Aug. 7

He's crazy. I mean, I thought for a while it was me, but really, he's the one who's crazy. He laughed today. It was creepy. He has really crooked teeth and when he laughs, you can see them all, and it isn't pretty. I wish I knew what the hell he expected from me in this journal, or from the stupid talks we have, when he thinks he can serve me tea and get me to spill my guts, but when I ask, he won't do any more than stare at me and lift his eyebrows, like that means something, and wait till I go crazy just like him.

This whole thing is stupid and a waste of time.

Let's see, then. The main ingredients in Draught of Living Death are asphodel, wormwood, Sopophorus bean, and valerian roots. The main ingredients in Draught of Peace are powdered moonstone and syrup of hellebore . . .

Once more Harry closed the book after twenty minutes and looked over at the Professor, expectantly. He wasn't sure what to expect, exactly, but it was sure to be . . . interesting. Snape had been in a weird mood, ever since the fall yesterday, and Harry didn't like it, at all. He liked his Professor being predictable, surly and nasty and condescending. This . . . he wasn't sure what to do with this.

Harry almost breathed a sigh of relief when Snape ignored him and continued to read. That he could handle. He was good at being ignored. But Snape merely finished the page he was on, closed his own tome and looked up into Harry's eyes.

"I imagine you'd like to go flying again today."

"I would, sir, but . . ."

"But? Come on, Potter, spit it out. I haven't got all day to wait for thoughts to form in that head of yours."

Ah, there was the disdain he'd come to know and respect. "But I don't want to trouble you, sir. Not after yesterday. I . . . I know you said Madam Pomfrey told you I saved your life, but I didn't really. It was an accident. I mean . . . I was really responsible for you almost dying in the first place."

"I see." Snape rose and went to the kitchen.

Harry sighed. Not again! "Do we have to talk? Can't you just . . . punish me or something?"

Snape peered at him through an almost perfect curtain of hair as he measured tea into the waiting kettle. His dark eyes were like polished cuts of onyx and about as warm. "What kind of punishment do you feel you deserve, Potter, for your behavior yesterday?"

"You could . . ." He made himself say the words, though he desperately wished he didn't have to. "You could take away my broom, sir."

"And would you learn self control that way?"

"Self control?"

"Are you a parrot? Never mind." Snape put the kettle on the hob and leaned against one of his counters, arms across his chest. "Understand this. What drove you to be reckless yesterday was an abhorrent lack of self control. Something Gryffindors are notorious for."

Harry set his jaw, though guilt and shame swamped him. If he'd been able to control himself, his impulses, then Sirius would be alive still, and his friends wouldn't have gotten hurt at the Ministry. He was as responsible for them as he was for everything else. He'd be lucky if they ever forgave him for almost getting them killed, if they ever even talked to him again. "Right. Yes, sir. I want to learn self control."

Snape laughed again. This time it was more of a chuckle, forced through a sneer, but it was directed at Harry, who bristled, even before he heard the man's cutting words. "I'll just forget you ever said that, shall I? When we both know it isn't true."

"It is. I . . . Like I told you the other day . . . I kill everyone who gets close to me, everyone who gets near me. My parents, Sirius-"

"Are all dead because the Dark Lord wanted them to be. Spare me the melodrama, Potter. You have no control over his actions. Only your own."

"But if I hadn't gone to the Ministry, Bellatrix-" Sharp pain ran through him, searing into his head and gut at the very thought of the woman who had killed Sirius, and who had tortured him, who had laughed at his screams. He could still hear her laughter sometimes, when it was quiet. When he tried to sleep. In his dreams. . .

"Harry?" The word was spoken very close to him, and he instinctively shied away and put his hands up to ward whoever it was from coming closer. He shivered, freezing, lying in darkness on the stone floor in the huge hall. If he focused on the laughter, he didn't have to listen to the screams.

"Harry. Tell me what's going on, now. Where are you?"

"It's cold," he said. "I can't get warm."

"It's warm here," the voice said softly. "Come, sit by the fire."

Hands tried to touch him and he shoved them away, scrambling backwards until he hit a wall. He couldn't have hands on him! "NO!"

