Chapter 8

Severus taps his foot impatiently, glancing toward the closed door at the end of the hall. His mouth involuntarily morphs into a scowl as the clock's hands tick toward 6:15.

Fifteen minutes late. She hasn't even been here for a whole afternoon and she's already disregarding the rules.

He lets out an irritated huff and peers at the mountain of food resting atop his dining table. Per his request the house elves had delivered a variety of foods, everything from steaks to soups to sandwiches, and it remained untouched. It would be cold soon. Wasted.

Inconsiderate brat.

Why had he even considered this arrangement? There was no way this could work, that he could have her here, and they could exist together without driving each other completely insane.

Aside from the fact that she was a Gryffindor with no respect for rules, she was afraid of him. His expression softened a bit when he remembered the way her face had gone pure white after he'd pulled out his wand. She'd been terrified. Of him. She didn't trust him. She thought him capable of violence. Just like the Dark Lord.

Of course, that had never been his intention. But she had no way of knowing that. He could ship her off to the Dark Lord for slaughter at any moment. She was powerless against him. Yet, she followed him into his quarters, alone. No sense of self-preservation whatsoever.

Then there'd been that smile. Why in Merlin's name had she smiled at him like that. He'd shown her the new bedroom, and she'd looked up at him with those huge, green eyes like he had just given her the best damn gift in the world. It made his stomach churn. He didn't like that look. He didn't deserve that look. The room wasn't even impressive. It was just a basic dormitory design with a larger bed, but Potter had looked around in awe. It wasn't right.

Maybe it was an act. There was no way that a girl like Potter would be so thrilled with such a simple room. Surely, it was pitiful compared to the bedroom at her relative's home.

Yes. That was it. She'd been trying to deceive him. She must have been plotting something. To break out of the castle. She'll try to kill herself again…

He didn't like how easily that thought had flitted into his head. The fact that Potter could attempt something like that even once… It was too much for him to think about. He hated thinking of her like that. He needed her to stay simple. She's Potter. She's a Gryffindor. She's a troublemaker. Those are the facts he makes himself cling to.

He reminds himself that the girl doesn't need his pity. She needs structure and discipline. She needs to know that there are consequences to her actions. She can't just pull some foolish stunt and expect everything to be alright.

And she can't disregard one of the only rules that he's given her. Dinner is at six!

He exhales noisily through his nose and hoists himself up from his chair. He approaches her room quietly and lingers at the door. Apprehension bubbles in the pit of his stomach. He's suddenly worried that she'll fling open the door and find him there looking foolish.

No. He's not supposed to feel uncomfortable. She can't make him feel this way. These are his quarters. She is a guest.

He knocks firmly against the door. There is no answer. So, he waits. Silence. He knocks again. There is still no answer

"Potter!" He calls out gruffly. There is no reply.

And then he remembers and rolls his eyes. Of course, she didn't respond. She can barely speak.

Deciding there is no other option, Severus reaches for the doorknob. He feels like he's intruding when he opens the door a crack and peers inside. He holds his breath as his eyes scan the room for her. He half expects to find the bedroom destroyed; teenagers are known for being messy after all, but the room is in pristine condition, completely untouched by the Potter girl.

He takes a step inside and spots a small lump in the center of the bed. Potter is sprawled out under the comforter in a deep sleep, her face just barely peeking out from beneath the blankets.

He can't explain the calm that settles over him when he sees her like that. With her slackened expression and her eyes lightly closed, he can't see any of the fear from earlier. She doesn't look traumatized or suicidal. She doesn't look defiant or mischievous. She looks peaceful, innocent, like a child. All of his anger from earlier fizzles away, and he's left with shame.

Severus stares at her, searching for remnants of the late James Potter, wishing more than anything to find some reason to dislike her. He needs that. Without it, he's just an angry, bitter man that's been taking out old grudges on a little girl. But that's what she is. Not Potter's evil spawn. She's just a girl.

And deep down he knows that all of those things, every reason to dislike her, to hate her, to treat her cruelly, are unjustified. Because she's a child and she's in pain. And she doesn't deserve any of it.

Finally deciding that it's best to leave her be, he backs out of the room and gently closes the door.

Warmth. It's a strange sensation for her. Not unwelcome. Just different. For as long as she can remember, even before the graveyard, there has been an unrelenting chill hiding somewhere inside her, a biting hollowness that fills her bones, a constant urge to shiver. Something has always prevented her from truly feeling comfortable, even during her happiest moments.

