A/N: So I dropped my laptop on my last day of school last semester. And it broke. Lost all my story notes. I bought a new one recently. A cheap one, mind you, but it works well enough. (Yay Gateway... I guess!)
Anyway, so lost story notes. I tried and tried to rewrite this chapter and recall all my plans. It came out absolute shit, and I almost gave up entirely.
Your reviews, however, inspired me to keep going. I love each and every one of you. Times a million and a half. Like, if I could kiss all of you and then make you all win the lottery, I would. And I'd even put cherries on top.
So anyway, I finished the chapter - finally, after two weeks of staring at Notepad. It's gonna take me a bit to get back in my writing grove, so stick with me! (I also finished this chapter on too much wine - shame on me!)
I guess what I'm trying to say, dear readers, is best expressed with the first line of Chapter 10:
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize."
"If I've done something wrong-"
"Let me rephrase. Don't apologize to me. Your disservice was to yourself, Harry," replied Snape calmly. "You need to learn to respect yourself. I know we've discussed where you should hold your accountability in the past, and while I hope that I help you remain so, I don't believe this is necessarily the best method."
"What do you mean?" asked Harry, rubbing the pink patch on his arm Snape's healing charms had left behind.
"I want you to be accountable to somebody to help you heal, Harry, but I'm beginning to realize it can't always be me. Your actions today - and don't apologize again - have proven that you need some personal responsibility. You can't always use me as a crutch."
"It was just a misunderstanding, sir. I know that-"
"If we quarrel, or if I'm gone, you'll have nothing left to stop you," interrupted Snape bluntly.
Harry wanted badly to disagree, but he knew Snape was right. They hadn't even fought, not properly, yet Harry had taken his anger toward Snape out on his arm. Even so, he wasn't sure he'd be okay trusting himself. Could he, really?
"I understand what you're saying, sir. It's just... well, I want to. So if the only person I have to be accountable for is me, I'll likely just go through with it. I mean, it's kinda how it was before... before Dumbledore sent me here."
"You have a valid point. We'll just need to work on that a bit. Fortunately, we have a detention to schedule."
"I really have detention?"
Snape grinned. "I'm afraid you do, Potter. However, I believe we have more concerning matters to discuss than Memory Potions. We'll talk tomorrow night. I think it's best if you use tonight to make amends with your friends... once again."
Harry returned Snape's grin before standing up and heading towards the Great Hall for dinner. Not all was lost, after all. He was looking forward to his detention with Snape; it would be the first time they'd have an actual therapy session concerning his actions. He knew he wasn't ready to let it go, not really. But he also knew that the shame that accompanied his relapses, the shame that hadn't been present before he got to know Snape, it was worse than Draco's taunts or Ron's stupid outbursts. Perhaps Snape didn't want Harry to use him as a crutch anymore, but Snape didn't comprehend how much of a positive impact he'd had on Harry. He'd never thought of his behavior as anything but a remedy. Now it felt like an addiction, and one he needed to overcome. He owed quite a bit of gratitude to his once-loathed potions professor.
After arguing with himself all the way to the Great Hall, Harry finally decided it probably wasn't worth it to play the stubborn game with his best friends. He needed them, after all, and the last time he opted for silence hadn't turned out so well. Ron and Hermione seemed surprised when he accompanied them at the table, but he held up his hand in protest to their apologies.
"I know, and me too. So, about the match tomorrow..."
His friends exchanged confused glances, but submitted to the subject drop. Perhaps they were exhausted from drama as well.
That, and Ron couldn't resist participating in his favorite topic of conversation.
The Quidditch discussion followed through to breakfast. Ron was, as usual, a bundle of nerves. Harry's excitement was beginning to sink as he attempted to raise Ron's confidence.
"It's us or Ravenclaw that's got to take 'em down," mumbled Ron though his toast. "We have more points, so we're the obvious choice..."
"So long as you keep your confidence up, Ron, we've got nothing to worry about-"
Harry cut his answer short in response to the footsteps loudly approaching them.
