Chapter 14

Something soft brushes against Harry's cheek. She smiles sleepily, nuzzling her face in it. It feels like a sheep. So soft. She forces her eyes open and blinks a few times before shrugging the warm, wool blanket away.

She's slept amazingly well. No dreams, none at all. And even though she's spent the night with her head propped up on an armrest, she has no neck pain. The soft, oversized cushions make her feel as though she's being held. It's nice. She'd never thought that Snape would own such comfortable furniture. He seems like the type of bloke who would prefer a firm, plastic covered sofa… or like a metal folding chair.

Harry smirks to herself and yawns before climbing to her feet. She catches sight of the clock on the wall. It's nearly 3 in the afternoon. Wow. If only she could sleep all the time.

She stretches her arms high into the air, feeling the thin fabric of Dudley's old shirt brushing against her thighs. She stares down at it in disgust. It's still got blood stains on it from last night.

Ew. And Snape had seen her in this. Her face goes a dark shade of pink. It's pretty short. Too short for her to be wearing around anyone, let alone Snape.

Well it's not like I planned for him to come in my room.

Snape probably hadn't noticed anyway. She'd spent most of the night curled up in the blanket. And he'd been more preoccupied with what she'd done. Stealing. And making a mess. And she'd done some yelling.

Still, he hadn't seemed nearly as mad as he should have been. Where was the fuming lunatic from Potions class who'd berate a student for sneezing? That man was a complete git. This one though… He's almost decent. Sure, he'd still been angry last night, but it was more like stern disapproval than outright rage. And she'd deserved it.

Harry pads into her bedroom still thinking about last night. Her room is as good as new. Everything is clean and organized. The bed is even made. Had that been Snape or the house elves? Regardless, someone had cleaned up everything from the upturned furniture to the shards of glass.

Harry slips off her ruined shirt and tosses it into the corner. Maybe she can burn it later. She rummages through her wardrobe trying to find something decent to wear. Something with long sleeves. And pants. Definitely pants.

She tugs on a grubby, grey sweatshirt. It had belonged to Dudley in Primary School, back when he'd only had two chins. She pairs it with some frayed jeans that she has to roll four times at the ankle. Then she pulls on her socks. Her big toe peeks through a wide hole in the fabric. She wiggles it glumly. God, she needs some new clothes.

One problem at a time.

First, she needs to deal with that sodding memory.

The door to Snape's lab in closed, but she can tell he's inside. There's the steady beat of a knife chopping ingredients and a potent stench leaking from the room. She raps on the door firmly, hoping he's in a decent mood.

"Enter," Snape says gruffly.

She steps inside, coughing as the fumes assault her lungs. Ugh. It really does smell horrible. She can't even imagine what is must taste like. She crinkles her nose without stepping any closer.

Snape glares at her from over a giant, simmering cauldron. "Did you need something or are you planning on standing there all day?"

"Er… I thought you… The memory. You said you would get rid of it today," she offers him a half smile, hoping he won't misinterpret her desperation for impertinence.

"I did."

"And?"

"And I am clearly busy at the moment," he says harshly.

Woah. What's up his ass today? She's fairly certain that she hadn't done anything to anger him while she'd been asleep. Maybe he's still mad about the sleeping draught thing… Even though the appropriate time to have been angry would have been last night. But whatever. Snape never makes sense.

"Oh… Well, can I help? I can prepare ingredients or stir or-"

"No," he interrupts.

"Why not?" She tries not to sound angry, but her question still has a frustrated edge to it.

"I don't need the help of a student, especially not a subpar one."

Harry recoils. She bites the inside of her cheek. It definitely isn't the first time he's insulted her. He's said much worse over the years. But still. It stings. She'd really been trying to improve, trying to show that she wasn't stupid. Worthless.

She catches sight of something akin to regret flashing on Snapes face, and he runs his fingers through a lock of damp, dark hair. He looks tired.

"This potion is complex. I don't have the time or patience to teach you right now."

Was that? Had Snape just apologized? Something must be seriously wrong with him.

"Oh… okay. Would it be alright if I watch?"

"I suppose."

She doesn't come any closer. With her luck, she'd take one step forward and Snape would bite her head off again. And it's better to stay in here with him. Even if he's being a git, it still beats being alone. When she's alone she worries. There is plenty to worry about.

Harry watches for a while, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She doesn't want to complain. She doesn't want to get berated. But to be honest, she's bored. So bored. She can't see shit from this far away. Her vision isn't great. She's basically just staring at a black blob.

Harry creeps forward a few steps and pauses. Snape doesn't yell or look up, so she walks to the edge of the table. She wobbles on her tiptoes and tries to peek over the edge of the cauldron. A glistening, midnight-blue liquid bubbles inside.

"What is it?" she asks.

"That is none of your concern."

