Chapter 15

After a round of Charms and Herbology essays (he would have started on his Potions essay if Snape hadn't been occasionally leering over his shoulder), Snape called a stop to his studies and Harry returned to the sitting room. He gratefully sunk down onto the couch, massaging the fingers of his right hand with his left as they were cramping.

"Here," Snape said, his arm dropping into view from behind Harry. It was another large tin of scar removal cream, the same one he'd used previously. He looked up as Snape sat again on the coffee table before him.

"Apologies, Potter," he started, looking a bit uncomfortable as he uttered those foreign words. "I had promised to give you that earlier to tend your scars, but I became distracted by school matters."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said. He shucked his shirt again and regarded the scar. Self-consciously, he felt Snape's eyes on him, and he looked up to challenge them.

"I am tempted," Snape responded to the glare, his own voice even, "to advise you to apply it to the other scars as well. However, if you are planning to eventually detail those injuries to the Ministry at some point in the future, I would suggest you leave them as they are. As evidence." Harry fell back against the couch, biting his lip, and one finger drifted over to trace one of the simple white lines. He hesitated and then looked back up.

"I don't know that I can tell anyone, not in words, Professor. It was…"

"It was torture, Harry," Snape said, quiet but intense. "It was malicious and pointed torture, whose sole purpose was to cause you agony, to bring you to the edge of sanity. You, a 16-year-old boy." Harry closed his eyes with a shudder. "They all deserve death, Harry, for what they did, but this man, in particular, made it personal. Do not allow yourself to shield him from his crimes."

"I can't, Professor," Harry said, angered to hear the break in his voice. "Not yet, I just can't."

"But one day you will," Snape said, and it was not a question. "Do not remove those scars. This one," he added gesturing at the chain one, "is already documented. Remember, a thick coat. I'll help with the back."

Harry nodded and felt himself relax a little. He spent the next 10 minutes slowly working the cream back on, and Snape's bandages wrapped around his torso and shoulder lightly.

"How many more times before its gone?" he asked, when he was finally able to lean back, shirt back on, wriggling a little as the pressure from the cushions made some of the cream spread against the bandages and his skin.

"If you're lucky, this may be the last. But more likely you'll need one more coat. It won't disappear entirely, I'm afraid, but it will be difficult to see without effort," Snape said, returning to his chair.

"Are you ready for another nap?" He asked, with feigned nonchalance.

"I'm ever so excited," Harry responded under his breath. He looked up, however, and found Snape smirking and realized he'd been heard.

"Occlude your mind first, Potter," he instructed, pulling the same book out from earlier. "Focus on something cheerful, breathe steadily, slow your heart. I will be here when you awake."

Harry lay back down on the couch, head on the arm rest, and rooted out the same memory from earlier. He heard a whispered spell, though, and opened his eyes to see Snape twisted in his chair, warding the door and the fireplace. Harry closed his eyes and relaxed.

-SSS-

It took an unusually long time for the dream to unravel. It made several attempts, forcing Harry to relive time spent in cramped quarters, listening to the goading and taunts of numberless, nameless, masked Death Eaters. Finally, it came, and he knew it was a dream, but he also knew it was real, a memory of something that really happened, and with dread he watched it unfold, unable to pull himself out of it, unable even to scream.

"Potter. Harry!" The hands on his shoulders did not attempt to help him stumble to consciousness – they yanked him into it. His eyes shot open as he was dragged upright and found Snape's face just inches from his own, watching as Harry gasped and shuddered, trying to catch his breath.

"Professor," Harry whispered through the gasps, mind still reeling. He closed his eyes and leaned the crown of his head against the man's shoulder, creating a pocket of darkness for himself as he attempted to reground himself in the moment. His arms wrapped protectively around his torso and he tried to chase away the images reluctant to fade in his mind.

"Just breathe, Potter. Deep and even breaths." Snape's voice seemed to rumble through his chest against Harry's head. He obeyed and felt a surge of relief as his heartbeat gradually slowed.

Finally, he pulled away and was released, but he didn't look up. He refused to meet Snape's eyes, refused to even look in his general direction, and could feel the heat rising up his neck from a deep blush. Snape, however, did not seem satisfied with this approach, and did not stir from beside him. They each waited, a battle of wills and patience, for the other to say something. Harry was not actually surprised that he was the first to break.

"I don't want to show it to you, Professor," he said in a rough voice. "Please. I don't want to see it again."

"You don't have to," Snape said, "I assume it was a nightmare about the memory I saw earlier?" Harry nodded. "Then reviewing it again won't be necessary."

