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Chapter Text

Harry, take my body back will you? Take my body back to my father.

There was a chill - vining through his fingers, wrapping tenderly around his wrists, his neck, his everything that ever was - cold embraced, utterly iced, so painfully sharp.

The dementor only glided closer, closer, closer,.

Something happy, Harry thought desperately, eyes stung, staring into only that gaping emptiness, a siphoning void.

He would fight, he would always fight, no matter that the fight had been verging on impossible lately.

Kill the spare.

Harry was going to vomit all over the dementor, would it be angry with him if he did? Could it feel anger, could it feel anything? Did it matter?

Focus.

“Expecto patronum,” lax and loose it fell from him, as half hearted as the accompanying swish -

Not Harry, not Harry!

There - the smallest rush of warmth, of deep golden goodness - soft smiles, a small hand in his father's, a brilliant beam, their silent laughter melting into their snow dappled globe of wonder - hopeful, happy, his.

Harry's parents who gave their lives so he could hold the smallest chance of one. They'd wanted to Harry to live, Harry remembered frantically, they'd given everything so he could live. Who was he to disagree?

"Expecto patronum!" At fucking last. Harry pushed into the velveted warmth, finally, briefly comforted - the vibrant white stag bursting explosively, subsuming the breadth of Harry with its pure heat.

The dementor didn't stand a chance, cowed by its vivid illumination - fled, gone, done.

The comfort faded, a dying aching thing Harry could feel ebbing away in his gut - but he wasn't done, oh no, he was never, never done.

Harry turned back towards Dudley, slumped, covered in the same omen - Hedwig, he recalled achingly, utterly opulent feathers, sharp smart eyes, gentle pecks and above all else, a dear and wonderful friend.

That she was waiting for Harry right now in the utter hell of Privet Drive - as simply content with his company as he with hers was enough - was everything.

How good it is to have a friend.

Harry would make it back to Hedwig, of that there was no doubt.

So, expecto patronum again, all but ripped from him - banishing the dementor with haste and hell, ruthlessly chasing in its fierceness until it too vanished into the night, Harry's happy thoughts were simply through.

Kill the spare - this echoed now, reverberating, bell like in its insistence, rising as though given worship, chanted unstoppably.

“Uhhhh,” came the low moan from Dudley. 

The stupid lump couldn't even wait a minute as Harry caught his breath from saving both of their lives -

“Aaaaaah.”

“Shut up,” Harry just about managed to snap at Dudley’s sprawled out form, pathetically limp like a melted biscuit.

Must he always be the centre of attention, even when Harry was dying? 

Dudley continued dourly.

Harry let him, just held his head and pressed deep into his temples, breathing heavily - pressure mounting in a way he'd become accustomed to when on the fringes of falling asleep but this - Harry gasped sharply, frantic - this was unbearable, spine shaking, sickening - Harry ground his teeth achingly.

Emerging from the white light of this surgical pain came a series of images - quickly flittering and flashing, stark but too quick to grasp. Harry closed his eyes, tried foolishly to reach for them.

So maybe he was getting a little desperate to see, to know something, anything. More flashes, more confusion until it settled, took form shakily as though watching through a river, ripples distorting the scene, disturbing the swathes of black that were two figures, maybe - what was he looking at?

Red eyes - just fleetingly, Harry didn't breathe, couldn't - a pale hand gripping a bone handled wand -

“My lord-” Harry strained to hear further, digging harshly into his face - the voice ebbed out into a sea of voices and low murmurs until he caught another wheedling voice instead.

“It would be folly surely to try to-”

Harry’s arm jerked out without his permission.

A bellowing shriek of pain erupted, Harry couldn't stop the cry that tore out of him too, panic rising.

“...need it! Above all else...” 

That voice...Harry wanted very quickly to be done with this whole thing but something stayed him, tied him to this scene of horror he could barely see, needing so desperately to know, to understand anything -

Plain as day were those red narrowed eyes, dirty fingers curved around that deformed handle.

“...not at all adept my lord,” someone sneered though it dipped low in places, cold but piercing.

“...lacking in intelligence.” the man declared. Harry lurched, shaking, he knew that voice. How did he know that voice?

The last thing Harry saw was the glimmer from that silver mask as its wearer bowed down low to the ground -

“Harry?”

As rapidly as a switch being flicked off, the image vanished, white-hot pain ceased into a low throbbing and Harry opened his eyes, mouth gaping.

Slowly, he lowered his hands, head prickling all over from deep nail scratches.

“Mrs Figg?” his voice was just a garbled foreign thing, even to himself. Harry's arm, the one that had flinched of its own accord, ached fiercely. 

How, why?

She helped him to his feet, steadied Harry's shoulders.

"Goodness how you tower over me now," she was shaking her head fondly.

"What?" Harry muttered as he stood, heart pounding madly with the thrumming insistence that something was still so very wrong.

"They seem to be gone for now Harry dear." Mrs Figg said kindly and yes, Harry wasn't blind, he could see that, "We'll need to get back quickly, help me with him won't you?" 

Together they heaved Dudley back to Privet Drive, literally no light task. It might have been easier, Harry reflected tiredly, to simply roll him like a boulder.

Those fractured images, the seething eyes of Voldemort, dirty fingers dirty wand - figures he was so evil he didn't even stop to wash his hands.

Who though was the sneering man, the follower in the silver mask? What did Voldemort need so badly, and apparently ill-advisedly that even his death eaters would question it?

A long trained instinct flared up, an ingrained longing to tell Ron and Hermione and just like that, the anger rose again, utterly tidal and just as sea-large.

It wasn't as though anyone had bothered to tell him a single thing since they’d dumped him there and left.

Spending every summer with the Dursleys was bad enough but the special hell waiting for Harry had received an ungracious extension, school finished early in light of the - Harry's throat tightened - events of the final task.

So Harry had come back a few weeks ago to an absolutely incensed Vernon and Petunia nearly three months before he was due, at the end of April.

Harry's only pleasure since was the brief moment where he'd honestly thought Vernon was having a heart attack from the very sight of him.

Somehow, an eternity and a slice later, they finally arrived at number four, Mrs Figg's chatter pure background noise.

"- but then the time simply passes so quickly and when you're as old as I am, it's easy enough to forget these things altogether."

"Right." Harry muttered, mentally a thousand light years away, drenched in sweat from heaving Dudley's vast and ever growing bulk, feverish and shaky.

"Here Harry," Mrs Figg fished around in her embroidered floral bag so Harry waited eagerly, perhaps she was going to pull out something useful like a portkey to another realm or a surrogate family. A tent so he could sleep comfortably outside once the Dursleys were done with him.

Instead, she handed him a slightly crushed KitKat and patted his arm gently, as though these things were helpful.

"For the tremors dear," she said with a small smile and even just this fleeting kindness was the best thing Harry had felt in weeks, "Now, get inside and don't come back out again. Get some rest too, that's a very nasty shock you've just had.”

Was that it?

Harry opened his mouth to protest but she immediately shook her head and made to leave.

“Someone will be in touch Harry, I'm only sorry I can't say anymore." She patted him one last time before turning away.

“But what’s going to happen?” she was already leaving, Harry noted with bitterness, like the rest of them, determined to drop him in it all himself, to deal with everything himself - then she was out of sight and Harry was out of might - wanting desperately to drop Dudley in the nearest hydrangea bush and run back to Mrs Figg - to shake her and demand some answers - to hold on to her tightly and sob into her coat. Didn't they know he couldn't keep going on like this?  

The boulder gave another pitiful moan though and Harry steeled himself for another waking nightmare as the door to number four swung open with a damning haste.

The ensuing nightmare was almost as miserable as the dementor attack. At least they were (presumably) created soulless, what was the excuse for these last remnants he had to call family?

Five owls, a mysterious howler to aunt Petunia, a potential expulsion from the ministry pending and no sight of any explanations was enough to make Harry snap too.

"What does ‘remember my last’ mean?" Harry rounded on Petunia as the Howler disintegrated before them. "The last what? Have you been in contact with wizards-"

"That is enough!" Vernon bellowed, having not been the centre of attention for some time with Harry and petunia snapping at each other, he was now clearly distressed, bristling like a particularly angry bush.

He stalked over to Harry and shook him hard by his neck, "Get out, this instant!"

Harry kicked out furiously, as if he would be here by choice, as if he would ever be here of his own volition!

"Get off you idiot-" Harry could only choke, struggling as Vernon tried to drag him towards the door by his collar, meaty hands pinching his neck and Harry was starting to panic -"He'll have to stay, Vernon."

This, from Petunia, level, oddly subdued, was enough to still the world so it seemed to Harry. He did push Vernon's horrible hand away though, slumping onto the kitchen stool, shaking, weak.

An expulsion, potentially. And he was absolutely option less wasn't he? Staying with Ron and Hermione was immediately struck-out if he wanted to maintain his grudge against them forever - which he think, thank you. Sirius's unhelpful note to just stay put and don't do any more magic didn't seem supportive enough to suggest he would take Harry on as a refugee from the law (and wasn't he also still a refugee from the law himself?) and those were all of the options.

Dobby might be persuaded to let him stay at Hogwarts, Harry's cleaning wasn't too shabby but there was a sudden frightful image of Malfoy sauntering into the Hogwarts kitchens to give Harry his dirty dishes.

He would never, ever, wash Draco Malfoy's dirty dishes.

So, where did that leave him if he really was going to be expelled from Hogwarts, he wondered with a kind of curious horror, what professions even were there in the magical world? Perhaps he could drive the Knight Bus once he was tall enough...

Harry remembered suddenly that he was supposed to be chasing answers.

"What 'awful boy' did you mean?" he asked Petunia suspiciously, surely not his father? She hadn't said so after all.

"That's enough out of you boy, you've yet to tell us how to fix Dudley!" Vernon snapped.

As far as Harry was concerned, this was an improvement.

Harry shrugged, "Give him some chocolate and put him to bed I guess."

"Give him some chocolate?" Vernon wheezed as though rapidly running out of air. Harry could take meagre comfort in the fact that he probably was at least shortening his lifespan in some way.

"That's what it says in my Dark Arts textbook," Harry emphasised, "chocolate aids Dementor exposure. I'll fetch it for you if you'd like to have a look." There were no such books but then the Dursleys would probably rather have a vegetable for a son than take anything from Harry anyway.

"Dark arts?" Vernon sputtered, outraged. "You - you just call one of your little - whatsits- and you make them sort him out-"

"Oh I'd love to but they don't reply to me." Even admitting it, just shaping those words and letting them fall, stung beyond belief.

"Nobody tells me a damn thing." Harry stated bitterly.

All they did, both of them, was stare at him with utter, undisguised contempt - and Harry had saved their son tonight.

Petunia clutched Dudley as though he might vanish at any moment, Vernon was still a dangerous shade of purple - both a losing battle. Harry was so exponentially tired of those and yet everyone was keen to blame him, he shouldn't expect anything different, especially here.

It was way past time to escape this, Harry slunk away soundlessly, went straight to his room, only just catching Aunt Petunia’s low murmur, " - there's some Ferrero Rocher here somewhere..."

Harry had long since surpassed exhaustion, now he was absolutely wired.

The bin overflowed with drafts, piled high with the - less kinder - thoughts he had very mercifully decided to spare his friends from.

Why even bother though? Harry thought bitterly, why spare their feelings? They’d had no problem forgetting about him, forgetting about everything that had happened only a few weeks ago. And who could blame them? None of them had been there in the graveyard with him, it was easy to forget something you weren’t a part of in the first place.

Harry was never going to forget. A few touching words from Dumbledore about what a kind and brave boy Cedric had been ‘right until the very end’ were not enough to make him forget what that very end had looked like.

There were dementors in Little Whinging and I want to know why -

This was snuffed out before it could carry on any further, far too childish. Plus, if it were intercepted, Voldemort might get the idea that Harry wasn’t as well protected as he supposedly was. Harry frowned, had his safety been compromised now that dementors could apparently attack him if they wanted to? He supposed he’d better hope not.

I’ve got to go to a hearing for underage magic, do you know anything about wizard legal proceedings?

This still seemed like too much information to give away. Plus, if anyone else was reading Hermione’s letters he’d look like an idiot.

Why is everyone still keeping me in the dark? Don’t you think I have a right to know what’s going on after everything? Don’t you trust me at all?

That they all might think he had become untrustworthy after causing Voldemort's return made him sick with dread, night after night. No, he hadn’t meant to end up in that graveyard or even in the tournament but he had and now Voldemort was back in his body, in full strength, thanks to Harry. Thanks to his blood, his idiocy.

Why hadn’t he refused to participate in the tournament? Why hadn’t he left Hogwarts the second everyone turned on him for something he hadn’t done?

He’d been such a fool, no wonder nobody wanted to tell him anything now.

Will I be leaving the Dursleys soon? They were pretty angry with me about the dementor thing, I think Dudley will be okay but -

It sounded like whining, whinging, ungratefulness, after everything he'd done too. There was probably a good reason why they'd decided they didn’t want Harry around for the summer this time. Nobody wanted the job of minding him, there would be no Quidditch marches this summer. Everyone would have to focus all their resources on dealing with Voldemort now that Harry had brought him back.

Will you write back? I just want to talk to someone.

How sad, Harry thought twistedly, burning inside, what sad embarrassing words.

There was no one to address this to either. Ron and Hermione had sent nothing so far this summer, what he was meant to think about that? Sirius’s letter to 'just stay put' after the dementors had been brief and to the point, as though he wasn’t still a mass murderer on the run with literally nothing to do but sit inside his house all day. Remus was as much of a mystery to Harry now as he had been in his third year so he couldn’t help the churning resentfulness at the thought of his fathers few remaining friends. Hell, Harry had had more contact with Peter bloody Pettigrew than Remus this past year.

Cho sent him one letter a few weeks ago too, the day he'd come back and Harry had kept it in his trunk underneath a mountain of jumpers, too alarmed about the contents to even consider opening it.

So, there was no one, no one at all.

Harry screwed the paper up and scrapped it too. In the end, he sent nothing. Sitting at the window stroking Hedwig for hours was all he needed, he reasoned hollowly, burning up with dejection pushed deep down.

When he did eventually lie down, fully clothing, something poked uncomfortably into his thigh - Harry withdrew the now half melted KitKat, stomach rumbling furiously, reminding him of that paltry breakfast, a glass of milk.

Turning it over, it was two years expired and Harry had to laugh. Well, it was the thought that counted wasn't it?

Harry's resolve was still a fairly resilient thing though and it'd returned the next day.

Having waited until midday with still no news and not so much as a hope your soul's still intact from his friends, he prepared a new plan of attack. There was still someone here who could give him answers - she owed him nearly fifteen years worth of them.

Vernon was gone, Dudley was still sleeping off his bout with the Dementors. Needling her relentlessly was very much on the table and Harry might just get what he wanted.

First, ambush in the kitchen.

"How's Dudley?" Harry asked loudly, immediately feeling stupid, she knows you don't care.

Petunia sniffed at him in disdain.

"Better, no thanks to you."

"The Ferrero Rocher didn't help then?" he asked lightly.

She glared, Harry triumphed internally. Nobody was immune to Ferrero Rocher.

"Why are you bothering me?" she barked, “haven't you done enough bother already?"

"What bother?" Harry snapped indignantly, furious, "the bother where a soul sucking creature tried to attack me for literally no reason?" Let her fight to conjure a happy memory when kill the spare was on a loop.

"You're the one that goes cavorting with the freak show," Petunia pointed at him backing away slightly, "you're the one that invites this - this madness wherever you go!"

"I am not!" Doubt rippled through Harry - she was wrong, he didn't ask for this, he never had.

"You're just like them," Petunia spat nastily, "causing chaos wherever you go and leaving others to pick up the pieces - well I didn't ask for you. I didn't need another mouth to feed, I had a family and a life all of my own!"

Harry had never heard Aunt Petunia talk this way in his whole life. Oddly, it pinged a thought of Cedric's family - of his father - don't think about it.

Petunia had opened her mouth to carry on, then seemed to stop herself. She picked up a tea towel instead, refolded it and put it back in the same spot, then turned away,

Harry recovered quicker though.

"Who did you mean by that awful boy?" he demanded, stepping closer, “I want to know who you meant."

"What?" Petunia scoffed, "they didn't tell you who she was friends with? And what good were they in the end? Magical beings and magical friends in her magical school." 

Her voice dropped, she stared out of the window, "What's the use of all that magical fairy nonsense when that - thing - killed her anyway."

Harry could hardly breathe - stricken - flashes of green and pleading, that utterly anguished pleading -

"Who did you mean, Aunt Petunia?" he was nearly pleading with her now, writhingly desperate. What was so wrong with him that nobody would tell him anything?

Nobody trusts you.

"Severus!” she sneered, “that was his name. A nasty little boy and a stupid name to boot."

Harry would have preferred a slap, a hit, anything but that name. For the first time in his life, he found himself in agreement with Aunt Petunia. These really were dark days.

"I don't believe you." How could it be true, how could his mother have known Snape? And liked him enough apparently that he'd even told her about the magical world, like they were friends?

Aunt Petunia scoffed again, "I don't care what you believe, you're just like her. Head full of air indeed and you'll get yourself killed in the same stupid way!"

"Don't you dare talk about my mother like that!" Harry's wand emerged without a thought, he held the tip inches away from her face, enjoying her shock. Let her be afraid, let her be scared for once.

Petunia didn't move, she stared only at Harry's wand, oddly still, unblinking.

A maddening foolishness settled into Harry now that he remembered his purpose, stupid.

Lowering his wand, he attempted contrition, "Aunt Petunia -" she stalked out of the kitchen hurriedly. Harry wasn't letting her go that easily, he followed her, irate.

"It wasn't my mom's fault he came after her. She didn't ask for any of it to happen!" Harry shouted up the stairs. Petunia hurried up them as though his words were giving chase and slammed Dudley's door closed behind her. Dudley, who still had a mother to dote on him. Dudley, whose mother hadn’t had to give her life for his. 

That bouncing resolve deflated just like Harry, a ringing in his ears sounded dully instead, hounding Petunia didn’t seem so important after all.

Harry just heaved himself back to the room with every effort he possessed and fell into an uneasy sleep. 

Uneasy and fitful, Harry woke in bouts of segmented confusion - dreams muddied and chaotic, as they usually were these days. Harry missed normal dreams, dreams of failing quidditch, of pushing Draco Malfoy into a very thick and foul-smelling bog.

Instead, it had to be Voldemort himself, body rising from the cauldron but here he - it - that - turned to face Harry - a snake burst through the skin of the deformation, destroying those unformed eyes, the half-nose, lurching at him with horrible speed, poised to bite -

- a long and endless corridor, looking for something, he couldn't stop looking, this he felt urgently, blistering under his skin, where was it? Where would they keep it from him? Every turn ended in nothing and everything, a loop, a perfectly coiled snake swelling in itself -

- Cedric pushed Harry behind him, wand pointed at Wormtail, “Not Harry,” he shouted, “not Harry!”

Wormtail laughed, "Stand aside," he said -

- Harry was swinging sickeningly in the park. Was there a way to stop? He couldn't remember - a boy and a girl ran past him, narrowly avoiding his swinging feet. The girl held a long daisy chain and the boys hand as they ran to the slide, easily 20 metres high, stilll they climbed it all too quickly, Harry watched this in a dazing jolt of backwards and forwards, nausea mounting.

The girl went down first, sliding for an eternity, then the boy appeared at the top but he had changed - Harry's stomach dropped, he watched in horror as Professor Snape descended the sleep yellow slide, glaring at Harry as he did.

Then he stood and started stalking towards Harry.

“Potter!” Snape said, utterly incensed.

“You’re not real!” Harry yelled back, panicked, he couldn't remember if this was real but he jumped the swings anyway and started to run.

“Potter!” Snape shouted again, furiously running now too, his wand out and firing a medley of spells in ribbons of yellow and green.

“Get lost!” Harry shouted even as he ran, furious that Snape would show up to torment him in his dreams. “This is my dream! Get out!”

“Potter!” 

Harry gasped, lurched up violently, covers all twisted around him as he fumbled for his glasses.

They brought into view quite the sight, the fleeting sensation for a moment that he must still be dreaming as he stared at the man in front of him, disbelief paralysing him.

“Potter.” Snape sneered, looking down at him. Harry could only stare up in absolute horror, clutching the sheets protectively.

What in Merlin’s name had he done to deserve this?

Chapter Text

The list of grievous sins committed by the universe against Harry were starting to pile up these days.

Not only was Voldemort intent on finishing the business he'd started when Harry was still in nappies, he'd also tried to kill him several times since, then stole his blood to bring his own (frankly horrifying) skeletal form back to life and now?

Now, Professor Snape thought he could waltz into his bedroom and sneer at him during the holidays?

This was unbelievable.

"What's going on? Why are you here? Did someone send you, did Dumbledore send you? Is Dumbledore here?" Harry asked rapidly, craning his neck to see if Dumbledore might be hiding behind Snape's billowing robes.

It would all be worth it then, Harry thought wildly, even if the wicked dungeon bat was here too, Dumbledore could help, Dumbledore could fix this.

"Professor Dumbledore is not here Potter, he has less trivial matters to attend to."

Oh he was pissed, Harry shrunk back slightly knowing that tone all too well, there went all his hopes and dreams. This was not a rescue, it might well be an attempt on his life. Snape was here, in a house that was supposed to be completely guarded and protecting Harry from all manner of unwanted guests.

And yet - Harry couldn't find his feet to stand or compel his hands to grab his wand. Instead, he sat frozen, how had it ended the last time he'd faced a death eater? Cedric dead, Voldemort back, all because of him.

Reckless, just like Petunia said.

Harry looked back at Snape's surly form, stomach churning into something vile.

"I don't know - what do you - are you going to - is this - what is this," this was surely a very painful nightmare, that he should stutter his words, unable to ask Snape of all people a simple question - one that might well determine if he lived or died. No wonder nobody took him seriously, no wonder nobody wanted to talk to him.

What was worse, Snape could sniff out Harry's inadequacies like a bloodhound.

“My my, the boy who lived is incapable of stringing together a single sentence. One would think you were brain damaged, Potter,” he mocked, “how lucky for you that I have always known you are a dunce first and foremost.”

Harry couldn't help but gape, this is what Snape had come to tell him? 

“Have you come all this way just to mock me sir?” splotches of darkness starbursted his vision, he'd be damned if he let Snape see how unsteady he was, “you couldn’t wait until term started? Why not just send it with an owl and save yourself the trip?"

Harry hated the ugly bitterness in his own voice. How was Snape his only visitor this summer? How was this the highlight of his week?

Snape glared before turning around to survey the contents of his whole room. Harry wilted somewhat, willing the boxers draped over his chair to disappear. There was a half eaten can of soup from a week ago that hadn’t found its way to the bin yet and his crumpled draft letters were scattered all around the floor of the desk.

Evidently, Snape was disgusted with both Harry and the state of his room, he turned back quickly.

“Pack all of your belongings and meet me outside in fifteen minutes Potter.” he said curtly, walking to the door.

Harry scrambled out of bed immediately, at least he hadn’t bothered to undress before he went to sleep.

“What? Wait, no!" he reached his hand out towards Snape and quickly withdraw it when the man looked as though he'd thrown out a shrivelled specimen. "What do you mean?” Harry questioned urgently but the sweet relief had already struck - even if they'd had to send the king of grease to deliver the news. Finally, he was leaving at last, finally there would be some answers.

Snape turned around slowly, gaze resting on Harry as he spat, "I meant precisely what I said Potter-“ 

“But where am I going?” Harry demanded, frustrated.

“Do not interrupt me!” Snape snarled, stepping closer, looking down at Harry, as always.

Harry immediately opened his mouth and quickly shut it again when Snape’s eyebrows raised to an ungodly height. This man was a death eater for Merlin's sake, who knew what he'd done in his service to Voldemort? Who knew what he could do to Harry if he wanted to?

Snape's eyes narrowed, he took another step closer to Harry. Too close, Harry thought, his throat closing up, but he stood his ground anyway. If he was going to die, he would die standing proud like his parents.

“You will pack your things,” Snape emphasised slowly, as though Harry were particularly slow, “you will meet me outside.”

Was he being dense on purpose? Did he really think that explained anything at all? Harry'd had weeks of hearing absolutely nothing, these weren't even meagre scraps of information. Trust Snape to say the same thing and expect a different response.

“Ooookay,” Harry matched his mocking tone, glaring back, “and where, pray tell, will I be going?” Might as well prod Snape while he had the chance, he certainly hadn’t wasted any time after all.

Harry had expected an admonishment, welcomed the familiar prospect of it even, so there was an acute sense of terror at the sight of Snape's nasty smile.

“You will be coming to stay with me Potter,” and although his tone was even, Harry could detect the sheer vindictiveness, the man was positively gloating.

A whole summer with Snape? Not even a swift six-week summer. May wasn't even finished, Harry realised with horror. Dumbledore surely didn't expect him to endure three months of this? It couldn't be true, there was no way anyone would legally sanction this. There would be nothing left of him come September.

It was Harry's turn for the ungodly eyebrows.

“I am not,” Harry declared shaking his head in pure denial, “Dumbledore would never allow you-”

Snape's scathing reply cut him off, "Professor Dumbledore specifically requested it, Potter.”

His voice was tight, he looked oddly stiff, looking away from Harry with an unfathomable expression. Harry’s hands trembled, he clenched his fists tightly, suppressing the tremors.

Well, he certainly wasn't the only one about to start a period of immense suffering- and on Dumbledore's orders? The headmaster had the nerve to land Harry with a curveball like this without so much as a courtesy warning beforehand. Surely death eaters couldn't tap the landline, would it have killed him to give Harry a call?

Harry might have killed himself after it though.

Snape gestured to Harry’s room impatiently, “Pack.” he spat before sweeping silently out of the room.

Harry hurried after him, he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

“Wait,” he snapped, as much as could in a whisper, head snapping to the other doors in the hallway which miraculously remained closed. 

Snape turned with his signature sneer in place - Harry hurriedly cut off whatever verbal unpleasantness he was about to summon.

“How am I supposed to know you’re even, you know, you?” Harry gestured at Snape, frowning. He would be hard pressed to forget the painful contortion of Professor Moody’s face when it had morphed back in to Barty Crouch Jr.

Sure, this Snape seemed exactly like the greasy git of the dungeons but that wasn't good enough anymore, Harry had to know without question.

“Finally, a coherent thought crosses your mind,” Snape said dryly, “perhaps the next time you suspect an unwelcome intruder, you will interrogate them at the outset with your wand out.” He stared pointedly at Harry’s right hand which was conspicuously lacking a wand, Harry flushed. Snape's own wand had never left his hand.

Dismissively, Snape carried on down the stairs. Harry's temper flared, did Snape think he could be put off so easily?

“Wait!” Harry hissed, clutching at the bannister, glancing up at the other doors again. 

“I’m not going with you if I don’t know who you are," this came out far more defiantly than he felt and even though he knew he’d go anyway.

Any risk was worth it after this wretched summer of silence but Snape didn't need to know that. As far as Harry was concerned, the less he knew, the better their chances were of getting through this alive.

Snape stopped at the foot of the stairs.

“Perhaps then,” he forced out between clenched teeth, not bothering to look back at Harry, “you might ask a question that only I would know the answer to.”

That was certainly shocking, perhaps this was an imposter. Snape didn’t know the meaning of cooperation, let alone encouraging questions.

“Oh...um...” well where the hell should he start? He'd thought hard about questions for his friends and people he knew well after the revelation of Crouch but he had hardly envisioned a scenario for Snape. It certainly didn't seem like the right time to start posing questions about his mom if he wanted to keep all of his existing limbs.

Why did Aunt Petunia refer to you as 'that awful boy' was probably a death sentence.

“Quickly,” he snapped at him when a minute had awkwardly passed by.

Snape glared at Petunia's floral arrangement in the hallway, of course even the mere sight of colour and vibrancy offended him. He seemed to be losing whatever minute slither of patience he might have had in his miserable body.

“Right...er...” Harry trailed off, racking his brains for their most recent encounter.

In a tone of utmost boredom, Snape replied, “Real enemies would have slaughtered you by now. Surely that is answer enough.”

As if he wouldn't take the opportunity to drag out every bit of suffering he could get from Harry, as if he wouldn't humiliate thoroughly given the chance.

Snape turned to the front door when it finally clicked.

“What did you threaten me with when you incorrectly accused me of stealing from your stores last year,” Harry said plainly, folding his arms. 

Riddle me that, greaselord.

“Veritaserum” came the crisp response, Snape still didn't bother to face him. Harry stared uncertainly, having primed himself for further resistance. 

“Your dawdling has cost you,” Snape informed him as he opened the front door wandlessly, "ten minutes or I come up there and drag you down myself.”

The door shut silently behind him, Harry was left alone.

The reality of the situation bulldozed into him, his heart-sinking, in the toilet life, was actually getting worse.

Why did these things happen to him? Why was he now going to be shuffled from one hell to another for summer? Wasn't anyone the slightest bit concerned about this arrangement? Where were Remus and Sirius now? What were they all doing?

Harry walked back slowly, with a distinct feeling that somebody else was residing in his body, puppeteering all the physical movements as he watched from far, far away.

Merlin, what was the point of it all?

Harry packed slowly, Snape’s threat be damned. Really, he had barely unpacked so there was little to do.

How embarrassing to have been naively convinced someone would come for him at the start of the year so that nearly everything remained in the trunk - so painfully certain they'd need to make a quick escape when they came for him, imagining fondly the Ford Anglia from years ago.

Then the energy to unpack had simply bled out of Harry when he realised there was to be no daring rescue, that actually nobody wanted to see him at all and they certainly didn't want to talk to him either.

Coaxing Hedwig into her cage, he surveyed the room one last time, it was just after 3am. The exhaustion was painful though Harry felt an odd sense of numbness crowding in along with it.

Fine, he thought grimly, fine. If Harry had to deal with Snape, Snape would also have to deal with him.

He briefly wondered what the Dursleys would think before coming to his sense, he might as well not exist to them anyway. They wouldn’t have noticed if he’d been snatched by a death eater at the beginning of the summer, they certainly wouldn’t notice now.

"At last," Snape's voice dripped with derision when he stepped out of the porch, "The boy who lived becomes the boy who cannot tell the time to save his life. I will inform Professor Dumbledore you require extra tutelage to allow you to familiarise yourself with the function of a clock."

Harry grit his teeth, stared at the floor and said nothing. Years of practice of pretending he didn't exist did come in handy at times.

Snape tutted and began striding down the path swiftly. Harry followed behind him sullenly, dragging his feet and glancing back at 4 Privet Drive, was he walking right into a trap?

Would it even matter? he thought tiredly. Did anyone care what he did anymore? 

“How did you even get in sir?" The thought of Snape ambling around his bedroom while Harry was fast asleep was particularly disturbing.

“I am a wizard Potter, therefore an element of magic was involved.”

Harry didn’t have to look at his face to know Snape was sneering, he sighed and clutched Hedwig’s cage tighter which was difficult with his shaking hands.

“I meant how did you get past the wards that are supposed to keep me safe or whatever? How did you just get inside the house?"

It was a perfectly fair question and yet-

“That is a skill entirely beyond your comprehension,” came the curt response. Harry gave up on his questions entirely, following Snape in silence until they came to the end of the street.

Snape halted and Harry did the same, watching as Snape looked straight ahead.

"Hold out your arm.” 

Harry hesitated, there would be no going back after this. If Snape really was loyal to Voldemort...

“We do not have the luxury of time, hold out your arm Potter.” 

Oh, there was no luxury of time now? They'd all been happy enough to leave him for a whole day after the dementors had attacked. He held out his arm anyway, now was as good a time as any to find out if Snape really could be trusted.

Harry underwent the bewildering sensation of being compressed into a tube and quickly shot out of it like cannon fire. His feet made contact with solid ground again and his knees buckled as Snape all but threw him to the ground in his haste to move away from him.

As if Harry needed Snape to hold him up, he was just...catching his breath...on the ground.

Thankfully, Hedwig had only been slightly jostled in her cage though one look at her assured Harry she was just as confused as to what had happened.

Harry gasped, trying to orient himself. Don't puke, don't you dare puke.

The thought of his musty kitkat dinner was unbearable but upchucking it on Snape’s shoes would surely be worse. Snape towered over him, his lip curled in disgust.

"If you're quite finished in the dirt Potter, get inside." He walked away before Harry could retort.

Why in Merlin's name must he be so unpleasant?

Harry couldn’t even summon the energy to be irritated really, getting to his feet slowly, chasing his elusive breaths, holding onto Hedwig and his trunk with a death grip.

Snape scoffed from the doorway, “There is no swooning crowd here to pander to your dramatics. I suggest you pull yourself together.” 

Did he think Harry was so thick he couldn't see that they were alone here in the darkness? Wherever here even was, all Harry could make out was a vast emptiness, the rustling of trees and a sense of unease.

He followed Snape inside a small and unassuming house, faint and disorientated. They came to a small kitchen after walking through the dark hallway, with Harry stumbling to find his way. Perhaps Snape was too tight to pay the electricity bills.

He did turn the kitchen light on though. Harry was immediately reminded of his throbbing head and aching eyes. 

Let it end quickly, he prayed desperately. But knowing Snape, the foul man would make this as unpleasant as possible.

“Sit.” Snape pointed to the small wooden chair at the table. Harry sat down, settling Hedwig down on the table next to him. Having her nearby was comforting, at least she was faithfully going through this hell with him too even if Snape didn't hold the same vendetta against her as he did with Harry.

Snape did not sit but remained standing, unyielding as usual and looming over Harry but at a safe distance, as though Harry were a particular revolting substance.

Flatly, he began, “This is my house Potter. For once, there will be rules that you will adhere to. You shall not run amok as you are so used to doing at your relatives or,” he sneered, “the Burrow. Most importantly, you will keep to yourself and stay out of my way at all times. You are not to disturb or interrupt me in any way. I will spend the majority of my time in the lab downstairs, you will never be permitted to enter either the lab or my room under any circumstances.”

Harry scoffed before he could help it, as if he would ever voluntarily talk to Snape, as if he would want to be anywhere near his disgusting lair of a bedroom.

Snape narrowed his eyes and stepped closer, slowly placing both hands on the table between them.

He leaned down, uncomfortably close to Harry's face.

Harry backed as far away as he could, his heart thundering madly. What was coming next? Should he even bother shielding a blow, would Snape leave him alone quicker if he didn't fight back?

Harry just clenched his hands tightly, unable to decide.

“Do not test me Potter," Snape warned, "it is hardly surprising that you have managed, once again, to inflict yourself on the unwilling. The circumstances are your own to bear."

“How exactly is a dementor attack my fault sir?” Harry snapped hotly, “has someone died and given me ownership of Azkaban?” 

“Others might believe your asinine story," Snape spat, "but I assure you, your desperate need for attention-“

“My desperate what?” Harry shouted in disbelief, standing abruptly. How dare Snape imply that he would do magic outside school when he knew all too well the consequences? 

"You don't know anything-" he began but Snape stepped forward menacingly. Harry sat back down immediately, gripping the edges of the chair hard.

Stupid, stupid, don't provoke him, he thought desperately, too late, it was too late.

Snape was silent for a long moment. Harry sat as still as he could manage.

This was it, he was in for it now. Everyone knew Snape was far from reasonable, no doubt he was about to show Harry how unreasonable he could be.

“Your impudence will not be tolerated in this house Potter,” he continued, moving away from him again. He sounded ominous and Harry blanched. If he’d thought the Dursleys were bad, what could Snape do to him? Surely, he wouldn't be as lenient as to lock him up or starve him.

And he wouldn't show any mercy if he used a belt either. What if he started and just didn't stop? Did anyone really know that Harry was here? Would they think to come looking for him here if he didn't show up to school in September? Where even was here?

Harry was barely paying attention attention, mired with waves of exhaustion washing through him. Surely it would be safe enough to just focus on the bland, dim wallpaper as Snape continued his snappy diatribe.

“You will address me respectfully as Professor or Sir at all times. You will not disturb me in any way, shape or form. You are not to leave the house without my express authority. At all times, you will clean up after yourself,” he sneered again, “there is no house elf to tidy up after you here Potter, you'll take responsibility for yourself whilst you are under this roof.”

What was the point when he would fail no matter what he did? Why bother trying to play a game that was clearly rigged?

And yet, the thought that Snape might use magic to inflict as much damage as he could possessed him. Harry couldn't afford to mess this up, couldn't afford to provoke Snape. He wouldn't be able to fight against him, he wouldn't win. Harry knew he wasn't strong enough.

“You are responsible for your own meals however dinner will be made at 7 every night. I strongly suggest you utilise this summer to address your lack of punctuality, Potter. Dinner will not wait for when the boy who lived is ready to receive it."

So Snape wasn't going to prevent him from eating, for now. Harry wasn't expecting miracles though, he knew exactly how long he would be able to last without eating before it became truly unbearable. It was getting easier everyday.

"Furthermore, I expect you to complete your assignments without complaint and to a sufficient standard, if you are capable of such a thing," he sounded very much as though he thought Harry was not, "you will not cause any of your usual trademark trouble and you will not stick your nose where it does not belong. I will not tolerate any whining from you as to the current circumstances. I would remind you that I did not ask for this hindrance on my time, you can blame yourself for your carelessness in that respect."

His carelessness. 

What was so careless about trying to save his own soul and his stupid cousins to boot?

And of course, what a hindrance he was. That certainly summarised how everyone else seemed to think of him these days. Nothing but a bother, an annoyance, like a buzzing fly one couldn't wait to swat away.

Harry decided not to engage. What did Snape know about him anyway? Let him think whatever he wanted to think about him for the next three months. He wouldn't rise to it, he wouldn't let him think he cared.

"Well?" Snape demanded suddenly. Harry glanced at him briefly then looked back at the wall.

"Well what?" Harry muttered, in as even a voice as he could muster.

Snape seized him by his t-shirt collar and roughly dragged him up, Harry fought the automatic reflex to pull out his wand. Calm, stay calm.

"Is your skull so thick you cannot comprehend basic English Potter?" he released Harry and hissed, "you will address me respectfully at all times. Failure to follow these very simple rules will result in a miserable summer for you Potter, that I can promise."

Harry couldn't stop himself in time, it was just so unfair.

"And how much more miserable could it get, sir?" he wanted to rub at his neck where Snape had yanked him but he kept his hands by his side forcefully, looking instead at Hedwig who was observing them silently.

"I'm certain you'll find out soon enough," Snape was almost whispering now, "there are after all a vast array of the most unpleasant potions at my disposal should you wish to show your childish attitude again. It. Will. Not. Be. Tolerated."

Harry gave a jerky nod, eyeing the door, desperate to leave. Would Snape keep him downstairs to threaten him all night? He was cold all over, hands still shaking.

"There is the matter of the hearing for your flagrant misuse of underage magic," he continued mercilessly as Harry sat back down miserably, willing himself to stay upright.

"A member of the Order will escort you to the Ministry on the day of the hearing."

Oh wonderful, well that just explained everything didn't it?

Harry would have to consider what the Order was later, he could barely focus on Hedwig's snowy feathers. She morphed into a blur as he blinked slowly.

At least he would be able to talk to someone who wasn't Snape, even for just one day. That would undoubtedly be the best day of his summer, if he wasn't expelled.

Harry realised a second too late that the silence had gone on for too long.

"As you have nothing of worth to add," Snape raised his voice loudly, "you will go to your room and stay there." 

With that, he swept past and Harry grabbed Hedwig to trudge after him, his trunk was summoned by Snape with surely more force than was necessary and zoomed past him up the rickety steps.

They reached a long hallway with four doors.

Snape pointed to the door furthest from them, "The bathroom." Gesturing to the closest door, he added, "that is where you will stay."

Not where he would be living, not where his bedroom would be, where he would stay. Like a dog.

Snape didn't seem inclined to explain the other doors so Harry just stared, was there any way to screw this up? Was he going to be allowed to be left in fleeting peace now?

Snape regarded him coldly. Apparently, even doing nothing was wrong.

"There are sheets in the wardrobe, I trust even you can manage making your own bed."

With that, he moved to open one of the other doors and disappeared behind it so rapidly that Harry was left in the landing, blinking dazedly.

He turned back to where he would stay.

Home, sweet home.

Chapter Text

There were actual birds tweeting with the morning sunrise.

Who would have thought, in the town where the Hogwarts dungeon bat festered, there would be signs not only of life, but of thriving life.

Clearly, they didn't know the danger lurking so closely.

Harry watched with mild interest as several robins flitted in and out of a bush, undoubtedly to and from a nest, in a blur of orange and brown. A lone magpie swooped around, occasionally landing to peck at the ground interestedly.

Harry did a poor salute, how much worse could his luck get anyway?

At least there was a decent view of the sprawling garden. It was overgrown in places but astonishingly it was obviously magically enlarged - as though Harry were looking into a rounded magnifying glass, the perspective from his birds eye view had an unnatural curve to it.

Littered here and there were small areas of what looked like tents of hazy shimmering silver covering parts of a dirt bed, clearly designed to be undetectable to a muggles eye, and to house something requiring magical protection.

Probably hiding and preserving corpses, Harry thought darkly, the strewn body parts of what was left of every student who'd dared to breathe too loudly in Snape's presence.

And he was probably going to be the next.

The window ledge he sat in was boxy, the wood hard and unyielding but Harry was content to curl up to fit, was hardly going to be sleeping anytime soon, too on edge despite the weariness.

He'd let Hedwig out to roam before anything else, then found himself drawn to those patches of shimmering light in the garden so he'd sat down to watch, entranced, and hadn't moved since, too tired to care about anything else. The sun was joining him in parts now too, hazes of rich gold broke through behind the clouds, spreading soft caramel over the garden so it was pleasant enough to just sit here and watch.

Besides, sleeping and dreaming were to be avoided at all costs right now. Harry shivered, picturing Snape's murderous face as he'd slid down the yellow slide and then his actual murderous face looming over him when he woke up.

Who knew what other horrors his dreams might invite back to meet him in real life?

There was nothing spectacular to be found in the room anyway. A quick glance was enough to see that there was a bed and a wardrobe and nothing particularly interesting about either one.

Hedwig hopped around briefly when she returned a few hours later before deciding she was also very much disinterested and came to perch next to Harry instead.

It was good enough to close his eyes, face pressed to the cool glass and just stroke her feathers. Harry could have passed an eternity like that.

He jolted from his daze at the muffled sound of footsteps, leaping into action hurriedly and glancing around to make sure nothing was out of place. Of course there wasn't, just his forlorn trunk.

Harry faced the door, head raised. He could be tired with every fibre of his being but he wouldn't lose his determination, not here.

You've faced Voldemort for Merlin's sake, this is nothing.

Harry listened closely, Snape was in the bathroom.

Time sludged on, Harry kept blinking, trying to keep the door in focus, shifting from foot to foot. God he was so tired.

Snape left the bathroom.

Harry tapped his fingers against his legs impatiently, head aching persistently.

Snape left the bedroom again. Harry's chest tightened, he watched the doorknob, on edge, confused.

Snape didn't come bursting through the door, didn't stand outside and rap at the door to wake him up.

The footsteps simply passed and carried on down the stairs. Harry stayed in bewildered silence.

Perhaps he wanted breakfast before he came to tell Harry his list of chores?

Or was he expecting Harry to be down there now making breakfast?

That couldn't be, he'd told Harry to tend his own meals after all, surely that didn't mean his too?

Frozen, Harry watched the door uncertainly. When a few minutes passed, it seemed as good a time as any to slink back to the window ledge so he did, staring hard at the door.

It wouldn't do any good to be taken by surprise, one had to be ready for anything. If the tournament had taught him anything it was that.

Snape was a fully grown wizard with the capability (undoubtedly) to take Harry to the very edges of his limits and bring him back again - probably with no evidence, no marks, nothing.

At least the Dursleys were a known annoyance, he's grown up with them. It made them no less vile but they were still known, still familiar enough and they couldn't use magic against him. Harry had only been studying magic for four years, was kind of defence could he conjure up against the likes of Snape?

There was just no knowing with Snape so you had to tread very, very lightly which was no easy task when one factored in that Snape was so damn annoying.

No - not annoying - unfair. He was so very unfair which bled into that incorrigible unpredictability - a sheer dangerousness.

Who would fight Harry's corner here but him?

With a wash of embarrassment, Harry recalled his (many) unanswered letters to Dumbledore, how childish he must have seemed to the man.

Harry would hardly be able to whine about Snape to the headmaster now - he'd be dealing with the return of the darkest bloody lord alive thanks to Harry.

Still, Snape hadn't thundered back upstairs yet. Probably he thought Harry wasn't even good enough to do chores in his house,

Fine, Harry huffed, settling into the window again resolutely, massaging his throbbing ache called a forehead, tender around his aching scar, that was absolutely fine.

By midday, Harry had paced the room at least two hundred times, stomach cramping into twisting knots with a hunger long ignored.

When considering how long he could go without now, Harry realised he was getting better and better at this. Last night’s KitKat didn't count, it was so old it must have been calorie deficient.

Petunia always watched Harry with a hawk like intensity whenever he was in the kitchen, meticulously surveying every cupboard he'd touched afterwards with those sharp beady eyes, bloody vulture.

But Harry had returned to Privet Drive entirely different from the boy that had left it last year, hunger was easily tempered and forgotten, he mostly welcomed the gnawing pain. At times, it felt...righteous, like he was finally doing something that mattered.

There wasn't anything wrong with it either, not with feeling real pride over being able to go the whole day without a single bite, battling through the dizzying light-headedness

In fact, it was better for everyone this way. The Dursleys no longer had to remind him of how much of an inconvenience he was and Harry was learning to push the limits of achievability, turning struggles into proof of capability.

It was good, Harry considered, to know just how long he could go without before it became truly unbearable, it was just another challenge to be borne. This was one thing he could win.

Now he could easily avoid those days where a single bite was agony, the food bitter chalk in his mouth and the thought of anything passing his lips was unbearable. Not that that was anything to worry over either, everybody lost their appetite sometimes. Skipping meals now and again wasn't going to kill him.

There was nothing to complain about either, Harry was choosing not to eat now. Nobody was depriving him of anything, he could eat any time he wanted to.

He wanted to right now.

The house remained still and hushed all day, as though locked discreetly away from the world. Snape hadn't been in the garden either, Harry watched it near constantly all morning.

The kitchen might just be safe but it was a gamble, Snape hadn't come back upstairs or if he had, he'd been a slippery snake about it.

Screw it.

Harry descended the stairs on shaky legs. The flood of the kitchen daylight was criminally oppressive, coaxing out a horribly pounding headache. The kitchen was old but neat, strained somehow with the years inflicted on it. The whole house had a rickety air to it - as if it had been built in a rush and no one had ever bothered to correct its faults so it still stood ever so slightly unsteady.

It was a long way from the neatly ordained square of 4 Privet Drive.

Plus, in places, it oozed of magic. Harry noticed throbbing pulses at their highest near the sink and table, apparently Snape was sophisticated enough to cast and maintain cleaning charms which even Harry was begrudgingly impressed by.

Still, know thy enemy he would. With one ear listening out for any movements, Harry inspected the contents of each cupboard, ignoring the pressing ache in his cramping stomach.

It was unlikely that Snape was hiding his secret diary under the kitchen sink next to the bleach but it was helpful to know what was in the cupboards, just in case. Disappointingly, there was nothing scandalous.

Harry did eventually unearth a must bottle of Firewhisky, only discovered by wiping away a thick layer of dirt from the bottle cap. He pushed it far behind the other cleaning bottles, sprinkling some dust back over the top for good measure. Better not give Snape any ideas about him being a thief on top of being a waste of space.

Harry sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water, sipping slowly to ease the awful ache inside.

Did he really need to eat?

This wasn't the longest stretch and he'd been drinking water here and there for the past few days which he didn't always bother with. Couldn't he push it until dinner or even breakfast tomorrow?

It was strange that he was now so accustomed to being hungry, an odd lightness dangled in his head, like floating outside himself - as though there was a cloudy film settled in front of his vision, everything became muted and bearable.

Harry's stomach protested furiously though.

Fine, if he might have to fight for his life against Snape (really, anything could happen in his vicinity) then maybe he'd need more energy than an ancient KitKat could provide.

Caving, he made a sandwich and took it out to the garden.

At ground level, it looked very normal - large, very green and thrumming with magic in the beds, the grass and even in the various coloured pots scattered around, teeming with colourful plants that swayed gently in the light wind. Harry could see the lingering shimmers in the air even with the blazing sun dazzling him as he sat on the warm garden steps.

The first bite was heaven. All honey roast ham, sharp cheese and crunchy lettuce on a soft bed of bread.

How had he almost passed this up?

If only there were crisps too, there hadn't been any crisps in the cupboards though. Of course, Snape was too uppity to have a simple bag of cheese and onion in his house. Hadn't the man ever treated himself to a crisp sandwich? No wonder he was so miserable all the time.

Crisps would fix him.

Being outside was the balm to all this frustration. Harry had been hanging around outside for as long as he could remember. The Dursleys preferred it that way - that he was as far from the house as possible.

Nature in the summertime, in those scant months between one school year and another, was another world to Harry - simple, pleasant and relaxed so long as he was alone.

The garden was calming to watch, almost gently lulling as the magic gleamed resplendently in the air.

Harry felt the change before he saw it, a very minute shift in the floating magic before him.

Flashes of vivid green bombarded his sight - he heard the crackling of sharp magical energy whipping through the air before throwing himself hard to the ground on his stomach, wand out.

Harry's hand shook as he pointed it upwards, squinting, the words ready to spill out - coiled tensely, bare elbows were digging into soft mud. The tang of a rich and bitter fertiliser stung his nose.

Was this the end? Why did it feel so much like relief then? Weren't you supposed to feel afraid? Was he afraid? Had Cedric been afraid? Had he even had the time to feel afraid?

Focus!

Harry raised his wand and looked up, a strange realisation him that he didn't even want to say the words.

He'd face it though, he'd face them all however many there were, he'd have to, he always had to -

Except, it was immediately obvious that there was no attack to run headfirst into - no group of raving death eaters or their deranged leader, no wands in his face, no magical inquisition.

What was going on then?

Hesitantly, Harry sat up properly, confused.

One of the patches in the rows of planted ingredients, with the tent like shimmering coverings, was shooting up green sparks around twenty feet into the air, crackling gently as it did, like a hearty fire.

Some sort of timing alarm system? For plants?

Panting, Harry tried to steady himself.

The overgrown bed of orange flowers next to Harry's head swayed gently with the wind.

There were no threats, he realised stupidly, just plants.

There was no spell, there were no curses and no enemies.

And Cedric was gone. Harry was not.

He raised himself up to sit back on the step slowly, heart still racing, hands still shaking.

He kept his wand out, looking anywhere but at the sparks. No, the danger was never here, he shook his head. What an idiot he was.

Absently, he brushed some mud from one elbow, the ground was mushy and a little damp despite the burning summers' day - it must have been watered recently.

Harry's hand knocked the plate on the step next to him. Half his sandwich remained.

It was sickening, all that food inside his mouth, disgusting - butter too thick and rich, bits of bread and ham so pungent - Harry heaved unexpectedly, gasping hard, bracing himself on the step with both arms.

Why was he doing this here, why now? It was ridiculous. He couldn't even keep down one half of a sandwich because he'd overreacted over nothing?

Too much, Harry thought woodenly, fighting hard not to retch again, should've just had an apple.

It was his own selfishness. That's what he was, wasn't he? The Dursleys might have been slow on the best of days but Petunia was right. Harry was selfish, he was reckless.

Bad things happened all around him, because of him. Ginny, almost dead in the Chamber of Secrets, Sirius, still on the run because Harry couldn't catch Pettigrew in time, Ron and his broken leg, Ron being dragged underwater so he could be Harry's "prize" and Cedric...

Kill the spare!

Harry flinched, digging his nails into his hands.

Petunia was right, he was the one that invited the madness, there was something very wrong with him. There must be.

Pushing the plate away, Harry could be strong in his resolve for that at least. He wouldn't eat again, not for a long time, as long as it took. It was stupid to give in today but it didn't matter as long as he learned - learned to be better than this, to be stronger for next time -

"What talent you have, Mr Potter," Snape's loud, sharp voice cut through the garden, a shadow fell across Harry, "I presume all of your assignments have been completed in the nine hours since you arrived here given that you appear to have an unlimited wealth of time to sit out here dawdling in the sun."

Could there be no peace? Was even the sun forbidden?

"School doesn't start for months yet, sir." Harry muttered through clenched teeth, staring resolutely down at the grass. There, that was a safe enough response.

Not that it mattered what he had or hadn't done anyway, Snape just needed a reason, any reason at all, to infer that Harry was no good.

And who could blame him?

"Had you any discipline or drive to achieve anything of merit, you would have commenced your assignments well ahead of time. It would be too much to ask of you, I suppose that you might instead utilise this time to advance yourself into the academic year." His voice dripped with derision, was he expecting Harry to have studied up to seventh year? To have invented a cure for the common cold or discovered a new planet in the month since he'd been back?

"Well?" Harry looked up briefly to see Snape glaring down at him expectantly, "no paltry excuses at the ready?"

Did the man want paltry excuses? No, he just wanted to take his slice of fun wherever and however he could.

Harry tried to breathe deeply, to conjure an answer that wouldn't invite trouble - a near-impossible requirement given the circumstances and parties involved.

"I - I don't know." Harry settled on lamely, flushing.

The sun burned down relentlessly, practically cooking his legs in his jeans. There was that ever-present headache, pounding madly, bright sunlight warping things - Snape's form swayed like a hula dancer.

"You don't know what?" wavy Snape mocked, his rippling form nausea-inducing. What would happen if Harry passed out here? Surely Snape would just leave him on the scorching steps and he'd crisp to death like a fried egg?

Harry looked away quickly and shrugged, gritting his teeth. The spreading headache pulsed urgently in his jaw and teeth.

Don't rise to it, this is what he wants. He wants to be able to say you made him do it.

That was always Vernon's excuse, why should Snape be any different?

"I will enlighten you then, seeing as you don't know," Snape sneered, folding his arms, "you have been granted an unprecedented quantity of time to address both your summer assignments and to begin studying the contents of next year’s syllabus. Given the poor state of your recent schoolwork Potter, you should avail yourself of every such opportunity."

It seemed to imbue Snape with a kind of vindictive joy just to say the words aloud. It was probably the only joy the man ever experienced, Harry might have been inclined to let him have it except that the poor state of his recent schoolwork could probably be chalked up to oh, maybe, the rise of Lord god damn Voldemort. But what did Harry know? He'd only seen him resurrected from his sickening foetus form and duelled him one on one with the ghosts of his parents and Cedric as cheerful spectators.

And he should be worried about homework and next year’s syllabus? Frankly, there was nothing Harry cared less for. Education as a whole was going to be wasted on him anyway.

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed vaguely, still staring at the grass, maybe Snape would leave now that Harry had agreed he was stupid, isn't that what he wanted?

Snape hovered instead, like some forbidding omen of death, swathed in his black undertakers robes - like a dementor. Harry swallowed hard, pushed down the swelling panic.

Take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my father.

Do - not - think - about - it.

"You do not deserve it in the slightest, however," Snape was still harping on, Harry's brains were cooking inside his skull and he was still going on, "I will impart some advice unto you Potter," oh wonderful, "do not waste this time you have been gifted."

A slap would have been preferable to that. Snape was lucky he could barely think, Snape was lucky Harry didn't scream in his face that Cedric had died for this 'gift'. Was there anything more offensive than calling it so?

Of course, the greasy bastard probably dreamed more students would die so he could have an extended break to glower in his rickety hovel in the middle of heck knows where.

What was worse, it was as though Cedric's death had simply been smoothed over and forgotten by everyone. One Daily Prophet article, a touching eulogy, some tears and he had vanished from existence.

Harry wouldn't forget though, Harry wouldn't ever forget what he'd done to Cedric even if the rest of the world had.

"Yes sir," Harry said dully, with the kind of tone he used when he really was pretending not to exist.

Now go away.

Snape, ever the phantom of Harry's waking nightmare, continued undeterred, "For once Potter - make - yourself - useful." he punctuated each word venomously before sweeping back into the house leaving Harry (and the sandwich) alone.

Harry stayed on the garden step, morose, until his skin seared and blistered with the heat, nearly toppling over when he came back to the room.

The heat thrummed uncomfortably under the skin, Harry focused distantly on the burning feeling of it.

Even in the cool room with the blinds drawn, his skin prickled and ached. That headache had spread to make a home in his teeth now as well, jaw throbbing insistently, unrelentingly sharp.

Not that these things mattered, not that there was anyone to tell. Once again, Harry was in this alone.

He hadn't bothered making the bed nor was the trunk unpacked. Hedwig slept peacefully in her window perch. Everything seemed hushed, an alien stillness slinking into the day yet Harry thrummed with the desire to rip his hair out.

As if he had the energy for that.

Ignoring the bed, Harry lay down on the worn carpet instead. Imagining he was somewhere else was something he could still try to do, a form perfected from those long stretches in the cupboard.

Things were easier then which was why, Harry supposed, that imagining was easier then too - childhood fantasies crafted with the whimsical hands of a child's longing. Harry had been a knight, fought his childhood bullies and pushed Dudley into a river of starving crocodiles more times than he could count.

It was harder now he knew what fighting dragons looked like, now that the darkness pursued him relentlessly. What was left to imagine? Starting a daydream left only the feathered out edges of a lack of will to finish it, sick of conjuring images that bled away as swift as smoke. Even Harry's imagination had abandoned him - or the details had anyway.

The abstract remained. Edges to cling to. Only simple feelings - the scent of clean linen and magnolias, a soft cotton shirt. If Harry strained hard enough, he might touch the warmth of laughter, a man, a woman - who knew? Something like a comforting hand on his back, a love that reached through some unseen barrier, a love just for him.

He'd never have his parents back so in the darkest times, this ceaseless ache would have to be good enough to soothe. Living in this for so long, alone in the cupboard, it was as easy as breathing.

After a while, Harry's thoughts wandered away.

This was all because of that dementor attack, he considered.

How then had he ended up in Voldemort’s mind that night? Hadn't it started with a searing headache? Harry already had that 24/7 so that was no help.

At first, there had only been flashes, impossible fragments, Harry was sure, then he'd tried to look - tried to hold onto them, to grasp them mentally.

So, Harry pondered, could it be done without having that link? If there were no live images to cling to, could he actively find some? Could he peek into Voldemort's mind? Had Voldemort known he was there?

Surely not, surely he'd have delighted in turning Harry into a vegetable-like state by now if he could - steaming him like a Broccoli Harry - Aspharrygus.

If Voldemort wasn't aware, he couldn't actively be letting Harry in then. Theoretically, Harry should be able to find his own way in.

How delightfully easy it all sounded on paper - well, on the floor where he was still lying down.

But if this was the only way Harry could be of use to Dumbledore right now...if he could find something, anything that they could use, it would be worth it.

Harry closed his eyes, tried to find this mental link between them, imagined himself rifling through his brain like a filing cabinet, surely there was somewhere in his mind he could find things that weren't necessarily his own?

Memories and thoughts could be located just fine after all, how did that even happen - finding memories, having thoughts?

Well - they probably had to be thought, right? They had to be there already or you had to at least know where to start with what to think.

So, that was no help.

How could Harry think something if he didn't know what he was supposed to be thinking?

Time for a change of tactic.

I need to find Voldemort’s mind, I need to find Voldemort’s mind, Harry thought over and over and over again, metronomical, I need to find Voldemort’s mind.

Harry's magic was having none of it.

Sorry, it seemed to say, fresh out of Voldemort’s mind today. Try again tomorrow, there's a good chap.

What could have been an eternity of repeating this was starting to become very frustrating.

What was the point of magic then if it didn't work the way you directed it? Was there a form of magic where you could search through your own mind, like how a lady had shown him at the library once, to use the directory search function?

Could you search through the contents of a brain? It was just a pile of mush and electrical signals, wasn't it? How was anyone supposed to find anything in there?

"Where is my connection with Voldemort?" Harry asked his brain insistently, aloud, "how do I look into his mind? How can I see what he's doing?"

For reasons that couldn't be known to anyone, surely, his brain didn't talk back. Instead, his scar was stinging, the dull ache having spiked, Harry huffed.

He sat up as a warm liquid ran into his mouth, coppery and bitter - a steady stream of blood dripping from his nose.

"Wonderful," Harry snapped scornfully, to no one, pinching his nose, "great work."

Too tired to even wipe it down in the bathroom, Harry used the edge of his t-shirt.

The last thing he needed was Snape thinking he was some kind of attention seeker if Harry had the misfortune to run into him - he'd start not so subtly implying Harry was to blame for it somehow, like he'd intended to make his nose bleed.

These were the consequences of thinking too hard apparently.

Harry rifled through his trunk for a bottle of warm water that did next to nothing to soothe the ache in his stomach. The headache, or the monster living inside his brain calling itself a headache, was clearly a losing battle, as it had been for weeks. Harry couldn't remember what it was not to have a headache.

