you felt and all that you feared in Malfoy Manor. It will be uncomfortable, and difficult, but it will be necessary. If you can assure us that this is understood, we will proceed. If you cannot, we must find a different way forward."
"I understand," Harry said, quietly.
"Look at me, Potter," Snape commanded, his voice also low but firm. "Say it again." Tired, frightened, and desperate green eyes looked up to meet dark, cold ones.
"I understand, sir," Harry said. Snape nodded.
"Very well."
Dumbledore, who had carefully been watching the exchange, put a hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry flinched and hated himself for it.
"Harry, just do your best. Trust Professor Snape to do his best to help you, and please be assured that I will be keeping track of your progress and your health. If you ever have any questions, all you need to do is ask. The password, by the way, to my office is 'licorice wand.'"
"Thank you, sir," Harry said, uncurling himself a bit. He cast a worried glance at Snape. "But, what am I physically going to be doing?"
"I think I'll allow Professor Snape to explain that, Harry, in full detail. I must, I'm afraid, get on to a meeting with Minerva. However, I will tell you I do not expect you in the Great Hall for dinner, therefore, Severus," he said, directing himself to the man, "please be certain to order some dinner for Mr. Potter before you begin anything in earnest. I will send his things up shortly with a house elf as well, so do not concern yourself." Snape nodded once in response.
"My things? Why do I need things?" Harry asked quickly, standing with Dumbledore. Dumbledore smiled a bit mischievously.
"I will only tell you, Harry, you are going to be having a most interesting night. Good evening. Good evening, Severus. Sleep well."
Harry stared incredulously at the headmaster's retreating back and was still looking gob smacked when Snape returned from seeing him to the door. Snape approached and he backed up a step, garnering a raised eyebrow from Snape.
"Sit down, Potter. I'll order dinner and explain the Headmaster's ingenious plan," he said, dripping sarcasm at 'ingenious'.
2 hours later, Harry was sitting on a bed in Snape's guest room, wearing his pajamas, pondering the strange turn of events. A knock sounded on the plain wooden door.
"Enter," he answered and scooted backwards on the bed against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. The door opened and Snape entered, dressed now in a white dress shirt and black slacks. The light from the hall flooded the tiny room, and his eyes roved from the desk with its single lamp, to the bed, to the ancient wooden wardrobe, finally coming back to stop on Harry himself. Harry squirmed under his gaze.
"Relax, boy," Snape sighed. He pulled the wooden chair over from the desk and sat down at Harry's bedside.
"Please don't call me 'boy', sir," Harry responded.
"Oh? And why not?" Snape challenged.
"Because it reminds me of my Uncle Vernon," Harry responded tersely. Snape regarded him with hooded eyes.
"Duly noted. Are you ready?" He asked.
"No," Harry said, and then lay down on the bed. His eyes never left Snape and he did not remove his glasses. Snape rolled his eyes.
"Alright, Potter. This first part is fairly easy and, so, shouldn't be beyond your ability to grasp," he stated snidely.
"I'll do my best to keep up, sir," Harry retorted, wishing he'd been able to say it while standing instead of laying on a cot. Snape smirked at his reply and leaned back, unperturbed.
"This will be akin to basic meditation," Snape began, "All I want from you is for you to clear your mind of distractions and focus, instead, on something with a rhythm, such as your heart or your breathing. Listen to it, follow it, and as distracting thoughts linger, cast them aside."
Harry removed his glasses and settled under the covers. Still incredibly tense that Snape was right there, watching him, waiting for him to be at his most vulnerable, it took Harry a long while to comply with the instructions. First his heart was racing, then his brain was racing as it ran through all the potential scenarios that would occur when he woke up, then…
"Breathe, Potter. Relax," Snape commanded.
Easy for you to say, Harry thought. Still, he tried again. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. He bet Hermione would be good at meditation. Inhale. Exhale. Then again, maybe not. She had so much knowledge rolling around in her head, it'd come spilling out her ears if she wasn't careful. Inhale. Exhale. Ron would suck at it. He was incapable of sitting at a table for more than a few minutes without fidgeting. Inhale. Exhale. Ginny might be good.
"I can see your eyes moving beneath your eyelids, Potter," Snape droned. Harry's eyes snapped open to express his frustration when he caught sight of Snape in a rare frail moment: he'd closed his own eyes and had a hand tangled in his hair against his forehead, leaning on an elbow perched on his knee. In the semi-casual attire – Harry'd never seen Snape wearing anything but the buttoned suit affair – and in this position, he looked almost human. Unbidden and unwelcome came the memory of the man's shriek of pain when he'd forcefully been brought back to consciousness. Then an image of him lying, grey and unmoving in the hospital bed, teetering on the edge of life and death. Only a month ago.
