Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters do not belong to me.
A/N: Long chapter here, wow! This ends all of the pre-done stuff I have, so it's going to be even LONGER before I get the next chapter up. So savor this one for a while, okay, and let me know what you think. By the way, sorry about any grammar or mechanical errors. I read it over, but it's all blurring together to me.
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Dead.
Dead, dead, deaddeaddeadeadead….
Ever since he had woken, it had been the thing most on his mind.
Moody, Alastor Moody, Mr. Constant Vigilance, was dead.
And it was his fault.
He knew it. He hadn't thought fast enough, he hadn't acted fast enough, and Moody had been killed.
He was frustrated beyond belief with his 'wandless magic,' which seemed content to manifest itself in no ordinary manner, but rather crop up from time to time. This made it more than a little difficult to make it be of any use.
Dumbledore had suggested that it was just a demonstration of what was to come when his magic fully manifested. But at the rate it was going, he was afraid that wandless magic would come to him too late.
And now they were sending him to Snape's home for Christmas.
Because he was a liability. Because, once and for all, he knew without a doubt that he got people killed.
His mind was a whirl of a million different emotions, and where he was going and how he got there was somewhat of a mystery to him.
All he knew, actually, was that at some point he'd been at Hogwarts, and now he was being jostled about in some very muggle-seeming car.
"You live in England?" he asked.
"Sir," Snape spat. "Where I live is of no concern, Potter."
"Oh."
He didn't really have anything else to say. He wasn't going to apologize for the question.
"That's it?" Snape sneered. "All the mighty Harry Potter can say is oh?"
Harry turned to face Snape, letting the man make eye contact and see just how little he cared. "Yes, sir," he said flatly. He turned back to the window after seeing Snape's expressionless face.
"And the mighty Lucius Malfoy has done what no other could—" Snape started to say, but Harry turned sharply.
"Don't mention him!" he all but snarled. "DO NOT mention that name!"
Snape regarded him coldly, then looked away. Harry thought for a moment that he'd say something more…something that would provoke Snape, but stopped. He just didn't have the energy to do it.
He felt, rather than saw, Snape shift beside him, and waited for his professor to speak. "Potter—"
Snape stopped suddenly, and Harry froze, wondering what was wrong. He saw the man's reflection in the window, and followed the dark eyes…
Snape was staring at his hand…ah, he realized, he'd been rubbing his leg, which had been twitching of its own accord at random moments. Rubbing it seemed to calm the spasms down.
But why did that bother Snape, he wondered? The professor knew what had happened to him, and he'd heard Pomfrey filling him in on the residual effects of the curses used on him. So why was Snape silenced?
But Snape didn't speak, and Harry didn't feel interested enough to ask.
The rest of the trip passed in utter silence, and when they arrived at Snape manor and left what Harry realized was a muggle taxi, Snape acted as if no conversation nor anything else had taken place at all.
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Snape Manor, he noted, was old, dank, and crumbling. Ivy climbed most of the walls, though it was drab and half-dead, and the windows were all dark and grimy. Very much like their owner, Harry thought snidely.
The lawns were wild and unkempt—something Harry noticed only because of the many, many years he'd spent tending the Dursley's lawn—and he was fairly certain that the manor had not been lived in for many decades.
One thing was certain, though. Snape Manor clearly reflected its owner.
"Charms keep the manor from looking lived in—from the outside, at least," Snape said curtly. Harry didn't respond, but instead followed the man in the front door—which now revealed a very lived-in home, much like Grimmauld Place must have been decades before.
His musings were cut short rather abruptly, as Snape stopped suddenly, in the front hall.
"There are three rules that you will follow while in my home," the Potions Master snapped as soon as he whirled to face Harry. "First; do not touch anything that is not yours, second; do not bother me, and third; do not go wandering about my home. Is this understood?"
Harry nodded silently, eyes on the floor as he forced himself to face the reality of the situation he was now in.
His nightmare had come true—he was spending Christmas with Snape. All because of The Attack. All because of some stupid mythical or, rather, not-so-mythical fortress that Voldemort seemed to think that he knew all about.
He felt his left leg muscles twitch at the memories, and rubbed his thigh hard with the heel of his hand to stop the spasms, meanwhile surveying the room around him and steadfastly ignoring Snape.
Of course, Snape didn't seem to care that he'd just gotten out of the hospital wing that morning, either. Harry wasn't sure if that was because Snape didn't believe he'd been…tortured…or if it was all still based on principle.
Or maybe he believed that he didn't care that Moody had died.
He knew Snape hated him with a passion, but it amazed him how long the man could carry it on. His own hatred seemed to have burned itself out, and he was much too weary to care.
"Good," Snape said coldly, finally breaking the tense silence that had fallen. He looked like he wished nothing more than to get as far away from Harry as possible. Harry ignored the sour tone, though, unwilling to fight. He'd tried to avoid fighting with Snape the entire term. Admittedly, he did his best to avoid Snape as much as possible—especially since Snape had finally used something from Occlumency against him in public.
"Of course, you should be fairly familiar with cupboards, having lived in one for so—"
He'd admitted that Snape had never, not once, used anything he learned from Occlumency lessons against him to anyone else before this year, and now he'd been shown that Snape wasn't above doing it, if he was pushed to that point. Few had any idea of what Snape had meant with those comments, but they'd seen the effects. Harry's hate for Snape had tripled just because of that day, but oddly his actions towards his professor had dampened. He stopped glaring, arguing, protesting…everything. He just didn't want to do anything that involved Snape in any way.
