Title:
The boy that forgot to die

Author:
evil minded

Date:
November, 3rd 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
"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.

The boy that forgot to die
Chapter three
He didn't understand
Or what have you done now?

Strange, really, Snape's behaviour tonight.

Of course, he had noticed how Ron had kept his distance on the train – as had Hermione, and after a few minutes of openly staring at him both had left the compartment, had settled on the corridor instead. He couldn't blame them though, really. Who would like being so close in a compartment together with a ghost and a ghost that happened to be your friend no less? It was strange enough and so – no, he really couldn't blame them. And then in the great hall everyone had whispered and had stared at him – again, like so often, and again, he hated it.

And – again, Ron had kept his distance to him at the Gryffindor table, had scooted away a bit, even, when he had sat down.

So – yes, Snape of all people being, sort of – kind to him while his own friends avoided him, it was definitely strange.

Why had Snape called him Mr. Potter twice now already instead of Potter? Snape never called him Mr. Potter, for Snape he was just Potter, an annoying and irritating student he hated for reasons he didn't really understand. Maybe Snape knew? Maybe he knew and …

Again, he remembered, remembered his mother's words written on a yellowed parchment, written on a parchment that was old and crumbled, words that surely were meant to comfort him, to bring him – some kind of future. But there was no future, not for him anyway. And there never would be any kind of future for him, ever. If he had learned nothing over the years with the Dursleys – he at least had learned that. There was never any kind of future for him.

His steps slowed down and he allowed himself to remember.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Aunt Petunia always had told him that he was worth nothing, that he was too stupid for anything and that he never would be able doing anything right, often enough, she had showed him by pushing him away that he would never be able making them proud or that he even might be worth being loved – she always had made it clear that he would never be anything else than a worthless freak. A freak that did freakish things, a freak that had to be punished to get the freakishness out of him. And nothing else had happened. He only had been punished.

Well, he wasn't stupid, and he was a twelve year old boy – at least he used to be, whether he was dead now or not – so yes, he knew that it wasn't normal what his aunt and uncle did. Of course, he knew that other children were not beaten like he was, not in the same way at least, but maybe it just was because – other children surely had not to be punished like he was, because they were good children? He was a freak, and he was a bad child, he was not a good child, like Dudley was and like Ron surely was, and like Hermione was.

He simply had to be punished.

Aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon both had never had any other chance than punishing him, even if they always had done so in different ways.

Aunt Petunia always had used something to hit him with. It had started with a rolled newspaper when he had been two and had dropped the glass of water he'd tried to drink from while Dudley had kept on poking him and it had moved on to harder and more painful objects as he had gotten older, like a wooden spoon, a spatula or a brush. He soon had learned that aunt Petunia most likely was too weak to really hurt him with her bare hand, that she didn't have the strength to physically do any damage to him, that she would have hurt herself only in an attempt to hurt him – and that she really hated touching him, too. The last thing he had been beaten with by her had been the frying pan – shortly before he had been to Hogwarts last year and this summer again.

It was completely different with uncle Vernon though.

Uncle Vernon surely was not too weak to hurt him physically, und he surely wasn't afraid of touching him either. No – uncle Vernon just didn't think that using his hand or a wooden spoon only, would be enough to get the freakishness out of him, and so he liked using a cane or his belt.

Not that the frying pan from aunt Petunia hadn't hurt, or the wooden spoon or the spatula. And worst was the brush, but a swing or two with the pan or the brush from aunt Petunia was nothing to a harsh leashing or caning from uncle Vernon. Because he knew – uncle Vernon wouldn't stop anytime soon, uncle Vernon had never had any qualms if he drew blood or broke a bone and most of all – uncle Vernon simply loved hearing him screaming and crying and begging. He knew, that … he loved to make him crying and begging and writhing on the floor with pain.

The worst thing was – he wasn't able to keep himself from screaming with pain and he wasn't able to keep himself from crying with pain either, from begging his uncle to stop, but his uncle never stopped simply because he begged, on the contrary. Uncle Vernon loved it, enjoyed it and savoured his begging as if he got an orgasm from it. And yes, he was twelve, he knew what an orgasm was, he wasn't stupid.

Well, the same was with Dudley.

Not with the orgasm-thing, but with being evil and with loving to cause him, Harry, pain.

