Disclaimer: A fictional story about Harry Potter written by a fan for the SOLE purposes of creative exercise, self-exploration, and general entertainment – it provides no monetary gain and I don't own any of the Harry Potter cannon characters, etc.

Chapter 16

He awoke several hours later. Snape was not in the sitting room or anywhere that he could see, but there was another bottle of headache potion sitting on the coffee table. Shaking his head from both embarrassment and surprise at the man's thoughtfulness, he downed the potion and stood, stretching. It was 9:00 o'clock in the evening and Harry hadn't eaten since 11 that morning. He took himself over to the small kitchenette and opened the fridge. He'd told himself he would never eat anything from this kitchen after seeing the kinds of suspicious and gruesome books Snape kept in his personal collection, but the thought of asking Dobby for yet another mountain of food made him grimace in mild distaste. Instead, he grabbed a simple block of cheddar cheese, found some biscuits in a cabinet, and began to eat at the dining room table.

The rooms were quiet, disturbed only by the sound of his crunching, the muted ticking of the clock, and the fire. He glanced down the hallway towards Snape's bedroom, wondering if he'd fallen asleep himself, but Harry certainly wasn't about to get up and check. He cracked his back a couple of times and massaged his neck as he ate, a little sore from all the time he'd spent on the couch just that day, but grateful that he'd finally been granted the opportunity to get real rest.

Thoughts of their discussion from earlier dogged him, and he strayed into thinking about all his years at Hogwarts, seeing the events with new eyes as he reconsidered what had driven him to all those mad feats. *They had tried to ask for help with the Stone, he remembered, having gone to McGonagall that very day – they'd been summarily dismissed. They had also tried to ask Lockhart for help, but that had ended disastrously. Harry had pretty well given up asking for help by the time he went after Sirius/Padfoot, third year. Then, during the Triwizard tournament, he'd either had help thrust upon him, for nefarious purposes, or had been forced to go it alone. Fifth year had been an unequivocal disaster.

He looked up when he heard a creak in the outer hall that led to the main entrance. Snape glided in wearing full teaching robes. He glanced at Harry, then at the frugal meal he was eating, and summoned a House Elf without missing a beat. Before Harry even had the chance to open his mouth and ask a question, however, the man was ordering him a dinner, and then retreating to his room. It seemed his custom to visit his room every time he came home, Harry noted, jumping lightly as the food materialized on the table before him. He shook his head, still staring at the now empty hall, eyes narrowed a little in confusion, and then just tucked gratefully into the meal of fully loaded jacket potatoes.

Snape didn't re-emerge even after Harry finished his meal. Drumming his fingers on the table, he wondered what he was supposed to do with his time, as he was fairly certain Snape was now diverging from whatever timetable he'd contrived for this weekend's activities. Shrugging to himself and glancing repeatedly at Snape's closed door, he went back to the guestroom and gathered his homework again. He decided to do it on the floor before the coffee table in the sitting room, just for a change of atmosphere. He paused just before he opened his Transfiguration textbook, hoping Snape would choose that moment to emerge and distract him from the 4-foot essay on transfiguring inorganic objects into organic material with sentient life (a rock into a ladybug, for example). Snape, however, did not emerge, and he set about trimming his quill with a huff.

Nearly 2 hours later, Harry finished the essay. His hand was cramped, and his eyes were aching, but he at least felt confident that he could scrape an E. Smiling grimly in triumph, he glanced at the clock. 11 o'clock and still not a sound from Snape. The smile slid from his face and his brow narrowed. He stood, grimacing at his stiff muscles, and then walked over to the hall.

Still silence.

He toed quietly over to Snape's door, falling neatly into his Dursley-enforced night-time tread. There was a faint light on in the room, which he could see from the small crack under the door, but it wavered, indicating it was probably a lone candle. Either Snape had fallen asleep and forgot to extinguish it, or he was up to something else. Harry bit his lip, wondering if it was worth the risk. He'd likely scold Harry either way – for waking him, or for disturbing him – but there was a growing ball of anxiety in Harry's gut which forbade him from just walking away.

Sighing and bracing himself, he knocked lightly on the door. He waited a few heartbeats, and then knocked again, harder. Nothing. He clenched his fist, still biting hard at his lip, and then drew his wand. He recalled Dumbledore had to unlock or unward the door a few weeks ago, when he stepped in to speak with Snape. His whispered Alohamora was fruitless. Obice Inrita, a general barrier cancellation from 4th year, failed too. He tried a few more he'd only heard of, but had never performed previously, to no avail. With a sigh, and as a last resort, he grumbled "Finite Incantatem". He rolled his eyes to high heaven when he heard the click.

Feeling less patient and forgiving now, he opened the door a little harshly, half hoping to catch Snape by surprise. What he saw, however, drained him immediately of all frustration.