"Potter."
The sharp word cut through his thoughts and he looked up, halting his absent-minded rubbing of his twitching leg muscles. "Yes, sir?" he asked dully. Snape's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He looked like he was about to say something, but then changed his words at the last moment. "Your room is at the end of this hall. I suppose you can find it readily enough?"
Harry nodded. "Yes, sir," he said again, picking up his trunk slowly.
"A house-elf will attend to all of your needs, Potter," Snape snapped, then whirled around and was gone.
Harry waited a few moments before breathing out slowly, feeling heavy and tired. He practically trudged down the hall to his assigned room, wondering what Hermione and Ron, both at the Burrow for Christmas, were doing. Dumbledore had regretfully informed him that it would be too dangerous for him to be at the Burrow—and Harry understood that. He did not want Ron and Hermione hurt, just because he wanted to enjoy a happy Christmas.
He wished Remus could've been around for Christmas, or even Tonks. But Snape had refused—for security reasons, supposedly—but Harry knew that it was because Snape wanted to see him suffer, like usual.
He refused to fight the situation though, knowing that the futility of escaping the situation was what gave Snape the most satisfaction. There was no way he wanted the man to have the upper hand while they were forced to live together.
Besides.
He was a danger to those around him, and, honestly, he didn't really care if he was putting Snape in any sort of danger.
He lay back on the bed, sighing as his right leg now began to tremor, the muscles in his upper leg cramping painfully, and rubbed at it, realizing that it was going to be a long, long break.
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Hours later, he was still sitting on the spare bed along the far wall of the room when a house elf appeared. "Would Master Potter be liking some dinner?" it asked.
Harry shook his head. "No thank you," he said wearily, "Not really hungry."
The elf bowed low. "Master Potter has thanked us!" it exclaimed, before popping away, a rapturous smile plastered on its face.
Harry sighed into the empty room, feeling drained and useless. He felt oddly lifeless—it was as if he had been the one to be tortured to death so recently, not the grizzled old wizard.
Because it was his fault, and he knew it.
Moody and Charlie had not been the target of the attack on Grimmauld place—he had. But by the time the Order, arrived, Moody was long dead. Sure, the Order had managed to save Charlie and himself, but Moody had died painfully and slowly.
And he hadn't been able to do a damn thing to stop it. He'd raged, screamed, all but pleaded, and tried to use wandless magic again…and it had been useless. Moody had died, and he'd been of no use to Charlie.
It felt very much like it had all been a dream, and many times he had to catch himself before he convinced himself that that was all it really had been. It felt completely disconnected from the rest of his life—a lot like the ending of the Triwizard Tournament, when he had been alone before Voldemort, trying to survive. When he had recovered from that, at least Cedric's parents had been there to tell him that their son really had died, that he really was gone.
Now, there was no one. One instant he was in the infirmary, lying in a bed and feeling ill, and the next he was alone in a room, in the house of his hated Potions professor, wondering if it had all really happened. He kept forgetting that the old wizard was really dead, and when he remembered, a lead weight would settle into his empty stomach.
That death was on his head, like so many others. And he couldn't escape them.
Magic meant that there were no marks on his body. His ribs were healed, the bruises all faded by potions. There was the ghost of pain in his joints from prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse and the other curse—Electrificus—but Pomfrey had said she hoped the pains would recede with time. The spasms, she said, would eventually fade, though he noticed that she didn't give him a time frame.
Harry half-hoped that the pain would remain. That pain was now what made it real to him—that ache that he could not rid himself of…a constant reminder that time was passing and people were dying while he wasted his days accomplishing nothing.
It was very similar to the pain in his heart…the ache for those that he'd lost, almost entirely through his own actions. So much death…so much guilt.
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When he next checked the time, it was late into the night. So much for Christmas, he thought tiredly. It would be spent alone, in this room probably, and would be lonely and cold. He did not even begin to delude himself by thinking that perhaps Snape would welcome him to eat with him at dinner.
Not that he would want to, but it would have been nice to have a good meal on Christmas…
He had not eaten all day, he knew, but the emptiness in his stomach did not trouble him. A house elf had left a tray with toast on it at some point, but it was untouched, the toast cold and hard. Just looking at it had made his stomach clench in uneasy protest. He did not want to eat here. He wasn't sure he'd ever want to eat again.
Almost another hour passed before he moved at all from his seat on the bed, and it was just to stumble out of the room and across the hall to the loo. Tiredly, he scrubbed his face with cold water, feeling worn down and gritty, but the water didn't help. He still felt dirty and weak.
Just what was he supposed to do, anyway, he wondered bitterly? It wasn't his fault he'd been born, and it wasn't like he, a now-sixteen year old adolescent, could do much against Voldemort and his ever-faithful death eaters. He just felt so useless, so out of control…It was like everything he tried to do didn't matter, because in the end it all came down to the Prophecy. It all came down to whether he could kill the man, the monster, that he now knew was his half-grand-uncle or some such.
A monster that could snatch him from the place that he'd thought was safe.
Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the mirror, striking out at his reflection, and the glass shattered around his hand in a loud tinkling of shards. He hissed in pain as he drew his hand back, slivers of glass embedded all over the back of his hand and knuckles.
He shouldn't have done that, he thought flatly, as he heard the crash of a door being thrown open, followed by thundering footsteps. He stood silently, tentatively trying to pluck the glass from his hand, and did not flinch as the door of the bathroom was thrown open, revealing none other than Severus Snape himself, standing in the doorway with a heated glare fixed firmly on his face.
Harry saw the expression flicker for the briefest of moments, but dismissed it as Snape's eyes seemed to burn even hotter. "Just what the hell happened, Potter?" he demanded.
Harry shrugged, unconcerned by Snape's tone. The anger and the heated words seemed to bounce off of him now, and the sour tones did not register at all. "Mirror broke," he said. "I'll fix it later," he added, as an offer to end this now.
Snape didn't say a word for a few moments, and his voice, when he did speak, was much cooler and calmer. "Go back to your room, Potter, if you're finished. I will clean this mess up in the morning."
"All right," Harry agreed with a shrug, not really caring. He walked past Snape quietly, heading back across the hall to the room he was borrowing. His hand still bled and ached, but he refused instinctually to admit that he was in pain. He'd clean it in the morning and let it heal the Muggle way. It wasn't as if Snape would give him anything to ease the pain.
He laid down on the bed reluctantly, not bothering to change out of his robes nor to get under the covers, and downed half the vial of vision-blocking potion in a few swift gulps. He quickly replaced the lid of the vial and slipped it back into his pocket before efficiently clearing his mind. Instants later, he was forced into sleep.
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He stayed in his room all of the next morning after cleaning up his injured hand, having gotten up well before five in the morning. He was much too restless to sleep for long, and though the potion he took blocked visions, it did not block the nightmares that now haunted him.
Just that night, he'd dreamt of a strange combination of Cedric's death and his own torture. Instead of Charlie and Moody with him, it was Cedric, and he was broken and bloody and dead, like he had not been that night of the Tournament. There was a lot of screaming, his mother's screams, and then at the end it always came down to those dark hallways and the doors that he did not recognize from anywhere.
That was always the part that woke him up. Those dark, unfamiliar passages with their hints of snakes and death. The cobwebs that hung from the doorways seemed so realistic, and sometimes he wondered if he really had been transported somehow that day so long ago, when he'd fallen unconscious into the fireplace at Privet Drive.
And so he spent most of the morning thinking about those dark passages, and wondering if they really were some sort of unblockable vision, some sort of odd vision that let him see the 'Dark Fortress' that Voldemort wanted the key to so badly.
Whatever or wherever the key was…
By noon, though, he was tired of waiting around and wondering when he'd get 'rescued' from Snape's dark home. He slipped out of his room and over to the bathroom. Idly, he noted that the mirror was still broken, his blood smeared on the broken edges. So Snape had not cleaned it up…
He took a washrag from the counter and wet it before cleaning the blood off of the broken mirror-glass. He didn't have any way to fix the mirror, but he swept up all the loose glass into the rag and shook it out into the wastebasket beside the toilet.
It looked much cleaner, he decided, and even the smashed section of the mirror did not look as bad. Snape couldn't possibly say that he hadn't done his best to fix his mess.
For a brief moment, as he went to turn away and leave the bathroom, he was reminded of another mirror, of another shattered reflection…
He shivered slightly as he remembered in a flash that moment…that moment when his godfather had fallen through the arch…
In the hallway, he focused his attention on the drab paintings in order to divert his thoughts. Everything in Snape's house seemed faded and worn out, and he wondered just when the man had last actually lived in the house. Or perhaps he actually liked it this way.
There was no one around, not even any sign that house elves had been in any of the rooms that he looked into, and, despite the way his legs cramped and his joints ached, he made it down a flight of stairs and around several turns without anyone stopping him. There was no one to talk to, not even any paintings that wanted to talk, and he wandered aimlessly, hoping to eventually run into something of interest.
He had been told to stay near his room, of course, but he really didn't care if Snape found him and yelled at him or not. The little bit of professional trust that he'd had for the other man had been vaporized long ago, and he knew, without a doubt, that there was no chance of regaining it. Snape had betrayed him in the worst of ways, and he couldn't imagine there being any way to fix that.
He wandered down a few staircases and around a few more turns, pretty much going wherever his feet took him. He did not care if he got lost or wandered into some part of Snape's home that he wasn't supposed to be. He just needed something to divert his mind, if just for a little while.
It was in a room near the end of a dark hallway that he found his 'diversion.' Of course, it was not what he had wanted.
He stepped into the quiet, dark room slowly, keeping his wand up just in case, and looked around. It was fairly empty, with a chair and a table in one corner and a half-open closet in the far wall. Probably a study or something, he decided.
He turned to leave, uninterested, but there was a soft sound, a quick rattle. He turned back, wand held high. He knew he could not use it during the break, but he kept it with him anyway. Just in case.
He'd rather get expelled from Hogwarts than be anywhere without it. He knew that now.
The rattle sound occurred again, and Harry looked around more.
But there was nothing. Everything was dark and still. There was no one and no thing around.
And then suddenly there was a terrible cold in the room and his breath was visible in the air. Harry shivered hard, wondering what in the world was going on.