"A word, Potter," came the interruption. Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione, but no suggestions were hidden in their blank expressions. He'd been waiting for this. What could he possibly want? His invisibility cloak? To hand him over to Voldemort? But he wouldn't give Malfoy the satisfaction of weakness. Without looking at his rival, he walked toward an empty corner of the Great Hall. Malfoy dismissed his companions and followed suit.
"How can I help you, Malfoy?" asked Harry sternly. He received a grin in response.
"Well I'm glad you asked, Potter. You and Weasley seemed to be discussing Quidditch strategies."
"...and?"
"And I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to revise them. As you are aware, the Gryffindor Quidditch team is ahead of Slytherin by an overwhelming margin. It's time we took back that Cup."
Harry almost laughed. "The whole world of blackmail at your disposal, Malfoy, and you go for Quidditch?"
Malfoy's smile remained. "I wasn't aware that your pride had an expiration date, Potter."
Harry's amusement quickly faded. Of course. He was merely testing Harry's limits. Quidditch was a starting point. How far could he let this go? If he agreed to give the game away, would his loss of dignity as captain be outmatched against the threat of exposure? And if he took the loss, how much more would Malfoy ask in the future? He tried to suppress the feeling of hopelessness and urge that accompanied the already frustrating scenario.
"You can stop pretending that Quidditch is such a priority for you, Malfoy," muttered Harry. "Why not go ahead and tell me what you're really looking for?"
"Now, now, Potter, let's not make hasty accusations," said Malfoy, and with a particularly nasty grin, he added, "Good luck today."
"Well, we certainly can't allow him to tell his father about this. I hate to state the obvious, Harry, but so long as you let him toy with his trivial victories, much more complicated predicaments may be avoided."
"If it escalates past House Points and Quidditch cups, won't we just reach that point anyway?" demanded Harry. He wasn't the type to pull the bandage off slowly, and his patience with Malfoy had already passed the point of wearing thin.
"I suppose you have a point, Harry, but we will gain more time to form a viable solution if we let him win," said Snape, who was now pacing in front of his desk. "However, I suspect your reluctance has little to do with the risk of the Dark Lord."
Harry dropped his head. "I don't like him having this much control over me. Especially when I'm trying to learn to control myself."
Snape's black eyes flickered toward Harry's newly healed arm. "I understand your frustration, but consider the situation. You are fighting an internal battle with yourself, are you not? Draco's dominance remains external. Once you have learned to control yourself, and I certainly believe you can, Draco's 'knowledge' becomes irrelevant. The only constant in this equation is time."
It was as if Snape were asking him to learn how to cast a Patronus in front of a fleet of dementors. Learning to fight his urges were hard enough without Draco's ascendancy, however external it might be. He might have the courage to push through with his head held high, but he'd need help coping. And where would that put him, exactly?
"I don't know if I can do this, sir," admitted Harry. "I can't let him control me like this."
"Then don't let it bother you so, Harry. You're giving him that control."
"He'll keep thinking he owns me, and I can't deal with that."
Snape sighed. "Such typical Gryffindor motives. Pride before cunning; a blatant disregard for the tactical advantage."
"The sorting hat would be disappointed," muttered Harry. Snape gave him a questioning look, but Harry did not elaborate. "I'll see you at the match, professor."
He slammed the dungeon door as he entered the hallway. He thought he'd lost his pride when he'd come asking Snape for help so many nights ago, but it seemed it was still there, still urging him to keep his head high.
"What were you doing with Snape?" came a voice from behind him. Malfoy. Did the universe hate him this much? He turned to face him and muttered something about detention.
"Oh yes, that's right... I trust you don't need a memory potion to remember our little deal?"
"Shut up, Malfoy."
"I've got a good bet on Ravenclaw now, Potter, I'd hate for you to screw it up for me. Maybe I'll throw a Galleon your way if you make good. You could use it to buy yourself a nice new potions knife."
"Are you finished?" asked Harry, digging his fingernails hard into his palms. He could do this. He could remain in control. Just breathe.
"As finished as your reputation as a quality seeker, Potter. See you at the match."
There was no questioning it now.