But today she wakes up warm. Her limbs stir from sleep, her eyes flutter, and before she has time to form a coherent thought, she registers this warmth. And it feels wrong, foreign, meant for someone else. She doesn't deserve it. But she craves it. She wants to grab onto it and never let go.

Of course, this warmth doesn't last. Before she's had time to blink and rub her eyes, she remembers who she is and what has happened to her, and the cold awakens and slithers through her, burrowing deep into her core. Still, buried beneath the blankets, her face smushed against the side of a soft, fluffy pillow, she can't shake the enchanting sensation, her first true brush with comfort, with peace, in a long time. She grins into the pillow and smears a string of drool across its velvety surface.

She's finally managed to sleep well. Now what?

Harriet swings her legs over the side of the bed, and shivers as her bare toes touch the cold, stone floor. She patters toward the door and stops. Her room is so similar to her dormitory that she's almost forgotten that this is still Snape's quarters.

Snape. She still can't quite believe that.

She glances over at the clock on the wall and is shocked to see that it's nearly eight in the morning. It's the first time she's slept through the night in weeks. Her whole body feels lighter, as if an enormous weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

She staggers over to the wardrobe and pulls one of Dudley's old sweatshirts from her tattered pile of castoffs, turning up her nose at the pitiful selection. Then she snatches a pair of Aunt Petunia's old, stained jeans and yanks them on. They are only a couple sizes too large on her thin frame, but she is forced to roll them up multiple times around her ankles to keep them from dragging the floor. She is sure that Snape will have some biting comment about her attire, but she decides that it doesn't matter. The man can berate her all he wants. She doesn't care. Right?

Her mouth is dry and sticky with sleep, so she makes her way to the bathroom. There might be a mirror. She tucks her head down and brushes her teeth, staring blankly at the floor. She swallows a stream of water from the tap, trying to ebb the burning feeling in her throat. It doesn't help much.

When she's finished with her quick morning routine, not bothering to brush her hair or fret over her appearance, she patters out into the hallway, listening closely for signs of the Potion's professor, but all is silent. Her nose leads her into the kitchen where a mound of food covers the dining table. She hesitantly sits down in front of an empty plate.

The food smells good. It really does. She's hungry, so hungry, but the thought of actually eating any of the greasy sausage, slimy eggs, or buttery toast makes her stomach roll uncomfortably. The longer she stares at it, the more nauseous she feels, so she averts her gaze and casts her attention downward.

There is still no sign of Snape, and she begins to feel apprehensive. Surely, he's not too angry about her missing dinner last night. She hadn't intended to, but she was just so exhausted. Will he yell? What if he kicks me out? Her heart starts to beat much faster, and her fingers begin drumming against the tabletop nervously.

When someone clears their throat behind her. Her whole-body jerks violently as if she's been struck by lightning. The drumming stops. She whips around to stare at the hook-nosed figure in the doorway. How long has he been there watching?

Snape's face looks forcibly free of emotion as he paces around the table, settling into the chair furthest from her. She wonders briefly what he's thinking behind that mask of his and waits for some snarky comment, some remnant of the foul, snide man from Potions class. But it doesn't show. He seems somewhat- Withdrawn? Is that the right word? Maybe careful? She's not sure. But she's definitely noticed the change in the man. He's been off since that night. It's very strange.

Her eyes track him closely, not daring to let him out of her sight. For a moment, his dark eyes meet hers and the corners of his mouth turn down ever so slightly. Then, without a word, he loads his plate with food. Her stomach growls.

Harry clasps her hands together beneath the table and struggles to remain impassive. It won't do to let the man see her squirm. She won't let him intimidate her. Or at least she won't show it. She can be just as cool and calculating as he can. As long as he doesn't come any closer. If he gets any closer, she will go absolutely mental. Just stay over there and eat. Don't look at me. Don't look at me. Just eat.

She doesn't dare attempt to reach for any of the food. Snape probably wouldn't like that. Harry knew that if she disrespected him, she would surely be shipped back to the hospital wing. So, she's polite and patient, just as Aunt Petunia had taught her. She'll wait for Snape to finish, then, only if he allows it, she will have a bit. Just a bit.

It's not proper for a girl to scarf down food like a savage. Girls like that shouldn't be fed at all. That thought rings out in the voice of her smarmy Aunt, and she struggles not to think of the horse-faced woman peering down at her with disappointment and revulsion.

Snape devours his meal quickly, and soon his plate is nearly clean. She's staring down at his remaining food when his head snaps up to face her.