Harry closed his eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe, Harry, breathe.
He breathed.
Tonight's was a Torture dream. Lucius Malfoy, with Voldemort himself looking on, had been the one to summon the fire chain binding. He'd enchanted a spell Harry didn't recognize and the long, flaming chain had wrapped around him, from his right shoulder to curl around the opposite hip bone, searing his flesh on contact. In this dream version, he was strapped to the ground in glowing red chains that were melting his skin while he screamed and Malfoy laughed. The memory of the pain still hurt and he struggled against the chains, trying to escape.
"Potter!" Someone was calling his name somewhere nearby, but he couldn't hear properly, couldn't think properly. His throat felt like it was full of smoke and ached horribly. "Potter, wake up!" He felt pressure on his shoulders.
"Harry! Listen to me. Wake up now!" The pressure continued, and he realized it felt real like the chains hadn't. He followed it to the surface and found his frantically beating heart.
"Harry!" the voice called again, and he opened his eyes to find himself staring into Snape's black ones.
"Professor?" He mumbled, his tongue feeling like lead. His eyes fluttered again.
"Breathe, Potter. Just breathe," Snape instructed, no longer shouting. His voice sounded tight, laced with something, Harry distantly noted. Perhaps anger. That's usually what it was laced with. Harry breathed, enjoying the feeling of cool dungeon air whooshing in to chill his lungs. The pressures on his shoulders eased, and the one on his right disappeared. The left, however, remained lightly. He opened his eyes again and found that Snape had his hand curled around his left shoulder.
"Sorry," Harry muttered.
"Do not be," came the curt reply. "Are you alright? Sit up if you can."
Harry nodded and moved to sit. His head pounded a bit behind his eyes.
"Drink this," Snape offered. Harry took the water and downed it, feeling parched. He handed it back to Snape, who had a strange look on his face.
"I take it I screamed, then?" Harry asked dully.
"Quite a bit," Snape replied, still sitting in the chair, staring at Harry. "More than I expected. I underestimated how strong you would react."
Harry rubbed at his hair and eyes.
"May I ask what kind of dream this was?" Snape asked slowly. Harry looked up, his face blank, considering how he should reply. Snape appeared to be waiting patiently, sitting in the chair, eyes fixed on Harry, but not scowling. Harry rubbed his neck.
"There's this spell," he said just above a whisper. "It's like a chain binding, but the chain is on fire." He glanced at Snape, who had stiffened.
"I am…familiar," he admitted, sounding strangely pained. Harry paused, considered the possible implications of what he was about to do, and then steeled himself. He reached up and pulled aside his pajama top. There, still scalded clearly on the skin of his shoulder and chest was the imprint of a chain. It dropped down past the neckline.
Snape did not react visibly, but his eyes remained riveted to the spot on Harry's shoulder for a long moment.
"Can you conjure a full-length mirror for me, Professor?" Harry asked into the silence.
Snape raised an eyebrow but obliged, conjuring a large, simple, full length mirror to lean against the wall beside the door. He watched with hooded eyes as Harry got up and stood before the mirror, paused for a moment, and then unbuttoned his pajama top. The burn wound had been healed by Madam Pomfrey, but the red puckered skin had only been reduced, and the trail of the burn down his front, curling around his left rib and continuing to his back, was in places still black. It would be visible from across a room.
"I don't know what I'm going to say in the Quidditch locker rooms," he muttered aloud, tracing the line with his finger. He imagined the looks he would get and the jests once the Slytherins caught wind, which Harry knew they would. He turned around, finished removing his shirt, and looked back over his shoulder. The chain had wound around him to the small of his back where it tapered off just above his right hip.
He turned back to look at Snape. A question had occurred to him, and he was considering whether risking the man's wrath at this juncture was worth the possibility of an answer.
"Can I ask you a personal question, sir?" He asked slowly, taking the plunge. Snape waited expectantly, neither assenting nor dissenting.
"Are you…did you…" Harry stuttered, looking down at his feet uncomfortably. "Do you have a lot of scars, Professor? Like this?" He said finally, gesturing with a wave at his front. He chanced a glance at Snape, trying to gage his anger. The man, however, had an indecipherable expression on his face.
"No, Potter, I do not," he said at last. When Harry's face fell a bit, he continued. "Do not take that to mean more than it does. I do not have scars not because I was not inflicted with injuries worthy of them, but because I am a Potions Master and have the means to dispose of any superficial imperfections."