Professor Snape wasn't asleep, but neither was he ignoring Harry intentionally. He lay on top of the covers in the large, elegant 4 poster, still in his black trousers and wearing a white dress shirt that was unbuttoned to reveal the white undershirt beneath. He might have been napping, except that his eyes were clenched tight, his face was pale, and he was clenching his left forearm in his right hand. Even in the dim light of the lone candle on his bedside table, Harry could see the blood spilling through his fingers, staining his white shirt and the blue comforter.

His Dark Mark.

Harry waved on the rest of the lights in the room and approached the bed, his heart hammering in his chest. Snape didn't stir at the sudden influx of light, nor even when Harry called his name a few times. Eyes narrowed in confusion and distress, Harry studied his face, noting the tightness of his lips, the haphazard hair splayed against the pillow, and the steady grip of his hand on his arm, so hard his fingertips were bloodlessly white. Harry looked between Snape's left forearm and his strained pale face, wondering why he didn't wake, scream, or even groan from the pain.

Realization dawned from one second to the next.

Oh, Harry thought to himself, still glancing between arm and face, he's Occluding. How else keep from going mad from the pain?

He brandished his wand and summoned his familiar ghostly stag Patronus. It shot through the far wall immediately, on its way to Dumbledore's office. It bore no message, but he knew Dumbledore would know where to come looking. Harry paced a few moments before the bed, trying to figure out what else he could do.

"Think, Harry, think," he grumbled to himself, casting worried glances at Snape as he paced back and forth. "Think like a bloody Slytherin."

Snape never shift in the slightest, although the stream of blood from the Mark was getting more pronounced. Harry tried his name a few more times, although he wasn't exactly sure what he'd do if Snape ever answered. He looked around the room, instead, noting the dark décor – no surprises there – the large, ancient looking dresser, a large full-length mirror (which mocked Harry's hair as he passed it), and a small, but intricately carved, writing desk in the corner. It was the single bookshelf in the room, however, that really caught his eye, namely because it carried no books. Instead, there were row upon row of potion bottles, of every color and variety he'd ever seen. All were hand labeled, and he didn't recognize the vast majority, though his eyes stopped for a long moment on "Post-Cruciatus Nerve Regenerator", which bottle was half full.

A crunching sound underfoot caught his attention, and he realized that one bottle had been smashed recently. Glass shards were sparkling in the light. He knelt down carefully, grateful he was wearing shoes, and found the label, which was still stuck to a number of green shards. "Freeman's Pain Reducer," it said. They'd just learned about this in class. It was one of the most effective pain reducers known, was highly addictive and, therefore, highly restricted. Harry glanced at the bed, at the beads of sweat gathered on Snape's ever-paling forehead, and at the blood coursing between his fingers. Apparently, even this potion hadn't been enough to silence Voldemort's wrathful call.

A sound from the hall gathered Harry's attention. He stood and, in a moment, Dumbledore was framed in the doorway, his blue eyes terrible and piercing.

"He's torturing him," Harry said roughly, by way of explanation, and pointed at the bed. Dumbledore was at Snape's side in another instant, wand out, his gazing never wavering in intensity. Harry approached a little to watch over his shoulder as he muttered spells that flashed different colors, some of which coursed over Snape's body, sinking into his skin. Snape gave a brief shudder, but otherwise didn't change.

"How long has he been this way, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, his voice gravelly and hard with worry. He placed an aged hand on the man's sweaty forehead for a moment, closing his eyes.

"About 2 hours, I think, sir," Harry confessed, hot shame coursing through him as he thought of how much time he'd wasted. "I didn't know there was anything wrong with him. He got back around 9 and then just never came out of his bedroom. I came in to check and found him like this." Dumbledore nodded, offered no words of either condemnation or consolation, and eyed Snape's forearm.

"I would like to try something, Harry," he said, standing. "Help me pry his right hand off so I can see the Mark, if you would." Harry nodded, glanced at Snape, bit his lip again in discomfort, and then wrapped his fingers around Snape's wrist, trying to convince him to release his arm. It was like trying to shift steel manually. He then tried to work on each finger, prying each one up, apologizing silently to Snape for manhandling him this way, comforting himself that it was under Dumbledore's watchful eye and direction.

When Snape's grip still refused to lessen, Dumbledore sighed and muttered another spell, this one at Snape's right hand. Harry immediately felt the fingers go limp. He dropped the hand on Snape's other side quickly, making a face at the touch of it as it now felt distinctly like the hand of a corpse. Dumbledore waved another spell at it and, as life returned, it automatically tried to shoot back towards his left forearm. Dumbledore immobilized it.