Harry flew high above the Quidditch stands, trying his hardest not to let himself look at Malfoy's smug face. He heard cheer after cheer as Gryffindor scored; he just needed to end the game, that was all. He scanned the lengths of the field, hoping to catch a hint of gold... he was determined to put Malfoy in his place...
He came to an abrupt stop, allowing himself one last glance at Malfoy before taking off full speed in the opposite direction.
He'd seen it. The familiar rush of adrenaline pulsed through him as he flew, soaring past Cho Chang and narrowly avoiding a bludger; he stretched out his arm, his fingers drawing nearer, the glittering surface of the Snitch multiplying in size...
He sneaked a quick glance at Snape, begging for approval... he could practically feel the victory now, the victory against Ravenclaw and the victory over Malfoy... Snape's glare was nearly piercing him... he looked away, focusing entirely on the tiny golden ball floating inches before him... Cho was gaining on him... he could feel Snape's disappointment, the pang of guilt he felt was reminiscent of all the times he'd had to admit he'd relapsed... he couldn't let Snape down again... but it was so close...
Harry's hand hovered over the ball for a few seconds before he gave in. His arm fell limply to his side, his head dropped past his neck, and he felt the embarrassment and defeat filling his cheeks with a bright shade of pink. He looked up to see a very confused Cho Chang circle concernedly around him before snatching the Snitch for herself. A lot of things happened at once: Katie Bell found some very choice words to shout at Harry; Ravenclaw's cheers erupted loudly around the stadium (only to be drowned out by the angry howls of the Gryffindors seconds later); Malfoy's smug grin nearly reached his eyebrows as he high-fived his confounded cohorts; Jimmy Peakes smacked a bludger so hard it nearly broke the Whomping Willow in two; and then Ron was flying toward him, a demanding look on his face...
Harry didn't want to stay and explain. He flew away from the stadium toward the changing room at top speed, hoping to change out of his Quidditch uniform before the rest of the team had time to follow. He shoved his Quidditch robes angrily in his bag and stormed out of the changing room. He'd managed to escape before the rest of the team could question him, but just barely; he could hear the angry shouts of his fellow Gryffindors resonating at the other end of the hallway. He sprinted around the corner, hoping to avoid them, hoping to get away...
...and bumping straight into a person that made him wish for Voldemort instead.
"Good game, Potter," said Malfoy, smiling menacingly. "I must say, I was sure Gryffindor had it before their incompetent seeker forgot how to close his fingers..."
"Fuck off, Malfoy," spat Harry, attempting to navigate around him.
"Watch your cheek, Potter," replied a very taken aback Malfoy, holding out his arm to block Harry's escape. "I'd expect a little more respect - considering -"
"Get-out-of-my-way..." Harry's quiet voice was very near calm now, though he felt the anger inside of him rising to alarming levels. He needed to get out of here...
"You don't get to bark orders at me, Potter. I think that power lies in my-"
Harry's disarming spell hit Malfoy before he had time to finish the sentence. What power did Malfoy have now, weaponless, at the mercy of his disgruntled subordinate? Without thinking, Harry committed perhaps the second most surprising act of the day; he thrust his wand carelessly aside and flung himself at Malfoy, pinning him to the ground. He tried to remember all those years playing victim to Dudley. His cousin tended to go for the nose, as it managed to both hurt Harry and break his glasses. Unsure of where else to aim, he thrust his fist forcibly against Malfoy's pale noise.
He felt himself being hoisted off of Malfoy by some strong and unknown force behind him; his robes nearly choked him... he turned to face Goyle, who greeted him with a strong blow to the stomach. He doubled over in pain, but stumbled back to Malfoy... he could not let him win again, lackeys or otherwise...
"ENOUGH!" came a booming voice from behind them. Taking advantage of their moment of freedom, Harry and Malfoy scrambled for their wands. Just as they'd reached them, however, the wands soared through the air toward the outstretched palm of Albus Dumbledore, whose free hand was pointing angrily toward the castle.
"Explain."
"Potter attacked me," responded Malfoy, who was pressing a blood-stained cloth firmly against his bleeding nose. Harry bit his lip, keeping his eyes glued to the wall.