That is, until the dementor stepped out of the closet just six or seven feet in front of him, robes billowing around it. Harry stumbled back a step in confused shock. Why did Snape have a dementor in his house? "Expe—" he started to say, but suddenly the dementor seemed to blur, smearing oddly before reforming.
And suddenly he was staring at Sirius. The Sirius of his dreams, the half-dead wraith of a man with a cold, hate-filled expression on his wasted face. Harry paled, backing up.
It was a boggart. It had to be a boggart, he realized with the small part of his brain that was still working. He went to raise his wand, and was surprised to find his hand empty.
There, ahead of him, at the boggart's feet, was his wand. Somehow, he had dropped it. He didn't remember having let it go…
He had to get to his wand, he told himself. He had to pick it up.
But the Sirius-boggart was striding forward, its own wand raised. Harry shook, images from his dreams flashing through his head at an alarming rate.
"No," he mumbled, even as he stumbled back again.
"You killed me," the boggart said. Harry started badly. He hadn't realized that a boggart would speak to him. With Sirius's voice. With his accusing tones, the tones he so often heard in his dreams.
"I didn't mean to," he said, his voice thin and weak. "I promise, Sirius, I didn't mean for it to—"
"Foolish brat," the boggart hissed at him, for a moment melting into the shape of Moody before solidifying as Sirius once more. It stepped closer, its wandless hand raised in a fist. Harry wondered if a boggart could really hit him, and he found out rather quickly as a solid fist met the side of his head, sending him to the floor in a heap. "I'm dead because of you….murdrer."
"No," Harry tried to defend himself. "I—Sirius…I was stupid, but I didn't mean—"
Sirius kicked him under the jaw, and Harry's teeth clacked together sharply, slashing his tongue as well. Stunned by the blow, Harry still tried to dodge past Sirius.
But Sirius intercepted him, hauling him up by the collar of his shirt and forcing his eyes to meet those whitewashed eyes. "You killed me," Sirius told him. Harry shook his head, struggling to free himself.
"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry," he cried, tears blurring his vision. His wand was forgotten completely, as well as the idea that this was a boggart, and not Sirius, that held him so uncaringly. Somewhere in the background of his mind, he could hear his mother screaming now…he could hear his father…Voldemort's laugh…
He heard Ron and Hermione's screams next, pain-filled shrieks that he could hardly bear to hear.
"Not like this, no," he said, trying to keep his eyes open.
"You killed me," Sirius said again, voice echoing with the gruff tones of another man. "You've failed us all."
"No, no," he said, weak and dizzy. It was like a dementor was sitting in the back of his mind, while at the same time his worst fear—Sirius's hate—held him immobile.
"Murderer."
The word cut through his mind like a sharp knife, shearing through his rambling thoughts with hideous clarity. He could think of nothing else but that word, uttered by Sirius.
"Riddikulus!" an annoyed voice shouted. Harry couldn't focus. He could hear the screams in his head still.
"Not Ron, Hermione," he said softly. "I'm so sorry, Sirius…Don't kill them…I'm what you want…you always want to kill me…kill me…"
He felt a hand on his shoulder, a burning-hot hand that pushed him over onto his back, and he lay there looking up at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity.
How had he ended up on the floor, he wondered? What had happened? Where had Sirius gone?
"Potter," the voice said. Harry felt so cold…
"I didn't want him to die," he said. "I didn't mean for it to end like that."
"Potter, you're delirious," the voice said above his head.
"Cedric shouldn't have been the spare," he said. "I'm the spare…not him."
"Potter, you're in shock. Potter!"
"Aunt Marge said I should've just died with my parents," he added, thinking vague thoughts as he stared up at a phantom image of Sirius, who was glaring with unhidden hatred.
"Potter."
He could see the accusation in his godfather's eyes. "I wish I had run away."
"Potter!"
"Even if I'd starved to death, it all would've been better. If I'd died when I was ten…"
"POTTER!"
"I wish he didn't blame me…I didn't mean to…"
"POTTER!"
A resounding CLAP!
Pain on his face brought him out of the fog. He sat up sharply and almost hit the man leaning over him.
"Snape," he growled, as soon as he found his voice again.
"Professor Snape," Snape said, but Harry hesitated at the oddly hatred-free reminder. "We need to talk."
"No, we don't," Harry said, slowly pushing himself to his feet. He looked around the room, trying to find his wand.
"Here," Snape said, and Harry grudgingly took his wand from the man. "I dealt with the boggart, but I told you to stay in your room."
"The Dursleys used to do that to me," Harry said bitterly. "You know that. You've seen it."
"I didn't think—"
Harry cut him off. "Before second year, they put bars on my window and locked me in that bare little room. They put food through a little flap in the door. I thought I was going to die that way, starved in my stupid room, until Ron showed up."
"Potter, we need—"
"Get away from me," Harry snapped, turning away. How could he have let Snape see him that way, delirious and babbling? He could just imagine it…Snape would undoubtedly blurt this out at some point. "Just get away from me."
"You're an idiot if you think you can keep it all inside," Snape snarled back. "You're going to ruin everything with your foolishness."
"I'll handle it as I see fit," Harry growled. "It's my life, if you hadn't noticed!" He turned to glare at the other man as he spoke, trying to almost physically drive Snape from the room with his glare.