It isn't really an answer, but it isn't an insult either. Maybe he's finally got his attitude under control.

Harry studies the ingredients lined up on the table. There are dozens, and she doesn't recognize the majority of them. Snape glances at the book beside him and then begins dicing some kind of root with expert precision. Harry inches closer, trying to read the instructions upside down. They're way too blurry without her glasses. She tilts her head and squints, but the words are tiny. And they're handwritten…

"Did you invent it?"

Snape doesn't answer.

With a small huff, Harry saunters over to the other side of the table and reaches for the book. Snape's hand launches out so fast that she flinches in surprise.

"If you insist on being in here, go sit over there, and stay quiet," he growls, pointing to wooden chair near the wall.

"I'm just trying to learn something."

"Learn to stay quiet," he snaps.

She frowns at him, and then goes back to examining the ingredients. There's a section of mandrake root, some lavender leaves, wormwood, peppermint sprigs, and willow bark. All used for decreasing pain. Her eyes narrow as they land on the distinctive nettles.

"Why would you use so many powerful pain-relieving ingredients and then add Venomous Tentacula nettles? Won't they cause pain instead of numbing it?"

Snape's catches her eye for a moment. "They will," he answers slowly.

"So, isn't the potion kind of redundant?"

"The nettles are painful, but they also act as a stimulant. They can help counteract nerve damage or paralysis while increasing alertness."

Nerve damage. Paralysis. Alertness. Pain relief. Hmmm…

"It is used to help with the lingering effects of the Cruciatus curse."

"Oh."

"I assume you don't remember taking it," he says carefully.

"No."

Her chest starts to feel unnaturally heavy. She isn't sure why.

"Do you think something is going to happen? Is that why you're brewing it now? Is He going to-"

"No. I don't think you're in danger," he says firmly. "However, I expect he will be calling me soon."

"But why would you need the potion?"

"The Dark Lord is fond of using the Cruciatus curse to punish his victims as well as his followers."

"Oh," she whispers and falls silent.

Harry watches him brew for nearly half an hour, noticing how naturally the whole process seems to come to him. It's as if his hands and the ingredients and the knives and the cauldron are all connected together by an invisible string. He's talented. She's never noticed that before, but he is, truly. And now that she's noticed that, she realizes that she doesn't really know him at all.

"Why do you do it?" she blurts abruptly. "Spy, I mean."

"It's my job," he says sourly.

"Obviously. But how do you even get a job like that?"

"You ask far too many questions," he sounds annoyed but not cruel.

She feels an overwhelming urge to test his limits. What does it take for decent Snape to morph into raging asshole Snape?

"Did you have to fill out an application?"

"Potter," he warns.

"An interview then?"

Snape looks so irritated. She tries to hide a smirk behind her hand.

Seriously though, who in their right mind would agree to bind themselves to a complete psychopath?

Probably another psychopath…

It would have to be someone pretty twisted. They would have to enjoy watching others suffer. How else could they stand there and laugh? They laughed while she was being tortured. She gulps. Had Snape laughed?

There had been a huge crowd of them. She remembers that, though she tries not to. Those memories are for later. But even so, she can't help her mind creeping backward, searching for Snape in the crowd of black cloaks. She's pretty sure that she'd seen him there. But when? She couldn't remember. Had he been one of the masked men who jeered or just a silent observer?

"Did you laugh?" The question slips from her mouth before she's considered its consequences.

"What in Merlin's name are you blabbering about now, Potter," Snape groans.

Shit! Why did I ask him that? If he says yes… Well, she doesn't want to hear that. She can't hear that.

And even if he says no, that doesn't mean he's telling the truth. Snape is a professional liar! If he told her that Earth was flat using his monotonous drawl and slightly raised eyebrow, she'd believe it.

Regardless of his answer, her question is only going to make him think of her on that night. It was humiliating enough to know that he'd seen it once. Her fingers flutter apprehensively against her thigh. Why had she insisted on coming in here today?

She must be lost in thought for a significant amount of time, because Snape suddenly clears his throat. She glances toward him. He's staring at her intently.

"Oh. Uh… nevermind." Harry clutches her hands together and studies the stones on the wall. They seem particularly interesting today. There are quite a few of them. All the same shade of grey too. Very uniform. Very –

"Did I laugh at what?" Snape asks warily. He's studying her again, using that unrelenting glare that means he's not going to give up. His dark eyes bore into hers, searching for the answer that lies behind them.

Damn. She'll have to say something.

"I don't know why I said that," she says honestly. "Just forget it."

She shrinks down in the rickety chair and falls silent. Snape must turn his attention back to the potion because she hears him stirring a moment later followed by the plop of a new ingredient.

She's finally believing that he's not going to press her for any more details when he gives her an answer.

"No," he says simply. "I did not laugh."

Harry spins in her seat, her mouth slightly parted. "You… you didn't?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Snape purses his lips and watches the bubbling cauldron. "I did not find the situation amusing."