"And what would motivate him to do that?" asked Dumbledore calmly. Though Harry's eyes hadn't left the wall, he could feel Dumbledore's piercing blue ones searching him curiously.
"As if he needs a reason in his current emotional state," huffed Malfoy, who was now examining the cloth for a cleaner portion.
"His current emotional state..." echoed Dumbledore, his eyes remaining on Harry, who was continuing to avoid contact. "Care to elaborate?"
"Perhaps he needed to hurt someone else for a change," said Malfoy, whose bloody lips were forming a smirk, "somebody other than-"
Harry felt the blood rush to his face. He stood up, pushing his chair back noisily. "I did... what you asked... I threw the match... I-"
Dumbledore held up his hand, silencing Harry. "Draco, please head down to Professor Snape's office. Explain what has happened. I will meet you there momentarily; I wish to have a few words with Mr. Potter in private."
Draco snatched his wand from Dumbledore's desk, and gave Harry one last smug look before walking away.
If Harry had endured any amount of animosity toward Draco Malfoy that day, it was nothing compared to what he felt once he saw Malfoy strut victoriously toward the spiral staircase. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into the palm of his hand strenuously. What else could possibly go wrong? He wasn't sure where to place blame... at Ron, for drawing Malfoy's attention in Transfiguration; at Snape, for encouraging him to lose the match; at Dumbledore, for catching him; at himself... for getting caught...
"My initial request would be that you finish Draco's sentence for me, but I can only assume you will remain silent."
Harry looked up at Dumbledore, but did not grant him an answer. He was growing tired of these conversations.
"As expected." Dumbledore sighed before continuing. "Which then leads me to presume that my suspicions are correct. Harry, I must admit I'm a bit disappointed. I honestly thought that you would have been finished with this by now."
Harry's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
"I admit my actions may not have been the most appropriate, Harry. I should have helped you myself. I was aware of your distaste for the Professor Snape, Harry, and I apologize for leaving this matter in his hands. I should have intervened sooner, we could have prevented Draco's knowledge of the matter-"
"So that's your biggest concern, is it?"
"Of course not, Harry. Your mental health is of the utmost importance to me. Perhaps, if you agree to accept my guidance, we can work through this together-"
"You mean without Snape."
"It only seems apparent that he hasn't handled the situation satisfactorily."
"Snape has done just fine HANDLING me, sir," snapped Harry. He did not avoid Dumbledore's oddly glittering eyes this time; instead, he glared at them intensely. "I'm sorry if we haven't met your expectations, Professor. Maybe next time you throw me at somebody's doorstep for fixing, you could try sticking around a bit!"
"Harry-"
But Harry didn't wait for Dumbledore to finish his sentence. Snatching his wand, he stormed to the spiral staircase, sprinted down the steps, down the hall, and up to the third floor corridor. He marched towards Gryffindor Tower angrily, but a familiar site caught his eye. He halted at the statue of the humpbacked witch.
Well, it wasn't as if he really had a place to go, anyway. He tapped the statue with his wand.
"Dissendium."
The Three Broomsticks was nearly vacant when Harry arrived. The warmth of the pub soothed his frozen exterior, but did nothing for the copious amounts of frustration he held inside. He took a seat in the far corner, attempting to avoid the window as much as possible. Madam Rosmerta approached the table cheerily, sporting her unusually neon green heels.
"What'll it be?"
"Firewhiskey."
She eyed him for a moment. "How's sixth year treating you? I'll bring a butterbeer right out."
Harry sighed as he slumped in his chair. Lovely. His fingernails had broken the skin on his palm, and his bruised stomach was aching horribly. He was unable to find a position in the chair that would soothe it, and for a fleeting moment, he considered the pain. It should help, right? Why was it any different than what he most wanted to do at the moment?
Oh, right. Because he hadn't caused it.
Madame Rosmerta approached the table with his legal drink. "You doing okay? You seem kind of-"
"I'm fine," interrupted Harry angrily. Rosmerta looked very taken aback. She set the drink in front of him and stalked off without another word. Harry might have felt guilty, but the mild drink in front of him kept him apathetic. What did the stupid age limit matter, anyway, in the scheme of things? Harry was being blackmailed, his pride destroyed. There were Death Eaters killing muggles. Madam Rosmerta couldn't possibly understand what it was like to be Harry Potter. He felt he deserved a drink.
