Author's note: wow, I am so sorry. I've been having computer issues this last week, been absolutely swamped with homework, and still trying to work on my original fiction, too. I admit, this chapter has been finished for ages, but I honestly just haven't had the time to post. Also, happy late Christmas and New Year! Anyway, on with it, right? My apologies, too, for the shortness and horribleness. I've been a bit blah lately. Sorry. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Five: Breaking Point

"No," James said with finality.

Snape sneered. "I'm afraid it's not your decision."

"Surely Dumbledore could—"

"Unfortunately, the Headmaster has decided it would be best for me to teach him."

"And why would that be?"

"He has his reasons."

James sighed, and Molly looked over at him from where she stood in the corner of the room. Her eyes passed between the two men, and she said quietly, "Would you like me to fetch Harry?"

Snape gave a small nod in her direction and she scurried off. Then, the Potions' Master turned back to James.

Before he could get in a word, though, James said, "Whatever issues you have with me, take them out on me. If I find out you're using these lessons to . . . to bully Harry, then you'll have me to face."

Snape looked him over in an almost disgusted way, but didn't have a chance to respond as Harry walked into the room.

He looked quizzically at Snape, unspeaking.

Harry looked considerably better than he had the week before. Apparently, whatever Hermione had said to him had helped him somehow. He still appeared to be quite sleep-deprived, but his eyes were not as misted as they had been. James knew that Harry was still tormented by nightmares at night, but they hadn't been so bad, it seemed, since Hermione had come.

"Mr. Potter," Snape greeted coolly.

"Professor Snape," Harry acknowledged.

James frowned slightly at Harry's tone. It was terribly monotone and seemed to take a lot of effort for him to get out. Perhaps he wasn't sleeping as well as it had seemed.

"Professor Dumbledore sent me to tell you that he would like for you to partake in Occlumency lessons with me once you return to Hogwarts," Snape said smoothly.

Harry blinked, and for a moment it looked liked he might argue, but then he seemed to sink into himself and he simply nodded.

Snape looked as surprised as James felt, but he covered it up quickly. "Very well, Mr. Potter. We will begin next Monday. Nobody is to know about these lessons. If anybody asks about them, you are to tell them you have remedial potions with me." His sneer was back. "I suspect there would be no more questions, judging on your potion-making abilities."

Harry gave a rather weak glare, but said nothing, instead inclining his head in another stiff nod.

James shot Snape a sharp look, and said, "I'll show you out."

"That won't be necessary. I can find my own way."

Snape turned around, his dramatic black robes sweeping after him. James almost rolled his eyes at the thought of what a drama queen Snape was, but instead forced himself to turn to Harry.

"Do you want me to talk to Dumbledore?"

Harry shook his head. "I doubt he'd change his mind. I'll be fine."

James was rather unconvinced, although he figured that Harry was right about Dumbledore not changing his mind. The old headmaster generally didn't sway on his opinions—especially when it came to Harry. Besides, from what Snape had said, Harry would probably need the lessons, and if Harry wasn't going to complain about his teacher, perhaps it would be better to just allow things to unfold.

Even if, James would still be certain to watch the greasy old bat carefully. He was a lot more civil with Snape these days, but this was still the man that had called Lily a terrible, terrible name. And, frankly, Lily had had a difficult time ever really getting over it, which made seeing Snape all the more worse.

Harry, himself, was a bit in fits over Snape teaching him anything other than their scheduled classes. But he was far too tired to really say that he cared, and, to be honest, he didn't want to draw attention to the fact when Snape already suspected he was an arrogant, fame-loving arsehole. Why give him more reasons?

As he headed back upstairs, Harry realized dully that his head was pounding slightly. If he could, he would just wrap himself in warm blankets and lie in bed for the rest of his life. However, these didn't seem like an overly appropriate option for him, as he still had a mother to avenge and a ridiculous amount of sorting himself out to do.