"You're going to destroy yourself, Potter," Snape commented, voice cold and clinical. Harry shrugged, then pushed his way past the Potions Master.
"So what?" he asked over his shoulder, before walking unhindered back down the hallway the way he had come.
Snape didn't seem to want to continue the conversation, either, because Harry made it uninterrupted back up to his room.
He went in quietly, locking the door on the inside before shoving it shut. Snape didn't want him to leave this room, he thought. Well, he didn't want Snape in this room, and as long as he wasn't bothered, he would do his best not to bother Snape. Hopefully, they'd both make it through the holiday alive.
Not much of a chance at that, Harry decided flatly, then turned and flopped back onto his bed, sighing heavily and trying to calm his roiling emotions. Everything was such a mess inside his head, he decided. He couldn't seem to focus on any one thing and try to overcome it—as soon as he forced himself to face what had happened to Cedric, Sirius's face would come floating into his vision. Or if he tried to calm himself down about Snape, memories of his father's awful attitude as a teen would push their way to the surface.
He didn't know how to deal with it, he realized. That was his problem. He had no idea how he was supposed to deal with everything, and no one had suggested any ways. He'd been dumped back at Privet Drive after fourth year without a clue as to what he should be feeling and doing. Cedric's death had haunted him…still haunted him…and the guilt always consumed him in his nightmares. He could never escape it there, just as he couldn't outrun the guilt he'd felt heaped on himself after his Godfather's death.
There was one way to divert himself, he knew. He rolled off his bed and opened his trunk, digging through its contents to find the small book buried under his clothes and texts.
'Have you looked for it?
Searched long and hard, lost many?
Struggle you may, through pain and more,
And yet you will never stand before the oaken door.
More than brawn, you will need,
If you wish to make it past the forest of fire,
And across the green seas.'
A knock at the door interrupted his reading, and he looked up sharply.
"Yes?" he asked flatly.
"Potter. Open the door," Snape ordered, angry voice muffled by the heavy door that stood between them.
"I'd rather not, Professor Snape," Harry called back, voice emotionless. He turned back to the book when Snape didn't immediately respond.
'You may think you know the way,
But it is more twisted than you think,
And many will perish or be led astray—"
"Potter!" Snape shouted suddenly, jarring Harry. "Open the damn door!"
"Open it yourself, if you want it open so badly!" he shouted back, finally irritated.
"Alohamora!" Snape snapped, giving in. The door slammed open loudly, bouncing off the wall violently before Snape caught it deftly with one hand. "You will not keep me out of rooms in my own home. When I say open the door, you will do so!"
Harry looked up at his professor and stifled a glare, instead settled for a look of derision. "If you say so…sir…" he said, making his voice sound as dubious as possible.
Snape looked even more perturbed and enraged as he paced the length of the room, then turned back around, robes whirling. "Potter, you and I need to speak, and now."
"I was enjoying the silence," Harry said quietly, setting aside the book.
"You were not," Snape said.
"Huh?"
"Enjoying. Anything," Snape said, voice devoid of emotion suddenly.
"What in Merlin are you talking about?" Harry asked, looking up for real.
Snape stared at him, eyes unreadable. "Over the past months, I and the other professors have watched you fall apart. You have been left alone to recover, and have not done so."
"So now you're watching me?" Harry asked, sitting up fully and facing his professor. "That's…disturbing…"
"Potter, be an adult for once and stop trying to provoke me!" Snape snarled.
"Seems like I'm doing a pretty good job," Harry returned.
"I've been watching, Potter, and it's become fairly clear to me—like a typical teenager, you have no idea how to deal with crises," Snape said, surprising Harry completely.
"Huh?"
"My…indiscretion, Moody's death, Diggory's death, Black's death," Snape said quietly. Harry shrugged.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You're not," Snape snapped. "Nor have you been for years, perhaps."
"It doesn't matter," he tried.
"That is what you tell yourself," Snape said, settling against the dresser across from Harry. "But you couldn't be more wrong."
"You know, it's nice that you're feeling all…interested…in me now, but stay the hell away," Harry said. "Remember, I'm worthless, right?"
"I've never said that," Snape cut in sharply.
Harry laughed weakly. "Yeah, that was the Dursleys…for ten years…and then you said I was a fool and useless or something like that once I got to Hogwarts," he amended. "So sorry I got it mixed up."
Snape made a sound as if he was trying to stifle his emotions. "Potter, stop it!"
"Stop what?" Harry asked insolently.
Snape opened his mouth, then closed it, as if debating what to say. "I wish to apologize."
"What!" Harry said, his attention finally and totally caught. "You what?"
"I wish to apologize, Potter," Snape said again. "Do not make me repeat myself again."
"You don't need to apologize," Harry said shortly. "And I don't accept it, anyway."
"Someone has to help you, since you won't help yourself!" Snape almost shouted.
"I don't want help," Harry responded.
"This has nothing to do with whether you want help or not!" Snape snapped.
"Yeah," Harry said flatly, "it has to do with me living long enough to kill Tom Riddle."
Snape didn't say anything for a moment. When he spoke, finally, it was with a calmer, cooler tone. "Potter, not everything is about the war."
"Isn't it?" he responded tiredly.