Dinner would be in just a few hours, how utterly satisfying that Harry would be missing it, what he wouldn't give to see the look on Snape's face at that.

Let the old bat rant and rave about how dinner wouldn't wait for him, it didn't matter to Harry. Needing to eat was beyond him. There wouldn't be any weakness to turn against him, he was better than that now. Every day he was getting better.

The day had still left its mark, the scorching sun, the unwelcome nosebleed. Harry still hadn't made the bed, he settled instead for sitting in the window ledge again. Hedwig shuffled closer, nudging into his hand affectionately before slipping off into whatever peaceful owl dreams she was having. Harry felt a swell of tender affection for her.

She had the right idea about an evening snooze too. Harry would like to close his eyes, just for a second, how long had it been since he really slept...

The clearing was lit only by the moonlight.

The natural order of this world had kissed upon this night a tender, opalescent blessing - this was known.

That was the way of these things, of nature, always correcting even the most twisted of course.

What was he if not the reincarnation of this will, this force? Brought back to right the way, to sear unto these pawns this long lost righteousness.

Slowly, he walked around them, voices melting away, swallowed up in the vastness that lingered here. With one finger he reached out, touched the mother's cheek tenderly.

Quiet whimpers, pressing away - how they curled into themselves like writhing insects.

The father had to be silenced, such vexation, utterly uncouth.

But then, he curled his lip in revulsion, all muggles were uncouth in this manner.

The smallest - thing - particularly repugnant, it's constant wails. How could anybody abide this, love this? This tainted noisome beast could not belong alongside magical beings - wailing only mama, papa - this ought to be eviscerated.

But he was patient, he could wait. A lifetime of waiting, wanting, waiting.

I am better than all of them, I can be patient.

At last he turned to the girl - the vermin - the rat posing as the most noble of beings.

Such sickening corruption, inciting a sense only to pull her flesh apart.

Thus begins one more well overdue correction.

"We are joined tonight by our dear friend," he gestured to this thing, "Penny."

Laughter erupted.

These pawns jeered, with heads thrown back, whilst looking away, whilst staring hungrily, a longing that near rivalled the nature of the world.

They know my dominion.

"Tell us, Penny," crooning, the puppets watched with viscous intent the strength they lacked, "what are you?"

She sobbed, stuttered. Nauseating.

"Come now," whispered, "we cannot hear you."

"A - a - a witch," this spilled from her, dumb animal, wide eyed and glassy. Utterly empty, utterly null.

"A witch?" sharp, cutting, "is this what a witch looks like?"

Their jeering swelled, chanting the negative, bloodlust burning in their souls.

"Is this what a witch sounds like?"

Louder now, they screamed their distaste. Rosier watched the girl with contempt, eyes alight, some new purpose grinding deep into his core. As it should be.

He watched the blubbering pile.

Coldly, "You are no witch. You are a plague, a disease - all it knows to do is spread, infect."

Dark hair flying everywhere, shaking her head, jerking stupidly, utterly parasitic.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry!" she begged, raggedly.

So shamelessly deplorable.

"Does a witch beg?" merciless, itching to end this now, "does a witch cry in the face of noble, ancient power?"

The thing shook her head, still it wept.

Magic is strength. Where then was this creatures strength?

"You are no witch." Thus came judgment, retribution.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" They would all beg the same in the end, trite.

The parents first - yes, yes, send them to their dreamed up heavens. They began to raise into the air.

Let their vermin God save them.

The smallest wailing creature shrieked, the mock witch sobbed out again.

Up they went, very nearly out of sight.

"Please, please, what are you doing! Please!"

"A real witch would do be able to do something!" one of them jeered.

As though his will could be undone, as though reckoning heeded temperance.

"Close your eyes! Don't look, Penny, don't look!" the mother screamed this.

She will look, she will see how easily muggles break, how swift we can annihilate.

This crowd, enraptured, waited in the hush as the pair long floated out of sight.

He watched only the pitiful thing, lamenting, supplications to an uncaring omniscience, a parody of him.

Suffer as you rightly should.

Still, that thing cried mama, papa - wailing alongside her begging.

"Where are they?! Bring them back! Bring them back!"

A demand from a true God. He would accede.

"Certainly."

One second lingered - then they smacked into the ground, scattering in thick pulpy bits, an overflowing of filth, disseminated.

Their screams, their victory, utterly deafening.

Rejoice.

Death to the filth. Death to them all.

Laughter rippled amongst them, how gaudy they were, thinking themselves so untouchable.

"Who will rid our company of this pest?" the wailing misery, the mockery of a child.

It was Nott that stood, beseeching deliverance, "Would My Lord honour me?"

Yes.

The vermin screamed out for the life of a fellow parasite hoarsely, already so weakened.

The thing was dull and dead quickly. Nott bowed pompously at his end. It mattered not.

This vermin's eyes gleamed with sheer insanity now, her meagre pleadings he watched, glutted on the pains she poured forth.

Then, it quietened, staring away, whispered quietly only to itself - denials and nonsense, as is the way of the lower kinds.

Their faces, rapt with attention, revering him, as it should be.

Circling her, those sickening eyes flitted up, taut with fear, shuttered at last with acceptance.

The fire dies out, as it should be.

"You cannot be allowed to study alongside magical children," unsanctionable, "you belong in the dirt, the proper station befitting all muggles."

Stamp out this vile taint.

"These fingers were not meant to yield a quill." To show her, nature snapped them all, her screams rang in wondrous melody.

"This mouth was not intended to utter spells." Crooning, her lips fused together, sobs silenced, muffled potent horrors, finally suppressed.

Make it hurt, his magic sang out, utterly harmonious.

"No part of you is fit to learn the honourable arts of magic." It writhed like an animal, an abominable spawn.

Not fit to breathe, let alone walk the hallowed halls of my Hogwarts.

She was a beast.

This work could not be undone when it was only just beginning.

"The eradication of all mudblood curs will be swift. The filth cannot consume us, mix with us," spat out, "mate with us."

A series of complicated motions, arm throbbing urgently with the power he begged from the earth to rid his kingdom of this blight, flickering this wand, again, again, again -

The thing was torn to shreds in but a second, a flash of seraphic light. Ribbons of flesh smacked the ground, littering the forest floor with cleansing reds.

Jubilation erupted from them all. The moon beamed on.

Bliss, bliss, bliss.

Harry fell to the floor, smacking into it hard.

Horror overwhelmed him, clamping his hands hard over his mouth to stifle the scream - the scream, oh God the screams!

Gasping, he couldn't stop gasping,= but he couldn't breathe at all.

How could this be real? How could he have done this?

Harry still couldn't take a single breath, held out that trembling right arm - why - how could it throb like that - with the caustic remnants of some tainted power - a power that could tear apart a girl - a child - Penny.

Into strips, pieces, nothing left - nothing left at all.

Harry threw himself against the wall, curled up tightly, gasping, aching all over, yanked at his hair, trying to just fucking think.

Had he done that, had he - enjoyed that?

Vermin, he'd called her, a girl no older than eleven. A girl who would never make it to Hogwarts at all.

Harry called her vermin, skin crawled as he looked at her - a thing - she was just a thing to him.

Penny.

A real girl, dead. All of them, dead.

The boy - her brother - he couldn't have been older than three.

He killed them.

Her screams - her broken fingers, the keening cry from behind that closed up mouth.

Harry clamped his hands over his ears, anguish ripping from him.

It was ringing, those screams were ringing inside him. Harry had done this, Harry had let this happen.

Don't look Penny, don't look!

Harry wept in defeat.

Chapter Text

Once Saturday morning came around, Harry had somewhat pulled himself together, watching the sun rise, trying desperately to block out everything, there was some solution he could settle on – not sleeping, at all.

There was nothing else for it. Sleeping again risked seeing that and maybe that was just the start. Who knew what else Voldemort would be willing to do.

If he could do that to an innocent child...

Why was it such a surprise? How, after Cedric, is Harry still this surprised?

He shuddered, mouth so dry, face aching, eyes gritty. How could Harry face the day when he wanted to stay curled up in the window ledge forever? He could just watch the world pass by, the leaves fall from the trees and the ground choking up with ice. He could spy the early buds of spring emerge and the flowers bursting through into full bloom, fragrant and potent in summer. Then they'd shrivel up and fall off and die all over again, Harry could just sit here and watch it go on forever.

Harry rubbed his tired eyes, what a chore to have a life.

 It made him almost glad no one had owled. Harry didn't want to be disturbed anyway, it was better than they should all leave him alone.

Voldemort was always going to be his burden to bear anyway. It wasn't any different now, he was always going to have to do this alone. Harry lacked the energy to be angry at them all now, lacked the energy for anything, everything.

Yet, what to fill that void of time with if he wasn't sleeping? He couldn't sit in the window ledge all day, the great greasy housemate might spy him up here and insist he was up to no good.

Harry could just hear it now, if I see so much as a splinter of wood out of place in that sill Potter, I will melt you down and line my cauldrons with you.

At least Snape really did seem to want to be as far away from him as possible, he'd left Harry alone so far. In fact, there had been no retribution for missing dinner last night. 

It should have felt like relief, instead Harry couldn't pinpoint what it felt like - tried to feel bolstered by this new revelation that even Snape really didn't care what he did in his own house - instead he was hollowed, echoes where there should have been substance, void where there should have been him.

Was this what it was coming to? He was so desperate to interact with someone even Snape was looking like a viable option?

Pathetic.

Harry shook his head, steeled himself. He would face the day, he would have to.

And he would not sleep, under any circumstances.

By Sunday afternoon, this pledge was becoming problematic.

No, Harry’s sleeping patterns had never been particularly normal (special thanks to Dudley's hefty footfalls thundering down the stairs every day) but he had never actively tried to avoid sleeping. Usually, it just wouldn't come.

Now, Harry was practically a rogue sailor and the sweet allure of sleep called melodically, beckoning him constantly to warm sheets and a soft place to lay down.

And this joke he called a body? One giant ache. Sore muscles, legs constantly cramping from being curled up in the window ledge.

The time – this awful sludge of time – meant an exercise in the mundane - throwing the contents of his trunk everywhere, rearranging and reassembling things, unpacking and packing, then throwing  it all out and packing it neater, tighter.

Just in case someone was coming.

Harry knew no one was coming.

He played himself at gobstones and chess for as long as he could bear. Even the pieces muttered rudely amongst themselves as they thrashed him mercilessly so that Harry packed them back up with more force than was necessary.

"I'll find the receipt and send you back, I swear to Merlin," he glowered at them.

Even homework was becoming a vaguely tolerable option – Harry set himself to writing some of his assignments, half pieced together the structure of his essay on sustaining long term charms before abandoning it in the late afternoon, unable to shake the creeping feeling that something awful was coming.

Harry could hardly sit still but the energy snapped in a second if he dared stand up. He hadn't eaten since the sandwich but eating was out of the question entirely. He would drink his weight in water and coffee though.

Can't die as long as you're hydrated.

The constant nausea would probably pass - he'd drank only water for days on end before and had been absolutely fine. The Dursleys had at least prepared him for that.

Although, that was before the sleep strike. How could you feel so outside yourself yet so trapped inside your body at the same time? If only Harry could give his stomach the urgent memo that no, nothing would be greeting it anytime soon and if it wanted to just shut up and stop growling all the damn time, that would be much appreciated. A dull ache throbbed inside it along with the throbbing headache from hell that didn't cease no matter how much water he drank.

Eating will make me tired, Harry reasoned, I'm always tired after I eat.

People usually rested after eating. Harry couldn't rest so he couldn't eat either - he would just bear it, he would get through. He always did.

The terror of what he might see if he fell asleep again kept the resolve alive. The way they'd risen up so gently, almost floating up into the night sky, to then come plummeting down. The way the bits of them had scattered – Harry shook his head frantically when this emerged as if force could expel it.

Stomach clenching and rolling, coffee sloshing around inside, fighting not to fetch after every cup.

“No,” Harry reassured himself, muttered constantly though the day, sipping coffee, folding and re folding clothes, “I won’t watch that again. No one is making me do that again.”

It seemed like it might be useful to recall the other visions. They'd been ramping up in the last year, that was true, however Harry had always been a spectator, always physically looked at Voldemort.

A sick sense of terror emerged - he'd never been Voldemort, never been in his body, been the one raising the wand – seeing it all through his eyes.

What did that mean?

The thought had him stricken for hours at a time, choking on panic and fear. Was Harry becoming more like Voldemort? Was he destined to see into his mind as him forever? Harry had even heard his thoughts.

No, he corrected himself bleakly, he had thought those thoughts.

Did that mean they were really his thoughts? 

Surely there wasn't enough space inside a persons skull for two sets of thoughts so they were either Voldemort's thoughts or his.

Harry shook his head to himself again.

"I would never think that," he earnestly (and desperately) informed a sleeping Hedwig, who didn't even wake, "I could never think that." he reassured himself, wrapping his arms around himself miserably.

Desperate for distraction, he turned to his assignments again.

Is this what it's come to? Harry despaired to himself on Sunday evening as he tried to research the qualities of Loria venom. 

The problems with writing your assignments on more than two days without sleep were plentiful. The ink bled into the pages because Harry couldn't stop staring off into space in a haze. He was constantly knocking the ink pot over, forgetting he’d moved it two minutes ago and the quality of the work was, quite frankly, atrocious. 

Harry paused to reread the paragraph which included the sentences "the venom, at this stage, will be quite venomous" and "care should be taken because of the venemousiness" in disbelief. This was the product of one hour of focus? 

The venom will be quite venomous?

Harry gave a strangled laugh, threw the quill at the wall.

It was funny really. It was funny how the qualities of any fucking venom in the world could matter when innocent muggle borns were being torn to shreds and for what? Sport? Because Voldemort needed to put on a show with dinner and the strippers were all sold out?

Did the wizarding world even have strippers? 

Harry massaged his throbbing temples, running his fingers through his hair.

What Voldemort needed was something to fill his time, a hobby that was not brutal and senseless murder.

"Crafts," Harry muttered to himself, collecting the quill with shaking hands, "someone get that man some crafts."

How did it even help his cause, Harry sighed to himself, to do something so cruel yet so pointless?

What was the reason?

Harry screwed up his draft paper with his one sad paragraph and threw it in the bin. Back to staring out of the window.

The nights were agony.

In the day, Harry survived with Hedwig even if she only slept and he only fed her treats and stroked her soft feathers. She was there, she was real and the room was blindingly bright as long as the sun was awake.

Hedwig always liked to hunt around midnight - what could Harry do? Cage his only friend in with him? The room was already stuffy and drab, it seemed to be getting a few bricks smaller everyday. He'd fly away too if he could.

Lack of wings was a damning thing. Harry instead spent an inordinate amount of time pacing the room and muttering, mulling over the problem of Voldemort, thinking regretfully about the few shared memories with Cedric, raging (mostly internally) about Sirius, Remus, Ron and Hermione - all having a swell vacation this summer whilst he rotted here, discarded and abandoned. 

The bed lingered and mocked when Harry fixated on it with longing, the bed he had still not made, pinching himself hard when he thought he might just sit on it, for a moment.

Who would you like to kill this time?

Harry didn't deserve to rest, didn't deserve the peace.

So he paced, muttered angrily, threw things and broke things as quietly as possible. It wouldn't do to bring attention to himself, it wouldn't do at all.

Harry showered constantly. It was something to do and the Dursleys had always bemoaned him using their hot water.

When he'd made sure the door was bolted shut and that Snape wasn't on the same floor, he even let himself weep quietly.

Just for a minute or two.

That wouldn't hurt anyone. He wouldn't hurt anyone.

Writing letters was a wash. The tone was always wrong. Nobody had replied after the dementors anyway, nobody had bothered. They were glad to be rid of him, they were glad he was gone.

A twisted paranoia took root when he spied the crumpled drafts in the bin. Harry took to shredding the papers into hundreds of bits, staring out of the window, mostly gone, if only he could be rid of himself as easily.

Hedwig tried to listen as devoutly as possible but there were clear limitations - she had no patience for being woken up during the day.

Harry watched her sleep enviously, if only he were anywhere else too.

There's nowhere for me to go, I have no place.

In the peak of another curdling night, Harry fantasised his parents were still alive, that he'd been mistakenly sent to a cruel relatives house after a mix up at the end of school.

They were coming to get him right now.

They were so worried about Harry and they were furious that Dumbledore had let this happen to their son.They wouldn't be afraid of Snape, dad wouldn't let anything happen to him. They would all go home, they would laugh about it together.

Harry replayed this over and over again when he couldn't concentrate on anything else for the sheer exhaustion hounding him, soothing a part of himself he hadn't even known needed soothing.

If only he'd never tried to kill me, if only he'd gone after someone else, if only I'd died too, if only, if only, if only...

Monday morning was spent lying on the carpet with the light on - Harry staring at the lightbulb intently until it burned and bled into a weak imitation of the sun.

The window was a no-go now. The darkest flicker of a shadow kept creeping into his peripheral. Startled, he'd turn around frantically only to find it had disappeared out of sight. Then it would creep in again, curling black tendrils of smoke across his vision that he couldn't keep at bay.

It had been too jarring.

Now however, Harry couldn't stop jerking in and out of himself. His eyes would droop (but not close) and a few seconds would pass before he'd blankly come back to himself, confused and disorientated.

Sometimes, right before coming back to himself, there came the twisted croon of Voldemort's voice.

Penny, into Harry's ear tauntingly, is this what a witch sounds like?

This was part and parcel of his life now. Harry stepped inside himself, then he checked right back out, he stepped in, he stepped out…

Perfectly fine, nothing to panic about.

Except, the restless fear was getting harder and harder to push down, to ignore, to tame.

Harry’s mouth was so dry all the time, body still aching relentlessly.

Soon, Harry thought, they'd be carrying around an oil can to grease him up just so he could walk.

If inside himself was sheer chaos, outside was no different. His hands were so cold despite the summer heat, despite pressing them against searing glass out of sheer curiosity.

Harry was falling apart, this thing called Harry was losing its mind.

So tired it physically hurt.

And the hunger...oh god the hunger...

Harry broke. 

Tiptoeing downstairs, he found the fruit bowl in the kitchen and stared at it - could barely focus on the apple, it blurred together with the other fruits. Harry clung to the counter hard. Just going down the stairs had been tiring but he felt so empty, so light.

Harry picked it up, smooth and red and bright. He stared at it for a while, as though it might have the power to tell him the future in its bright eager skin. Stomach still rolling, still clenching in utter protest. How many coffees had there been today? Three at least, possibly five – so his stomach was protesting loudly.

Put that apple in your mouth Harry James Potter, it seemed to say, you'll fucking regret it.

Harry put it back and turned away.

And then turned immediately back.

This hunger couldn't be pacified, couldn't be appeased, it was raging.

Harry stifled a sob. He'd be sick for sure, there’d be a grizzly repeat of the garden step and the sandwich. The apple would be tangy and bitter, he could already taste it in his mouth.

He leaned onto the counter again, trying to catch his breath still.

The apple winked at him. 

Harry stared, rubbed his tired eyes vigorously.

The apple was blank.

No, he thought dazedly, he had seen it.

Intently, he watched.

Only its blank skin looked back.

Harry’s forehead ached in protest.

It had winked, with its eyes. He had seen it, damnit

"Are you magic?" Harry asked the apple. The apple did not respond.

This was incredibly suspicious behaviour, Harry poked it. Then he started poking the other fruits as well.

One of them had to know something.

Fruits didn't just wink.

"Somebody better start talking," he muttered furiously, jabbing a banana harshly.

Harry heard the footsteps too late and jumped back from the fruit bowl, looking for all the world like he was guilty even though it was the apple that had winked against the laws of nature. Typical.

Snape emerged, he stopped abruptly at the sight.

His lip curled, he stared at Harry reproachfully, then glanced at the fruit bowl.

"Hungry now are we?" his voice was unpleasantly soft, Harry could just feel the insult that was coming.

"There is an obvious solution to hunger, Potter. You could refrain from your snobbery and eat the dinners that are being provided in this household."

Bingo.

"Could I sir?" Harry asked in mock amazement, head spinning. "Could I really?"

Snape's face twisted into a snarl.

With a sinking dread, there were creeping black tendrils curling at the edges of Harry’s vision again, he blinked hard.

Focus, focus.

"I thought you couldn't care less if I didn't eat dinner?" his voice sounded garbled even to himself, the words drifted, dangled underwater, "It wouldn't wait for the boy who lived after all, would it?" The words were tumbling out, he was so angry with them all, it felt so good to finally have it out with someone.

"If you imagine that Professor Dumbledore will be minded to step in because of this inane charade, you are sorely mistaken."

"I don't care what the headmaster does," Harry lied through gritted teeth, "I haven't asked him to step in, have I sir? Or is he here?" he gestured around the room sarcastically and then knocked the kettle a couple of times for good measure.

"Is that you in there Professor?" Harry laughed, very not hysterically.

"Or maybe he's in here?" he peered into the toaster, laughing desperately.

There were clumps of bunt crumbs at the bottom of the toaster tray like a scattering of stars.

Orion's Toast, Harry thought, deliriously.

"Silence." Snape hissed, cutting off him off abruptly.

Harry noticed, through the haze, that the man was watching with the strangest expression, as though he were...disconcerted. As though he had something unpleasant to say.

Harry didn't like that one bit.

They stared at each other for a moment, mutual dislike swimming in the air, before Snape continued.

"I will not repeat myself," he said slowly with a rather pinched expression, "if you are skipping dinner each night to prove a point, you are failing spectacularly. There are no volunteers to pamper and preen over you here. I will certainly not fulfil that role. Is that understood?"

"Okay then."

Snape's face morphed into something bordering on murderous, Harry sighed.

"Sir." he added and yet, Snape still didn't leave.

What did he want? Harry wondered desperately, he wanted to carry on interrogating the fruit. He glanced back at the fruit bowl, frowning.

Snape followed his gaze again. Harry looked away quickly, embarrassed.

I'm not telling him his apples are winking at people, unlicensed.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he questioned Snape quickly.

"This is a kitchen, Potter," came his icy response, "it is customary for people to eat in it."

The onslaught of a sudden and vivid image of Snape slurping up the contents of a Pot Noodle seized Harry with a fit of laughter.

Snape stepped closer abruptly. Harry froze, stepping back, raised his hands.

"I was just looking at a fruit." he muttered quietly, staring at the floor, starting to feel sweaty, was he feverish? He was hot and cold and hot and cold.

His throat was still so dry, raw and aching.

Snape said nothing for a moment, Harry hoped he wouldn't bring up the fruit. He wouldn't be able to cope if Snape mentioned the fruit.

The sweet, tart refreshing fruit...

"Dispose of whatever foolish fancies have taken residence in your small mind," Snape's tone was dismissive, "giggling like a schoolgirl is most unbecoming."

"I wasn't giggling," Harry snapped, "I just told you I was looking at a fruit, that's all."

Snape stared at him, nonplussed for a second, before he lapsed back into his usual impassive self.

"Get out of my way you imbecile," Snape went to push past him and Harry attempted to make his escape at the same time so they ended up colliding with each other in the small space.

"Get off!" Harry snapped wildly at the same time Snape shouted, "Move you idiot.” and they both backed away from each other hurriedly, moving to opposite sides of the kitchen.

"That was your fault!" Harry snapped, head spinning, breathing heavily, achingly fast. He had to get out, the terror was closing in, something awful was coming, he could feel it, someone was coming, something was coming.

"Mind your tone you insolent whelp,” Snape hurled back furiously, "There was no question of 'fault' you thick headed-"

"You mind your tone, it was your fault!” Harry screamed. It's coming! It's coming!

"How dare you-"

"Shut up!" Harry shouted again, clutching his painful head, "shut UP!"

The window exploded in a lightning flash. Sparkling glass littered the floor.

The will and energy drained out of Harry in one second, he swayed, clutching the kitchen chair for support, turned away from Snape, heart still racing furiously in cahoots with the rest of the world to take Harry out of it.

He'd die before he fell down before Snape, he'd rather die, but he couldn't show his face either.

Snape would know - would look at him and he would know what Harry had done.

Monster.

Penny.

Vermin.

"Stay still," Snape snapped behind him.

Harry flinched at the flick of Snape's wand in his peripheral view, the sharp command of a spell. The window was fixed in an instant, the glass pieces flying neatly back into shape. Harry breathed out.

"Potter." Snape spat.

Harry almost wished he would pass out, anything to avoid this.

"Sir-"

"Sit down." Snape sounded deadly, no room for negotiation at all.

Harry sat but only because he'd keel over otherwise. Only because the colours all around were blurring together, muted and dull, he hid his shaking hands under the table. The tremors were too noticeable now.

Should've eaten the apple, he thought faintly.

"You seem to have mistaken the rules of this household and by extension, our...relationship," Snape sounded nauseated. Harry agreed wholeheartedly.

"You are not my equal Potter," Snape uttered softly, "you are far, far beneath me. Is that clear?"

Harry folded his arms. The anger, the exhaustion, the misery, it all bled together.

"It's not very clear if you have to spell it out for me, is it sir? How many times have you fought your precious Dark Lord again? No," Harry commented idly,  wallpaper patterns dancing wildly before his eyes, "I don't think we are equals. Not at all."

Silence.

Well, he'd either be beaten to death or insulted to death but either way at least he wouldn't have to live another moment after.

"If only your father were here to see you now," insulted to death then, "how proud he would be to see that his bloated ego had found its way to his offspring. The spirit of James Potter truly lives on."

Merlin, it stung. That was his father. Why couldn't Harry be allowed to believe he was a heroic saint? He was fucking dead, he should be able to believe whatever he wanted about the man seeing as he'd never bloody meet him.

Then Harry recalled the shadow of a conversation.

Severus! That was his name. A nasty little boy and a stupid name to boot.

"And what about my mom?" mistake, his brain screamed frantically, retreat, retreat, retreat, "how does her spirit live on, sir?"

Harry sat there, both horror stricken and awfully pleased with himself before the words dawned on him.

Had he said that? Why had he said that?

When the silence had gone on for a worrying amount of time, Harry looked around hesitantly to find he was quite alone in the kitchen.

Snape had just...left.

Oddly bereft, Harry dragged himself back upstairs, sans apple.

Relentless were the hours that had to be borne, one after the other after the other, never fucking ending.

Were the days getting longer?

Would there be no mercy, no reprieve, no rest?

Harry was trying to delve into his mind again.His dry mouth couldn't follow him there surely. The burning, hollow yearning in his stomach couldn't either.

A soft t-shirt, sweet florals, a warm hand on his back.

Harry, a faint whisper.

He sat up abruptly, looked all around him.

Harry, it came again.

"Who's there?" he whispered, frightened.

A gentle laugh, feminine, like soft rains and sweet breeze. It seemed to fill up the whole room.

He looked around frantically.

"Where are you?"

In here Harry, I'm in here.

"Well, where's here?" Harry snapped rudely, heart pounding unbearably fast, thrumming in his skull.

The voice laughed again, rich and warm.

You can't see me silly, she chided him, I'm inside you.

He patted his chest frantically, there wasn't any space for a woman inside him, that much he knew.

Not in your body, she laughed again, in your heart darling. I'm in your heart. 

He patted that hesitantly too, puzzled.

"Er...okay, why are you in my heart exactly?" entertain it for now, what else did Harry have to do?

I never left it.

Never? Left?

Finally, it clicked.

There was only one woman who had ever left him, really.

"Mom?" Harry whispered quietly, hopefully, foolishly.

I'm here.

She couldn't be, she couldn't be.

Harry sat back down on the carpet, spent.

"How are you here? I mean, are you really here?"

Could it be? Could he have...conjured her from the dead?

Who could say?

"You," Harry said irritably, "you could say."

If only it were that easy, she said sorrowfully.

He felt ashamed suddenly, since when was he rude to his own mother?

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, closing his eyes, "it's just confusing, that's all. I don't really understand what's going on."

Did it matter though? Here was his mother, speaking to him. Why did it matter how she got there?

The aggressive pounding in his head beat on.

You've been so brave-

"No,' he cut her off automatically, "don't...don't say that. I haven't been brave at all."

Harry wouldn't, couldn't, lie to her, surely she already knew what he'd done...

You are my brave boy, my son. 

Tears welled up - that was too much, too much. 

"Mom," Harry begged, "can't you be here? Can't you really be here? Can't you come to me?"

I am here, I'm as here as I can be, she soothed - Harry shook his head frantically.

"Am I mad? Tell me please, am I mad? Is this all in my head?"

What is madness really?

"No," Harry cried out, this was too much, "no riddles! I don't want anymore riddles!"

Perhaps it's a dream.

"I can't dream," he explained hurriedly, "I can't sleep, I'm not allowed to sleep."

Everyone has to sleep, sweetheart.

Harry shook his head to himself. He didn't want to offend her but she was wrong. Harry couldn't, Harry wouldn't sleep.

"Not me," he mumbled, "not me."

She didn't respond.

"Mom?"

Harry.

"Don't leave, stay with me."

Always.

So they spoke in confused fragments after that.

Harry could barely tell who had last spoken so caught up he was in the subsuming having of a mother.

They talked about nothing and everything. He clung to her voice vividly as the minutes seeped into hours.

How much longer could he carry on like this?

How much longer would he last?

Two sharp knocks startled Harry out of his half imagined conversation, he hadn't actually spoken aloud for hours.

The knocks came again, harsher and accompanied with a sharp, "Potter."

What should he say? Sorry sir, I'm busy talking to my dead mom, you'll have to come back later?

"If you are not sufficiently dressed, you have only yourself to thank," with that he entered.

Harry watched blearily as Snape marched in, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Ah yes, for the grievous crime he had committed of sitting.

"Open your trunk." he demanded.

What the hell did he want that for?

"Show me the contents of your trunk," Snape demanded again, evenly, "now."

Well fine, Harry wasn't harbouring anything illegal in there.

He unlatched his trunk which was perfectly packed thank you very much.

Kick me to the curb you prick, I'll happily go.

Snape scrutinised it carefully before looking back at Harry, his face seemed forcefully blank.

"Dinner will be done in thirty minutes."

Good god, is it only 6:30?

Harry shoved down his exhaustion at the thought, stayed silent. He didn't know what game Snape was playing and for once he didn't care to win either. He wanted to carry on with his own personal crazy.

"You will attend," Snape said swiftly, without explanation, sweeping out of the room before Harry could utter a word.

He bloody well would not attend and Snape was going to have to haul him up, kill him fast and drag his corpse down there if he thought otherwise.

Harry was staying on the window ledge, possibly forever.

He wasn't going to eat, he wasn't going to sleep and it didn't matter to anyone at all.

Chapter Text

6:59 ticked over into 7:00 very gently. Harry was half dozing though he didn't know it.

The door slammed open. Harry startled, bewildered.

Snape stood at the threshold, formidable.

"Must you be collected for your evening meal, Potter? Like a child?" he spat, seething.

Harry was still trying to orient himself, struggling to focus even on the room.

Summer. With Snape. No Dursleys. No Hogwarts. Cedric - dead. Penny - dead. I can't sleep, I can't sleep.

Mom was here, talking to me.

Where had she gone? Could he call her back somehow?

"Potter," Snape's waspish voice brought him back, "this contrived behaviour ends now."

"What?" Harry asked listlessly, looking around the room intently. If he could hear her, she might just show herself too. Ghosts had to have a physical form didn't they? Or did they? Most of his ghost knowledge came from Casper, did Casper go through walls?

"What are you doing?" Snape demanded. Harry, barely listening, merely shook his head.

"Uh...just looking around.” Harry frowned at Snape.

"How did you get in here?"

Snape was entirely unimpressed.

Well that was fine. Harry was also entirely unimpressed with his whole damned life so Snape would just have to deal.

"Do not ask stupid questions, they will not be entertained."

Harry laughed, an edge creeping in.

"Sure sir but you're the one that's in here. Maybe if you stayed away from me entirely, you wouldn't have to deal with my stupid questions, would you?"

It seemed perfectly logical to Harry who was on the brink of either passing out, throwing up, or both. The Dursleys locked him up and avoided him all the time, it was a win win for everyone.

Snape however narrowed his eyes and Harry could sense something merciless was coming.

That was also fine.

He was already cavorting with ghosts after all. If Snape killed him now, he and his mom could probably haunt him together.

The thought made him smile wanly which helped absolutely nothing.

Harry only caught snatches of Snape's scathing response, had to turn away and sit back down on the window ledge. His legs weren't cooperating anymore, there was a lingering tightness in his chest.

How many days had it been now? Three, five, ten?

That's too many days - that's too, too many days.

"Potter!" came Snape's loud voice. Harry sighed.

"Yes sir?" he forced his cheeriest tone - it wasn't well received.

Silence reigned briefly.

"Dinner is downstairs," Harry caught his forced strain, "you have been warned that attendance is not optional."

"Thank you sir," was it time for his next coffee? "I don't think I'll have dinner tonight."

Snape stormed right into the room then, right up to the window ledge. Harry braced himself.

You knew this was coming, he chided himself as his stomach turned.

"Get up." Snape snarled in his face.

Harry obliged though his hands were clammy and his head swam.

"Downstairs, now!" he demanded, jerking his head towards the door.

He was muttering other things too under his breath as they went. Harry made out too lazy  and above the rest of us but the other words just faded away, as though the volume had been turned down. Wouldn't that be nice, the ability to just mute Snape on demand.

Why were they were going downstairs though? Was the chore list finally coming? Would he be working his fingers to the bone all night?

At least it would be a distraction.

How else was he going to get through tonight?

Maybe Snape was going to smack him around for not coming to dinner after being explicitly ordered to. That would be a problem, how many hits could Harry take in this state?

Not the belt, anything but the belt.

Harry didn't know anything about wizarding punishments though, should he beg for the belt? The wizarding world were cruel enough to offer up soul removal for criminals after all, what kind of madness would they sanction for punishing children?

They walked in step. Snape remained closely behind, as though marching him to the electric chair.

"Kitchen." he said tightly, when they reached the hallway.

He recalled Snape's threat from the first night, would he be force fed a gruesome, slow-acting poison?

Would Snape be shovelling handfuls of popcorn into his mouth whilst Harry ambled towards a slow, painful death before he scornfully poured the antidote down his throat at the last possible second?

That seemed like a Snape kind of thing to do.

Harry walked slowly, the bright lights were disorientating, reminiscent of the blinding flash of Rita Skeeter's ridiculous camera.

His stomach dropped. All those the daft articles she'd written about him, about Cedric.

A promising champion with a bright future ahead of him!

Now, dead.

"Sit."

Harry sat, couldn't have stood if he wanted to.

Strangely, Snape also sat across him at the table.

Well, Harry wasn't going to start idly chit chatting about their latest sunny spell. He wasn't the one who'd shoved them together for dinner. He crossed his arms sullenly. Sure, maybe he couldn't defend himself against Snape, but he wouldn't look weak in front of him either.

What would he tell his mother later? That he'd been too tired to deal with Snape?

Ridiculous.

"The inventory of this house is completed on Tuesdays." Snape began, out of nowhere. Harry looked only at the ugly floral placemats.

Snape seemed to expect an answer. What did inventory have to do with him?

When Harry didn't reply, Snape continued, "That includes the contents of this kitchen."

That still wasn't an explanation, he hadn't used anything except the coffee. Was Snape really this angry about coffee? Harry could surely scrounge up a few pounds if the man was really going to start throwing a fit about his crappy Nescafé blend.

Cheapskate, Harry thought, peeved.

Snape continued to stare, the silence quickly became uncomfortable.

"I don't see what that has to do with me." Harry settled on, intentionally frosty. Better for Snape to carry on thinking he was a silver spoon brat than a mental orphan wreck.

"Precisely."

Merlin.

Harry looked anywhere but at Snape. The darkness was creeping in. How much longer could he do this. Snape needed answers, apparently, what could he do if he didn't know the answers? He tapped his fingers against his knee rapidly.

"Why, Mr Potter, do the contents of this kitchen have nothing to do with you?" his tone was kicking Harry into a state of mild panic reserved only for potions classes. There was that underlying edge again, promising that he was going to be metaphorically stomped on soon.

"Look," Harry offered, fighting to keep the desperation at bay "if you're trying to ask me something, just ask. I haven't done anything or taken anything so I don't know what you're trying to pin on me, sir."

That was more than charitable and it was certainly more than what Snape deserved.

But still, the silence dominated.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, he wouldn't break first.

Through gritted teeth, as though it were physically painful, Snape slowly said, "Are – you – unwell?”

"No." Too quickly, he'd answered too quickly - made himself look guilty. Snape was going to know...he was going to know...

Harry didn't dare look up - guilt must be plastered all over him, Snape was going to interrogate until he cracked and Harry knew he was so, so close to breaking. He wouldn't stand a chance.

Snape seemed to be considering the best course of attack, Harry prayed fervently for the roof to cave in.

"Why have you not seen fit to feed yourself since the day of your arrival?"

This was what Snape wanted to talk about? Had Dumbledore put him up to it? Was Snape trying to gather intel on what Harry was doing? Here it was at last, incontrovertible proof that the man really didn't trust him after what he'd done.

Suddenly, Harry was furious, was Snape intent on playing mind games with him then? He didn't even have the decency to just have it out with him quickly and then put him to work?

"It's no concern of yours, is it?"

Snape leaned forward, glaring, dislike etched in his every feature.

"Potter," he spat, "you haven't so much as touched anything in this kitchen since the day of your arrival on Friday save the damn coffee. It is now Tuesday. That is unacceptable. I will ask again, out of a courtesy you do not deserve, are – you – unwell?" he asked as though it were a threat, as though something very awful would come from being unwell.

Harry couldn't fall for it but his vision blurred, providing a terrifying conjoined twin Snape sitting in the chair – suddenly it was hard to parse through what they were talking about.

He frowned at the table, ears ringing, what did Snape want?

"If I have to ask again, you will regret it."

Right, Snape's kitchen. Summer, no Dursleys. Snape, the giant bellend.

"There's nothing wrong with me." Even his voice was shaking, he wouldn't take himself seriously either.

They lapsed into silence again. Snape glared for another minute before he stood up, looking down at Harry.

"You can eat your dinner then." he said tightly, lips pursed.

"What?" Harry replied dumbly, glancing up briefly, bright spots of light dancing in his vision.

Snape's lip curled, he pointed to the pot on the stove that Harry hadn't noticed.

"Dinner," did his voice sound off or was Harry imagining it? "Eat it."

"That...doesn't make sense," Harry muttered, looking around the kitchen. Had the real Snape been stashed away somewhere?

Snape, of all people, would not insist that Harry ate dinner.

"Eating dinner doesn't 'make sense,’ Potter?" That was better, more derisive, certainly more accurate.

"Yes," Harry nodded before shaking his head, "wait, no, it doesn't." But he couldn't remember if it did or didn't, couldn't remember what there was to be so concerned about in the first place.

It was only dinner.

No, no, he couldn't eat dinner because he couldn't sleep.

Harry nodded to himself, with a sense of relief, before realising Snape was still watching.

What was the answer?

"Yes sir," Harry said with confidence, surely that was right? It usually was.

The ensuing silence was not reassuring.

"Has your afternoon stint scrambled your brains?" Snape inquired testily, "Go and plate yourself dinner Potter, now."

Afternoon stint? Harry thought wildly, surely not...Snape didn't know about his mother.

What the hell else could he be referring to?

"Sir, I don't think I...I'm not very hungry."

That failed, if Snape's piercing look was anything to go by.

Why did Snape want him to eat so badly?

The food must be spiked. Harry would be tricked into revealing something, Snape was testing him, trying to find out what he'd done. He couldn't let that happen. If Snape found out what he'd done...

"Perhaps you require a demonstration of how food finds its way inside a bowl." Snape condescended as he walked to the hob.

Harry watched, flummoxed as Snape ladled himself a bowl of soup and sat at the table with it. Then, he took a slice of bread from the loaf between them, dipped it into the soup with an exaggerated slowness and ate it.

Harry's head was swimming, this couldn't be real.

Professor Snape, eating soup and bread, right in front of him.

But then again, what kind of dream was that? Who would ever fall asleep and conjure up this scenario?

"There," Snape mocked, oblivious to Harry's shock, "might you be able to attempt replication now? Or do you require a picture book?"

Harry's head throbbed relentlessly, bile rising in his throat.

It didn't make sense, nothing made sense.

There was a trap here, somewhere. Snape was luring him into...something.

Why would Snape care what he ate? Why would Snape keep insisting he ate? He'd eaten the soup himself, there couldn't be anything dangerous in the soup.

An eternity seemed to pass by. Harry wanted very badly to weep, staring at the soft loaf of bread between them. The ringing in his ears wouldn't stop with all the relentlessness of a shrill whistle.

Even Snape's movements seemed to be...syrupy. Harry watched dazedly as the man continued to eat.

When Snape frowned and opened his mouth again, Harry stood abruptly.

Anything to get him to stop talking.

He ladled a bowl of soup, hands shaking terribly and brought it back to the table. He avoided looking at Snape, still not entirely convinced the man might read his mind or something equally horrible.

He stared into the bowl instead. The smell...oh... Harry would die for that smell. The waft of a hot and creamy potato and leek soup - it was going to be his undoing. Everything he'd worked so hard for, gone, all for one ridiculously good smell.

Or was anything ridiculously good when you hadn't eaten in days?

His weak, weak stomach gurgled horribly.

Harry couldn't, he couldn't...

"Potter." a firm voice began, but it melted away quickly.

Harry was only a person, just one, weak person. He wanted Snape to shut up, he wanted to stop starving, he wanted to eat the god damned soup.

He spooned some into his mouth - it was agonisingly delicious. Bursting with flavour, rich, hot and thick.

He kept going, he even took some bread.

Mouthful after mouthful, soup, bread, soup, bread, like the hypnotic ticking of a metronome.

This was the only thing that mattered, this was the best thing he'd ever had in his life.

It was difficult to suppress the moan of relief, Harry was ascending to nirvana.

Still, he didn't look up at Snape who'd continued eating. They remained silent for the whole meal which suited Harry fine, the whole world could sit and watch the most awkward dinner of his life if he could just carry on eating it.

Once empty, the bowl simply floated away to the sink where the sponge began to wash it earnestly.

Snape was still watching closely, did he think Harry couldn't tell just because he wasn't looking right at him?

"I presume you have not experienced any adverse effects since shattering the window." Snape stated.

"Is that a real question?" Harry muttered sullenly.

"It is a statement, Potter, one you are expected to either confirm or correct."

"I haven't experienced anything."

"No nausea, dizziness, headaches?" the man pressed.

All of the above.

"No." It wasn't as though Snape actually wanted to help with any of those things. Harry didn't need a rehashing of what a terribly inconvenient burden he was to everyone. Snape was here because Dumbledore told him to be, there was nothing more to it.

"Then you are extremely fortunate," how did he always manage to sound so scathing? "greater wizards than yourself have suffered significantly detrimental effects resultant from such a concentrated use of magic, albeit, for longer periods of time. In future, discipline your mental acuities and control yourself to prevent a recurrence."

Harry had already forgotten what Snape said, the pulsing in his forehead had returned with a vengeance.

The food lifted the fog he'd been painfully clinging to, Harry felt more alert than he had for days and the reality stare to sink in with claws.

He was full - warm and full of food.

And he was sleepy, god he was so sleepy.

Harry could drop to the floor right now and sleep.

Idiot, you absolute idiot.

He looked up at Snape briefly, incensed.

"Satisfied now?" he snapped, trying to push away the mounting horror.

"Rarely," Snape scoffed, still watching intently.

"Well that makes two of us."

He made for the door, turning back impatiently when Snape called his name sharply.

"What?"

His heart was racing, stomach aching, why had he done that?

"Mealtimes are no longer optional, I will see you at breakfast tomorrow morning."

Harry fled to his room, he wasn't going to last until then.

Harry ended up in the bathroom a few times, considering throwing it all back up again. The bread weighed so heavily inside, when was the last time he'd eaten such a big meal?

The damage was done now anyway wasn't it?

Besides, he wasn't like that.

Glamorous celebrities and teenage girls had eating problems, Harry didn't throw up his food. Not eating didn't count, plenty of people fasted for strength – it was practically spiritual. Harry wasn't anything like those other people.

But the twisting nausea was torturous.

He tried to put his fingers in his mouth a few times, to shove them back towards his throat – it was just unbearable. Harry wasn't like that.

This was his punishment then. He would have to sit and feel disgorged and disgusting until it was all over.

What had he been thinking? The soup wasn't rich or delicious, it was disgusting, all thick and oily and clumped inside.

His hair was a wreck, fingers running through it convulsively, pushing it away from his aching forehead.

Harry hardly recognised himself in the mirror, he was...gaunt, miserable.

No wonder Snape was so disgusted.

Mom didn't come back.

Quietly, Harry called for her, again and again.

Then, he sobbed for her – begged, pleaded.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

You are worth nothing.

He could go out to the garden, could walk around the whole thing twenty times before coming back inside.

Harry kept losing count though, kept tripping over his own feet, kept halting, kept forgetting where this was.

After a few hours, Harry couldn't walk anymore, just collapsed in a heap on the rug.

Dad's face smiled down at him.

Harry'd always thought his father had a kind face.The sort of face that you could put to a soulful Christmas song. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, that's what dad would sound like.

He didn't speak to Harry though, just swam in his vision, decked out in his wedding tux, beaming the way he did in the photo album.

Harry wished he was dead with him too.

The panic crept in with the exhaustion, inevitably.

It dawned on him that Snape would start looking for evidence of what Harry had done.

Voldemort must have told him about that night after all. Snape knew everything and he was going to do anything he could to make Harry confess to what he'd done to Penny.

They would take him away. They'd lock him up for murder, no, they'd give him the kiss.

And not just for Penny, they'd give him the kiss for everything he'd done.

For Cedric.

For his parents.

He'd even killed Professor Quirrell too, hadn't he - remembered still the dusty ash coating his fingers, all gritty in his nails. Professor Quirrell had just...disintegrated, Harry had killed him, intentionally.

Hadn't the man been possessed by Voldemort? Hadn't he been innocent?

His face had crumbled. In his last moments, he'd reached out to Harry... who'd put his hands on his face and killed him without thought. They were going to make him pay for everything.

Snape would remove his memories: he remembered Dumbledore's pensieve wildly. They would take his memories, they'd replay them in front of the whole school, for the minister, for the whole world.

Everyone would know he'd killed Penny, her brother, her parents. He was nothing but a walking, tainted evil, no better than Voldemort himself.

Maybe they should lock him up, maybe then they'd all be safe from him.

Did the wizarding world still have the death penalty?

"No," Harry started to talk aloud constantly, "I won't let anyone lock me up, I'll just run away. No one will notice, I don't have to sleep again, no one can make me sleep again. I won't hurt anyone, I won't hurt anyone."

Utterly unconvincing.

"Everyone ends up hurt because of me. I'm too much of a danger, I should be locked up, I should be taken away."

Yes Harry couldn't decide, swinging wildly between turning himself in to St Mungo's so he wouldn't turn into Voldemort and the crippling terror that they'd lock him away so securely no one would ever see him again.

They'd have to pump his room full of gas constantly to keep him awake, he'd never sleep again. He'd spend all his days screaming and begging for someone to talk to. He'd go mad, they'd never let him see his friends again, they'd never let him see Hogwarts again.

Harry couldn't let them do that. He didn't ask for this, he didn't mean to hurt anyone.

"But you do," Harry stared hard at the lightbulb, eyes burning with the strain, "you hurt everyone. There is something wrong with you. There is something wrong with me."

When the birds started tweeting, Harry was shaking uncontrollably.

He couldn't do it anymore, he couldn't do it.

He was going to die here, Snape was going to kill him, Snape was going to lock him away.

Could you die from lack of sleep?

His heart was burning but his body was cold everywhere. He wanted to rip his hair out.

Would eating help? He heaved at the thought.

Harry couldn't pace the garden anymore because he couldn't stand up.

Hedwig returned more frequently, hooting at him in concern.

"You have to fly away Hedwig," the words crept out slurred, he held her gaze seriously, "if I die, you have to go! Don't wait for me, Snape will hurt you," he whispered, "you have to live.”

She nuzzled her head against his cheek and Harry was glad he didn't have the energy to cry anymore.

Everything was pleasantly empty.

Harry f l o a t e d.

Soft fingers weaved through his hair.

Was he asleep?

He couldn't be awake.

This was too lovely to be awake.

Awake was not lovely.

Awake was pain.

Well, Harry just wouldn't worry about it.

He would just...drift.

No.

No?

No! A voice insisted.

Why, no?

No. Sleeping.

No, Harry argued, it's not sleeping, it's just not awake.

WAKE UP.

Harry jolted, horrified.

Had he slept? Had he dozed off?

"No, no, no,” Harry shook frantically, stood up, “was I – did I…?”

This was too much.

"I would've known," Harry muttered, looking around the room but seeing nothing, "I would've known if I had, I would've seen...something... I would have..." trailed off, forgotten, Harry's vision blurred as he sat down on the ledge again, spent.

Time went strange.

Harry went strange with it.

He began to suspect this was all just a film, poked and prodded suspiciously at every mirrored surface, nails bloodied from trying to pry up floorboards to find the hidden microphones, they had to be listening after all.

The wallpaper started to dance, writhed and pulsed. Harry stroked the wavy patterns with his fingertips, laughing softly when they rippled outwards.

Was this madness? It was almost pleasant, it was almost bearable.

Maybe he could do this forever after all.

Harry.

He shut his eyes tightly, harshly rubbing them.

Harry, it insisted again, firmly.

"No thank you." Harry snapped, pulse quickening.

This wasn't right, this wasn't normal.

Just don't think about it.

Harry, son.

"Go away."

Won't you look at me?

"Stop it," his whole body trembled, "leave me alone."

You're not well.

Harry whirled around, furious.

"I told you," he hissed, pointing at his father's solemn face, "I told you to go away!"

How dare he look at Harry with that shameful pity, how dare he tell Harry he wasn't well.

As if he didn't fucking know.

If only he had the energy to pace, his whole body was so heavy. Walking would be unbearable.

He would have to walk to his execution later though, Harry remembered with annoyance, Snape was going to have him killed after all.

Why would he do that, Harry?

"You shut up!" Harry yelled even though it seemed his head would split from the motion, "you don't get a say! You're not even here," his voice cracked, "this is all in my fucked up head."

You see what you need to see.

"That doesn't help me! Nothing helps me, not you, not anyone! If you loved me," he rested his head against the wall in defeat, "if you loved me, you wouldn't have left me."

Harry, you need help.

Harry laughed hysterically.

Yes, he certainly did.

Who would help him? Who would bother?

A loud slam sobered him.

Harry didn't dare to look up.

It was terribly quiet, a sickening sense of foreboding swallowed, consumed.

An ominous presence lingered in the doorway, watching, waiting.

In his muddled confusion, a blissful understanding dawned bright SS day.

This was it, this was the end.

Swaying with relief, Harry steadied himself against the wall.

The...thing was swathed in black, that much Harry could tell though he looked only downwards, focused on the hem of the black robes it was bound in.

It seemed to also have black, almost boot like feet.

Practical, Harry noted, delirious.

"Shall I put my boots on too?" he asked conversationally, "will there be much walking?"

It would be rude to keep...whatever it was, waiting for him.

It wasn't as though he wasn't ready, it wasn't as though he was...undeserving.

"I have trainers too." he added when it didn't reply.

It said nothing resembling speech however Harry could just make out faint whispers coming from the thing, almost like the chanting of a melodious incantation.

Harry smiled dully, could almost pretend to be walking past classrooms at Hogwarts.

The end couldn't be so bad then, not if it could give him this.

Still, it said nothing to Harry.

"I understand why it has to be like this," could it sense his hesitation still? "I know there can't be any other way."

The spectre didn't move though. Harry felt the shivers crawling up his spine.

It was all going to be over soon.

"Take me then." he murmured, stretching his shaking hand out.

The muted incantations stopped abruptly.

It didn't move.

Harry frowned, dropping his arm heavily.

Surely death wasn't supposed to be this...awkward.

Perhaps this reaper was new - a trainee reaper?

"Are you-"

"Where should I be taking you?" it asked, voice clear, methodical.

Harry turned his back to it, gazed longingly out of the window for one final look at the last morning he would ever see. The sun was just creeping in, the tips of the trees just brushed with a glowing gold.

Hedwig would be returning soon, hopefully she'd fly away and never look back.

Harry would never feed her a treat again.

Perhaps she'd go back to The Burrow to bother Ron for them.

Ron would love Hedwig and anything's better than Pigwidgeon. 

"Potter."

Should a spectre of death sound so... pushy? Frustrated? Were they allowed to have emotions, feelings?

Harry couldn't turn around, eyes transfixed on the glow of the sun, rising to bless a day he would never see.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair at all. Did he truly not deserve anything more than this?

Harry looked down at his shaking hands.

"Will there be...pain?"

Why did he ask? He didn't want to know.

"Potter, turn around at once." Harry had angered it now, the dread coiled low in his stomach.

Would it make any difference at all? Should he beg? Should he plead?

Something touched his shoulder -  Harry cried out in horror, panic suffocating him. He dropped to the floor and scrambled away from it, pressed back against the wall, eyes unseeing.

"Quickly," Harry muttered, eyes darting around frantically, "just do it quickly."

"Potter," he had caught it off guard, was it...surprised? "Get up this instant. Nothing is going to be done to you, there is nothing here besides us now stand up."

Harry kept his head bowed for a moment, trained only on the inky black robes that trailed the floor slightly.

"Up," it hissed, impatiently.

It seemed important to listen to the furious voice so he did.

"Explain yourself, Potter," it demanded immediately.

Harry blinked slowly, what was there to explain?

It didn't seem intent on descending into some kind of grotesque underworld with him just yet though so he looked up slowly, expecting a ghostly hollow in place of face yet who's likeness should he encounter except that of Snape's tight, pinched face instead.

"Professor?" Harry asked in disbelief, "they sent you?"

Even the afterlife was mocking him.

"Who "sent" me Potter?" it sneered, "are you too dense to remember this past week?"

"It doesn't make sense sir.” Had they sent Snape to collect his soul and carry him to the next world out of pure spite?

"That it does not," Snape agreed, "sit down somewhere Potter, now."

Oh, first he had to get up, now he had to sit back down, how arbitrary and Snape-like.

Whatever it was, it was doing a fabulous impersonation.

Harry dragged lead-like limbs slowly to the window ledge and sat down.

The thing dressed as Snape regarded him carefully.

"Where, Mr Potter, are you expecting to be taken?"

"I don't really know," Harry was abashed, "is this a test? Do I have to choose right or I can't pass on?"

"Pass on?" Not-Snape questioned, arms crossed.

"To the other side?" Harry asked faintly, head spinning. "Are we going soon? I can't...I can't...don't think I can - my head..." he trailed off with a sigh - what they were talking about?

"Potter, it is the summer holidays. You are at my residence and you are very much alive, there is no question of 'passing on' you dolt."

"You're going to kill me though.” Harry was glad he'd closed his eyes. Dead or alive, Snape wouldn't be pleased with the disrespect. Harry hadn't called him sir once.

"Am I now?"

Harry was too tired to understand what it meant by that. Let him keep his secrets, what did Harry care?

Snape carried on but Harry was fading, ebbing away like the tide.

Mercy, he thought blearily, have mercy.

It – or Snape – or whatever was still talking, lips moving silently, frown deepening.

Harry half laughed and motioned to his ears, "Can't hear you."

It's mouth stopped then, there was a crackling static in Harry's ears instead. He swatted at them half heartedly.

They stared at each other. Snape's lip curled unpleasantly.

"You are a liar," he accused him loudly, "something is very wrong with you."

There was a faint ringing in Harry's ears.

He'd been found out.

There is something wrong with you.

He knows, he knows, he KNOWS.

He swallowed hard, shook his head, "No there isn't. I'm fine, I'm fine."

"There are no mind altering substances in your body yet you are clearly experiencing some form of break from reality." Snape stated, face dour, "Describe your symptoms clearly; did they begin yesterday after the window was broken or were they a contributor to that event?"

That was too many words.

Harry stared at Snape, uncomprehendingly.

"Are you deaf now, Potter?"

Harry was stuck, frozen, was this the end or not? Had Snape already called Voldemort? Should he try to run?

No, that wasn't right, wasn't he being led to his death? This was exhausting to keep up with.

"Potter," it snapped at him, "start with the symptoms. When did these hallucinations begin?"

They weren't bloody hallucinations for one, he knew Voldemort had killed Penny, had felt it with every piece of his being.

What was Snape going to do about it anyway? Prescribe him a nutcase potion and carry on with his day?

This wasn't even the real Snape!

Harry shook his head at the floor and heard Snape's loud exhale.

"This is not conducive to resolving the issue at hand, Potter."

Harry  shrugged, he was about to explode into a million different pieces anyway. That would be conducive to resolving the issue at hand.

"Potter," Snape said flatly, "loathe as I am to admit it, your cooperation is required. If I cannot understand what is going on, I cannot resolve it. Do you understand that very basic concept at least?"

Harry stayed silent, where it was most safe.

"Fine," Snape said, forcibly calm, voice dipping down lowly, "there are...other ways of ensuring your compliance though I will warn you that I will have to put your mind in a state akin to sleep-"

"No you won't."

This, Harry knew, had to be fought. They could take him away, they could force him to stay awake forever, they could torture him and hurt him all they wanted but they couldn't make him do that again.

Snape raised his eyebrows, "Ah, has that woken him from his trance?"

"I won't," Harry said lowly, clenching his fists, "I don't care what he tells you, I don't care about - about resolving anything. Don't you dare start rooting around in my head, I mean it."

The sceptical look was enough to set him off.

"Don't!" he snapped, "you've no idea what you're dealing with! I don't know what will happen. You can't - you just can't."

Snape stared at him as though his head had split open to reveal a large flobberworm in place of a brain.

"I have already, very generously, given you the opportunity to explain yourself," he said slowly, "I would remind you that you have not taken it."

"No, you haven't." Harry couldn't remember if he had though.

Snape raised his eyebrows.

"Then by all means," he gestured to Harry, "explain yourself, now." 

There might have been a rocket lodged in his chest with how tight and uncomfortable it was getting in there.

Harry just couldn't keep it clear in his head, was this really Snape or was it the thing that was going to take him to the other side? Either way he was going to be executed for his crimes so what was explaining going to do about any of it?

"You...wouldn't understand." was all he managed.

Snape scoffed, blurring in Harry's sight until he was nothing more than a looming black blob.

"We have already established that you are making no sense whatsoever. Now, I also see this conversation is not progressing towards any form of conclusion either."

"What?" Harry mumbled.

Snape huffed, "We aren't getting anywhere Potter, because of you."

Back to the insults again, at least that was familiar.

"There's – nothing – wrong – with – me." Harry snapped. Snape or not, he'd made up his mind, it wasn't to be trusted.

Snape looked him up and down before his eyes narrowed, Harry's stomach turned uncomfortably. He was reminded, unfathomably, of the soup in the kitchen.

The panic rose again and without thinking, his eyes darted to the bed. Harry looked quickly back at Snape. Keen eyed bastard that he was, he'd turned to look at the bed too.

Time seemed to have stopped, Harry stared at the back of Snape's head for what felt like an eternity.

"Why is your bed still unmade?" Snape turned back to him eventually, eyeing him suspiciously.

Harry had never made the damn bed to begin with, what did it matter anyway?

"I didn't..." he trailed off again, nothing he said would help. His chest was still uncomfortably tight, he rubbed it unconsciously.

"You didn't?" Snape prompted, staring intently.

Harry stared at the wallpaper behind Snape, it was throbbing on the wall, as though the house had a heartbeat.

"Why have you not bothered to make your bed all night? Why have you not slept?"

Harry’s eyes were drooping, head sharp and aching in this confusing din.

Harry idly wondered though, had anyone ever lectured him about not sleeping at night before?

"Perhaps you consider yourself beneath sleeping in this bed?"

"Oh yes," Harry's voice, dripping with derision, surprised even himself, "you've got the nail right on the head there, Professor. My head’s gotten so big I think I'm too good to sleep in a bed." he scoffed.

He'd spent eleven years sleeping on rags.

If he were lucky, maybe he'd just collapse and not wake up again. Harry would have the last laugh when they were locking Snape away for his murder.

Snape said nothing for a moment, they regarded each other uncomfortably. Harry looked away first.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the flick of Snape's wrist. He flinched terribly and cringed into himself, gripping the window ledge tightly.

"Your bed is made," Snape inclined his head towards it, his tone unfathomable, "go and lay in it."

Harry's feeble attempt to raise his wand was thwarted as it flew out of his hand and Snape caught it deftly.

His breath caught, absurdly sharp, throat cutting.

This was it.

"The plot thickens," Snape's voice came deathly quiet, "What precisely is so terrifying about the concept of sleep that you would raise your wand to defend resisting it?" there was that dangerous lingering tone again.