"Oh," Harry says quietly. "Me neither." She taps her feet awkwardly against the floor, trying to fill the silence. The tightness in her chest is becoming too severe to ignore. "Are you sure I'm safe?" she pants. "He really can't get to me again?"

Snape looks over at her. His discomfort is clear. "There are no guarantees," he begins slowly. "However, the Dark Lord is far too weak to come after you again right now. He has more important things to concern himself with for the time being."

"Like what?"

"Determining which of his followers are still loyal and gaining more support as well as doling out punishments to the unfaithful."

"Like you?"

"That is to be determined," he answers begrudgingly.

"Why would you go back to him if you think he's going to hurt you?"

"It's my job."

She nearly rolls her eyes. Snape's stubbornness is really quite remarkable. It'd be a miracle if Voldemort didn't get annoyed with him and blast him to bits. No. No. Don't even think his name. She forces a deep breath in. And thinking about Snape getting killed isn't really helping either. Her hand unconsciously trails up to her throat to feel her pulse. It's fast, really fast.

"Professor," she says, her voice a bit higher than usual. Shit. Calm down. She straightens in the chair and composes herself before continuing. "I understand that you're busy, but do you think you could take my memory soon?"

Harry looks him straight in the eyes, forbidding her panic to show. Snape stares back, his eyes narrowed into slits.

"Stop doing that," he says sharply.

That is not the response she expects. She raises an eyebrow at him. "What?"

He waves his finger at her. "That whole act you put on. It's unnecessary. It is clear that you're distressed, so stop pretending."

Like he would appreciate if she started shaking like a leaf and said what she was really thinking. Could you take the goddamn memory soon? Like really soon? Like now? I know you say you're busy, but it's just I keep panicking over little things, really insignificant things, literally everything, and it'd be nice if I could just breathe again. I really just want to exist without having that goddamn memory pounding in my skull and making my palms sweat and my heart race and leaving this fucking feeling in my chest! So, could you just fucking do it and brew your potion later? If she said that, she'd probably burst into tears. Her "act" is the only thing keeping her shit together.

And how dare he talk about acting! Always pretending to be one thing and then another. Last night, he'd offered to help her and then today he's acting like she's something foul stuck to the bottom of his shoe. It's impossible to tell when he's being genuine or what the fuck is running through his mind! And the constant mind games! She wants to scream. He's such a hypocrite.

She crosses her arms defiantly. "What about your act? You seem pissed one minute, and then the next, you're almost civilized. Pick one. It's confusing."

He glances back down at his potion and wipes the sweat from his brow, looking exasperated. "If I remove your memory, will you be less irritating?"

Really? I'm the irritating one?

She pretends to contemplate the question for a moment and then shrugs. "Probably."

Snape sighs and casts a stasis charm on his potion. "Into the sitting room," he instructs, pointing toward the door.

She can breathe again. Finally. Finally, everything will be okay.

A wand digs into her temple, threatening to burrow into her skull. She shivers.

Something flutters unpleasantly in her stomach. Not butterflies. More like bats. A flock of giant, rabid bats. She gulps and curls her fingers into soft, fluffy cushion.

The pressure against her head dissipates. A deep voice rings out from above her.

"You need to calm yourself, Potter. Attempt to clear your mind."

Her eyes snap open to glare at him. "How can I clear my mind and think about… It."

"Just try to focus. Block out the sensations around you. Try to immerse yourself in the memory."

That's the last thing she wants to do.

She struggles for breath. "Wouldn't it just be easier to obliviate me?"

"Exceedingly so."

"Then why-"

He cuts her off. "It won't work. The memory is too intertwined with your subconscious. You'd go mad."

"I'm already mad."

"Not quite," he says with a frown. "You need to try and keep your breathing as constant as possible. Once the spell has begun, I won't be able to restart. There is only one chance to retrieve the whole memory."

"So, you're saying if I fuck it up, then that's it, I'm screwed for life."

"I'm saying that I cannot redo this spell. If pieces of the memory are left behind, you're going to have to live with them."

Okay. She exhales. Okay. Okay. Okay. You can do this. You have to do this. One chance. Only one chance.

"You'll have to stay still, or I will be forced to restrain you. Keep the memory at the front of your mind and go through it step by step. Think about your senses. The more detail you recall, the less you will remember."

"Will it hurt?"

He shakes his head. "No. Not physically."

"Okay," she whispers.

Snape places the wand against her temple again, gently this time. "Are you ready?"

Harry opens her mouth, but she can't speak. Her fingers curl even tighter around the chair's pillow-like fabric. Then she nods.

"Close your eyes," he tells her in a voice that sounds somewhat strained.

His eyes are dark, like a starless night. They look straight into hers, as if trying to decipher some unbreakable code. She knows her own eyes must be glassy and full of fear. She closes them.