His professor was silent a moment. "I do not like you, Potter, nor do I like how you act and react in situations. You are impulsive and ignorant, and accomplish little for the Order."
"Yeah," Harry cut in with a flat laugh. "Hey—I brought Tom back, got my godfather killed, got Moody killed—"
"The way in which you heap guilt upon yourself is not amusing, Potter," Snape almost snapped. "You're more arrogant than I thought if you think that you're to blame for events such as these."
"I am to blame," Harry said levelly. "I've gone over it a million times…being Gryffindor is what's caused everything."
"That's the most pathetic excuse I've ever heard," Snape observed, sneer in his voice and on his face. Harry glared.
"You say it all the time—foolish and impulsive," Harry pointed out. "A damn 'saving people thing,' too," he added, almost mumbling. Snape caught it, though.
"Pardon? Saving people thing?" Snape asked, voice sarcastic.
"What Hermione calls it," Harry said with a shrug. "When she was trying to convince me not to go to the Department of Mysteries."
"And yet you didn't listen to her," Snape remarked coolly.
"Exactly," Harry agreed. "Just like when I told Cedric to take the cup with me."
"You seem amazingly able to stretch the truth to encompass your guilt," Snape said.
Harry picked up the book again. "Why don't you leave me alone, Snape?" he asked wearily. "Surely you have some other way to amuse yourself."
Snape audibly growled. "Potter…"
"Snape…" Harry mocked back, opening the book half-heartedly.
"Put down the book and listen to me!" Snape snapped. Harry set the book aside slowly, calmly staring back at his professor. "I have apologized, Potter, for my actions, and I want to help you!"
"I doubt that, somehow," Harry said flatly, unaffected by Snape's words. "Besides—like I said—I don't want any help. I can get by just fine on my own."
"Oh—yes, of course," Snape said sarcastically. "What was I thinking? Obviously you're fine—you have nightmares, don't eat, withdraw from your friends, avoid school work, and are riddled with misplaced guilt—but you're fine. Why didn't I see that?"
"I have nightmares because of the dozens of things I've witnessed and experienced," Harry said. "I can't help it that I'm not able to control it better, like everyone else seems to."
There was silence for some time, as both waited for the other to strike again in this battle. Harry refused to speak, though. He had nothing more to say on the matter, and was already regretting saying anything at all.
"I have nightmares as well—as does Albus," Snape said suddenly. Harry blinked jerked from the silence that had formed.
"Why would Dumbledore have nightmares?" he asked, curious. Snape regarded him levelly.
"Even he has done things he is not proud of," Snape said. "Nor has he escaped death and destruction…I believe he has nightmares of your parents' deaths quite often, actually."
"I supposed Occlumency would keep nightmares away," Harry said weakly.
The mood had changed dramatically, he noticed suddenly. All of the anger had melted out of him, and weariness had crept back in.
He eyed Snape as the man shifted where he leaned, looking uncomfortable.
"Your mind still needs to dream."
"Even if it means you wake up retching," Harry said before he could stop himself.
"Even then," Snape said, no emotion in his voice.
"How do you stop them?" Harry asked suddenly, desperate for an answer.
"You can't," Snape said. "I doubt you'll ever be free of them."
"I keep dreaming that…and then Lucius…" Harry said, shaking his head to escape memories. "I just want to have normal dreams, like I used to have back in first year…before…"
"You've had nightmares of Quirrell?" Snape asked, sounding skeptical. Harry shrugged.
"He did almost kill me, you know. I remember his hands tightening around my throat…but the pain in my scar was so intense I couldn't focus properly…"
"Do you dream of this often?" Snape asked, voice quiet. Harry sighed.
"More often it's about when Ron was attacked on the chess board," he explained, almost forgetting that it was Snape that he was talking to. The calmer tones were slowly relaxing his exhausted, over-worked mind, and sleep was creeping up on him quietly. His mind was fogging over with the need to sleep, and the words just kept slipping out of his mouth. "He and Hermione shouldn't have come with me…"
"If they hadn't, you would have died," Snape said.
"They could have died, though," Harry said. "How will I live with myself, if I lose one of them?"
"You're afraid."
"Damn right I am. I'm terrified," Harry said, eyes drooping and closing. The book slipped from his fingers as he relaxed backwards, incapable of staying awake much longer. "I haven't got anyone else."
"You've got Lupin," Snape pointed out. "Half the damn planet as well."
"I'll lose him, too," Harry said quietly. "I read it somewhere—werewolves live shorter lives, because of the strain of transformations. He's been lucky to live this long."
"Wolfsbane Potion negates most of that," Snape said.
"Still—he's in the Order. Someday soon, there's going to an actual battle, and then another, another, and another. I lose everyone…"
"That's not true," Snape said.
"It may never have occurred to you, Snape, but I don't have a family," Harry said, stirring somewhat from his exhausted stupor. "I don't talk about it—no parents, no grandparents, no uncles, aunts or even cousins." He gave a short laugh. "I don't count the Dursleys," he said shortly, then sighed slowly out. "I don't know anyone who is related to me—except Tom, very distantly, and he isn't exactly available for family chats. There's no one there to talk to."
"You're almost asleep," Snape observed quietly. "We'll talk again in the morning."
Harry was too close to sleep to comprehend what Snape had said. "'M not going to make a sound, promise," he slurred, then knew no more.