Snape wasn't a fool, Harry knew, he was piecing it all together.

This was cat and mouse.

He was jury, judge and executor all wrapped up in one.

Harry shook his head slowly, unable to form the words, his mind seemingly stuck.

Snape stepped forward suddenly though and Harry broke.

"Don't," he whispered, staring at the bed longingly, "don't. I can't tell you that."

Snape halted, threw Harry a venomous look.

"Why have you not slept? Is it within your capabilities to answer that at the very least?"

"I can't." Harry was drifting again.

"You cant," Snape repeated irritably, "why can't you?"

Harry shook his head. Was Snape the mental one now? Didn't he understand Harry wasn't going to tell him a damn thing?

"Potter." Snape began before he stopped abruptly - then watched him for a moment more before he swept out of the room without comment.

Flummoxed, Harry waited for a few minutes until he came back.

There was something in his hand. He stood looming in the doorway.

"Potter. You are tired, are you not?"

He was being played, Snape was luring him into some kind of manipulation.

Harry forgot what he needed to be on guard against though so he looked up at the man anyway.

"You are tired, aren't you?" he snapped again.

Harry gave a half shrug.  Snape exhaled loudly.

He held a little bottle out so Harry could see the swirling blue liquid within.

"Are you familiar?"

Harry couldn't remember though it seemed like it should be.

"This is Dreamless Sleep," Snape said, watching him carefully, "it allows the user to sleep soundly, without any interruptions of the mind."

"I know what it is." Harry murmured breathlessly, eyeing it hungrily.

The little bottle might as well have had a little golden halo circling its topper. Harry really fucking wanted it.

"I will give it to you," Snape said simply, "for a price."

Harry's eyes were transfixed on the bottle, he frowned, "I...I don't think I have any money on me."

"Luckily for you, I am not destitute," Snape snapped, "I will reclaim your debt when you wake. Let us hope you are more lucid by then."

Harry had already stood up, staring at the bottle intently.

"I won't have any more money when I wake up you know."

"I have already told you, I am not interested in your money Potter."

"What then?" Harry didn't care really, he'd give his arm, his leg, just for one drop of dreamless sleep.

"We will have a discussion and you will tell me what I require."

"You won't – you won't go inside my mind while I'm asleep?" So what if he did? Let someone else be responsible for cleaning up the mess in there for once, Harry was so tired.

"There is nothing that would thrill me less however it is not possible when you are under the influence of dreamless sleep to divulge anything of worth from your mind, not that there is any evidence to suggest such a thing exists."

"Okay, fine," he said hurriedly, holding out his hand, "fine, that's fine."

Snape withdrew the bottle, Harry briefly considered screaming.

"Get into the bed first, then drink it," he said stiffly, "it will take effect immediately."

He held it out again and Harry snatched the bottle eagerly.

Disregarding Snape, he lay on top of the covers in his clothes and shoes and tipped the whole potion back with his shaky hand.

There was one second of blissful relief.

Then, sleep swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Waking up didn't hurt.

That couldn't be right and yet, who was he to complain?

Harry turned over and sighed into the pillow contentedly.

Finally, he thought hazily, it's about time things started going right around here.

He listened to the soothing ticking of the clock for a few seconds before his heart dropped and he lurched upright with a gasp.

Fucking, fuck.

Snape.

Snape had been in here.

The dread curled inside him, he tried to breathe slowly.

What the hell had happened to him?

It was all murky, muted.

What had he done?

The sun was setting outside, hadn't it just been morning? He'd been watching the sunrise...

And then Snape had barged in, that interfering git!

There'd been a potion too, had Snape drugged him? He shuddered. No, that wasn't right either. Harry had taken it willingly.

So stupid.

He willed down the bile in his throat down. Who knew what was in that potion? He inspected his arms and legs closely just in case but everything looked fine, he had all the right fingers and toes. It didn't make any sense.

It wasn't just that though, he rubbed his eyes in frustration, he'd talked too. He was sure of it.

What had he said? He rubbed harder, scrunching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth.

Harry didn't know, not for sure. He could have said anything...Snape could be sitting downstairs with the St Mungo's orderlies right now.

The boy's getting exactly what he deserves, he could already hear them laughing, the boy who lived to be insane.

It was so unfair, what had he been thinking?

And his dad, he'd been talking to his dad...

His stomach twisted tightly.

Had Snape interrupted them? Had he heard Harry talking to him?

What would he do?

His heart pounded madly.

Deny it all. Deny everything.

They couldn't send him away if they didn't have any proof.

But did Snape have proof now? Proof that Harry really was...

He couldn't even think of the word, just wanted, very desperately, to sink under the covers and become part of the bed.

Maybe he could make a run for it. If he jumped out of the window, would magic heal his broken legs? It had grown his hair back all those years ago. If he planned the fall just right he might only break-

His panic was halted as Snape swung the door open hard.

Harry narrowed his eyes.

The adrenaline, the fear, the anger, it all bled together. One thing was abundantly clear.

He had to fight.

Just let the bastard try to send Harry to the nut ward, Harry would be taking him with him.

For a moment, Snape said nothing, just looked at him intently.

Trying to make him squirm no doubt, he tried to sit up a little straighter.

"Rested now are we?" Snape asked, pursing his lips.

Harry frowned suspiciously.

"What?" he said dumbly.

Snape scoffed, "Dinner is ready."

He left.

Dinner is ready? That didn't seem like code for "this is your last meal" but who could tell?

Harry breathed hard and buried his head in his hands.

He couldn't do this, he couldn't.

It was too much, it was all too much.

Hedwig flew over to him and he held his arm out for her.

She stared at him with a kind of expectancy.

"What is it?" he murmured, stroking her head lightly, "time to go out?"

He took her to the window but it was already open.

She hopped back to her perch and stared at him again.

"You're going to have to help me out," he said dryly, "I've got no idea what you want."

She hooted at him twice softly then promptly flew out of the window.

Harry smiled faintly as she glided away.

He straightened up her cage, cleared up the mess on the windowsill and wrang his hands nervously when it was all done.

He ran his fingers through his hair and decided that would do.

Tucking his wand into his pocket, he stroked the handle absently.

He would fight, he would fight.

"Sit down." Snape told him crisply, hovering over the stove with his back to Harry.

Was he intentionally concealing dinner with his overlarge robe or was that the paranoia talking?

Harry sat down.

Two empty glasses and a pitcher stood on the table.

Poison? he wondered idly, fiddling with his nails.

But Snape had already had his chance.

Harry had drank a potion right from the man himself.

The fatigue was setting in again, his hands were shaking slightly.

How could he still be so tired?

Harry squeezed his wand handle tightly, he had to be ready.

"Make your own plate."

Harry frowned and shuffled to the counter to plate the absolute minimum amount of chicken and potatoes he could manage.

He got to the vegetables and grimaced, there were peas. Merlin help them, this was a roast dinner, peas had no place in a roast. You couldn't pair peas with a roast.

Here it was, further proof that Harry was dealing with a nutcase.

How could you talk rationally with a man who put peas with a roast?

He sat down, dismayed to find Snape had taken a seat too in an uncomfortable imitation of their last dinner.

Maybe, just maybe, there wouldn't have to be any conversation this time-

"Eat." he snapped at Harry.

Well, that was only one word, there was still hope -

"Do not think that you have weaseled out of an explanation Potter," Harry stabbed a potato viciously, "I have no patience for walking on eggshells where you are concerned."

Snape didn't have any patience as far as he knew, this wasn't breaking news.

They were silent for a few minutes. Snape seemed to be feeling him out, Harry pointedly looked only at his plate, stirring around his destroyed chicken and potato until it began to resemble something quite vile.

Snape seemed content to ignore it for the time being but a foolish pride had erupted in Harry.

He didn't have to eat if he didn't want to, the thought was triumphant. He'd worked hard to switch off this...hindering need to depend on food constantly, he wasn't going to let Snape ruin it.

Harry had to be strong, independent. No one was coming to help.

No one ever came to help.

"What are you doing?" he was startled from his thoughts. Snape was frowning at him distrustfully, glancing at Harry's plate and back up to him.

Harry flushed and shrugged.

Snape's jaw tightened.

"I have already told you," he cleared his throat and spoke slower, "eat it. Don't make me tell you again."

"Oh no," Harry said softly, addressing his plate "what will happen if he has to tell me again?"

"Potter," Snape's voice was hard, "eat the food."

"I don't want it." if he could just keep that fucking shake out of his voice.

"I don't care," the man spat, "you'll eat it."

"You can't force me." Harry challenged.

"How confident you are for a green boy who knows nothing of the world. There are many spells to force a person to eat against their will, would you like to become acquainted with them tonight?"

"You wouldn't," he said, with quiet fury, his throat tight. He dug his nails hard into his wrists, pain flashing, taking him away for one precious second.

"There is no one else here besides us Potter. By all means, see what happens if you continue pushing."

He wants to say you made him do it.

He wasn't any different from the Dursleys, everyone was looking to pin it all on him.

Snape continued to eat, unperturbed by Harry, just like everyone else.

Harry opened his mouth before shutting it again and slumping back in the chair.

"Look at that," Snape commented idly, "he can learn."

Harry was...frothing, his insides were boiling, he couldn't do this, he couldn't do this.

He gripped his wand tightly.

Harry wanted to make Snape hurt.

That...that startled him. He released his wand, suddenly he was too hot all over.

He didn't do that...he'd never ever had a thought like that. Not even for Snape who was just a walking, breathing annoyance dressed up in the Addam's Family's curtains.

He didn't mean it, he hadn't meant it. His hands were clammy, head aching again.

Something was wrong with him, Voldemort was bleeding through his skin...he wanted him to hurt...

He picked up the fork and ate the cold mush slowly, dazed.

This wasn't the time, he had to get a lid on this, he had to control this.

"What do you recall of our conversation last night?"

There it was.

Harry tried not to tense, tried to keep his face blank and tried to pretend that eating the wet potato in his mouth was taking all of his effort.

"All of it." he lied, casually.

He didn't look up at Snape, he didn't want to see the suspicion in his eyes.

"I see." came the cold response.

Harry said nothing, focusing only on the pools of gravy his chicken was swimming in.

Deny it all, deny it all.

"What exactly were seeing in place of me then?" Snape demanded.

Harry tried to tamper down the panic.

What he'd been seeing in place of him?

There was a brief flash, like a living daydream, of reaching his hand out to something.

Take me then, he'd said.

A flash of black robes.

Oh, he'd thought he was being led to his death.

They sent you?

Harry cringed internally and glanced up at Snape who was glaring at him, his own plate empty.

He did what he thought might be least reactionary and shrugged his shoulders throwing in a dunno for good measure.

Not that it mattered, Snape's face instantly morphed into irritation.

"If you still refuse to be forthcoming-"

"What?" Harry snapped, "what are you going to do? Send me to Dumbledore? You're the one that said he wouldn't be taking pity on me or something, right?"

"Would that it were so easy to dispose of you," Snape spat, "unluckily for us, no other will have you, certainly not Professor Dumbledore."

"Why not? Busy all summer then is he?" he couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice as no one will have you branded itself inside his brain.

As if he didn't know.

"Professor Dumbledore is indisposed for the foreseeable future," Snape was apparently trying to regain his composure, "Do not change the subject. What were you seeing last night?"

Harry shrugged again, his stomach was tight and twisted and he wondered with idle curiosity what Snape would really do. Hadn't he just been making empty threats so far? Hell, he'd take a beating if the man would just stop prodding.

He glanced up, Snape wasn't rising to it, his eyes were narrowed.

That was worse, the man was thinking. Cooking up something nefarious.

But Harry couldn't think, his mind was blank.

"Let's try something different then. To whom were you speaking before I entered?"

Harry wondered briefly why these things had to happen to him. If he started smacking his head against the table, how long would it take him to die?

"Myself." Perfect, that would only sound a little bit crazy.

"And you often have such heated debates with yourself?" Snape said sarcastically, folding his arms.

Harry shrugged, his heart racing, "Best company there is right now."

"I wonder what purpose you think these lies serve?" Snape hissed, "Professor Dumbledore expects your compliance Potter, I am your Professor regardless of whether we are at school."

"What does it matter what he thinks?" he snapped before he could help himself, "I'm still going to be expelled after the hearing anyway, school doesn't exactly matter for me anymore does it Professor?"

"What useless drivel is coming out of your mouth now Potter?" And the man had the cheek to shake his head! "No doubt you will have a sterling defence, as is your custom, to ensure you evade the consequences of your own actions. I will not entertain any pity party where you wish to whinge about how bitterly hard your life is."

Harry thought about the past week alone, gritting his teeth in anger. His life was bitterly hard thank you very much.

"Furthermore, your hearing has no bearing on the current matter at hand. I am your superior Potter. You will answer my questions truthfully or I can take the answers from you with force. Count yourself lucky that you are being given the choice."

"You can't force me." he didn't believe it even as he said it, Snape could do anything to him. That was what they'd all left him to, the mercy of a man who'd rather see him dead.

Not for the first time, he wished it had been him in the graveyard instead of Cedric.

"It is not my preference to force you!" the man snapped and Harry flinched.

Flushing, he shrugged as casually as he could, jutting his chin out stubbornly.

His eyes stung and the exhaustion of the week crashed into him all over again.

What could he do? What could he do?

"Potter," Snape carried on, forcibly calm, "am I speaking a different language perhaps? Are you having difficulty comprehending what is being asked of you?"

Harry said nothing, stared at the plate of now cold mush resolutely.

"Stupidity is not a side effect of Dreamless Sleep nor are blatant lies," Snape pressed on, "Are you still fatigued?"

"No." Harry snapped, even though he was.

He didn't know what was safe to say, what would Snape infer if he was still fatigued? Why wasn't he insisting Harry was mental after everything he'd heard last night. He didn't understand.

"Then you are deliberately withholding something of great importance." Was his sanity of great importance really? "You are being asked to explain yourself Potter, plain and simple." Would being fatigued buy him some time? "Explain the state you were in last night, explain how you came to be in such a state and explain what exactly happened whilst you were in that state. I cannot make it any plainer, the response is not optional."

Snape sat back with something of a huff and Harry could feel him watching like a hawk.

The urge to shrug was itching at his shoulders. His mind was slow. How could he feel so tired again after having slept all day? Why was nothing fixing him?

"I can't explain." was all he could muster and even that felt like giving away too much.

"I suggest you try." came the swift reply, Snape leaned forward and Harry sat back in his chair trying not to duck his head in deference.

He shook his head, he didn't know where to look.

The mounting panic was rising.

"You have as good as admitted something is amiss now, take the next step and explain what that is."

Harry said nothing.

"Potter, now."

Harry shook his head and gripped his wand tightly again.

Let me disappear, let me disappear he begged his magic.

"Just start at the beginning," Snape sounded strained now, as though he were holding back the impulse to jump on top of Harry and strangle him with all his might, "what happened last night?"

Too much, too much, it was all too much.

Before Snape could carry on Harry yelled, "Stop it! Just stop! What does it matter? What does it matter what happened or what - what state I'm in? It doesn't matter at all and it definitely doesn't matter to you!"

He stood up, gasping, trying to temper the awful crushing building pressure in his chest.

Snape stood too.

"Sit down Potter," he snapped, "and calm down, you are being ridiculous. This does not help you. You aren't doing yourself any favours, in fact, you are making things much worse for yourself. Do you not realise that?"

Harry backed up to the counter, shaking his head frantically.

"This - this is so stupid," he stammered, "This is so stupid. It doesn't even matter! No one's bothered about what I do or what happens to me, I know you don't care!"

"Is this a matter of pride and preening then?" Snape seethed, "would that I could summon Molly Weasley here to be your shoulder to cry on."

"Shut up!" Harry screamed as a loud rattling filled the kitchen "I don't care!"

"ENOUGH!" Snape shouted, whipping his wand through the air.

Harry raised his, a spell on the tip of his tongue when he realised Snape had only spelled the window.

The glass absorbed the blue shimmer and Harry watched it, puzzled.

"I would prefer that my residence is still standing once you have left it," Snape muttered and gestured to the table, "though I see that may be dependent on your temper tantrums. Sit down, now."

Harry remained standing, defiance surging through him.

His temper tantrums.

He would not bend, he would not break.

Snape hadn't seen what he'd seen, Snape hadn't taken Voldemort on three times. Snape didn't have a clue.

Harry had been skipping meals since he could remember, Harry could take a beating without crying out.

Harry didn't need anything or anyone. Nobody needed him.

"What is it that you're trying to prove here Potter?" Snape questioned him intently, "right now you are failing to listen to the most basic instructions. Shall I send for a mind healer at St Mungo's perhaps?"

Harry stilled, his wand shaking in his hand.

"Don't." he managed, his heart raced, throat dry.

"Don't?" Snape mocked, eyebrows raised, "start talking then. Or you can continue your downward spiral there, no doubt you will be the most famous person in the ward. Perhaps they'll room you with Lockhart."

Harry's world was falling apart and Snape was having the time of his life.

Bastard.

I want to make him hurt.

The nausea rose up, he thought of those horrible wet potatoes...swimming in his stomach.

He was a monster, just like Voldemort.

Don't think about it.

"I don't know." he murmured quietly, unsure of whether he was answering anything.

Snape threw his hands up in exasperation and Harry backed up to the counter again, gripping his wand tightly.

"I have had quite enough of this-"

"You've had enough?" Harry was seething now, the fury alight in full, "I'VE had enough! I'm sorry though really that this is just so hard for you! There's an easy solution if I'm so fucking difficult! Dump me somewhere else, throw me out the door! I'm sick of you, I'm sick of all of you!" The words were being ripped out of him. "At this point, I'd rather be on the streets alone so either kick me out or stop fucking talking to me!"

He picked up his half empty plate and hurled it to the floor where it smashed satisfyingly.

He was panting hard. Snape was staring at him as though he'd never seen him before in his life.

Good, Harry thought as he rushed past him, good! Let him be confused for once.

He slammed the door behind him as hard as he could and curled up in the window seat, shaking.

Harry was a sea of nothing. The chilly night had chased away what might have been a soft summers day and he shivered in the cool breeze.

Hermione's words danced around his mind, when they'd sat in the Great Hall for Cedric's memorial, blank and empty.

You have to let yourself feel it Harry. What are you feeling?

His first thought, without instinct - scared.

Harry crushed it down mercilessly, scared got people hurt. Scared wasn't helping anyone. He didn't have time to be scared.

He let the anger slip through instead, the indignation, frustration and tiredness. Those he was used to, those he understood.

It seemed that he was coming very swiftly to the end of...something yet he couldn't pinpoint what it was.

Something was...shifting, changing.

All he felt was trepidation.

Was this the end?

Harry was still in a daze. Nothing felt real. He wanted Hedwig back. He wanted to sleep.

The door was thrown open.

The angry protestation on his lips died away as soon as he saw Snape pointing his wand at him with a menacing snarl on his lips.

Harry stood up quickly, trying to think.

"You were given every opportunity to cooperate," Snape snapped furiously as he advanced, "remember that."

"Wait-" Harry cried out, too little, too late.

He heard it only faintly, a spell he didn't recognise.

Legilimens.

He was thrown back forcefully, both inside and outside of his own body.

The world swayed nauseatingly and blurred until a familiar chill crept around him. He was staring at the alleyway brick, puzzled, when the thing glided into view.

That vile distortion of a mouth hovered over him.

Harry. Take my body back will you? Take my body back to my father.

The dementor was getting closer now, he raised his wand, what were the words -

Harry gasped, a sickening tug yanked at his whole body and he landed harshly in his desk looking down at his blank parchment, the room stiflingly warm with the summer heat.

He scrawled out the words, Will you write back? I just want to talk to someone and stared at them in frustration.

Something like shame trickled inside his chest.

No, it was embarrassment.

Something was watching him, he turned his back and nearly caught it -

Pulled again, harsh - sickening-

"...given the poor state of your recent schoolwork Potter..."

Harry's head was spinning, he couldn't find his hands to hold onto something, his mind was lurching like a roller coaster.

The sun was too bright, unrelenting heat burning down on him.

Snape, hovering over him, lip curled unpleasantly.

"For once Potter. Make. Yourself. Useful."

The emptiness suffocated him.

Useless, he was useless.

The garden blurred, morphing green and browns, melding together and lapsing until they formed the dank grey of his walls as he was swept away again, lying on the threadbare rug, curled up pitifully, eyes looking into nothing.

Wasn't he dead yet? Why wasn't he dead yet?

Hungry, he was so hungry -

He was snatched away from the room quickly, hurled into the graveyard, dropping the cup.

Cedric, get back to the cup! the words came tumbling out of his foreign mouth.

Kill the spare!

That bright green light.

Not again, not again, Harry moaned, stricken. He couldn't find himself, he needed to find himself.

He was stuck, paralysed as Cedric dropped to the ground, blank eyes, empty, forever empty-

Pulled, pulled, pulled.

Thrown into the clearing, standing proud.

"The eradication of all mudblood curs will be swift," no no no, not this, not this, not this, "the filth cannot consume us, mix with us, mate with us."

He couldn't turn his head away, stuck stuck stuck.

Let me out! he pleaded, let me out.

His arm was throbbing, he flicked his wand.

An eruption of blood and flesh.

Penny.

Destroyed, decimated, gone.

Triumph!

Triumph!

Harry screamed, it echoed in his head and rattled his skull.

He was pushed again, an almighty shove to the chest and he stumbled backwards from the force, smacking into the window ledge and slumping to his knees breathlessly.

He looked up slowly, cold dread and familiar panic wrapped up into one. He was going to be sick, he was going to die.

Snape was staring at him, ashen, his mouth open as though stunned. He was clutching his wand tightly to his heaving chest, backed far against the door.

The horror was gripping Harry, choking him.

It was over, it was all over.

Why didn't Snape say something?

"Why did you do that?" Harry whispered, shaking his head at the carpet in disbelief, "why did you do that?"

Silent, empty, nothing.

But his ears were ringing, he could still hear it.

The wet slush of her blood, the dull thump of her body, torn to pieces.

"Why did you do that?" Harry repeated madly, looking up at Snape who hadn't moved, "why did you do that!" he shouted, despairingly.

"Potter," Snape's voice wavered, he held up a single hand, "stop - stop that."

"Why did you do that?" he whispered again, staring at his own hands.

Snape stepped forward suddenly then stopped as though jerked back by an invisible string.

The room was too small, Harry was going to die in this tiny, tiny room.

He looked up at Snape who only stared blankly at him, his mouth still slightly open like a puppet trying to speak.

"Why..." Harry trailed off, swallowing hard. He pressed his fingers to his temples, the throbbing was maddening.

Snape's mouth moved a few times, Harry caught it out of the corner of his eye but the man said nothing and Harry said nothing and really, there was nothing to say.

Snape turned and left slowly, shutting the door behind him quietly.

Unseeing, Harry muttered to himself, "Why did you do that?"

He should have been making grand plans to escape.

Instead, Harry was wrung out.

He was an empty sponge, not a great wizard, a nut case.

He couldn't tell how long it had been, what did the time matter now anyway?

It was all for nothing. All the lies, all the bullshit, all for nothing.

Snape knew exactly what he was, what he'd done, how pathetic he was.

Any minute now he would come bursting in to shackle Harry and drag him off to Azkaban himself.

He would be thrilled too, he would be fucking ecstatic.

It was all over, he'd tipped over the edge and there wouldn't be a soft landing.

Maybe he'd never see the moon again. Still, he didn't even want to look out of the window! didn't want to have his last sight of Hedwig. He wanted to close his eyes forever, he wanted it all gone.

Let them tear open his mind, let them send him away to the cold dark quiet bliss, the silence and the peace.

He didn't care anymore, he didn't care.

Eventually, there was a knock at the door.

Clenching his fists, Harry stayed quiet.

"Potter, I'm coming in." came Snape's curt voice.

He said nothing, the door opened anyway.

Bastard.

Snape remained in the doorway, seemingly hesitant to enter. How ironic. Harry turned his head and stared out of the window.

"There is another dose of Dreamless Sleep here," any earlier shock seemed to have been decimated, back in its place was that cool unaffected tone, "you will need to take it again now."

Harry said nothing, pursing his lips.

Snape continued, "I do not consider that one dose will be sufficient for your recovery," he could have been reading from a script, "you will take another tonight and I will consider how the effects of the second have settled tomorrow."

Oh, so he wanted to play at mindful authority now?

Bastard.

"We will need to discuss...what occurred earlier." The nerve of him, to sound so calm and controlled. As though he hadn't been horrified, as though he hadn't fled from Harry like a god damn coward.

Nobody could deal with him.

No one else will have you skittered around in his mind relentlessly.

Harry closed his eyes and willed whatever God was listening to strike the big bat down.

Unfortunately, religion wasn't on his side either.

"Potter," Snape said louder, firmly, "tomorrow we will need to discuss what was seen."

"What was seen," Harry mocked, talking to the window, "you mean what you stole from me? What you ripped out of my head without my permission? Why bother with a discussion? Just rip out everything else you want to know too, better yet, keep going and rip out the whole thing. If I'm brain dead at least I won't have you hear you talking to me anymore."

"I understand your apprehension-"

"You don't understand shit," a new bravery had enveloped Harry, there was no going back after all, "leave me alone you nosy bat."

There was a clink as the bottle was set down.

"Go to sleep Potter, we will talk again tomorrow."

Harry expected him to leave. He took a long deep breath when he didn't.

"I did tell you, quite plainly, that it was not my preference to force you." It was deferential, almost apologetic.

Harry said nothing, humiliation burning in his gut.

A short exhale and the door was shut again.

Harry picked up the potion, rolling it around in his hand.

Unstopping it, he wondered briefly where Snape kept the little vials, surely they could only be in the lab downstairs...

Chapter Text

There was a hook sunk deep into his chin. Every few minutes, it seemed to tug his head harshly back to the clock - to the reminder he didn't need or want.

Time was running out.

The concept was too familiar. The first flickers of frenzy were already sparking. If he let them, they'd be in full flame soon enough whilst he...well, what would he do?

Panic was unthinkable.

All the panic in the household had been expended by one individual and he didn't appear inclined to share.

Selfish, spoiled brat.

That at least was still true, that he could hold on to, that could not change.

Too much was changing, too much shifting, swirling and merging into an unpleasant, unforeseen, unstoppable thing.

What was Severus hurtling into? That he was going was uncontested, that he was charging into this...something was undeniable. What was waiting for him at that unknowable end?

His heart drummed rapidly, chest tight and heavy.

This could not be ignored, this could not be put into the back of his mind (a sector that was becoming far too crowded lately) and forgotten. Potter was not an unfortunate errand to be disposed of at will.

This couldn't be tucked away for a spare twenty minutes on a Thursday night in between grading essays and reading the latest edition of Worst Potion Mishaps with a smooth glass of red.

Something was coming. Instinctively, with merciless foreboding, he felt he was almost at the edge of his life and the next thing that came would be the end.

Severus brushed his hair out of his face impatiently, glancing again at the clock.

Time was still rushing on. The only rushing thing since he'd sat down and been unable to co-ordinate himself back up again.

His unfinished letter to Albus sat askew next to him, despondently empty.

Problems, Severus thought scathingly, flicking the quill next to it away in annoyance, problems everywhere I go.

There was no time for melodrama, no time for bemoaning his existence but the familiarity of it was so very tantalising.

Only the ticking drew him back to himself. Severus sat in his chair motionless, his mind twisting and reaching, bending to grasp at whatever familiar threads were left. Anything to make sense of this myriad of confusion, the frustration of wondering where to begin.

Severus ran his fingers along the edge of the quill, contemplating.

Potter could be faking and yet...he'd seemed so sincere, so dazed and confused. Potter was not that good an actor, he would have noticed.

So the boy was psychotic then, a mental case, a liability to himself and others. But he'd done nothing yet, he reminded himself, frowning, he'd hurt only himself. He worshipped nothing more than his own ridiculous friends and his father's worse ones. If he was a threat, he'd be easily contained...

It wasn't something new, Severus mused, rolling up the empty parchment, delusions could not spring from nowhere. A catalytic force lurked in the shadows. It was undeniable and Potter himself must have known.

He curled his lip in disgust.

Attention seeking martyr, the absolute spit of his father...

Martyr for whom though?

Severus's head was throbbing, eyes shut in temporary defeat, unclenching his jaw.

There was no audience to play to, Potter wasn't so thick to believe Severus could be swayed into the pity party that followed his every step.

Severus tugged absently at his long sleeves.

Denied even the basic comfort of ventilation because of one ridiculously self centred-

He took a long breath, attempting focus.

When that failed, Severus pressed his temples hard - he might physically push out all Potter related thoughts.

Impossible but tempting.

The balmy summer evening was settling on him, his full dress robes were sticking to him him, the shirt collar a thick tight band around his neck.

Focus.

Potter. Problem. Problems, always problems.

That they hadn't even managed one week was shameful and yet, his mind niggled at him, nothing could have spiralled so quickly in less than a week.

And yet.

Why did you do that?

Severus swallowed thickly, clutching the parchment tightly, how could he write Albus about this?

All of them were frantic. The whole of the newly resurrected order were spending their summer scrambling around in the shadows but the headmaster? He was being hounded at every turn with all manner of mischiefs, accusations, threats, pleas.

That this was his responsibility had been impressed upon him clearly.

Those unyielding electric eyes had pinned him as efficiently as the night of the Dark Lords return with exactly the same sentiment; if you fail, we are all failed.

Severus rubbed his forearm absently, how it had seared the night he'd risen and called them all.

Risen and nearly killed Potter again and where had he been? Hiding in Dumbledore's skirts like a green boy, waiting to be told what to do even after all these years-

Severus stood up suddenly, throwing the parchment down beside him, unable to quell the crushing wave of anger.

Or was it despair?

Start somewhere, he reminded himself with a calmness that didn't truly stick, just start somewhere.

He marched to the basement, refusing the almost automatic jerk of his chin as he passed the clock.

Severus slammed the door behind him and looked around, the heaviness in his chest lessening, alleviated even if only for a minute.

This he knew. There was plenty to be done, plenty to fall into. Ingredients needed restocking, a stayed potion bubbled away angrily - desperately in need of a heroic attempt at salvage. His scribbled faux plans to restore the withering husk of a failing body for an inhuman madman lay abandoned, there were vials to fill with newly brewed potions.

Yes, the vials, Severus seized them quickly and laid them out neatly to fill.

The vials were easy. The vials would not talk back. The vials wouldn't smash his dinner plates in a bratty tantrum - except no - it wasn't a tantrum at all was it? More a breakdown of sorts which was preceded by a breakdown itself and then gave way to another breakdown instigated by himself and by Merlin he was so bad at this.

Maybe, had Potter been even in the realm of slightly normal, this could have been avoided. Instead, Albus had thrown a steaming mass into a sealed vessel and expected them not to explode.

There would never be a good time to throw such opposing ends together but this must be the worst time. After the events of April, the boy would be better off with his relatives, even he could see that.

Albus and his ulterior motives.

Severus glared at the slowly filling vials as though his rage might be transmitted through their shining glass bodies through to the man himself.

Potter would sleep for twelve hours at least, he reminded himself, there would be time. Twelve measly hours. Almost eleven now that he'd taken his sweet time sitting around and thinking about nothing. Not nearly enough time to fix all of one's own flaws in the tending of children and draft a comprehensive battle plan to smooth over the psychotic tendencies of the boy who lived without actually talking to him. Severus had no experience with children who were...unwell. And he was unwell wasn't he?

There was no escaping this, no handing Potter off to Pomfrey (oh blessed Pomfrey whom children actually liked and would confide in, had he any stray hairs? Could he clone her likeness?), no one who could understand the frustration of intrusion at this critical time when he was a man serving two unyielding masters.

Severus's energy, his time, his strength, all had to be channeled carefully, intricately into the inescapably dangerous balancing act.

There was no time for this.

Above all, Severus needed quiet. Focus. To fortify and strengthen his occlumency shields daily for the Dark Lord and Albus because some thoughts a man had to keep for himself.

(The lingering regret even after all these years, the anger that was still so quick to rise, the fear of facing him, everyday, again)

Could Severus really be faulted now for the results of his bottled up fury, the sheer annoyance and irritation mounting since he'd collected Potter? The itching in his skin at the concept that someone else also lingered in this house that had otherwise stood like a cursed tomb for years, interjected only with his brief summer presences. This was no place for a teenager to lounge around, no place for life or growth or sustenance. It had never been a place of patience or understanding, no sense of home could belong here.

Potter was the only intrusion he or the house had borne for years.

And borne it so well, he'd gone tearing into his mind for evidence of whatever ridiculous thing he was doing to cause such outlandish behaviour, prepared for anything from home brewed booze to malicious schemes to burn down his house and what had he come out with?

A horror show. A blend of misery, carnage and a terror so palpable he could practically touch it.

Why did you do that?

It swirled around him again. The dumb blunt words, his hollow unseeing eyes. The sinking, burning feeling in his own chest. Unforgivable. Something you could never come back from.

How Severus wished the feeling was unfamiliar, that this could be the first time and the last time those bright eyes would brand him with their shocked betrayal. Potter hadn't even been alive the first time.

He'd stumbled out of Potter's room afterwards, vividly recalling the sharp turn of her shoulder and the bounce of loose curls as she'd turned away from him, leaving something irreparably broken between them.

Then, Severus he thought numbly of the cold tight grip of Lucius's hand stilling his own wrist firmly, a whispered 'soon...it will be over soon' barely heard over the sheer agony of burning, burning -

Dropping to his knees before Albus, scraped up and hollowed out, choking on the realisation that he would never hear her voice again -

Severus slammed the full vials into the cupboard harshly leaving a resounding protesting tinkle as each bottle complained intimately to their neighbour.

Even the inanimate objects were turning against him now, even his own vials couldn't stick him.

Maudlin, he shook his head - he needed to stop being so damn maudlin.

There was no time for maudlin, there needed to be solutions, rules, boundaries.

Balance.

Severus turned to sorting through the volumes stacked on the workbench, smoothing down the creases of his hastily scribbled musings.

There always had to be a balance.

Albus had to be assured of his loyalty through every interaction, now more than ever he would doubt him. The resurrection had shaken even his brilliant mind, Severus privately thought. How foolish they had all been, living their mundane lives, pushing the Dark Lord's return to the back of their minds like a button on a coat one never quite gets around to sewing because the task is so unpleasant, so unenjoyably mundane.

And the dark lord himself had to be...assuaged, assured at every turn of the loyalty of his greatest spy. His long tenure under Dumbledore's thumb had not gone unnoticed and he was not amongst those spared from the heavy disdain of the Dark Lord.

The punishments had at least been fleeting (by necessity, not mercy). The Dark Lord's body was not sustaining him and so it fell to him to find the solution, to provide the healing elixir, the remedy for an ailing body failing to uphold the unwieldy inhumane spirit that should have remained dead.

He who had possessed such pride and dignity in his strength of form could not abide the rebellion of his own body.

So he must be kept happy, he must be assured Severus was doing all he could. And he in turn had to ensure he was absolutely not doing all he could, to delay the inevitable, to balance on a knife's edge at all times for the Dark Lord surely knew his excellent potions master wasn't looking in the right places to find the right information...

And the displays of power, the peacocking for the rest of his followers, the cloaked desperation to ensure he still commanded their respect was leading to more and more instances like the girl in Potter's vision.

Which brought him back to the boy. And what on earth he could do about him.

Severus started stacking the books.

He could spy, oh he could elevate himself to the highest levels of deception and lie into the face of his probable cause of impending doom without a tremble.

The rest? The rest was harder. The rest of his life was swimming against the sea current. The tending to those...softer vulnerabilities, well they simply swam away from him and each time he tried to reach for them he was flailing in the water, drowning and grasping desperately for the rules he didn't know, had never learned.

And just as a child cannot conceive of cruelty until they're experiencing its bitter lash firsthand, neither could he foresee the first steps towards becoming a person he had never been, could never be.

He slotted the books away into their places, softly, wandlessly. It would have been faster with a spell - he didn't want that.

Severus wanted to fall into the cushioned comforting knowledge that there was too much to be done, too much hurtling around him to have properly committed to a course of action - there'd been no time Albus! he heard his own hasty explanation. No time to figure it out, no time to think it through, no time to consider an alternative to ripping through the boy's mind with all the finesse of a toddler rummaging through the sand for a discarded toy.

The familiar words were catching in his mouth, poised on his tongue, ready to launch out with the force of a catastrophic projectile.

I didn't have a choice.

Wasn't Severus beyond cowering behind his blame, from dredging up desperate explanations in supplication to men who would punish either way?

The last book slid into place and he steadied himself against the wall. His tiredness was catching up to him, begging for attention. If only he and Potter could both keep on dosing up on Dreamless Sleep until September - that could have been a solution.

Severus looked around, intention burning through him.

The stayed potion was moody, forlorn and ultimately uncooperative. It correctly considered him no salvation. He eviscerated the batch and wrote a few tidy lies in his log: batch defective, suspect contaminated Lacewing flies. It mattered little, his benefactor would only see more failings. The Dark Lord rarely walked the path of mercy even in his early days, now he knew no other route than the one born of insanity and mania, delusions and rage.

And still they followed him. Still, he had followed him, was still following him, had dropped down to his knees, demeaned and ardent - I know only one master my lord and my loathing for Dumbledore grows ever more in the shadows of your greatness my lord and can I get up now my lord? These knees aren't what they used to be, my lord, on and on it went.

The never ending loop, Albus and the Dark Lord, the ouroboros of his own instigation. How alike they both were, he pondered - reckless, relentless, pushing, scheming - both so certain that their cause was the noblest without realising how unknowingly aligned their minds were.

But then, each side of the coin is destined to never see its flip side.

Now, Severus leaned against the workbench. There was nothing more to be done, the usual calm of a quiet evening was no longer promised to him, he had no claim upon it.

Now, he must plan. He must begin the careful construction of a man who knew both how to coax information out of unwilling recipients and do it without causing any teenage breakdowns. A tall order but, he reminded himself firmly, not impossible.

Severus had done more with less. He had also done worse with more. A slippery slope.

He sat at the workbench, pulled out some blank parchment and stared at its empty form, willing the words to write themselves.

The idea sparked, unprompted, razor quick.

A drink.

Severus might just have one. Or two. Or the bottle.

If he started though...he wouldn't stop - that was the uncomfortable truth. He could settle himself down for a thick, deep sleep but afterwards, a Potter (it didn't matter which Potter) could barely be borne stone cold sober. The drink would only hinder him further and he was already going in practically blind.

Albus wouldn't like it - Severus stamped out the thought as quickly as it had risen. Albus was welcome to waltz into the spare room of Spinners End and deal with this nightmare himself instead of giving the concept of his unwanted opinions from a thousand miles away.

The naked page drew him back to Potter.

What was wrong with the boy?

Potter was....alone, he settled on. He had been alone since school ended, had that caused this? Perhaps his relatives didn't understand the magnitude of what had occurred, had their attempts to reach him fallen flat?

Still, Severus frowned, the boy could owl anyone. Surely he could even telephone the Granger girl. He wouldn't put it past Arthur Weasley to have resurrected a wretched abomination of a communication device either. Potter had people, he'd always had people. Plenty of them were falling all over him - there was no reason for this thing to have spiralled so.

Severus scrawled communication - isolation? onto the parchment and scrutinised it.

Fine, they could start there. Why hadn't he spoken to anyone? Why hadn't he owled his precious friends to tell them what he'd seen? He was quite sure the boy hadn't, he'd have heard no end of their ungracious secondhand clamouring from Albus if they had. At the very least Potter should have told the scruffy mutt he had for a godfather. Or the wolf. Or the Weasley brood. Anyone.

There had been a brief flash, an image whisked away too quickly when he'd entered his mind - Potter hunched over his letters in his bedroom. He hadn't quite caught the words but the feelings had stuck - despair, hopelessness.

Severus huffed, Potter knew nothing of hopelessness. Of truly losing everything of value, of carrying on in a life where little mattered except what you could give to others when the time was right.

The questions still niggled at him, why hadn't he told anyone instead of just bearing the weight?

Would you?

That was different though. Severus had never been as minded and coddled as Potter and besides, his summers hadn't been lonely. Not when he'd had no one to compete with. Not when they would both almost rewind time together, going back to their shared other life before Hogwarts - young, free, searching, their infinite bliss - just for the two of them.

Severus stabbed his quill into the ink so hard it frothed up along the sides.

Problems, he was supposed to be finding problems.

And solving them, ideally.

The obvious one lurked in the back of his mind and he hesitated over the parchment, as though just to write it was a blasphemy.

Visions, he scrawled quickly and added how long? Extent? Effect? Severus stood and walked away from the desk, breathing deeply.

Unanswerable questions for an unthinkable situation.

That, Severus could admit to himself, was nothing that Potter should have been subjected to. Nothing the eyes of youth should be marred with. He knew only too well how it would stay with him, lingering in the back of his mind.

More often than not, the Dark Lord prized efficiency - cold ruthless and quick. Severus considered (only late at night, when his thoughts were his own and could be shackled away quickly after) that his failure to kill Potter had only exemplified that. He killed quickly, like a child fearing his toy will be taken away, he'd strike fast enough to stamp out any chance, any hope, any... hesitation.

But there were times when an example had to be made.

As Lucius explained, all those years ago when they were just boys emboldened in their silly masks and costumes, scarcely knowing the farce they upheld, it's unpleasant yes but it simply has to be done.

Like that? Severus had asked quietly, boyishly, shivering in the dank air that still carried the tinge of blood and fear, ears still ringing - a monument to the screams.

Lucius hadn't answered him.

He'd have been there that night with the unfortunate girl from Potter's waking nightmare just as he had been when the Dark Lord had been resurrected. When Cedric Diggory was murdered in the Dark Lord's favourite fashion - quick and merciless.

Severus wondered if Draco had been there to watch the girl too, if he'd turned to his father and asked him the same subdued question.

Like that?

Would Lucius have an answer after all these years?

He walked to the desk again and scrawled, messily - how?

Only Potter could tell him

Severus sat down again, resolute and thought back to Potter's memories.

The dementors had been real - now that he considered it, the story was too well placed to be concocted by Potter's dull imagination. For the first time it occurred to him that the boy was being as grievously wronged as he was.

Neither of them had asked for this and that they should both have something in common was frightening in itself. Severus had been so furious at the imposition on his time, on his life and in this most complicated summer no less. Little wonder that Potter had been so oppositional at the beginning.

Eventually though that had just leaked out of him like the air in a balloon.

And Severus, thanking the stars for his perception of co-operation (and foolishly perhaps celebrating taking Potter down a peg) had turned his back to the boy and left him to himself.

Severus had expected a world of bratty entitledness, had been so ready to face Potter stomping around the house and demanding to go home, to the Burrow, to Hogwarts, whining and demanding and getting him a one way ticket to Azkaban for his murder.

How could he be prepared for this? Severus was nobody's nursemaid, no hand to hold in hard times.

That he could barely recall Potter's behaviour this past week was telling enough. Unease stewed in his mind. It was perfectly reasonable to assume they would both want to keep away from each other. Potter had no reason to want his company. And yet the cupboards were full, Potter hadn't eaten, hadn't slept and had unravelled beneath his very nose...

If he stays with me, Severus had seethed at Albus, he will be safe and nothing more.

And that mild, infuriating response; perhaps you will find it within yourself to finally live up to all that you can be, Severus.

How he'd worked to tamper down his raw, bitter rage. Albus always knew how to delve deep inside the essence of a person and pull, unyielding and unapologetic, all in the name of the greater good.

As though Severus hadn't squandered his youth in his naivety, let them etch his dark deeds deep into his skin and paid the ultimate price. All that he could be was laughable, there was nothing further for him. Nothing grew in the darkness he'd so firmly planted himself in. His roots were all twisted up in a corrupted ground which could not hold new growth and would not yield that which had come to it willingly - there was no way to remove himself without removing himself.

Severus had accepted it, he rubbed his brow tiredly. He was surviving, alive. Alone, how it had always been.

Accidental magic, Severus wrote untidily, recalling the shattered kitchen window. More signs that he'd ignored. He had followed up on that at least, a measly cursory prodding to check that Potter's few brain cells weren't going to leak out of his nose.

Sleeping issues? Causation? joined the list. After some hesitation, Severus wrote next to it Occlumency to clear mind? and hoped fervently they wouldn't need it.

Then Severus wrote Issues eating and scratched it out. Then wrote it again and almost scratched it out, his quill hovering uncertainly. Did Potter have issues eating really?

He hadn't been eating but there was no evidence of an underlying problem, nothing to suggest it was anything more than the lingering effects of trauma and a serious lack of sleep. The vision alone would have been enough to rob him of his appetite. Anyway, he could recall plenty of occasions of seeing Potter stuff himself on treacle tart. With time his appetite would return.

Severus scratched it out.

No need to add another thing to the already ever-growing list that Potter would be fighting him on. No need to make it harder.

Better to stick to the main concerns - how the visions had occurred, why Potter had kept this to himself, the accidental magic and his inability to sleep. That was enough.

(That was too much)

Severus skimmed the parchment, nodded to himself, a wave of reassurance washing through him. He would take Potter through the questions, methodically and carefully deal with his responses. Then they would move forward.

Potter would move on, he would forget. He would correspond with his friends, whine about being here, continue to be a generic nuisance.

Severus would just shove him in the right direction, deal with whatever was causing his connection with the Dark Lord and be done with it. No hand holding. No coddling. Quick and efficient.

He headed for the garden where the venomous plants might just be ready for pulling and stewing.

Then he would try to settle his mind, to steel himself for what was to come.

Whether either of them wanted it, there would be answers.

Chapter Text

The morning sun, in its surprising strength, had already warmed the dull metal table and chairs so that he sat opposite the boy, both of them sweating slightly, barely knowing where to begin.

Potter was paying an inordinate amount of attention to the rows of neat plants that they both overlooked. The pallor of his skin was still dull, two doses of Dreamless Sleep had yet to ease the tiredness etched under his eyes.

Severus mentally wished Albus a stinging paper cut or a scorched mouth from scalding hot tea. That ought to stick, this early in the morning he was very likely to be drinking some form of tea.

And he would be alone, blessedly alone.

Unlike him.

Still, outside there were less valuables for Potter to break and more space to contain any unfortunate insanity that might spill out of the obvious cracks in his visage.

"So," Severus began quietly, for the day had barely begun and the lulling hush felt oddly sacred, "before we begin, we ought to agree between us what this conversation will entail. I will be clear in my expectations Potter, I expect you to do the same."

There, that was plenty courteous.

"What," Potter muttered, still gazing determinedly away at the plants, "this conversation has learning outcomes or something?"

"Precisely," though how that helped them even he didn't know, Potter could barely follow objectives at school, "I...wish to understand several events that have thus far occurred. Namely, and most pressingly, the accidental magic as well as your connection with the Dark Lord."

Potter looked down at the table quickly, then turned his head back to the plants and gave a half shrug.

"It does not benefit us to draw this out Potter," was his tone as neutral as he was trying to make it? Was Potter listening at all? "I will ask only pertinent questions so that we may get through this quickly, do you understand?"

The boy nodded once, his own tension eased slightly and he carried on.

"Start with the connection with the Dark Lord, how did it occur?"

Potter still stared, far away from him. Severus bit back the urge to tut.

Slowly, go slowly.

"When did you become aware of the wider connection between you? This week?" Severus prompted.

Potter glanced down again, then back at the plants, then back down. He raised his hand from his lap in a half aborted motion and dropped it again.

He took a breath, his lips parted for a second. And - nothing.

Severus might be getting better at this already, the usual automatic urge to strangle Potter was rising only very slowly.

"Potter," he began lightly, gently if anything and yet, Potter lifted his chin, almost dazedly and said -

"You don't care about me."

Now Severus stared.

It was not accusatory and in fact, Potter went back to staring at the damn plants, unfazed.

They might well have been neighbours in the gardens at St Mungo's for all Potter seemed to care.

Firmly, Severus settled on, "I am currently responsible for you."

Potter though, he was...unsettling.

He couldn't still be sleep deprived, couldn't still be suffering the ill effects of strange delusions and yet, the boy was clearly elsewhere. Detachment lingered around him unpleasantly.

"You don't care what happens to me."

Again, that passive, empty tone.

An alien feeling was worming its way inside him. Something about the plain way Potter spoke, his blank gaze.

"As I have just said," don't condescend him, don't make him pull back, "here in this house, I am responsible for you right now. If you are barrelling towards a breakdown, I must intervene-"

"I'm not." Potter snapped, a welcome return to vitriol (and life) that Severus was all too keen to embrace.

"I'm just saying," Potter continued, "it doesn't matter or anything to you so I don't see why you have to go poking around in my business."

"Sadly, your business does not belong to you, Potter. Particularly where it concerns the Dark Lord."

This wasn't news to the boy, he thought with annoyance, he knew exactly what was at stake and if he hadn't before Diggory had died, he certainly must have grasped that in the time since then.

"Fine, so you need to know what I saw so you can tell Dumbledore? And then that's it?"

"That is not it," Severus was snapping again, baulking at this mere child who sought to tell him the state of affairs as though he knew better, "these - visions - cannot continue Potter. The connection must be stopped indefinitely. Disregarding for the moment the effect on you of that particular vision," Potter flinched minutely, "the Dark Lord appears unaware of the connection between you, for now. Should he become aware of it, you might reveal information previously unknown to him. As it stands, you are in the perfect position to endanger everyone you know."

Potter said nothing, his head turned away completely, his grip tight on the chair.

"Furthermore, there is no predicting the Dark Lord's behaviour. He might well plant scenes of falsity in your mind or manipulate your senses to create artificial danger. Unchecked mental connections often allow for key thoughts and strong emotions to bleed through each person. You could well find yourself sharing thoughts with the Dark Lord himself, partaking in his - late night proclivities - each and every single night. You might lose your sanity completely. I assure you Potter, what you have seen thus far is mere folly compared to what the Dark Lord would do to you given the opportunity. Is that how you wish for this to unfold?"

Could that be considered going too far? Perhaps. But it seemed that what Potter needed was a reality check, to know just how serious the situation was.

And who else was here to impart the lesson?

"His...late night proclivities," Potter repeated, staring at him woodenly, "is that what you're calling it? How many late night proclivities have you been part of?"

Severus had to wrestle, for a moment, with the cold, vicious urge to spell Potter's mouth shut for eternity.

If only he knew.

"Were you there?" Potter asked, breaking the cold silence.

"No."

Severus was oddly gratified. It mattered not. He would likely be witness to countless more and what Potter thought of that didn't matter in the slightest. It was entirely inconsequential.

But still, he was glad.

Regardless, he pressed on, "Why is it that you have kept this to yourself Potter? Did it not occur to you that someone ought to have been informed of what you witnessed? At the very least, I am struggling to understand why you did not contact the headmaster or another member of the Order."

Potter glanced up at him, frowning, "The what?"

"The Order." Severus repeated.

"Oh right," Potter nodded, lips pursed, "I would definitely have contacted them sir, if I knew what the hell that was."

"The Order of the Phoenix, Potter." Surely he must know, surely someone, at some point had told him of the reformation? "A secret organisation founded during the first war that actively opposed the Dark Lord and sought his defeat."

Potter looked at him blankly.

"It has recently come together again, with the same objective. Your father's friends are active members as are the Weasley's and some others."

"Well," Potter said tightly, "no one told me that."

Severus snorted, "Have you never picked up a book about the first war Potter? The Order is mentioned countless times in their endeavours against the Dark Lord."

"I've been a little busy with my own real life endeavours actually."

They both fell silent again. Severus felt a pressure mounting along his eyebrows until Potter surprisingly volunteered something himself -

"Nobody replied to me." He was looking at his hands, seeming every bit his awkward fourteen years old.

"To what?" Severus questioned impatiently.

"My letters," Potter said slowly, "nobody replied."

That was unexpected.

"To whom did you write?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Potter shrugged again.

"Dumbledore, Sirius, Remus, Ron, Hermione," he checked off.

"What did you disclose to the headmaster in these letters?" And why in hell hadn't the headmaster disclosed this to him?

Potter shrugged again, did he know any other movement than the shrug? Severus wondered.

"Just about the dreams and about my scar."

"Your scar? What exactly about your scar?"

Potter mumbled something.

"Speak up Potter." Severus hissed.

"S'painful," the words seem to be ripped out of him reluctantly, "gives me headaches."

"It is painful now?"

"Yes," Potter snapped, "it's always painful."

Take it in stride, be calm, be collected.

What else was the boy hiding from him?

"Fine. I will see what I can give you when we are done here. I will need to check for compatibility of pain relief remedies with the Dreamless Sleep given the dosage you've just taken."

Why did his curse scar pain him? How long had it been paining him? Was that normal?

More things to note for later.

"You're going to give me a potion? For my scar?" Potter sounded uneasy, did he want to be in pain?

"Yes Potter do try to keep up. We are unlikely to resolve the root cause right now but at the very least, the symptoms can be treated." Potter opened his mouth again but he carried on quickly, "When did you disclose your dreams and the pain in your scar to the headmaster?"

"Well, ever since I've been back I've been sending him letters telling him when it happened. Obviously he knew about it when I was at school-"

"At school?" Severus repeated baffled, "your scar pained you before this summer?"

"Yes?" Harry said frowning, "it kept happening all year. Dumbledore knew," he said defensively, "I told him then too."

"During the tournament? Were you having the same dreams then?"

They had hit a block, Potter had looked away again the second he'd heard tournament.

"Potter, have the nature of those dreams changed since you went home for summer? Are they more frequent?"

"I don't know what you're trying to get at, what you're trying to pin on me like I'm trying to hide something," he'd tucked himself back into that tiresome defensiveness again, they'd be at this until tomorrow morning at this rate, "they're the same kind of dreams and it's the same as before except - except I never had a- a - I never saw - I never saw him do," he frowned, "anything like that before."

They were both quiet again. Where to go from here? It would be no good to carry on with any form of interrogation - Potter would clearly not respond.

But he had been cooperating so far, he was already less closed off. And the answers must be had, Severus reminded himself grimly.

"So the headmaster has not responded to your letters at all? Not once?" he clarified.

"No," Potter said dully, "I just told you, nobody did."

"You haven't received a single letter throughout the time with your relatives? Nor any other form of correspondence?"

"No." Potter snapped.

"And you are certain that they were being delivered?"

Potter threw him a filthy look, "Yes sir, I'm sure my owl is capable of doing literally the only job she has. Besides, she came back with a bloody beak."

At his own look of confusion Potter explained, "I told her to peck the hell out of them for replies. Obviously it didn't work but she tried anyway."

Merlin help me.

"I see."

"You see?" Potter repeated loudly, he had regained some of his momentum apparently, "what kind of answer is that? You've just - you're drilling me about why didn't you inform someone, why did you keep this to yourself and I've just given you the answer and you just?" he gestured around himself, the implication clear.

You just said absolutely nothing.

Which was entirely true. Because what could Severus say? The headmaster works in mysterious ways? Congratulations on the failure of the blood toll you've exacted on everyone you know?

Why had nobody responded to his letters if indeed he had written then?

Severus waved his hand impatiently and Potter ceased his flapping.

"I heard you Potter." A split second decision, the truth or a watered down version of false omniscience?

"I was obviously...unaware that you had communicated thusly on the presumption it would have been disclosed to me." Truth it was.

"So," Potter's eyebrows raised infuriatingly, "you were wrong then?"

Severus narrowed his eyes, "I was ill informed, that is quite different."

"Okay, and because you were ill informed, you were wrong."

Moving swiftly on.

"For the sake of clarity and disregarding the letters to the headmaster, there is no reason you are aware of for the lapse in communication with the others?"

Just when he had been lauding the success thus far, the boy shrugged again. Then, he shook his head and glanced away.

Severus considered for a moment. He had heard nothing about attacks on Order headquarters that might explain this or of any need to restrict mail to Potter or between members of the Order.

Black and Lupin, as far as he was aware, were both sitting steady as ducks in Black's house with absolutely nothing to do. That Potter should not have heard from them both was...peculiar.

An annoying prickle of instinct (which he knew was very rarely wrong) was telling him that Albus must have been playing a part in whatever this was.

"Very well," Severus nodded to himself "I will ask the question then."

Potter gaped at him, "You'll what?"

"I will ask the question," Severus repeated irritably. Potter was looking at him as though he'd gone mad.

"Ask who?"

Who was this new, deferential, almost meek Potter who questioned him in disbelief?

"The headmaster, obviously. If he is unavailable, Lupin or Black."

Albus had better be available.

"Okay," Potter said slowly, "and then what? Will you - will you tell me what they say?"

Ah yes, his new promotion from highly qualified Potions Master to unpaid post owl.

"I imagine they will tell you themselves in time."

"I can see them?" Potter asked cautiously.

"Not at the moment," Severus replied curtly, "not until I have spoken with the headmaster."

Potter said nothing, either the fight in him was simmering down or he was wondering what to do with this latest information.

"You have yet to answer my initial question," Severus prompted, "when did you become aware of the wider connection between you and the Dark Lord? Disregard the pain in your scar, for how long have you had these visions?"

Potters shoulders must ache unbearably from the constant workout they were being given this afternoon. Was this the boys custom? To shrug sullenly at every question posed to him?

"After...the graveyard."

"Immediately after or when you returned home?"

"Does it matter?" he snapped.

"Yes." Severus snapped back.

Potter huffed again.

"I think, when I came back to the Dursleys for the summer. But it was just flashes before, a few seconds or just a few words."

Severus nodded, "Until...?"

Potter mumbled again.

"Speak up, I cannot hear you."

"The night after I got here. I - I was asleep."

Five days since then.

And he was asleep.

"You haven't had another?"

Potter shook his head.

"No other episodes or flashes however minute? Whilst sleeping or awake? Strange visions or occurrences?

He shook his head again, too quickly.

Liar.

Potter was still hiding things.

Some cooperation is better than none, Severus reminded himself. Besides, if they had to embark on the course he was thinking of, Potter's attempt to keep anything from him would be thwarted very soon.

"The visions prior to this week, they were whilst you were awake?"

Potter nodded.

He said nothing in return, his mind racing.

The boy's mind was, as all minds generally were in sleep, relaxed, undefended, malleable to suggestion or influence...

Occluding for mental defence was the only real option.

And yet... Potter would never build the resistance he needed quickly enough. Certainly not in the span of one day to allow him to sleep.

He had already proven himself untrustworthy in devising an appropriate solution to his visions thus far, presuming his sleep strike had been resultant of wishing to avoid the opportunity for mental attack at all.

Dreamless Sleep could not replace a real dreaming sleep forever.

And yet, one could not learn Occlumency in a day.

Severus grimaced at the implication.

"What?" Potter prodded sullenly.

He shook his head, that they could broach later, when he'd exhausted all options and ensured there was absolutely no other way at all to protect Potter's mind from external influence.

A coma would do, Severus thought darkly.

"Do you recall anything in particular that was different about that night before you slept? Besides your arrival here."

Potter frowned and shook his head again.

"Think Potter," his exasperation bled through, of course Potter would think himself the suffering martyr here, at least he had the answers in his thick skull rather than being the one trying to pry them out, "did you do anything differently that day? Were you thinking of anything specific before you fell asleep?"

"I don't know! If my answers aren't good enough for you, I'm sure you can just rip out the ones you do want." He had escalated to yelling and he threw Severus a scathing look before staring determinedly away from him again.

Severus looked away briefly too.

"I will not do that again."

Potter scoffed.

"Do not give me a reason to then," he hissed, "you have no idea of the significance of this - any form of mental connection with Dark Lord might well destroy you in the days to come. Tell me, did you enjoy that miserable scene in the clearing?" Potter's jaw dropped, "No?" Too far, he knew, way too far and yet he kept going, kept pushing because Potter didn't understand that there was always so much worse - "then speak up. Tell me whatever you can remember that might assist."

Potter's hand ghosted up slowly to press at his temple before he turned back to him.

Strainedly, he said, "I don't remember."

Severus glared at him for a moment, the looming knowledge of how Potter's mind would have to be guarded at night weighed heavily on him.

Potter's hand hovered near his scar again before he dropped it back into his lap.

Severus sighed.

"I will return in a moment."

And if he didn't, well who could blame him?

It was ten moments in the end. Just enough time for the distraction of a quick reminder of how to mix pain remedies with sleeping draughts and not evaporate the chosen one.

Enough time for Potter to gather himself, enough time for him to gather himself.

Severus marched back outside. Potter, still surveying the garden, stiffened at his arrival.

He slid the tin across the table.

"For the pain, apply it morning and night. You may apply it now if you wish."

Potter looked at the tin distrustfully and Severus rolled his eyes in return.

"I assure you, I would not dole you out a death by salve."

"What are you even going to do about all of this?"

Unfortunately, deal with it.

"I will keep the headmaster informed-"

"He's already been-"

"-of any further developments," Severus carried on loudly, glaring, "no doubt it will fall on me to devise a short term solution to your connection with the Dark Lord during the nights. So, that is what will be done."