Dudley was his age, but honestly – Dudley was twice his size and weight, and he didn't have the slightest chance against his cousin. Not without magic and he wasn't allowed doing magic during the holidays. But without enough food – and he knew that he didn't get enough food at the Dursleys either, he wasn't stupid after all – he didn't have the slightest chance against Dudley in any muggle ways. And as Dudley – just like uncle Vernon – loved seeing him suffering, he loved getting him into trouble so that he could watch him being punished by uncle Vernon, being beaten with the cane or the belt, so that he could watch him writhing on the floor with pain and crying like a baby – he did so as often as humanly possible.

And what Dudley also liked was seeing him alone, keeping him alone, and Dudley made sure that he stayed alone, that he didn't have any friends in the muggle world during the holidays that could have helped him. Because he came just after his father in beating him up, his friends, Polkiss, Gordon and Malcolm hunting him, Harry, down and holding him in place, while Dudley beat him up then. And as no one wished to get into trouble with Dudley Dursley and his gang – no, he didn't have any friends in the muggle world or during his summer holidays.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Well, generally spoken – for a boy who was famous, The-Boy-Who-Lived, and for a boy that had people searching him out for his attention, he didn't have many friends in the wizarding world either, maybe just because he never had learned how to make friends – or how to keep them, or maybe because he very soon had learned that – he better didn't get any friends or they would get hurt – because Dudley loved to hurt them, or because uncle Vernon knew that anything that was dear to him, he could hurt him with by killing it, like the spiders in his cupboard he used to kill because he, Harry, had liked them.

Oh, he knew that there were many people claiming to be his friends or that at least they got on well together, like Dean or like Seamus, just for example, or like Justin or Ernie, but in truth – they weren't real friends, because they never would stand up to him, he knew that. They were his year, but they were not friends. Ron was a friend, and Hermione too, but even they were – well, he still couldn't blame them for avoiding him now, he was a ghost after all. But they had been friends at one point or another, really close friends, and where there was no one, Harry really had trusted, ever, he always had trusted Ron and Hermione.

But except for them – there was no one Harry really trusted anymore.

He had trusted Dumbledore when he had come to Hogwarts last year, and he had liked the old wizard – until he had understood.

Dumbledore had given him the invisibility cloak so that he could roam the castle and find the mirror of Erised. And Dumbledore had made sure he found the mirror of Erised so that he could save the philosopher's stone. And he had wanted him to save the philosopher's stone, so that he knew how tough or something like that he was. Dumbledore had told him more of Voldemort after that, had told him of the war and had told him of the part he would have to play in this war – instead of getting him to Madam Pomfrey.

And so no – he didn't trust Dumbledore anymore, even if he still wanted the man's approval and love somehow. There never had been anyone else who ever had given him those things and he knew that there never would be anyone either who would give those things to him after all. He'd never had anyone telling him that he was a good child or that something he did was good – so, of course someone paying the slightest attention to him was a godsend.

Of course, he didn't really think in those lines – but for the twelve year old child, it simply felt good, someone looking at him and giving praise to him, caring about him, even if it was just – a wish, a dream he'd once had.

Well, somewhere deep down he knew the reason as to why Dumbledore paid so much attention to him, but he didn't dare acknowledging this knowledge, because he also knew that he would be devasted then. Again, he didn't know this consciously, but he knew it unconsciously, and yet – he just knew that he didn't trust the old headmaster anymore, he just knew since the end of last term, after Quirrel, after the chamber with the stone and after his summer holidays this year.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

At the end of last year Dumbledore had demanded – well, actually asked of him, to go up to his office after he had handed over the stone to him, after he had faced Voldemort and after he had watched Quirrel dying, after he had killed Quirrel actually, and after then the spirit of Voldemort – or whatever it had been – had went through him, had thrown him down those steps somehow where he had passed out after hitting his head.

He still didn't understand why Dumbledore had taken him up to his office where he had ordered him to tell him all of what had happened instead of getting him to the hospital wing, seeing that he had been hurt, seeing that he had felt dizzy and that he even had bled, that he had been tired and scared. But that hadn't seemed to bother Dumbledore. Dumbledore had wanted to know what had happened and he had wanted to know it immediately. And he had wanted to tell him more on the war that he believed was to come and the role he, Harry, would have to play in it.

He had tried to see it from Dumbledore's point of view, still tried to see it from the old headmaster's point of view, he was the headmaster after all, an old and wise person, an important person who surely knew what was important and what was not important, but he wasn't entirely able to – he simply knew that if someone, anyone, had been in pain, suffering from falling down the stairs and suffering from some unknown curses, bleeding even, having been unconscious, he would have taken them right to the infirmary to make sure that the person was alright before getting his answers.

