Hey pals!
I hope everyone is doing well! It's chaotic in the house this week, a new feline member of the family joined us and catsitting is taking up SO MUCH TIME. Turns out kittens aren't too fond of it when you pay attention to a laptop and not to them!
Still, here's the next chapter for you all. Reviews give me energy so thank you so much for everyone who leaves one. Even if you've taken the time to read up till here then you're beautiful and I love you all :)
Enjoy!
To Hermione, nothing compared to how exhilarated she felt when surrounded by knowledge. Being swamped with piles upon piles of books, each one longing to impart some lesser known lore to her, that was truly heaven. To be able to learn, to make space in her brain for new information, to feel the newborn strands of wisdom entwine with her own established web, it filled her heart with emotion so raw that she felt fit to burst. It was, for lack of a better word, pure joy.
What Hermione was feeling at this moment was not joy. Not even close. As she sat in the library she hung her head off the back of her chair and let out a heavy groan. The table she had decided to occupy was filled with books, some stacked up in a neat pile, others strewn across the desk and abandoned in her frustration. A stack of parchment sat in front of her, the accompanying quill chewed and discarded long ago. Hermione had started first thing that next Saturday morning, as soon as the library opened. She had searched for and pulled out every text she could find that dealt in Occlumency, no matter if it was a full body of work or a fleeting paragraph. She needed all of it. She had worked diligently throughout the day, skipping lunch and dinner, fully engrossed in this monumental research task. This process had repeated itself for several weeks, her Saturdays filled with nothing but notes. At the start, she had taken meticulous notes on everything. The ideas, the concepts, the exercises required to build mental strength, even the history behind it. What she should imagine, how she should imagine it, why she should imagine it. She wrote it all down. Usually the act of taking notes was thrilling, but this set of notes felt different. There was no deep understanding that followed them, just the further feeling of confusion. These concepts were all so wishy-washy, it reminded her of divination in its vagueness, and it made her more apprehensive that she wouldn't be able to grasp the subject. That particular Saturday, after getting through the majority of the books, she found her notes repeating. A half hour after that, she gave up. Gathering her notes and banishing the books, she retreated to Gryffindor tower to see how much sense she could make of this bizarre concept.
She had ignored the students still in her common room when she got back. Despite all the best efforts on her part, communications between her and Harry - and as a side effect, Ron - were breaking down. She knew this was partly her fault, she was intent on learning everything she could from Harry's lessons with Professor Snape, and she could tell that it grated on him to have to relive the embarrassing experience of being so utterly useless at a subject. He continued to push the narrative that it was Snape's tutelage and not his own ability that was hampering progress. From what Hermione had learned, it was vital that fledgling Occlumens practiced the exercise of emptying their minds every evening, and she was almost certain that Harry was failing to do that. If she was honest with herself, she could imagine that Professor Snape's approach to teaching Harry was less than professional, especially if their behaviour towards one another in the classroom was anything to go by. It frustrated her that these two boys couldn't just set aside their differences and work together, the task was certainly for an important enough cause. And didn't Professor Snape have as much to lose from failing to shield Harry's mind as Harry did? Perhaps she would bring it up with her professor in their next potions meet, if only to gauge his thoughts on the matter.
Settling into her comfy four-poster, she closed the curtains around her and cast some basic silencing charms to drown out the constant gossip and giggles emanating from the other beds. Finding the artificial stillness calming, she turned her attention to the pile of notes in her hands. The first step to successfully occluding, she had found, was visualizing an empty space. All of the books had talked about a lake, a still body of water that she could focus all of her energy on, effectively shutting down the white noise that made up her thoughts. The idea seemed straightforward in theory, but this damned lake had become such a hindrance! For some reason she just couldn't get the lake to steady itself, it continuously dissolved into turmoil, waves and all. Over and over she attempted to summon this mythical lake that all the books seemed to drone on about, but after more than an hour she still had no progress and a very not-empty mind. Letting out an irritated sigh, she went back to her notes, one hand absentmindedly trying to de-tangle the rough frizz at the back of her head. Why the lake? What made it so effective? She studied a passage she'd written earlier:
Finding imagery that enables one to clear their mind is a vital component of occluding with success. In order to successfully shield your thoughts and memories from an intruder, you must first envision a place of true calm. This will allow you to create a mental brick wall at the forefront of your mind, and if strong enough you will find an attacker will never be able to tear it down.