"What kind of solution?" Potter asked immediately.

"That is yet to be determined."

"Oh," Potter drawled, "so you haven't thought of anything yet?"

"Your infinitesimally small mind will be informed as and when it is required."

"Seems to me like it's required right now seeing as it's about my mind. Why can't I carry on taking Dreamless Sleep?"

"As much pleasure as it would give me to pull out the second year syllabus for your perusal Potter, I am all too aware of having taught that very lesson to you."

"Well, it can't have been very memorable can it?"

Merlin, give me strength.

"Dreamless Sleep prevents dreams, Potter. A key function of dreaming is to allow the effective processing of memories, events, knowledge and such. Whilst sleeping normally, the brain sorts through a minefield of crucial information. These processes cannot go interrupted for long without serious mental complications. The brain loses functioning, it becomes chaotic and confused. Serious abuse of potions that prevent dreams render the mind virtually vegetative although, that might well be an improvement for you."

"A simple 'no you can't' would have been fine, next time I'll let you keep the lecture."

He refused to give in, refused the easy distraction of Potter's...posturing.

"You haven't thought of anything else then have you?" Potter asked insistently.

If only he knew.

Potter wasn't the only one well versed in distraction though.

"On the contrary, I have given a significant amount of thought as to why you had worked yourself up into the state that I found you in yesterday."

Severus could almost see the whirring behind Potter's eyes, darting side to side as he fidgeted with his wand.

Hiding something, always hiding something.

"Nothing to say, Potter?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," his hollow words came, "I already told you nobody was replying to my letters. What else should I have done? I wasn't going to risk seeing...that again."

"And you expected to evade sleep forever?"

This was a child in front of him, he was suddenly all too aware, a child that played at being grown.

"I - I don't know, okay? I wasn't - I don't know."

A real frustration underlied his tone, probably best not to keep pushing. A sobbing teenager was the last thing they needed here.

He watched her murder, Severus reminded himself with an inwards sigh, of course he would be...unbalanced still.

"This should not occur again," Severus said evenly, "the measures we will implement ought to prevent any recurrences however, in the event that you witness any form of vision again, you are to come directly to me, Potter."

"Why?" Potter threw at him, "what will you do?"

"What will I do?" he repeated, annoyance slithering through him, "I will-" Severus stopped himself. What would he do?

The silence couldn't carry on for any longer.

When you have no answers, give a politician's answer.

"I will deal with it." Severus countered smoothly. "With informing the headmaster and with easing any...after effects you might encounter so that," he carried on strongly, "you sleep and eat afterwards without issue."

Potter gave his signature shrug again and something of a half scoff left his mouth.

"I care not for whatever nonsense delusions you have been labouring under previously," the impatience had returned in full force, "This business of your connection with the Dark Lord is not your business nor is it your concern. You will bring any such matters to me accordingly and I will deal with them. Do you understand?"

"You won't want to deal with them."

"It is my obligation to do so."

Potter said nothing.

"Do you understand Potter?" Severus demanded.

"Yes, I understand perfectly. It is your obligation to deal with me."

Severus rolled his eyes. The dramatics of teenagers.

Potter stood abruptly, "Are we done here?"

"No," he said plainly, "sit or stand as you wish, we've yet to address the accidental magic that has occurred twice now."

"So what?"

Perhaps Potter truly did need to redo his first and second years at Hogwarts.

"It should not have happened."

Potter shrugged in response, "It's not like it's the first time."

"How often within the past month?" Severus asked, frowning.

Shrugging again, Potter muttered, "I don't know."

"Roughly then," he snapped, patience ebbing away again in an instant, "estimate - you can count can't you Potter?

Then, because he looked very much as though he were considering a lie, Severus carried on.

"Accidental magic becomes a cause for concern where several isolated incidents are clustered together. Whilst a one off occurrence here and there isn't uncommon for children of your age, anything more can be an indication of a serious problem or can cause one itself. You will need to work hard to remedy the control and regulation of your magic to prevent these unstable outbursts if they have become a regular occurrence. Have they?"

"What exactly," Potter queried, staring at him hard, "is a regular occurrence?"

"Tell me how many you recall this month and I will tell you if they qualify," Severus had long given up the fight with his rising temper.

Straightforward answers were impossible, apparently.

"Including the ones here, maybe...five?"

"Is it maybe or is it five?" Perhaps he'd been too optimistic, perhaps Potter really couldn't count.

"Fine, five, I think."

"What were you doing when the other incidents occurred? Did the same thing happen each time?"

"Something shatters," Potter muttered, staring at his shoes, "glass - usually."

"What were you doing?" Severus repeated.

"I. Don't. Remember."

"How convenient."

He was sick of this too. Sick of knowing what was coming, sick of the constant opposition he had to look forward to for Merlin knew how long and sick of being out of sync in the surroundings he used to know so well.

"What does it even matter," Potter asked exasperatedly, "it's just another thing that shouldn't be happening but is. No surprises there."

He did not ask for this situation, Severus reminded himself. Nor did I.

"Potter, I am not in the habit of repeating myself."

"Oh, am I getting in the way of your obligations. What is it that you're going to do about this anyway?"

It was a recurring theme, Potter's need to know what he was going to be doing about every given thing.

Why?

Why the initial frustrating hesitation and then the pushing, pressing insistence to know what next?

"Five incidents within a month certainly qualifies as a regular occurrence and indicates a lack of both control and regulation of your magic. I will find some resources for you to review, books and theory to apply and practise regaining your stability. It will be self taught and ought to be intuitive enough for you to work through alone."

Potter looked unimpressed but something in the strain of his face made Severus carry on.

"It is not unusual to experience a surge in accidental magic following...tumultuous events," interestingly, Potter turned his head away immediately, "Nonetheless, you will work hard to ensure that this does not remain a problem for much longer. Unchecked, this will spiral."

"Great," Potter said bitterly, "so you'll give me a book to read and that's supposed to fix everything?"

"Am I speaking to myself?" Severus replied irritably, "you will review the resources that I will locate for you and work through them. The exercises therein will allow you to rebuild your previous stability and control over your magic, albeit slowly. You are aware of how learning works are you not?"

"Right, okay," that pervasive tone of bitterness surfaced again, "what if that doesn't work? What if it's not enough and it just doesn't work?"

Severus was baffled.

"Are you so assured of your own failure?"

"I'm just asking what happens if it doesn't work." Potter's voice was hard, gaze challenging.

Why over something so bafflingly easy to remedy?

"Work hard and it will Potter, there is nothing more to say on the matter."

"No," Potter pressed bafflingly still, "I want to know what's going to happen if it can't be fixed. What then?"

"Why then I suppose we will cast you back into the muggle world to live out the rest of your life in shameful solitude," Severus said, sarcastically.

Potter just stared.

"I cannot fathom what you are working yourself into a state about," Severus frowned, "as I have already mentioned, accidental magic is not unusual following events that are out of the ordinary and because of that, it is not uncommon to experience a surge of it. You will study the theory and exercises that are given to wizards of any age to assist your regaining control and that is it."

"So what if I can't?" Potter snapped

"Can't what?"

"Be fixed." he said quietly, staring downwards, morosely.

So this is what the boy had been getting at, in his stupid, directionless mind alongside the need to apparently have the consequences of everything spelled out clearly for him.

What if all should fail?

"At this stage, there is no need to concern yourself about any failure to attempt to regain control which is exceptionally rare. Study hard and review your progress intermittently. Is there some reason why you are expecting that this particular issue cannot be addressed even with hard work and diligence?"

Now he was Potions Master turned therapist.

Mercifully, Potter shook his head though it was clear he was barely listening.

"Then put it out of your head for now," Severus said smoothly, "this is quite a workload to begin with. You will need to focus your attentions on the most pressing issues at hand. In addition, it would be prudent for you to disregard your school assignments for now."

"Just to study accidental magic?"

"Amongst another things." Better to keep their future potential sleeping situation as vague as possible for now. Just in case there was another way, any other way. At the very least, Potter could start studying the theory of Occlumency himself.

Potter looked away listlessly and Severus could practically see both his energy and attention span waning.

"That will do for now Potter. I will see you at lunchtime at which point we will discuss the specifics of your summer workload."

Severus left, intent on talking to Albus as soon as possible. There was too much here that didn't make sense and explanations that were still sorely lacking.

Chapter Text

Harry's wrist pressed against the burning metal arm of the chair.

It scorched unbearably, he pressed harder, waiting, waiting and waiting and then finally lifted it up, exhaling harshly.

The skin, pink and angry looking, tingled unpleasantly.

Sighing, he dropped his hand into his lap.

The salve tin, now opened, had also been subjected to the morning's unrelenting sun. The liquid was thin and runny, glistening temptingly.

The brightness of the day hindered Harry's already throbbing head.

I would not dole you out a death by salve.

You still couldn't put it past the bastard though.

The searing heat and his poor throbbing head worked in tandem to produce a stomach churning queasiness. The sun and his own body, wicked double agents.

Although, the damned breakfast couldn't have helped. Thickly buttered toast, consumed in silence under the watchful eye of the warden.

Just another element of control, Snape had no interest in his health or well being. This was probably what counted as fun for the man.

But that was just unfair. Harry had worked so hard this summer to be better than his appetite, not to consume any more than he absolutely needed, not to take up too much of anything.

It was about being better, stronger, having more control.

Idly, he'd already wondered if just throwing it all back up would really be as bad as it sounded.

It wasn't like he wanted to do it, Snape was pushing him to it. The man wouldn't be reasonable and he definitely wouldn't try to understand. Being untethered, being completely unhindered by a childish reliance on food mattered. Because next time he faced Voldemort, he would be stronger, purer, better.

Resistance meant strength, Snape would never understand that.

It would be one more thing for him to take away.

And Harry couldn't have that.

Ambling idly around the garden and surveying the plants with half interest, he realised the jitters had calmed. The creeping darkness at the edges of his vision had receded completely. The dreamless Sleep really had done him well.

And yes, he did vaguely remember some dicta in a lesson on potion reliance in second year. The details were iffy, he'd been fixated on finding the heir of Slytherin to vindicate his own name. There wasn't any time to study.

A prickle of shame nagged at him anyway.

Second year syllabus, Snape had jeered. Hermione would have known why you couldn't take Dreamless Sleep everyday and it made sense, he supposed, otherwise everyone would take it all the time.

What did he care for grades through? He kicked at the grass sullenly. Grades didn't matter when you had no future.

How kind of Snape to suggest disregarding his school assignments for now. As if Harry would even make it through the next school year to need them.

The Dreamless Sleep had smoothed away the edges of his tiredness, had calmed his jumpy nerves but the foreboding remained. Something was coming, something was changing.

And he was here, of all places. With Snape and his neurotic obsession with prodding and poking and asking questions all the time.

Harry saw it for what it was, a mockery of concern so he could report everything back to Dumbledore. Sure, Snape hadn't had him locked up in St Mungo's yet but that could be just on the horizon. Perhaps Dumbledore was figuring out the logistics of booking out a whole suite to keep it all quiet.

Except that was crazy, wasn't it?

He settled down on the grass, as far away from the house as possible. The extension charms reflected in the garden gave the rickety place a strangely stretched look, as though you were looking at it through a fish eyed lens. He pulled at the grass, dry and husky from the sun, still cooking the pinkish burn on his forearm that ached insistently.

He was too full. The toast had been too much. Two slices Snape had insisted on if he was "just having toast".

It would have paid off now if he'd focused more in primary school. Was there still enough time to throw it up? Surely it was best to do that immediately? The warden though had insisted they have a proper discussion right after breakfast.

Who was Snape anyway to do this? To force him to eat, to act as though not sleeping was so stupid?

Who should he have asked for help? What should he have done? Was he supposed to know the answers to everything?

But, he reminded himself, with a sense of satisfaction, Snape was being kept in the dark too. He hadn't known about the letters, hadn't even known about his scar.

Was that worse? Did that mean Dumbledore really didn't trust him? Wasn't it really bad then that Snape had looked into his head like that?

He didn't have the strength to consider it, his sweaty shirt clung to him and his eyes were drawn to the salve, still baking on the table in the morning heat when he walked over to it cautiously.

I would not dole you out a death by salve.

Words meant nothing. Snape after all was capable of literally pulling answers from his head when he got angry enough.

What was more, he had no reason to help Harry.

But that wasn't the only thing that didn't make sense now. Snape had offered to ask why nobody had replied to his letters. And yes, Harry conceded, that was absolutely mortifying but the mere idea that someone might finally find out why and then explain it to him had been too tempting to resist.

He might not though, he cautioned himself, picking up the hot metal tin and examining the silvery, runny contents with a frown. He wouldn't ever trust Snape to keep his word.

And no way was Harry going to answer his questions truthfully either, knowing full well he'd be called insane or a liar.

He hadn't forgotten how he'd wanted to hurt Snape either, that almost...delicious, striking urge to make him pay.

It was too unthinkable, that Voldemort's actions might really be bleeding through to him, that he might be sharing his own thoughts and feelings with the monster that killed his parents. A disgusting violation that he had practically invited in. Maybe Voldemort could only get to Harry because he was corrupted too. Wrong, wrong, wrong in every way.

I shouldn't even have survived.

He set the tin down again and sat, nausea coursing through him insistently.

What kind of world was he living in where Snape was the one coming up with solutions? Talking nonsense about resources and exercises.

Harry didn't need anything from anyone, he'd been solving everything himself his whole life. Why should this be any different?

The accidental magic had been escalating, fine. He would do the damned reading and deal with it. The visions couldn't carry on - he'd find a way to deal with it even if it did mean going without sleep.

He would get better and that was it. It would all come back under his control again and he would fix it himself. Snape was more deluded than he thought if he imagined Harry would be seeking out his help for anything.

Of course Snape was just obliged to make sure Harry stayed alive whilst he was here. Of course Dumbledore would be expecting Snape to deal with him no matter what.

It was all becoming clear enough. They each had their parts to play. Harry, in evading Snape's probing questions and constant suspicion and getting things back to normal. Snape would be keeping tabs on him, watching closely and reporting back to Dumbledore in the hopes that he really would crack and lose it and they could finally be rid of him.

With both dismay and a wretched kind of helplessness, he realised that they weren't just waiting for him to fail. They were waiting for him to fail again.

Shoving the tin in his pocket angrily, he stomped back upstairs.

After he'd showered, sitting back in the breezy window ledge, things were starting to feel a little better.

Dragged out of proportion, that's all this was. No sleep and no energy from fasting would be enough to make anyone feel crazy. Plus he was in close proximity to Snape outside of school, who wouldn't feel like ending it all?

(The hallucinations of his parents were pushed far, far, far into the back of his mind and disregarded for now).

And Snape wasn't going to send him away right now even though he'd already seen what happened in the clearing. He couldn't have known then, how Harry had been Voldemort just from the brief flash he'd seen. That much was still safe for now.

What was more, the man seemed convinced that there was a solution to the visions. There must be another potion, Harry mused, one that could be taken every night to stop any kind of mental thought. Or something else, a kind of mind magic that could be learned by reading a book and thinking a certain set of words before bed. A trigger phrase that could turn off receiving any external signals.

Feeding Hedwig some treats, he patted her head reassuringly.

What had happened earlier had been a lapse in judgement. Whatever he thought he'd seen when it was really just Snape had been a byproduct of a lack of sleep and too much coffee, he'd been too keyed up.

Already he felt so much better.

Still empty and hollow and...off. But that was how it was, that was how everyone felt. They dealt with it and so would he.

It would be lunchtime soon.

And Snape would want to talk, again.

Was this the most he'd been spoken to in any summer? That was a very sad thought.

Lunchtime also meant food. Food that couldn't be avoided.

Remembering the soup filled him with no end of shame. How he'd scoffed it down like some kind of grotesque animal.

Selfish, greedy.

Little wonder Snape had attacked him the way he had after that display, it was disgusting.

Not again, he swore to himself, never ever again. He was better now, he was so much better now.

Would Snape be open to excuses? Complaints about the heat? Could he say he felt sick?

It all came down to the same thing, Snape already knew too much. He might use his inept reasoning skills to deduce that Harry's lack of appetite was also a problem. Snape didn't need more things to add to his already well constructed prosecution.

Harry pressed his forehead against the window pane and drummed his fingers. Awareness and alertness were...unusual companions, he almost missed the all sweeping lethargy that had accompanied him for so long and the fog that usually wrapped around his mind, keeping it dull and dark and quiet.

It was strange to feel so...well and a discomfort in his own skin was making itself known.

I don't deserve this.

What he really needed was something to do. What the hell did he used to do during summer? Glancing around the room disinterestedly didn't help, the walls wouldn't tell him what to do, where to go, how to feel.

What the hell was Snape doing? That was the question.

The man could be concocting anything downstairs and Harry was none the wiser.

Read a book, Harry considered vaguely, flicking through his trunk, when was the last time he read a book?

Too long, that's why I'm thick as shit now.

But Snape wasn't thick as shit. Snape had shown himself to be crafty and confusing. He could be downstairs now doing crafty and confusing things.

Like pretending to be bothered about whatever was going on between him and Voldemort. Or acting like something was really wrong with Harry because of a little accidental magic.

Harry had been doing that his whole life. Now, thinking back, there was never a time when it wasn't slipping out of him in bits and pieces. His magic had always been unpredictable in that way.

A serious problem, Snape had said sombrely and this will spiral, he'd insisted. Harry would just take that with a bucket of salt. He'd been fine so far.

He sat back and looked around in frustration.

It was time to get out.

"I'm going outside," came tumbling out of his mouth in a disturbing half shout, half accusation.

Dignity shrivelled, check.

Snape continued poring over the book set on the table, "How thrilling for you."

"I mean," Harry said, through gritted teeth, "outside," he gestured around, "of this place."

Snape looked up at him calculatingly and Harry glared back.

Now it would come, the casual insistence that he couldn't leave for his own good obviously, as if they could trust him outdoors after everything.

"Not like that you most certainly are not."

Harry gaped, all rational thought fled. Fashion advice? From the man who'd been wearing the same robe for all the four years he'd known him?

"Is there something wrong with the way I dress?" Harry demanded.

Snape rolled his eyes and stood, shutting the book firmly.

"I have no comments to make whatsoever on your state of dress."

He was opening cupboards in the living room and finally withdrew what looked like a yellow headband and, perplexingly, a roll of stickers in different colours. Was he going to grade Harry's outfit? His grubby trainers hardly qualified for a gold star.

Snape held them out swiftly.

"What is it?" Harry frowned, taking them, flummoxed by both the hairband and the thought that Snape owned such a thing.

"Glamours," Snape replied shortly, "put the band on your head for your hair. Peel off one of the brown stickers and stick it between your eyes to change the colour of them. Put a blue sticker over your scar to remove it from sight."

And okay, that was pretty neat and Harry was immediately going to figure out how to sequester these by the pallet load to use at Hogwarts.

To look like someone else, to not be himself, that was...ingenious. And all without so much as a whiff of the thick sewer sludge that was Polyjuice.

"The band will last for a few hours at a time. The stickers are not so hard wearing, the glamours will revoke after an hour and they are single use only."

Harry turned to leave, ineffably pleased with this little discovery but of course Snape was there, lurking unpleasantly in his periphery, an omen of infinite annoyance.

"You will speak to no one whilst you are out, Potter," as opposed to speaking to no one whilst he was in here? "Regardless of your disguise, you will remain vigilant at all times. There are several screening wards over this town however," Snape looked at him intently, "safety cannot be fully guaranteed. You will keep your identity concealed before you leave this house and it will remain in place until you have entered it again. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir." Was the band yellow because it would turn his hair blonde? How did they infuse it with enough magic to change the colour of hair? Why did anyone ever bother to dye their natural hair when they could just use this? Was it expensive?

Snape droned on, "The perimeter wards will only permit you to go so far, you will see the ends of them if you happen to approach them," dismissively he turned away, "do not return any later than 1pm Potter. There is much to discuss."

Harry donned his disguise in the bathroom, grinning stupidly at the swirling golden magic that encompassed his hair, throbbed lightly and then settled with a poof, coating his dark locks a dirty blond and eliminating the headband from sight. The stickers faded out as soon as they were applied and his scar was gone in an instant, strange brown eyes stared back at him.

A pleasing warmth came over him. How great it was to be someone else.

The town was rather sad and sullen, suited perfectly to its occupants, Harry supposed, given that he'd only met the one. Snape's house stood isolated. Following the backroad took him to a thin, reedy stream that petered out into nothing but sparse towering trees. The heat was less stifling here, the cooling breeze a welcome relief after the stuffy house.

Following the stream for a few minutes took him to a narrow path, overgrown with heady purple bushes, heavily shaded so that it was still muddy, despite the summer heat, and sucked at his trainers with every step.

Harry didn't mind though. He felt a little lighter already.

No, he hadn't been expecting Snape to let him out. It was a strange concession given the state of things, it would've only aided his Harry-hating-agenda to keep him inside, to conceal him from sight and pretend that he didn't exist.

Maybe this was the equivalent of the last meal before capital punishment, the calm before the storm.

Because really, Snape could do anything to him. That was always clear. Now that he'd been inside Harry's mind once, he might just go back, he might just keep digging.

Don't give me a reason to, that wasn't any reassurance, that wasn't even an apology. Snape, like every other adult though, probably thought he was too good for apologies. Probably it would be Harry who would have to apologise for having such a mess in there that Snape had had to see it.

Your mind is a disgrace Potter, he would sniff haughtily and giving Harry a mental mop he would insist that he clean this up at once.

The town lingered in the distance, he made out a Tesco express, a laundromat and a sprinkle of other shops. The shopfronts, bland and dim, were hunched together as though they too were on the brink of giving up.

He hesitated, clutching at his wand in his pocket tightly. It couldn't be this easy. They couldn't just let him walk around like this. After the graveyard, after the dementors...he had to wonder if he was being set up.

Constant vigilance! He winced. They'd never known the real Alastair Moody and yet, his imposter had really been on to something with that one.

Harry hadn't been vigilant at all when they'd landed in the graveyard. Just a few seconds of thought, just enough to grab Cedric and summon the cup and leave. It all could have been so different.

Walking through the town warily, he glimpsed an alleyway and turned his head away quickly, remembering how he and Dudley had almost lost their souls that night in Little Whinging.

He'd been wandering around aimlessly then too, just like now.

Looking for trouble, that's what Petunia would have said.

Well, fuck Petunia very much.

Harry didn't ask for these things to happen to him. Harry hadn't asked for any of this and all he wanted was to be-

A body hit his.

Small, minimal impact, brown hair, curious eyes.

"So sorry," the elderly lady holding her hand said hurriedly, "Priya, watch where you walk."

"Sorry!" The young girl chirped.

They were looking at him. He wasn't saying anything and they were looking at him.

"S'fine," Harry croaked out, frozen, clutching the handle of his still concealed wand tightly.

The lady nodded awkwardly and walked past him. The young girl looked back at him and waved, "bye."

Harry tore his eyes away, a strange feeling enveloping him. As though he were sinking into the ground, heavy and pressurised. Slowly, he released his wand and looked down at his shaky hands.

She was young, so young.

Almost, very nearly, Hogwarts age.

He started back on the path to the stream and kept his eyes down, walking and walking until he reached the quiet again.

How pathetic was that? He couldn't even string together a sentence? That woman had been embarrassed, desperate to get away from him.

The girl looked nothing like...Penny. Not really.

It could've been her though, Harry thought wildly. It could've been her crying out for her parents, listening to her brother die, helpless and alone and scared.

People were dying because of him, children were dying. He'd had the chance to destroy Voldemort in that graveyard and what he done?

Fucking expelliarmus.

Should've thrown cotton buds at him, that would've been more effective.

Anything, anything would have been better.

To his horror, his eyes were wet, blurring the stream and trees into a muted swimming mess.

There was no going back to Snape like this so he sat on the grass, leaning against a tree and tried to breathe.

It was no good fixating on what had happened. He already knew this, had thought about it a million times since coming back to the Dursleys.

Be stronger, be better.

And the next time, when it came, because it always came, there would be no casualties to bring back home. Or at best, there would only be his own.

For a long time, he sat, tired and wound up all in one, the shady breeze chilling him.

It was getting later and later.

Snape could just wait.

How sad was it that riling Snape up had become something to look forward to?

He muted the Hermione-sounding nagging in the back of his mind that usually told him this was stupid.

It didn't matter.

Let Snape do what he wanted, Harry could take it. This would be no different from all the other times. Painful maybe, but that was to be expected. And it would be practice against dark magic, practice he sorely needed.

He opened the front door to silence and found Snape in the kitchen, a spread of books and papers on the table and (thankfully) no actual lunch in sight.

Snape barely reacted to his entrance except to gesture to the chair.

Harry sat down cautiously.

Surely it was coming now, Snape wouldn't let this go. He was nearly 30 minutes late. If they were at Hogwarts he'd be serving advanced detentions by now -

"Potter," Snape began, "it has not escaped my notice that neither of us intended to be in this situation."

"This situation?" Harry mimicked.

Snape narrowed his eyes, "Yes Potter, this situation wherein we are both sitting at this table in this house that we must live in together for the foreseeable future. This situation."

Harry folded his arms, "Okay."

"Those are the facts we are faced with. So far as I am aware, the headmaster fully intends that you will stay here for the remainder of the summer."

That was one lengthy sentence.

"You must work on both your accidental magic and your growing connection with the Dark Lord," Harry shifted uncomfortably, "and we are quite alone here Potter. I expect that even you would be able to deduce that we will need to work together over the coming weeks-"

"Wait a second," Harry interrupted, incensed, "work together on what? You said I could work through the reading and exercises myself-"

"And that remains the case," Snape said loudly, shooting Harry a withering look, "for the work you will undertake to address your accidental magic," he gestured to a couple of hefty tomes and papers on the table, "you will study that yourself to regain control over your magic."

"So what then?" Harry questioned, his heart pounding in his ears, head too hot. His traitorous stomach clenched, hunger and roiling nausea combining into one pulsing mass.

"If you could exercise the use of your ears instead of your mouth, I would tell you." Snape paused before carrying on, "I suspect you are unaware of the branch of magic termed 'Occlumency'. It is an obscure branch of mind magic, one that is utilised to defend the mind against external penetration."

External penetration sounded like a big fucking problem.

"Like mind reading?"

"The mind cannot be read in the sense that you are thinking, Potter. Rather, an attacker would utilise Legilimency - that is the sister branch of Occlumency, offensive attack - to peruse your memories and glean the emotions attached to them. In this way, they would access memories you fear, handing them easy weapons."

Harry heard little past legilimency, reliving again that awful push, hovering half outside his body, the lurching pull from memory to memory, an unwilling witness to things he wished he'd never seen.

He threw Snape a dirty look that the man ignored.

"You are already aware that there is now a deeper connection between you and the Dark Lord. It is inadvisable that this continues-"

"Why is there a deeper connection between us?" Harry asked, surprising even himself and Snape frowned at him.

"It is likely that it has always existed albeit in a dormant form. The Dark Lord has returned with a power far greater than you have ever experienced in your lifetime since he marked you. This was undoubtedly exacerbated when he used your blood-" Harry dug his nails into his hands harshly, "- during his resurrection. The connection likely deepened and evolved to reflect this change in state. Now, when your mind is most vulnerable, when you are sleeping for instance, you are subconsciously accessing this link."

Snape didn't think it was because Harry was corrupted then or at least, he wasn't saying that he did.

"The situation is unusual in the sense that external penetration is not strictly the difficulty between you. The Dark Lord is not directly attacking your mind per say, rather, there is an open link between you which allows you access to his mind."

Harry was barely breathing, listening intently. It also didn't sound like Snape thought Harry could be the cause of this at all and that mattered.

"Those that study Occlumency do so to defend the mind against direct external attacks however I consider the same principles will apply here. In learning to defend your mind, you will be able to close the bridge between you, to cut off the link that binds you."

"So if I learn this Occlumency, I wouldn't see into his mind anymore? I wouldn't see what he's doing?"

"Yes Potter, that is what I've just said-"

"Did Dumbledore tell you I have to learn this?" Did Dumbledore still not trust him?

Snape considered him for a moment, probably wondering whether or not to lie, Harry thought bitterly.

"He did not. I have determined that this is the best course of action." He sounded very much as though he didn't care what Harry thought of that.

"Right. How do I have to learn Occlumency then?" He eyed the books in front of Snape suspiciously.

"I will teach you."

Harry was suddenly very glad there had been no lunch when he came in, how could he be expected to keep the contents of his stomach inside when this was the kind of news lunchtime brought.

Extra lessons with Snape outside of the safe confines of Hogwarts where it was frowned upon to murder students.

"I can't -" Harry gestured to the books of which there were plenty, "it's not just? Can't I just-"

"Occlumency is taught through a blend of both theoretical study and practical demonstration."

"Practical demonstration? Like what you did to me before?" The anger Harry so badly wanted to summon wouldn't come, instead, the revealing dread leeched into his voice as he stared as Snape in disbelief.

"No," Snape said firmly, "not like that. I would not access your mind in such a way when we begin these lessons-"

"Oh really?" Harry was faint, on the brink of death actually, "how long do I have to wait then for you to just decide I'm not going quickly enough and to just-"

"Stop interrupting," Snape's voice, dangerously low, was untethered to any body because Harry couldn't look at the man, not when his mind was racing and his heart was about to burst right out of his body, "learning Occlumency takes time. Beginning with such a forceful penetration would only hinder you in acquiring what is a very delicate mental art. Do not," he snapped when Harry opened his mouth, "interrupt me Potter. Purposive attacks, that is, attacks in which specific memories are sought out, are a highly advanced form of mind magic, one that we will not touch for quite some time, until you have mastered the basics in full."

Harry shrugged, a firm hopelessness enveloping him, despair settling into his bones.

"It's not like I have a choice is it? I just have to do whatever you say since we're alone here, don't I?"

Snape's mouth did something funny, like silent garbled words were trying to come out until he shut it.

"Potter," he finally spoke, evenly, "looking into your mind as I did was unacceptable. I give you my assurance that it will not happen again."

Harry tried not to gape, to quash the swelling panic that he must be dreaming now because this couldn't be real.

But so long as it wasn't real -

"Is that...are you actually saying you were wrong? Or was that some kind of sad attempt at an apology?" he asked Snape incredulously.

Snape, statue still, looked as though he'd been slapped.

Oh what Harry would give to be able to pull that off without consequence.

Shifting in his chair, Snape reluctantly said, "Entering another wizards mind is generally considered to be far within the realm of wrong."

"You're doing it again," Harry was almost whispering, were the walls leaning closer to hear him? "you're saying something but you're saying nothing. You were wrong, not me." It was a revelation and what was stranger, Snape seemed to be sharing it with him.

"Yes Potter," Snape muttered, glaring, "I was wrong to do so. Are you quite content?"

"No," Harry said indignantly, mind reeling, "you haven't even apologised."

"Well then, you have my sincerest apologies." It was bitterly conceded, an apology that very much suited Snape.

Now Harry had nothing to say, had nothing to do but ponder on what event had happened in his life to leave him so brain dead that he'd be lying in his hospital bed, conjuring up this mind boggling scenario. Where Snape apologised to him.

And yet, it didn't end there.

"I...accept that you had no reason to either disclose or confide in me what you had seen," Snape, strainedly pushed on, "That did not give me sufficient recourse to go searching through your mind for answers in the manner that I did, no matter the motivation."

"I wouldn't have told you," is what came tumbling out of Harry's mouth, unbidden.

Snape blinked at him and then seemed to recover.

"Nonetheless, I will not resort to such measures again."

When Harry said nothing, Snape continued, "All I ask is that you are forthcoming from hereon out and I will endeavour to be forthcoming with you in turn. That is fair is it not?"

Harry, still trying to process Snape's sincerest apologies, jerked his head in a motion that could be classed as a nod. If the standards weren't high.

Then, Harry's mind finally started catching up with him.

"Wait. You said learning Occlumency takes time. How much time?"

Crazy though he might be lately, Harry knew he wasn't imagining the uncomfortable shift of Snape's eyes and when Snape did finally look back to him again, he was grim.

"Months."

It hung in the air, that awful, condemning word, fetid and dank.

"Months?" Harry repeated, his mind scrambling for another meaning that could fit the word that made sense in the context of this situation.

"If you are especially diligent and study hard every day, I would say two at the very least."

Snape let him digest that myriad of awful for just a second before he dropped one final terse blow, "For some, it takes longer."

Snape wanted to get inside his head, every single day, for months?

Harry was beginning his transformation into a fish, his mouth opening and closing, nothing but air emitting.

Fishes didn't need to learn Occlumency. Everything would be fine if he were a fish.

Why in God's name wasn't he just a fish?

"I don't have months," Harry finally managed, his high voice alien to himself, "I thought - what about blocking the visions at night? Is this - is there something else I have to do about the visions at night?"

Anything else, he would do anything else.

One glance at Snape though and Harry's stomach went into overdrive. For the first time, the man looked as uncomfortable as Harry felt.

"I am a master Occlumens Potter," nothing could be gleaned from his flat tone, "I have practised the art of Occlumency for almost twenty years, have studied the various techniques and - nuances - of mind magic for a very long time." And that was really nice but Harry didn't have time for a life story right now.

"It is possible, for one well versed in the art of mind magic, to...tether the mind of another individual, to take them under their own mental protection by linking their minds and in doing so...shield their mind from external attack."

A long, long pause settled into the kitchen.

Coldly, Harry said "I hope to fuck you aren't thinking you're going to apply that to me."

Snape's mouth twisted, "Watch your mouth, Potter."

"Me watch my mouth?" Harry snapped, a mild hysteria sneaking into him, "what the hell's coming out of yours?"

"A solution." Snape snarled.

"I'd rather just not sleep until I drop dead."

"Do you think this is a game?" Snape stood abruptly, kicking his chair away and facing the window, "Do you imagine that I wish to spend my days teaching you the tedious business of Occlumency and tethering your ungrateful mind every night on top of that?" He rounded back on Harry, voice rising, "I have no desire to be linked in any way to the likes of you and yet that is what must be done. Protest until your lungs give out if you wish, it will change nothing."

Harry was giving Alice a run for her money, falling so deeply down a mental hole even Voldemort wouldn't be able to find him there.

Snape's mind linked to his, every night. A gut wrenching blow.

This couldn't be happening. A wave of unreality was settling over him, denial blanketing him.

Snape was undeterred, uncaring that Harry was very much gone because the bastard just carried on.

"If there were another way, believe me I would have found it. There is nothing else, no potion to take, no pill or spell or charm. The mind is not a machine to be switched off at will. Sleeping and dreaming are inextricably linked, you cannot remove one without removing the other."

Harry, internally imploding, a person shaped supernova, barely heard him as he carried on.

Snape would find out everything Harry had worked so hard to conceal. No more rooting around for secrets anymore, he would just find them while Harry slept on, oblivious.

What could he do, despair swallowed him, what could he do?

"Potter, are you paying attention?"

Harry shook his head. Goading Snape into murdering him danced through his mind attractively.

Snape didn't even raise his wand, didn't do anything except sigh loudly as though he were the put upon party.

He sat back down and Harry looked at him, frowning, dour, a mournful face in attendance at the funeral of Harry's soul.

"The circumstances are far from ideal," Snape acknowledged tersely, "but they must be weathered."

Harry had been weathering the circumstances for too long, he felt, the circumstances were really weathering him.

"Tethering a mind does not entail the penetration of it, Potter. Our conscious minds would be linked, nothing more."

As if that wasn't bad enough.

"How's being linked different?" Harry questioned, his treacherous voice wavering.

"It does not permit me to access your thoughts or memories for one," Snape explained slowly, "The method of Occlumency that I will teach you during the day will focus on when an attacker tries to access thoughts and memories in your mind. Linking a mind to another does nothing of the sort. There is no attempted intrusion, my mind does not seek access to your mind. Our consciousnesses will exist in the same sphere, within the protections of my Occlumency defences, but that is as far as it goes. Our minds, metaphorically speaking, remain shut to each other, to a certain extent."

"What certain extent? How does it even work then if you're not in my mind like you say?"

"It works because my mind is only shielding yours. If I put my hand on the top of your head," Harry visibly grimaced at the thought, "it can hardly be said that I am inside your mind. My hand remains external, on top of your body only, a barrier if someone were to throw something at your head. It is no different when minds are linked, to the extent that I will link us anyway."

That at the very least sounded better but the implication of us was still enough to make Harry feel sour.

"My mind isn't a physical thing though, how can yours be externally on top of mine, shielding it?"

"That is where the hand on head metaphor reaches its limit, Potter," Snape said, almost wearily, "it is unlikely that you will grasp the minutiae of mind shielding in one afternoon. How the link works is irrelevant for your purposes. Our minds will be linked at the very lowest level possible at night, this will shield your mind for now whilst you learn Occlumency. Eventually, you ought to become adept enough that this link will be unnecessary."

Ought to, no guarantee, no certainty, just ought to?

"What if I don't eventually become adept enough?"

"I suggest that you leave that attitude behind you for the remainder of the summer, Potter. 'Don'ts and can'ts have no place in your current curriculum."

Current curriculum.

This would be like being at school, except during the summer holidays. For months. Without the safeguards of anyone else around him. And Snape would be wiggling around in his mind with his practical demonstrations during the day and they'd be fucking mentally mind linked at night.

How had it come to this?

"Do you have any questions?" Snape ought to stop with that, he never even asked that at school when he was bloody paid to teach students. Harry really didn't need to deal with Snape acting like he'd been body snatched on top of everything else.

This much confusion was enough confusion.

There were so many questions - could Snape get stuck in his mind, was this even safe, had anyone actually done this before and was he absolutely sure there wasn't a way to fast track this course so that it could be squeezed into the next 10 hours before bed?

"You're absolute sure," Harry said uncertainly, "you're sure it will work? I won't see anything?"

Snape considered him for a moment, Harry shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

Finally he said, "I am sure."

"Does Dumbledore know you're doing this?"

Snape shook his head, "We have yet to discuss the matter and before you ask, I have not forgotten to query the letters either."

That jolted Harry uncomfortably. Snape doing something for him was well within the realm of strange and to remember without Harry even prompting? Maybe he was actually going to do it.

"Is that it?" Snape asked impatiently.

"Yes, I guess."

Snape slid a piece of paper over to him, his draft schedule, Harry noted painfully. Magical studies in the morning, theory of Occlumency for three hours in the afternoon and two hours of practical demonstration before dinner.

Harry never thought he'd miss lying in his room at Privet Drive and pretending that he didn't exist.

"Start with this for a few days, then I will re-evaluate whether any changes should be made. You may start today with the theoretical side of Occluding," Snape pushed forward a book - Occluding Theory, "the relevant chapters are tabbed. Do not read anything outside of that. The practical technique I will teach you differs from the standard technique described at various stages of this book."

"Okay," Harry muttered, uncaring, needing to get out right now.

"Practical demonstration will begin tomorrow."

Tomorrow could die in a hole for all Harry cared. Screw Snape and screw his practical demonstrations too.

"Is that it then?" Harry forced out, unclenching his aching hands.

Snape waved him off dismissively.

He made to leave.

"One last thing, Potter," Harry calmed his urge to hex him on the spot, "your tardiness did not go unnoticed. Do not make a habit of it."

More demands, more stipulations, oh they were coming in droves now weren't they.

Stomping up the stairs though, Harry could celebrate one cheerless win, Snape had forgotten about lunch.

Chapter Text

Orange was a useless lurid colour, Harry decided. The overstenched geraniums Petunia grew, in rigid lines, soldiers unbending and unyielding to true nature. The too-sharp sickly tang of juice, textured citrus, oozing pulpy and acrid.

Orange was the caustic, creeping bile still layering his throat, insistently symbiotic.

Drained of saturation, pale and sickly orange, went the dismal, half chewed chunks of pasta from dinner, steadily sliding down the sink towards the drain, his disposable secret.

The dual sense of triumph and uncertainty were braided in a thick rope, binding Harry's aching throat tightly as he watched his dinner ooze away from him, curiously blank.

This was...good, he settled on. Now he had proven himself again. Now even Snape couldn't stop him.

Yes, it had taken an unrelenting push from inside himself, an absolute iron will to bear through through that sickening pull - heaving, heaving and heaving until -

Empty, blissful, gone.

(Jarring, dizzy, hurt)

It was better, Harry even thought privately, quietly. Better that this infliction had hurt so. Because that was strength too. That was justice.

Worth it.

He looked dispassionately at his shaking fingers, still glistening with his own saliva and turned away quickly.

Harry rinsed his mouth thoroughly, churning and swallowing water convulsively.

He allowed triumph to reign though as he hastily scrubbed the sink of its peachy residue, washing it all away, cleansing it so thoroughly and leaving nothing behind.

This was winning.

And it was thrilling.

The tables had finally been evened out, now Harry could play the game just as effectively as Snape.

He finally had something. Possession induced something like buoyancy in Harry who felt beyond reproach for the first time in a long time.

Worth it, he reminded himself firmly.

In the room, Harry muddled over his thoughts continuously, something soothing in tearing a thing apart again and again, finding the minute details he could cloak himself in.

This wasn't as good as not eating entirely, didn't hold the same purity, that was true. But these were the circumstances. Eliciting Snape's suspicion any further was unthinkable.

This was a lesson, Harry decided, a lesson in adaptability. A skill to build like any other. He almost felt gleeful because now it didn't matter that he had to eat in front of others. That when he went back to Hogwarts, where there would be eyes all over him, there was a way out from all of it.

He shelved away the immediate trembling after the act, the unbearable lurch inside himself. The unnerving, all encompassing panic at that unnatural, forceful summoning of caustic, acidic tomatoey bile -

Punishment should not be comfortable, he reproached himself.

He settled on the window ledge, grasping his dizzy, spinning parody of happiness tightly.

Empty again, the world was finally righted.

Harry had anticipated a grievously drawn out, possibly painful, bordering on torturous process to link their minds that night.

Instead, Snape simply held out his wand and closed his eyes, focusing intently.

There was a strange nudge at the back of his neck and Harry slapped his hand over it automatically. But the sensation had moved upwards towards the crown of his head, a light buzzing that spread out like warm droplets of water scattered all over and encompassing the top of his head.

It felt a little like wearing a throbbing hairnet.

Would Snape really dole out death by fucking bees? he entertained the thought briefly, dismayed.

The sensation seized as though pulled tightly and then -

The buzzing dropped and it left behind only that faint presence at the back of his neck again, as though a scarf rested there. Light, unexpectedly unobtrusive, but very much there.

Harry glanced up at Snape who had lowered his wand and watched him inscrutably.

Testing, Harry thought maliciously, come in greasy git.

Snape gave no indication that he'd heard, merely pocketed his wand and made to leave as though Harry were terribly boring.

"When will it finish?" Harry asked loudly.

Snape curtly replied without turning back, "When I sever it tomorrow morning."

He left Harry alone with the finger-light sensation nestled at his nape and a coiling ache in his stomach, comforting in its wretched familiarity.

Whatever the linking process had lacked in ceremony, Harry promptly made up for it afterwards, painting its daunting presence vividly, conjuring scenario upon scenario of terrifying things Snape could do to him now that they were bound.

Could this allow Snape to control his mind, his thoughts, his body? What he'd have Harry do was beyond his comprehension though and it was probably better not to dwell on it.

A flicker of a memory skittered through his mind. Moody and Imperio and spiders in a classroom and Neville's face as he'd watched Moody - no, Crouch - torturing the insect beyond belief and why was it that Crouch hadn't just made Harry go head first into that bucket in the classroom and drown himself the way he'd almost done the spider because that really would have saved everyone a lot of trouble and Cedric would still be alive and now that he really thought about it, he'd been alone with Crouch on so many occasions - the man had had so much time to just end it all-

It didn't bear thinking about, he reminded himself firmly, bitterness twisting inside him.

Perhaps Snape would finally look to get even with him, Harry mused, to dole out some punishments for both real and imagined infractions, inflicting a multitude of mental pains, of scenes that would drive one to madness. But then, those had already come and gone. And Harry was still intact. Mostly. Physically.

No, the foremost concern was one that Snape had already proven himself adept at. The prodding, the digging, pushing Harry open forcibly and prying the self out of him until there was nothing left but husked, barren remains.

To be seen, truly seen, for everything Harry knew he was...he shuddered to himself.

Lying in the covers, for the first time truly aware, was strangely infantile. Bedspreads and soft downy covers and rest belonged to Hogwarts. Not to Privet Drive where peace was a fleeting dream and it wouldn't do to be caught unawares. Not to Snape's house either where the threat couldn't even be pinioned to something as simple as a Vernon or Petunia. The threat was everywhere. Hiding in the covers did nothing to deter it, not when it was sitting neatly on the back of him.

Was this grade A paranoia talking? Sure. But Harry hadn't let that realisation stop him before and it certainly didn't now.

Instead, each time he felt the gossamer string of sleep winding around him, he startled awake in panic, slapping his neck in alarm at the strange and unaccustomed presence that lingered there, unseeable, etched deep.

Harry sighed deeply and stared at the ceiling, stomach cavernous, catacomb-like in its infinite void. Tiredness lingered inside him too, dragging his eyes and pulling at him all over like a stroppy toddler, needling him to just give up and fucking go to sleep already.

Harry couldn't.

On feeling his mind drift, he frantically snatched it back again, idly aware that this couldn't go on forever yet fighting it all the same.

Childish, that's what this was.

The door opened unexpectedly, startling him from his dazed reverie, his stupid half-sleep.

"Why," came Snape's scathing voice, "are you not asleep?"

"Why the hell do you think?" Was Snape the only one allowed to be irritated? Harry was greedy for possession over the emotion he knew too well, irritation lived in his blood.

"I did not take you for one to bow to cowardice, this is not trying."

"I don't care what you take me for," Harry hissed, sitting up, "this - this isn't going to work."

"There is nothing for you to do except sleep," Snape's anger bled through unfiltered, a tautness that could snap at any moment lingered in the air as he glared, "are you so incompetent that you cannot even sleep?"

"I can't sleep knowing that you're in my head."

Harry tried desperately to pretend he was anywhere else, clean linen, a soft hand trailing through his hair-

"I am not inside your head even remotely," Snape, ever the grim spectre decimating his calming vision, "get a grip and go to sleep."

"How can you tell I'm not asleep if you're not in my head even remotely?" Harry snapped.

"I can sense it, you idiot boy."

"What the hell does that mean?" Harry's voice was rising in anger too, "what else can you sense-"

"Enough Potter," Snape spoke dangerously lowly, surveying him with displeasure, "This is uncomfortable, I concur. As we have discussed several times, it is also inevitable. Know when you are defeated Potter. Fighting is pointless. You are tired. Sleep."

"It's not that easy."

There was a pause before Snape gave something of his trademark sigh that Harry was beginning to understand preceded something long and arduous.

"It will become easier with time, you will adapt to the sensation. It is neither obtrusive nor uncomfortable, you are being ridiculous." He could have been reading from a script, so crisp were the words, so...unfeeling.

Harry said nothing. Exhaustion was crippling him, coupled with the dizziness that hadn't truly left since dinner had been...disposed of.

He might have been crafted from paper, so flimsy he felt.

"It is late Potter," Snape said finally, a strange tone permeated his voice, forced, stilted, "try to sleep."

Harry flipped the words around long after Snape had left.

Try to sleep.

He heard this in Petunia's girlish tone, needling Dudley when he stayed up nearly all night, mashing buttons and hollering into his headset. When Mrs Weasley caught him and Ron, chatting late into the night again. Her fondness and often, her exasperation, bleeding through freely alongside loving intent that couldn't be masked no matter how many times she had to tell them during the holidays. Even Madam Pomfrey, shooing off his visitors and glancing back at him, ever warm with kindness, chiding him in her stern and affectionate way.

Try to sleep.

Here Snape was, peddling the same phrase, only with the wrong tone. It was all off, Harry couldn't understand it but it was all off. Try to sleep wasn't a threat, it wasn't unpleasant and it wasn't cruel. What then was it doing in Snape's vocabulary? Who had addled Snape's brain and rewired it to produce such a thing?

Here then was another layer added to their ridiculous bond, another element to pick over and wonder and wonder and wonder.

With a roiling broth of annoyance and uncertainty warring deep within him, eventually Harry drifted and forgot to snatch himself back...

Hurt her, the voice crooned, soft as a lullaby.

Yes, that was right.

You like this, it whispered quietly, you want to hurt her so desperately.

He did, oh he did.

You are aching for it.

He was, he always was.

You can do it.

Could he? That gave him pause.

H u r t h e r, it purred, cold and deep, pleased and dead all in one.

Opening his eyes was coming alive, being reborn. The colours ached and burned, swirled with a refusal to settle and skittered all around him, watercolour birds, whirring and spreading.

But she was there. In the midst of it all. Nestled like a fine jewel in a velvet lined box.

For him.

And he could hurt her if he wanted to.

Yes, it soothed him, it is your right.

And he was soothed because it was right.

She trembled and shook, her hazed mouth soundless in its cries. No face, all blur, a mass of writhing orange atop her.

Young and supple and ripe and ready.

He raised his wand, words spilled out, he was soundless too-

S c r e a m i n g.

Pleasure, pleasure, he whined to himself, more, more, hurt her!

"Harry!" she came into focus only slightly, her gaze still distorted, fear pulsing there.

Harry?

He shook his head, distractions! Scum and filth and dirt poured from her.

He raised his wand, his hand - his hand? Sickly pale with long curved nails, the wand bone-white, straight and cruel?

Again, he struck her hard and fast.

Rip and slash. Rip and slash.

Like the swaying of a boat, rhythmic, rocking, so very smooth.

"Harry!"

There was no Harry! Only rage, so enduring, all consuming, decimating. He struck her again.

His electric red streaks rebounded, striking her and slashing back towards him too quickly, too quickly-

The impact. Searing, lightning agony.

Sluggish, slowed, he looked down at the sliced pieces, the warm red and sticky flow from the flesh bulging out of the deep gashes he had made of himself.

His hands cupped at the remaining shreds of his stomach, those bone-white maggoty fingers crawling around boiling hot meat, searing and spilling all over his hands, his robes, his feet-

"Harry!"

Finally, he saw her.

Ginny.

Horror engulfed him, clawed at him frantically as she bled and bled and bled, frothed and sputtered, spilling deep red down herself, her gushing mouth unable to choke out his name again.

He had removed all the Ginny and here dangled a sordid puppetry instead, all slashed ribbons of gore and flesh misplaced and pulsing, her sopping honey drizzled fear leaking everywhere, spreading -

He tried to reach her, extended one awful, slathered red, bone-white tipped hand and slipped in his own entrails, soaking wet and wrapping around him tightly, he opened his mouth to scream -

Everything.

Was.

Gone.

Focus on my voice, only on me.

But he couldn't see, he couldn't focus. How could he focus?

Focus, channel your thoughts, find me.

Harry's despair clawed at him as he drowned in his own mind.

Entrails, entrails, entrails, he thought, deliriously.

Come back to your body, focus on me Potter.

Potter? What was Potter? He ached and bled and burned all over. Was that Potter?

Calm down, you know yourself.

He was Harry. He was Potter.

And he'd gone somewhere, somewhere very far away.

Now it is time to come back, slowly.

Turn back, he thought insistently, angrily, Ginny was in trouble and he had to turn back.

Ripped apart, broken bones and strips of awful hanging flesh -

Slowly, the voice cautioned again, come back slowly.

He couldn't fight, he couldn't kick, there was no self, there was no him.

You know yourself, find yourself, slowly now.

Ignoring the voice entirely, he flailed, panicked and was yanked abruptly up up up-

Slowly!

Harry choked and sputtered as he woke, expelled forcefully back into his body, eyes still clenched shut. The ghost of cool fingertips at his temple lingered for just a second before they were gone. Harry clawed madly at his chest and stomach, desperate to keep those shredded slices in place, panic owning him, flashes of electric red still burning his vision, even with his eyes firmly shut.

"Potter! Stop!" Hands grasped his own flailing arms tightly, with one arm he broke free though and struck something hard.

"Get off," Harry screamed, a hand reclaimed his wily arm, "stop, stop! Ginny," he hollered, unseeing, anguished, "Ginny!"

"Potter - enough, enough!"

He thrashed hard, trying to clutch at himself, to free his arms and stuff his dripping sopping liquid red warm back inside-

"-just a dream, calm down, it was not real -"

A sob tore out of him.

"-stop, open your eyes, Potter, stop -"

Rousing finally, so slowly, he registered Snape.

Touching him, clutching at his shoulders tightly.

Harry opened his eyes at last, gasping, and there he was, face pinched and pale (too close), a spread of shock and concern and still touching Harry-

He yanked himself free finally and they both gaped at each other -

"Ginny," Harry gasped at him madly, "he's got her, he's got her!"

Snape was already shaking his head, already disbelieving. Harry, his alien fury writhing inside, hands throbbing from holding the blood-hot red raw strips of himself let out a half shriek.

"He has! Didn't you see?" he questioned Snape wildly, pointing at him, kneeling up on the bed, "did you see it, didn't you see her there?" Harry demanded, frothing inside, set to boil and ready to spill over.

Snape, ever Harry's incarnation of frustration, actually sat on the bed next to Harry, looked him in the eye calmly, as though the world were not in tatters, and said, "It was not real, she is not there-"

"I saw it!" Harry yelled, adrenaline and fear warring within him, why wasn't Snape doing anything? Why wasn't he doing anything?

Still the man just shook his head, lips pursed tightly, raising his hand as though to placate-

"We have to go!" Harry snapped again, shoving Snape who stood quickly. Harry tried to stand and stumbled immediately.

Snape steadied his shoulder, his grip unrelenting and pushed him back down, carefully.

Harry faltered, no teenage boy in sight, just a docile lamb with spindly legs, his head spinning with the tinny aftermath of screaming, droning in his ears.

Useless, he despaired.

"You dreamt it, do you understand?" Snape spoke urgently but quietly, "You dreamt it, this was no vision planted, no attempt at subterfuge, you were dreaming -"

"No!" Harry hissed, shaking his head madly, heart hammering intensely, "no, it's happening! It's real, it's happening right now Snape for fucks sake right now!"

"It is not, Potter. There has been no external contact, you were asleep, it was not real-"

"Fuck you're so useless!" Harry couldn't stem the despair dripping into him, pouring out of him in sooth, "you - you," he gasped wildly, "you don't even care-"

"Potter, just stop," who was he to sound so disconcerted? "Take a moment and breathe. Think rationally-"

"She's dying!" Harry choked out. The world was falling away, Ginny was dying and he could do nothing and why, why, why did it always come down to this?

Snape seized his shirt, pulling it forward, so Harry could see his stomach, his chest as he looked down, bewildered, "Look at yourself!" Snape demanded, "There are no wounds, it was not real."

Harry smacked Snape's hands away, he didn't matter.

Ginny. In pieces.

By his own hands.

He looked down at them, trembling but not drenched in unforgivable red, not pallid white and curdled underneath, gnarled and mired from a diseased life.

Not the hands that had wreaked devastation on Cedric. That were out there somewhere now, trying to do the same to Ginny.

Ginny, Harry thought achingly, could still be spared. He could still save someone.

Crestfallen, with nothing left, Harry looked up at Snape and pleaded, "Do something."

There was no comprehending Snape's guarded expression as the man clamped his mouth shut, no understanding that Harry could drudge up. The stilted seconds passed between them painfully until something finally seemed to click within him, at last.

Snape took out his wand and Harry finally breathed.

He understands.

A whirl of his wand, a murmured incantation and a swishy silvery phantom poured from it, liquid-like and burning bright. His patronus.

"Status update, any disturbances?" Snape murmured and watched it leap away, dissipating into nothing.

Quiet could not settle in the room because Harry was still panting from exertion, losing the battle with his aching heart that longed to depart from its prison behind his ribs, to chase that soaring patronus, his only hope.

"How - long?" he managed.

"A few minutes...they will need time to check before they respond."

Mired with exhaustion, Harry slumped back against the headboard and closed his eyes.

A glass of water was pressed into his hand. Drink, came the terse command.

So Harry drank.

Sloppily, spilling it over himself haphazardly, uncaring, tense and on the verge of imploding. Agony seared into him at every second that passed.

Too long, too long, too long, he despaired.

The glass was taken from his trembling hands.

His top was uncomfortably wet in places and he batted at it absently, soothed that there were no heavy guts hanging there. His school bag was heavy enough on its own, he really didn't have the strength to start carrying his own guts around as well.

They waited.

Snape, quiet, watching Harry as thought he couldn't tell.

As though sitting here, having a fucking heart attack waiting made him blind.

Harry felt it before he saw it, the warmth of the responding patronus as it scurried to them, a lemur, Harry noted vaguely.

"All well, nothing to report."

And that, Harry realised faintly, was irrefutable. From Mr Weasley himself. Mr Weasley, who loved Ginny so much that he wrote to her every week of her first term to ask how she was, if she needed anything, if Ron was helping with her homework.

Ginny, who was alive. Who would be fine, despite Harry and this damning chaos he lugged around, his own personal whirlwind, a spinning omen of death.

The relief, so palpably sweet, so achingly real settled with him, calmed him for one brief moment before the reality of his present smacked him so hard he thought he might keel over.

Harry's body was in a free fall, his stomach entirely convinced that he had climbed to the tallest tower of Hogwarts and tried to jump off, the corresponding drop in his stomach was unbearable.

It wasn't real.

The relief didn't so much pass as it was forcefully ejected from his body and mortification quickly took its place, coursing within him, cold and cruel.

Snape had witnessed all of that.

Harry couldn't look up, couldn't face it, stared only at the bed, if only he could collapse into a pile of bedsheets.

"Are you contented?" Snape asked, slowly.

Harry nodded jerkily.

Should he apologise? Even that felt like too much concession, too much confession.

Snape had seen Ginny, had seen him doing that to her.

Harry might just drop dead from delirium, from the anxiety that was tunnelling deep inside himself, hollowing him more and more, day by day.

A thought occurred to him so suddenly that it wiped the anxiety away cleanly-

"How did you see that?" Harry demanded, uncertainty and confusion rushing through him, "you said that our minds wouldn't be linked like that, you said you couldn't see into my head!"

Lying git, Harry raged.

"And that is correct," Snape frowned at him, "the link utilised was a low level bond-"

"And yet you somehow magically managed to see everything I just dreamt, that's awfully convenient isn't it?" Harry snapped, flushed and still unsteady.

"You are, once again, refusing to listen to reason," Snape condescended, "we were linked at a very low level, that much is true however, our minds were still linked and if you are able to recall," he sounded much as though he thought Harry were incapable of such a thing, "our consciousnesses exist in the same sphere whilst we are bound. Regardless of whether either of us want contact, it is still possible to connect in such a way with each other, should we choose to."

Harry glared at him.

Snape glared back, equally unimpressed, both of them reflecting suspicion and annoyance, the most unpleasant mirror image Harry could imagine.

"For once Potter, you might consider exercising some critical thinking skills. Why, outside of the context of this situation, would any two people wish to link minds?"

Harry shrugged, unwilling to focus his mind on bloody critical thinking skills when not ten minutes earlier he'd been desperately trying to stuff his essentials back inside like a human Build-A-Bear.

"To communicate, Potter," Snape stressed, "It is no small feat to link one's mind to another and it would never be done lightly however many people use these links as a way to communicate for example for those that are unable to speak or for those who are deaf or blind or require extra assistance. Linking minds, at any level, usually pertains to communication between individuals. In our context, I have linked my mind to yours to shield it, an unusual although not unheard of reason to link minds. Your mind reached out to communicate with mine, you opened the door so to speak."

"I wouldn't do that," Harry said woodenly, skin crawling at the implications of reaching out to Snape. Reach out to slap him maybe.

"Subconsciously it appears you would. You needn't cry about it Potter, it is unlikely that you knew what you were doing," Snape conceded thoughtfully, "Your subconscious mind likely sensed a connection and acted on it, envisioning that you were in some danger."

"So I opened the door and what? Knocked on yours?" Harry would believe that never, "why did you answer?"

Snape's lip curled unpleasantly, his jaw clenching tightly and Harry, once more, couldn't understand what it meant.

"In case it was of importance." He was so stiff that Harry didn't know what the hell to make of it. Was Snape calling him unimportant? Or was he saying the nightmare was important?

He said nothing, unable to decipher Snape's intentions and tired beyond belief at every day of his life.

Snape seemed to have run out of things to say and Harry needed him to leave.

So he could soothe himself with Mr Weasleys short words over and over again, so he could take off his top and make sure everything was whole there, so he could just gather himself instead of always watching the pieces scatter, dispersed and distant from him.

What was Snape waiting for? Harry frowned at his awkward hovering as he stood over Harry at a slight distance and didn't seem inclined to move.

"What now then?" he asked him and Snape, who'd been looking elsewhere, beyond him, glanced back at him.

Snape shook his head slowly.

"What?" Harry snapped, fired up over nothing, again.