"All right. It's all right, Harry. Here's some tea, right by your hand. Take the cup now."

He fumbled for the cup, and brought it to his mouth, unseeing. Everything was dark, like midnight on the night of a new moon. But the tea was hot and warmed him a little, though not enough. It was never enough.

"Take another sip."

He obeyed; it was easiest to do so. But the cup shook in his grip and he spilled some of the hot liquid on his lap. He barely felt it, though he brushed at it with his other hand, trembling like a stupid, scared child. Tears formed in his eyes, he could feel them, hot and stinging with salt, but he dared not let them fall. The laughter would worsen, and he didn't think he could take it. He squeezed his eyes shut instead.

"Talk to me, Harry," the other said, the one who's magic stood like a stalwart beside him. Then the other pressed a small towel into his hand, so he could dab at the mess on his trousers. "Tell me what's going on."

"Hurts," Harry whispered and took a shuddering breath, twisting the towel in his hands and pressing back against the wall. If he could just stop the screaming, everything would be fine.

"What hurts? Harry?"

"Everything." He couldn't hold back anymore, not even to curtail the awful, screeching laughter he knew would follow. The tears fell and he couldn't make them stop. His throat ached and his head hurt, and everything . . . he just wanted everything to stop. He squashed himself into as tight a ball as he could manage, to get away, to stop the pain. "Oh, god, it hurts; he's hurting me."

"Who is? Harry, who's hurting you?" A hand came down on him.

The touch burned and ripped him open from one end to the other, bones melting into hot shards of glass, and he screamed. Screamed through every drop of his blood spilled and every bone broken. Screamed through the sickening laughter and the high cold voice that crowed delight, "Let's see how he does with Crucio at the same time, Lucius. Does his agony make it sweeter for you?"

Then the breathless whisper against his ear that made him vomit, "Oh, yes, my Lord. Please."

"NO!" Harry shrieked. "Please, please stop, I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry! I'll be good, I promise! Please, don't hurt me anymore. . . ."

And now the hand was gone, and the soothing voice that was there to trick him into staying and listening, and all that remained was cold stone, laughter, and pain.

---

Severus sat back on his heels in front of the silently weeping Boy Who Lived, and swore. He'd thought they were making progress. Aside from the debacle of yesterday's flight, there had been no tears and nothing broken for almost 48 hours, and he'd considered it a decent step forward. But now Harry had gone two giant steps back, at first withdrawing into himself and pleading for all the hurting to stop, and now rocking back and forth, arms wrapped tight around his middle, and not responding at all. The bloody hope of the bloody Wizarding world.

Flashback, he knew, from some of his own experiences, and the best thing would be to ground Harry in the here and now. But he wasn't sure if Harry could even hear him anymore, and he certainly wasn't going to try and touch the boy again. He didn't need that scream replayed, thank you very much.

Instead he returned to muttering the inane words he hoped would somehow get through this newest wall. "You're in the sitting room, Harry, in my quarters. We're at Hogwarts. You're on the wool rug, can you feel it? It's warm here, in front of the fire. Harry, open your eyes and see where you are. It's my sitting room at Hogwarts. . . ."

After little less than half an hour, the boy blinked and looked at him. "Professor?"

"I'm right here," Severus replied, although that was obvious. "Would you like to get off the floor now?"

Potter peered around, his big green eyes still blinking owlishly behind his glasses. "Where are . . . we're at Hogwarts?"

Severus nodded, and even let pass the perfect opportunity he had to cut the boy's mental capacity down to size. He must be getting senile in his old age . . . or terminally sentimental. "In my quarters. Now, the floor, while a sensible place to put one's feet, is hardly suitable for sitting upon. So, if you would . . .?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry." Potter pushed himself to his feet, making no move to take the hand that Severus offered to help him. Severus wasn't even sure the boy noticed it. He swayed a little, once standing, and Severus managed - just - not to grab his arm to steady him. "I'll . . . I'm kind of tired, Professor. Can I lie down awhile?"

