Title:
The boy that forgot to die

Author:
evil minded

Date:
November, 2nd 2011

Timeframe:
Second year at Hogwarts

Summary:
AU / Harry Potter comes back for his second year at Hogwarts, but something is not the way it should be, and Severus Snape seems the only one able to help the boy that forgot to die … will he manage to really help the Gryffindor before it is too late?

Disclaimer:
I don't really care about Lockhart, Quirrel or Umbridge, nor about most of the other characters in HP … I, however, would like to own one particular Severus Snape – regrettably I do not, Rowling does … but well – I'm borrowing him for a while … just to torture him a bit … I am evil minded after all …

Rating:
M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

Author's Notes:
Uhm … alright … I have to admit … English is not my language by birth … so … please do not kill me while reading … neither for the – perhaps – sad language, nor for the subject of my writing …
Also, this is a story written for NaNo, a story written within thirty days only and even though I go over the chapters before uploading them – I do apologize if it might not have the same quality at one point or another than those stories of mine you are used to by now … thank you …

Warning:
Story contains bad language and swearing.
Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.
Story contains references to child neglect.
Child neglect is a really, really serious thing, and there are a lot of children in our world that are neglected, children that lack food, clothing, often love, and perhaps even a roof over their head – and closing our eyes, and pretending it does not exist – is no solution …
Story contains references to child abuse.
Child abuse is one of the most evil things, and there are a lot of children in our world that really would need help but have to live without hope – and again, closing our eyes and pretending it does not exist – is no solution … instead show sympathy, and understanding … and handle people, children as well as adults, which are showing any signs – whichever – of once having been abused … with understanding and with help …
What does not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be … ^.~ … believe me – I am …

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Previously in "The boy that forgot to die"
And again, he wondered why his spirit had not left this earth, why it had stayed behind, what unclosed matters had kept the boy from leaving, wondered how it was that the boy had left the place where he had died in the first place. It wasn't normal for a ghost to leave the place where he had died after all, and he was sure that Potter hadn't died here at Hogwarts. But how had he died? Where had he died? And when had he died? Where was his dead body? What in Merlin's name had happened?
And as strange as it was – the only answer that nagged at the back of his mind was – Petunia Evans, now Dursley.

The boy that forgot to die
Chapter two
He wasn't suicidal after all, was he?
Or you still have your green eyes

Harry could feel all eyes on him, and honestly, he couldn't blame them, not this time, and he lowered his head. Surely one didn't see his classmate like this every day, after all. Again, he had managed to get himself into a mess, like always, he just wasn't sure yet what kind of mess he actually was in.

Of course, he knew that there was something wrong with him – but, when wasn't? And of course, he knew that he – somehow, at least – was dead – sort of. He had seen his body lying in the cupboard, for Merlin's sake, but he wasn't entirely sure of how dead he was, as his body had been still breathing.

For a moment he shuddered at the memory before shrugging his shoulders. He couldn't change it anyway. So what?

But then – maybe he should tell a teacher? Maybe someone should go and get his body from the Dursleys? But then – what would they do with it? And was it not dead meanwhile? Surely it was? Surely it couldn't be alive anymore? After everything? And after uncle Vernon had been there to …

He hadn't dared touching his body back then, when he had been in the cupboard with it, had crept away from it as far as possible and honestly, he hadn't been able to sleep at all during the past two nights, with his own body so close, had barely been able to take his eyes away from the mess that had been his body.

He was sure, even, that his body had stopped breathing a few times last night. But then it always had started breathing again at one point or another, however that had been possible, he didn't know. It only had stopped breathing for sure at one point or another during the early morning hours this morning and he had been scared to death, really. Or he would have been scared to death if he hadn't been dead already, he wasn't entirely sure of that. He had tried to – carefully, mind you – poke his body, had called a soft "hey, you…" and had tried to make it breathing again, but it hadn't. He'd rather been lucky that his uncle hadn't heard him calling out to his own body, really.

Not that he wouldn't have understood his uncle getting a heart attack at that sight, his nephew talking to his own dead – or halfway dead – body, but well – he just knew that a heart attack would only have ended up in another beating, his uncle recovering from his heart attack within a few seconds to advance on him.

And well, it had started breathing again however, his body, at one point or another during the night, but then, this morning, uncle Vernon had opened the cupboard, had tried to get his body out of there and he really, really had been scared by that, and he had come closer again to somehow keep his uncle from taking his body away.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

The moment he had come closer, however, and his uncle had seen him, he had released his body so quickly that he had heard a soft 'thud' when it had hit the floor, had heard the sound of yet another bone breaking while his body had stopped breathing again, and his uncle had looked at him, Harry, this kind of Harry he was now, and he had paled and then he had stumbled backwards. It had been the first time that he had seen his uncle scared and for a moment he had nearly smiled at that picture.