"This will likely occur again." was what Snape finally said, calmly.

Harry scoffed, feeling ridiculously small.

"So sorry to disturb your beauty sleep," he spat, "it's not like I can help it."

"No, it is not," Snape agreed, to his absolute astonishment, "You must turn your focus now to Occlumency in its entirety. The study of remedying your magical outbursts will be removed from your schedule for the time being."

"You still said it would be months before I could do it myself," Harry accused him hollowly, "I can't stop the dreams."

Would that he could. Better yet, he'd transfer them to Snape and stand by his bedside with popcorn to wait and watch.

Was that what Snape had been doing? The absolute creep. He'd probably known exactly what was going on and was content to do nothing.

That voice though, the voice inside that had pulled him back...

"Potter," Snape continued firmly, cutting his thoughts off, "The more that you study Occlumency, the easier it will become to regain control over your dreaming state. Occlumency defends the mind but in doing so, requires the user to be in a calm and tranquil state. The more you practise ensuring your mind is blank, clear and calm, the easier it will become for that state to permeate into your dreaming state. Simply put, the better your defences in fending off attacks that we practise, the more those defences will come into play, even subconsciously whilst you sleep. In this way, Occlumency offers a dual advantage, the mind becomes clear and controlled. In exercising further discipline over your emotions, you will also become adept at clearing your mind."

"So how long until I can stop the dreams?" Harry asked, uncaring of the drivel.

"I could not possibly say until we have begun."

"Then what the hell do you want me to do?" this whole conversation was one frustration after another, "I can't stop my subconscious mind even if I'd never knock on your bloody mental door even if I was dying."

"I do not want you to do anything. There is nothing at this stage that either of us could do to remedy your dreaming state."

Harry gaped, his confusion might just physically manifest itself with how hefty it was. What the hell did Snape want then?

"If you are trying to ask a question Potter," Snape said, through gritted teeth, "simply ask it directly. I cannot understand what you are working yourself up for."

"I'm asking what you want me to do about the fact that I came knocking on your mental door and you answered. If I can't stop the dreams myself right now and this is going to keep happening, you should just stop opening the door when I knock and then there won't be a problem will there?"

That was a perfectly reasonable explanation and yet -

"What is the problem you envisage?" Snape asked blandly, brows raised.

"What is the...?" Harry gaped for a second, "the problem is waking you up every time I think I've seen something that's really nothing and you having to -" Harry grasped for the words, "- having to, I don't know, deal with it."

Snape stared at him, still uncomprehending and Harry started to wonder if a slap might be the factory reset they both needed.

"You don't - you don't want to deal with that." The regret was instant once the words had escaped. How pathetic.

"We will be linked mentally every night Potter, it is no...hardship, to wake you if you are...struggling." Snape seemed to be struggling with that whole sentence, Harry thought hazily, as though he were grappling with some invisible force. Yes, the invisible forces of not being a prick.

"These are the circumstances-"

"Oh yes, " Harry interrupted scathingly, "this situation-"

"Shut up Potter," Snape had reached his limit, Harry realised, "should you experience another nightmare, I will wake you. That is all."

Harry wondered at the truth behind those clipped words. No one wanted to deal with this. Harry didn't want to deal with this.

Bitterly, he reflected on how Dumbledore had still sent him back to Privet Drive even after the bars on his window, how Sirius had promised him a home, something they could build together, that never came to fruition. How Remus, his father's only friend that wasn't gone after his parents were who still didn't care enough to reply back to his letters.

Snape couldn't be the exception to that. Harry knew he wasn't worth exceptions, that he hadn't truly earned a home or safety, that he didn't deserve peace. These were distant concepts, for other people. Not for him.

"Fine," Harry muttered, unbelieving, "but I didn't ask you to or anything." Why would he concede even more than what Snape had already taken from him, could already hold over him? How little sleep did he need to lessen the dreadful hours where that awful turncoat, that traitor, dream-Harry, would turn his back on his sleeping self and wake Snape for aid.

Snape would probably figure out a way to construct a better barrier between them anyway, a mental Berlin Wall type thing that dream-Harry could curse at all night long. Impossible to scale with spikes between the bricks as an extra deterrent. He wouldn't be dealing with Harry again after tonight, the man would wash his hands of him, like everyone else did.

Harry reached out to stretch and was rewarded with a strained twinge in his wrist. He flexed it, uncomprehending.

"Did I-" Harry broke off, cleared his throat and decided to poke the bear anyway, "did I hit you sir?"

"It would appear so." Snape said coolly and a thrill of dread struck Harry.

Some dreams do come true, a part of him still managed to think, hazily.

"Will you sleep again?" Snape asked, straightforwardly, no lace or frills, shedded of the usual niceties that anyone else would have propounded.You should really sleep more Harry, those pitying, condescending voices, faces pinched with worry, Harry you really ought to get some rest.

He shook his head. Snape just sighed and waved his wand briefly.

The light nestling sensation at the back of his neck ceased immediately, Harry had nearly forgotten it was even there.

"I'd sleep if you'd give me a Dreamless Sleep," Harry muttered, half hopeful, fiddling idly with the seams of the sheets.

"You took a double dose not two days ago, you cannot take it again."

"When can I then?"

Expected a scathing reply, Snape surprised him.

"Another four days, possibly."

Progress, Harry triumphed, a victory potentially. Snape apparently saw his glee too because he carried on immediately, frowning.

"Do not mistake me Potter. I have no intention of returning you to the headmaster as a desperate addict. You may take Dreamless Sleep under my purvey only and sparingly at that."

"But now you finally agree I can have it often though?" Harry asked, cautiously, still pleased at the thought of just a drop of dreamless sleep and he really ought to pull his mind back to considering where Snape was keeping those-

"I agree only that one night, perhaps per week, away from tethering our minds and a guarantee of dreamless sleep is now necessary for you."

That sounded like exactly what Harry had just said but here was the real Snape in all his shabby glory again, emerged again from his macabre cocoon, cutting down Harry's victories at any given chance.

Reminding him that he couldn't even do something as simple as sleep without assistance.

What did it matter if Harry became a desperate addict? His time was limited and they all knew it. Of course Snape wouldn't care either way, would prefer to pretend Harry wasn't marching ever closer to his death so he wouldn't have to deal with him. It was to be unspoken then, the ticking clock on the remainder of his life. What harm could the Dreamless Sleep do to him then?

"Right, whatever," Harry muttered, something was creeping into him, urging him to disappear under the blankets and never emerge again.

"Get up," Snape said decisively, evidently sensing his desires, "Make your bed, clean up and come downstairs for breakfast. We might as well make a start on the day, the sooner we begin, the sooner you can apply what you have learned."

"What I've learned?" Harry questioned in disbelief, "it's been one day."

"Yes," Snape muttered as he walked to the door, "and lucky us, we have so many more ahead."

Chapter Text

"If it is not to your liking, make yourself something else," Snape told him brusquely over the thick manuscript propped between them.

"It's fine," Harry muttered, stabbing at the leftovers, pasta salad. Stupid penne. Big painne in the ass is what it was.

"Then eat it instead of whatever you are doing with it now."

Harry studied Snape instead, frowning.

He'd been lucky with breakfast, the warden had graciously overlooked that he'd only nibbled at a few grapes.

Oh it had still been an awkward affair and that was hardly likely to change but the questioning never came. No healers knocked at the door, nobody came with thick straps to velcro him down like a Potter Sandal and send him away. And Snape hadn't even needled at him for his lack of appetite after what had happened. That he'd file away for later, a get out of jail free card to use sparingly.

Instead, the man had pushed and prodded about his health.

Was he still dizzy? Did he feel unwell? If there were any new symptoms, he was to disclose them immediately.

Relief gave way to suspicion, as it always did. And yet...Snape had checked if the dream was real, he had reached out to Mr Weasley.

And he'd done it, Harry realised strangely, because Harry had asked him to.

So, he frowned at Snape and his thick wall of manuscript as though he could stare either of them into revealing their contents, aware quite suddenly of the puzzle that was scattered before him. Since when was Snape a puzzle that Harry would ever want to solve?

Apparently, he had drifted for too long.

"Potter," Snape lowered the manuscript on the table and stared at him, inscrutably, "what are you doing?"

Harry shrugged and stabbed hatefully at another piece of pasta and spinach, moving it around the plate. Where was his accidental magic when he needed things vaporised? What good was magic at all if he couldn't throw his pasta through a void in the floor straight to all the homeless dogs in London? The system was broken, Harry thought morosely.

"You're halfway there," Snape dipped his chin towards Harry's fork in a half sneer, "this is the part where you put it in your mouth and eat it."

Harry did, frothing with hatred as he stared back at Snape who furrowed his brow in turn, glancing down at Harry's plate again.

"Three grapes is hardly enough sustenance for the day," great so Snape had been counting the grapes this morning too, "You ought to eat well now before we begin the practical demonstration this afternoon. The experience of meditation can be particularly physically taxing."

"Meditation?" Harry asked through what might have been a mouthful of wet ashes, so thick and cloying it was in his throat, "why am I meditating?"

"Because it is a necessity for Occlumency."

Snape turned his attention back to the manuscript, clearly uncaring of what Harry thought of that. Harry put his fork down as unobtrusively as he could, thinking hard.

How stupid it was to skimp out on breakfast when Snape had left him alone after it anyway, when there would have been time abundant to...dispose of it.

A whispering foolishness stole over Harry. He'd read the schedule, he'd known that they'd be doing whatever practical demonstration together after lunch.

Snape had already let breakfast go, Harry sighed to himself, now he was being difficult about lunch.

A new blooming headache blossomed steadily all the way down to Harry's jaw when he considered dinner.

The Dursleys at least could be counted upon to forget Harry altogether, how would they have remembered whether he'd eaten even once a day? Dodging meals three times a day was becoming an exhausting and infuriating affair.

Do people really even need to eat three times a day?

He didn't want to waste food and either way it was being completely wasted on him. Harry couldn't eat it and he didn't deserve to either.

Haven't earned it.

Snape had left him to study after breakfast with those thick tabbed chapters and Harry had tried, really really tried.

There was just so much to parse through. His mind, thick and soggy, still clinging to Ginny and slashes of flesh seething out of him devolved into an unworkable machine. A thick curtain of exhaustion hung around him, it's weight dogging him, caging him.

The book couldn't penetrate it, couldn't reach Harry in the place he'd locked himself in.

Stupid, so fucking stupid, he'd chided himself, frustration birthing a new and animalistic urge within him. To scream, to fight, to hurt. Then, he'd scratched his nails deep into his wrists, satisfaction shooting through him as quickly as the flashing pain lit up within him, sparking through his arms and burning. How he deserved.

The marks had faded after a short while, no harm done, he thought sourly, disappointed at the fleeting sensation. Wanting more.

What was wrong with him that he felt this way? Why was he so twisted up, so wrongly cut and badly weaved that he couldn't just feel normal?

Then that had eaten him up for so long that the book in front of him might as well have been written in Troll Tongue for all that Harry could keep up with it, marred as his thoughts were.

Some things had stuck. Occlumency was a form of mind magic- both defensive and offensive. Occlumency utilised mental defences to shield off mental attacks. It was commonly used to close off the mind during battles and duels to avoid vulnerability of thoughts in high tension moments when the mind was more vulnerable.

The rest had just leaked out of Harry like a slowly dwindling balloon. A few short clumsy sentences were all that could be pressed out of him, the deficient results of hours of studying.

So a thick tension settled inside him that morning, Snape was expecting him to have learnt something. That he hadn't was highlighting his offensive failures, handing Snape more evidence that he was lazy and useless, inept at everything he tried.

"I am quite tired of repeating myself," Snape interrupted his reverie, annoyance clear, "eat your lunch, now."

So Harry ate. Hating Snape, hating penne fucking pasta and hating himself most of all.

Dinner though, dinner was not happening.

Perhaps the constant disgust within himself could be smothered, the anger kept at bay if he could just avoid dinner. Everything else was just slipping through his fingers. Harry couldn't be helpless anymore, couldn't just not take responsibility. If he was eating more than usual, it was his fault and only he could stop it.

Three grapes could be excused, Harry considered fairly, but a whole lunch? That was something else entirely. More tangible evidence of weaknesses, of a failure that Harry was so desperately trying to purge.

If he burned and burned and burned at it, what was left - that self, that finally empty him, it might just be enough.

Snape's lab was housed in the basement.

Seated at the thick wooden workbench, Harry felt very much like an experiment, clutching tightly at the thick stool he sat on.

The murky film of trepidation had returned, settling on him densely as he surveyed Snape's every action - walking back and forth, muttering to himself and moving vials brusquely - cautiously, ready to strike if needed.

Or to run.

Confrontations with death eaters were to be avoided after all.

Although, Harry would be the only casualty here at least.

Kill the spare!

Don't think about it.

Nothing eased within him when Snape finally sat down opposite him. It helped only slightly that the work bench was so vast that they were still at quite a distance from each other.

Oceans apart wouldn't be enough. Harry avoided looking at Snape and stared intently at the burns and missing chinks in the wood.

If his magic were actually any good, it would transfigure him into a bee and he'd buzz right the fuck out of here.

"You have already undertaken your own introduction to Occlumency so we will not reiterate the history-"

"I don't remember everything from the book," Harry said quickly, tacking on, "sir."

Snape waved his hand dismissively, "Memorisation is irrelevant, focus instead on understanding. For tomorrow's practical lesson, you will bring your textbook with you for your reference if you so require it. There is no exam to prepare for Potter and we needn't approach these lessons on such a basis. You need to understand the theory at a basic level, not regurgitate it."

Harry breathed just a little bit easier before his suspicions resurfaced, unwilling to be drowned so easily when they generally owned the surface of his turbulent seas.

Why doesn't he sneer? Why doesn't he throw out his rude insults and ruthlessly demand explanations?

Apparently he only did all of that at Hogwarts.

"The textbook covers only the standard form of Occlumency, that is," Snape curled his lip, "the common way. The method I will teach to you is far superior. The standard Occlumency form requires an almost sole dedication to the concept of creating mental defences. The method I will teach you - which we shall term Ozhaian Occlumency - focuses instead on strengthening the conscious mind so that, in effect, your mind becomes the defence. Your mental acuities will first be strengthened by a series of mental tests and preparations. In this elevated state, your consciousness, with practice, becomes impenetrable to external defence. This differs greatly from the standard technique which is to construct a series of images or concepts that form a defence around the mind as it is, without fortifying it."

"Is the normal method faster to learn?" Harry asked quickly. It would be just like Snape to drag him through some ridiculous branded version of Occlumency for the sheer snobbery of it. Harry was very happy with unbranded Occlumency if it got him there faster.

Snape pursed his lips, "There is no discernible difference. Both require immense practice, study and resolve."

"So why doesn't everyone learn this superior method?"

Snape paused, eyeing Harry intently and shockingly, began to explain, "This form is taught only by the Grand Master Ozhai, a man who is particularly," he scrutinised Harry, as though finding him lacking, "selective about the students he trains."

"And now you're teaching it to me?" Harry frowned.

"Indeed," Snape said crisply, leaving Harry with a lingering sense of wrongdoing.

"Thus we will begin the first of these strengthening techniques today, a process not dissimilar to meditation as I have already mentioned. The objective is simple - clear your mind. The execution however can be more, shall we say," Snape paused, reflecting, "protracted and will take time to master successfully."

Harry nodded idly, on board until Snape followed up with a wretched, "Close your eyes."

Harry stared back in barely concealed disgust.

Snape looked back unflinchingly, "I would ask you not to drag this out for any longer than is absolutely necessary. The sooner you close your eyes and begin, the sooner this can cease."

Of course, this was just Snape's crummy obligation, the last ditch hope for the boy-who-lived before they really did cast him back into the muggle world for the rest of his days, in shameful solitude.

Harry closed his eyes begrudgingly.

Even expecting it, Snape's quiet voice still startled him in the unnatural silence of the lab, "The brain processes a plethora of information and stimuli unceasingly. Silencing these natural impulses is notoriously challenging. Nonetheless, this is the task at hand. I will cease speaking. You will clear your mind, clear it of all thought and emotion. Make it blank, quiet."

They lapsed into the quiet.

For a long time.

All that Harry could tell had happened was an awkward silence. Leaden, uncomfortably thorned. Or that might have just been him, gripping the stool tightly as he was, sweating slightly, heart going so much faster than usual, throbbing in his throat, his legs, his feet, like he was one giant heartbeat.

"Clear your mind," Snape kept emphasising, "empty your thoughts, do not think, do not feel, make your mind completely blank."

How exactly could one stop thinking? Irritation prickled through Harry. Was he still thinking if he was thinking about not thinking? If he did stop thinking, how could he know he'd stopped thinking without thinking about how he'd stopped thinking?

It was agonisingly unclear, worse even than the thick tabbed chapters. At least they were written in ink, a solid surety to them, inscribed with real letters and capable of being understood.

This was just stupid.

"Concentrate Potter," Snape's disembodied voice demanded.

So Harry tried to throw himself into the mystifying world where perfectly innocuous concepts such as thinking and feeling could be erased, aware entirely of how incomprehensible it was, of how increasingly clear it was becoming that he truly was useless.

It went on and on. Long periods of silence interjected only with the occasional excerpts of generic and absolutely futile advice - breathe deeper, calm your mind Potter, make everything blank.

Still, Harry could pinpoint nothing different, even starting to drift somewhat; what the hell were his friends doing right now, did anyone even know where he was, what would Snape make for dinner-

"You are not focusing."

"I'm trying," Harry defended, eyes flying open, coldness creeping into him, tumultuous against his molten hot, flayed open shame, burning still under Snape's sharp gaze.

"Yes, you are trying and failing," Snape pressed and Harry clenched his jaw tightly. Snape paused awkwardly before continuing, "Can you pinpoint what is not working?"

Harry stared incredulously, "I don't how it's supposed to be working, how should I know why it's not?"

"You should feel empty, calm."

"Well I don't."

"Hmm." was all Snape had to offer. Hmm at Harry's abject failures, hmm for his inability to control himself. His whole worth brought down to one, dispassionate hmm.

"Perhaps a different approach is in order," Snape finally said, looking at Harry thoughtfully and tapping his fingers absently on the bench between them.

"Like what?" Harry muttered, digging his nails into his palms.

"Perhaps the net we are casting is too broad," Snape suggested, "It may be useful to narrow down the exercise and funnel upwards."

And what the fuck does that mean?

"Do not try to clear your mind of everything for now," Snape said slowly, nodding to himself, "focus instead on one word that will be conducive to the final goal. 'Quiet' ought to suffice."

"You want me to think of the quiet?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Not of the quiet. Think of quieting your mind and use the word 'quiet' as your base to do so. Close your eyes," Harry did, sighing, "Do not clear your mind now, think instead of the word quiet. Repeat it to yourself internally if you must, repeat it until it is the only thought in your mind, then imagine your mind becoming quiet."

Quiet, Harry thought, quiet, quiet, quiet, he repeated to himself, daftly, stupidly anything but quietly.

"Breathe deeply," Snape instructed, "for each inhale, think quiet. Sit in that quiet until you exhale, then repeat."

So Harry did.

In.

Quiet.

Out.

Quiet.

In.

Quiet.

"No thoughts," Snape's voice, dimmed almost to a whisper, swam to him some time later, "do not allow yourself to think, only quiet."

In.

Quiet.

Out.

Quiet.

In.

Quiet.

So it went, for a long and sticky stretch of time, until Harry felt the waves of something washing at him, like warm sand encompassing him. A gentle frothing in his mind, an unfamiliar ease blanketing his everything.

"What should it feel like?" was that his voice that floated around them, so low and so soft?

"Like the cusp before dreaming, like falling into a trance," the steady answer came, "The abyss before slipping away, calm, quiet."

That voice? Harry's lulling mind whispered inside curiously, he knew that voice.

Calm down, you know yourself.

Harry jerked out of his seat in shock, catching himself on the table he'd launched into, heard the too-sharp clatter of the shaking stool against the hard floor and reached out to steady it with his own shaking hands.

"That will happen quite often at the beginning," Snape sounded unperturbed, Harry couldn't even look at him, "you have little experience with being in such a deep mental state. Emerging from it can sometimes be forceful, with time it will ease..."

Harry was barely listening, hearing only that voice. That voice that must have been Snape who'd called to him when he'd been dreaming. Snape who'd pulled him back to himself.

Why did I think it was me, Harry thought madly, when have I ever called myself Potter?

"...that was, however, a decent start Potter," Snape acknowledged, to Harry's absolute shock, "attempt to do the same now, again. It may be harder this time," Snape warned, "grasping it initially usually comes because you are unprepared for the sensation, even as minimal as it just was in your state however now you are actively chasing that same feeling. Close your eyes."

But Harry had already closed them, was already inhaling to the strangely familiar sensation of quiet, oddly light and pleased. He was making progress.

He'd think about Snape and why he'd bothered to pluck him out of his dream later.

The man was right though.

Harry breathed and breathed and breathed, his mind remained unchanged, mocking him until the sensation he'd almost curled around vanished from his memory like a wisp of fine smoke, unremembered, unconcerned.

He tried, and tried and tried.

With the frustration came the return of the miasma of chaotic thoughts, only stalled, never permanently defeated. He was failing again, Snape was expecting more progress and Harry was going backwards. If he didn't make enough progress today, what would happen to him? Was his staying at Snape's, staying out of St Mungo's, staying out of padded cells, contingent on whether he could do this quickly enough? How slow was too slow?

"Focus," Snape said sharply.

Harry tried to breathe again. The quiet just wasn't cooperating.

What was Snape going to do to him if he couldn't carry on making progress? What was Snape going to tell Dumbledore?

Every inhale and exhale seemed to betray his deficiencies, baring inherent inadequacies because he couldn't find the damn quiet.

What was most baffling, Harry thought despairingly, was that there had been no punishments. How could Snape's behaviour be predicted, how could be brace himself for whatever was coming if he didn't know? Not knowing was worse, the anticipation sickening.

That's what he wants, to play games with your head.

"You are not concentrating," Snape's low voice met Harry forcefully after their lengthy silence. He flinched but kept his eyes shut firmly, "Compose your thoughts, mute everything. Find the quiet Potter and grasp it, do not let it slip from you."

So, breathing and breathing, Harry demanded quiet, quiet, quiet, a desperation seizing him as he fidgeted and shifted on the seat, his closed eyes oppressive and uncomfortable.

Snape hadn't punished Harry yet. He'd even hit Snape this morning. Yes, he hadn't meant to but Snape, the Snape he knew he knew, wouldn't have let anything of the sort slide, would've treated it as a grievous offence and meted out punishment accordingly.

Why this leniency then, why this bizarre turn of events? The man had said nothing.

No consequences doled out for his accidental hit. Not even a returned smack. Snape hadn't brought up the link with Voldemort or even Penny, hadn't bothered to mention what a loon Harry was to his face and he could have.

Instead...what had Snape done? Harry thought uneasily of the still full salve tin, sitting on the bedside table. Of the voice that had pulled him back from his nightmare self...

It is no hardship to wake you if you are struggling.

But Harry didn't create hardships, he was a hardship. The very word incarnate. Too difficult, too complicated, too much.

"Potter," Snape said evenly, "look at me."

Reluctantly, Harry opened his eyes to blink at the table, a far less able opponent.

"Unless I have recently been transfigured, you will not find me in the workbench Potter."

Harry glowered, looking up at a face he'd thought he knew. How much did he know really?

"You were progressing well," Snape commented idly, watching Harry closely, "where has your mind gone?"

Progressing well? Harry stared at this - this - body snatcher wearing the face of Snape who didn't even seem annoyed. Who was inquiring, asking Harry where his mind had gone.

What, the, fuck.

"I don't know," he said tightly, looking down again. Why did it feel like Snape was suddenly seeing too much? Why did he even care to look at all? Nobody cared anymore and Snape had never cared in the first place.

"You will make this very difficult for yourself if you allow your mind to wander. The sensation is unfamiliar, of that I am very aware. It will become easier with practice, you must discipline your thoughts. Try again," Snape said calmly, "think of nothing else, just quiet."

Harry wanted so badly though to succeed. To try, and for someone else to see just how much he was trying, to understand that every day he was giving away parts of himself, hoping he would be enough this time.

"Calm, Potter, calm."

Harry was starting to feel dizzy. Quiet, quiet, quiet, he chanted inside mindlessly for what felt like eternity until he almost, almost grasped it again.

Then lost it. Immediately. Jerked back into himself and exhaling harshly, he opened his eyes, a wretched misery clinging to him, a desperate need to dig inside his skin and pull it all out-

"Stop," Snape said and Harry didn't have to look up to see the frown, the disappointment, evident in Snape's voice. He was trying.

Harry almost missed Snape's hand, reaching out across the table to snag Harry's wrist loosely. Then Snape curled his hand around it so that his thumb curled around Harry's wrist, his index finger rested on top of Harry's arm and his other fingers skimmed his palm.

Dumbfounded, Harry stared, waiting for his poor dear arm to be ripped out of its socket. It was a good arm, it had served him well, it deserved better.

"Your frustrations betray you, stay calm and focused. You will try again. This time, when I feel you slipping, I will tap your arm twice as such," Snape tapped his index finger twice on Harry's arm, sending goosebumps fizzling on his skin, "and you will refocus yourself."

Harry just stared at his captive wrist.

"Physical distraction is more effective and less intrusive than sound when you are trying to ascend to this mental state," Snape explained simply.

Was he supposed to be making words in return? What would he even say?

Sorry for doing such a shit job, thanks for holding my hand about it?

"Close your eyes," Snape said firmly, "try again."

How could he focus when all that existed was that loose grip, those cool fingers curled around his clammy wrist, the way his skin prickled in response, the slight warmth of Snape's hand on top of Harry's arm.

When was the last time someone had bothered to touch him?

"You are not focusing," Snape pushed, "come back to where you were. Let it all go."

With a dizzying, unreal sense of confusion, Harry realised, mortified, that it felt nice.

"Potter." Snape demanded, still holding his wrist.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut tighter in a half attempt at focusing. Tried to at least pretend he was clearing his mind and not experiencing all the symptoms of an oncoming heart attack at once.

Ron had hugged him last when they'd dropped Harry back to the Dursleys. A strong hug, like he was trying to press Harry into his own safety, his own stability, muttering in his ear one final gift of strength, see you real soon, I swear.

They were all liars.

There was that righteous anger again, how easily it fit into Harry, a coat tailored to his body of hatred and shame. It was so easy to hate.

Two tiny taps. On his arm.

Right. Occlumency, Snape, touching him.

Gross.

And weird. And wrong. And baffling.

But everything the man did was fucking baffling.

Tap, tap.

Focus, yes, focus. On what? The quiet, Harry remembered now.

Quiet, quiet, quiet.

Snape was being awfully quiet. This whole time he'd been quiet. No, calm, the man had actually been calm.

Where was this patient teaching method at Hogwarts? Harry might have actually stood a chance in potions, hell Neville might have stood a chance -

Tap tap.

Snape had been the one telling Harry to stay away from him and keep to himself when he'd first arrived, now he was voluntarily putting his hand on him.

And no, actually no, this wasn't the first time anyone had been so close since Ron because Harry had hit Snape whilst the man had been...what had he been doing? Restraining Harry after his nightmare?

Why hadn't he used magic to do it instead? Why bother to ask Mr Weasley if they were all safe? Why bother listening to Harry? That was what he'd done, Harry realised uneasily, listened and acted -

Tap tap, with a little more force this time.

Right, the quiet.

They'd sat together in the quiet as they waited, him and Snape. They'd sat in the kitchen for a terrible muted, awfully quiet breakfast afterwards too. Snape hadn't pushed for details, hadn't prodded about Harry's feelings.

This Snape, Harry was quickly realising, was unknown to him -

Tap tap.

"Focus, Potter." He didn't even sound scornful, the man was always scornful.

But that wasn't true either. They'd sat in the quiet whilst they waited for the message but Snape wasn't scornful, wasn't anything. He could have been scornful about Penny, he could could have been so awful about all of it. That would have made sense, that would have fit.

Instead, the man was teaching him Occlumency. The man was holding his fucking wrist to teach him Occlumency-

The warmth was gone, the hand, Snape's hand, had withdrawn.

Harry opened his eyes slowly. Snape was staring straight at him, or through him, because Harry was a sea of nothing, bobbing in the wake of knowledge that felt too unreal, too tenuous and slippery.

"You need to go upstairs," Snape said slowly, a slight frown creasing his brow, "go outside and take ten minutes."

A suggestion, Harry noted, dimly hidden as he was, deep inside himself. Not a demand, not a stipulation, just a suggestion. He slid off the stool and went, Snape's eyes on him the whole way up.

Summer was cooler today, breezy and free.

It was better out here, Harry could actually breathe.

There was no reprieve inside his mind though, no matter the ease of the day surrounding him.

They had always distrusted Snape, they had never had any reason to do otherwise. Snape detested them all. These were facts that Harry had absorbed, categorised and filed away internally, since that very first potions lesson.

Mr Potter, our new celebrity.

Those words, and all the words since, dripping with derision.

And now?

Calm down, you know yourself.

You were progressing well...

His Hermione voice was emerging, her no nonsense tone chiding him because people aren't static Harry, they change all the time.

But change and Snape just didn't fit, didn't work. Even if Snape could change how he taught (or how he acted), he wouldn't do it for Harry.

He has been doing it, his Hermione voice snapped and even Harry, unrelenting in his paranoia, unwilling to face the possibility of what was unfolding, couldn't deny it.

When he trudged back downstairs, all too aware of Snape's gaze, the man gestured to the bench and they faced each other again.

"We are in a difficult position Potter," Snape began heavily, "the circumstances require that you learn Occlumency and quickly at that. Nonetheless, it is a delicate art that cannot be rushed. It is often frustrating to come to terms with, particularly at the beginning," Snape paused, surveying Harry seriously, "it is unfortunate to have to learn Occlumency under such conditions. The pressure you are under is not conducive to acquiring a complex mental art. You will have to be patient with yourself first and foremost, do you understand?"

How exactly did the man expect him to do it? What was he asking from Harry? That he was asking was unquestionable. Asking, not demanding.

"It is an unavoidable fact that you must grasp this as soon as possible however, whilst you are my student here in Occlumency, we will not rush for the sake of a hasty completion. Our approach must be careful and cautious when the mental arts are involved. We are changing the structure of your mind, this is no fickle thing."

It was strange to hear this acknowledgement, of how hard what they were doing was. Snape wanted him to know that he knew.

"You will do yourself no end of damage if you cannot focus your mind and control your emotions from the beginning, including your frustration and impatience. We cannot rush this, it takes as long as it takes."

Here he was again, Harry noticed with an uncomfortable jolt, talking, explaining.

"Do you still think two months is achievable?" Harry hoped he sounded steadier than he felt.

"It is difficult to say, Occlumency is not a precise art."

"You said you wouldn't be able to say how long until we started." Harry accused him hollowly. Snape considered him carefully in turn with that still furrowed brow but without annoyance, where had that gone?

"We have only scratched the surface today Potter, there is a long way yet to go."

“Great, so now we’re step 1 into the 800 step process of learning Occlumency."

“A step,” Snape said slowly, “is a step….regardless.”

Harry said nothing.

How had he turned into the pessimist between them? It must be contagious. Or Snape was sprinkling it into his food.

“You are familiar with the muggle idiom that Rome was not built in a day?”

“Well the Romans probably still had like help or something," Harry muttered.

“What do you imagine I am doing here if not assisting you?” Snape’s reply came, testily, "do you think it pleases me to tell you to calm down a hundred times?”

“Do you think it pleases me to have to hear it?” he snapped before he could think better of it.

Snape's lip curled. That was familiar enough.

"It is not easy," he conceded finally, nodding curtly at Harry, "few things are. This is a skill that will assist you greatly for the rest of your life. Naturally, it is difficult to acquire. Perseverance is key, Potter."

The rest of his life? How long was that to be? A few months? A year maybe? Harry hoped it wouldn't be more than that. How could he handle another summer with the Dursleys...

"Tomorrow we will try the same exercise outside."

"Why?"

"You have done well so far," a hot and uncomfortable feeling settled in Harry's stomach, that fucking oncoming heart attack again, "however, a shift in environment might assist you in grasping the meditative element faster. Down here, it is dark, cool and quiet - these are ideal surroundings to commence an intense mental art however experimentation with your surroundings is key when acquiring any new skill. Environmental elements can act as a barrier. If there are any such barriers, we will remove or mitigate them as appropriate."

How many times had Snape explained himself now, properly explained himself, to Harry in the last few hours? More probably than in his whole four years at Hogwarts.

Why? Why bother? Why care?

"Okay." Harry said quietly.

"We will try one last time to achieve the same state as earlier," Snape nodded to him shortly, "you may use quiet as your base again if you wish however eventually you will need to move away from any words or thoughts and try to clear your mind entirely."

Snape extended his arm across the table and waited. Harry placed his arm on the table too and Snape took his wrist again.

Harry, heart thudding with its oncoming doom, tried to tuck away his thoughts and feelings, tried for one last time to do well.

When they had finished, after their final attempt (which merited a short and swift good), Snape started in again.

With dinner.

Which Harry had waged war against.

"I'm not hungry."

"You ought to be," Snape's sharp tone came as they walked into the kitchen, "mental exercise are taxing on both the mind and body-"

"I'm really not hungry, I just want to lie down-"

"Something light then," Snape's voice was light too, dangerously so.

War lost, he sat at the table, too tired to seethe.

Harry made an Everest of despair, Snape made omelettes. Both seemed unconquerable.

He picked up his fork and toyed with it.

"You don't teach like that at school," Harry told his omelette cautiously, glancing up at Snape briefly.

Snape raised his eyebrows in response.

"At Hogwarts," Harry prodded the omelette, imagining the portal to hungry dogs in London, imagined it opening and swallowing his whole plate, "you don't teach like that."

"Like what?" Snape said blandly.

Harry scoffed.

"Like - I don't know - with actual explanations. It's easier to do something if you know why you're doing it, sir."

Now he caught Snape's silent scoff.

"School is entirely different from what we are trying to achieve here Potter," he said plainly, shaking his head, "school subjects require the maximum amount of information to be learnt in the shortest time. Potions in particular does not lend itself to a heavily guided approach, independent practical experience in the best teacher in such a caustic environment."

That was a nice way of flowering up Snape's lack of actual instruction in the classroom. If that was the case, he could be replaced wholly with the standard classroom blackboard that he favoured so much. Merlin knew it would be nicer to the students.

Snape was still going on.

"School prepares you to memorise information and pass your exams. It is no real preparation for real life. It is a series of check boxes, an entirely theoretical study of life if you will, an exercise in obtaining a certificate of bare competency for the world."

"Other teachers don't teach the way you do at Hogwarts, sir." Harry pressed, unwilling to back down.

"Other subjects are vastly different from potions," Snape said curtly, "as I have already mentioned. Your lessons here will naturally differ greatly. Occlumency cannot be rushed or crammed, the approach must be careful so that we don't inadvertently melt your brain Potter."

Harry grimaced.

"Mental arts are notoriously delicate, tenuous. There are stark limits to what can be achieved alone, a guided approach is necessary."

Harry said nothing.

"Why are you doing that?" Snape gestured to Harry's plate where his forlorn omelette sat, neglected and shredded, "do you dislike eggs?"

Harry shook his head and took a bite, refusing to look at Snape's keen gaze.

"Chives then?" Snape still fucking prodded, "do you take issue with chives?"

"No I don't take issue with chives," Harry muttered coldly. If only his biggest issues in life were chives. He would love to have a nemesis comprised of chives.

They said nothing for a while. Harry ate tiny bites of omelette, nibbled around it like a feeble bird.

"You still have no appetite?" Harry thought the man sounded...careful or...unwilling.

He shrugged.

"Potter," it was less careful and almost hesitant, as though the words were foreign to him too, "you must be ready for the challenges to come," as though he didn't know, as if he couldn't see that the countdown on his life was well on the horizon, "these mental exercises cannot assist you as effectively if you do not prepare yourself physically as well. Food is strength, utilise it."

Utilise, utilise, utilised.

That's what Harry would be, utilised to defeat Voldemort. It was only fair, it was his fault he'd returned after all.

Harry stared only at his plate, closed himself off to the meddlesome force that was Snape, and they ate in silence.

With shaking quaking fingers, he rid himself of it all, swilled it away and convinced himself the dread was relief, that his strength had returned, that this was the way.

This he could still do, this was still his.

Chapter Text

The next day saw Harry with his clammy forehead pressed against the cool window pane, stuffy and headachey.

The boy who lived was going to be brought down by a case of the Merlin damned sniffles.

Harry lamented, afflicted with sinuses possessing more power and strength than the darkest wizard that ever lived, apparently.

In just a few hours since his and Snape's slightly-less-uncomfortable-than-before mind melding and his night of incessant tossing and turning, his nose had transformed into a gushing fountain.

So here he sat, in the too-early hours of the morning, with Snape nestled in the back of his head (gross) and Merlin only knew what stuffed up his nose, clogging his throat (double gross).

It was startling though, Harry thought - wiping his nose again - how accustomed he'd become to Snape's presence. And although the night had been unbearably uncomfortable, it wasn't because of that, it wasn't because of Snape. Not anymore.

It was strange to think anyone could become used to Snape in any sense but particularly in the region of Harry's own brain.

But everything was strange here now. Harry wrapped his arms around himself. Everything was uncertain, out of his control and always...difficult. At least the Dursleys had predictability in their favour, they were too dim to punish him in outstanding ways. Snape though...what would a punishment from Snape look like?

Hopefully no worse than the belt.

Harry lingered with Hedwig by the window. She lay curled up, feathery white wings draped around her sweet sleeping form. Harry would have given anything to have been in her place instead (particularly when he was cleaning up her droppings).

Curled up in the window ledge, Harry drifted, in and out, unceasingly uncomfortable, shifting continually, mired before the day had even begun.

Snape at least was no more a morning person than Harry. He still took care though to keep his sniffling to a minimum.

Poor martyr Potter, Harry could hear it already, cannot even place the needs of others above his own sniffly nose.

Harry would carry on with the damn calming exercises, with learning Occlumency and wouldn't be deterred by something as ridiculous as a cold. Peoples lives were at stake, this wasn't optional.

So, they had their usual silent and awkward breakfast. Harry turned to leave, already jumpy and unnerved knowing all too well what he'd have to go into the bathroom and do - when Snape spoke suddenly-

"There is a matter to discuss before you begin this morning."

A kind of sticky, clinging dread crawled up Harry's throat (along with whatever the hell else was going on in there), he swallowed convulsively.

"It concerns your letters." Snape said plainly and Harry froze. The man watched him expectantly.

"You - did you speak to Professor Dumbledore then?" Harry asked steadily, feeling very much unsteady, a volcano preparing to erupt, sizzling hot inside and frothing mercilessly.

Snape nodded and gestured back to Harry's seat so he sat.

"He came last night," what? Snape held his hand up immediately, irritably "he was here only briefly Potter and could not stay long. Besides, you were sleeping soundly at last," Snape emphasised, "I would hardly wake you for what was mere moments."

Where the hell should Harry start with that? It was uncomfortable enough to know that Snape knew when he was sleeping soundly. Stranger still was the sense of relief settling in his chest. Relief that turned him inside out. What after all could he even say to Dumbledore?

"What did he say?" Harry asked with dread.

Oddly, Snape glanced away from Harry briefly, giving the distinct and unnerving impression that he was...uncomfortable?

"The headmaster disclosed that each of your recipients were given clear instructions that they were not to respond to any of your letters so that they did not, inadvertently or otherwise, disclose any sensitive information to you."

It was worse than falling from a broom, that deep clench, that awful feeling of hopelessness, of falling down down down. Harry wanted instantly to refute it, to demand Snape's evidence, to hold a full trial and call Dumbledore to account as key witness.

Why would he do this to me?

Snape carried on, "The reasoning seemed to be that your newfound connection with the Dark Lord compromises your ability to receive any sensitive information or apparently," what in the hell did that tone mean? "any information whatsoever."

Harry absorbed this slowly, cheerlessly.

Any information whatsoever.

They didn't trust him, that was all it came down to. Harry had already known, of course he had, but to hear it like this, from Snape-

"Furthermore," good grief there was a furthermore? "I understand that the headmaster himself has not responded to your letters under a similar misapprehension, that any information he might convey would fall into the wrong hands simply by your being aware of it."

Causing chaos wherever you go, Petunia had said, leaving others to pick up the pieces.

That's what Harry had done, in the graveyard. Left behind the Dark Lord, revived on his own blood and fled like a coward.

Now he was the untrusted. And for good reason.

An embarrassing misery shrouded Harry, muting him. Snape on the other hand had spoken smoothly, without interruption, as though advertising a particularly useful shampoo.

Then Snape looked directly at Harry and halted the world, "I did not neglect to inform him that this was ridiculously disproportionate, of course."

Ridiculous.

This. Was. Ridiculously disproportionate? Of course?

How could Harry frame ridiculous within the context of Dumbledore's actions coming from Snape in any manner that made sense?

"What?" Harry croaked out, dumbstruck.

Ridiculously disproportionate?

Snape stood swiftly, as though his impatience couldn't be contained in his sitting form. He leaned against the counter and continued, face dire, "I have no knowledge of the precise nature of the headmaster's instructions to your friends nor to Lupin or Black however, that you have received nothing from them in all this time would obviously have given you cause for concern. It was..." Snape trailed off, seemingly unable to find the right words before gesturing vaguely, "...irresponsible to take such measures without at least informing you first..."

Harry was having a free crisis. Was embroiled in it actually, baked into it like the stuffing shoved into a Christmas turkey. Watching Snape was like watching a puppet. Harry saw those taut gestures, that pinch between his brows and that simmer of surface irritation in his tone and realised...

Snape was annoyed.

Snape was annoyed for Harry.

"...regardless of the reasoning," Snape seemed to be insisting almost to himself as he avoided looking at Harry again, even with his firm and unrelenting tone, "an instantaneous lack of contact from all of your recipients would obviously have come as a shock to you, particularly after the events of the last school year."

Harry leaned forward, watching Snape very carefully.

"And did you - did you tell Dumbledore that?" Harry asked, a thread of disbelief corded tightly within him because who would bother, who would care to mention this to the headmaster?

Snape raised one eyebrow and pursed his lips in that way that told Harry within a fraction of a second of his displeasure before he tipped his head in acknowledgement.

"You...you told Professor Dumbledore that he was wrong?" Harry asked faintly. Was that even allowed?

"That was certainly the overarching message," Snape said tightly, so there had been more? "The reasoning was sound, the implementation was, shall we say, not particularly well thought out, perhaps...crass even." And he near enough spat that word - crass - as though a great offence had been done unto him instead of Harry.

Had they argued? A surge rushed through Harry - of something he might have termed glee - unfamiliar and unknown as it was to him.

"I understand that the issue will be rectified shortly," Snape continued firmly, "I will collect your letters myself when I attend The Order headquarters."

"Why would my letters be at headquarters sir?" Harry asked slowly, frowning, not sure how to parse though Snape collecting his letters for him.

"That is where your godfather and Lupin currently reside. Mrs Weasley has consented to bringing both Mr Weasley and Miss Granger's letters with her to the Order meetings."

Did that mean Ron and Hermione were together? Surely not, Harry thought miserably, surely not...

This was his world now, halted on its axis and throwing Harry around like a rag doll, forgotten collateral.

And Remus and Sirius were together, ignoring Harry as a team effort. How lovely.

Snape was frowning into the distance.

What right did he have to look so pensive? Snape wasn't isolated from everyone that couldn't stand him anymore, his friends, his so called family.

Harry supposed though, his irritation with them had rather quelled these last few days, calmed into a gentle simmer that spat at him on occasion instead of the full boil he'd cooked up before he came here.

He was happy though, at a moments notice, to turn the heat right back to full again.

"Why are Remus and Sirius staying at headquarters? Are Ron and Hermione together too?"

"I am certain that I have no idea whatsoever."

Harry checked himself bitterly and remembered just who he was talking to.

Snape didn't care.

But he did. He must. For some reason, he'd found the answer. Found it and rectified it no less. Harry hasn't asked him to, he'd volunteered.

What was more, his friends weren't actually ignoring him, nobody was on the warpath against him for what he'd done at the graveyard.

Apart from Dumbledore. Apparently.

But it felt wrong somehow, to shift the blame to Dumbledore.

The man was only dealing with his messes. Harry felt quite suddenly guilty, ashamed even at the thought of the headmaster.

"Why are you going to pick up my letters?" Harry asked bluntly.

"Why do you ask?" Snape snapped, "do you not wish for them?"

"I want to know why you - you insisted on it to Dumbledore."

"Because you dolt, it is conducive to your support system. Because it benefits you to maintain contact with those whom you would usually correspond with. Because I am not so daft as to not recognise that you are alone here with no company other than my own. You should not be kept isolated Potter, you are fourteen-"

"Nearly fifteen." Harry objected.

"-you are fourteen," Snape repeated slowly and he shook his head with something of a huff, "I could not say why the headmaster considered that cutting off all contact between your recipients would be sustainable or," Snape pursed his lips, "fair to you."

Fair?

Harry heart pounded madly, the words pouring out of him without censure, "It doesn't exactly makes sense."

Snape shook his head again, "No Potter, it does not."

Snape agreed.

"Is Professor Dumbledore - is he - he's not going to-?"

"The headmaster is not included amongst the rest of your recipients at headquarters," Snape cut him off, what could Harry make of that now blank face, the too-careful tone? "I am informed that you are unlikely to hear from him for now."

"He said that to you?" Harry asked quietly.

Snape nodded once and they fell quiet again. Trickles of red hot embarrassment singed through Harry who was already sweaty and uncomfortable, burning now with the shame of this too.

Dumbledore didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to hear about Harry's latest screw ups, that he needed Occlumency, that he couldn't even sleep properly-

"Do you want to speak to Professor Dumbledore?"

Fuck.

Did he want that? The instant answer was emphatically no, but the follow up? The deeper message? Harry couldn't tell, didn't know.

Was Harry allowed to be angry for being ignored? To expect a response after all he'd done?

He went in for his usual, the good old shrug.

"That is not an answer." Snape looked at him in displeasure.

Harry shrugged on a smaller scale this time, a little pop of the shoulders instead of a full rising.

"Potter, do you want to speak to Professor Dumbledore?" That was his exasperated tone, but not angry, Harry could tell.

"What difference does it make? He doesn't want to talk to me, clearly."

Snape hesitated, bitter vindication swept Harry, "I'm right aren't I?"

"He is unable to speak with you presently. You are still avoiding the question."

"You avoided mine." Harry pointed out.

Snape sighed, "Potter."

Unable to speak to you. How kind of Snape to frame it so when it was blatantly, burningly obvious that Dumbledore wanted nothing to do with him. Snape couldn't even come out and say it.

"I don't care." Harry lied, stung.

He caught Snape's raised eyebrow before stalking out resolutely, propelled by bitter frustration and crushing guilt, levied on him everyday, unceasingly.

"Focus." Snape muttered, again.

Fidgeting in the garden chair, Harry bit back a snippy, I am.

Because he was and he wasn't. His mind was keen on running so far away and he, lacking the energy, couldn't follow it down the ever moving hole. Thick and foggy, Harry was directionless, swept up in exhaustion and ever drifting the wrong way.

They had moved away from the quiet, Snape having graduated Harry to falling into a certain feeling instead to strengthen his mind.

Disregard any words now, focus only on a calming sensation, a time when you were at peace.

And Harry, mystified that Snape could think he'd ever had a calming sensation or been at peace had dived deep into his usual very-not-real and had-never-happened fantasy.

Soft sweet florals, a warm hand to his back, family.

The difficulties were immediately apparent.

Tap tap.

On a loop.

On a loop because Harry couldn't quite attach himself to the sensation. It wasn't bloody real after all, a figment of his dear sweet childish desperate wants. No tangibility, the sensation artificial on every level, existent only because of Harry's will and now? It wilted, forlorn, uncooperative when shoved under interrogatory light - skittering away - flimsy and frail.

Withering under true scrutiny.

"Potter," Snape sighed, "again, focus."

Harry too wilted under this failure. Snape had been pleased enough with their final attempts with the quiet but this new sensation was too abstract, Harry hadn't managed to grasp it yet. Even after hours.

So this new frustration fused itself within him too. Moody and annoyed, he slipped further and further away from Snape's bleeding ideal state.

"Enough. Open your eyes." Snape said firmly. Harry did and glanced up at the man who released his tip tapping wrist, leaned back in the garden chair and crossed his arms.

"Find the section on calming the mind." Snape gestured to Harry's book, which he'd been allowed to keep, which Snape hadn't even given a second glance because apparently he really did mean what he'd said about a different approach.

Harry found it, pointed at it. Snape raised his eyebrows, ducking his chin towards it, unimpressed.

Dick.

Harry spared a glance at the flowerbeds, the way he had each time he opened his eyes because he couldn't help the way his skin prickled knowing it was just behind them. That thrum of magic, faint and reedy was still there.

Harry remembered diving, the rich dirt under his nose, his embarrassment...

Ready to die, that's what he'd been.

"It is helpful to utilise a calming sensation," Harry didn't have any, "one with strong roots to an emotional connection with peace," what was peace? "Students might consider incorporating water elements such as memories of swimming," Dudley often mock drowned Harry when they'd learned to swim, "a bath," Petunia detested him using the bath, "or vibrant environmental elements such as birds tweeting or the smell of baking bread." That usually meant breakfast time for the Dursleys.

Snape just looked at him expectantly, Harry kept quiet.

"And?" Snape asked coolly, "have you been envisioning a loaf of Hovis?"

"No." Harry muttered, glaring at the table.

"A babbling brook then? A dip with Radox and a paperback?" Snape prodded, gaze fixed mercilessly on Harry.

"No, sir."

Unconsciously, Harry glanced again at the flowerbeds and Snape turned briefly to look too.

Harry groaned internally.

"Something over there is catching your attention," Snape said tightly in that way he talked when he was trying faux patience, "perhaps you'd like to sit in the dirt for the rest of this lesson?"

"No sir." Harry muttered loathingly, grateful for the shade they sat under and the light breeze given he was cooking in his skin that stretched too tightly all over.

"You have a sudden interest then in the keen workings of this garden and its vibrant plant life?"

"No sir."

It was too mortifying to consider how he might react if whatever it was did go off again. Harry didn't need an audience for that.

Snape surveyed him closely. Harry ducked his head, tried to breathe through this frustration shaking his core, that made him hate inside with each new mounting failure.

"I care not for what you are imagining Potter," Snape explained, "its potency however is leaving much to be desired. The sensation, whatever it may be, is not working for you here. Utilise something else."

Even his hallucinations weren't good enough for Snape. Harry should have been used to that by now, should have known that his imagination wouldn't be good enough.

"Well?" Snape asked after a moment had passed.

"I don't know, you said it can't be happy so I don't know."

"I said it should not have a close attachment to strong feelings such as happiness," Snape corrected, clearly irritated, "The feeling should be predominantly calm to allow you transmit the same energy to your mind now. That does not negate happiness however it should not overpower the memory."

Great, that helped not at all.

"What's negate?" Harry snapped.

Snape seemed taken aback though Harry couldn't figure out why, he knew enough to know no one had ever said negate to him before.

"In this context, it means to invalidate the use of something," Snape said slowly, "Thus, you should use a memory that is calming but that does not negate or render invalid, the use of a memory that is also happy."

Harry nodded shortly. Fine, one explanation didn't bloody negate his frustrations here though.

"When was the last time you felt calm?" Snape asked impatiently after another tepid silence, "perhaps that will do."

Harry frowned, looking up at Snape before glancing down at his own wrist.

The one Snape kept holding. The one he kept tap tap tapping as though desperately trying to transmit a telegram through Harry.

Was it cheating, to use Occlumency memories when trying to learn the tenets of Occlumency itself?

Surely not.

Harry had felt calm, had slipped into a reverie, a blank nothingness, and yes - yes that would have been the last time...

He held his arm out. Snape took it silently, loosely holding his wrist in that way Harry was quickly becoming accustomed to.

Even if it was fucking weird.

"Focus," Snape reminded Harry as he closed his eyes, "remember, avoid all words now. Focus only on feeling. The calm will come to you and you will meet it freely, let it take you back to that time," yesterday, to be precise, "keep it inside your mind, let it take control."

So Harry did.

"Good," Snape's voice came over him later, "that is quite an improvement Potter. Again." he demanded.

So Harry pictured it again and again. The initial shock of Snape taking his wrist in hand, then the - the reassuring tap of his fingers - that he was still there - that something was guiding Harry.

Finally.

As he drifted, thoughts swaying mindlessly, a strange pressure built in his chest, like being winded by the Whomping Willow.

The calming sensation, Harry realised distantly, the one potent enough to build his mental strength was with Snape.

It should have been laughable. Hysterical. Terrifying? But as Harry slipped further into that velvety calm, it too was stripping away the power of all feelings. Muting the harsh saturation of frustration and confusion into something of a bearable beige - acceptance.

The realisation couldn't terrify him, Harry mused, it was simply...right. The facts without the misery, the situation without the awful power.

"Much better." Snape's voice came again, pleased.

Snape showed Harry how to do this. Snape showed him how to calm down.

It was everything to Harry, it was ascending to a higher plane, sheer peace abound and was this what the hippies were always banging on about?

Drifting deeper, Harry found he didn't mind one bit.

The sweet hippie ascension was forgotten as soon as Harry finished dinner, when the force of ridding himself of the meal whited out his vision with pain.

That throbbing headache, that had only increased as the day had worn on, was wearing Harry down too. Down into this pitiful aching thing, a human shaped misery.

Stumbling back to the room, Harry clutched at his maddening ache - utterly uncontainable - scar stinging in protest.

What the fuck, what the fuck?

The salve still sat innocuously on the bedside table, Harry lunged for it.

Anything to stop this, ease this - make it stop, make it stop -

Smearing it on his head, the pain mercilessly receded. It didn't abate but Harry dropped to the floor in relief anyway. The paste alleviated the vivid sting, pushing it from goodbye world, I've had enough to the only slightly more optimistic okay world, one more day but you're pushing it.

The implications lit a streak of helplessness through Harry though.

Here again was Snape's influence, Snape's doing.

First the Occlumency, then the hand holding, the bloody letters and now the Merlin damned salve.

What next? The deed to the house? Adoption papers?

Surprises, from Snape weren't something Harry had a benchmark for.

Snape always had been the enemy. Always.

Now, massaging his aching temples, Harry just wasn't so sure.

The next day was worse, lunchtime even more a misery than usual.

"What?" Harry snapped caustically, trying to conceal the hoarseness of his voice by just hissing just everything, why the hell wasn't Snape fluent in Parseltongue?

Snape, who just wouldn't stop staring. The man didn't snap back though no of course not, he was busy being the complete antithesis to the Snape Harry had known for four years.

These things made Harry jumpy, nervous, reminding him all too well of Crouch.

(Harry could have changed the course of everything if he had just wondered, just thought a little bit harder about why a teacher, a new teacher for Merlin's sake, was willing to give him so much help, so much attention.

Which he'd been so, pathetically desperate for.)

Trust no one.

"Is something wrong Potter?" Snape asked slowly, scrutinising him as carefully as he had done for the entirety of lunch.

"No?" Harry half questioned, half snapped, huffing back the beginnings of a Sahara- inspired dry cough.

"You're certain?"

"Yes."

"There is nothing you wish to disclose?"

Harry just glared back, only to receive another hmm. Snape and his fucking hmm's could die in a hole for all Harry cared.

But that look on the man's face...Harry was only a little bit crazy but it looked so much like concern.

Harry couldn't be certain though. The tiredness that lived in him, a terribly raw and palpable pitiful thing, clouded everything real.

Tossing and turning all night, nose dripping, uncomfortable, puzzling over Snape's behaviour, trying to make sense of it all under a thick layer of cottoned thoughts, mind awash...

It was no different today, figuring Snape out seemed beyond comprehension. Let the man wonder.

"You've no colour to you." Snape said at last and Harry looked at him incredulously.

Snape gazed penetratingly as though he could saturate Harry in colour by sheer force of will, "You look...tired. How are you feeling?"

Harry shrugged tiredly, unwilling to say more when every word was chewing on crushed up glass and every thought a bitter headache.

When was the last time someone had bothered to ask how he was feeling?

"You struggled to sleep last night." it was confusing, incongruous to think Snape was paying so much attention, even at night when Harry couldn't sleep.

Even here, at this very table, where nobody was forcing him to be with Harry. Snape was here, doing more than anyone else had done this summer.

Making sure he ate. Prodding about his sleep.

"Can't sleep most nights," Harry muttered tiredly.

"Yes," Snape settled back into his chair, muttering almost to himself, "I am aware."

Occlumency that day went something like this:

"Focus Potter."

'I am trying."

"Then kindly try to succeed this time."

And then:

"That was not particularly successful."

"Yes I fucking know."

"Mind your language."

Rinse. Repeat.

And absolutely minimal progress.

Harry could barely stand in the shower. The heat, the insufferable steam - it was siphoning out all of the Harry. He was oozing down the drain with the spray.

Everything ached. Instead of soothing, the hot water stifled, suffocated. Turning the dial to lukewarm was no good, that chilled him too fast, stabbing at his skin viciously until eventually, Harry just tossed himself out as quickly as possible. Stood quaking in the bathroom, vision swirling away, overwhelmed with nausea.

A rude cough had developed persistently throughout the day. Harry's refusal to entertain it hadn't paid off, it had simply barrelled on without him, robbing him of breath so he wheezed like a broken squeaker toy.

Returning to his room, shivers overtaking him, he saw Snape had been in there. On the bedside table now stood another pot of salve and two vials that piqued his attention.

It wasn't bloody dreamless sleep though. Harry sighed, of course not.

Snape knocked almost as soon as Harry had reached for them and he withdrew quickly.

Which was stupid, they were clearly meant for him.

"What?" Harry muttered, prompting Snape's entry.

The man stared again, in that ceaseless way that he usually did, unrelentingly direct.

Harry waited for the usual prickling sensation at the nape of his neck, frowning when he realised that Snape was terribly early, it had only just gone eight.

Snape nodded towards his bedside, "Take the green vial before you sleep tonight, for your cough."

Harry nodded mutely, repressing a cough that felt like it might well turn into an exorcism of some vital organs.

Still Snape didn't link them, just watched him.

"Did the salve make any difference to the pain in your scar?"

Harry nodded quickly, only just swallowing back the dry hoarseness scraping at this throat.

Just leave.

Snape, ever the nightmare though, regarded him suspiciously, "The other tin was near enough full, though I've left you another in any case," yes, Harry wasn't blind, Harry could see, "you can take it twice daily Potter, I believe I did mention that already."

Yes yes, Harry remembered, why was he banging on about the Merlin damned salve? Harry gasped back his cough, hoping it was discreet.

"You needn't ration it Potter," who was rationing what? "In case you have forgotten, I am in fact a potions master and therefore capable of making more-"

Harry lost it, the cough ripping out of him and tearing him up on the way. He coughed hard and his throat was constricting, burning, pulling, choking-

Snape - reached out- didn't throttle him but instead pushed the green vial into his hand which Harry necked immediately - asphyxiation be damned.

The relief, Harry noticed with disappointment, was only minor, his throat still very much a battleground, axe beaten and completely torn up.

There was water now being pushed into his hands so he drank that too and Snape - yes Snape - took it from his shaking hands to place it back on the table.

And Harry remembered that night with Ginny and that wait with Snape and his head hurt all fucking over again.

Facing Snape, the man was dour faced, lips pinched in a way that Harry was genuinely starting to associate with a kind of worry.

Worry, for Harry.

Strange. And unusual.

"You have over exerted yourself today," there was something to his voice, a frustration Harry didn't think was actually aimed at him, "that will not do. What are your further symptoms, apart from this cough?"

"My head, it's hurting still...my whole body aches."

Snape nodded, "I assumed as much. The blue vial - for general pain relief - should work to alleviate those symptoms tonight. Any sickness? Nausea?"

Harry half shrugged then shook his head. Nausea might as well be part of his personality by now, it was certainly nothing new.

"May I?" Snape gestured towards him with his hand, Harry stared at it in confusion, what did this limb want?

Snape's eyes narrowed, "Your head. May I?"

Harry nodded without realising, Snape's tone eliciting a knee jerk agreement before he could comprehend if he really did agree.

Snape placed his palm on Harry's forehead lightly whilst Harry just - held his breath completely.

Then, cool fingers ghosted over his head, very pointedly missing his aching scar. Something tugged inside. Harry thought, oddly, of Mrs Weasley. Of the Burrow.

Of someone else's home, of course.

Where was his home?

"You're warm." Snape murmured, bringing him back to himself, that crease between his brow deepening, for Harry.

"Get into bed." why was he so abrupt now, what did he want? Harry took the path of least resistance and sat in bed anyway.

Snape linked them quickly. That faint brush along his neck really was becoming less of a jolt.