"I thought you said, if I showed you these things, the nightmares would go away," Harry said, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice. He was staring, unseeing, across the room at one of the bookshelves, but was watching Snape from his peripheral vision. Snape sighed.

"The relief from these nightmares won't come immediately, Potter, but it will come. You have to come to peace with this memory before it will leave you alone and showing me is only part of that journey." He shifted in his seat and Harry couldn't help it – he had to turn and meet his gaze. Snape's face was pale but calculating, his eyes drifting over Harry, assessing his state of being, likely. Harry colored again under the scrutiny but did not look away.

"What's the next part of that journey?" He asked.

"Discussing it." Harry shook his head, scooching back a bit on the couch.

"I can't. I told you." But Snape held up a hand.

"I'm not talking about what happened, Potter," he said, "I'm talking about how it affected you. Do you require the calming draught now?" Harry blinked at the seeming non-sequitur, and then shook his head. Snape stood up finally and returned to his chair. The clock above the mantle said 5 o'clock. He'd only been asleep for an hour.

"Potter, I said earlier, when we were making the plans for this weekend, that you should expect to be uncomfortable, that you should expect to be asked to talk about things which made you distressed," Snape said, rubbing his shoulder, as though he were himself distressed. "This is unavoidable and, I assure you, whatever you may think of me, I take no joy in it." Harry shifted in his spot, legs pulled up to his chest again, and considered that, for once, he found he could entirely believe that Snape was not taking pleasure from his pain. He had not made any attempts to mock Harry for his moment of weakness just now, nor, he thought, in all the time he'd been consulting him for help with the nightmares. Not on the couch, not on the bed in the guestroom either.

"I also said," Snape continued, drumming his fingers lightly against his arm rests, "that you would need to learn to trust me, at least in these matters." He turned to Harry. "Do you?"

Harry hesitated, biting his lip, and grew a bit pink again.

"Yeah, I do," he said, looking away.

"Then, Harry," Snape said, catching his attention again, "tell me, what about that memory most distresses you? Aside from the pain, that is."

Harry looked down at his arched knees and considered the question, rubbing his neck.

"Feeling trapped, I guess," he whispered. "My cousin, Dudley, used to have his goons chase me down, you know," he continued, hoping Snape would not interrupt his train of thought, as derailed as it seemed to be getting, because he didn't know if he'd be able to start again. "They were huge, the lot of them, at least twice or three times my size, and they'd hold me down, and punch me, and kick me, everywhere but my face so the neighbors wouldn't notice. It felt kind of like that, only then, when I was little, I would still fight, could still be brave, would still eventually peel myself off the pavement and get myself home. This time, though, this time I was trapped and alone and already hurting and already anticipating that someone was going to kill me, just didn't know when. He immobilized me and blinded me and every time he touched me, it was just to cause me pain. It went on for hours…" He stopped himself as his breathing had quickened and his voice was breaking a bit. He hid his face in his knees.

Snape was silent a long time, and Harry didn't mind it. His breathing regulated and he started thinking about his own words. It was like Dudley, really, he thought. There was never any guarantee Dudley wouldn't accidentally do permanent damage, penetrate a lung or something with a broken rib and accidentally kill Harry. The danger was the same, if not more with Dudley than with Malfoy, because if Malfoy accidentally killed Harry before getting permission from Voldemort, he'd have been in huge trouble. Harry blinked at his knees. What was he afraid of, then? He looked up.

Snape was drinking from a cup Harry had not heard him summon, his face blank, but he'd grown paler, and his hands were clutching the cup with enough ferocity to turn his knuckles white.

"Professor?" Harry asked, drawing his eyes. "Are you alright?" Snape looked back at him blankly for a long moment, and then shook his head slowly in apparent disbelief.

"It's a good thing your parents are dead already, boy," he said a bit hoarsely, "or you'd have killed them ages ago from bloody heart attacks." Harry's jaw dropped open. Snape scrubbed at his face, and then ran his fingers through his hair.

"What in Merlin's name are you talking about, Professor?" Harry asked, uncurling finally, trying to figure out if he was angered or bemused by that response.

"You, Potter," Snape returned, darkly, "I am talking about you. You, with your attitude, your penchant for troublemaking, your stubborn pursuit of your truths. You, the child who has been sent to stand on the front lines bearing scars from muggles, basilisks, dragons, and Death Eaters, who expect, and are expected, to single handedly win a war. You, the boy who cannot sleep without nightmares that end in heart-rending sobs."

"You make it sound like I'm damaged or broken," Harry interrupted, launching himself to his feet. "I am not broken!"