He opened the door to Ron's room, and noticed three questioning stares looking up at him.

"When did you two get here?" Harry asked tiredly.

Ginny shrugged. "A minute or two ago. Ron said Snape was here. What did he have to say?"

"I have Occlumency lessons, apparently."

Hermione frowned. "Well, that makes sense, but why Snape?"

"I wish I knew." Harry heaved a sigh. "I guess Dumbledore's not available."

"That's really too bad, mate," Ron said, and he sounded genuine. He paused for a second, then asked, "What is Occlumency, exactly? I mean, I know what it is, I just . . ."

"Don't know what it is," Harry supplied helpfully.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but began explaining, anyway: "It's not supposed to be easy, and some people are supposedly better than others. I think it depends on personality types, really. The closed-off person will have a markedly easier time than the more open person. I mean, it would be hard to cancel out your thoughts, wouldn't it?" Hermione looked thoughtful. "Mind you, it would be a good thing to have. If only you have access to your thoughts, then nobody will be able to use them against you."

"How does it work, though?" Ron prompted.

"I don't know," Hermione admitted, looking sheepish. "It's not something that people tend to really . . . explain," she finished lamely, still looking down, her cheeks flushed.

"Wonderful," mumbled Harry. "Sounds like it'll be a lot of fun, Hermione."

"It's not as if I'm trying to reassure you," she said. "I'm laying out the facts, actually!"

"I'd rather the reassurance."

Ginny shook her head grimly. "I'm afraid there's no reassurance to be given."

"I guess I can just hope that Monday comes slowly?" Harry tried for a hopeful tone, but rather thought he failed.

"With your luck," Ron said with a frown, "it probably won't."

No. It probably wouldn't.

Monday came too fast.

By the time they'd made it back to Hogwarts, hasty good-byes said before they missed the train, Harry was already dreading those lessons. And as Monday's classes drew to a close, he knew that he would rather face anything than a Snape that could easily break into his mind with a single word.

It had been years ago when he'd learned what Occlumency and Legilimency from Remus. Remus had wanted Harry to know everything about magic before he even went to school, because lack of knowledge was not, apparently, a good option. Harry had been eager, of course, and had listened to every word that had been explained to him, and everything about them. Of course, Remus had taught him little of what he would learn at Hogwarts, instead focussing more on the things he wouldn't, which wasn't a lot, but had covered Occlumency and Legilimency.

Harry was personally not fond of the idea at all, and he had no idea how he was supposed to learn something like that. It seemed strange to learn to block people out when he'd been doing it his entire life, but this was a different kind of blocking.

So, now, he stood nervously before Snape, praying that he would not be casting Legilimency or anything. But, as Snape spoke, it seemed Harry's hope was meaningless. How could Snape be a Legilimens? But, really, it was to be expected, wasn't it?

"You may use your wand, Potter, to try and disarm me or protect yourself." Snape was sneering, as he always was, and Harry shakily drew his wand.

What was he doing? He couldn't do this. What if—

But it was too late to back out, Harry realized with a start as he saw a five-year-old Harry being told that he could not go out, that he would have to stay with Sirius and Remus while his father was gone. Snape must have cast the spell, Harry thought, seeing this young version of himself worry aloud if James would leave him the same way Lily had.

And then he was older, ten, by the looks of it, and was listening to his father's quiet muttering, hardly masked tears. It was Halloween, Harry remembered. It had always been like this on Halloween. For years, Harry had never understood why James would not partake in Halloween activities, why Halloween was always so quiet, and then when he was about seven, Sirius had pulled him aside and explained the significance of the day. Since then, Harry had hated Halloween and the way it made everybody in the household so quiet.

And now he was seeing . . . Malfoy? The very same Malfoy from four and a half years ago. The one that had asked him if he was going to Hogwarts, too. The one that he had denied friendship and had regretted sourly for ages. The very same Malfoy that had to have some good in him, somewhere, deep down . . .