Harry, slightly panting, tried to catch Dumbledore's eye, but he was looking down at the Mark now. Harry followed his gaze and his eyes widened as he looked at the malicious inked image, understanding now why Snape was bleeding. The snake, fully emerged from the skull, appeared to have sunk its fangs into the flesh of his arm. Though the figure was two dimensional, where the drawn fang points met his skin, blood was actively dribbling. The entry wounds were thankfully small, or he'd have bled out already. Dumbledore ran his fingers over the Mark, his eyes closed, but nothing seemed to happen. He drew his wand again and said a few enchantments, none of which successfully convinced the snake to surrender its prey. Dumbledore turned his heavy and sorrowful eyes on Harry.

"I'm afraid he may need your help, Harry," he said, softly. Harry looked between the headmaster's face and the snake's malicious glinting eyes and didn't have to ask how he may be able to help where Albus Dumbledore could not.

Bending at the waist, Harry narrowed his eyes at the snake and, with very real anger, hissed, "Let. Him. Go." The snake eyed him with interest. "Release. Him," Harry hissed in Parseltongue, trying to sound commanding as he knew Voldemort would have been. "He is not yours to torment anymore." The snake seemed to hesitate and then, slowly, removed its inked fangs. Snape shifted, shuddering again, though his eyes remained closed as he was still entombed in his Occlumency shields. Dumbledore put a heavy hand on Snape's shoulder and kept it there. "Go away," Harry commanded, still eyeing the snake, allowing venom into his own voice. "Slither back to the hole you crawled out of." The little forked tongue slid out to taste the air, and then the snake drew back into the skull. Harry waited a heartbeat or two and let out a breath of relief.

"Well done, Harry," Dumbledore said through a thin smile. "Now please step back," he instructed, and Harry watched as three bottles from the bookshelf flew through the air to hover above Snape's chest.

"He took Freeman's Pain Reducer, I think, sir," Harry thought to add, as Dumbledore moved to open the first bottle – a blood replenisher. Dumbledore glanced at Harry, nodded, and sent one of the floating bottles back to the shelf.

As Dumbledore leaned over Snape, blood replenisher in hand, he muttered a spell wandlessly. Snape groaned deeply, the first sound he'd uttered in what felt like an eternity, and then his eyes fluttered open to squint at the overly bright lights. Dumbledore's hand still on his shoulder, the dark pained eyes met Dumbledore's pained blue ones.

"Drink this, my boy," Dumbledore said, wearily, "And keep your questions until later, if you would please oblige an old man."

Harry watched from as Snape half sat up to take the potions, visibly trembling from the effort. Neither man noticed as he slipped out the door.

Out in the hall, Harry leaned his back against the wall. He exhaled a breath and was surprised when it caught in his throat. Eyes narrowed with confusion, he held up a hand and wondered why it was shaking. Removing himself to the guestroom, he sunk onto the bed and curled in on himself, trying to quiet a sudden bout of nausea. Is this another panic attack? he asked himself, distantly, otherwise focused entirely on breathing with lungs that felt too strained. His eyes closed and he sought out an immersive memory to occlude with, thinking that might help. But the first memory he summoned was his automatic go-to, Snape's hand on his shoulder, only, this time, it broke his resolve instead of re-enforcing it. He leaned forward and was sick over the side of the bed.

When his stomach was empty, he distractedly waved it away with his wand after two tries. Wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, he shuddered a little in self-disgust, and scooted back on the bed to lean against the wall. He pulled his legs up to wrap his arms around them, and just focused on clearing his mind instead of summoning another memory. On the edge of his consciousness, he knew there lay a vicious bank of dark memories threatening to drown him in despair if he dared to drift off to sleep, so he resisted and set to gnawing on his bottom lip.

When Dumbledore appeared in his doorway 20 minutes later, Harry was just reaching up to wipe where a little blood had dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

"Harry?" Dumbledore quiet voice queried. Harry looked up and noticed, as if for the first time, how very old the headmaster actually was. The creases in his face seemed deeper, his face a bit paler under the shock of white beard and hair that tumbled out over his clothes. And his eyes – they were like icy blue crystal balls which had witnessed too many tragedies. Even now, they were hard with concern; for Snape or himself, Harry couldn't be certain. "I think we should talk a little while, dear boy."

Dumbledore sat himself in the simple wooden chair, not bothering to transfigure it into a plush armchair as was his norm. Harry sat up a tiny bit straighter but kept his eyes mostly on the knees still bent before him.

"Is he going to be okay?" He heard himself ask.

"Yes, Harry, I believe he will be. Thank you for checking on him," Dumbledore replied, with his quiet rumble. Harry could feel the headmaster's eyes on him, but he still didn't want to look up. "I've given him a sleeping potion so he can get a few hours of real rest. How are you faring?"

"There's nothing to stop Voldemort from doing it again though, is there?" Harry said, ignoring Dumbledore's question. His voice was steeped in resignation and something more dark, akin to fear.