But then his uncle had taken the cane and had started to come close again, screaming at him, that he had to leave his house immediately, that he wouldn't have a ghost living in his house, and he had lifted the cane, had started advancing on him with it, and he'd been so scared back then. Well, he always was scared out of his wits when uncle Vernon came close with his cane.

He hadn't understood what uncle Vernon had meant with 'a ghost'. He wasn't a ghost after all, because ghosts normally couldn't walk and sit and touch things, but he was able to. He could walk on the floor, and he could sit on the bench – even if Hermione and Ron didn't seem to like that. But he could. And he also could touch things, and himself even, his clothes and his face or his hands his hair, his skin. So – surely, he wasn't a ghost?

But then – well, he had to admit, whatever he was, he was ghost-like, somehow. He didn't really understand it, but it hadn't been important back then at all. The words uncle Vernon had screamed at him, and the cane he had held in his hand, that he definitely had understood however, and he quickly had fled not only the cupboard, but the house as well, worried about leaving his body behind at the Dursleys, but his fear of uncle Vernon and his cane had just been too much, because he knew how badly that hurt.

And so, he had left his body behind – or rather he had left his other body, whatever it was – laying there behind, running from the house as fast as he could and then lingering in the alley, worrying over his body and worrying over what to do next, over how he would get to Hogwarts – or if he was even still allowed at Hogwarts, without his body.

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Feeling a piercing stare at him, studying him, scrutinizing him, he looked up and his eyes met the dark ones of Snape – and he shuddered.

Not only did Snape look as foreboding as always, but he also looked particularly dark and sour today – and shocked, a thought that nearly made him laugh at that expression. He never had seen the man – shocked, and he couldn't help noticing that it was unbecoming for Snape's normally so strict and harsh face.

But then – he knew what it felt like to be laughed at because someone's appearance and he knew that it hurt. He always had been laughed at because of his clothes and because he looked like a mouse in the skin of an elephant and he wouldn't do that to someone else, even Snape. Although it wasn't so much Snape's actual looks that made him so cold and harsh, or right now rather dazed. It rather was his grumpy and snarky, mean-spirited personality.

Why was Snape such a petty cruel and mean soul, anyway?

And what were the Dursleys about to do with his dead body?

Was his body even dead yet? Surely, he wouldn't be able to feel and think the way he did right now if it were?

Well, dead or not, he nevertheless, somehow feared what his relatives would do with his dead body. Maybe they would burn it? Or they would hastily bury it someplace? Or would they … for a moment he shuddered … surely, they would not continue beating his dead body? And for a moment he was so shocked and so scared, he actually had troubles breathing at the mere thought of it.

"Mr. Potter." He heard Snape's dark and smooth voice from behind him and forcing himself back to reality, to the 'here and now', away from the thought of what horrible things the Dursleys could do to his dead body, he turned, looking up at the Potions Master who stood there, behind him, looking down at him calmly with his coal-like black eyes.

"Follow me, please, Mr. Potter." Snape said, fixing him with his black and cold eyes for a few more seconds before he turned and strolled out of the great hall, not looking back as if he were sure that he would follow him obediently.

Well, of course he did. He wasn't suicidal after all and dead or not – it surely was enough, he didn't need to die more than he already was.

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The Potions Master watched Potter for a moment while standing so close behind him, his dark eyes narrowed at the Gryffindor brat, and not only because he was curious of how ghost-like he might look from a closer point of view, but also because he wanted to have a closer look at any more possible injuries he might find from this close position.

And yes, the boy definitely looked just the more ghost-like from such a close point of view than he had looked before, the skin on the boy's neck clearly half-translucent, as if the molecules were constantly wavering and changing their position to regroup anew somehow, but the skin wasn't completely translucent like it would be with a real ghost. And neither was his clothing, by the way. It was rather – as half translucent as was his skin – and his hair.

He narrowed his eyes at the boy's neck, easily noticing the bruise that strangely looked like fingerprints of an adult's hand and he had to keep himself from reaching out to brush some strands of hair aside for closer inspection. The boy definitely had been beaten, that much was sure, and he had been beaten at a regular basis during the past few weeks, he was sure of that as the bruises on his face and his neck were in different stages of healing. He also had been choked, considering the fingerprints on the skinny neck, and he had been starved, considering how skinny said neck was to begin with – and the entire boy, by the way. The black hair dead somehow, the clothes ragged and the boy himself bruised and skeletal – it was clear that it was the doing of not only a few days but weeks – and therefore, the doing of the adults around the boy, his relatives. He knew those signs, he had to deal with them often enough after all, but – with Potter?