Harry refused to think of it as a comfort.

He was too tired to glare off with Snape who was still frowning at him. He pointed at the bedside again, at the salve and the last blue vial, "Do not forget either of those tonight, do you understand?"

Harry nodded tiredly, confused, wondering what had gone wrong between them in this last minute.

"Thanks," Harry chanced, awkwardly.

Snape nodded curtly, "Go to sleep Potter."

Gone then was the softness of try to sleep.

Snape made to leave before suddenly pausing at the door. He didn't turn around.

Harry waited, perplexed.

"Wake me," Snape said finally, "if you have need of me."

Then he was gone.

So was Harry.

It was by no miracle that he avoided nightmares last night because Harry simply didn't sleep.

And like a crime, it was written all over his face by morning.

Harry made it to the kitchen before Snape, sitting at the table listlessly exhausted when Snape finally entered.

Entered and stopped entirely.

"Go back to bed Potter." Snape demanded.

"I'm eating breakfast." Harry snapped. Three grapes could be breakfast.

"Fine," Snape conceded tightly, "eat what you can manage, then you will go back to bed."

"No, I will not." It would have been more credible if he didn't have to croak it out, to terrorise the words from his mouth. Merlin but he sounded like he needed new batteries.

Snape obstinately leaned over the fruit bowl and tugged Harry's chin up harshly, Harry gaped at the man.

"Have you seen yourself?" he snapped. Harry shrank back and Snape let him go.

Bastard.

Harry didn't need to see himself, feeling it was bad enough.

"I'm fine." Snape snorted.

"That is not what it looks like from here."

"And what does it look like from there?" Harry hissed, throat on fire, "I'm dying to know."

Snape's lips pressed together, he all but slammed his bread into the toaster and slapped the button down with hatred but his words were level, if furious

"It looks as though you are very much struggling to be alive."

"I said that I'm fine." Harry muttered, even with that coarse tiredness threatening to obliterate him from the inside out.

"Potter-"

"I want to carry on-"

"You cannot even finish your meagre breakfast," Snape spat, gesturing at the table where Harry fumbled with the grapes, "what good will you do yourself today?"

"I want to carry on with Occlumency." Harry raised his voice as much as he could in his pathetic state. With his pathetic voice. With his pathetic self.

Snape regarded him for a moment as he picked at his grapes.

"To what end?" Snape finally asked.

"What?" Harry muttered sullenly, hoarsely.

"To what end do you wish to carry on? Your own?"

"You were the one that said I'd have to apply myself, to work hard and be - diligent or whatever so that's what I'm being."

"What you are being is belligerent." Snape pushed, edgy and annoyed, spreading jam on his own toast menacingly and sitting down.

Harry said nothing.

"Perhaps that is too large a word for your comprehension? You are acting brainless which I know that you are not-" what? "-actively fighting against me and I cannot understand why-"

"It's no good to anyone if I take today off," Harry tried for a kind of firm politeness, "I want to get through this fast and so do you," the train of thought was very much leaving the station, "I - I'm not - I don't want to make excuses. I know how important this is." he finally settled on.

Let the bastard gripe about that.

They sat in quiet for a while as Snape made his tea. Harry slipped grapes into his pockets when he could, exhaustion clouding his mind.

You are acting brainless, which I know that you are not.

There it was, the kindest thing Snape had ever said to him.

He knew still though that sickness was no excuse. This was a challenge, one that Harry could win.

Finally, Snape sat opposite him, sighing loudly.

"If, at any point, I say that we are finished then we are done Potter. Do you understand me?"

Harry nodded instantly, satisfied. Snape was listening. Snape wasn't going to let Harry fall behind in his responsibilities, Snape was going to push him the way he needed to be pushed, sickness be damned.

"And you will skip your theory this morning to go upstairs and rest before we begin."

Harry scoffed, only just biting back an evil cough. Snape's eyebrows did that thing where they looked like they might fly off into space.

"Do you understand?" Snape emphasised seriously.

"Yes, sir."

"Go," Snape said plainly and Harry stood, "take your grapes." Snape insisted after him.

"You look worse," Snape accused him when Harry took his seat in the garden later that day, "why do you look worse?" Why did this feeling like a bloody scolding?

Harry had taken the extra vials Snape insisted on this afternoon too. No, they hadn't helped but he'd still taken them so that ought to count for something.

"I look the same." Harry snapped back, painfully aware of his throbbing head, of the laser sharp sunlight on his sensitive eyes, exhaustion dogging him.

"You do not."

"Can we just start, sir."

Harry squinted into the sun's bright glare enough to see Snape watching him and why did he have to look like that? Troubled, worried.

For Harry? There were worse things to worry about surely.

A kind of panic was taking over him, enveloping him. Because it was looking like Snape wasn't going to push him, wasn't going let him make this right, to pay his penance, do his part.

"Voldemort's not stopping," is what came out of Harry, pulled from his churning insides, "Voldemort's not taking a day off. Neither am I."

Snape was shaking his head slowly looking almost pained, he leaned forward and rested his hand on the table between them, looking at Harry intently, "You need not prove anything to me, do you understand that?"

Harry didn't understand and didn't care to either.

Snape carried on, undeterred, "I see that you take this responsibility seriously. That is laudable however, you need not work yourself into the ground."

Either Harry was going to fight through whatever was trying to hold him back today or he was losing the fight. That was all that mattered.

"I'm ready." Harry insisted and Snape sighed his very Snape sigh.

"We will do an hour only." Snape asserted adamantly, leaning back and frowning at Harry all the while.

Harry shrugged, starting to think actually, under the stifling summer heat searing into him, that was probably for the best.

So they began.

It ended very quickly.

Twenty minutes, maybe.

"Enough." Snape said, terse but quiet.

Harry opened his eyes and just made out Snape's strained fury.

What did he have to be so angry about? Harry was trying, giving all of himself, every little thing he had.

"You said an hour." Harry croaked out miserably.

"Now I say enough," Snape bit out, "shall we fetch you a dictionary so you can look that up too Potter?" Why was he getting riled when Harry was trying so hard, why was he getting it all wrong again? "Get up, you are finished here."

"I'm finished?" Harry tried to cough only lightly, "you're the one that's holding me back."

Snape's eyes flashed, "Potter - you cannot ignore the limitations of your body." The man rubbed at his temples, "You are completely spent. Training is finished for today."

Harry haltingly held back another cough with the force of an avalanche, "I - I should still carry on-"

"Are you purposely being dense?" Snape was seething now, "what do you expect to achieve in this miserable state?"

"That's the point!" Harry said roughly, "I haven't achieved anything. I want to keep going - I can do it - I can take it."

Disbelief overcame Snape, his answer was slow when it came, "To think that I was reluctant to train you, expecting your trademark laziness and now I find you go in completely the opposite direction?" There was a cooling shock in his voice before it hardened again, "You do not know better than I do Potter, do not presume to."

There was a horrifying finality to this, a sinking despair seized Harry. Merlin but he was so tired.

"Go upstairs Potter, to bed-"

"No," desperation prickled through Harry, his traitorous voice wobbled, "we can't stop-"

"Potter-"

"You're not listening!" Harry paused to cough harriedly again, absolutely haggard and seeing that Snape was furious now, "I have to do this, you have to let me do this." But it was all merging into a dizzy confusion, he wanted so badly to give up.

"Potter," there was a severity to his voice, the likes of which Harry knew he'd never heard from the man before, "If I say that you are done then you are done you foolish boy. If you dare interrupt me again," Snape hissed lowly as Harry made to, "you will regret the entirety of your existence. Stand up and go. One last chance to take yourself to bed with dignity. I do not repeat myself."

Harry stared desperately, overwhelmed, fatigue dragging at him unrelentingly.

This pain, his head, his body, his whole being, was carving him out inside, throat in ruins, head amassing pain pain pain to an incessant drumbeat.

But this was just weakness. The inability to fight through would only get others killed. Harry had to be better than this, to be stronger -

Snape was hauling him up. Harry didn't even bother fighting it, so absently lightheaded he realised he'd have dropped without the assistance.

Then Snape was frogmarching him upstairs, firm hands on his shoulders ("Walk") and maybe, just maybe, it felt right that someone else was taking charge, telling him what to do.

Relief.

Snape was making Harry stop. That was different. This wasn't Harry's concession, not his choice, not his responsibility.

Not his fault.

"I trust you can put yourself into bed Potter?" Snape sounded very much as though the thought the exact opposite.

Harry slipped into bed, an odd pulsing in his head. He felt empty, tinny, hollow.

There was no May I this time, Snape's hand possessed his burning forehead swiftly. Then Harry realised he'd also linked them.

Because Harry was going to rest, to sleep.

He was allowed to, no - he had to.

Because Snape was making him.

Making him rest.

That would be nice, Harry thought dully, he probably needed that.

"I do not want to see you out of this bed unless you are relieving yourself Potter," that was his Potions lesson voice, these were instructions, "you will sleep, rest until I tell you otherwise."

Then there was fresh water on the bedside table, the curtains were drawn and the room was mercifully dark and cool.

Because Snape was doing this, for Harry.

"I will leave your door open," Harry was dozing already, "you need only call if there is something you need. Otherwise you will remain right here Potter."

Harry heard only the echo of last night.

Wake me, if you have need of me.

Harry swam.

Melted and frothed, slipped and swayed. Half hearted chains of thoughts lingered vaguely.

Snape was going to collect his letters. Snape knew words like support system. Snape argued with Dumbledore for Harry.

Harry had started sensing something in the man, something so very...Mrs Weasley-esque.

The exasperation, worry, concern.

Snape made Harry stop. Put him to bed.

Harry drowned in a river of sweat. Dark and hazed, tossing and turning. It could have been years that he lay there for.

The dappled ceiling, shelled in dull ivory, pulsed gently, he prayed for it to come down on him.

If only Voldemort had succeeded when he was a baby. If only he could have died with his parents.

So much why. Sickening, unfathomable why's.

And oh, the might of his wants.

Remus, Sirius. Here with him.

Would they have done this?

Would they have argued with Dumbledore? Listened to him when he wanted to carry on? Then march him to bed, unwaveringly, when he couldn't face that he was done?

Maybe.

But they hadn't. Because they weren't here.

Even in this muddied confusion, his stupid half sleep, he couldn't forget Snape.

Snape who did these strange and confusing things, Snape who couldn't be puzzled out, who acted polyjuiced into a mediwizard half of the time and was his same caustic self for the rest. Snape who was voluntarily collecting Harry's letters, had insisted on it.

Because it was fair.

All this exacerbated Harry's head which was clearly becoming detached from his neck with the raw throbbing pains that coursed through it relentlessly.

Harry lay limp, just echoing human, sprawled out and ebbing away.

Before he knew it, here he was again, that Snape.

Talking. Because he was always saying things at Harry and yes he usually had that frustrated tone, that undercurrent of anger and perhaps they had that in common, Harry mused, because come to think of it, he was always angry too...

But Snape was irritatingly louder now, demanding and there were words in there like not at all listening and a very caustic dunce but they all lurked underwater because Harry was deep deep at sea, that salt slick wetness licking at him all over, luring him to desist, to give up and drown.

Harry did manage to frown at the dip in the bed, the uncovering of his precious sheets that had been staving off the winter chill in the room and did Snape want him to die in here?

"Stoooop." Harry half heartedly batted at Snape's hands but even his own were uncooperative, given up on him and wasn't that just typical, his own hands were in on it now too so he surrendered, let Snape do whatever he wanted as long as he was quick.

But the bastard wanted to be as inconvenient and annoying as possible, muttering all sorts of things - as though Harry couldn't hear - about reducing fevers, about stronger pain relief which was all whatever because Harry really, truly, needed those covers back or he was going to die.

A hand pressed against his cheek, surprisingly warm, surprisingly gentle. Not a stranger, Harry remembered, deliriously - Snape.

Harry cracked open his eyes, moaned weakly.

"Hush," the low voice came, "it is only me."

Snape wasn't only Snape anymore though. Harry's stomach churned uncomfortably, he sat up quickly, too quickly and realised also too quickly that it was too warm in here.

Snape pressed the back of his hand against Harry's forehead now and that was - that was - relief - to lean his head against that hand - steady and strong - to just rest for a minute, a second even -

A feeling that Harry had become all too familiar with lately roared inside him. Despairingly he caught it far far too late over Snape's words -

"-why you did not speak up-"

Harry lurched violently and vomited into Snape's lap.

Chapter Text

It was the most preposterous thought that first came to mind: you simply must ask Albus for a raise.

Vomiting students were supposedly limited to Hogwarts, to the school term. If he was playing head of house during summer then stars above, this counted as overtime.

They sat in a kind of charged limbo, neither speaking nor moving, to the cadence of Potter's half gasps.

In the pathetic struggle for his sheets, Potter had ended up half clutching at Severus's robes so as he'd pitched forward and ejected over them both, Severus held Potter's shoulders as he threw forward his weight, vomiting, retching, then heaving.

They must have painted a picture of pure ridicule as they sat suspended, Severus like a stunned puppeteer and Potter, the puking Pinocchio. How terribly unfortunate there was no way to turn him back to wood.

Not without Albus having something to say about it at least.

The boy's head hung so he could only see pale neck and scruffy hair until he started to pitch forwards.

Grasping his neck lightly, Severus moved him back against the headboard so the stupid boy didn't fall into his own sick.

"M'sorry." Potter finally rasped, deliriously.

"Yes, I'm sure that you are." Severus vanished the mess, grimacing at the residue left behind on his robes, Potter's sheets.

How did anyone have children? This was exhausting.

Potter didn't seem inclined to speak again so, for just a moment, Severus sat and quietly despaired.

Hadn't he been so clear? Hadn't he told the boy to call if he needed anything, if he was worsening - surely that was implied?

The...incident with the salve lingered uncomfortably. That Potter hadn't been using it was abundantly clear but now it seemed less like ignorance, arrogance and more...misplaced trust, inclining towards deep seated suspicion.

Pushing others away, refusing help.

The despair was quick to flee and in its wake came a tangible frustration. That he was missing something was terribly clear, a piece of the puzzle or perhaps the whole fucking picture with the way Potter acted.

Slumped down, exhausted and always, always so defensive.

Looking at Potter now, even exhaustion couldn't hold a candle to his state and oh look, he was shaking now too, curling in on himself.

Young, it struck Severus with a deep and unknown pang, he looked so terribly young.

That spurred him into motion.

"Up Potter." Severus murmured, pulling the sheets away entirely. Potter didn't move, head lolling and of course, of course-

Severus grasped his shoulders, pulled him up and this was awfully easy too. In his sweaty t-shirt and loose joggers, Potter was all bones, feather light - so very unlike the round faced child that had come to Hogwarts, as though that too had just washed away from him.

Potter moved slowly. Severus deposited him in the window seat where he sat, shaking before realising there was sick smeared on his chin, falling to his neck.

Conjuring the bathroom towel and beseeching every deity he could name, he tried to help Potter coordinate his own hands to his face before eventually giving up, forsaking all religions and just wiping it for him.

One came across all manner of unsavoury fluids when exposed to the blight termed children.

No, Severus cared not a whit about the vomit. There was however an unyielding vulnerability seeping from Potter and that - that was...unendurable.

He turned away quickly, stripping the soiled sheets, removing his tainted outer robe, mind whirring ruthlessly, heart pounding like a hunted animal. Potter made small, quiet noises like a wounded one.

Potter needed potions, monitoring, care.

There was nothing particular virulent at play. It seemed he'd worked himself into this sore state, compounded undoubtedly by the stress of weeks, worn down to his very limits.

That was cutting. Severus should have stopped him.

Feeling Potter's forehead again (warm enough to cook a fucking dragons egg), he reflected bitterly that he had tried.

This long raging battle between them seemed unwinnable, trying to work with Potter, impossible. To give him space, to respect his desperate need to continue with Occlumency, that awful strain in his voice that Severus knew so well. The vicious, unseeing need to keep pushing, despite everything.

Where had his understanding gotten them? Here Potter sat, trembling in his ineffable exhaustion and sick to his very bones. Under his care.

Severus schooled himself.

"Come," he tried quietly, calmly, incongruous with his twisting insides, facing the boy again, "back to bed now Potter."

Potter regarded him through half lidded eyes and Severus sighed, reaching for him-

He shrank away and yes, Severus realised sinkingly, that was fear that shone so clearly in his eyes, even muddied with fever as they were.

"Don't," Potter whispered, shielding himself with one shaking arm, undefended, wandless, "don't - I'll, I'll try harder, I'll do better just don't - don't..."

Where had he gone? Where had his mind taken him this time? Perhaps he remembered Severus's unforgivable violation, flinching away in fear of another.

Severus rather felt like throwing himself down and weeping.

Not an option.

"Stand up Potter," perhaps instructions would work, "you need to go back to bed - let me help you-"

"Don't - don't," his weak voice rang with panic, "I don't want to sleep - don't make me sleep-"

"Potter," Severus repeated loudly, placing a hand gently on his thin (too thin) shoulder, "I will link us, remember? You need not worry about the Dark Lord now. Come, it is time to sleep."

Potter just looked on in dazed confusion. Severus stared, nonplussed.

Potter had been so terribly sleep deprived the last time they'd done this dance, he'd chalked his bizarre behaviour up to the vision of the girl, of Potter's self imposed fast and sleep deprivation, when he'd been hallucinating something.

Uneasiness whispered through him, hounding something deep within, something almost forgotten.

"Don't make me be him," Potter whispered, looking far far past him, "I don't want to become him..."

Dread, swift and cruel, terribly cold - seized Severus.

There was no question whatsoever as to what him meant.

Potter's dream, the Weasley girl, the way he'd clutched at his stomach afterwards in terror, convinced his own bitter spell had rebounded into a skeletal self...

Trauma Severus, trauma, his mind mocked him.

Severus slipped an arm around him and heaved Potter up to stand with little effort, "No Potter, you will not become the Dark Lord," his own voice sounded so far away from himself because Merlin, no boy should fear this, "No such fate awaits you, put that well out of your mind."

Potter let himself be led, blinking hazily.

"You're...sure?" he whispered.

"Unquestionably." Severus said tightly, half helping him into bed before drawing up the sheets around him. They stared at each other for just a minute before Potter was burrowing down, frowning, tossing before turning at last to settle on his side.

"Don't let me," Potter mumbled tiredly, "Snape - don't - don't let me be like him..."

"No," the word tore out before he even knew what he was saying, "you are nothing like him."

"Please," the boy moaned, "please"

"Hush," Severus choked out, pooling dread, fear and shame slugging through him, unrelenting in its grip, "sleep Potter, just sleep..."

Severus didn't let himself think through the din that followed.

There were potions he helped Potter drink, salve for his head, blankets tucked around the boy, so pale, so fragile.

Then, Potter's temperature again, more water coaxed into him, potion after potion lined up neatly on the bedside table until it resembled a travellers apothecary, until he could practically reanimate Potter's corpse if he had to.

So that he could be safe. This was safe. This is how he would keep Potter safe.

Again and again he rearranged the vials, straightened Potter's blankets, tidied up nothing in particular until finally, finally, he conjured the downstairs armchair and threw himself down.

Severus watched Potter for what could have been eternity, tossing and turning. Felt his restlessness as deeply as if it were his own.

Something of a static rumbled in his mind. Everything was changing, so very different from all that he knew.

That was Potter too, a walking contradiction. Pushing himself to extremes, working himself into the ground.

A vicious familiarity came with those understandings, the uncomfortable realisation - he could see himself in this boy - that was smothering, aching...painful in a way he'd never known before.

There was no time for that. Now was the time to get a grip, to figure out how to steer Potter back to the path he'd clearly veered far away from.

The hoot of Potter's owl disturbed him eventually. Severus realised he hadn't eaten as it fell dark, hadn't moved in a very long time.

Slowly he stood, mind racing as he reached the door. Just a few moments away, to gather himself, to get a grip.

Just before he opened the door, Severus just caught it, a whisper of a whimper-

"No...not Cedric."

There was no leaving Potter again tonight, not in the state he'd worked himself into.

So, he stayed.

In some bizarre twist of fate, here he sat, watching over the Chosen One.

The only one watching over him apparently, seeing the crumbling ruins of a child, devastated with trauma, guilt and who only knew what else?

And Albus had dared to act surprised when Severus pressed about the letters, about why Harry bloody Potter, the Chosen One who'd recently resurrected the Dark Lord and watched Cedric Diggory's murder was being kept in the dark about literally everything.

What good does this do him? Had you stopped to think about the implications at all?

His stout defence of Potter might have embarrassed him once and yet, he was right. Severus had known it too, so had Albus.

I hadn't expected that you would express such a concern my boy, alas, you are always taking me by surprise Severus. You know, I have always thought you capable of such care-

Severus had scoffed, had to draw the line somewhere.

It wasn't about care. It was about what made sense.

It gave him a nasty jolt, one he could barely acknowledge, when he considered what would have become of Potter this summer were it not for the dementor attack.

They would have just left him there, alone, grieving, in pain.

No boy of fourteen should have been exposed to all the things that Potter seemed to lug around with him now.

But he had, that was all that mattered.

It had happened and now? Little wonder the boy couldn't control his magic, his emotions, his dreams even-

A wounded noise wrenched Severus from his musings, he stood immediately.

"Please," Potter rasped, throat torn, "please..."

Severus was almost watching a puppetry of himself, so unreal it felt to sit beside Potter, sleeping in his childhood bed, to press his shoulder gently again.

"Calm, Potter," he beseeched the boy, "focus on the calm, the quiet."

Potter made another low noise of distress, Severus tried again, hand resting on that burning head, "Calm, it is over now. Nothing else is here...find that calm."

Severus took his wrist, tapped at it lightly, just enough hopefully to allow Potter to reach him, to bring him back to himself.

Once he could do that, even in sleep, it would help with the nightmares.

The same way, Severus remembered, that he'd only truly slept after Master Ozhai had taken him through those first meditative elements, always studying him intently, ruthlessly.

The man, even at his age, so very sharp - declaring him a dark and bitter soul when Severus had begged broken at his door - and taking him on anyway. Teaching him, strengthening him.

Even after the destruction he'd left in his wake, the ruins of war trailing after him, branded into him.

And now he taught Potter the sacred tenets. How jarring that was, to be the guide instead of the guided. How it threw Severus back to that fresh boyish pain, battling grief daily and losing, much like Potter now.

Master Ozhai's hands - that had steadied him, tapping at his skin a lifetime ago - had been the first kind hands after his mothers, after hers.

Potter seemed to calm eventually so Severus returned to his chair, tiredness dogging at his heels, warring with a tumultuous restlessness that was bleeding him dry.

How could he have earned rest, solace? Potter was not at peace, tortured, riddled with what Severus could only imagine was trauma and guilt.

And yet, the boy had heard nothing for weeks. Ignored by his friends, by his wreck of a godfather and Lupin, all at Dumbledore's behest.

Now Severus cleaned up his messes, left to steady this phantom imitation of Potter, who floated aimlessly through his meals, his lessons, his life.

Vindictively, Severus wished he'd said more.

He dozed for a time though Potter's incessant owl kept sweeping back to the window ledge as though furious at his imposition in her space, hooting loudly, checking Potter was still alive it seemed before taking flight again, not before eying him suspiciously each time.

She's an owl, what need has she to be in here at night?

In his paranoia, it was starting to feel like the owl was reproaching him too.

In the early hours of the morning, Severus stirred again, ready to give Potter another round of potions when he found the boy awake or - as awake as he could be in this state.

"Potter?" Severus asked lowly. The boy only moaned in response, closing his eyes again, a little crease between them.

It stabbed at something Severus couldn't place, something he felt had been terribly lost inside, that now floated to the surface, meek and limp, probably drowned. Holding the vials up to the light of the lamp, Severus reminded himself with no end of guilt that he had asked Potter if something was wrong, had given him potions to alleviate his symptoms, had bloody told the dolt to stop.

Those measures - suggestions - didn't seem to be enough then, when it came to Potter. This boy needed to be guided, or steered or just flat out handled.

Because this was unsustainable. Potter's behaviour and even his own, it could not continue.

What had Severus been expecting really? From a fourteen year old.

Should have known better.

Here Severus lapsed into the easy self reproach. Yet he didn't want Potter to be another failing, another regret. Not when those had been piling up around his ankles for so many years it was a miracle he could walk.

"Potter," he opened his eyes again, those eyes, Severus almost couldn't look, shame pooling now with his own unending tiredness, "a few more potions now."

Potter, unerringly pliant, complied, swallowing down his water afterwards without so much as a sound.

"Good," Severus murmured, with a strength he did not feel, "are you feeling any difference? Better or worse than earlier?"

Dazed, Potter offered only a low and listless, "Tired..."

"No doubt," Severus said wearily, "you are not as feverish so we will take that as a concession that the potions are working for now."

Potter, still glassy eyed, just nodded.

"Rest." Severus said quietly, something in Potter's small frame, tucked into bed so feebly, making him smooth his covers down again, to draw them up to the boy's chest firmly, "just rest. That is all you need do now."

Severus had just about sat down again, ready for another round of needling self recrimination, utterly worn, when Potter piped up dully.

"I just want it...to end."

Not as much as me.

"Illnesses of this sort are not generally eternal Potter."

"No," Potter surprised him, slurring, clearly nothing short of shattered, "I want it to end."

"Yes Potter," Severus muttered, turning to face him with a frown, "I heard you-"

"Make it end," Potter begged weakly, chest heaving, "please...all of it...just want it all to end..." he closed his eyes with a soft sigh.

End, end, end echoed everywhere, a deep unyielding scratch marring this disk of life, dooming it to repeat Potter's last infinitely.

Sickening disquiet trickled down, then gained traction and climbed over and through Severus, settling soundly into his bones, inseparable, seething.

Deep inside the wretched catacomb of his being, in that place where the Dark Lord once simmered and settled, pulling and tugging at the very worst of him, Severus knew he could have just...let it go.

Place a cold towel on his head, his darkness whispered gleefully, give him his potions and just leave. Close the door to all of it.

What would she have done?

That churning shame pulsed with dread in equal measure.

If she were here, if she could see this....

Ridiculous, that's what Severus was. For the paranoid and guilty strain of thought he harboured deep inside himself that she could see all the ruin he'd caused, that she might well work her way back down to this earthly realm, to come back to find him for his many and awful transgressions...

A kind of hysteria possessed Severus along with a troubling insistence to tread carefully: there was no accounting for what Lily Evans could do when she put her mind to it, dead or not.

If Severus was here, he must put his mind to it.

"What, Potter, do you wish would end?" Severus moved over to him, spoke quietly, better probably not to remind Potter to whom he was speaking.

"Hmm?" Potter murmured, turning onto his side.

This wasn't a violation, this was just asking, not the same as ripping through and taking.

Could a fever be considered duress?

Severus touched his shoulder, shook him lightly, "Potter - again for me please. What is it that you want to end?"

"What?" Potter mumbled, "Go 'way."

"I will go away. I only need you to remember what it is that you want to end. Do you recall?" he asked urgently, fearing, fearing, fearing, "what did you mean?"

"You stupid?" Potter managed, "means what it means."

Severus breathed deeply. Murder was wrong. She would not want that. She would break very violently out of whatever heaven she had ascended to if her only child was murdered and he hadn't the courage to face her yet.

He adapted his approach.

"You want this sickness to end?" Severus questioned intently, fraught, "is that what you mean?"

For the love of Merlin and Morgana, I'll kiss every first year on the head before tucking them in at night so long as that was all he meant.

Potter's weak laugh rang with foreboding, "Yeah - that's what I am...a sickness - I'm a sickness all over...just let me end - let it all end..." he trailed off, depleted.

Severus almost didn't hear his own alien voice, high and faint as he choked out, "You would - you would take your own life?"

Resting on the edge of this icy precipice, he still prayed, seeking solace in a religion long since discarded - lord please, lord-

"Yeah - sure," Potter murmured sleepily, "take it if you want - I don't care anymore - you have it... I deserve it..."

There was that lord, fucking forsaking him as surely as he had for Severus's whole life.

"Truly...truly you think that you deserve to die?" numb, he ended up asking nobody.

Potter had fallen asleep again.

Left Severus with the basilisk in the room that turned him to stone, to a useless statue perched over the boy he was supposed to protect.

There was no sleep, no consolation of even a brief loss of consciousness, nothing to either ameliorate or diminish Potter's delirious confession from the place it lodged itself in his chest.

What must he do now? Rewrite the thrilling saga of Harry Potter, the sure and steady tale he'd spun himself from day one? A rewrite just wouldn't cut it, he'd have to throw out the whole Merlin damned chronicles and start from scratch.

To admit his misgivings, his failures, omissions, oversights, fucking negligence.

Maybe you could find it in yourself to finally live up to all that you can be.

Oh Severus was going to find it in himself to join Potter in vomiting violently. To retch and retch and retch until this shell was finally carved out clean and then, exorcismic scourge complete, he'd stuff himself of all the things he should have been - to stand strong under this crushing role.

Anything else, anyone else would be better.

Menirva. Albus. Dobby the house elf. Buckbeak.

There wasn't anyone else.

This was the terribly uncomfortable thought that stayed, lingering oppressively as he woke Potter for more potions and sat by his side as he slept, slept, slept all day, enviously oblivious to the maelstrom raging not two feet away from him.

I cannot do this.

Potter's owl eyed him with disdain between her stints of sleep throughout the day, once even pecking at him furiously when he'd dared close the window.

Glaring did no good. She saw the truth of him and suddenly, he missed very small first years very much.

Severus oscillated all day between his new role as Potter's nursemaid and scrawling false reports for the Dark Lord. False failures, false successes, false solutions. How terribly apt that was.

Toeing the tediously thin line between helpful enough to remain alive and useless enough to delay his full return.

There was a particular misery that hung over everything, suffocatingly tangible.

He did not consider himself prone to the maudlin. This however...this was an ask he had never foreseen, a role he had never envisaged.

Severus was no hand to hold in hard times, no strength to lean on. He could not be cosseted with the relief of predictability anymore though, of hard built and sneering assumptions of Harry Potter.

Potter had thrown that out of the window. Potter needed more.

Severus's headache - boundless, inescapable, hounding - pounded on and on and on.

Potter awoke properly at last in the evening. Did not have the decency to stay coma borne forever. More lucid, still depleted, still worn out but finally with some colour, some life.

The life he was apparently so desperate to throw away.

The sacrifice he was so willing to discard.

Unfair, an annoying voice jingled at him, terribly, terribly unfair Severus.

He spoke with Potter quietly, inconsequentially.

The boy was no longer nauseous, fever eased if not entirely spent. He murmured a low thanks at the potions, the water, the salve.

The soup though, that garnered a complicated expression, an immediate reluctance that morphed into tension, unease.

Severus tensed too. He did not want to have to murder Potter over soup.

"Eat." he snapped out.

Thankfully, Potter did, grudgingly but too spent to protest.

Well, add it to the ever growing list of nonsensical Potter-related things, of confounding behaviour that couldn't be deciphered in any way that mattered. Yet.

The owl watched them both. With Severus she was particularly reproachful, judgemental even.

Then, Potter had finished his potions, his soup, his bathroom break.

Had heaved himself back into bed and looked askance at Severus, confusion emanating from him.

Severus, heart pounding so fiercely, an aching knot throbbing in his stomach, finally, finally ripped it from inside himself.

"Do you recall what you divulged to me last night?"

Be calm, be calm, be very very calm.

Potter frowned.

"How should I know? You said I was out of it." Something lurked in that tone, something animal, a note ever so slightly off. The boy swallowed convulsively and Severus knew, just knew Potter knew too.

"You expressed a terribly insistent desire for everything to end."

A tiny intake of breath, Potter's shuttered eyes, nervous glances all around the room - all crushing any final hope Severus had been clinging to of blessed misunderstandings.

This is real.

Mutely, Potter regarded him with a kind of gobsmacked horror before he began shaking his head, "I was tired sir - I was out of it - like you said-"

"Don't lie to me." Merlin how else should he sound? How best to shape the noises spilling out of him, who could tell what might make Potter retreat? How he would interpret his tone, his voice, his words?

"It wasn't - it wasn't like that," Potter insisted lowly, eyes still shooting everywhere, gripping his covers tightly, "it was just a lot - after Occlumency and you said we should stop and I didn't listen so I was just really tired-"

Severus shook his head, "No, you were very specific. In fact, I believe you called yourself sickness all over...you were quite adamant Potter, that I let you end." he tried for deliberate, firm without the hindrance of the accusatory.

Potter seemed to be taking it badly anyway, pushing back the covers and swinging his legs over the side of the bed in a kind of bodily protest, holding his hands out placatingly, "No, no, no, you see you're reading it all wrong-"

"No Potter," Severus said slowly, gripping the chair tightly, "I don't think that I am."

Potter gaped, shaking his head vehemently.

Denial, his mind whispered to him, only it was the worst kind, that one kept tucked so deeply within, that curdled and spoilt and came spilling out at the worst of times.

Like now.

"I think that for the first time since your arrival, you were absolutely honest with me."

Potter might have been lined up for a hanging, so white and faint he looked. Severus couldn't even stop, couldn't even consider that the boy was still sick because they were both here, in the very horrible here to which neither of them could escape.

"It's not - it's not - I don't, " Potter stuttered, something of a desperate pleading colouring his tone now, "I'm not, I'm not going to - I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it."

How had Severus ever seen him as anything more than a boy?

"It is not an accusation I make," he tried awkwardly to placate, "I am trying to understand Potter," this seemed to set him off worse if his wide eyes and instant recoil were anything to go from, "help me to understand what is happening with you. How can I help if you are not forthcoming-"

"Help me?" Potter rasped out in rampant disbelief, standing suddenly, "you - you - you," he pointed accusingly, "don't want to help me! Nobody wants to help me!" lead-like fury poured from him even weak limbed as he was, steadying himself against the bed frame.

"The people that are supposed to be here aren't! The people who should care don't! Don't you tell me," Potter shouted raspingly, choking back a cough, "don't you tell me you want to help me. I don't need you, I don't need anything from you!"

Severus stood slowly, cautiously, "Have we not already covered this in painstaking detail? I am here-"

"What good is that to me?" there was a slightly hysterical edge to this.

"Potter-"

"No," Potter spat, "I don't want anything! I don't want anything from you, from anyone! I don't need anything," he was ranting now, eyes furious, "I don't need anything, I don't need anything!" he shrieked this last.

Severus tried to step closer but Potter backed away quickly, scrambling for his wand and holding it out with shaky fingers.

"Don't you dare!" he seethed, eyes wild, shaking, "don't you come anywhere near me!" he all but howled.

Severus watched, powerless.

"Potter," he said quietly, "I think that you need help," the boy shook his head madly, "let me help you-"

"You can't help me!" Potter screamed, seizing the glass from the bedside, throwing it furiously where it shattered against the wall behind Severus, "Nobody can! They don't care-" he picked up the empty vials and hurled those too.

Splinters, shards, crystal exploded everywhere. Wandlessly, Severus turned them to sand. Potter raged on.

"You should be thrilled! Everything you've ever said was right! Nobody cares about me. Nobody-" here his voice hitched, eyes closing momentarily, "nobody wants me. They all hate me now! They all hate me for what I've done!"

"And what on earth is that?" Severus questioned intently, "what crimes have you committed that anyone should hate you so?"

"I brought him back!" the window panes rattled, "I killed - I killed Cedric!" now his face was bloodless, hands shaking so hard Severus doubted he could've cast a spell, "I can't be trusted! It was all me, it was all because of me-"

"That is absurd-" Severus tried for assurance but it came out all wrong, accusatory.

"What's absurd?" Potter zeroed in on him immediately, "you've always fucking hated me! You should be thrilled to see me go!" the dementors kiss would have been easier to bear, "why does it matter to you if I'm dead?"

"Don't be ridiculous Potter." Severus snapped back before he could consider it, regret engulfing him immediately with the fire kindling in Potter's eyes, reflecting a kind of terrifying mania-

"Ridiculous?" Potter repeated in a horrible whisper, clutching at his heaving chest and Merlin, was he going to kill himself by sheer will? "I don't care if you think I'm ridiculous! It doesn't matter anyway! He'll kill me no matter what! Why the hell should I care anymore?" he shouted and it stung, oh it stung.

"Potter," Severus tried, reaching out his hand cautiously, "please sit down. All night you've been sick with fever-"

"So, fucking what?" Potter snapped madly, recoiling further away, "So what!" he gestured madly with a half laugh, "So fucking WHAT?" Off then he went completely, diving into what Severus was quickly realising was some kind of breakdown.

Clanging with finality, with desperation, an end.

"You know I'm right! I'm marked for death-"

"Stop this," Severus emphasised and yes, it sounded harsh to his own ears, too stiff, too little, "take a breath with me, try to calm down-"

"I don't care about being calm!" Potter laughed shrilly though it was achingly empty, "I don't care about any of it and I'll tell you this you prick," he spat, "if I want to die then you should just let me fucking do it-"

"How could you think I would allow that?" the softness still wasn't coming, only the reproach he knew so intimately, "I am responsible for you-"

"That's all you care about - you and your fucking responsibilities - you don't care if I die - I bet you wish I would!" Potter threw at him, shaking all over, "Save you all this hassle, save you all this fucking time and energy that you wouldn't have to waste anymore-"

"I would not see you dead Potter!" Severus snarled, trying to get a grip on the situation, trying desperately to solve this terrible sum and pull Potter out, well, whole, safe.

It would have to be him. The sinking feeling was fast becoming resolve because yes of course, it would have to be him.

Severus was all Potter had right now.

Potter, who was still raving, "- you can't help me!" he shouted, desperation scrawled all over him, hurt and heartbreak carved into his youth, marring it, "and you're just like the rest of them! They don't care either! Why would they? I - hurt - everyone!"

What right did this boy have? To devastate him so?

Birthright, his horrible conscience whispered gleefully.

"Potter," Severus kept his voice steady, "you were not responsible for either the return of the Dark Lord or Diggory's death-"

"Don't!" he screamed, "What do you know? You don't know anything! I didn't mean to do it!" Potter half shouted and half sobbed out this last.

From the embers of his doubt, his inadequacies and shame, flickered a minute flame of urgency - Severus closed the gap between them swiftly, seized the boy, not roughly, not ungently.

"What don't I know?" he demanded, just as madly as Potter, caught up in his frenzying distress, "tell me precisely what it is that I don't know?" the boy thrashed in his grip, still fever weakened, still a child, "I have prodded and pulled and pushed as nicely as I can!" he raised his voice, unbidden, "so tell me what it is that I don't know!"

Potter shook his head - eyes wild, furiously scared - no, no no! Still fighting and wrenched himself away from Severus's grasp.

"Talk to me Potter," he snapped out, hearing only his own frantic frustration, "Tell me what on earth is going through your mind."

The boy shook his head, trembling, gasping.

"I can't - I can't-"

"What are you doing to yourself?"

"I - don't - know!" Potter sobbed out, back pressed against the wall and with this, he dropped against it, clutched at his hair and just screamed.

Good grief what was this costing him? Severus looked down at his crumpled form. Fresh from the battlefields of sickness, of grief and trauma, of the Dark Lord's abhorrent touch.

How had Severus missed this?

You wanted to.

Yes, that was probably right.

And wrong. Terribly wrong.

Shrill and tinny, an exorcism ripped out of this boy, so young, so burdened. Severus knew he wasn't imagining the quake of the house, the clatter of straining protest from the windows as Potter - hands still clutching at his head - screamed.

This was what had been reverberating in this house since Potter arrived, this mounting, indefeasible crescendo that built and built and built and finally, finally had its out. Now, standing in the wailing cacophony, reaping those waves of destruction, Severus too grieved.

Grieved the youth Potter had wrung out of himself, grieved the self he'd been before he knew of this all defeating pain because now, there was no turning back.

This was his sea and he had better swim in it.

Besides, one could only remake once one had destroyed. Potter was certainly bent on his own destruction. At his own infliction. Not sleeping, not eating, pushing himself too far.

The screams rang out for the punishment they were. Potter raised a hell of a crusade against himself.

And Severus, so intimately familiar with those harried depths of blame, wanted to scream too.

Instead, he approached slowly, drawing himself down to sit on the floor opposite Potter, where he'd slumped down against the wall, agony wrenching from him.

How can anyone break so much?

"Potter-"

"No!" he sobbed out instantly.

Severus reached out, tried to catch his wrists and move his hands away from his painful hold on his hair, to speak lowly but Potter smacked him away, the brief silence quickly filling with aggravated shouts, vehement denials.

"Potter! Look at me, look at me-"

"Don't!" Severus felt the misery before he saw it in the boy's glistening eyes, "I don't - deserve - anything!" Potter choked out in halting sobs.

"Enough, Potter, enough," Severus tried for firm, calm, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Slow down, just breathe-"

"You don't understand, I'm all wrong!" Potter cried out, pushing him away, "I'm so fucked up. I can't even - control my magic - can't sleep - can't eat, can't fucking - do anything, save anyone-"

An awful wrenching, breaking thing cut at Severus, along with thousands of shards of errant panic because this wasn't stopping, this wasn't going away-

"-even Dumbledore hates me!"

"No," Severus insisted, torn, "no Potter-"

Potter ripped desperately at his own hair, lashing out and then scratching all over his face.

Severus took his wrists, gripped them hard, "You need to stop, look at me, calm down - stop that right now - this only hurts yourself Potter - I said stop-"

"Don't-"

"-that is enough-"

"-I can't do anything right-"

"-Potter!"

The boy gave a strangled shout, all the fight inside erupting at long long last. Even with his wand long since abandoned, he struggled against Severus.

"It's my fault they're gone! I brought him back," Potter forced out, voice broken, his sickness bleeding through, "I brought him back and he - he killed her!" he choked out, "Killed them all!" he fought Severus's hands only weakly now, "how many more?" Potter sobbed out his grief, "how - many - more -"

Severus couldn't abide it, couldn't fucking stand it. The seething crash inside himself, agitated, overwrought.

Panic, fear, guilt-

Wrung out with exhaustion, without even thinking, Severus pulled Potter close to him.

Wrapped his arms around him in an instant, hands resting on his back.

"Stop."

Potter collapsed into him.

As though he'd been waiting all his life for someone to gather him up, hold him tightly and keep the world away.

The boy did not cry, he sobbed as though the world were ending. Or had ended. They might have been sat in the ruins of fervent desecration, cradled in the terrible knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.

"That's enough now," his own voice had a strange, dreamlike quality to it, "that's quite enough Potter. Calm yourself now..."

Such ripping pain, such caustic misery. How, how, Severus despaired again, had he missed this?

"Alright Potter, alright," Severus soothed, when had he ever needed to soothe? Hesitantly, he patted at Potter's back.

It should have felt strange. To hold another so closely, to comfort. To give instead of take.

Potter's halting sobs carried on, choking cries that broke and broke and broke -

Now Severus must fix - when he had never needed to fix.

Torrential exhaustion bled from Potter as he shook against Severus but eventually he quietened somewhat so his doubts slipped away piece by piece - this at least felt right.

"Good Potter, good..."

If this is what he needs, let him have it.

How long exactly had he needed this?

"S'all my fault," Potter's wobbly voice, when it finally came, was almost smothered in the robes he hid his face in, "it's my fault."

Imbecilic.

Why was it always insults that caressed the tip of his tongue at such a time?

That's how you know how to comfort, his horrible conscience chided him.

"No," Severus whispered, to both his taunting conscience and to Potter, "it is not your fault. It is not your fault that this is happening to you."

The boy shook his head against him, "It is. It was me! I took the cup - it was my blood - it was me-"

"What could you have done?" Severus whispered again, as they lingered in a sacred hush, one where he could smooth a hand down Potter's back gently, "how could you have battled the darkest lord that ever lived? You are fourteen. You can hardly brew a potion competently." Darn, that was decent until the end.

"Cedric," came the watery reply, shaking with cries, "he only came - because of me-"

"He chose an option that neither of you could possibly have known ended with death Potter," Severus said firmly, in disbelief, "You cannot bear that burden, you were not responsible."

Hitching sobs spilled out of Potter as he shook his head, convulsively enough he could have been having a fit. Severus just held tighter, cradling that small frame with his arms, squeezing momentarily.

Potter's grief, Severus realised, could have devastated a village.

Small mercies then that the house still stood.

"He - he killed him - like it was nothing."

Undoubtedly, to the Dark Lord, it was nothing.

Why confide this in Severus though? Hadn't Albus or Menirva or Poppy or someone talked this through with him after Diggory's death?

"And still, you brought yourself back," Severus murmured, "You cannot fathom the significance of such a thing."

"I couldn't - I couldn't save him."

Severus sighed but Potter carried on, still shaking against him.

"He's still - he's still killing others - children-"

"And what will these tears achieve?" Merlin and Morgana, they were all doomed if the words of his mother were spilling out without censure now, "Will you drown the Dark Lord in such an ocean?"

"Sorry - I'm sorry." Potter sobbed out, decimating the minute slither of hope he'd held that that might at least shock Potter from his state.

Severus despaired, held him close still. Could he press away these fears, this terrible sorrow eating up a boy intent on forsaking his life?

"Do not apologise to me," it came out stingingly fierce even as he held Potter so carefully, "I do not accept it, not when you are utterly blameless."

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry...please-“

"Potter, stop," Severus was near pleading now too, "You needn’t beg nor apologise for anything you foolish boy. You are not…guilty, no matter that you have convinced yourself otherwise. I am telling you that you have confused yourself, very much so. I am your professor, my knowledge is far superior to yours, I know better Potter."

The blasted boy shook his head into Severus’ robes again and without thinking he stilled it with his hand, then left it there, resting lightly on the back of his head then - hesitantly - so very hesitantly - stroked his fingers through his hair. Just once. Just because maybe that was right.

Thinking at any moment Potter would wrench away from him, pulling away in that infuriating way of his, reminding him so uncomfortably of being this boy.

But he didn’t, he stayed, he clung and Severus…Severus let him.

Then, the intolerable words of his own mentor were clawing their way out of him, unhinged, desperate for freedom from the misery they dwelled in, "Will you spend the rest of your days condemning yourself?"

Potter only clutched at Severus's robes tightly, reminding him quite suddenly of another boy that had done the same thing when he'd toddled around, still a babe.

Who was watching over Draco? How long until the Dark Lord decided Lucius's allegiance was too flimsy, how long before his son must prove himself, brand himself-

No.

No.

One boy at a time.

I am only one man.

And hardly half a saviour, certainly nothing young boys should be aspiring to, looking up at, desperately clutching to as though he could actually help them.

Still, Potter did.

"It's over now, it's done. Let it go Potter, just let it go." Severus murmured. The boy shifted so that he tucked his head under Severus's chin, shook against his chest.

These walls were solid witness to despair, to all the times Severus sat here, crying out his rage, his anger at the very world, his manic mother, his never understanding father.

No one had ever come for him, to him, with him.

No, Potter was not liable to become a death eater but he was spiralling downwards, flailing, drowning, anchorless.

What had Severus done? Watched him deteriorate before his very eyes, wasting his youth away into exhaustion, forging the burning pieces of his trauma and isolation, fitting them deftly, working himself into this.

"Something's wrong with me," Potter whispered into his robes, tone all wrong, secretive, ashamed, "bad things...always happen - even when I try - try to be good - to be normal..."

How long had he been concealing this? Tucking away his dear conviction of condemnation?

There'd barely been any time between the last task and packing all the students off home, some rationale about letting them have a longer summer for time to process things.

Potter apparently hadn't processed anything.

"There is little chance of normality for you, that much is true," better not to lie, one should not comfort with lies, "those circumstances are well out of your control now. The fault does not lie with you though. This tirade you have built against yourself-" how to explain? "emotions change Potter, they are in a continuous state of flux. This state you find yourself in will not be permanent-"

Something had set him off though, Potter cried through painful wrenching gasps.

Spare the fucking lecture maybe?

"Breathe," Severus instructed instead, slipping his hand between them, taking one of his frail wrists, "just breathe Potter, slowly, with me. In...now out...good. That's very good. Now again...in...out..."

Potter did listen, did calm very slowly. His pulse slowed and Severus tapped at his arm very gently.

Keep him present, bring him back, keep him safe.

"Good," he murmured, shifting uncomfortably when Potter finally lifted his head from where he'd rested against him.

Glassy eyed. Dazed. But not gone.

Not yet.

But too close, far too close.

They were both slumped on the floor. Potter couldn't be comfortable like this. He certainly wasn't.

Laughably, it almost felt too intrusive now, to place his hand on his shoulder, even after Potter had cried into his robes.

"Up Potter, back into bed now."

Potter wasn't interesting in standing though, he sat back against the wall, stared at the floor. A kind of churning was taking place inside Severus, a disturbing foreboding, an instinct that bade him hold his breath.

"It should have been me," was what finally came out, hushed, secretive, voice hoarse with how he'd screamed himself out.

Potter stared at his own hands as though they were foreign to him.

And didn't elaborate.

"It should have been you?" Severus eventually prompted, watching him carefully.

"Not Cedric."

"I see." because what could he say?

"Not...Penny." Potter's voice cracked on her name, the reverberation shook his whole body.

This boy, Severus mourned, had battled the darkest lord alive, thrice. Had stood, imprisoned behind the eyes of a madman, bore witness to the flaying and decimation of a child.

"Not anyone else..."

"And now?" Severus asked, much calmer than he felt, "you desire your own end?"

"I'm tired," Potter whispered, not answering the question, perhaps he couldn't, "I'm always so tired..."

Because the rot of the Dark Lord took refuge in his mind, terrorising his nights. Because he undertook the strains of Occlumency, so young and unprepared. Because he'd witnessed his classmate's murder just weeks ago and another, oh, last week.

What did Potter have? No letters, certainly not the support nor attention from those who, as he'd so aptly stated, should have been here.

His relatives though...who he hadn't written to or mentioned or anything of that sort-

"Why am I here? Instead of them?"

That wasn't a question Severus had managed to find a satisfactory answer to yet, stewing still in the acridity of his damned life, trundling on in place of the purity of hers.

"Sometimes...it is far more preferable to release the burden of why these things happen in the manner that they do...to allow yourself to move on."

Potter closed his eyes, pulled up his knees and rested his head on them.

"I didn't want to be in the tournament. I didn't want any of it."

How terribly you've failed him.

"I know Potter."

Severus waited, some peculiar instinct warning him that Potter wasn't yet done.

"Everyday," Potter said blankly, "It's like...a nightmare I can't wake from."

Being fourteen, Severus considered fairly, was its own kind of nightmare.

But Potter knew nightmares far beyond his boyish years.

"Why?" Severus asked quietly.

"I don't feel...right- I -" he hesitated, "I don't feel like a person at all."

"Potter..." Severus wavered, unsure of what to say, unwilling - unable - to disrespect Potter's raw honesty with empty platitudes.

"That's why...I'm all wrong...I'm all messed up."

"No Potter," finally, something he could answer, "Your grief is not the measure of you. It is not the measure of anyone."

Potter barely seemed to be listening, "You don't understand."

"And why is that?" a morbid curiosity wormed its way through him, "I would think that I was best placed to understand your latest dealing with the Dark Lord."

"Because you're a - a Death Eater?" Potter glanced up at him momentarily, seeking something in his face. Severus held his gaze, unyielding.

"Yes Potter, because I am a Death Eater."

"Why are you a Death Eater?"

It would be easier surely to die than face this, from her son, like this.

Severus looked away.

"That is a terribly complicated question."

"I'll try to push back my next appointment, so I can hear the answer." Ah, he was still lurking inside somewhere then, that ridiculous child, full to brim of stupid, dauntless Gryffindor.

"I was naïve and foolish," Severus said stiffly, "and that is all there is to say on the matter."

They were quiet for a while.

Then Potter spoke, "I know...I know I need to be better - I'm trying to be better. For next time..."

The anger that swelled inside was tidal, mercilessly swift. That twisted lesson of life he'd carved so deeply into himself - if you are good enough, everything will finally work.

"That is extremely flawed reasoning," Severus fought with calm as Potter processed that with a frown, "these events did not occur because you were not 'better'. There is no measure of the self at which all of life falls into place and you achieve the ability to put an end to all calamities. Working yourself into the ground now saves nobody Potter."

Silent tears tracked down his face. Severus forced himself not to look away this time

You've done enough of that.

"This is life Potter. Sometimes, life is a terribly hard thing to bear. Perhaps you think me cruel to say so. It is true that you would have to look elsewhere for warm and pleasant tales of living, of heroic triumphs over evil, happy endings that justify strife and struggle with all working out according to some ridiculous higher plan. The grit of life, the endless toil and the ruin - death - it will always happen and it is difficult to bear. That is the truth of it. Do not be so deceived as to consider that bettering yourself will give you any control over life - or death."

"Doesn't matter," Potter whispered quietly, upset scrawled over him, "I don't deserve to be here."

"Let us entertain this absurdity for a moment," Severus gestured around with one hand impatiently, "How do you propose to pay your penance Potter? By driving yourself to the brink of insanity? Starved of sleep and food, making your own life tirelessly difficult until you finally drop dead? This is folly Potter and it is no way to honour the lives of those that are gone."

There was that tone again, scathing and needlessly harsh.

"I know very well that you are not so dense as you might seem," that wasn't much better, "this line of thinking is senseless Potter."

The boy still sat listlessly, dazed, likely still slightly feverish, worked back up into a state after the earlier hysterics.

Severus sighed heavily.

"Potter...you cannot carry on like this," then, with more resolve, "I will not let you carry on like this."

Potter was quiet but Severus could see something ticking away inside so he let it be, let him parse through the weight of his own mind until finally, he spoke up.

"I don't know how to stop."

Those words hung heavy with sadness, regret, pain.

"Occlumency will help," Severus stressed, watching him carefully, "you have shown me a significant aptitude for it already, you have made remarkable progress so far. Give it time, work with the key principles as we learn them. Soon it will ease your mental state and your dreaming state in turn. Occlumency alleviates pressure in the mind Potter."

"It did help...when we did it. I thought..." he trailed off listlessly, staring off, distanced, unreachable.

"Potter?"

"I thought that you would make it...hard. But you didn't."

Something clenched inside. Severus wanted to snap, to shout, to tell this ridiculous child to cease - to leave him in the terrible solitude he'd cloaked around himself for years.

Potter's concession, even exhaustion borne as it was, simply unravelled him.

"I have no - desire - to make things hard for you, or rather, harder," Severus managed, "you are here with me so that I might keep you safe and...well."

Potter said nothing, looking down with a strange expression on his face, lips pressed tightly together.

"Do you understand me?" Severus pressed, for reasons he didn't understand, "I want you safe, Potter. I want you to be well."

"I don't know how to stop." Potter repeated, trembling.

Severus nodded wanting, of all things, to reassure, "Then I will help you but you must let me."

Potter gave a kind of funny twitch, a tiny puff of air escaped him, a half deformed word he couldn't seem to exorcise.

"Potter?" he pushed.

"You - you don't want to deal with me." here now, Potter dressed this up as a statement yet they both knew it was very much a burning question, seething underneath. The way he searched into Severus's face only confirmed it.

Don't say duty, don't say responsibility.

"Do not presume to tell me what I want Potter nor what I am willing to do. With all that you have been through, this year alone...it will not be easy and I do not pretend to have all the answers," or any really, "I do not pretend to know all that you shoulder. That does not mean that I would be, how did you put it, thrilled to see you go," Potter flinched, "That is far from the truth. You must take that from me now and understand the truth of it. There is none amongst your friends, amongst your teachers, including myself, who would bid you throw your own life away. I will not allow it."

"You've never been bothered...before."

Severus clenched his jaw.

"I am well aware that our history likely does not inspire you with confidence however, whatever has occurred between us is done Potter. Make no mistake, we shall put it to rest."

Just saying the words was sewing them deep into the tapestry of his life. There they gleamed, strong and resplendent, deep gold threaded into pitch black, so very distinctive.

The past was done.

Potters' future was not.

"What must you think of me now?" Potter asked in a devastating kind of way.

"Rest assured Potter, I have dealt with far worse."

What was the boy supposed to think? After being isolated, kept separate from his friends, his godfather for weeks after his forced participation in the Dark Lord's resurrection?

(Godfather, Severus had to suppress a sneer, pushing very darkly and deeply down the part of himself - still licking those wounds of bitter devastation - she hadn't even asked.)

Looking at Potter now, curled up on himself, head still resting on his knees, stirred a reminder into Severus and he stood slowly, achingly.

"Come Potter, you need to get back into bed. That is quite enough for one night."

"I'm tired." Potter whispered, voice just carrying the threat of overwhelm.

"Sleep then." it poured out softer than he thought himself capable. Potter got back into bed slowly, taking the two potions Severus held up before pausing at the last, the vial of Dreamless Sleep.

Potter looked at him questioningly.

"Merlin knows you need a proper night of sleep." Severus answered simply and he took it.

Then Potter was asleep, Severus was taking the vial from his fingers, his own hands shaking terribly.

Hours trickled by.

Severus didn't leave. Couldn't move from the chair besides Potter. Certainly couldn't sleep.

Powerless to do anything but think, think, think.

It was all so glaringly obvious. How far would it have gone? If Potter hadn't been overcome with fever?

How could he have watched this child, so haggard and spent, deteriorating before his eyes?

Had he truly expected foolish half words and half measures to suffice? Potter was flailing, in need of anchor, of the safety of port.

Severus was not port.

Could he become port?

Potter's nightmare still lingered in his mind.

That ripping blinding pain as he'd near leapt out of his own body in his haste to get to Potter, scorching fear burning through every nerve in his mind as he ran, fearing Potter's end - droves of Death Eaters - to find him completely rigid, spasming gasps tearing out of his mouth and his mind bombarded Severus's - please - please - please!

A grown wizard would have struggled with the strain oppressing Potter. Left alone, of course he'd spiralled.

Don't let me be like him.

What use had he been to Potter after that? Presented him with a mild assurance that no, he had not slaughtered the youngest Weasley. Swept over it as though to save the boy embarrassment, trying in his own way to show that it was of no consequence. Subtleties were lost on Potter though.

You looked away still, because it was easier.

How Severus had derided every adult in his life, his own teachers, meagre relatives, even his parents, for the same experience he perpetuated now, their backs turned - disfiguring the stone clutches of the Dark Lord into a long coveted embrace, the absolution of belonging.

I'd rather not sleep until I drop dead.

Potter would rather have died than seek Severus out.

And he near enough had hadn't he? This pain was taking him, remaking him, crushing him.

If that wasn't enough, Potter heaped it further on himself. Deceiving even Severus with his foolish determination - Voldemort's not taking a day off, neither am I - who had taught him this was admirable? That overtaxing the self equalled penance, justice?

Marching Potter to bed he'd done in a kind of blind fury but with an underlying confusion. The boy was pushing him that much was clear. He was pushing himself harder though.

You have to let me do this.

Why did Potter do this? To keep himself punished? To remain in the only retributive state he could accept himself in? Exhausted, hungry, pained, hurting.

But he knew now. Tried to draw meagre comfort from that.

Severus would teach Potter Occlumency - the boy had already shown that he could excel, given patience, given time.

And the letters, it still ignited a spark of fury, Potter would get his blasted letters.

Even if that had meant furiously scribbling away in code to Molly Weasley who had been so terribly obliging in return because of course, she was a mother, she understood.

She would have known what to do.

And yet, she hadn't done it because she didn't know, she wasn't here.

Hadn't he taunted Potter with the same? Would that I could summon Molly Weasley here to be your shoulder to cry on.

If he could summon Molly Weasley here, they would surely need both shoulders.

Life was unyieldingly cruel, perhaps this was it's scathing punishment. A doling out of divine retribution for Severus's foolish assumptions.

Assumptions could not be permitted to stay here, to infest themselves in the woodwork of this...relationship they must now cultivate. They would have to be snipped away, carefully discarded, not retained in a tidy pile to dive back into - when tempers worsened - when aggravation won over as it often did.

Assumptions would be the death of this boy. There was no world in which that was permissible.

Was he just terribly blind then when it came to Potter? What else had he wanted to see, fallen so easily into?

Forgetting the cardinal rule of life, of Master Ozhai's teachings, question everything.

Restlessness urged Severus up, he wandered over to the window where the owl had refused to leave tonight, guarding Potter with what could only be described as a wrathful night-time vigil.

He kept a safe distance.

Idly, Severus fingered the wooden window frame that had once housed another lonely boy, conflicted and suffering, carrying the burden of his terrible life on wretched shoulders.

And then, inflicted that terrible life unto others.

He sat in the window frame, facing Potter, slightly cramped with longer limbs now than the last time he'd curled up alone here.

At least the boy slept peacefully now.

Severus slumped, held his head in his hands mournfully.

Will you spend the rest of your days condemning yourself?

A nudge to his fingers startled him, the owl had edged close and all but shoved his hand. It didn't peck though. Tilted its - her - head and watched him severely instead, almost...admonishingly.

Severus was not in the habit of allowing owls to chastise him.