Quit feeling sorry for yourself - you're being ridiculous, he thought. She was just doing her job, after all.
But she was taking away the one thing that might stop him from-
I'm in control, Harry reminded himself. Yes, that was it. He was in control. He waited for Rosmerta to disappear into the back before pulling out his wand and whispering the summoning charm. The bottle glided off the top shelf and landed in his lap with a delicate thud. Just having it felt comforting. He wouldn't drink too much, of course. He just wanted to numb the frustration a bit, to help himself.
He looked around for Rosmerta once more before opening the bottle and holding it steady above his glass of Butterbeer.
"At least you're mixing it now," came a deep voice from behind him. Startled, Harry dropped the bottle. It smashed on the floor beside him, and Madam Rosmerta came rushing out in surprise.
"Is everything okay? What-" She paused as her eyes drifted to the floor. She rose her glare to meet Harry's face. "Well, I hope you plan on paying for this," she spat.
"We'll take care of it, Madam," assured Snape. "Please give us a moment."
Her red face looked from Snape to Harry and back again, but she didn't say another word as she returned to her storage closet.
Snape took the chair across from Harry. "Blowing off detention to get 'wasted'?"
"How'd you find me?" replied Harry. He wasn't sure where else to take the conversation. He felt his face hot with embarrassment once again. It seemed he wasn't quite subtle enough to get away with his coping mechanisms anymore.
"When the Headmaster informed me of the discussion you two shared, I assumed you'd end up doing something careless. I figured you'd probably want to get away from the castle. This seemed plausible."
His tone had been calm, but Harry could feel the disappointment. He dropped his head. "I wasn't planning on-"
"Getting drunk?" finished Snape. "I believe your intentions may have been so, but I don't think your trust has reached the level to merit such a mild outcome."
"Your trust in me?"
"Your trust in yourself."
"Ah... I... yeah..." muttered Harry, keeping his eyes pinned to his empty lap.
"I certainly hope we haven't regressed to stammering conversation again, because there is a lot of that to be had tonight."
"Are you pissed?"
"What?"
"Are you angry with me?" repeated Harry shamefully.
Snape sighed heavily. "Once again, your focus is on somebody other than yourself. Harry, how do you feel about your actions tonight?"
Harry took a gulp of his Butterbeer. "I don't feel bad for hitting that asshole, if that's what you mean."
"I thought not. How's your stomach feeling?"
"Shit. Would it be too much to ask you to heal it?"
"Would it help you talk?"
Harry considered the question thoroughly before answering. "I think we need to talk either way."
"Good answer, Mr. Potter. Now pay Madam Rosmerta for your wrongdoing. I think it's time we returned to the castle."
"Professor... did Dumbledore tell you... what we talked about?" asked Harry, fishing for some sickles in his pocket.
"Vaguely. Was there something you needed to tell me?"
"He thinks you shouldn't be helping me. He says I should have been better by now."
"I'm not surprised," mused Snape. "He seems to think you have the common cold."
Harry gave Snape half a smile before apologetically paying Rosmerta, whose angry expression softened at the gratuitous tip. Snape handed him his coat before they marched towards the exit. He paused a moment before opening the door.
"I'm not angry with you, foolish boy," he said, and pushed the door open. Icy wind poured into the warm bar, but Harry hardly noticed as he followed Professor Snape outside.
The bitter cold was no match for the warmth that came with being at least mildly understood.
A/N: I wanted to mention that I know a few of my reviewers are going through something similar. Whether it be alcohol, cutting, depression, whatever... I just want you to know that I've been there, and I'm here. Seriously. *Siriusly. Tweet me, PM me, or e-mail me if you need to talk, have questions, want to chat about how awesome Boneless Buffalo Chicken Salads are from Chilis (really, try one. Orgasmic!). I'm here and I love you!
Baby, you're not alone.