"Serve yourself, Potter," he grunts impatiently. "and take your potions," he says, gesturing to three vials near her empty plate.

Harry drinks the potions, not daring to gag at the foul taste. Then, hesitantly, she reaches for a piece of unbuttered toast and a small scoop of eggs. She nibbles on the corner of the toasted bread, not sure how her churning stomach will react to the food. Snape is still watching, so she lifts her fork and pushes the eggs around her plate a bit. A section of her long, limp hair tumbles onto her plate, and she quickly tucks it behind her ear, not noticing the slimy fragment of egg tangled in one of her messy curls.

Snape hoists himself up from his chair and turns to her, grimacing slightly at the wad of egg smeared in her dark locks. "I will be brewing until late this evening. I suggest you use your time wisely and start on your Summer homework." With those words, the man swishes out of the room into his study.

That grimace. That damn grimace. Harry's stomach sinks, and she drops what is left of the toast onto her plate. She fishes the food out of her hair, feeling disgusted with herself. She doesn't like to admit that Snape's opinion of her matters, but it does. And he obviously thinks she's repulsive. He isn't wrong.

Harry sighs. Now that Snape is gone, some of the tension lifts, and she takes a few more bites of food before standing. She notices Snape's dirty dishes still resting on the table. Should I wash the plates? Does he expect that? Snape hadn't said anything about chores, but surely, he expects some sort of payment for her intrusion.

She is still deciding what to do, when the food and the plates disappear from the table, leaving it sparkling clean. She blinks dumbly at the sight for a few moments before turning and heading toward her room.

She peers over at the desk. Homework. Snape wants her to do Homework. She can do that. It will give her a goal to work toward, something to keep her mind from traveling to forbidden places. Homework will be good for her. She plops down and opens the first textbook in the stack on the desk. Potions. Of course.

But as she begins to read, finally focusing on something other than herself, she becomes immersed in the somewhat boring pages of the book. She studies the unfamiliar terminology. She wants to understand. Slowly, the world around her begins to melt away.

As the hours tick by, she begins to understand some of the basic concepts of potion making that have alluded her since her first year. She is able to start on her essay, feeling confident that what she's writing is correct and thoughtful. She smirks down at the parchment. Hermione would be proud of her. Even Snape won't be able to find fault with it when she's finished.

Harry shows up to lunch at noon, only to appease Snape. She waits at the table, but the man never emerges from his study. Not feeling hungry at all, Harry doesn't bother to pick at any of the food. She returns to her room, slides back into her desk chair, and works for the remainder of the afternoon.

The days pass by slowly and monotonously. Each night Harriet struggles to sleep as well as she'd done the first night, but to no avail. Her vivid nightmares attack her at every turn. Most nights she ends up leaving her bed to work on her homework, desperate for a distraction. She feels weak with exhaustion, but she doesn't break any of Snape's rules. She rarely even sees the man. He spends most of his time locked in his study, while she spends her days shut up in her room. Eventually Harry stops showing up for lunch, knowing that Snape never bothers to appear for the midday meal anyway.

By the end of the week, she's managed to construct the best essay that she's ever written. She closes her Potions textbook, feeling satisfied. No longer concentrated on the essay, that familiar chill settles on her skin. The cold is so overwhelming, that she drags herself into the bathroom, stripping off her clothes, and launches herself into the shower where the steaming water overtakes her.

She realizes suddenly, that it's the first shower she's taken since coming back to Hogwarts. Merlin, I must smell horrible. She closes her eyes as she massages a mound of shampoo into her matted hair. The subtle floral scent of the shampoo wafts into her nostrils, making her feel at peace. That feeling doesn't last long.

As she covers her body in suds, she catches sight of the letters that mar her skin, the brand that he's left upon her. I belong to him, she thinks. I always will.

She clenches her eyes shut, so she doesn't have to look at that scar that will never heal. But it's too late. The memories are already swirling around her, forcing the breath from her lungs.

"We're going to have some fun," she hears him say all over again.

The dagger digs ruthlessly into her chest.

His panting breath is white-hot against her cheek. His weight forces the sticks and rocks in the grass to dig deep into her bare back, tearing her delicate skin. She hears her own screeches ringing in her ears, sharp and startling over the sound of delighted laughter.

She grits her teeth so forcefully; they nearly crumble into dust.

Blood gurgles from Cedric's spliced throat. Her body is limp, an inanimate object, no longer her own. Everything is grey, grey, grey.