"Oh," said Harry. Somehow, knowing he could have treated them, but hadn't, wasn't comforting. He glanced at himself in the mirror again and wrapped his arms around his middle, blocking from view some of the scarring.
"I am surprised," Snape's low rhythmic rumble sounded again in the quiet room, "that Madam Pomfrey did not offer you scar reduction salves to treat your wounds. Although, I supposed she was simply grateful you had lived long enough to close them and prevent infection…Would you like something for them?"
Harry's spun to look at him. Snape seemed to read the hope in his eyes. He stood up, told Harry to wait, and walked out into the hall, disappearing.
He returned just as Harry was seating himself back on the bed, cross legged, his shirt draped in his lap where his fingers were wringing it nervously. Snape sat back down in the chair and handed Harry another tin, larger than the one he'd used for the cuts on his palm earlier. Inside, was a thick grey cream.
"Apply it as evenly as you can all along the marks," Snape instructed. Harry did so, sitting up straight. The cream was cool against his skin and made him shiver the first few times he applied it. It took a full 5 minutes and half the sizable tin to finish the front. He hesitated uncertainly when he reached his side where the scars curled around to the back.
"May I?" Snape asked, evenly. Harry nodded and handed him the tin, flipping around on the bed to offer his back. I must be mental, he thought distantly, to have my back turned on Snape. But Snape's touch was unexpectedly gentle as he smoothed thick globs of grey cream on the puckered red lines and bumps. When he finished, he drew his wand and out of it shot bandages which wrapped themselves lightly around Harry's torso and traced the line up to his shoulder. Harry turned back around, rubbing his hands clean on his pajama bottoms. Snape had conjured himself a towel and looked vaguely scandalized.
"Thanks, sir," he muttered, fingering the bandage.
"It will take various coats, Mr. Potter, to remove all the damage. I will need to brew more."
"Oh, uh, thanks, sir." Harry repeated lamely. He suddenly felt very awkward and reluctant to meet the man's eyes. He started to pull on his shirt, and Snape removed himself again from the room, taking the tin with him.
When Snape returned, Harry was fully clothed, seated against the wall, legs pulled back to his chest, his head resting on his knees. It was a protective posture, and Snape did not comment as he reseated himself.
"Well," Harry said a bit flippantly, lifting his head. "I reckon we can count that as a failure." Snape raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms, and smirked.
"On the contrary, Mr. Potter," he said airily, "the matter of injuries aside, this little experiment turned out exactly how I anticipated."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked. "I still had a nightmare…"
"As I expected you to," Snape returned. "Potter, this was merely the control. I wanted to see a full, genuine nightmare experience from you so I could know with what I am working. This is why I did not attempt to draw you out of it with a calming charm. That would have neutralized the point of the exercise."
"So what was all that with breathing before? The meditation," Harry snapped, and felt suspicion growing in his mind, closing around his heart.
"You were tense, Potter," Snape responded, choosing to excuse and ignore Harry's disrespectful tone, "You were nervous and, therefore, would have been slow to fall asleep, and it may even have altered the kinds of dreams you did have."
"But then what are we actually doing?" Harry asked, mulling over the explanation as he spoke, trying to find malicious intent or deception behind it.
"We are now going to figure out how you can pull yourself out of the dream while you're in it. Think back, Potter. Close your eyes if you must but think back to the dream. Think about what ultimately you were able to latch onto which brought you back to consciousness."
Harry did, skirting around the images of the flaming chain branding his skin and thinking back to the interruption that brought him out of it.
"First, I heard you calling," he recollected, slowly, "but that wasn't enough. Then, just as I was panicking…I felt your hands on my shoulders. The pressure felt, I don't know, real, in a way the dream chains did not. I tried to follow it. Then I was just, here." He finished with a shrug. Snape looked pensive.
"I am unsurprised that being physically touched was more impactful. It only stands to reason. But it is impractical to assume you will always have someone nearby willing and able to physically pull you out of a nightmare. We will need to try again," he said, and Harry sighed. It was at this point in the night where he would usually just give up and go down to the common room to read until morning. Having two nightmares in one night seemed overwhelming, and something told him, even two would not be enough.
"We'll try again, Potter. We have no alternative. Lay down." Harry uncurled himself and obeyed, though he felt his muscles were tense and tight.