Not that he would have liked going to the infirmary to begin with, he never did, always feared that someone might find out something, but Dumbledore hadn't even thought about it.

"Potter!" He heard Snape's voice and the Potions Master definitely sounded as if he had tried more than once already, to address him while he, Harry, had been with his mind elsewhere. Blinking he looked up at the man whose dark eyes pierced him like they never had before. As if he were a rare potions ingredient which he had to look at closely so he wouldn't mix it up with another one. And that was really strange, seeing that Snape used to rather look at him like he was an exceptionally disgusting potions ingredient instead of – an interesting one like he seemed to be right now.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

"Get in there, Mr. Potter." Snape growled at him and daring a look at the double winged door they were standing in front of meanwhile – he noticed that they were in front of the infirmary – what caused him to blink at the Potions Master in pure shock for a moment as he had expected the man leading him to the dungeons for detention or something like that.

Not that he really minded missing the welcoming feast, seeing that one – he didn't really know if he would be able eating anything with being a ghost and such, he hadn't tried yet and second – even if he'd be able to, he didn't know if he was really hungry to begin with or if his cramping stomach hurt because of his uncle having kicked him into the stomach just the day before – at least he thought it'd been the day before – but it could be two days. However, he didn't even know if he'd be able keeping down anything, even if he were able to eat anything at all to begin with.

And surely, he wouldn't take the risk in front of Snape of all people.

Whatever – he had not thought that Snape of all people would bring him here of all places, or that he had made the Potions Master caring to begin with. Because he didn't want to be here, he didn't want anyone finding out what had happened to him, and he knew that if he was here, then they would find out. And surely, he didn't want Snape finding out what had happened to him! And yet – it had been Snape who had done more than Dumbledore had, who had brought him here.

Why was Snape of all people, bringing him to the infirmary when Dumbledore had not thought of such a thing?

Still – not that he wanted being here, right now even less than he would have wanted being here at any time last year – but Snape at least had thought of bringing him here. But why? Why did Snape of all people care enough to bring him to the hospital wing while other people didn't seem to care at all? Other people he had trusted?

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Watching the brat for another few moments, the pale green eyes going distant, he couldn't help seeing a scene flashing, a small boy hiding a crumpled piece of parchment away beneath a small mat that lay on the floor in – a cupboard? Could it be that they kept a mat in a cupboard? But why would the Dursleys do such a thing? Why would the boy be in a cupboard to begin with?

The small boy looked up at him, quickly and while he wondered how the Boy Wonder – or rather the Boy Memory – could know that he was here to witness the scene, he noticed that the child couldn't be older than three or four years old, already looking pale and dangerously thin, and already with a bruise on the pale face. A moment later the door to the cupboard was yanked open violently and a whale of a man stuck his head in. So no, the three or four year old Potter had not looked up at him, Snape, but he had looked up at the door, most likely having noticed his uncle approaching, having heard the whale's steps on the corridor outside of the cupboard.

Of course, he had heard, the uncle had to be a whale, or at least an elephant, and the heavy steps surely had thundered through the house – and for a moment he wondered how a man as fat as Vernon Dursley, could move at all.

Dursley reached into the small and dark space and grabbed the boy's hair, yanking him out of the barely lit cupboard while at the same time screaming at him and when his eyes followed the duo they fell onto a small and crumpled paper that was taped to the inside of the cupboard door, a small paper that announced in unsure and shaky letters that this was "Harys room".

So – therefore the mat on the floor. But a children's room? A small and stifling cupboard lined with shelves that were filled with cleaning agents and other poisonous or acid stuff?

He had to take a deep breath before he was able to follow the pictures that led through the boy's memories, by now knowing that, indeed, something was very wrong.

Even if he hadn't been so sure about the boy actually being dead, seeing that Potter still was able touching the ground, the bench in the great hall, right now he was sure that something was so very wrong, it actually could be … since the memory was – pale, ghostly, as if written in fog, grey colours overlaying the colours a memory normally was done in if using legillimens, the memory itself pale and ghostlike, as if it only were the shadow of a memory. And as an accomplished legillimens he knew that – yes, there was something very wrong indeed. A ghost couldn't be legillimized – but Potter could be, while his memory was ghostlike, not that of a living person. Not that he could say what a ghostlike memory was like, as never before had he seen one, but if a ghostlike memory existed – then this was one.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

"Merlin." He couldn't help saying when he noticed the first confused and then scared look the boy threw at the double winged doors that led into the infirmary. "What have you done now, child?" He softly asked, knowing that the child had done nothing, not this time, and also knowing this kind of scared look. Potter didn't want to enter the hospital wing, fearing what they would find then – what was just another sign he now recognized. How many signs had he not seen before? He clearly had overlooked the sign of the boy always being too small and thin, a scrawny scarecrow at the best – and a dead skeleton like right now at the worst.