A place of true calm? She understood the emphasis on using a lake, but it felt so impersonal to her. How was she supposed to find peace in an imaginary place? How would she visualize something strong enough to hold back her thoughts when the imagery was centered around such a basic fixture? She sat back and thought for a moment, searching for alternative ideas. If it was going to be strong enough to hold back He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it would have to be a place that she had a powerful emotional connection with. She smirked. Something decidedly muggle, perhaps? There had been a library she had visited, back when she was younger. Her parents had taken her there during the summer holidays after she had pestered them for days about it. The Codrington Library in Oxford was so distinctive, it was grandiose and ancient and beautiful. The books were so neatly fitted into the alcoves within the walls that they seemed almost like brickwork. It was the most perfectly pristine sight she had ever witnessed, it took her breath away. Her parents had let her stay in that library all day, finally dragging her out at closing time - much to Hermione's dismay. She had gotten lost within those columns, she would have stayed forever if she could. Sitting upright once more, she took a steady deep breath and closed her eyes slowly. This time, she pictured those alcoves, the rows and rows of books slotted into the walls. She imagined they were bricks built up to contain her own emotions. Once she was happy with how her mind-library looked, she concentrated on ridding herself of all other thoughts. She allowed herself to focus only on the rows of books, nothing else. Slowly but surely, the white noise of her mind started to fade away, and Hermione could only hear silence within her head. It was entrancing. After staying within her new-found quiet place a while longer, she opened her eyes and glanced at the small clock by her bedside, shocked to see she had been working for hours. She suddenly found herself overwhelmed with the urge to sleep, it appeared that building up her foundations had sapped more energy than she cared to admit. As she moved her notes to the table, and settled down among her pillows and duvets, the last thought she had before sleep claimed her was how glorious it might be if muggle architecture proved too strong a barrier for someone like You-Know-Who.
Harry had arrived early. Hermione would say it was because he was secretly keen to learn, excited to get better. He would say it was because the quicker these lessons were over, the quicker he could get back to the common room and perhaps a game of wizard chess. They had been working on this stupid subject for what felt like forever, and the only difference was that Harry now found his Saturday evenings to be headache inducing. The greasy dungeon bat was determined to drag out every single happy, embarrassing, private memory he had, just to belittle him until he snapped. That was the whole point, right? At the end of the day, this was just another one of Snape's plans to make his life as miserable as possible.
What frustrated Harry more was that he was the only one realizing the benefits of this stupid connection. Why did no one else understand - he could see into Voldemort's head! He had a direct line to the plans of the darkest wizard alive! Instead of trying to shut it down, Dumbledore should be setting him up as his man on the inside! What good was Snape when he couldn't truly know what the enemy was thinking? This was an opportunity to be one step ahead at all times, and he was just supposed to let that go? And what about the corridor? He knew it was important, it was clearly vital to whatever Voldemort was planning but no one wanted to give it a second thought! Everyone was being so idiotic!
He had knocked on the door a bunch of times and it didn't seem like Snape had arrived yet, but hell if he was standing around in the dungeons where Draco or one of his cronies could bother him. He pushed the door slowly, and when he found it unlocked he crept in to wait. Certainly this felt weird, like he was trespassing on sacred ground. As he trudged over to the familiar stool waiting for him, something piqued his interest. On a desk towards the back of the room there sat a strange silver bowl. It was ornate, delicately engraved, and gave off a strange shine as the light from the wall candles hit it. Harry had never noticed this bizarre object, mostly because whenever he turned up for these sessions Snape would start yelling as soon as he stepped through the door. It definitely wasn't here during potions either, so it must be something to do with occlumency. He didn't use it though, so why was it here? Before he registered what he was doing, Harry had moved over to the odd bowl and peered inside. The bowl appeared to be filled with an odd, silvery liquid, thick like paint. It had so many different tones in it, they all seemed to dance together like they had a mind of their own. He was mesmerized. He desperately wanted to touch it, to sink into it, he felt himself get closer and closer and then his vision started to swirl.
Severus strode back towards the dungeons cursing to himself. Sometimes he hated this stupid Head of House position. He had just finished preparing his mind for another one of Potter's pointless occlumency lessons when a first year had shown up to inform him of a fight between some of his students and a rival house. He had half a mind to let them settle it on their own, but god forbid Albus needed any other discretion to use against him. Of course the opponents had been Gryffindor, they were the only ones foolhardy enough to raise their wands over simple words. He had been loath to take points from his own house, but there were clearly hexes thrown on each side and impartiality was key.. He supposed. Now, it looked like he would be cutting it fine getting back to his classroom before the boy wonder turned up, and he found it much harder to portray the ever-in-control wizard when he was hurrying along the corridors like a panicked child.