Trapped within the steam, Harry collapses. The weight of her memories slam into her, threatening to tear her apart. She sits beneath the water, exploding with emotion, rocking back and forth, desperate to find relief from the burning in her throat, in her head, in her chest. Her fingers snake upward and clamp around her skull, tangling deep into her hair. She clenches her fist around a wad, and she wants to rip it free. She wants to tear and tear until there's nothing left. She yanks hard and whimpers from the pain, toppling over and curling against the porcelain. The water beats upon her like tiny shards of glass. If only the water and the shame and the anger and the pain could all be washed away.

Potter doesn't show up to breakfast in the morning, and she'd been absent from supper the night before. Severus knows she's alive. The special spells guarding her room confirm that her heart is still beating, but that does nothing to soothe his apprehension.

Severus is supposed to bring the girl to Poppy for her checkup today. He'd planned to take her right after the morning meal. When she didn't make an appearance, he decided it was time to take action.

He waits outside her bedroom door, listening closely for sounds of life on the other side. Everything is still and silent. He knocks loudly upon the door, pauses for a moment, and then swings the door open. The girl is not there.

Severus panics for a moment before he spies the closed bathroom door on the other side of the room. It's about time she decided to shower.

He sweeps over to the door and hears the sound of water running on the other side, confirming his suspicions. Deciding to inform her of the checkup, he smacks the door a few times and calls out to her.

"Potter," he yells, a bit louder than normal.

The girl gives no indication that she's heard him. He places the sonorous charm on himself and speaks again.

"POTTER!" his voice is magically magnified, and soon he hears stirring and the running water stops

"When you're done, meet me in the sitting room. Madame Pomfrey wants to see you," he tells her before he leaves the room, swinging the door closed behind him.

Severus is waiting patiently by the fireplace when the girl sways into the room, paler than ever. She looks absolutely dreadful. The dark circles under her eyes are startling, and her eyes are tinged with red. He spots her shaking hands, barely peeking out from the sleeves of an oversized sweatshirt. Her fingers are bleached and shriveled looking.

What in Merlin's name has she done?

He studies her skin even closer, spotting a bit of decaying skin trailing up one side of her neck as well. She's been under that water for hours. It was fortunate for the girl that her face had been spared.

"Show me your arm," he says, keeping his voice as calm as possible.

The girl appears defiant for a moment. Then she must realize that refusing his request will get her nowhere, because she carefully raises her sleeve up to her elbow, wincing slightly.

The top side of her arm is covered in decaying, translucent skin, some of it partially peeled off. By the looks of it, Severus guesses she's been lying in the shower for nearly 24 hours. He needs to get her to the hospital wing. Skin exposed to water for a prolonged period of time is especially susceptible to infection. That's the last thing that the girl needs.

Severus grabs a handful of floo powder from a jar on the mantle and ushers the girl forward. She tiptoes toward him cautiously, obviously uncomfortable with being so close to him. Together, they step into the fire. Severus throws the powder and shouts out the name of the hospital wing.

The mediwitch is at their side in an instant, and her eyes widen at Potter's appearance.
"Severus… What on Earth?" She asks, her eyes wide as saucers. But then the shock fades from her face and the woman gets to work, grabbing balm from a shelf and tending to the girl.

Potter sits on a cot and allows the woman to cast spell after spell, gulping down potions and following the older witches every command.

Severus stands back, waiting for Poppy to ask for his assistance, but she appears to have everything under control. He doesn't interrupt her. Soon, she conjures a curtain around Potter's cot without saying a word, and steps inside. He stares at the curtain, wondering if he should leave. He isn't needed here. Poppy can take care of her. Much better than I can, he thinks sardonically.

It's only been a week, and she's already injured. Again.

He should have paid more attention to her. He should have checked on her last night. He should have never allowed her to skip meals. This is his fault.

Severus refuses to leave the hospital wing. He sits in a chair at the corner of the room, his gaze fixed on the curtain, waiting for it to open. He knows Potter will be fine. Skin is a bit painful to regrow, but if treated, it does not pose any real danger.

And Harry is fine, at least physically. The curtain falls nearly an hour later, and he spots her small form lying on the cot, her skin fresh and pink.

Poppy trots over to him, the hair in her tight bun, slightly askew.

"Her vocal cords are healing nicely," she tells him. "I think it's safe for her to start using her voice occasionally."

Severus nods.

"She really needs to eat more. Even with her nutrient potions, her levels are poor. Do you eat together?"

"Occasionally," he answers honestly, knowing this answer reflects poorly on him.

"Well," Poppy says sternly, "I think you'd better make it a more regular occurrence."