He would like watching the teen a bit longer, but he noticed that there was a slight panic beginning to form, the boy gripping the shirt over his chest in a death-like grip, his breathing coming in short and ragged gasps. So, even if he didn't know what exactly had caused the panic, he cleared his throat to get the brat's attention – and therefore to get him out of his current thoughts – and his starting panic attack, but there was no reaction except of the teen's muscles tensing up and he sighed, taking a step closer.

"Mr. Potter." He called the boy by his name and finally Potter turned and looked up at him, the green eyes as dead somehow as was the remainder of the boy, but not as dead so that they wouldn't express some fear and a deep horror that had even him, Snape, startled upon looking into them. It was some kind of fear and a kind of horror he didn't even know from his Slytherins, and his frown deepened. It might be Potter, yes, but Potter was just as much a child as were his Slytherins, he suddenly realized, and right now he was a child that was – well, dead, as it seemed. A child that had been neglected at the best and abused at the worst – and to the point of death, as it seemed, something that did not sit too well with him, and he actually felt ill to the stomach.

Well, nothing new here, he always did.

He had always felt ill to the stomach at child abuse, and like always his anger spiked to a point where he would like to being back in old days, when killing had been a part of being a death eater – not that he had actually been one, but as a spy he had taken lives … and right now, he would like doing so again.

"Follow me, please, Mr. Potter." He softly said, trying to sound not only calm but gentle somehow as well. Again, it might be Potter, but if he was right – as small as this chance actually was, because surely Potter wasn't abused – but if he was right, then anything else would have just startled and frightened the boy further and therefore would have been inappropriate. He watched the boy's pale face for a few moments more before he turned and left the great hall, knowing that the teen would follow him, while he at the same time wondered – and not for the first time – did the boy know what had happened to him? Did the boy know how he had died? Did the boy even know that he had died to begin with?

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Tiredly Harry stopped after he had crossed the entrance hall behind Snape, closing his eyes for a moment and savouring the feeling of simply having them closed and taking a rest, leaning against the wall beside him, but then he forced them open again, knowing that it wouldn't do any good to have his eyes closed in the presence of an adult. He needed to see what they were doing to keep himself safe – if he had learned nothing at all at the Dursleys' household, he had at least learned that pretty soon. Never close your eyes in the presence of an adult, never turn your back on an adult and never open your mouth in the presence of an adult if you could prevent it.

A moment later he jumped nearly out of his pants when Snape's larger hand came close and then was placed on his shoulder heavily while the Potions Master's deep and dark voice called out his name again. He had enough bad memories about his uncle grabbing him from behind and shoving him into a corner, beating him, so that he could feel his heartbeat racing for a moment at the unexpected touch and he could just hope that Snape had not noticed his fear. Because an adult noticing your fear only means that everything becomes worse, much worse.

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"A little bit touchy today, Potter?" Snape asked, his eyebrow lifted at the brat, and he had to do his best to keep his face indifferent, to keep his shock and his worry hidden from the boy. Well, he knew that right now, Potter surely would have enough on his own head so that he wouldn't need having to deal with his, Snape's, shown emotions added to his own fear and unsureness.

That was one of the reasons he always kept his indifferent mask, after all, because there were a lot of his Slytherins who needed him collected and professional, Master of the situation and his emotions instead of emotional and insecure himself, not knowing how to help his students. Taking a deep breath, he concentrated back onto the present situation.

So – Potter was a ghost that not only could walk on the ground and sit on the bench in the great hall, but that could be touched as well. That definitely was interesting, and he wondered in what other points the boy would differ from a normal ghost as well. What was it with Potter, always being an exception?

But then he sighed.

Loath as he was to admit, he was sure that – at least this time – it wasn't Potter's fault, whatever it was. Surely the boy had not planned on dying, and above all surely not in such a way that certainly had not been pleasant, being starved to death or something like that, and surely the boy had not planned on being an exception even as a ghost. Actually – the boy looked just as startled as was he, Snape. He looked startled, scared and frightened, unsure and again – he wasn't even sure if the boy knew what exactly had happened to him at all.

What had caused his death anyway? Had he been starved to death? Had he been choked to death? Or beaten to death? He doubted the last part, but the first two – they could be possible from what he could see.

"Sir?" Came said boy's low voice and looking down at Potter who still stood beside him, he saw the boy's worried face, noticed his own face had gone soft while thinking and with a scowl he schooled it back into his usual indifferent mask. "Is something wrong?"

Snape nearly laughed at that question.