Still, he held his hand out hesitantly and she nudged his fingers again, without malice.

Glancing back at Potter briefly, Severus murmured to her earnestly, "I'll keep him safe now."

Always.

Chapter Text

Memory flashes seethingly - wedged tight between crushed lungs- stomped through and biting, dragging pain in the mouth, the head, the everything that ever was.

Harry; one pulsing aching hurt.

All out of sequence, out of whack.

I don't need anything!

To need was impermissible, inexplicable. Fundamentally useless. You couldn't need if you couldn't have.

Marked for death.

But then, decrying his denouement:

I would not see you dead!

Why should Snape rage at him so when the truth lay etched in his forehead? This unfailing truth they all looked away from so politely: poor terminal Harry.

It hadn't ended there, of course not-

How many more?

Wrenching out of him, ripping away those few weak remnants of sanity.

And warmth. A hellstorm of it. Circling the sun, Christmas at Hogwarts, the glitter of a floor to ceiling mirror, two sets of beaming smiles-

But this was a warmth of substance - that Harry could touch, that Harry did touch - that he had held - a flood of robes and hands and - and the warmth had held him back.

Have you ever been warm?

Not like this, not like this-

It is not your fault this is happening to you...

Wrangle those words into mortar and stone, Harry could home himself in their fortification forever.

You have confused yourself.

That could lay uncontested, it was certainly merited.

Condemn, condemn, condemn, in a wreath that wrapped around his neck and pulled.

Or maybe the wreath was a dormant thing and no, Harry didn't place it there but maybe he was the one that pulled it far past snug? Notched in line with the highest rings of penance.

There were other things Harry was loathe to remember, a pulsing spread of other things that rose to the surface anyway, too buoyant to drown -

-folly - no way to honour the lives of those that are gone -

Even worse, lingering with all the squalid tact of a hunged corpse struggling to die: I don't know how to stop.

Mortifying in its truth. Embodying all the pathetic feebleness Harry knew himself for.

Even if you knew how to stop, could you ever bring yourself to?

Maybe he could, maybe if-

I want you safe, I want you well.

More impossibilities, poured out into liquid words. Just thin streams with all the potential to double over into oceans. Could anyone want Harry safe to the depth of oceans?

Snape apparently could.

Put it to rest.

Rest? Good grief yes, someone put Harry to rest. His whole life was battling against the weighted ocean current and all he wanted was to fucking rest.

Though now he'd go out with a heartfelt epitaph, here lies Harry Potter - death by cuddles.

But Snape meant exactly the opposite, Snape would not allow it.

Somewhere in there, the solace of a sleeping draught.

Then nothing. Sliced clean through. End of page. Next reel please, cigarette burns dotting the corner, saluting Harry's Captain Crazy.

Harry's reality simply blended away, next reel be damned.

When he wakes next, it's to the sight of the open window.

Stars blink innocuously. A yellow slice of moon even sits peachy in the night sky.

The world has carried on spinning then.

Snape hugged Harry and the world just carried on spinning.

Harry musters up something like indignation, frowning.

If his world is falling apart, nature could at least follow suit. Where's the wreckage and the ruin? Something should be on fire at the very least-

"Go back to sleep."

Harry, eyes already shut, doesn't dare open them again, not even at the light brush on his shoulder, a fleeting - comforting - press.

Something is on fire, it's just inside his chest, coiled up tightly around his heart, spewing searing lava throughout his veins, subsuming him without pause.

It's that same warmth.

Harry doesn't have time to cool it with incredulity, already falling away.

Crisp pages turn, a cool breeze sweeps the air and an owl hoots somewhere far in the distance.

Hedwig hasn't been turned into his next soup then.

That's the thought that lets Harry rest again.

The morning brings yet more bleariness but Harry's remembered he's a person again at last. A mortal person no less, with an aching head and sore chest, but finally free from pernicious, never-ending nasal fluids.

Snape talks at him in swatches, seemingly expecting no response. Harry leans into it, stays quiet and watches through a lens of confusion as the man tends the veritable apothecary that swallows the room and lends it the medicinal scent of herbs, of sharp lavender.

Snape hands Harry small bites of food, Snape talks about nothing in particular.

And Harry is tired but not to the extent Snape still seems to think he is.

But he wants to stay here, he wants to live in the warmth.

If Snape doesn't expect him to talk, he can't make any mistakes.

"Your owl has brought back a gift in the form of not one, but two dead mice in her cage, one of which was only very recently undeceased," Snape mutters, back turned, picking up vials and storing them away in a chest, "Does she usually make a revolting habit of such a thing or is she ferrying her chances with a small sacrifice in the hopes that such a bounty will ensure your imminent revival?"

Had he chided Hedwig whilst Harry had slept? Harry desperately wished he could have seen that interaction. Hedwig would hardly have held her furry head in penance. Harry's owl, his sweet dewdrop darling owl held grace and love for Harry and Harry alone. She cared not a whit for anyone else.

Had Snape learned that lesson by fire?

"She has been particularly pecky with me," Snape continued crossly, "one might think she were pursuing a blood sacrifice in addition."

Harry only just suppresses a tired grin before he drifts again.

"-let you disturb him-"

"-being unreasonable - Dumbledore -"

"- to come into my house-"

"Where else would I go-"

Confused, Harry heaved himself up.

The voices continue, a meddly of rising and snapping - familiar - almost as if -

No, Harry thought slowly, surely not...

He tip toed to the door.

"- then I - we ought to be able to check that he's alright-"

"Now you are compelled to his bedside? By what force, guilt? Shame?"

Then, cutting silence.

Harry knew exactly who was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

There was still time to feign sleep, or madness. Or both.

But there might be answers. Real answers. And if there weren't, he'd have his answer anyway.

Harry opened the door, walking to the foot of the stairs.

Remus craned his head to look up at Harry, surprise in his face and a relief that stabbed at something inside he couldn't quite place.

"Harry." he said with a smile, even if it was stretched terribly tight. Remus glanced sideways, hesitantly at Snape who looked strained to the point of shattering.

"Uh, hi," Harry managed, rubbing at his chin because he hadn't really thought through the sheer awkwardness of the whole thing, "I'll just," he gestured vaguely, "I'll just get dressed."

"Of course, yes, of course," Remus nodded, together he and Harry doing absolutely nothing to mitigate the furiously looming spectre of Snape, "I'll wait down here for you alright?"

Harry looked at Snape who finally lifted his glare from Remus to look Harry over, appraising him from top to bottom before emitting the tiniest nod.

Harry nodded too.

So perhaps it was petty.

Each sock he placed with exaggerated care on each foot.

Every single tooth sparkled clean. His hair he brushed with real bristles, not just fingers.

Blue T-shirt or green? Trousers or jeans?

When there was nothing else to tend and even that small effort had worn him through, Harry petted Hedwig excessively until she nipped him in warning - I love you but watch it.

Let Remus wait for him for once.

Not a single letter since he'd resigned from Hogwarts. No inclination that Harry even existed. He could talk to Snape for an eternity as punishment as far as Harry was concerned.

But still his stomach writhed and his chest was squeezing horribly tight.

What did Remus want, what had Snape told him?

A knock startled him, his heart leapt into his throat - he wasn't ready for this yet -

It was Snape who opened the door though, appraising Harry for a moment before stepping in and shutting the door behind him.

Though the relief was immediate, there was just nowhere to look. At Snape wasn't possible so he settled for a midsection of the wall with a few dents in it, next to the door.

Snape however didn't hesitate, "You need not speak with him if you do not wish to."

Harry directed all his confusion to the wall, still averting Snape's penetrating gaze.

I hugged you, Harry thought wildly, or you hugged me...and I let you do it.

"Really?" Harry asked the wall faintly, "what are you going to do about him if I don't?"

"I will ensure that he leaves." Snape's voice came low and steady.

Harry couldn't speak, a wave of something trembled inside, crashing overwhelming recollection against him -

I would not see you dead Potter!

"Do you want to speak with him, Potter?"

Harry had forgotten that this was the Snape who gave him choices now, choices he didn't know what to do with.

Harry shrugged, the war drum of his heart pounding relentlessly in his jaw, his skull.

"I detest it when you shrug in that manner." Snape hissed.

"What manner would you like me to shrug in then?" Harry muttered at the floor.

It didn't take long then to start fucking it all up.

What could they put to rest? Was Snape disgusted by him?

Snape seemed the same as ever, unmoved, impenetrable.

Thinking the worst of people was exhausting. How could Harry justify the effort of thinking the worst of Snape now?

"Lupin thinks you may have perished up here given the time you are taking," Snape says dryly, arms crossed, "He might be a fool but I know that it does not take you so long to put your socks on," Harry shifted uncomfortably, "Tell me now, do you wish to speak with him?"

Something had splintered within Harry that night - now the dam threatened to spill forward, leaning into his fractured pieces and pressing relentlessly.

Don't you fucking cry again.

He turned away from Snape, breathing deeply, just give Snape an answer, the right answer.

"I...yes," Harry mumbled, "yes - I want to."

Snape said nothing for a minute as though giving Harry the chance to rescind his offer. Harry stared downwards, pressing his nails into his skin, blinking harshly.

"Then kindly come downstairs." there was no malice, no bite but as he turned to leave Harry couldn't help but blurt out, "Did you - did you tell him...?" he looked up finally at Snape to see a complicated expression on his face that, for once, didn't even out into customary blankness.

"No," Snape said slowly, "should I?"

Now Harry couldn't look away from the eyes that bore into him as he shook his head quickly.

"Please," Harry breathed out, "don't."

Snape said nothing for a minute before he nodded tersely, "Are you in any pain?"

Harry shook his head. Snape lingered for another moment before he seemed to sigh, "Come downstairs."

As he swept out of the room, Harry sagged against the wall in relief.

"Harry, it's so good to see you again." Remus was all uncut smiles now Snape had left them in the living room together.

Harry nodded at nothing.

"You haven't been very well I've heard," his brow creased in sympathy, "rough few nights?"

"Yeah." Harry says with forced nonchalance, suddenly fuming, chest ablaze with anger at the Merlin damned small talk.

"Well, nothing for it but to rest up." he smiled knowingly, as though he knew Harry, as though they were sharing a private joke.

"You've been very busy though haven't you?" Harry relishes Remus's sudden bewilderment, "well you must have been seeing as you haven't talked to me for nearly a year."

Instantly, Harry wants to die with how much emotion spills out - as though he's choked up, as though he's sad when his head's really just ringing with the fury of it all.

"Harry," there comes Remus's instant remorse, "Harry, I'm sorry - really I am just so sorry."

Harry says nothing.

Silence, he's coming to realise, really is a powerful tool because Remus carries on in a rush when he sees Harry isn't going to say anything more.

"I know there's no excuse for it," he shakes his head, the perfect penitent, "I don't want to give you excuses Harry, you deserve better than that."

"Okay." Harry says blankly.

"Well, Harry..." Remus seems to struggle, "you see, it's not easy Harry...it's just that-"

"What?" Harry pushes, "it's just what? I haven't heard from you or Sirius or anyone. What are you all doing all of a sudden? Who's made the decision that I should be kept in the dark about everything and that's just fine?"

"Harry, it's not like that at all," why is he using that stomach turning pandering tone, "Dumbledore is worried about you, we all are-"

"You're so worried you've stopped talking to me?" Harry snaps, "well - everyone else stopped talking to me. You couldn't have stopped because you never even started." How good it feels to get it all out at last.

"How does that make any sense? Didn't I deserve an explanation first at least?" Harry demands, "You're telling me none of you could manage one letter, one line telling me first before you wrote me off for good? I suppose it just doesn't matter then what I think?"

Crass, Snape's scathing tone throws out, the implementation was crass.

"Harry," Remus says in a wobbly tone, hands clasped tightly together, "there are so many forces at play here, so many things you don't understand yet. I know it probably seems so confusing to you right now-"

"It doesn't seem confusing, it is confusing and you show up here pretending to care nearly a year later! Well thanks, I've already fought the dragon and the merpeople and Voldemort so you're a little late to the show now. At least Sirius bothered to show up for some of the tasks, where were you?"

Remus's dismay eats at Harry. The gratification quickly dies though, turns ashen and makes Harry the villain again.

"I wanted to be there," Remus finally says, quietly, like a beaten down thing, "I know - exactly as you say - it's little good now but I did want to be there and I'm sorry that I wasn't-"

"Have you come to take me back with you and Sirius?" Harry demands. The ensuing recoil in Remus's eyes tells him everything.

He hasn't come to take Harry to the home Sirius promised him. No one is coming to do that.

"Harry, no. I'm sorry, no - please Harry," he rushes out when Harry goes to start in again, "where we are at the moment - with everything going on - it just isn't a suitable situation for you to be in. You might not realise it but you're safe here with Severus and he can train you properly, he can teach you what you need to defend yourself against You-Know-Who."

Who was he to tell Harry this?

"I might not realise it? Because I'm some sort of massive imbecile?" Remus's jaw dropped, "I realise plenty," Harry steamrolls on, "That you can only be bothered check in when it's convenient for you. When you know you can just drop me again and leave me to someone else."

"That's not true at all," finally a shadow of a wolf looms over Remus as the meekness drops away somewhat, "I am sorry Harry but you have no idea what else is going on-"

"Of course I don't! How could I? Nobody tells me anything-"

"There is a necessity to that-"

"What necessity-"

"Please Harry, there's no need to shout-" Remus cuts himself off at the glare Harry levels at him.

Snape had let Harry shout until he was absolutely hoarse, screaming bloody murder and oh, Merlin, crying.

Remus wanted Harry to be quiet and easy, to be understanding and good.

Well Remus could stuff it. Harry sat in the stubborn charged silence, jaw clenched, unwilling to concede, to make it easy for the adults. Let them feel just how horribly he felt.

"Do you...are you okay here, with Severus?" Remus asks eventually, "Have things been - ah - civil between you?"

They're wonderful, he let me cry into his robes this week, next week we'll probably make flower crowns.

"What does it matter?" Harry baits bitterly instead, "It's not like anyone else will take me. It's not like I have anywhere else to go is it?"

Because they were all liars.

"I'll have a word with Severus if you need me to Harry," Remus says it so solemnly Harry nearly laughs, "he should be treating you with decency of course but Harry, I would hope that you are also showing him some respect in turn," it's the chiding, fussy tone that does Harry in, "he is still your professor after all-"

"For the love of Merlin, just stop," Harry hisses and Remus halts immediately, that stupid shock plastered all over, "Snape's been fine. We're both just fine. He's here at least, that's more than we can say for any of you so yeah," Harry nods rapidly, "everything's fine."

Remus nods uncertainly, mouth an unsure O.

Some strange revelation simmers lowly in Harry. Things shouldn't feel fine, not really. And yet...Snape hadn't done anything in the realm of Harry's expectations.

Except tend to Harry, teach him Occlumency and...hug him.

Did he hug Snape or did Snape hug him?

"Alright then," Remus finally says uncomfortably, "good, I'm...glad."

"Of course you are," Harry scoffs, "Now you can pat yourself on the back and forget me for another year."

"I don't have any intention of doing that," Remus insists with a pitiful frown, "and I know this hasn't been fair on you. I wish you'd trust that we only have your best interests at heart, even if it may seem confusing right now."

When Harry still says nothing, he continues hesitantly, "Harry, how are you holding up after - after everything with the tournament?"

With Cedric he means, with Voldemort he means. But he doesn't say it. How terribly civilised.

At least Snape hadn't sugarcoated any of it.

"I'm fine. I already told you." Well not unless they've drastically changed the definition of fine recently.

"Harry, listen, I really want you to know-"

"Why didn't Sirius come?"

Harry doesn't want to know what Remus wants him to know. Harry wants to keep stabbing whilst it's still his turn with the knife.

Pain burns through Remus's eyes momentarily then all that cinders left is regret as he watches Harry warily.

"He couldn't, he's...he's not well Harry. I've been - caring for him - since last year." Remus stares at the floor resolutely.

What does he want from Harry? Was this supposed to elicit sympathy? Harry wasn't well. Harry needed Remus, Sirius, somebody.

Snape though...Snape was here.

And he hugged Harry. Or Harry hugged him?

Snape didn't pull away, even if Harry did start it.

Snape had stayed. Snape hadn't abandoned Harry. Even in the wake of Harry's awful, damning confession, Snape was still here.

Yet this was what he could expect of his father's friends?

A headache started skittering it's way from his temples to his jaw.

"What's wrong with Sirius then?" Harry demanded hotly.

Then, another fucking hesitation before Remus opens his mouth.

"Oh just forget it," Harry says venomously, standing up to move by the fireplace, away from Remus, "I can't handle it I suppose? You were all happy enough to throw me into a tournament that might kill me but I can't handle knowing what's wrong with my own godfather?"

Remus leans forward, eyes desperate as he looks up at Harry, hands clasped.

"Its - in his mind, he's not in a good place Harry. He's confused and - angry - rightfully so. Please try to understand. We're not doing this to hurt you. If things were different-"

"You don't care," Harry grits out, "at least you have each other. I'm just out of sight out of mind aren't I? We'll just throw Harry away for the summer again, Merlin knows he's used to it."

Remus shakes his head slowly, forlorn. Harry takes stock of him for the first time properly. He's not haggard the way he was at Hogwarts, with ill fitting clothes and a rushed air to him despite his cheeriness.

It's exhaustion that hangs around him, like he carries the ghost of something other, dogging his spirit, strained and pale.

"Sirius...he talks about you all the time Harry," Remus finally says with a kind of grieving sorrow, "I swear to you, you aren't forgotten. Not by me, not by Sirius either but...twelve years is a terribly long time to spend in Azkaban-"

"Well you were his friend weren't you?" Harry spits unforgivingly, "maybe you should've tried harder to get him out when he was condemned in the first place!"

Remus make as if to say something but nothing comes out. He freezes instead, looking somewhere past Harry and hardly seems to breathe at all.

It's disappointment that racks through Harry, with a forceful magnitude, shattering the imagine clean through of the man Harry once so idolised, his father's friend.

The childish awe has worn right off. Remus Lupin is a shabby tired thing and he hasn't come to take Harry away.

What did Snape say? What did Remus come for, shame, guilt?

"Next time don't bother, don't come back again," Harry forces out coldly, walking to the door, "I don't want you here. I don't need you."

It's better in his mouth, sweeter and so much more satisfying than not needing anyone. Harry's sees just how much it devastates Remus before he leaves.

And yet, he still wins in the end doesn't he? All of them do.

Now he can go back and tell the rest how rude and childish Harry was. They can all nod and agree: Harry Potter, lost cause, unworthy.

Remus leaves soon after.

What he doesn't take is the wrong footedness that latches tightly to Harry, the bitter aftertaste of words that can't be taken back.

Snape doesn't mention Remus as they sit in the kitchen for lunch and even though Harry still can't really look at him, he's grateful for it.

Still, Remus had almost been a welcome distraction, Harry realises as Snape moves around the kitchen silently.

Having to face the man now is...dauntingly unclear. Once, Harry had known with crystal clarity the ground they walked on, the predictability of Snape's ire, even how to bat it back to him on occasion.

Where the hell are they now?

Maybe it's the bone deep exhaustion but Harry can't quite muster up the agitated unease that came so easily between them before, the suspicion, paranoia.

Instead, he watches Snape make sandwiches with something that borders on curiosity, almost a burning need to know: what next?

Snape sits at last, pushing Harry's plate towards him.

There's a tension to the air, charged up with hesitation from them both, ready to burst. Or maybe that's just Harry, wound tight like a helium hellion.

"It would be wise to continue with Occlumency as soon as possible," Snape says resolutely, "certainly today, if you are feeling up to it."

Harry nods uncertainly at his sandwich. Are they ignoring what happened then? Some furious protestation wriggles inside him, an indignation at trying to can the worms - like Remus and his patronising pandering.

Snape's watching him closely, watching his plate, his untouched sandwich, "I could not discern how...present you were the other night given your fever."

Implied in his pause surely is the expectation that Harry will confirm but the words won't come. Harry doesn't want to ruin this - whatever - that they seem to have constructed between them since his ridiculous meltdown, this understanding.

Then, the other reality crashes down: Snape is not going to ignore this, Snape is going to do something. In the wake of all of Harry's nothing, there will finally be something.

"Potter?" Snape prods.

"I remember." Harry manages quickly, looking up.

Snape nods once and eats some of his own food as he seems to consider the words carefully. Now, Harry can't rip his eyes away. Perhaps studying every breath, every exhale might unearth a vital understanding of the new status quo.

"These are difficult times Potter," he finally says, solemnly, "for you particularly so. Regardless of the circumstances that have led us here thus far, I will say this: however burdensome that night may have been for you, it was also an inescapable necessity. Harbouring such things by oneself-" Snape paused abruptly and Harry held his breath, "it is...inadvisable to say the least and now you have seen first-hand where it leads you - that is not to say," Snape ducked his chin towards Harry severely, "that any blame is being levied upon you. Rather... I would have you know that now, I can appreciate the demanding and onerous position you find yourself in. Do you understand me Potter?"

It was a lot of words for what boiled down to one thing, Harry wasn't in trouble and Snape wasn't blaming him - no, instead he, what, appreciated the position Harry was in?

There was a strangely blank sensation overloading him, a curious static buzzing through his ears as he tried to process it.

"I do not think any less of you either if such an absurd thought still troubles you."

That made Harry's insides convulse, seething the hive inside him.

What must you think of me now?

"You've never thought very much of me anyway." Harry says faintly.

Snape's jaw twitches. Eventually he dips his chin in meagre concession, "Perhaps once, that was true."

Where should Harry even start with that? The buzzing brrring colony in his head doesn't have any solutions to offer.

"You - you didn't tell Remus."

That seems to break the spell between them because Snape raises his eyebrows and sits back, breathing out as he considers. Harry slumps back in his chair too.

"You asked me not to if you recall, or should I be concerned about the development of amnesia now?"

"I just thought that you'd have to tell someone-"

"And why is that?"

"Because," Harry can hardly breathe, stuck in the infinite buzzing, "because...so that, in case - if you were going to - send me somewhere else-"

Snape's eyebrows furrowed, "Somewhere else?" he echoes slowly, "where precisely is somewhere else?"

"I don't know." Harry snaps. Ridiculously, something as measly as upset seems to creep into him, "somewhere like - like St Mungo's or something..." he trails off as Snape stares at him, flatly, as though discerning some offending smell.

"I want you to try something that I know will be completely novel to you Mr Potter," he says, with a tone suggesting Harry is stupid beyond all hope, "I want you to try and think rationally, to explain your thinking in a way that makes sense so that I may understand why exactly such a thought is lingering in your mind and how we might dispel it."

It's condescending but Harry realises something harder lingers behind the words, an unexpected sincerity, a drive to understand maybe.

"Why, specifically do you imagine that I will be sending you away to St Mungo's or something?" Snape asks firmly.

Harry grits his teeth.

Screw it, why not explain? Snape had already seen the worst of him, "I'm - seeing things - having visions of him and what he's doing and that's not," he flounders, "normal or - or right."

Snape leans forward intently, "It is unusual however you had these same visions last year so, try again, tell me what is so different now?"

I'm becoming the monster.

If I want to die, you should just let me fucking do it!

"You know." Harry says tightly, hotly.

Immediately Snape shook his head, "Rationalise, what has changed now? The headmaster did not cast you aside last year when these visions began. Walk me through your process of thought."

Was he so determined to make Harry say it?

"Potter." Snape prompted impatiently, bastard.

"It's - it's not just watching now," Harry manages, voice shaking, "I'm - it's - I'm him when it happens..."

Snape nods when he trails off, "Explain clearly, so that I see it as you see it."

"I'm seeing these things he does - as though - as though it were me doing it." Harry forces out.

"Such revelation," Snape says haughtily, of all things, "he can explain himself very clearly when he puts his mind to the task. Why then are you so insistent that we will be packing you off to St Mungo's when it is clear that we understand why this is occurring?

"Is it?" Harry asks quietly, stomach writhing, watching Snape closely now whose face falls into something bleak.

"Perhaps it has not been made clear to you in which case let me clarify," Snape says seriously, "You are not going to be committed or institutionalised or whatever else you may have conjured up in your clearly melodramatic imagination. Yes, the circumstances have changed, the nature of these visions have become more - permeating, more personal - that does not however mean that you have consequently become highly volatile merely by way of exposure to such things-"

"You weren't there when he took my blood and...came back," Harry clenches his fists so tightly, scratching deep into his palms, barely breathing, "How he touched me - how it burned me."

Snape hardly seems to move as he takes this in and Harry has to look away again, aching hands trembling because he hasn't told that to anyone. Hasn't been able to pry the thought from his memory long enough to even consider it a second time. That pain, that subsuming fear, violating, abhorrent.

"Potter," Snape says strangely, hushed, "don't look at the table, look at me." So Harry looks, stricken, "you are not tainted by his touch," Snape shakes his head seriously, "Do not condemn yourself. Dark magic does not - spread - in such a way."

Harry wants to believe it so badly it's damning. Surely, he reasons desperately, surely Snape would know.

"Where did he touch you?" Snape asks tightly.

"My scar." Harry whispers to the table.

And each time his scar burned, that memory seared afresh too. Pinned against unyielding stone, Cedric's unseeing eyes, vacant witness to Harry's fresh, childish fear.

"It is irrelevant," Snape says roughly, "dark magic does not spread through touch Potter. Lay those concerns to rest. Merlin knows you have enough of them, let this one be."

It wasn't relief exactly that trickled through Harry, but it was something like it. Snape held his gaze seriously as he carried on.

"Myself and Professor Dumbledore are perfectly aware that your connection with the Dark Lord, incited again after the events of this year, are causing the change in these visions and providing the prerequisite for your dreams. You are neither to blame nor will you be punished for them. Do you understand?"

Harry looked to Snape intently, heated, shaking his head, "You don't understand. Even in the vision, I was thinking those thoughts about her - about Penny - like it was - like I was doing it to her, like it was me," colossal pressure builds behind his eyes, "like he was in my head. It was my hands, he was part of me, inside me - that's not right - it's not right-"

Snape reached forwards, cutting him off to close his hand around one of Harry's flailing wrist, to bring it down to the table, shaking his head slowly as the house shakes around them, tinny porcelain in the cupboards protesting ardently.

"Stop, breathe," Snape ordered sternly, "We are rationalising, that does not entail a meltdown. Calm down-"

"I'm fine-"

"No Potter, you are not-"

"Don't tell me what I am-"

"Potter-"

"You're not even listening -"

"Stop," Snape says immediately, firmly, tapping at his wrist, "find the calm, find the quiet - listen to me," he demands, watching Harry seriously, "close your eyes, still your mind - you are losing control. Come back."

Harry, consumed, breathes. Once, twice, again, finds the calm somewhere in between and stills the explosion he hadn't even realised had erupted.

"Just like that, breathe." It's easy for this to feel so much like Occlumency, with Snape still softly tapping at his wrist, that indescribable calm - Harry falls into it buttery soft, calms the cacophony, douses the rage.

When he opens his eyes again, Snape nods once and releases him.

"Explain calmly, slowly," Snape points his finger at Harry, "I have nowhere else to be Potter, we have time. There is no need to work yourself into a state, I would rather not dig you out from the ruins of this house."

Harry closes his eyes again, it's just easier that way.

"Every time, it was as though - I liked it," he confesses dismally, clutching his head in his hands, "even though I swear I didn't, I wouldn't!" he takes a breath again, "I wouldn't ever think that about anyone but...it always happens, whenever I'm seeing it through his eyes, it always happens."

Harry looked up to see Snape, of all things, rolling his eyes.

"You are exasperating Potter," he considered Harry briefly, eyebrows raised, "I take it much of your recent anxieties have stemmed from this delusion that you are transcending into the next Dark Lord-"

"What am I supposed to think?" Harry hates that his voice breaks, "this has never happened to me before, what am I supposed to think!"

Beyond a twitch of his jaw, Snape barely seems to react, surveying Harry in silence until he has to look away again, anxiety curdling thick, shakiness whispering uneasily under his skin.

"That is a fair assessment Potter," Snape actually concedes mildly, "this is unheard of, especially to you. I do however expect that you will take heed of my words now," he gazes at Harry intently, "this distress is unmerited, you are only agitating yourself senselessly. You will remain here with me for the full remainder of the summer and that is binding upon us both."

"Even after everything else the other night?" Harry asks tentatively, hardly believing he'd pried out the words, "even after all the...other stuff."

The look Snape gives him isn't pity which he's grateful for, Snape could stuff his pity in with Remus's. Harry can't figure it out but whatever it is, it frames Snape differently, in a way Harry's never seen before. Like less of a prick and more of a person.

"What you have divulged to me has no bearing on our current arrangements," Snape states unflinchingly, "there are no grounds that I seek to hold against you Potter, no persecution I am raising. That you find yourself in such dire straits does not mean you will be discarded to the lowest wings of St Mungo's-"

"You were the one that said they'd room me with Lockhart there." Harry snaps, hot and uncomfortable.

"Potter," Snape says exasperatedly, rubbing at his temples, "you are not being - evaluated- at each turn nor do I measure your behaviour against an acceptable code of conduct to allow you to remain. There are no such conditions. I will not permit your removal from here so, disregard any ridiculous notions you have invented of midnight evictions or my throwing you out of the door-"

"No casting me out into the muggle world, in shameful solitude?" Harry questioned darkly.

Snape stared silently then slowly, so slowly, "No...and I did not anticipate that you would take those words to heart."

"Well maybe you need to work on your communication," Harry snapped, face blazing, "and I didn't take anything to heart."

Snape shot him a filthy look, "I will take care to watch my words in future Potter, I suggest you do the same."

Was that it?

"What more?" Snape then asked with uncharacteristic patience.

"What?" Harry mutters tiredly, fidgeting with the pocket seam of his jeans.

"You wear your thoughts on your sleeve, so, what more?" he gestures to Harry, "It is quite apparent that you are not through."

Harry, warring inside, kept quiet, unsure.

They sat in silence, Harry unwilling to give in until Snape finally broke it.

"Look at me." Snape demanded but it was too unbearable, too uncomfortable.

"Potter, look at me."

Harry shook his head at the table. Snape reached forwards again but Harry yanked his arms away before he could take one. He was fucking calm.

Snape sighed, tutted.

"Help me to understand what you are thinking," his voice came, with a hard edge, "I cannot help you if you cannot do that...I am here, I will listen."

The words leapt from him so casually, as though he said them everyday, as though any of this were normal. As though Harry had actually earned this or deserved it.

But what was left to lose?

Let Snape deal with it all then, if he was so insistent - if someone finally wanted to deal with it, Harry would finally let them.

"Sometimes - it felt like I wanted to hurt you, when I was angry."

Snape snorted, to Harry's great surprise, "You would hardly be the first student to feel such a sentiment nor will you be the last," he paused briefly before continuing, "you have been through a great deal these last two months alone. Such anger - and all the undesirable emotions resultant - are not to be unexpected."

He was brushing it off, he wasn't taking it seriously. Harry's frustration must have shown because Snape carried on, frowning.

"Potter, thoughts are not crimes," he emphasised, "You are perfectly at liberty to think freely-"

"But it's like - it's like him - bleeding through me, what if - what if that's what's happening to me?"

Snape shook his head, "Potter, practically you have neither the skill nor the prowess to become a dark lord. Perish the thought entirely, none would kneel before you."

"As if I'd want them to." Harry muttered though it was reassuring all the same. Even if he did became a dark lord, surely he'd be the worst possible one?

"He...he's in my head though. When I see the - the visions - how do you know bits of him aren't creeping into me or something?"

And what would they do to Harry if they were, exorcise him?

"If you are truly concerned," Snape said seriously, "there is a way that I could sweep your mind with Legilimency, if you were willing, to check for foreign strains of thought or anything in the vein of parasitic, which, I would reiterate, is highly unlikely."

Here was Snape, this new Snape, who really did seem to want to help.

Uncanny as it might have been, it wasn't unpleasant.

Maybe it was just about fucking time.

Still, uncertainty lingered with too much weight, tugging him back into comfortable doubt, "No," Harry finally said after a long pause, "no - that's okay."

Snape nodded stiffly, "Something to consider then, should you have need of it."

Should you have need of me, that was what he really meant again, Harry realised, mystified.

Yet these things were becoming less and less unbelievable. Snape didn't give Harry empty words or empty promises. Not like Remus, or Sirius. For one thing, Snape was still here.

"Do we have a resolution then Potter?" Snape asked impatiently, "Will you try, at the very minimum, to free your mind of this ridiculous notion that the Dark Lord has become infested in you? I am not worried, neither is Professor Dumbledore so, nothing more will come of this. It is painfully clear to me that you were deprived of sleep and food when you ambled around in such a sore state last week. We need not go over that again - it is done. We will draw a line henceforth and move on, yes?"

Harry said nothing, trapped in this strange state of wanting so desperately to accept what Snape said - the man wasn't giving him reason to doubt anymore.

He hadn't gone tearing through Harry's mind again for answers and it was oh so clear that he could have at any time, if he'd wanted to, he could have.

"Do you understand me Potter?" Snape pushes, "there is no persecution that awaits you, except your own."

"Okay." Harry finally murmured, head spinning, overloaded as if he'd run for days. If anything, it was baffling just to be spoken to this much in one day.

"Eat," Snape mutters, dipping his chin at Harry's plate. Harry sips some water instead.

"You didn't say anything to Remus then?" Harry prodded, hopeful for distraction, maybe Snape would finish his lunch and just leave.

"I did not. I take it your conversation with Lupin was not as fruitful as expected?" Snape asked carefully.

A strange feeling ignites in Harry, a bewildering desire almost to confide in Snape, to see what he would make of the whole thing.

"He hasn't spoken to me since he left Hogwarts last year," Harry says hesitantly, "he didn't write to me this summer either. Then again, neither did Ron, or Hermione or anybody."

Harry picks at the sandwich just to avoid looking at Snape, knowing even as he does that he can't eat it.

"If you might consider taking some advice from me Potter," would Harry consider that? "do not persecute Miss Granger or Mr Weasley," Harry looked up in surprise as Snape surveyed him, "No doubt they find themselves in the same unenviable position that you have also been in this summer. They are told what they can and cannot do. You might consider taking a rational approach the next time you find yourself so quick to anger hm? What do you imagine they have been told by their parents, and they by the headmaster?"

So Harry dredged up Snape's beloved rationality, gave it mouth to mouth and thought it through.

"I - I suppose that it's not safe? To contact me?" Snape nodded once.

"Yes, I would surmise something to that effect. So," he held up his index finger with solemnity, "to blame them serves no practical measure. They are not at fault for listening to those that yield authority over them," then, almost as though he couldn't help it, "as for your dear godfather and Lupin, I have no comment whatsoever to make."

"And Dumbledore?" Harry questioned intently.

Snape's whole spirit seemed to sigh, Harry crossed his arms.

"What? You don't have a comment about him?"

Snape seemed to consider it for a moment, "Would you even heed any comment I were to make if it did not fit with your own notions?"

Harry shrugs, "I don't know. Tell me anyway."

Snape points to his plate again, "Eat. I do so loathe to repeat myself Potter."

Harry doesn't and they hang in limbo again before Snape huffs.

"Must we labour this again? I asked you once before if you wished to speak with him-"

"And you also said he wasn't able to speak with me so what was the point of asking?"

"The point is that I will endeavour to get him to speak with you if you so desire it-"

"How?" Harry throws out petulantly.

"The how is not your concern," Snape says crisply, not coldly, "I cannot guarantee immediate results, I can however try. That is within my remit."

Harry shrugs, just to poke but Snape remains unmoved, glaring.

"Potter, do you want to speak to the headmaster?" he asks slowly, as though talking to someone particularly dim.

"No."

"Then why do you require my comment?"

"I want to know what you think."

It surprises Harry to say it as much as it seems to surprise Snape to hear it. Harry takes the tiniest bite of sandwich as Snape considers it.

"The headmaster has much to tend to given the current circumstances, even you can appreciate that-"

"Don't," Harry means to snap but it comes out liquid soft, like pleading, "don't - make his excuses for him. I'd really rather you said nothing at all." It's the pandering he can't fucking stand. Snape's never done it before and Harry doesn't want it now.

Snape shoots him a dirty look for the interruption but eventually, through pursed lips he says, "The headmaster is inclined to prioritise other matters at this time Potter and he has plenty of them. I do not speak for him however he cannot prioritise you presently and I cannot say why. I understand this is unsatisfactory. Furthermore, I agree that this - sweeping ban - previously imposed on your communications is unfair. Does that satisfy you?"

"No." Harry mutters though really it's not half bad.

"As I thought."

Harry picks at the sandwich.

Snape sends his own empty plate to the sink before he turns his full attention back to Harry. Even with his head down, he feels the weight of Snape's unrelenting gaze.

"Is there something else that you would eat?" Snape finally says with forced patience.

Harry shakes his head.

"Then you need to stop moving it around and make some effort to actually eat it."

Harry, optionless, tries the path of least resistance, "I don't want it."

"Why?" Snape presses.

Harry huffs, shrugs, tries to breathe deeply.

"Why?" Snape asks again, louder.

"I don't know," Harry snaps defensively, "I just don't."

"You aren't hungry? Or you cannot stomach it?"

Harry opens his mouth and closes it and opens it again. Snape just watches his marionette mouth fail and fail and fail until the quiet falls thickly between them again.

"What is stopping you from eating right now?" Snape eventually asks lowly, calmly even, "What it is physically that you feel?"

"Sick," Harry says immediately, "I - feel sick."

Snape tips his head, "Good."

"Good?" Harry repeats blindly, "good that I feel sick?"

Snape rolls his eyes, "Good that you finally demonstrate you are in fact capable of communication other than that senseless jerk your shoulders produce. Good that you tell me verbally what is amiss. Good that I can now comprehend why you do not want to eat at this very moment."

How is Harry supposed to believe this is reality when Snape keeps coming out with shit like this? Perhaps Harry never truly woke up, perhaps Snape smothered him to death after the hug so Harry could never tell

"Communication that is not substandard begets appropriate solutions," Harry watches this alien imposter, draped in Potions Master, stand and summon items from the cupboards swiftly with a final, "there."

It's a meagre ensemble: a banana, a protein bar, half a pack of Jacobs crackers.

"Pick." Snape says imperiously as he sits back down and sips from his cup, flicking through the paper on the table idly as he does so.

What's Harry missing here?

"Pick...one?"

"Yes - unless you want them all in which case you certainly may have them all." He doesn't even look at Harry, hardly paying attention.

So, Harry surveys the options. The bananas already out, too much squish. The bar looks more promising but there's a layer of chocolate on top that makes Harry itch.

The Jacobs are a maybe.

But they'd be dry. Harry can't have butter, he's not supposed to be having anything. But if it gets Snape off his back...

"I only have to pick one?" Harry stresses again for clarity, suspicious.

"Yes Potter, stars above, one. And try to eat it. There's nothing there that is too difficult to manage. We'll not leave this table until you've eaten something," Snape warns, "If you cannot manage a full meal now then this will suffice, at least, presently."

Harry takes the protein bar, eats a small bite and watches Snape warily.

"Do you see Potter just how easy it can be when you cooperate?" Snape gestures to him, "It need not be so difficult so do not make it difficult for yourself."

Harry rolls his eyes but it doesn't make his stomach wriggle, doesn't make him feel out of his own skin, undeserving and weak.

Rather, it feels like solving a problem. Lunch, achieved.

He won't even have to get rid of this. A bar is fine, a bar is okay. Practically, he needs to eat something occasionally. Today, one bar will do.

Though, Harry wonders, how far could he push it? How long could he wait until the next one? He eats the bar in small pieces thoughtfully.

Snape only looks up again when he's finished it, folding the paper down and focusing on Harry again.

"Potter, I would remind you of the...agreement we settled upon that night," Snape said slowly, inciting a trickling panic in Harry, "and I would hope that you recollect the accord we struck - to cooperate - so that we may navigate away from this burdensome position you find yourself in. I trust that you will hold up your end of the bargain in this, specifically that you will let me help you, where necessary."

"You said a lot of things that night sir." Harry said, half out of his body with trepidation.

Snape purses his lips, "Indeed."

Harry shrugs, even through the nagging warning siren blaring in his mind, "How do I know you're going to keep to any of it? That you really meant it?"

Snape stares incomprehensibly for a dark moment and then, with a look that seems to promise imminent disembowelment: "I have given you my word that I will help you, I do not do or say so lightly."

But Harry can't leave it be, Harry has to pick at it, "You've never wanted to before." The echo of the other night is pathetic - since when did Harry become some whining moaning child?

But another voice says why not in satisfaction and sits back to watch Snape's reaction. Snape, who seems to be experiencing every negative emotion under the sun though he sits motionless.

Minutes trickle by, a scorching heat builds around Harry's neck, enflaming his ears.

Mistake, mistake, fall back.

"I wonder what would satisfy you then?" Snape finally hisses tightly, eyes narrowed, "a blood oath? A pound of flesh as payment in kind? Perhaps I ought to scribe the words into stone -"

Harry only quirks his lips, only glances up for a brief second but Snape catches it instantly, eyebrows shooting up, eyes blazing and before Harry can blink, his wand's out - a sheet of thick parchment and a quill replacing the newspaper, to Harry's utter bewilderment.

"Er-"

"Right," Snape says with a kind of vicious decisiveness, picking up the quill pointedly, "where to begin - ah -" he starts writing, "HP will not be cast out of the house this summer in shameful solitude, to St Mungo's or otherwise, for any reason including but not limited to: visions pertaining to the Dark Lord, any and all health conditions or being asinine. What next?"

Harry stares at the parchment, then back up to Snape, then back to the parchment.

Snape disregards him, continuing, "SS will teach HP Occlumency until such a time as he is proficient enough to occlude alone," this gets scrawled as the second line, with Snape adding an addendum to it, with a dash, "SS pledges to keep HP under the protection of his own Occlumency wards until such a time."

Snape starts writing out a third line without hesitation, "SS and HP will, by mutual agreement, act in full cooperation together in all of their future endeavours-"

"What - what are you doing?" Harry questions slowly, mouth hanging open.

Snape pauses, hand hovering over the page, ink beading at the quill's tip, "Putting our agreement in plain English Potter, for your particular benefit given the exertion it is causing you to trust in what is told to you verbally."

Harry can't even care about the insult, this is just too weird.

"That's not necessary, I didn't mean that you had to - write it all out for me or something-"

"Quiet." Snape demands and Harry shuts up abruptly. It's Snape then that wants to take the wheel from Harry on this, their Delusional Express. If Harry is crazy, it's probably catching.

"What more?" Snape mutters but it's clear he's not addressing Harry, then he begins another line, "HP will endeavour, to the full extent that is reasonable and possible, to collaborate with and allow SS to," here he pauses awkwardly before continuing, "- assist him - in his future recovery."

I don't know how to stop.

Harry burns with the shame of it, but Snape isn't playing his regularly scripted part of dour brooding villain. Snape has shed most of the things Harry thought he knew about the man.

Writing out these - terms - they'll live by, it's absurd but it means something. The moment feels fraught with significance, Harry hardly breathes.

"There," Snape says haughtily, sliding the parchment along the table so Harry can see the looming ink, "our Household Charter."

"Right." Harry says quietly, bewildered, waiting for Snape to unzip himself and reveal the skeletal form of Voldemort cloaked within.

"Thus, for any future fits of hysteria over, shall we say, being banished from the house - one can be pointed towards this, our binding edict." he proclaims.

"Is that it then?" Harry still pushes for reasons he can't even understand.

Snape clenches his jaw, "I am not adverse to additions should they be required."

"Can I suggest additions then?" Harry demands.

"You may," Snape narrows his eyes, "Have you any to specify?"

"Not...right now." Harry says lamely.

Snape's lip curls, "Well if you ever develop a coherent thought again, you may share it."

"I'll do just that." Harry mutters darkly, then watches in astonishment as Snape pins the parchment to the empty cork board on the wall before rounding back on Harry.

"Here it will remain, so you may familiarise yourself with our terms when you find yourself - amiss." Snape throws out vindictively.

Again, another insult but weaved tightly this time into far more confusing threads: Snape trying to make things easier for him, for Harry.

"Okay," Harry tries for nonchalance, "fine."

Snape looks for a minute as though he's going to say something else but turns back to Harry resolutely instead, "If you are certain you will eat nothing else, go and return to your reading for a few hours." Snape dismisses him, standing abruptly.

"I thought we needed to practice Occlumency?"

Snape nodded absently, "We will occlude before you sleep tonight. That is where it will be of the most value today."

"Why?"

"I would not have you wear yourself thin for today, your first full day of wakefulness," something lingers in Snape's tone, an unflinching hardness, "regain your strength during the day and we will challenge your mind again, briefly, before you rest once more."

Harry nods and makes to leave.

"One more thing Potter."

A bottle of water plonked down in front of him, water sapping down the sides onto the table.

"What's this?" Harry asked dumbly.

"I believe it is termed a 'water bottle'." Snape mocked.

"What for?"

"I gather that mortal beings tend to drink from them." Snape's voice came testily.

Harry sighed his put upon sigh, gesturing to it, "Okay - why is it here in front of me?"

"Your powers of deduction leave much to be desired," Snape sneered, "It is there so that you drink from it."

"Why?" Harry pressed with his own sneer.

"Why do you think?" Snape scowled at him, jabbing his finger at the table, "can you fathom that I have never seen you drink a glass of water of your own volition?"

Harry frowned, denial frothing up in automation, Snape immediately shook his head.

"Not at Hogwarts, certainly not here," he insisted with the air of someone gloating, "Now," he threatened, "I don't want to see you without this bottle and by Merlin you had better drink from it frequently."

"Right?" Harry said uncertainly.

"Right." Snape repeated ominously before sweeping away into the living room.

What - the - fuck.

It's pandemonium to figure out what happened between him and Snape.

Harry just runs it through over and over again, tries to test himself to go back to the roots of it, to remember every word from the very beginning, every sentence pressed out of Snape.

He reads his book in between, bits and pieces that linger nowhere, that splinter away and dissolve, uncared for, forsaken by Harry, trying so desperately almost to have the conversation again.

Our household charter.

People don't just do these things. Adults don't just do these things. Harry ought to know, nothing's ever been done for him in his whole life, he certainly would have remembered.

It's the reason he ventures downstairs, knowing that Snape is still in the adjoining living room, armed with his Occlumency books (and his ridiculous water bottle).

What does he even want? Hovering by the kitchen door, Harry resolves to stop being a twit and face it head on, storming in, placing the books on the kitchen table and flicking them open with purpose.

He sits, feeling ridiculous.

Silence. Nothing but silence.

Why would he acknowledge you?

Harry hears Snape, turning the thick pages of a manuscript in the living area adjacent, the paper creaks and crisps.

"I'm going to sit over here," Harry offers loudly, "to do my reading."

"You needn't narrate your actions," Snape responded coolly, "we are not in a storybook."

"Like anyone could mistake this place for the hundred acre wood." Harry muttered lowly, sipping absently from his bottle.

"Well you're certainly no Christopher Robin."

Harry nearly chokes.

Somehow, Harry forgets Snape's even there. Enough so that later on, when he's rummaging the cupboards for coffee, spending what could be an eternity searching for the damn thing, Snape's voice near electrocutes him with shock when it comes, unprompted, from the living room, "Your pursuit of coffee will be in vain Potter."

"What?" Harry snaps, heart racing.

"If that is what you are searching for so ardently, it is a fruitless effort."

"Great," Harry muttered, frowning into the open cupboard, "thanks."

Snape appears seamlessly in the arch between the rooms, Harry refuses to face him, scanning the spot where the coffee was, scanning around it, then investigating around the kettle.

Where is his beloved?

Snape hovers silently, watching him closely.

Maybe Harry's had enough of being treated like an experiment, like something that needs to be monitored. Is that what Snape thinks of him now? That he's some kind of pathetic wet wipe?

"What then?" he asks Snape brusquely who looks back at him unimpressed.

"You are no longer permitted to drink coffee under this roof."

Snape might as well no longer permit him to have legs.

"Okay," Harry nods, lips pursed, "fine, whatever. Going to add that to the household charter are you?"

Snape stays maddeningly silent so Harry rounds back on him, "What? Do you think no more coffee is going to cure me or something? It's going to fix all my fucked up problems?"

"Language." Snape chides immediately. Harry scoffs up at the ceiling, clenching his hands.

What does Snape think he's going to achieve here?

"Cure is besides the point," Snape tells him, "There are no quick solutions to any of your problems. Only time and patience and, in the case of both Occlumency and your accidental magic, practice. To think of cure is to think in confined terms, without the necessity of flexibility-"

"What does the coffee have to do with any of that?" Harry asks impatiently, skip dialogue please.

"Coffee in itself is an innocent party," Snape condescends, as if he's five, "your misuse of a stimulating substance however is wreaking havoc you cannot even see on your exceedingly poor health."

Blah blah blah.

"So I can't be trusted to drink coffee then?" Harry questions sarcastically.

"If you like to think of it in such terms then yes Potter, you are not trusted to drink caffeine in an appropriate manner thus you will not be partaking in any of it."

"It's only two a day, three at most." Harry lies, arms crossed.

"Quite a wonder then that your heart still beats." Snape comments unyieldingly, stalking back to the living room.

"No coffee until when?" Harry asks his retreating form.

"Until I say otherwise."

What could Harry make of these stupid little things, littered throughout the day - a dozen pauses that threw him from steady ground, like snagging a jumper on a door handle, stubbing a toe in the dark.

Hooks in his hands, drawing him back to the same strange place he lingered in now. To where he sat, voluntarily in the same space as Snape - wretched coffee thief that he was.

Harry couldn't even balk at his supposed exceedingly poor health. He did feel like shit, it had just never mattered to anyone else before now.

Still, he sat at the table, perplexingly unwilling to be alone and mystified even more at the realisation that he didn't need to be.

Just forget it, just read the book, just forget it all.

So Harry tried with all his might to scrub away the shifting uncertainty, to just focus on the pages in front of him.

If Snape wanted to adopt his problems, Harry would bid him good fucking luck.

"Finish up." Snape ordered swiftly as he swept into the kitchen in the evening.

Harry marked his page, simmering dread thickening up inside him. His head ached, he was all parched and aching, a thick knot tugged at his throat as he watched Snape move around. He drank some water, tried to ease it.

Finally, Snape turned back to Harry, leaning against the counter, observing him.

"What do you think you could manage to eat?" Snape asked suddenly, taking Harry completely off guard.

It didn't matter how understanding Snape had been about all the other stuff. He wouldn't understand this. Or he might try to turn it into something it wasn't.

Harry knew what he was doing, how it was making him better.

Was it making him better or was it just making him feel better?

"I don't think I want anything sir." he tried quietly.

Snape's expression didn't change, "You've had no breakfast and a measly lunch. I will ask you again, what do you think you could manage?"

"Nothing." Harry snaps.

"Nothing is not an option," Snape says, with his forced calm, mouth forming a thin line, "nothing is not enough to sustain you Potter. I cannot allow nothing."

So Harry racks his brains and tries to think of the easiest thing to - pass - back up again. But it's a Herculean effort. He is painfully hungry. Snape's already broken him before, Snape knows Harry's weakness.

Harry desperately doesn't want be weak anymore.

"I assume you are thinking of an option?" Snape says dangerously. Harry can't help it, without even thinking, he shrugs.

Snape in turn crosses his arms, narrows his eyes, before barking, "Dry or wet?"

"What?"

"Something dry to eat or something wet? Come now Potter, you must know the difference between dry and wet." Snape drums his fingers against his crossed arms impatiently.

"...dry." Harry says slowly. Practically, something like soup was easier to come back up than bread but the searing liquidity of it was too much to bear. Sometimes, when he leaned over too far it would come burning out of his nose -

Snape inclines his head, "Spiced or plain?"

"Plain." Harry mutters, wanting above all else to avoid chilli and spices burning up his throat alongside the acid, the twisting lurch of it all tumbling out of him.

"I presume then that you do not want a particularly large portion?"

Harry shakes his head, oddly curious - where exactly was Snape going to land with this?

"You still feel nauseous?"

Harry always felt nauseous now but when it came to thinking about the thrice daily battles with Snape, it was so much worse, bordering on a pathetic little fear, knowing now that Snape wasn't going to go back to ignoring him at mealtimes.

"Some." Harry says noncommittally.

Snape considers Harry before finally concluding, "Toast then."

"Just toast?" Harry asks hopefully.

"With something if you can - butter or jam or cheese if that would suit. Do you truly want to eat dry toast?" Snape asks with an undertone of disbelief.

Nobody wants dry toast, Harry thought bitterly, but, if he doesn't put anything on it, maybe he could get away with not bringing it back up again.

"I don't want anything on it." Harry prays fervently that Snape will just let it go.

"Suit yourself," Snape mutters, turning around for the bread before turning back to Harry, "tea perhaps?"

Severus Snape is offering to make me tea.

Here it is then, the third act in the pantomime of his life. First the hug, then the flipping legally binding contract and now, the riveting finale - a cuppa.

Threefold insanity, ascending the certifiable holy trinity, next stop - highest security wards, bars on his windows and barely a strip of daylight to see out from.

"If you could perform the basic courtesy of remaining a participant in this conversation for more than three seconds at a time Potter, that may speed up this process." Snape hisses at him, then demands, "tea? With your toast?"

Harry nods out of some long buried instinct to pacify but it seems to mollify Snape anyway.

Snape makes them both toast, though he butters his two slices when he sits at the table.

"That's too much." Harry protests faintly at the two slices he sets down in front of him, cut into triangles.

"Eat what you can." Snape says tersely.

Harry nibbles his dry ashen dinner, stomach protesting enough that he tries the tea too just to fill it some. It's hot, slightly sweet and it makes the grit in his mouth go down better at least.

It's not terrible. And it's only a drink, Harry reasons. The toast was unplanned but he'll definitely get rid of whatever dross Snape insists he eats tomorrow. It's just today, he's tired from the sickness, he really doesn't want to bring it all back up today.

Harry eats about a slice before he pushes the plate away, determined not to have any more. Even dry, it was still good - damn seductive seeded bread. He doesn't want to break if Snape pushes, doesn't want another thing hanging over his head.

Snape thankfully just sends the dishes to the sink where the toast vanishes and the sponge starts to wash them.

"You must try Potter to eat more at mealtimes." Snape tells him, chides him.

Harry ignores him, stares determinedly at his own hands.

"Potter?" Snape pushes.

"Okay." Harry snaps.

Silence.

"Try," Snape reiterates after a minute, "just...try."

What does Snape want? Every day Harry tries. And this is trying - to be better, to be stronger, to get through the day and feel worth living it

"Go and rest, your studying is done for today," Snape murmurs, "I will be up for Occlumency shortly."

Exhausted, Harry flees.

They occlude for barely any time at all, in Harry's room, as he sits on the bed, mired from the day.

Snape shifts the focus this time, to still.

Eyes closed, he bids Harry still the air, still your breathing and your body, still each breeze that's blows through this room.

It's calming, lulling and it makes sense now, why Snape would save this one for bedtime.

In stilling his mind, Harry also stills his anxiety just for a minute or two, feels every bit a soothing lake, a vast field of serenity - is this what other people get to feel all the time? It's not like the calm from before, it's an all free nothing.

And he wouldn't have had it without him.

When Snape deems them finished, he nods in that way Harry's beginning to understand means he's pleased, "Try to capture that feeling again before you sleep," Snape instructs him, "you will be your own guide and this will set the tone for your dreaming mind."

Harry nods. Snape links them and Harry gets into bed but instead of leaving, instead of even a crisp goodnight, Snape strode to the window, conjured his armchair half facing it and sat down. In Harry's room.

The man says nothing more to Harry either - doesn't show any intention of leaving, conjuring a wooden block on his lap instead and placing a book open atop it, a glass paperweight weighing down the pages.

Was he really making himself comfy?

Harry attempted the rationalising Snape was so fond of - and swiftly came up with nothing.

"Can I help you sir...?"

"I sincerely doubt it." Snape's lofty reply came as he continued to read.

In Harry's room, at bedtime.

Harry stared, nonplussed, clutching at his sheets.

"Well - what um," no, best to be precise, "why are you er - here still? I'm - I'm going to go to sleep?"

"Then sleep." Snape said simply, turning a page.

"You...you're - why aren't you leaving?" Some paranoia was building now, crushing pressure in his head -

"Stop that," Snape snapped, finally looking up a him, "lie down and go to sleep Potter. Do you plan to catastrophise your life away?"

"Why are you staying?" Harry demanded, "you don't - you don't trust me alone or something?" his voice shook.

Snape closed the book silently and turned fully to Harry.

"It is not a question of trust," he stresses each word slowly, "it will do you no end of damage if you continue lying here each night, unable to sleep for hours on end, working yourself into a frenzy over the many difficulties you have faced and continue to face," he surveyed Harry seriously, "You need to start sleeping properly each night Potter and that begins with routine, one that I conjecture you will have trouble following on your own. Thus, I have removed the difficulty for you, I will remain until you sleep."

"You're going to stay here until I go to sleep?" Harry asked incredulously.

"That is what I just said." the man muttered throwing him a filthy look.

"But I'm not going to do anything stupid - I'm not going to," Harry lowered his voice, "off myself or anything."

"I'm glad to hear it." Snape said lightly, opening his book again.

"What I mean is that you don't have to stay," Harry emphasised, "I'll go straight to sleep."

"You have not proven yourself particularly capable when it comes to sleep."

"That was different," Harry whispered, unearthing a rising dread inside him, "I didn't want to sleep, I didn't want to see-"

"I know that you idiot," Snape barked, "Merlin Potter," then he seemed to notch down, "perhaps we ought to get your ears checked? You are exercising some appalling listening skills - are you so incapable of understanding what you are told? I will make this easy for even you to follow," Harry balked, dick, "undoubtedly you will continue to experience difficulties sleeping at night, I will remain here until you sleep so that we can begin to repair those difficulties. Can you understand that at the very least?"

"No I don't," Harry snapped, but really he didn't know what the hell he did and didn't understand anymore, "I thought -" he hated the way his voice dropped away, "I thought - that you understood..." he couldn't finish the thought, didn't know it actually.

"What part of this constitutes a misunderstanding?" Snape demanded but Harry could tell now it wasn't anger, just the same drive to truly understand, "I know that you are struggling. You know that I know this," it was said so pointedly Harry had to look at the bedsheets, "so what is the issue exactly?"

Yes, what was the issue exactly?

Why care? Why bother?

"I - just - you've just decided that I need, what, supervised bedtime?" Harry said in complete disbelief.

"Yes."

"Well," Harry's voice wobbles, "I disagree."

"Well," Snape mutters, turning to his book again, "we shall have to disagree then."

Eventually, realising he would get nothing further out of Snape, Harry closed his eyes, something bubbling and strange lurching in his stomach and the silvery strands of a few nights ago whispered their way around him.

I will not let you carry on like this.

Well they would just see wouldn't they? If Snape was really so different from the rest of them, about this, about everything.

If Harry was wrong about this, about Snape, what else had he been wrong about?

Barty fucking Crouch for one thing-

"It is not intended to be a punishment," Snape voices shakes Harry from his thoughts and he opens his eyes to see Snape watching him carefully, "I do not remain here to punish you or - sanction - your behaviour at night. This is not a punitive consequence for anything you have said or done."

"What's punitive?" Harry muttered sullenly.

"Punitive?" Snape repeats, blinking, "intending to punish. If an action is punitive, one doles it out as a consequential punishment, hence, this is not punitive."

Harry says nothing. Here he is again, this Snape that explains things, that takes the time to spell things out for Harry to understand as though that's important, as though that actually matters to him.

"None can avoid sleeping Potter, you must know that," his fathers beaming face, the sweet whisper of his mothers voice - unnatural, "returning to a normal sleeping routine is paramount to good health, it cannot be overlooked nor understated."

What does good health matter when he's destined to die anyway?

"I can't imagine getting a good sleep," Harry murmurs tiredly, rubbing his eyes, "I can't imagine anything ever going back to normal either."

Snape's quiet for so long, Harry starts to thinks he won't respond.

"Impossible though it may seem now, change hardly ever occurs overnight or at all once," he finally says quietly, "It is the small efforts that add up over time Potter, the small steps that climb the mountain. Thus we begin here, with small steps."

Like supervised bedtime? Water bottles, caffeine divorce?

"Try to sleep now, remember the stillness we practised earlier."

Without even realising, it takes barely any time at all for Harry to drift, empty bliss cushioning him.

It's the gasp that shakes Harry from his comfortable sleep first, then the sickening emptiness behind his eyes - a hollowed out void burning with nothingness.

Disoriented, Harry sits up, fumbling madly, tangled in sheets -

Then Snape's just there, grasping his arm, unfocused and blurred.

"- I must go Potter, he is calling - I cannot stay, he will be expecting me -"

The connection's been cut off between them and instantly Harry feels why: Voldemort is calling.

The fear is animal.