Suddenly, Malfoy disappeared and was replaced with green light, which faded to show Cedric. Harry's mouth felt dry, and he realized vaguely that his nightmares that he tried so hard to avoid were becoming more than nighttime happenings.

Then, it stopped, and Harry noticed the cool floor beneath his hands, and that he was on the floor of Snape's office and that he was shaking slightly. He could not do this. He could not.

Harry stood up cautiously, and Snape said something, but there was a loud buzzing everywhere and Harry could hear nothing but his pounding heart through it.

The nightmares. They were around every corner, always there. He could not escape his own foolishness. He was running but it loomed over him, and now it was enveloping him.

". . . Potter," Snape finished, his sneer still firmly in place.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, swaying slightly on his feet. "I'm sorry, sir?"

Something shifted slightly in Snape's expression, but Harry found that even if he had found his voice, it was faint and he felt quite sick. Sick with what, he wasn't sure, but he thought it might be anger. Because, frankly, how was it fair? Fair that, not only did he have to deal with the fact that, hidden amongst some of his most intimate memories was Malfoy, but he also had to relive that moment again when he'd done everything to avoid it in the past six months?

And then he knew, without a trace of doubt, that he most certainly was quite angry. So angry that he felt nauseous. He'd felt this type of anger before, and he hated it. He hated it because it was ridiculous to feel ill about something he was angry over, to feel his eyes prickle with tears.

In an uncharacteristically almost caring tone (which was still rather detached and uninterested, but lacking some of the cold), Snape said, "Potter, you look quite ill."

Harry took a deep breath, but all he said was, "I wasn't ready."

And suddenly Snape was back to normal, all sneers and jibes. "I doubt you ever will be."

"I don't think I can do this," Harry said, without really think.

"It is not a matter of 'can' and 'cannot,' Potter," Snape snarled. "It is absolutely necessary if you wish to remain unscathed."

Harry laughed, then; he couldn't stop himself. "Unscathed? Unscathed? Don't you think it's a bit late for that, sir?" He shook his head. "If you knew exactly what I witnessed, the things I saw, would you still think I was 'unscathed'? Personally, I think that's doubtful, Professor, because I saw a boy that I wanted to be out of harm's way be killed! Murdered right before my own eyes! And you know what the best part of it all is? The best part is that, since then, I haven't had a proper night's rest, because every time I close my eyes, I see it all again. Every single moment, and every time, there's something new. It's never anything good, either. And by now I can't even remember if my own mother actually told me she was proud of me!"

He knew he was saying all the things he'd kept bottled up for ages to the last person he wanted to, that he was in absolute hysterics about it, but the words kept tumbling out of his mouth like some sort of sick, twisted waterfall.

"I'm not unscathed, not even physically. I have this scar, which is this constant reminder that my mother is dead, and now I have this one on my arm, which is a constant reminder that I let another person die and that it's my fault that everything happened in that graveyard the way it did and now everybody thinks that I made it all up, but why would I make that up if all it's done is tear me apart? And now I have you, of all people, in my mind, and you probably saw it, too! That exact moment, the one where he dropped dead, the one I've been dreaming about since summer! Unscathed, you say? I don't feel unscathed! I feel like I've been torn apart, and no matter how often Hermione tries to put me back together again, it's not working. Because she has tried, and for a few moments, it seemed to work, but then you show up, and you make me see that again, and it's not okay! Not at all!"

Harry took a deep breath, and as he began to feel calm wash over him, it was replaced immediately by a chill. Did he just tell Snape . . . ?

Oh. Oh, damn it.

Harry opened his mouth, quickly trying to backpedal, but Snape spoke before he had the chance:

"I believe you should see Madam Pomfrey about these issues, Potter." His sneer was there, but it looked off, as if he couldn't bring himself to muster up a proper up one at the moment. Which was odd, Harry thought, because he sounded rather disgusted.