"You know the rules, Potter." Best to keep them on track.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Potter swiped a hand across his eyes, then held it up, as if surprised he could see it. "Sorry I . . . I kind of lost it. I dunno what happened."

"Go wash up, Potter. Your face is a mess. I'll make tea."

A bleak smile of acknowledgement greeted his words, which was all Severus could really hope for at the moment. He busied himself in the kitchen while the boy washed his face and changed his clothes, presumably, and when Harry returned, he had the table laid out. He pushed a phial of translucent green liquid across the table. "Drink. It's a calming draught."

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled, and did as he was told, then pulled one of the cups of tea towards himself and added his customary cream and sugar before taking a biscuit and nibbling the corners off.

Severus waited a good few minutes, until he was sure the calming draught had taken effect, and that the boy had drunk some of his tea, before speaking again. "Your nightmares," he started, conversationally.

Harry's shoulders tensed, and his fingers gripped the tea cup, despite the potion. "Yes, sir?"

"They are not abating."

"No, sir." Harry sighed and looked deep into the cup, as if he could see more in there than even that dingbat, Trelawney. "I'm sorry if I . . . if I've kept you awake."

Severus waved his hand dismissively. "That's not why I mention them. You must Occlude when you lie down to rest. The meditative properties of clearing your mind will help you avoid your nightmares, too."

A green-eyed gaze flicked to meet his for a millisecond. "Meditative what?"

"Did you not learn anything from our past lessons?" Severus growled. "I'm talking about when you clear your mind! Through breathing or picturing waves upon the beach or however you tried it. Meditation, boy!"

"I . . ." Harry stared, his expression a mix of shock and outrage. "But you never told me any of that! Breathing? All you said to me, ever, was that I had to get my emotions under control and clear my mind! How was I supposed to know how to do that?"

Severus glared right back. "I assumed you would seek ways to accomplish it, outside of our lessons, which were meant for far more important aspects of learning Occlumency, ones you could not complete on your own." He leaned forward and jabbed a finger in the boy's direction. "You could have, for instance, researched methods of clearing your mind, perhaps with the help of that Know-it-all you spend so much time with. Surely Miss Granger could have found copious volumes of meditative techniques for you in the library, if you were unable to wrap your pea-sized brain around the concept yourself!"

Harry gaped at him, at a loss for words. For once. About time, too. But it was too much to hope it would last long, however, as the Brat Who Lived opened his mouth and muttered, "You could have mentioned as much."

Through gritted teeth, Severus spat, "You wasted my time. You never took the training seriously, and you have the nerve to castigate me?"

At once, the boy's whole face grew red, neck and ears and all, and he bowed it over his tea as he murmured something more.

"What is it, boy? Speak up!"

With a gulped breath, Potter dared a glance up at Severus, and by some miracle, held his gaze. "I said I'm sorry, sir." His voice was half contrition, half ashamed, and Severus raised one eyebrow. "I really am. You're right. I . . . I'm sorry I'm such a waste of time. If I had it to do over, I'd . . ." He shrugged, and Severus let it go this once.

"You are not a waste of time," he said, after allowing the silence stretch while he got his temper back under control. "But your lack of self-control - of your emotions, of your mind - makes you a liability, to your friends, to yourself, and to the cause we are fighting for."

"Yes, sir."

The boy looked properly cowed, now, yet somehow, his submission did not hold the wondrous flavor and texture as once it had. Harry was broken, Severus reminded himself. And he did not like to toy with broken things. "Perhaps . . ." Severus sighed and overruled his better judgment. "Perhaps I could loan you reading material that might aid your attempts to clear your mind. Once you've read and made use of the information, we might consider another attempt at Occlumency."

"Really?" The boy straightened in his chair. Hope shined in his eyes. "I mean, that would be great, sir. Thank you!"

So easy, Severus reflected again. It would be so easy to turn this boy against everyone and everything he knew, into little more than an extension of his own will, with a few kind deeds and tempered words. And yet, if he was to be their one and only hope . . . Well. If that was the case, then it was really up to Severus to make sure Potter got back on his feet and arm him with all the weapons at his disposal.

He just wished he had more time.