"Don't." Harry gasps out, reaching blindly for what he thinks might be Snape, lost to the dark of the room, fingers grasping at the flood of cool robes.

"I must go, stay here, do not leave," Snape says rapidly, pressing a cold vial into Harry's palm, "take this for tonight, do not try to see -"

"Don't!" Harry implores his shadow again, alight with frenzy, "he'll kill you - he'll kill you-"

"I have survived this long-"

"This is different!" Harry pleads, though he doesn't know why but the quaking shake inside him won't cease, "sir - please, please don't -"

"Enough Potter," Snape entreats and Harry realises his hand is still locked inside Snape's where they both cover the vial, "calm down. I must go, I will return."

Snape squeezes lightly then pulls away. Harry's hand falls limp, wetness falls rapidly across his face as he finally finds and slams his glasses on. Desperation claws at him - why can't Snape see?

"Sir - you can't, don't go, please don't go-"

"Take the vial," Snape's already at the doorway, silhouette lit from the dim hall light, but he turns back one last time, Harry can just see the weariness creasing his eyes as he beseeches him, "Just sleep Potter-"

"You won't come back!" Harry cries out, standing, rumpled.

Snape sweeps away but Harry feels the reverberation through his bones and being, then whispering blindingly sure into his mind, taut with promise:

Trust in me.

Chapter Text

It is not about trust.

Trusting Snape now is neither here nor there. Nor near nor far or anywhere else for that matter.

It's irrelevant, completely moot.

Voldemort is the threat that can't be trusted, reasoned with, or (Snape's favourite) rationalised.

What if it's Snape that goes gliding up into the clouds and smashes back down into rains of splintered bone?

It's all too easy to imagine - ribbons of seething boiling flesh, torn away: the essence of Snape sprinkled in a clearing nowhere, abandoned until the rains just wash him away. And no one would ever be the wiser.

Don't think about it, hands shaking, clasping the vial tightly, quiet, calm, still.

Harry's mind is not cooperating.

So instead of the requested quiet, calm and still, he's back in the great hall. Dumbledore quietly declaring - Harry Potter - reading the slip, disbelief swimming in his eyes as they meet Harry's - utterly paralysing him. Harry can't do anything, pinned in place, caged in this square, powerless and always, always unbelieved.

The chamber - ornate snakes, terrifying in their grandeur - is what Harry remembers most, sat with Ginny, thinking through the veil of numbness: you are going to die, the basilisk venom is spreading and you are going to die...

Such a fluke that he lived, is that his whole life - one terribly complex fluke? Cheating the piper all these years, shadowed by death - by its desire for him.

Maybe this is why he's also so incompetent. Repeating failures, everything he does dripping with uselessness, this life - his life - should have ended years ago.

Outside the shrieking shack, cold moonlight pouring over Remus's morphing groaning form as he bends and snaps and howls - Pettigrew is just gone - Harry still does nothing.

Striking viper, the searing belt, again and again and again - do you think it's funny? To blow up my sister you absolute rat - of course there would be consequences, of course Harry had swanned away to Hogwarts and forgotten that. No moving, no screaming, no crying - just holding so tightly onto his magic - if you lose control again, you're done for.

So, just...endure, endure, endure.

Does Harry know how to do anything else? If Snape doesn't come back...could Harry now endure?

No Snape. No Occlumency. No dreaming.

And Snape had changed. They were building this thing, this bizarre, unexplainable but not unpleasant thing between them.

You cannot carry on like this, I will not let you-

Hedwig hoots from far away and Harry finally unclenches his hand, the vial drops with a muted plink.

Everything is too much.

Lights, he needs lights. Harry stumbles to the switch and flicks on the dim light, a half salvation. Then down the stairs, flicking the hallway light too, then the kitchen, then at last the living room.

It's about being prepared, better to be safe than sorry.

After all, Dobby managed to apparate into the Dursley's house at Privet Drive. Hagrid broke into that ridiculous hut on a whole remote island.

How safe could he be then if Voldemort decided to enslave a house elf and send them to Harry armed with the Imperio and a gun?

No, Harry consoles himself after this sudden horrifying realisation, surely Voldemort would want to be more sophisticated than utilising a house elf armada.

But Harry can't be sure. Should he send Dobby to Voldemort with a gun? Something to think about later, something to ask Hermione.

The house creaks constantly, lowly, murmuring it's timber strained protest. A ringing whistle blows down the chimney now and again, setting Harry's teeth on edge.

Dark squares from the windows loom into the house, no streetlight, no moonlight, just square packed voids that make Harry stir in unease, stealing the breath from his lips until he's winded from nothing. Without Snape, every thing is a cavernous thing.

Thrumming with all too familiar tiredness, Harry just slumps on the floor of the living room, back against the wall, wand towards the door.

Even if Harry wanted the dreamless sleep (which he doesn't), it's all the way upstairs and he's all the way down here and none of those facts are changing in a hurry.

It's nagging fury and dauntless panic that seem to churn into a kind of sickening rawness - an urge to just tear something apart or scream at someone. Invite Remus back, Harry would turn him to shreds.

They all leave me.

There's nothing to do, nothing that can be done at all. And it's been hours.

Should Harry contact someone? How long should he wait? Can he even leave this place with the wards up? If he uses magic, will that cement his expulsion from Hogwarts? Should he stay here and wait for someone to come to him? Is there anything anyone can even do if Snape's gone to him? What if the man comes back hurt or worse?

Cedric's unseeing eyes, face gray, lifeless.

Amos Diggory, retching out: that's my son, that's my boy!

Harry rubs his eyes harshly, wired.

A lightning strike of anger - that's all it takes to make him scratch down his wrist.

Flares of pain, nails too long, viciously sharp because who cares about cutting them? The shock lingers, briefly burning, then the marks fade out to a bearable stinging, settling red and angry.

Again, Harry does it, over the same spot and it fucking hurts.

But Snape, Harry remembers suddenly, frowning, Snape would think this was wrong

If Snape saw this, Harry doesn't even want to imagine what the man might say.

He'd go all rigid, face pinched with fury and probably there would be some nonsense like this is not conducive to your well-being Potter or I cannot imagine how you think this helps you, Potter.

He'd say those kind of words in that kind of way - the way that transfigured Harry into a wiggling worm under an incredibly magnified lens every time. What's worse, he might keep proposing what Harry does to himself actually matters and Harry's far far beyond that.

So? Pick a better place. Harry rolls his pyjama leg all the way up and digs his nails into the meat of his thigh, scratching up towards his hip.

It's instantly sharp, demanding in its painfulness. There's n o t h i n g else. Only white hot pain in searing lines that agonise, that shock and warp and twist.

Harry doesn't know why he does it again after that. Again and again until his whole thigh is sheer torment, gripping his head so tightly with both hands - fuck, fuck, fuck - nearly screaming with the hurt of it. Prickles of blood bead up in places, little droplets of wet coating his fingers when he does it over and over - rhythmically soothing.

There is a half-hearted attempt at Occlumency in there somewhere, thank you very much, but it's hard to find the stillness amidst the threads of pulsing excruciation - Harry soon gives up.

All the pain is concentrated here, all the hurts scratched deep into this one place.

It's insane, how desperately Harry wishes Snape were still here.

Eventually, it becomes too much. Harry goes back to watching the door, his thigh a mass of thrumming agony.

It's enough, it's enough.

Much later though, disbelief all but throttles Harry when he looks down.

D i s g u s t i n g.

Red raised strokes, blood dried over the scratches, tight and tacky. Dried smears of it on his fingers too and the spreading horror is as abrupt as the pain was.

Harry covers his thigh quickly, sits in nauseating revulsion.

Who fucking does that?

Yes, Harry's adding in a side of insanity now because really, it's quite clear who.

Less clear is the why.

And yet...the alarm that was lit to full throttle only a second ago dies down just as quickly, a curious blankness surges forward to seep into its place.

It's almost as good as being back at the Dursleys, going days on end with nothing to eat, blissfully clean, lying down for hours, drearily dreaming.

And Harry's missed that, he's really, truly missed that.

Harry embraces the apathy, drifts steadily away from the mess of all this.

At some point, he cleans his hand, comes back, rests his head on his knees and does not sleep.

Harry's nearly given up entirely when the door finally opens. Snape halts at the threshold, mercifully and thankfully alive.

"Why are you curled up on the floor in this freezing room, emulating some ridiculous street urchin when I know very well you have a vial of dreamless sleep and a bed upstairs no less," he spits out immediately.

When Harry doesn't reply, Snape throws himself down into the armchair, "Do you know what I would give, Potter? To be on dreamless sleep and in bed?"

He came back, he's alive and he came back.

"Mercy Potter," Snape all but groans, "go upstairs - go to sleep."

Snape might as well tell him to go slow dance with Buckbeak. Sleep is an impossible thing. Harry can barely move, stiff, aching. Just grazing his pyjamas on his thigh fucking hurts.

"What did he do?" Harry asks quietly, wondering if he even wants to know.

"This, here," Snape gestured towards him rudely, "is the crux of your problems Potter. You concern yourself too much with everything else and spare no measure of energy to actually function, to live."

That's not an answer.

"Did he...did he kill someone else?"

Snape's eyes narrow, "I cannot conceive of why you imagine I would tell you if he did or did not. Might you also require a report of every sneeze, every cough of the Dark Lord to satisfying your inanely desperate need to know?" he lowers his voice, "Leave it be Potter. This is not your concern."

Harry only really hears sneeze.

"Could that nose even sneeze?" Harry asks, morbidly curious.

Snape's resulting stare suggests he's given up on life but eventually he huffs out, "I do not believe so though really, who could say?"

He says nothing else, closing his eyes again but he does flick his wand and the room heats slowly. Harry stops shivering against the cold wooden floor and starts feeling every bit a pathetic, half drowned thing that should have stayed under the waves.

"You might avail yourself of the furnishings." Snape mutters tiredly, "or are you waging war against soft surfaces still?"

"I'm not waging anything." Harry mumbles.

Snape links them, a brief hum at the top of Harry's head and neck, bleeding relief into him. Snape's here, Snape came back.

"Go to sleep then."

Harry doesn't move. Snape doesn't relent.

"Potter, it is late. I am tired - too tired for -" he cuts himself off before continuing, "get up and go to bed or - at the very least - come over here and sit down properly."

With him, that's what Snape wants, for Harry to sit down with him.

Harry, very slowly, very cautiously goes over there and sits down properly.

Snape doesn't open his eyes, sighing silently so Harry brings his feet up too, curling up on the small sofa across from the man. Still, it niggles at him.

What did he do?

"Sir?" Harry has to ask. Snape makes a questioning noise.

"Are you...are you hurt?"

Snape opens his eyes only briefly, shaking his head and closing them again.

"Oh," Harry mumbled, "that's good..." Sadly, this is all the brainpower he can muster.

"Given the hour, I am minded to wait until morning for what you can be certain will be a scolding and a half," Snape says dryly, "however, I am curious...what on earth made you believe that I would meet my end tonight?"

Harry swallows, the urge to shrug so strong it's practically its own person Harry has to wrestle down. Snape doesn't like shrugs, he likes answers. God, Harry wished he had some answers.

"I don't really know," Harry admits, curling his arms loosely around his legs, "I just...it just felt like something would happen. You woke me up and then the Occlumency link was broken and I - I don't know really," it doesn't make sense, even to him, "it just felt like something terrible was going to happen and I...I guess it's good I was wrong."

"Indeed, suffice to say your promising career as a seer is over before it even began. Professor Trelawney will be devastated."

It's almost funny so Harry almost smiles before carrying on, apologetic, "I really didn't think - I'm sorry - I should have known better than to say something like that right before you had to go. I just couldn't think, it all seemed so wrong but then I could have made it worse even though I wasn't trying to -"

"Enough," Snape cuts off the rambling, blessedly unfazed, "I don’t need you to explain yourself to death. From your persistence, I gathered how pressing it was to you," he pauses briefly, "does this often occur now, this sense of - dread?"

The question throws Harry, like most things Snape-related seem to these days.

"It is not a trick question Potter," Snape adds after a silence.

No, just a stupid one.

"I don't know what you want me to say, I don't understand," gnawing at his lip, Harry tries to work it through, "do I dread things? What kind of question is that? Everyone dreads thing sometimes."

"And here I thought you incapable of understanding the minds of others Potter, such hidden depths you carry," Harry made sure to sigh loudly before Snape carried on, "The key is as you have said Potter, everyone dreads things sometimes. The question then is are you coming up against this dread more than just occasionally?"

Harry tries to think.

"It's hard not to, after everything that's happened," surely Snape would understand that, "Now I just think - I keep thinking it's better to be ready, to be prepared for anything. Anything could happen at any time, right?"

Maybe it's the tiredness, but Snape's answer comes syrupy slow, "That is a difficult notion to experience...being on edge constantly."

It's instinct, to baulk and yet, it's true. Maybe Harry hasn't given it much thought lately but being eternally on edge certainly isn't helping whatever the hell is going on in that confused dome he calls a head.

Being on edge was just becoming the norm. Snape's still watching him, still frowning, and how the hell is that becoming the norm too?

"Have you sat here all night then, dreading whether I would return or not?"

To think, once Harry would have been dreading the return altogether. Things are just different now.

"What do you expect me to think? Knowing you were going there to see him and do Merlin knows what? Slaying unicorns or eating babies?" Snape throws him a narrowed eyed filthy look, "You won't even tell me what happened." Maybe if he needles enough Snape will tell, "I didn't even know if you were going to come back."

Snape clenches his jaw.

"Potter, difficult though it may be, you must accept that there will be times when you have no control over a situation," oh no, Harry's tapped into a well of lecture instead, "It would help you a great deal, I imagine, if you try to absolve yourself of this," Snape waves his hand impatiently, "need to control the uncontrollable. You could neither follow me nor prevent my leaving thus this situation was not yours to control-"

"This isn't me trying to control the uncontrollable. How am I supposed to accept that he could have just killed you tonight? Not when I..." Harry trails off awkwardly, stupid.

"When you?" Snape prods, frowning his signature frown, leaning forwards.

Harry hesitates, arms falling to his side.

"Speak your mind Potter," Snape says loudly, impatiently, "have we not come that far at least?"

They have, Harry realises, mystified, they really have.

"All these things that he does now, he wouldn't have been able to do them if I'd just done something in the graveyard," Harry whispers, giving terrible voice and shape to the consuming shame, "if I'd just - if only I'd -"

"Just defeated the darkest lord that ever lived?"

"No, not that," Harry snaps, not in the mood to be out-logicked, needing to explain, "I could have stopped Wormtail before then. I should have left quickly, I shouldn't have dawdled. If I'd just grabbed the portkey straight away-"

"And why did Cedric not do so?"

What?

With the way Harry gapes, punched out, it's a wonder his insides aren't spilling out of his mouth.

"Let us explore this line of thought further," Snape insists, really insists, nodding at him, "Cedric was older, undoubtedly much wiser and far more mature than you are Potter. The both of you were transported into that graveyard so why does blame for all that occurred fall squarely on your shoulders and not also on Cedric's?"

Blame Cedric? With a kind of muted horror, Harry mulls it over - yes, Cedric was there with Harry too but -

"You can't say that - that's just not - it's not like he's - not like he wasn't," words are a distant memory, Harry just trips and stutters and falters because blame Cedric? He finally forces out, "It wasn't like he had a chance to, okay? Wormtail just...he just, stepped out from nowhere and - it was fast, it just happened so fast-"

"That was well after you had both tumbled into the graveyard was it not?" Snape pushes, "Was there a moment perhaps before that? A moment where either you or Cedric could have deduced that the cup was a portkey?"

"Cedric did," a boat-rocking, wave-rolling nausea churns inside, "he said it was a portkey-"

"And what, pray tell, did either of you decide upon next?" Snape questions sharply, "To analyse your surroundings? To try to understand where you had landed?"

Cedric, we have to get out of here.

Harry can't speak. Is Snape in his fucking mind now?

"Where Potter, in between landing in the graveyard and Mr Diggory's death, did either of you have the time to sense the danger present, then gather yourselves and leave?"

Cedric, get back to the cup!

Harry's eyes sting. Maybe his insides have been punched out, that could be his wiggling intestines lodged in his throat, suffocating him.

I did try.

"If you would not apportion blame to Cedric for failing to leave that graveyard in haste and failing to prevent the Dark Lord's resurgence despite being of age then you cannot either blame yourself," Snape sat back as though spent, "After that, I believe your account was that you were trapped physically. If that is correct Potter, where are you apportioning your blame here? How is it that you continue to hold yourself responsible?"

It's like Snape's clawing through his mind, ripping into all his thoughts - all his blame shaped-thoughts, shredded into this new reality.

Harry can't answer, Snape continues quietly, "Are you then simply using the manacles of hindsight to cripple yourself with possibilities that did not even exist? Changing the true account until it mirrors your own persecution?"

"Stop it." Harry at least manages to choke that out but he has to look away, "I - I don't know - just stop."

Is his chest caving in, is Harry Potter just a hollowed out bone shell that could collapse into dust this very second? That's what this feels like. Harry wraps his arms around his legs again.

I did try.

"Let us not labour the point any further at this moment then," Snape offers lowly, "I cannot see what good it would do at this time," Harry closes his eyes and Snape sighs in return, "I would like you to try and do just one thing Potter; question very hard what you have told yourself about the events that took place in the graveyard."

Harry can't get to grips with blaming Cedric. And if he couldn't blame Cedric...Cedric who was older and much smarter than Harry...

But Snape's not done dropping bombs, "I will repeat it, as many times as you need to hear it; you are not to blame for the Dark Lords' return. If not you and then, it would have been someone else, somewhere else."

"Like what?" Harry needs to know so badly it hurts, "what else could he have done?"

"An oceans' worth of unicorn blood," Snape returns dryly, "another artefact similar in properties to the philosophers stone. Possession of an animal or another person - truly Potter, it does not bear thinking. You were not at fault, do you understand?"

Harry barrels on, "You really think he'd have come back anyway, even if it weren't for what happened?"

"Without a doubt."

"How can you be so sure?" Another sigh, it's a miracle Snape has any breath left.

"We, that is to say the Order and I, have always known that the Dark Lord would return again - the stirrings of his followers these past years had made that all the more apparent. It was imminent Potter, unquestionably imminent. So, do you understand me now?"

"I suppose." Maybe he does suppose, maybe some of that rings true. Snape hasn't given Harry much reason to doubt his word lately. He doesn't talk to Harry like he's a child for one thing, Snape tells it how it is.

This might be truth, a relieving truth.

"You need to sleep," Snape says tiredly then mutters, "I need to sleep. If you are comfortable, close your eyes. We might as well try to make some small progress with clearing your mind. You needn't do anything, just listen and try to relax with me, as we did before you slept."

Even though his heart still thunders madly with the concept of blaming Cedric, grappling with the knowledge that Voldemort's return might just have been inevitable, Harry finally, finally, let's go. Let's Snape lead them into that comfortable stillness - breathe with me, steady, calm with a sprinkling of still your mind, still each atom that surrounds you Potter, good, then Harry loses the thread of his thoughts and it all just swills away.

Harry doesn't really wake up so much as he's dragged back to the surface of life, an unwilling participant, bleary and confused at the sofa he's on before it clicks.

Snape's gone and his bedroom duvet's tucked around him.

Merlin help him, he's not unpicking that.

When he tries to escape the covers, the sear of pain from his thigh grinds shards of disbelief into his whole body.

Don't think about it, Harry resolves there and then.

Teeth brushed, don't think about it, trousers on, don't look down, fingers washed again because there's blood under his damn nails and - just, don't think about it.

Snape had let him sleep way past noon, he calls Harry as he's walking down the stairs.

"Come and eat something." It's practically a threat, certainly not a suggestion.

So the first enemy of the day comes in the form of salad. Leafy greens, bright white chunks of cheese, red slips of tomato alongside slices of boiled eggs and dressing on the table. Harry glares at the ensemble. It doesn't explode, probably because wizard-God doesn't love him.

"Do you want something different?" Snape asks mildly, conversationally, as though Harry simply pops over to his house everyday just for the food.

All Harry wants is to not eat anything at all.

Later, when Harry has to present this sacrifice to the porcelain gods, he can only imagine how gross salad and dressing will be coming back up.

And boiled egg? Snape can forget about that.

"Can I eat later sir?" Harry tries, rather diplomatically he thinks.

"I am certain you can however you may not do so at the expense of eating nothing now." Snape corrects, pouring his own.

"I will eat sir," Harry lies, "so may I eat it later?"

Snape blinks, "No, you may not, unless you eat some now in which case you are very welcome to also eat it again later."

Why does he have to be so difficult?

Harry clenches his jaw, takes one meagre spoon of salad for his bowl.

Snape scrutinises this, just like he scrutinises everything, "Another spoonful."

"You only said some, you didn't say how much-"

"How remiss of me, two spoonful’s Potter."

The poor salad spoon gets thrown back into the bowl with as much hate as Harry can muster, for a spoon, "No."

"Why not?"

This is Snape's favourite now. Why don't you want salad Potter, why do you want to die Potter, why do you feel dread Potter?

It's enough to make Harry think he's the crazy one.

"I shouldn't have to justify why I don't want to eat salad to you," it's a stupid sentence, on par with this stupid life.

"If the salad is the issue, you may eat something else," Snape says, oh so reasonably, "Otherwise, you absolutely must justify to me why you cannot eat a portion of food that a toddler would not struggle with."

"What kind of toddler eats salad?" Harry pushes.

"A toddler eats better than you is the point, Potter. Why is that?"

Snape can't get enough of these why why why's lately. Harry can't put his finger on why it rankles so, why he just wants to keeping pushing Snape to see where this chord of reasonableness snaps through.

"I don't want to eat it, okay?" it comes out choked up and Harry doesn't even know why, "I don't fucking want it and I'm not going to eat it-"

"Potter," Snape places his hand on the table between them, brows furrowed, "we needn't make every meal a turn on the damned battlefield-"

"You don't listen!"

"You don't explain," Snape hurls back unflinchingly, "and you pretend to be ignorant to what you are doing to yourself," what the hell is that supposed to mean? "How do you expect to have the strength to pull yourself through the day, to bear through the pressures of Occlumency if all you have to eat is a spoonful of salad?"

It's a terrible thing when the worst person you know has a point.

It doesn't matter, Harry's going to defend this with all his might, shaking with the frustration of it all when he just wants to get one thing right.

"Why are you now - upsetting - yourself?" Snape demands, gesturing to Harry's pathetic self, "do you delight in making things difficult? Rest assured this is not some defeat on your part. I am responsible for you, I must take care of you," something strange sears inside Harry, "so listen to me when I say you need to eat something substantial Potter. There is no choice, you do as I say and that is all."

There is no choice.

There are tears that threaten now. This is what Harry's been reduced to, crying over salad.

It's going against everything he's trying to change about himself. He needs this, that's what Snape can't understand.

"Potter?" Snape asks tightly, Harry can't even look at him.

"Toast," Harry pleads with the tablecloth, "can I just have toast? I can't - I can't do it..." there's no point trying to explain, he doesn't know how to.

Snape says nothing for a moment, then stands up and makes for the toaster. Harry shrinks in on himself.

Snape taps his fingers against his sides, arms crossed as he waits and the toaster buzzes awkwardly in the background, as if it too wishes it weren't there, protesting electronically.

Well join the club.

Then Snape breaks the silence suddenly, "Whilst we are here and in the vein of you unnecessarily fighting me, explain to me why you did not take the Dreamless Sleep."

There's no anger, not really. There is a Snape-standard level of demanding, nothing new. He should be furious but that doesn't mean Harry shouldn't tread lightly.

What can he tell Snape now that won't anger the man?

"Need I remind you of our terms," Snape taps the bleeding penned up Household Charter, then reads coolly, "SS and HP will, by mutual agreement, act in full cooperation together in all of their future endeavours. What manner of cooperation did you show me last night Potter?"

"I wasn't trying to not do what you said," Harry tries stupidly, "I really just didn't want to take it - I didn't know what to do."

"I told you very clearly what to do. Then, you chose not to listen."

It's shameful, shockingly so.

"I told you to take it so you could sleep without issue, so you would not have any further visions. Can you comprehend that at least?" Snape demands.

Harry nods.

"Why then did you still disregard it?"

By the time the toaster pings, there's still no real answer he can give, why didn't he take the Dreamless Sleep? And why, why did he stay awake doing whatever the hell he did instead?

Snape places the toast in front of him and sits again, "Might I take it that you applied the same flawed reasoning here as with refusing the salve? Do you want to be in pain and exhausted Potter? You are doing a tremendous job of making your life so much more difficult-"

"I don't want to be in pain or tired, I don't want any of this," Harry denies, confused and wanting very much to not be so confused anymore, "I don't want to feel so shit all the time."

Snape seemed to take the deepest breath in the universe, swallowing a galaxy worth of oxygen before he spoke, "The solution then is to help yourself Potter. You need to eat more, as often as you can and drink plenty. When you are given a vial of Dreamless Sleep or salve for pain, take it. Then you might just not feel so shit all the time."

Harry isn't convinced it's so easy. It's not like he deserves to feel better either. There's this queasy feeling that maybe Snape's worming into something Harry didn't even know about himself which seems pretty rude.

"I can't help it that I'm not hungry," Harry still argues, "Would you want a great whopping feast after watching him torture people?"

"I do not blame you for what you feel but I will hold you accountable for your actions," Snape says slowly, "particularly when those actions go so far against keeping yourself well," when was the last time Harry really felt well? "You're consistently depriving your body of what it needs to function. Food is not optional Potter-"

"I'm not an idiot!" Harry snaps, "I know you need to eat to live-"

"Then why aren't you?"

"I'm eating toast right now." And I'll be un-eating it later.

"You're not eating enough. I know you know that. As you have said, you are no idiot." Snape somehow still manages to make it sound like he is.

"I'm eating fine, I'm just not that hungry. I don't need you telling me I'm doing this to myself when I never asked for any of this shit to happen-"

"On some level, you are keeping yourself stuck," Snape interrupts severely, "you eat practically nothing. Then you are fatigued all day, becoming overtired and restless at night, you sleep poorly and start the day already too depleted, perpetuating the whole cycle again. Why Potter do you think that you are doing this? Have you thought of that?"

It pangs, splinters so raw that Harry has to sneer through a bitter hollowness, "No, I don't think about anything at all according to you," he smacks his forehead, "no more Occlumency for us, it's completely empty in here already."

The look Snape gives him is withering to say the least. Fine, Harry levels one right back and they sit in an infuriating silence before Snape mercilessly starts up again.

"If you will not give me an actual answer then I will say only this Potter; contemplate why you do these things. Rationalise," ugh, "as to what drives your lack of appetite, your tiredness, why you have been working yourself into a state. Don't be - mindless. Consider the impact of your actions-"

Harry lights up with scorching anger, "I know exactly what my own actions have caused thanks, I know the consequences of my stupid decisions-"

Snape's eyes narrow immediately, he points at Harry accusingly, "You give in to the easy temptation to jump to anger immediately, even now when you know very well that we are discussing your state of health and not anything even remotely relating to the last school year. For once Potter, challenge that initial reaction, look inwards."

Doesn't Snape know Harry's sick to death of himself?

"Leave the past behind you, that is where it belongs. And eat your toast."

Harry bites with menace.

"We have, however, derailed," Snape says, now dangerously quiet, "Should I be summoned again, you will heed my words and take the Dreamless Sleep," he pauses as though summoning a great effort, "I asked you to trust in me Potter. With that comes an assumption that when I leave you alone in this house, I might also place a measure of trust in you."

That is unexpected - the mutuality of trusting Snape.

"You don't even trust me enough to tell me what he did last night." Harry hedges, half hopeful which Snape shatters immediately.

"Nor will I and do not ask me again," he grits out, "The next time I leave this house and place you in trust Potter, will you heed my words?" Snape's so expectant that Harry just caves, to make his life easier.

"I'll try sir."

Snape glares, "Yes, try and then succeed."

It's too tempting to throw out one of Dumbledore's favourites, "Some would say the trying is the succeeding sir."

"I am not such mindless some."

Harry rolls his eyes but something eases in his chest. Snape seems pacified enough, simmered down now into his usual glowering self. The expected blowout seems far off and the punishment, the punishment Harry had barely given any thought to at all lingers squalidly, he can't help himself -

"Is that it then, about last night?" something screams inside to stop, and yet, "if I'd ignored you like that at school, you'd be giving me detention until the day I died."

Snape stares in that unflinching way, deadly serious, "Do you want detention?"

"No. I'm just saying-"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm just checking," Harry raises his hands to demonstrate the peaceful intentions he certainly doesn't have, "you know - I'm just checking you're not going to throw any surprises at me later. If I'm going to get detention or - or whatever else - then I'd like to know now."

Snape had been only too keen to threaten Harry when he arrived after all. Now the man stares so intently Harry churns inside.

When he does speak, it's strained, "If there is a need for discipline within this household, it will be of the same calibre as the detentions you are all too used to receiving at school Potter. Nothing less, nothing more."

"But you're not going to give me detention now?" Harry checks.

Snape sighs, "Last night was - unexpected - that I can appreciate so, no. Now you are aware of a rule however, I expect you to follow it from hereon out."

"Well, if you were to give me detention here, what would it be? Lines?" Harry questions, "cleaning cauldrons? Chopping squishy things that bite back on occasion and really have no business being in a school?"

"No lines," Snape tips his head distastefully, "why on earth would I make you write lines that I would then have to read? I would rather not waste either of our time Potter, we have a strenuous enough schedule to work with as it is." Dismissively, Snape conjures a white packet and places it on the table between them.

"Your letters."

Harry's mouth, toast stuffed, drops open so he has to garble, "Youwenttoameeting?" The packet is so healthily, heartily thick.

"This morning, whilst you were sleeping."

How in the hell did he do that?

"I thought you had to be here for the Occlumency link?" Harry asks, finally toast free.

"For a short time, I can uphold those protections from a great distance, hence the title Occlumency Master Potter," Snape says haughtily, "The meeting was very brief," he stand abruptly, "We will regroup at 5 for practice."

"Okay," Harry managed, still gobsmacked, "er - thanks. For my letters. For getting them. For me."

"I suggest you find your water bottle," this comes in lieu of an actual response and with a pointed glare from Snape.

"Right, okay." Harry's not going to argue with the hand that feeds him letters.

Snape still doesn't give any indication he's heard of anything resembling a letter, let alone that he's hand delivered Harry's to him but some weird duty presses Harry into thanking the man again as he leaves.

Snape ignores it but it doesn't matter. Harry turns back to the very thick packet and rapidly forgets about everything else.

It's Hermione's letter that's so thick. Full of pamphlets on grieving from, of course, the library: Coping with Grief, Managing Stress, Breathing Exercises, Reaching out in times of Crisis.

Harry, the first line of an actual letter reads, I really hope you're getting this in a reasonable time. I've been told I'm apparently not supposed to write but when I asked Professor Dumbledore why that was and how else I could reach you, would you believe I didn't receive any response?

Oh, Harry would believe.

In any case, I've decided I'll write as I usually would and give them to you at the very first chance-

It's not just that striking fire of defiance that warms Harry - there isn't just one letter, there's several. Written in different colours of ink, on different coloured paper and clearly, clearly at different times because communications ban or not, when Hermione had something to say she'd damn well say it. At some point, she'd even started dating them.

She'd been writing him anyway then, a chronological series of events, musings, thoughts, well wishes, questions and theories. Her usual Hermione style; half inquisitive letter, half diary entry which Harry had always teased her for relentlessly and loved her for privately, when her words were all that brightened the stain of Privet Drive.

Summer letters were their thing. Harry thinks fondly of those stacks of letters, locked away safely in Gringotts because Harry assumed there'd be more this year to fill the void of his bedroom.

And he was right. Harry was most decidedly not forgotten. Here was the proof, scriptures shining in glittery gel pens, each letter signed off in the most efficient way, dual threat and warm wish; until next time, Hermione.

And even though Harry doesn't know what to make of it, there's only one little line about the pamphlets  - I just thought of you and I thought you should have them.

Weeks of irritation evaporate away into mistful nothingness.

These are my friends, these are the people that want me. That still want me.

Ron's isn't quite the same, only one letter - just a few lines scrawled lazily but there's another note stuck to it, signed affectionately from Gred and Forge, detailing their future business plan and would Harry be open to discussing investment details in the coming year? The tournament winnings have given them an incredible start but now they're thinking bigger, badder - there will be free samples on the house anyway of course so long as Harry isn't fussed with how many fingers he has for the foreseeable future (Harry imagines it was probably George who wrote how useful would four more fingers be???).

The words swim to Harry, jovial and welcoming and with them, something shames Harry- something inside, deeply exasperated that says don't you remember, fool?

Harry, the end of Ron's note finishes oddly sombrely, don't get into a state over this year mate. I'm sorry for all the shit but it's really not your fault.

Oh, there was so much shit.

How Ron had been last year was so unbelievably shit.

Back then, it had felt, suddenly and horribly, like a gaping chasm had ripped Harry right in two. It seemed as though it would last forever, that clawing split. But it hadn't. Some awkward words and a lot of shit given to Ron later and it was fixed, saved, salvaged.

Something wiggles in Harry's memory, the brief press of Ginny's hand on the train back home when Harry could hardly say a word. The slightly squished chocolate frog Neville gave him, the only thing he'd eaten that day.

And Cho, Harry winced, Cho who'd sent him a letter that languished underneath his jumpers and socks because - well - because who the hell knew what scary things might be written in there? Cho didn't seem the howler type but then neither had Mrs Weasley and Harry can't forget Ron's howler in a hurry.

How dare you kill my boyfriend? I am absolutely disgusted.

That is just not something Harry needs to hear right now. If he's lucky, he'll be dead before the start of the school year anyway so ignoring it is probably fine.

There's also a short and kind note from Mr and Mrs Weasley, a hope that Harry is keeping well and expressing a very warm desire to see him soon this summer.

It's tarnished only slightly by the end of the packet. Nothing from Remus, nothing from Sirius. Well, Harry did tell them to stuff it, he just hadn't expected such little resistance.

Why then does this wound so?

Maybe it's stupid though, Harry ponders, to dwell on what isn't instead of what is. Especially when the What Is sits so vibrantly in front of him.

Leave the past behind you, that is where it belongs.

He turns back to Hermione's letters and reads on, assuaged and thoroughly amused by each novella, each in depth theory of next year’s subjects, DADA teacher speculation and general life updates - mom and dad took me to the stepping stones in Carnridge for a week -

(And if there's a thorn of a thought in there, a prickle of unease that has Harry wondering what Hermione would think of last night, it's pushed very far away and Harry doesn't deign to give it any thought again.)

Time melts away easily. Then it's 5 o clock and Snape's waiting expectantly in the kitchen.

"Come Potter, we are going out."

"Out?" Harry repeats blankly, following Snape's quick strides, "out where? I thought I'm not allowed to go anywhere?"

"You are not permitted to go outside the wards alone," Snape corrects, "You will not be alone."

What else is Snape going to be taking into his own hands then - because this seems less like a Dumbledore-approved initiative and more of a Snape's own brand plan.

He halts outside the gate and waits for Harry to reach him.

"Give me your arm."

"Why do we have to come outside to apparate?"

"The anti-apparition wards within the house prevent it," Snape says crisply, "A wizarding home generally incorporates a charm to the radius of the house which, at the very least, prevents direct apparition into the home and confining it, for example, to the garden. Otherwise, all manner of unruly teenagers would be apparating in and out of their bedrooms without restriction." Then he had the nerve to glare affrontedly at Harry as though he were one of them or perhaps the ringleader.

Snape took his arm firmly and they hurled.

When they land, Harry nearly drops to the floor and hurls too except Snape holds his arm steady, waiting until Harry's swallowed down his retching before slowly letting go.

"Sit for a moment." Snape orders before turning and walking around, wand raised, incanting lowly.

Harry sits on a tall stump, there's a sheer vastness to take in - where the hell Snape has brought them?

A canopy of sprawling greens, towering trees thick with heady pinecones, strong flora and the sweetness of something like jasmine tickling at his nose. Somewhere, a stream of water flows vastly yet the wood is so...enchanting in its stillness, rippling with silken magic that thrums in Harry's veins, singing out to him.

Is this wood endless? It seems to be - darkened by the dense cluster of trees with occasional glints of beaming sunlight poring through in parts, spotlighting bright flowers and keen, tall foliage, climbing ivy and thick mossy beds.

It's a wood that broods, oddly secretive, yet it sweeps Harry into its midst without question - he sinks deep into this land outside of lands.

Snape, Harry realises quite suddenly, has just brought him on a field trip.

"Where are we?"

"Scotland, just west of Inverness if you know it."

Harry doesn't, but he wants to. He stands hesitantly, prompting Snape to pause in his mutterings and then wave him off, "You may go for the moment but stay close," he warned, "We will start with Occlumency shortly."

A shiver of excitement, something almost long-forgotten, childishly free. Harry follows the flowing sound of water until he reaches an edge to the soft-mossed, carpeted ground. A waterfall, swift and sure, dropping down into a deep, unwavering cavern below, soft plinks echoing all over.

Unbelievably soothing. Harry closes his eyes and just breathes.

Oh, the peace.

How absurd last night suddenly seems, blanketed in the harmony of this, of his letters finally received, the warming knowledge that his friends are still everything they've ever been. Harry resolves there and then to put last night to the back of his mind, to ignore the sting of his thigh. It was just the frustration, just the uncertainty that tipped him over the edge.

There's nothing to think about because he's not going to do it again. And if he's not going to do it again, there's nothing to worry about either.

"Quite the spot." Snape comments unexpectedly when he finds Harry a few minutes later, "this will do well enough."

"For Occlumency sir?"

"Indeed. Are you ready to begin?"

Harry nods warily and they walk a few paces away from the dropping water. Snape sits on the ground, unperturbed, so Harry follows suit even if it's a little strange.

Snape begins immediately, lecturing on the importance of grasping the stillness and calmness in a bustling environment.

"Rarely will there be a perfect moment to occlude, you must learn how to fall into the right state no matter the external stimulus."

So they practice.

Harry closes his eyes but it's a little harder to turn off a whole brain. The distractions are intensely magnified, birds chirping, the scurrying of little animals and the wave of sweeping leaves in the breeze -

"Focus, turn your stillness outwards," Snape's calm voice floats amidst the noise of the woods, "you are still, you are calm. Let it spill from you, reach outwards with your mind as you breathe out...still the noise, still the distractions..."

It's unexpectedly hard. Harry wants to look at everything, hear everything, in this deep and brooding wood surrounding them.

But then it's also hard because he has to keep peeking occasionally to make sure Snape's still there when he falls quiet.

Snape has to notice this of course.

"What is it, Potter?" he asks impatiently when Harry slips away from his focus again.

"Nothing." Harry mutters.

"Certainly not. What is distracting you?"

"We're outside," Harry emphasises, in case Snape's bloody forgotten, "I don't understand how to do it here, how to just drown out the sound of everything and make it still. I can feel the stillness myself but I don't know how to - push it out of me."

Snape nods immediately, "It is difficult to explain, it must be felt-"

"How?" Harry asks, frustrated.

"Repetition," Snape says, without hesitation, like it's that easy, "and patience. You may well not grasp it entirely today, it takes time-"

"We don't have time." Harry grumps, for the sheer satisfaction of grumping.

Snape just sighs, "We will have to make time Potter. I cannot forcefully shove you into the 'correct' feelings, they must evolve within you naturally-"

"Well how long did it take you?" Harry pries, picking grass idly.

Snape furrows his brow, "The comparison bears no worth. I was far older than you and the pressures on me were far less trying."

"So, you cracked it in 5 minutes but it's probably going to take me forever?"

Snape sighs his put-out sigh, "No Potter, it is not going to take forever but it will take time just as learning and developing any skill does. Be patient-"

"But I'm not learning it quickly enough-"

"Shut up Potter," Snape cuts right through him harshly, "I alone will decide what is quickly enough. You focus your efforts only on learning and leave the thinking to the adults."

That lights a streak of fury in Harry from head to toes.

"I left the thinking with the adults when my name came out of that stupid cup and look how that turned out."

It's a thought that came from nowhere. Apparently, Harry's mouth speaks without even his permission now.

Snape's jaw clenches and then his face undergoes that painful contortion where it looks as though it might shatter into a million pieces. Harry braces for impact.

When he speaks, it's clipped, tight, "If you have further...remarks regarding the events of the tournament, that you wish to discuss Potter, we may do so at a different time. As of now, we are here to practise occlumency, not levy blame," he straightens, gesturing to Harry stiffly, "Kindly, close your eyes so that we may start again."

It's chastising, burning hot, so Harry closes his eyes, then huffs out, "Sorry."

"Hmm. There is a time and a place Potter," Snape's mild voice floats languidly over him, "and I am not concerned about your progress so you in turn will not worry about such things. Now, focus..."

And Harry does.

The field trip theme is well and truly reinforced when Snape conjures something to eat and it's an actual picnic. Sure, the basket's missing but the presence of one lingers anyway - a basket ghost, here in everything but solid wicker, haunting Harry's new normal; hugs and picnics with Snape over summer.

Should he expect dementors to throw his next birthday party, Filch's cat as the guest of honour maybe?

Sausage rolls, scotch eggs, Cornish pasties - Harry realises it's all dry food and then doesn't know what to make of that.

Snape says nothing though, just takes a roll and starts eating it, observing the scene around them and paying Harry no mind whatsoever.

The splendour of this place, the sheer magic emanating from it, the warmth and sweet breeze - they all wash through Harry. This day has been the first in a long time where he feels, really feels alive and no, he doesn't want to bloody ruin it, doesn't want to make every meal a turn on the damned battlefield.

But this would be a second meal. Harry was too stupidly distracted by the damn letters to get rid of the toast.

Everything seems suddenly horribly unfair. To have come to somewhere as incredible as this place and to have, what? Become the villain, the one that spoils this pleasant time, this actually pleasant day between him and Snape?

It churns of a Dudley level of ungratefulness.

Snape didn't have to bring him here, Harry knows, Snape could've taught this lesson just as easily in the garden. But they're here, surrounded by splendour, magic and life.

Maybe just one sausage roll then, maybe very slowly and he'll work even harder tomorrow to eat nothing at all.

"Molly Weasley has informed me that she may bring the young Mr Weasley to the next order meeting provided you would be there too - in the headquarters location that is," Snape corrects, "not to the meeting itself. I presume this is acceptable to you?"

Ron made very brief mention of this in his letter but something rolls in Harry's stomach, toppling and strange to see it really made into life here.

Talking to Ron would be the best thing in a long time, so much so that it feels unreal that Snape would do it for him.

"Yes, sir. Thanks."

He nibbles the, frankly delicious, sausage roll in the interluding silence.

Snape speaks again after a moment, "Your relatives...would you wish to see them as well?"

Ugh, Harry doesn't even hide his disgust, nose wrinkling, "No thanks."

"They have not written to you."

"They don't." Harry says flatly, unable to make sense of the strange look on Snape's face.

"It is not unusual then, to receive no correspondence from them?" he says slowly.

Harry frowns, "Why do you ask, sir?"

"If you recall, I was unable to take the time to tell them where you were going," Harry snorts, Snape didn't give a hoot to take the time, "I cannot imagine anyone else has done so either. So, if they have not written to you and you have not written to them, are they unaware of your current whereabouts?" Snape questions.

Harry almost laughs at the disbelief in Snape's tone.

"I guess so. They're usually unaware of my whereabouts though so I wouldn't waste sleep over it if I were you. They aren't generally very bothered where I am at any given time you know."

"Is that so?"

Harry watched Snape suspiciously, "I can't imagine why it's bothering you so much. I don't care."

Snape's frown only deepens.

"What of your belongings? Have you anything left that should be retrieved?"

"No."

"Is your broomstick not there still?"

"Ron has it," Harry says, surprised, "It's not much use to me in the summer in Surrey if I can't use it. Besides, the less magical things I take into that house the better."

"Why is that?"

Harry pauses suddenly, mouth full of dry sausage roll and swallows slowly, self-consciously, when did his mouth run away from him? Something small and childish skitters inside, worrying at the edges of his nerves - telling him to smooth this over.

"Er...there's not much space. It's a small house. A broomstick is very large," Harry explains stupidly, "so they don't really like it taking up the space." Nailed it.

"You did not mention large objects, you stated magical objects Potter."

Fuck.

"Right," Harry nods, busying himself with dusting off crumbs, "because they're still ah - wary - of magic. They'd rather that large and magical objects weren't kept in the house."

He can't understand why he says it, some childlike instinct rising up to snatch away the true words he might have said.

Because my relatives hate me. Because they stuffed me into a cupboard for years and had me playing servant to them. Because when I am there, I am not allowed to exist.

Snape lets him hold onto his stupid reasoning and doesn't press it further.

"Tell Mr Weasley, in your next correspondence, to bring your broomstick with him."

"You - you'd let me ride my broom?" Harry asks hopefully.

"I see no reason not to. The wards stretch into the airspace so there is no difficulty there."

Once, just Harry's existence would've been more than reason enough for Snape. Their long standing mutual hatred that's not so long standing anymore. Not standing at all really, lying down, crippled, dying, dead?

"Okay...I'll ask him sir."

Snape seems to look past Harry, frowning at something imperceptible, "You ought to take more time outside Potter. I cannot imagine it is doing you any good to remain only in your room for hours on end."

What a hypocrite.

"You don't go outside." Harry points out.

"My mental state is not in question," Snape bit out, because he's rude like that, "I do not find myself in need of the great outdoors. It will do you good however to go outside, to not keep yourself shut in with nothing but your own mind for company."

"Fine," Harry mutters, sipping from his water bottle which Snape had conjured with the rest, "I'll go outside. Now you can stop going on about it."

"I will stop 'going on about it' when you take more time outside the house. What did you do when you left last time?"

Harry shrugs, "I went to town, I walked around, I -" he cuts himself off, swallowing hard and looks away.

"Potter?" Snape says immediately, like a dog with a scent, "what is it?"

"Nothing." Harry takes another sausage roll under the pretence of distraction and fiddles with it.

"Potter, if you saw something amiss whilst you were out, you need to disclose it, now." Snape demands, seriously.

"I didn't," Harry bites the sausage roll to fill up his mouth, "I really didn't."

"Something happened?"

"Nothing happened," Harry emphasises, "nothing. It was just - just nothing, just leave it."

Snape's already shaking his head, "Something did happen Potter. Did you see someone you recognised?"

"No, for Merlin's sake no-"

"Then out with it." Snape orders, unflinching.

Embarrassment that pools in the pit of his stomach, "Just - just a girl. A young girl," Harry adds before Snape gets any funky ideas, "she bumped into me."

Harry doesn't have to look up to feel Snape's radiating impatience when he doesn't carry on, "And?"

"And nothing. That was all."

The silence rolls into a thick condemning thing as he chews the last of the roll, Snape isn't going to let this go because he doesn't let anything go.

"She was just - young - okay?" Harry snaps out, "like...like Hogwarts age. And that was just after that stupid vision in the clearing so..."

"She startled you." Snape surmises, unexpectedly.

Harry glanced up briefly, realising he was watching Harry closely again.

"Yes," Harry mutters, "she - startled - me. That's all, okay? I told you to just leave it, it wasn't anything at all-"

"It was to you."

A rising rush of something wrings it way through Harry, like a corkscrew tightening through his bones. Why can't Snape leave it alone? It's bad enough Harry had go through it once, now Snape wants him to relive it all over again?

"What happened afterwards?" Snape still questions, "what did you do?"

"What does it matter?" Harry hisses, warm air clinging to him, shirt tight, thigh aching dully - all of it pressing into him.

Snape gives him a look, "It affected you Potter, it is still effecting you-"

"I didn't do anything - afterwards, or during," Harry snaps, looking away, shaking his head, "I just - I did nothing. Like everything just stopped, I just stopped."

And now here is the tenfold embarrassment of admitting it to Snape and the thrum, that pulsing anticipation - waiting to see what he would make of it.

"The clearing was still very fresh in your mind," Snape says slowly, "I wonder, how did you expect to react to such a thing then? What you witnessed was a brutal act-"

"I know that-"

"What you do not know, or perhaps, cannot grasp is that you could not come away from such an encounter unscathed," Snape interrupts firmly "Of course you reacted to this girl Potter, of course this provoked something - some distress on your part. Were you austere - cold hearted - you might well have fared better. As it was, you reacted, it shocked you."

"Wow, thanks for the brand new information. I reacted," Harry mocks, "it shocked me-"

Snape sighs with so much force, Harry's surprised the woods don't shake, "I have not finished Potter-"

"Well I don't care to hear the bloody rest." Harry snaps, standing up and marching to the nearest tree for backup. There's a twinge in his thigh that makes the knot of dread pull tighter inside.

"Is this what you intend to do forever then?" Snape questions from behind him, raising his voice, "lash out at anyone who tries to help you make sense of this, who even suggests you might not be at fault for every single thing that happens in the universe?"

"No." Harry snaps, not knowing what else to say, "you're just stating the obvious anyway. That won't help, that won't make it any different. It happened, I saw it and now -" Harry throws his hands up, "now I just have to deal with it."

Snape stays silent, Harry feels like he has to say more, "I'm trying to deal with it."

"I do not accuse you otherwise," Snape says without hesitation, "These things...they will get better with time. Give yourself time Potter."

"You have to say things like that," Harry accuses him, back still turned so Snape doesn't see his face which probably looks ridiculous, "I bet really - really you don't think I'll ever get better - at anything."

"You've no idea what I think of you Potter."

They're silent for a while and Harry mulls that over, hating the forged through truth of it. He really doesn't know anymore.

He wants to though.

"What do you think then, about me?" Harry demands, turning back to him.

Snape purses his lips, watches Harry searchingly and when he speaks, it's all sharp glass, "I think that, had you been taught by my own grand master, he would herald you a minor miracle for bearing the brunt of such a complex mind art at such a young age," Harry hardly breathes, "I think you are too harsh on yourself and this births from the astoundingly inane attempt you make to push yourself down again and again until you are palatable to yourself," does Harry do that? "I think you need to take some accountability for when you are making things harder for yourself, because you won't eat, because you have become hell bent on blaming yourself for everything-"

"How can I not blame myself?" Harry asks desperately, "how can I not?"

Snape shakes his head, "The efforts you are making with Occlumency are already beginning to add up," he says calmly, "For your age especially, you are excelling Potter. Here, now, you are doing all that it is possible for you to do. That is all we can ask of ourselves. Don't then be so quick to put yourself down."

"I'm not going fast enough," Harry argues weakly, feeling one centimetre tall, "It’s not going to work because I'm too slow to get it-"

"I loathe to repeat myself," Snape says loudly, eyebrows raised to the heavens, "you are not to concern yourself with the pace of Occlumency nor to monitor your progress at each second of the day. That is my job Potter and I would thank you to leave it to me and me alone."

"Fine," Harry shrugs, "whatever. I'll leave it all to you then."

Snape doesn't rise to it, carrying on, "Do not let one experience deter you. Give yourself time Potter."

Harry turns away again, runs his fingers along the gnarled bark and just breathes.

Eventually, they get back to Occlumency.

When they break again, Harry realises Snape's checking the wards around them. It makes him wonder.

"Doesn't it endanger you sir, to have me here with you?"

"We are all endangered Potter, whether you are within the vicinity or not."

Harry rolls his eyes, playing with a leaf idly.

"Sure, but no one else has to go and see - him - like you do. So, if he finds out you've been keeping me with you, doesn't that mean you're in more danger sir?"

"Our circumstances do not bear scrutiny," Snape says simply, "Do not trouble yourself with such trifles."

"Well I do," Harry disagrees, "I am trifled."

Snape gives something of a scoff, finishing his last wand movement, "Why?"

"Because I don't want you to be in danger for me?"

An eye roll this time, "That is my choice to make."

"No it's not," Harry insists, "Dumbledore's the one that made you take me this summer."

Snape, wholly unimpressed, waves him off, "Nonetheless, he does not make me teach you occlumency nor does he make me keep you safe under my roof. Do not seek to outstrip the autonomy of the choices of others Potter, that is most unbecoming."

It's such a stuffy Snape thing to say - the autonomy of the choices of others - but it glimmers with sense.

Maybe Harry can live with that, so long as this is Snape's choice and he really is doing all of this because he actually wants to, not because anyone's forcing Harry onto him.

"Come," Snape says tirelessly, "again."

There's a lapse in concentration. Harry gets distracted by the shrill call of what is clearly a very excited bird, it breaks him clean away from Snape, from their stillness.

"You kept your focus well then, you lasted far longer," Snape acknowledged with a low nod, "now think back to where we began -"

A sharp ripple cuts through the air, a physical push waving through Harry and Snape both. Harry's never felt anything like it before - so sharp it borders on painful, the zing of an electric shock thrumming in his bones.

Snape stills, wand turned outwards, immediately assessing -

In that moment, two inexplicable things happened.

Harry reached for Snape, with an urgency and instinct completely outside himself, arm outstretched and Snape - Snape pulled Harry tightly to his side in the same instant, wand still raised, breathing steadily.

Then?

Nothing.

Happens.

Still...but not calm, Harry realises, stirring strangely, quiet but not calm.

Something - thick, mired, gnarled, takes root in Harry as they stand there, sheathed in deafening silence.

Pressed against Snape, his own wand raised too, a coldness seeps so that Harry's utterly frozen, fuzzy around the edges. The woods shake, blur and darken.

Harry's breath catches. A looming over his head. He can't look, he can't look and the shadows at the edge of his vision skitter away, muttering, jeering.

Still, still, they don't move. Harry's side, sweat slick, burns with an icy numbness and it's seeping everywhere. Is this real? He can't remember. Is he real?

The world releases, pressure erupting - Snape releases him, steps back. The burning subsides, the ice remains.

Snape murmurs something, animal, Harry makes out but it's lost. Harry is so very lost, stock still, broken. Is he the animal?

Even as the horror sears through, ruthless animal fear, Harry can't move.

But they can't wait. They can't stay. Something's coming.

His name is somewhere, calling him from a distance. On his skin, something, something - bad - and no, no, Harry can't stay here, he has to fight -

I want to see the light leave your eyes!

The stone angel looms over him, trapping him against the bones of my father, next they'll take his blood, cutting and burning and then and then and then -

Warmth, crackling through his head, his spine, his body.

That, Harry knows faintly, as well as he knows his own feet, is Snape.

Snape's protection, Snape's oath, Snape's magic.

How, why?

Harry's eyes are shut so he can't see how, can't see why, doesn't want to, doesn't need to, can't actually, won't probably-

One, two, three, four.

Again.

One, two, three, four.

That's not right. That's not how this goes.

Kill the spare!

Harry jolts.

Stay with me...one, two, three four...

Steady warmth, just a spot of it, touching him, no, holding him.

Harry hears it, finally properly hears it.

"One, two, three, four," a tap for each one, he knows that tap, the pay-attention-stupid tap, "one, two three, four."

Snape, Harry finally registers.

No angel then, Snape certainly isn't one, stone or otherwise.

It's his wrists, cradled in warmth - Snape's holding them both, tapping in tune with his one, two, three, four's.

"Stay with me, stay here with me-"

Harry decides to be polite and stay. When he opens his eyes, the soft moss is cushioning him where he's fallen.

Fallen?

Shock jolts like the pierce of an arrow, Harry scrambles up, Snape follows suits.

Harry's panting out, "We have to go - we need to go, we should leave right now-"

"Perhaps you did not hear me," Harry barely hears it now, scanning the trees for anything, everything waves and morphs and shakes, "it was a false alarm Potter-"

"We should still get out of here," Harry urges, "sir, let's go-"

"There is no need to leave -"

"You're not listening!" Harry shouts, it's going to be too late if he doesn't do something, "we need to go, now!"

Snape just stares at Harry, unrecognising, likes he's someone foreign, like he's turned into a pile of snails.

"Sir," Harry insists, trying to make him understand, "we should still leave, just in case-"

"Potter, you're confused-"

"No, we need to go -"

"Stop and look around you," Snape says in an odd tone, "nothing is here-"

"I want to leave!" Harry snaps out, fear biting and clawing from his chest, threatening to burst free, to wreck his whole body with it.

Finally, Snape offers his arm silently and they hurl.

This time, Harry loses the battle. The ground cuts into his slammed down knees - he's gasping - mumbling jibberish before that fucking turn in his stomach -

Awash with acid, yanking, pulling, retching -

Something holds him as his body tries to pull itself in two, something hums quietly in the background, cutting through the buzzing of Harry, dying-

"-don't fight it - just let it happen - hush, hush, it's alright - "

No, Harry remembers with horror, we have to leave. It comes choking past his lips too - along with the rest.

"- we have left you stupid boy - don't struggle Potter, breathe in and out slowly - I'm here-"

"Nooo-" Harry tries before he's retching again, nothing left, spent, but they're not safe yet, they need to go, they have to go-

"Nearly done," he just about hears Snape murmur, "it’s almost finished, almost over-"

Harry uses all the strength he has left to try to heave up, wrenching Snape to him, "Inside," he mutters, "we need to - we have to go inside, we have to get out of here -"

"No Potter," Snape snaps at him, taking his arm, "just sit for a moment, you can barely stand - just stop -"

"We have to get inside." Harry snaps, tugging at Snape who still doesn't budge.

"Why? Explain it to me-"

"Why?" Harry repeats incredulously, gesturing around in agitation, "why? Because - because we have to get out -"

"We are very much out, we have left," Snape insists, "We are back-"

"Let's go inside," Harry hisses, glancing all around, wand raised, bewildered.

"Look around you," Snape says carefully, keeping his eyes on Harry, not fucking being cautious at all, "we have left the woods and, in any case, there was no danger there-"

"It's not worth the risk," Harry tries to explain desperately, head spinning, "sir, please, can we just go inside-"

"Something happened to you back there," Snape somehow thinks this is the time to comment, "you tucked away into yourself, in panic. Now we are back, we have left the woods and there is nothing here. Where is the danger Potter?"

It's ridiculous, so very ridiculous.

"Everywhere, it's everywhere!" Harry shouts madly, "now can we just - fucking - go - inside!"

He's crying too, because he's pathetic.

"We are safe," Snape ignores Harry's palpable pitifulness, coming close, grasping his shoulders, "Do you hear me? You are safe here with me Potter."

Harry shakes his head but he's shaking all over too, body prickling, panic cresting waves inside him - jarring with confusion because they are back.

The house is right there but he feels, he feels - "We have to go," his voice is a choked up broken thing, "we have to go before - before something happens..."

Harry sees - Snape still doesn't understand, opening his mouth to say something else.

"I don't want anything to happen," Harry doesn't know what's pounding deep inside him but he can't let this go, "I don't want anything to happen to you."

Snape goes to speak again, Harry almost starts screaming but Snape stops himself, nods once and then he's there, arm around Harry, holding him tight.

They walk together, at last, into the safety of home.

Chapter Text

Potter gnaws on his bottom lip.

When Severus bids him stop, he bites at his nails instead. 

If he ate more than just toast, Severus reflected bitterly, perhaps he wouldn't make such a feast of himself. 

He's calmer now they're indoors at least, sat quietly with his untouched cup of tea, staring at nothing, eerily still considering the recent devastation stormed through him.

And what the hell should Severus do with him? There's been enough talking today to last a whole lifetime. Yet here lies more problems to unearth, this whole new thing Potter's thrown at them - as though there weren't enough to deal with. Yes, it's unfair to say - but then this whole ordeal has been a sheer exercise in the inequitable - a matter Severus considered himself well and truly graduated in before Potter's mere conception.

Leading Potter inside, reassuring him with a calmness entirely unfelt, Severus sat him down, held firmly into his shoulder until the boy’s trembling ceased - until he could breathe without faltering.

Now, all Severus wants is to sleep – to cleanly sweep away Potter’s harrowing last – I don't want anything to happen to you – and the loss of self, the way Potter had just severed from reality so completely. Here he sits, wrung out and needing Severus of all people to fix it.

"Are you going to drink that?" Severus asks quietly - who knows if they're a few decibels short of another catastrophe, better not take any chances. Slowly, Potter shakes his head. Severus suppresses a sigh, disinclined to allow Potter to see the toll the day has taken on him too, not when he has enough to agonise over.

"Go then - just - go," exude calm, exude authority, "Clean up and get ready for bed."

Potter doesn't move, not for a long moment. When he does finally go, it's exhausting to watch. 

Severus drops into the chair, holds his head despairingly.

Should he have demanded Potter stayed? That he drinks the tea or insist he eat again? Severus groans at the thought, the inevitable battle – how Potter would freeze up, mount barriers and hurl out his defence most likely until it killed him. Anyway, Potter’s already gone upstairs. Severus needs to fix this. There's a this now, a whole other thinness to address.

Potter had deserted himself entirely only to snap back painfully wound up, stricken – completely besides himself. This isn't dismissible – if anything because once Potter properly returns to himself, he’s going to be ridiculous about it, of that Severus has no doubt.