"No, Harry, there is not," Dumbledore conceded softly. "Although, for what it's worth, I don't think Tom anticipated him being able to thwart it at all." Finally, Harry chanced another look at him, but he looked away again quickly, shaken a little by the sorrow Dumbledore wore openly on his face.

"What would you have done if I weren't a Parselmouth?"

Dumbledore hesitated a long moment. "The other solutions that remained were rather more invasive," he eventually replied. Harry's face went a bit slack as his mind filled with a muggle-inspired macabre scene of Madam Pomfrey having to cut Snape's arm off at the elbow. Flushing, a shudder stole down his spine. He stared resolutely down at his knees, determined to keep the Legilimens in front of him from finding that image on his mind. A different thought occurred to him, though, which was, in its own way, even more horrible.

"I could have not been a Parselmouth, sir," Harry said, just above a whisper. He closed his eyes and forced himself to continue. "It could have died with me, when the Horcrux was destroyed."

Dumbledore was silent for a long while, but Harry found, this one time, patience was not hard to come by. He cleared his mind again, automatically, and simply waited.

"You are correct, Harry," Dumbledore said at last. "Your inherited abilities from Voldemort should, perhaps, have been destroyed along with the fragment of his soul."

"Why wasn't it? I can't feel Voldemort in my mind anymore. My scar hasn't stung since..." Harry trailed off, letting Dumbledore fill in the blank. His eyes opened and he finally met Dumbledore's blue ones.

"I'm afraid I don't yet know," Dumbledore replied softly. Harry blinked at him. Memories of the conversation they'd had a few weeks before, about Horcruxes, was drifting back to his mind in bits and pieces, but he shied away from them, physically shaking his head a little, as though that would help them tumble out of his ears and away.

"I believe, Harry, I owe you an apology," Dumbledore said, then, taking him off guard. "After your relapse into sleeplessness, it occurred to me that our previous conversation may have been a bit more disturbing than perhaps you were fully prepared to take on." Harry blushed, and rubbed anxiously at his shins, looking away. "I realize now it has only added to your discomfort and I am truly sorry, my boy. I believe I must work on finding a balance between being too blunt and entirely concealing my designs." It felt odd to hear Dumbledore confessing a fault. Harry wanted to deny it all, but he couldn't actually bring himself to. If he closed his eyes, he could still summon the image of Voldemort's slit red eyes peering out of Harry's own pale face from his nightmare.

"You are not evil, Harry," Dumbledore said, and Harry flinched. "You cannot be. No evil soul could have sought to sacrifice their life for that of a stranger, much less for someone who they actively disliked. Nor could an evil soul have done any of the other multitude of entirely selfless acts which have been your legacy since arriving to Hogwarts. Do not doubt yourself, my boy."

"But how do I know what was really him, and what was really me?" Harry whispered. Dumbledore shook his head gravely.

"My dear boy, it comes to the same point. You are whomever you choose to be, Harry. And before me I see a young man who has chosen time and again to be brave, even when doing so was the most difficult option." Dumbledore smiled, but it was neither condescending, nor false. It was the kind of smile that does not light up a soul with cheer, but, instead, simply helps to sustain it.

"Professor," Harry said, locking eyes suddenly with the headmaster, his heart beginning to pound. He stole a glance around Dumbledore, through the wall towards Snape's room, and then back at the headmaster. "There's something I'd like to show you. A memory." Dumbledore's gaze intensified with curiosity. "It's not about Voldemort, or Malfoy Manor…but it's important. To me." Dumbledore nodded slowly.

"Of course, Harry," Dumbledore said.

"Can you teach me how to extract it?"

In a moment, Harry's wand was at his temple. Taking a deep breath and following Dumbledore's muted instructions, he drew the memory away from his head, and watched as the silvery, wispy thing fell into the glass vial Dumbledore had conjured. He looked up as Dumbledore capped it.

"Thank you, Harry, for trusting me with this," Dumbledore said. "I will watch it and ponder its contents."

Harry nodded, forcing himself to smile through his nerves.

Dumbledore departed, the memory slipped into the pocket of his robes, not long after. As he left, Harry couldn't help but glance at the wall again, as though he could see through it to the man, spent and sleeping, in the next room. Something that felt suspiciously like guilt settled in his stomach. He bit his lip and looked away.

-SSS-

*I can't rightly remember if they actually asked McGonagall for help in the books, as they did in the movie, so please grant me a little creative leeway there if I'm wrong. Hehe

Author's note: Apologies for the lateness of the upload. Writer's block and real-life tag teamed against me this week. As a result, this is another short chapter, but the next one will be way longer (I know what's coming and it's going to need a lot of room). I'll get that up sometime tomorrow.

Also, thanks for the reviews! I'm not actively replying to anyone right now because of time constraints, but I *do* read and gush gratefully over every one, so thank you very much!