"But. You. Should. Be." Snape ground out slowly, also standing. He reached out and grabbed Harry's arm again. Harry fought back but his grip was like iron. Snape bent down a bit to look Harry dead in the face. "You are 16 years old, Potter. These things you are doing, and have done, and are trying to do…none of this is normal to expect of a mere boy."

"Since when, Professor, have I ever been allowed to be normal?" Harry retaliated, no longer struggling and not cowering either, beneath Snape's withering stare. "Since when have I ever been allowed to be just a boy?"

Snape stared back at him and then his eyes flittered up to the scar, the lightning bolt scar that had darkened the eyes of this child-turned-war hero. He shook his head and loosened his grip on Harry's arm, but did not back away.

"You are correct," he said, and Harry's eyes narrowed. "You appear to have never been destined for a normal wizard's life, if such a life even exists. Make no mistake, we all bear burdens, Potter, we all walk with the weight of our pasts threatening to slow us down – it is just a part of living. But there does exist a meter stick which we use to measure all lives against, and it is the same meter stick, regardless of whatever trials we are called to face as individuals. It defines what we deserve. And that, Mr. Potter, is the primary point of this discussion. What do you think you deserve, after 15 years of torment and ridicule, of torture and insult and the weight of unsurmountable expectations?" He asked, quietly, intensely, his eyes boring into Harry's. Harry shuddered under the gaze, listening to the summary of his life spelled out so bleakly. He thought about the question, thought about answering with sarcasm or hurling an insult at the man who was currently breathing down his neck, waiting for him to get the answer wrong. Was there even a correct answer? He shook his head.

"I don't know, sir," he said slowly, into the tense silence. "I don't do this stuff because I want anything. I do it because I have to. Because no one else will."

"You are confusing, I think," Snape noted, drawing himself up a little straighter, his voice tinged with melancholy, "'deserve' with 'earn.' You must earn respect, trust, sometimes love, or honesty. But what you deserve, Potter, what everyone deserves just by dint of being human, is compassion and help." Harry blinked at him and his brow lowered.

"What do you mean?"

"I would postulate, Harry, that the reason that this memory in particular disturbs you, so much that you seek to hide it away, is because, in it, you were entirely robbed of the one constant in your life – your ability to help yourself," Snape said quietly. He finally released Harry completely and gestured for him to sit as he sat himself on the coffee table. Harry moved slowly, his eyes riveted on Snape, but the gears of his mind churning. "Even in the deepest pit of the earth," Snape continued, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice frank and flavored with something like disbelief or awe, "you, Harry Potter, were not afraid of death, or pain, or any of the myriad torments they devised for you because your strongest ally was still there with you the whole time - you, yourself. Except," he continued darkly, "when Lucius Malfoy incapacitated you, robbed you of the ability to scream, to see, to defend yourself, to even wipe away your own blood because with each plunge of that dagger, he healed you. And when it was over, there was no mercy, no release, not even death to succumb to. Just you, unable to help yourself." He reached out and lay a gentle but heavy hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry trembled at him. "I am sorry, Harry, that nobody bothered to see before. I am sorry that I didn't. I should have known better."

They sat that way together for a long time, listening to the crackling of the fire. Harry's tears, which he did not bother to wipe away, were leaving wet marks on his pants and shirt, until, finally, they stopped on their own, his well run dry. His eyes ached, his head ached, and his heart ached, and he wanted nothing more than to disappear into unconsciousness, but he was afraid of the dreams he would find there. Snape's hand never moved, and Harry knew the man was remembering Harry's first successful immersion memory. He ought to have been ashamed, he thought to himself, but he was loath to pull away or to encourage him to withdraw it. It stilled him like an anchor in the waking world.

Finally, after nearly 15 minutes, Snape squeezed his shoulder once briefly and released him. Harry lay down on the couch automatically but didn't close his eyes. He took a deep breath.

"Can I have some of that potion?" He asked the ceiling.

"You may," Snape said without hesitation, sneer, or ridicule, not needing to ask which potion Harry was referring to. He summoned the vial with a flick of his wand and set it in Harry's hand. "Just a sip," he cautioned. "It's early yet."

Harry nodded, sipping at the tiny glass vial, quieting the urge to down the whole thing. Dreamless Sleep Potion, the extra-strength, highly regulated one. He felt it drawing at his consciousness immediately, and he almost missed the feel of fingers carding gently through the fringe of his hair. He sank gratefully and peacefully into the dark.

-SSS-

Author's note: Very short chapter, but I hope you liked it.