Harry swallowed. "No, I mean, sir, I—"

"It was not an invitation, Potter. I highly suspect you are in need of some kind of medical treatment."

Harry went to protest, but he could find no words. What, exactly, did one say in this kind of situation?

Some part of him loathed the idea of getting help. For one, he was independent enough to take care of his own messed up sleeping habits, and, for two, he did not want to become dependant on anything—or anybody. Another part of him, though—the more sensible one, perhaps—kept telling him that he needed it. That he needed the help, and, here it was, being handed to him on a silver platter. He should not complain.

But, in the end, the loud independent section of his mind overruled the nagging whispers, and he shook his head at Snape. "I'm fine," he said shakily. "There's no need for worry, sir."

"I'm afraid there is, Potter. See, most people don't tend to . . ." He stopped for a moment, contemplating his words. "Ah . . . let their past traumas control them so much."

"Traumas?" Harry let out a short puff of laughter, although there was nothing funny about the situation. "Sir, I haven't any 'traumas.'"

"Potter," Snape said with a sigh, "do you understand what trauma is? Surely even your small mind can comprehend its meaning?"

"I know what trauma means," Harry said irritably. "I simply said I haven't got any"—he shot Snape a look of hardly concealed disgust—"sir."

"Potter," Snape said threateningly, "I will not have this. Do you understand, Potter? I don't care if you refuse, I will drag you to the hospital wing until you sort out whatever your issue is and can handle these lessons, perhaps in a manner of the brave little Gryffindor that you've always been."

For a moment, they stared at each other, Snape with his ugly sneer, and Harry with his face as tight as he could make it without it seeming too obvious that he could feel a terrible stinging in the bottom of his throat that could only be identified as oncoming tears. And it wasn't as if he was about to let himself cry in front of Snape, even if he had just told him pretty much every reason why he should be crying.

Well, minus the fact that he was insanely gay for Draco Malfoy, but he supposed that little bit of information could stay secret. Preferably forever. Unless, of course, Snape was able to piece together the meaning behind his memories. . . . He almost shuddered at the thought.

"Fine," Harry said, not able to stay so composed any longer.

Snape looked him over oddly. "Very well, Potter. Follow me."

As Snape made his way out the door, Harry hesitated. He would be in infinite trouble if he snuck away now, and Snape would probably catch him rather quickly, anyway. He had gotten himself into this silly mess, and now he would have to dig his way out.

He followed Snape in silence, wiping at his eyes every so often to assure himself that their shine did not break apart into tears. Never had he been so pleased for the earlier darkness of the winter, or the lack of wandering students.

Eventually, they made it there, and Snape pushed him inside a tad bit too forcefully, then made his way around Harry and into Madam Pomfrey's office, where he quietly explained why he was here. Harry strained to hear, but the only thing he properly caught was: "Severus, I cannot heal minds."

And Harry suddenly felt, more intensely now, the urge to run away. Now would be the ideal time, while neither were looking, but as he stood contemplating, Madam Pomfrey and Snape came back out.

"Hello, Harry," Madam Pomfrey said bustling over to him, and inviting him to sit down. "How was your Christmas?"

Harry frowned. "I . . . All right, I guess."

"Professor Snape tells me you don't much like Occlumency."

Harry blinked in bewilderment. "I thought—"

"It's quite all right. I'm very trustworthy, Harry. And nobody expects me to know these kinds of things. You should hear some of the gossip I get in here, anyway. The students aren't all as good at hushed conversation as you and your friends are." She gave him a small wink. "Besides, you're probably a bit too good for remedial potions."

Snape snorted, and Madam Pomfrey shot him a fierce glare that immediately seemed to shut him up. Harry wished he could make the professor stop speaking with a simple look, but he supposed nobody else would probably ever be able to do that. He'd been on the receiving end of Madam Pomfrey's glare before, and he much didn't envy Snape at all.