The blasted boy was - dead, for Merlin's sake, he was dead, and he asked if there was something wrong? And with him, Snape, no less? How could this blasted brat ask him, Snape, if there was something wrong while he, Potter, was dead? Had died under only Merlin knew what circumstances? Being starved to death? Or choked to death? He didn't know which?

Once again, he regarded the boy with a thoughtful look in his dark eyes. Aside from looking scared and startled Potter looked pale and tired, exhausted beyond anything he ever had seen on a child's face, he looked hungry and narrowing his eyes at the boy he noticed that the pale face looked thinner than any face should look, that the entire boy looked thinner than any human being should look, that he looked skeletal at the best, thin shoulders and arms being hidden beneath his atrocious clothes. Had the boy really died because of that? Because of lack of food? Had he really been starved to death?

But who would do such a thing to a child? He had been with his relatives over the summer holidays. He had been with Petunia Dursley, Lily's sister for the past two months and surely Petunia would care for her sister's son! Even if, perhaps, she would not love him, but surely, she would care for her sister's son, would at least feed him!

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Of course, he knew that Petunia hated magic. She had always hated magic, and this hate of magic had turned into even hating Lily, her own sister. And therefore, he also knew that it could be possible – at least if he now thought about it, with Potter's dead, or half-dead, or whatever it was appearance – that Petunia also did hate her nephew for being a wizard.

But – surely, she would not go as far as starving her own nephew to death? Surely, she would not go as far as choking him to death? Or beating him to death? If that had been what had killed Potter, he didn't know yet and only a detailed diagnostic would show. But – surely Petunia still would care for her own nephew, wouldn't she? Surely, she would provide a child with what he needed for living?

But then – why did the boy wear such atrocious and worn clothes in the first place? And why did he look as if he hadn't had anything to eat for at least two months? He knew that Potter always had been skinny – but never to such an extent! Never before had he looked like a skeleton like this.

His eyes still narrowed, he couldn't help thinking that the boy definitely looked as if he were in pain also, and again, he noticed the bruises on the boy's face. Had he really been beaten? Had he really, just perhaps, even been beaten to death? He didn't look like it, but he also knew that the boy's clothes could hide anything. But if – then when? And by whom? If he had been starved at the hands of his relatives and if he had gotten those horrible clothes from them too, then perhaps they had beaten him as well?

And again, he couldn't help thinking that – surely Petunia wouldn't do such a thing? Lily's sister? She had a son of her own, too, after all and as much as he personally disliked her, she surely would not abuse a child in such a way in front of her own son's eyes? But what of Petunia's husband? That oaf of a man named Vernon Dursley?

And yes, of course he knew that she was married and that her husband was Vernon Dursley, the director of a firm called Grunnings that made – drills. He huffed for a moment at that. So – no, he didn't really think that Petunia would be able killing her nephew, or that she even had planned on it, but Petunia wasn't the only adult in the household. And at the present time, everything spoke of an adult having caused Potter's death as no twelve year old child would be able carrying out his own death by himself like this. And seeing that he did not know Vernon Dursley, Petunia's husband, too well, not good enough at least so that he would be able to bet his life on it, having met him just once while Lily had been alive still – well, everything seemed to hint at murder – somehow at least.

Lily –

Lily.

It was that thought that made him frowning at the boy and for the first time since he first had met him, he realized that Potter was Lily's son as well as Potter's. Harry Potter was not only the son of James Potter, his childhood nemesis, but the son of Lily as well, the son of his childhood friend, of the woman he had loved, he still loved, even while she was dead for years now, even after all this time. This was the boy he had sworn to keep safe for Lily, the boy he had sworn to protect with his own life, and this was the child that had Lily's emerald green eyes, not Potter's blue ones.

And he, he – Snape, he had failed, seeing that Potter was dead.

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"You still have your green eyes." He softly said, still lost deep in his thoughts while he looked into the boy's green eyes calmly. They were paler than they had been – but they still were green.

Was there a flicker of fear in the boy's eyes at his words? If yes – then why?

"Come now, Potter." He softly said, unable to show the same dislike towards the boy he once had felt and with a sharp swish of his robes he turned and hurried down the corridor that led to the infirmary before the blasted child might find out that his dislike had vanished within minutes, had been destroyed and shattered like one of the glass vials he had thrown at the wall so many years ago, after Lily's death – it was one thing having lost his hate, but it was an entirely different thing having Potter to know about it.

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To be continued

Next time in "The boy that forgot to die"
He didn't understand

Added author's note
thank you for reading - and yes, I would be glad if you took the time to review this chapter, thank you

House Cup:
At the present time it looks like this:

28 Points - Slytherin
07 Points - Gryffindor
18 Points - Ravenclaw
05 Points - Hufflepuff