He nods again.

Poppy sighs and looks him straight in the eye. "How is she really doing Severus?" She asks him wearily. "Is she sleeping okay?"

After what she's been through, probably not… He feels stupid for not considering this, but Potter had never mentioned any nightmares. Of course, she probably wouldn't. Not to me. Maybe he could start giving her a calming draught with her evening meal to help her relax.

"I really don't know. She doesn't communicate much."

"You don't talk to her or ask her questions?"

The older witch sounds shocked, and he feels like a child about to be scolded.

"No, I assumed if she needed something, she would ask for it," he says defensively.

The mediwitch huffs. "Severus, I know this isn't easy for you, but if you're going to take proper care of that girl, you have to get more involved. Just talk to her. About anything."

And no matter how frustrating it is to hear this; he knows that she's right. He doesn't have to like the girl. He doesn't have to coddle her. But he does have to make sure that she's safe.

"I will try."

Harriet hadn't realized that she'd fallen asleep until a booming voice roared over the sounds of the cold water still raining down on her.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Snape!

Harry turns the knob and clambers to her feet, shivering uncontrollably. Bloody Hell! It's freezing!

She reaches for a towel, and nearly screams when she sees the mangled pieces of her skin clinging to her body like chunks of wax.

How long have I been here? Hours? Days? She isn't sure.

"When you're done, meet me in the sitting room. Madame Pomfrey wants to see you," she hears Snape say.

What do I do?

Harry is momentarily stunned. Her skin doesn't exactly hurt, but the feeling of numbness is rather disconcerting, and it's absolutely horrifying to look at. There is no way to hide such obvious damage. Maybe my clothes will cover it. But what about my face?

Terrified of what she will find, Harry slowly raises her hand and brushes it against her cheek. She doesn't feel the sickening texture. The skin there still feels smooth. She lets out a breath, realizing that her face hadn't been under the water. Hopefully, if she covers the rest of her body, Snape won't notice.

She pats herself down with a towel, careful not to cause any more damage, and pulls back on the clothes that are still in a wad at the corner of the room.

Her legs feel numb as she waddles out into the hall.

It's annoying how easily Snape seems to see through her disguise. He demands to see her arm. Harry wants to tell him to bugger off.

She doesn't.

Instead she shows him the horrific mass of flesh, and he takes her straight to the mediwitch.

In the hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey leads her away from Snape, asking her how long she was in the water. Harry shrugs, but the mediwitch starts filling her with potions anyway. Then she tells her to remove her pants and her sweatshirt and thankfully conjures a curtain for privacy.

Pomfrey rubs a balm on her damaged hands. It burns like fire, but that pain is forgotten and replaced with awe as she watches her dead flesh shrivel and fall to the floor, leaving a patch of shiny new skin. Then the mediwitch goes to fetch some more potions, leaving Harry to tend to more private patches of skin. She is grateful.

Before Harry knows it, she is back in Snape's quarters, staring awkwardly at the man who instructs her to sit down. Oh no. What now?

She sinks slowly onto the couch, her eyes narrowing with confusion.

"It seems we need to have a conversation," Snape drawls. He seems nearly as uncomfortable as she feels, and she almost feels bad for the man. Almost.

"Madame Pomfrey has informed me that despite the excessive amount of food being provided each day, your nutrition levels are still dangerously low. I was under the impression that you were eating three meals a day, but it appears that is not the case," he says darkly.

She nods slightly to show that she's listening.

"Is there a particular reason that you've been wasting my food?"

Harry isn't sure if she should shake her head yes or no. She never intended to waste the food. She's just so exhausted and nauseous all the time that she can barely keep anything down.

"Use your words Potter. I don't enjoy having a one-sided conversation," he snaps.

She hasn't used her voice in such a long time, that she isn't even sure she's capable of making sound. Under his powerful glare, she is forced to try. She swallows once and opens her mouth. "I'm not very hungry," she says, surprised by how clear her voice sounds.

"Well, be that as it may, you have to eat. I can't have you looking starved while in my care. It reflects poorly on me," he says. "Perhaps if you'd eaten a bit more, you wouldn't have passed out in the shower."

Harry doesn't bother to correct him. Let him think she passed out from starvation. That's a lot less humiliating than the truth.

"Okay."

"From now on, you will eat every meal at the dining room under my supervision. You will eat suitable portions and take your potions every day. No exceptions."

This sounds absolutely horrible to Harry, but she doesn't tell him that.

"Okay."