"'M sorry." The boy said, sounding apologetic, and he couldn't help frowning.

He calmly – even if he didn't feel calm – and quietly pushed the door open and then gestured the boy through, Potter only reluctantly going in, and he set his face into a scowl, knowing that it was less likely that the brat ran if he looked a bit more forbiddingly. He had some experience in that after all, having led students, his Slytherins, here more than once. But never had he thought that one day he would have to lead Potter through these doors.

The problem was – the boy stopped when he was just halfway through the door, looking up at him unsurely and with wide and pale green eyes that were scared, that seemed to plead with him to simply letting him go, and for a moment he wondered if he should deepen his scowl to get Potter in, or if he should just wait. Potter didn't look as if he were about to run after all and he narrowed his eyes. A moment later the boy averted his gaze and went into the spacious room.

"Disrobe." He immediately ordered without giving the boy the slightest chance to adjust to the situation – or to think – while hoping that it worked. It didn't always work, startling them into obeying while not giving them the chance to think, but it worked sometimes – but not this time, as it seemed, Potter being one of those whose brain seemed to work even if being startled, what again told him enough. Potter, as it seemed, had had to learn to think while even being scared and startled – a survival instinct, he knew, and so everything hinted to one thing – again – he had been correct and whoever had hurt Potter, it had been those he lived with, Petunia and her husband.

And right now, the idiot boy – for once – did think, in a situation in which – for once – he didn't want the idiot boy to think. Would that blasted brat ever do what he was supposed to do? Apparently not, he thought while leaning closer to the boy, watching him close, with his dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Dis-robe." He repeated, pronouncing the syllables and trying to sound more commanding, dark and cold, knowing that if startling them didn't do the trick, then scaring them would. He would be able calming Potter later, but right now he needed the boy to obey him – and to do so without much discussion and without a fuss either. And if scaring him did the trick, then be it, it was better than having a long-winded discussion with the brat. He was not a person who discussed things patiently with his students. He expected them to obey him and if they didn't then he startled or scared them into obeying.

Some might not agree with his methods – but one, he didn't care as it always had worked so far – and two, it simply was his way, his colleagues would have to deal with it or ignore it.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Potter however backed away instead of obeying him now.

He definitely was scared, yes, he could tell that by simply watching him, he didn't even have to cast a diagnostic spell at him, but apparently, he wasn't scared enough to obey him – 'or too scared', an annoying little voice in the back of his mind whispered and he knew that it was right. He wasn't even sure if he would be able scaring the brat any more than he already was right now, he realized by looking down at the trembling and nearly choking form, and he knew that this was just another sign and one he didn't like a bit. Because it was the last step one of those children could reach, after being scared but still able to being startled into obeying and then after being able to think despite being startled – or scared – and finally, after having reached the step of obeying because simply being scared enough – Potter seemed to have reached another step, one he up to now had never had to deal with, one that lay beyond that, beyond being ready to obey in the end – as it seemed, the boy had reached the point where he was scared enough to flee, to simply defend himself somehow, never mind how to begin with, and to stay alive, and again – never mind how. Not that Potter still was alive, but he still seemed to have that reflex – so, he couldn't be dead … or perhaps dead-like, since long?

He didn't know.

It showed him however that the situation was worse than he had believed, as Potter seemed ready to do anything just to defend himself, that he was ready to – flee? That he was ready to perhaps even … fight and hurt someone himself? He didn't know, but he did know that it took a lot to get a child like that. Not even his snakes were like this generally. They at least obeyed if he just scared them enough for a moment.

Of course, he had to calm them afterwards, and of course he had to comfort them afterwards, but he knew that he always had been effective with his own way of handling them – and such situations – what was the reason as to why Poppy normally allowed him his way.

Well, as it seemed – it didn't work with Potter.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

To be continued

Next time in The boy that forgot to die
You do know that you are dead, don't you?

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:

29 Points - Slytherin
07 Points - Gryffindor
20 Points - Ravenclaw
06 Points - Hufflepuff