The noise of laughing children was almost unbearable. Part of Harry was mortified, unbearably uncomfortable at what he was witnessing. A small part of him couldn't look away. There, hanging 6 feet in the air, upside down, was what he could only guess was a teenage Severus Snape. All the telltale facial features were present, except in place of a cold scowl there was panic. Wild panic like he'd never witnessed. His cheeks were flushed red and there were the beginnings of tears in his eyes. Harry looked around. There must have been nearly 100 students standing around the lake, more coming down from the castle. Stood off to the side were four figures, all gut-renchingly familiar. Wand up, pointed firmly at the horrified Slytherin boy was his father. Either that or his twin, minus the scar. He was laughing, a cruel laugh that was egged on by another of the boys, he assumed his godfather Sirius. That meant the others must have been a young Professor Lupin and the rat Peter Pettigrew. Harry was so torn. To see his father taking so much joy from the misery of another, no wonder Professor Snape couldn't stand him. He pondered this as a girl with flowing red hair bolted up to the scene. She was yelling at the boys, pleading with them to let Snape down. The last thing he saw was the body of his potions professor falling to the ground, before the scene began to spin.
Severus reached the classroom and barged through the door, still cursing himself, when he saw it. His whole body froze for a moment as he took in the sight of Potter, his head placed firmly inside the pensieve. The pensieve with his memories in it.. Memories of Lily, of school, that strange mix of smells.. No sooner had the spectacle caught his eye was he across the room, practically dragging the insolent boy out from what he imagined must have been a most entertaining show. He tried, but he couldn't seem to steady his breathing. He could feel his mind desperately trying to throw up barriers but he had no interest in hiding away his emotions tonight. This boy, this CHILD, had purposefully invaded the tiny morsel of privacy he had left. It took every ounce of his resolve not to destroy him right there and then.
"Get. Out." Snape's eyes bored into his very soul. He had clenched his fists to stop him reaching for his wand, but he knew there was only so much more time he could hold out. Harry stammered, trying to speak. "GET OUT!" Snape bellowed, briefly registering the still open door and not caring who heard him. Harry ripped his gaze away from the wild-eyed professor and darted to the exit. He barely made it out before the heavy door slammed hard behind him.
Snape felt his legs start to give. His hands were shaking. He was looking at the pensieve but he couldn't seem to focus. He knew he was panicking, but the panic was laced with intense shame. Some of his darkest moments resided in that pensieve, and he had left it in an unlocked classroom like a bloody AMATEUR?! How could he be so stupid?! He slammed his fist into one of the desks, grateful for the splintering sound and dull ache that began to form across his knuckles. Closing his eyes, he tried miserably to slow his breathing, but all he could think about was Potter laughing as he watched a younger version of himself being tormented endlessly. The boy was probably heading straight to his common room to spill all the juicy details to his little friends. His breath caught in his throat. To Miss Granger. He slammed his fist down again, feeling the familiar sting of pain and welcoming it. As if his damnable life in this torture house wasn't bad enough, he would now have to endure the knowing looks from a student he could actually stand to be around. It wasn't that Snape was unfamiliar with gossip, he'd heard every pathetic and uninspired nickname and rumor that made its way around the school in the last 20 years. Those whispers fueled his desire to make his students better, and to be as cruel and heartless as possible. But these weren't rumors.
He stopped himself again. Had he admitted to being able to stand the know-it-all Granger girl..? Hanging his head he let out a guttural sigh - he had. She was obnoxious, frustrating, and desperately intent on pursuing knowledge in all forms. She thrived to be better than her peers, to cast aside the disadvantages bestowed on her for simply having been born to the wrong parents. She had few friends, and the ones she did have either used her for her homework skills or were pushed away by her infuriating personality. She spent what little time she had cooped up in the library, at home when surrounded by books.
She was.. Him..
She could be tolerated because he felt.. What? Sorry for her? Some sort of misplaced camaraderie? Perhaps because a tiny part of his brain wanted to give her an environment that was conducive to nourishing her skills, something that he needed to fight for and create himself as a boy. He had given her the opportunity to expand her skill set and instead of wasting it, she had given it 100% every lesson. She'd turned up practically bleeding out for goodness sake, and instead of making excuses she had still tried to brew to the best of her ability. He chuckled darkly at that, he had guessed she'd turned up for her lesson in that state because he had told her to come straight there. That insane level of commitment to the instructions of her teachers was something he had come to only expect from her. And now she was inevitably going to lose all respect for him because of his own careless actions. History, in one form or another, would always repeat itself.