"As you obviously can't be trusted to take care of yourself, I am now forced to become more involved," he says sourly. "How have you been sleeping?"

The question throws her off guard. Why is that any of your business?

"Er…"

"Eloquent as always, Potter," he sneers.

She grits her teeth. "Not. Well. Sir."

For a moment, she thinks that Snape almost looks pleased to hear the attitude in her voice. But surely that isn't right. Maybe he's just eager to find a reason to punish her.

"It is important for someone of your age to be getting enough sleep. No more staying up for half the night."

It's not as if I prefer to be plagued by nightmares every time that I close my eyes.

"Okay."

"What's causing your insomnia, Potter?"

What do you think? She wants to sneer at him. Does he want to hear all about the gruesome images trapped within her head? Will he get some sick satisfaction out of that?

"Nothing."

He nods slowly, narrowing his eyes. "Madame Pomfrey also believes it necessary for you to be using your voice more to strengthen it. Perhaps you can learn how to say more than one word at a time."

Git.

"Okay," she says, raising one eyebrow.

If Snape is going to be an asshole, she certainly isn't going to try so hard to be respectful.

"Lunch is in an hour. Do not be late," he says before striding away.

Harry stomps back to her room, the anger still coursing through her veins. So much for new, nice Snape.

She doesn't enjoy being taunted by the man, but she has to admit that feeling anger is preferable to the miserable cold she's been feeling. For once, she doesn't feel like she'll break down crying at any moment. It's refreshing.

Harriet makes sure to show up to dinner five minutes early, but she isn't' feeling quite a lively as she had during her last confrontation with Snape. Some of her fire has gone out.

Snape's anger must have faded as well, because he doesn't attempt to insult her again. Their dinner is relatively calm and quiet. Harry takes all of Snape's Potions and tries to eat as much food as she can, but she doesn't get more than half a sandwich down, before her stomach threatens to empty itself onto the table.

"Have some vegetables, Potter," Snape says, pushing a bowl of diced carrots toward her.

Harry turns her nose up at the food. Even if she felt well enough to eat another bite, she certainly wouldn't choose carrots.

"I don't think I can," she says quietly, wiping a clammy hand against her pant leg.

"You haven't even finished your sandwich," he says, studying her pained expression.

"I don't feel very well," she confesses.

"Do you often feel ill while eating?" he asks, sounding genuinely interested in her answer.

She nods, not quite meeting his eyes. "I get nauseous a lot. Unless you want me to vomit on you again, I probably shouldn't eat any more."

Snape doesn't scowl at her like she'd expected, instead he rises from the table, and snatches a vial out of the cupboard.

"Take this," he says, handing it to her.

"What is it?" she asks warily. Considering most of his potions taste like mud, she doesn't think drinking the sludge will help their situation.

"Stomach soother," he replies. "Drink it."

She does, and she's surprised when the nausea disappears, allowing her to finish the remainder of her sandwich.

"Let me know if you require any extra potions in the future," he tells her.

She nods.

Harriet tries to sleep that night. She feels more relaxed than normal and curls herself under the thick comforter, reveling in its warmth until she begins to doze. Only hours later, she wakes, the memory of her assault clear in her mind. She takes several shaky breaths, digging her fingernails deep into the flesh on her thigh, trying to forget. She doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.

In the days that follow, Harry finishes the remainder of her Summer herbology homework, making sure to show up for meals, and eating just enough to satisfy Snape. The two of them aren't friendly, but they don't have any major arguments either. She does everything she can to get enough sleep, but nothing is working. Each day she grows wearier and wearier, knowing that soon she'll be exhausted enough for another breakdown.

Snape must be noticing how drained she is, because he brings it up one night at dinner after she lets out an enormous yawn.

"Did I or did I not specifically inform you that you needed to be sleeping at night."

"You did," she says, not bothering to defend herself.

"Then why did I see light shining beneath your door in the middle of the night?"

"I was working on my homework," she explains.

"There are plenty of hours during the day for that."

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, lifting her hand to stifle another yawn.

After dinner, Harry crawls into bed, hoping that she can finally get the rest that she needs.

Blood. Screaming. Pain. It's happening all over again. Just as intense and horrible as the night before. Harry sits upright with a gasp, tears pooling in her eyes. The room is pitch black, and a sinister chill hangs in the air.

Just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare. Calm down. Breathe.

She lets out one quiet sob, wrapping her arms around herself.

Then she hears it.

"Harriet Potter," a cold voice whispers.

It's him. Voldemort.

Thanks for reading! Please leave a review and let me know what you think.