Harry realized vaguely that both of them were acting very odd around him. He had never seen Snape not look hateful as he looked at Harry, and Madam Pomfrey hardly ever called him by his given or was ever anything more than businesslike. Now, it seemed as though she was making some kind of small talk.

"Anyway, he tells me that the things in your mind seem to be causing you grief. Would you agree?"

"Well, I mean, I guess." Harry had never felt more awkward in his life. It was one thing to talk to people he knew well, who understood how he operated better than perhaps even he did, but it was another altogether to speak to Snape—of all people!—and Madam Pomfrey.

Madam Pomfrey made an odd, strangled noise in the back of her throat, but pressed on. "About Mr. Diggory, I presume?"

"Not . . . entirely." Harry shifted. "I mean, there's always those bits about my mother."

"Your mother?" Madam Promfrey dropped her formal tone for one of surprise. "Goodness, why?"

"Well, I mean, that's my fault . . . isn't it?" His voice was small, as both Madam Promfrey and Snape were giving him strange looks he couldn't quite decipher.

"Good grief," Snape said finally. "What kind of things does your father tell you, Potter?"

Harry looked up, blinking. "What do you mean? He doesn't tell me anything like that. Just the opposite, really. 'Honestly, Harry, don't be daft, your mother would be happy to see you now,'" he mimicked weakly. "But, I mean, it's a bit ridiculous. I'm not daft. If anybody is, it's him, because I heard him tell Remus and Sirius once that it was his fault a long time ago. Because he wasn't there or something, but I don't know what he think she could've done."

"And what about you?" Madam Pomfrey prompted gently.

"It is my fault," Harry insisted. "I couldn't have done anything, but if I hadn't been born, she could've just gotten away."

Madam Pomfrey gave him an incredulous look. Finally, shaking her head, she said, "I think your father might be right about you being daft."

"Honestly." Harry sighed. "Can't we just leave it at that? There's nothing wrong with me."

Madam Pomfrey looked him over in disapproval. "I don't know what you think is the definition of 'wrong,' Mr. Potter, but I can assure you that, for me, at least, not sleeping seems to fit under it somewhere."

"It's not affected me that badly," he protested.

"I'm afraid I've heard some rather interesting things about you from the teaching staff, Mr. Potter. Your marks seem not agree with that statement."

"Maybe that's for a different reason?" Harry offered.

She stared at him levelly. "I think your issues are all rather connected, Mr. Potter. Frankly, the best thing you can do is talk. And that's not something we can force you to do, but it probably will help." Her eyes softened. "You're only fifteen. This kind of thing pushed on the shoulders of someone with years of experience more than what you've got would probably make them cave under the pressure of it all. We don't want you to cave."

"It didn't seem to matter so much four months ago," Harry said, and he sounded bitter, even to his own ears. "And, if anything, I'm better than I was four months ago. I've learnt how to deal with it by now."

"Nobody knew four months ago."

"I thought it seemed fairly obvious, myself."

"People don't see things unless they're pointed out, often." Madam Pomfrey gave a small, sad smile. "That's our mistake."

"I appreciate your concern, but I really think I should be going." Harry frowned. "It's late, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," Snape cut in cleanly. "Go along, Potter. I'll see you on Wednesday. It seems today's lesson has rather . . . slipped away from us." His sneer was back again. Harry figured it would be odd if it wasn't.

"Yes, sir," Harry muttered, feeling, for probably the first time in his life, grateful for Snape—but that vanished quickly as he remembered whose fault this was, anyway. Turning to face the two staff members, he said, "Good night," as finally as he could, and practically ran from the room.

Already, he was dreading Wednesday.

Author's note (again): tell me what you think! I'll be faster with the next update, I promise! We're also venturing into (finally) the romance end of things. I admit that I've been wanting to rush into it and just get on with it, because that's generally what I do when I get excited about relationships, but I'm going to have a nice build-up . . . I hope. Anyway, I love reviews, so please do tell me your thoughts!