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He woke up slowly, feeling disoriented, and was confused when he realized that he was still wearing his robes from the day before. He hadn't changed into pajamas at all, he realized, and wondered why…
And then the day before all came back to him, and he realized it hadn't been a dream…Moody was dead, he'd had his run in with a boggart, and Snape…
It was funny, but he seemed to remember Snape saying he wanted to help him…
But that was impossible. Snape. Help Harry Potter, the bane of his existence?
It just didn't make a bit of sense, and yet he seemed to remember it happening…
He almost started when he looked up from the toast that had been set by his bed and saw Snape standing there, arms crossed and expression guarded. "Er…good morning, sir," Harry said hesitantly, unsure of the man's mood as well as his own. Snape didn't say a word for a moment.
"Black would not blame you," Snape stated. Harry blinked, knowing that his blood was draining out of his face.
"W-what?" he gaped. Snape moved forward, sitting down in a chair by the wall.
"I clearly saw what the boggart became for you, Potter. There is no reason to harbor that fear," Snape said, as if speaking to someone very stupid or stubborn.
"You have no idea—," Harry growled, but stopped as Snape arched a brow, looking skeptical.
"Oh, don't I?"
The potions professor leaned forward in his seat, dark eyes locking with Harry's own.
An instant later, Harry was involuntarily pulled into a memory—Snape's, he realized, as he spotted the dark-haired teen striding through a dark forest…and into a clearing, where dozens of other death eaters awaited the orders of their master…Lord Voldemort.
The young man strode forward, as if he had no fear of the monster that stood at the head of the gathering, and kneeled down at his master's feet.
"What news do you bring me, Severus?" Tom Riddle asked.
"My family…they will not willingly give me the secret to the location that you seek," the young Severus Snape said, voice humble but strong.
"You did not…persuade…them?" Tom asked. Snape looked up, and Harry saw the man's cold, emotionless face.
"I thought…perhaps…you would enjoy having the opportunity of breaking them," Snape offered.
There was silence for a moment, and then Tom Riddle laughed aloud. "You never cease to amaze me, my young snake…so willing to do whatever necessary to help me achieve our goals."
"You have but to ask, my lord," Snape said softly.
"I do ask it."
"My family is located in LiverpoolHedgerow Lane, Number 8."
"Very good…" Tom said, sounding proud of his follower. Harry just wanted to throw up.
The connection broke as suddenly as Snape had established it, and Harry blinked rapidly, clearing the last images from his mind—of Snape's family, tortured to death on their sitting room floor.
"I sold them out because I believed they were unworthy," Snape said quietly. "Not a day goes by that I do not feel guilty for it…but guilt alone is worthless, Potter."
"I know I made mistakes," Harry said. "I'm trying to do better, but I just can't seem to escape…"
"The point is not to escape—it is to learn to cope," Snape informed him. Harry shrugged.
"I don't have a clue how I'm supposed to 'cope,'" Harry admitted, surprising even himself. "Everyone asks me how I am, and no one ever pushes if I say I'm fine. It's just---with the Dursleys, if I said anything but that, I'd get a good thrashing or locked in my cupboard for a week."
Snape looked dubious. "Surely they didn't lock you in for a week," he commented. Harry eyed his professor, debating with himself. Finally, his desperate need to vent to someone, anyone, won out.
"My longest punishment was almost a month," Harry said flatly. "They let me out twice a day—once in the morning, to make breakfast and use the bathroom, and once in the evening to brush my teeth and eat a bit of food. Otherwise, I was locked in."
"Figg never mentioned anything—" Snape muttered.
"How would she know?" Harry asked. "My relatives would just say I had a cold or was grounded—and they were always careful to never mark up my face or arms."
Harry stopped, feeling foolish. "You've seen most of it, from Occlumency," Harry said. "I'm not going to sit here and give you my pathetic sob story. What's done is done."
Snape eyed him. "You mean that, don't you, Potter?"
Harry blinked. "Huh?"
Snape shook his head. "Ever the Gryffindor," he finally muttered. Harry bristled.
"Just what's that supposed to mean?" he demanded. Snape looked up, a smirk twisting his lips.
"'What's done is done?'" Snape echoed with a slight sneer. "You don't wish vengeance…"
Harry thought of the times he'd wished his relatives would all disappear or leave him alone, and realized suddenly that he'd never truly wished them dead or hurt…sure, when he'd been angry he'd wished they'd all get killed in a car wreck, like he thought his parents had died.
But now, he couldn't imagine selling them out to Tom or something similar…although he refused to acknowledge the fact that if they died through some fault of their own, he'd be hard pressed to feel much grief.
Especially since he was fairly certain that his relatives would all jump for joy if they'd heard that he'd gotten himself 'blow up,' as Vernon always liked to imagine.
"I wished it once—on Bellatrix," he admitted quietly, wondering why he was saying this dark secret to the man he hated most of all. "I wanted her to suffer for what she did…"
"Hmm…and yet the spell did not work," Snape commented, then smirked. "Oh, yes, I heard of it many times at…gatherings. She seems to think that it means you're weak."
"You don't?" Harry asked, skeptical. Snape eyed him.
"Your ability or inability to cause others pain does not prove your power," Snape told him. "Surely you can see that."