Snape murmurs an incantation in Latin.

She scrambles to immerse herself at the right moment. But where to begin? That night. That goddamn night.

Foggy air. Nearly too thick to breathe. But she hadn't breathed much that night anyway. Not after he had come bursting out of that cauldron. Those early moments were so surreal. She can barely remember them.

He'd gotten close. So close in her face, calling her by her full name. Putrid, hot breath. Smiling that horrid smile.

"Harriet Potter, the girl who lived."

Then he'd touched her. Her cheek. He'd only touched her cheek. And she'd been stupid. She'd told him not to touch her. Was that the moment he'd decided? Had she given him the idea?

"Stupid girl. I will do whatever I want."

Those words are so clear. And chilling. They echo inside her head like nails scraping across a chalkboard.

What's next?

Oh. The slap. He'd slapped her hard across the face. It burned. He'd yelled. All the death eaters had laughed.

He'd said that she was nothing. He'd been right.

And then?

Her stomach drops.

There'd been a fountain of red. Blood. It had bubbled from the wound on Cedric's neck.

Oh God. Cedric. How could she forget Cedric? Or that horrid gurgling sound? He'd tried to protect her. He'd gotten killed for her, but she can't find those details. They drift through her mind like clouds of dust.

And after Cedric. Well, there was screaming. Her screaming. Loud laughter. The shackles biting her wrists. She'd closed her eyes, thinking that she would die.

"Are you afraid?"

The bone in her arm had snapped. Pain. And that was when she'd started sweating. She'd realized that death would not come easily.

Her feet had flown through tall grass. Then Crucio. More pain than ever. More pain than she'd thought possible. Millions of wasps stinging her body simultaneously. Thousands of knives stabbing straight into bone. Fire beneath her skin.

Her ears had started to ring after that. It had been hard to hear what he was saying. Until finally.

"We're going to have some fun. We're going to put on a show. Loverboy may be dead, but don't worry, I can give you everything that he never would."

This part is so clear in her mind, that she can feel it happening all over again. The line between past and present blurs.

He takes her shirt first. All the while, she struggles, flailing her burning limbs, battling against the inevitable. His fingers, cold as ice, trail along her prominent collar bone, snapping the strap of her training bra and laughing while the salty tears burn in her eyes. She feels the wet trail of tears sliding down her cheeks.

His hands are like claws, pinching and prodding at her body. And she's so weak. He pins her down with one arm. Only one. Her whole body fights against a single arm and loses.

Then her jeans. He cuts them with a knife. The sound of tearing fabric seems so loud. A cold gust of wind whips her naked thighs. Her faded pink, rummage-sale panties out for the world to see. So much laughter. Tears of humiliation.

Then they're gone. Tears of fear. Pleading. So desperate.

She kicks him. One good kick that actually connects. Powerful hands around her neck. Black dots dancing in a smoky, grey sky. Not enough oxygen left to move.

A body that doesn't felt like her own. A body that doesn't felt like a body at all. Hands wrapping in her hair. Pulling. Slapping. Biting. Pain.

Heavy, warm weight. Crushing. Smashing. Grinding her into dust. Hands prying her legs apart. She tries to resist. Friction. Screaming. Wailing. Her throat dry as bone. And the sky above never changes. It doesn't notice her at all.

"Scream and cry all you like, Harry. I enjoy it."

His bony body digging into her own. Thrusting. Pain. Moaning. Disgust. A wet tongue on her earlobe. Jeers from the crowd. Hands. Claw marks on her thighs, her shoulders, her stomach.

Grey sky. Grunting. His yellow, gnarled smile only millimeters away from her face. Panting. Moving faster. So fast.

She hears a name, a familiar name, but it's faint. A man enters the clearing. Blank face. Dark eyes. Crucio.

The man on top of her squeals with delight as the other man screams. Then Fast breaths. Faster. A long, slow moan. The body on top of hers shivers and spasms.

And then the weight disappears. The sweat shining on her skin is not her own. So cold.

"I thought it'd be nice if you had a new scar to remember me by."

Gashes. Left. Right. Up. Down. Diagonal. Everywhere. And she barely feels it at all. There is no more pain left to feel.

Warm, dark liquid pools on her chest. Then there's clapping like continuous gunfire.

"Are you ready, Harriet?"

A green light.

Everything disappears.

"POTTER!"

Then she's on her feet. There is no wand against her temple. The room is hot. Why is it so hot?

Two arms curl around her midsection. She screams, choking on the air. The air twists and curls in her lungs like poison. What is happening? Where is she? She's lifted into the air and pulled backward into something solid.

"Damn it, Potter! Open your eyes!"

Snape. That's Snape.

She opens her eyes.

The room is on fire.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what everyone is thinking of the story so far. Please leave a review and let me know what you think.