"This time, if and when you experience a nightmare, once you become aware that you are dreaming, I want you to seek something else to hang onto. Find your heartbeat, or the feel of the blankets in your hands. Use your senses to try and sort out the truth of this room from the deception of what you are seeing and possibly feeling. Once I notice you struggling, I will call your name. Just remember not to panic if you cannot escape. I will cast a calming charm if all else fails, but only if all else fails. Any questions?"
Harry had a million. He shook his head and removed his glasses. It all felt fruitless, but he had to try.
The next dream was a Fire dream. Rather unusual for him. He was entombed in an inferno at the Dursleys. He could hear people screaming not far away, but he couldn't get out of the room to either help them or help himself. He leapt towards the flames, made it through the door, but then stumbled on the body lying in the corridor. It was his Uncle Vernon, who was lying with his clothes all charred, but Harry noted curiously that he had a long, curly pig's tale. Suddenly, it wasn't Uncle Vernon, but Hagrid lying there. And he wasn't in the Dursley's anymore, he was in Hagrid's hut, but the walls were still on fire.
"Go Harry, leave me," Hagrid said as he caught fire.
"No!" Harry screamed. It can't be, he thought frantically. It can't be! I'm dreaming. This is a dream, it must be. He looked around frantically in the smokey room. He was alone now. Find something real, he told himself. Anything real.
"Potter!" someone was shouting. "Potter!" But it was muffled by the sounds of the crackling fire, which was lapping up the straw hut.
Finally, a flood of cool water washed over him, settling his nerves, and quieting his cries. Another wave, and he lifted to the surface.
He opened his eyes.
"I don't like this game," he muttered to Snape, who was now sitting on the edge of his bed, instead of the chair.
"Nor do I, Potter, believe me," he said, and helped Harry to sit up.
"Did you hear anything I was saying?" Snape asked curiously.
"Just my name," Harry answered, drinking again from the glass of water Snape held out.
"We will need to try something else."
Harry very poorly hid a groan. He lay back down, grabbed the pillow and pressed it over his face.
"I'll admit, Potter, smothering yourself would, indeed, solve the problem at hand," Snape commented dryly, "however, I don't know that the headmaster would approve of such tactics." Harry lifted the pillow, shot him a glare, and then brought it back down again.
When he was done pouting, he moved the pillow back under his head, and lay back down, drawing up the covers.
"Let's get on with it then," he said, resigned. Snape smirked.
"Let's."
-SSS-
Two calming charms and 3 nightmares later – another Torture dream, a Ghost King's Cross, and a Dead Friends – Harry found himself staring down at Sirius's grave. Sirius, of course, didn't actually have a grave, as there had been no body to bury, but in the dream, he was planted right next to Harry's parents' on a green hill. As Dream Harry watched, a decrepit hand plunged out of the fresh soil and he leapt backwards. Sirius climbed out, zombie-like in his movements, flesh cut and grey, hanging off his bones.
This isn't right, Dream Harry thought to himself as he started trying to back away from the approaching dead Sirius. He couldn't seem to turn around and run, however, so he was forced to back away, step by step, around the tombstones which had begun to resemble those from the Riddle graveyard from 4th year. This isn't right, Harry told himself again. Sirius isn't a zombie and he doesn't look like that.
"I'm just dreaming," said Dream Harry. Look for something real. He could hear a voice calling him, could feel something soft in his hand, but Sirius kept coming. He was drawing his wand now, and it looked like Voldemort's wand. And then it was Voldemort, hunting him through the Riddle graveyard. A knife was in his other hand, ready to plunge into Harry's arm and take his blood.
"No!" Dream Harry shouted. "This isn't real! Find something real."
But there was nothing. No one was coming to save him. He felt his heart sink. Then, he remembered the feeling of Snape's hands on his shoulders. He tripped backwards over a statue and fell to the floor. Voldemort was almost on top of him now. Remember what it felt like, he told himself. Remember the touch of his hand on your shoulder, not the hard, almost painful grip, but the one he left there when he didn't have to. He closed his eyes and allowed the feeling to surround him, engulf him, protect him.
"Potter, wake up," Real Harry heard with his waking ears. He opened his eyes and found Snape's weary face looking down at him.
"Well done, Mr. Potter."
Author's note: Hi guys! Two things:
1) Thanks again for the reviews! They genuinely help to thwart my writer's block.
2) You may have noticed the last few days I've been uploading chapters like crazy. I've got a suuuper long draft I wrote way before I even uploaded Chapter 1, so I'm going through it, editing, and uploading as I go. The pace will slow once I catch up to the end of the current draft (I haven't quite completed the story yet). Just in case you were curious.