"I suppose," Harry said with a sigh and a shrug. "Still, I feel so powerless when I think of how I'm supposed to kill Voldemort."
"I would be astonished if you thought otherwise," Snape stated, and Harry frowned.
"Somehow, I doubt that," he said, voice flat.
Snape had the good graces to look somewhat regretful. "I—I was wrong in my perceptions of you, Potter," the man admitted.
Harry found that statement so funny he couldn't help the laugh that escaped his mouth. "I've never heard you admit you were wrong…even when you said…that…in front of a whole class."
He stopped laughing suddenly, his mood black once more. "I know I have to kill Tom, and I honestly don't know if I'm going to survive the…experience. And you know…half the time I'm not sure I want to anymore."
Snape regarded him calmly. "You should be speaking to Lupin," he finally diagnosed. Harry laughed bitterly.
"Can you imagine what he'd think—he'd be guilt-ridden, thinking he hadn't done enough for me…that my…depression…is his fault somehow. It isn't, but how would I prove that to him?"
"You have a point, odd as it may be," Snape grudgingly admitted. "He would help, though."
"I can't hurt him like that," Harry said.
"And yet you speak to me?" Snape queried.
Harry eyed his professor. "I don't care if I hurt you, if that's even possible, and nothing you can do can hurt any more than anything else you've already done to me."
Snape looked unaffected by the words, though his eyes flicked away from Harry's own for a moment. "I had not seen it that way, Potter."
"That's how it is, though," Harry assured him, looking away for a moment to collect himself. "I don't really give a damn if you tell everyone everything awful you know about me…not anymore. It's pointless to care…Merlin, in a few months or a few years, I might be dead. Hell, it could even be a few days from now."
"The likelihood is high that you will survive, Potter," Snape said.
Harry laughed again. "I know that's a lie, sir. You've been predicting my death at Tom's hands almost as often as Trelawney…of course, she's less snide about it and more gruesome."
"You harbor great power, Potter, if you learn to use it," Snape told him.
"Well, there's the problem," he said. "I can do wandless magic—but only when it wants to be used, and I can instinctively create some shields—but they don't work against physical attacks, apparently. I see some castle in my sleep…but I can't figure out just where it is. So far, it looks to me like all that power is never going to be touched."
Snape considered him a moment. "How much research have you been doing?"
"As much as I have time for," he said. "Luna's been helping me a lot, since Ron and Hermione are so busy. We spend at least four or five hours together every week, working on it."
"You have not come to any conclusions?" Snape sounded surprised.
"We think it's along the western coast of France, somewhere just above Portugal. It's big, old, and invisible to muggle and wizard alike. It's undetectable with any known spell, and completely impermeable…except to me, probably, and perhaps Tom. It was built by Godric Gryffindor, but Salazar Slytherin had a hand in it, and perhaps a few others."
He stopped as Snape raised a hand slightly. "Have you told Albus all of this?"
"Yeah," Harry said. "But I can't exactly go searching for it—because then Tom'll know—and nobody else can find it, not even Dumbledore."
"Have you learned anything else?" Snape asked.
"We know it's dangerous…I'll probably have to destroy it, in the end," Harry said.
"Why?"
"All accounts mention terrible things associated with that place. It's cursed, and it's meant for nothing but destruction. It can't help our side—only hurt it—because I'm not strong enough to properly control it," Harry admitted. Snape seemed somehow…impressed.
"It's…interesting to hear you admit to weaknesses, Potter," the man said.
"I have enough of them," Harry muttered.
"I will do what I can to determine the Dark Lord's progress in this matter, but you should continue your research as well," Snape told him. Harry nodded.
"I wasn't going to stop, anyway," he pointed out.
"As for any other issues…you can talk to me whenever you need to, Potter," Snape said, as if very reluctant. Harry blinked, surprised.
"You mean that, don't you?" Harry asked. Snape nodded.
"You are not as alone as you think you are, Potter," he said. "I have been wrong for many years about you…I wish to make some sort of amends." The man paused a moment, seemingly shocked with his almost-human words. "On the condition that you show some maturity and dedication to your studies. And listen when an Order member tells you something"
"I'm sorry I looked in your pensieve," Harry said, his words honest. Snape watched him for long moments.
"I do believe you are," he finally said.
Harry looked away, feeling inexplicably ashamed. "I know how it feels to be the one in the middle of the circle…but…well, I never had to deal with it here at Hogwarts," he said.
"I never wanted to associate what I saw in your memories with your childhood," Snape told him. "Now, I am forced to do so."
"So can we finally call a truce?" Harry asked suddenly. "There's more important things going on than our fighting."
Snape stuck out his hand, and, astonished, Harry took it, remembering another hand just recently extended in…understanding. "Agreed, Potter."
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A/N: I don't know if I really like this chapter, or if Snape/Harry issues can be solved this quickly, but a dramatic event can do that sometimes. I just wanted a way for Snape to see the other side of Harry, and for Harry to be willing to take a chance.
THANK YOU for all the reviews, but in favor of working on the next chapter, which I have yet to get beyond the outline stage, I'm not going to answer reviewers here. Maybe next chapter, sorry!
Tell me what ya think, would ya?
miss laine
P.S. A silly moment here: I just LOVE the word 'deftly.' What a great word, and I'm glad someone thought it up.