When he finds out that Lockhart’s specialty is memory charms, he feels sick, even though he’s not sure why. He thinks about all the times he went to Lockhart’s office for detention, all the times he remembers feeling sleepy and fuzzy and faint, how Lockhart sometimes touched the back of his neck and he didn’t like it, he pulled away, and Lockhart laughed and Harry could only think that it wasn’t funny. It’s not funny. He can’t remember anything (is there even something to remember?) and when he tries he just feels sick and scared and he can’t remember. He can’t remember.

He spends the whole summer not remembering. When Aunt Marge comes, it’s almost a relief, that he can think about something else, focus on ignoring her, because it’s easier to ignore her than to ignore himself. It’s when she calls his mother a whore that he snaps, because he can remember, all of a sudden, someone else, some deeper voice, saying that word and he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t want it. He can’t remember where or when, but when he leaves the house, with his trunk and his broom, his heart pounding, he vomits in the street, falling over with the force of his retching. The Knight Bus comes and he wipes his mouth and rides away. He feels dirty, covered in a sheen of sweat, his mouth tasting awful, his stomach still roiling. And he doesn’t know why. 

Professor Lupin is nice to him. Professor Lupin gives him chocolate and invites him to his office. He gives him extra lessons. But Lupin scares him, a little. He likes it when he leaves the door to his office open, when he lets Ron and Hermione sit in on his Dementor lessons. He’s furious with himself. Professor Lupin knew his parents. Professor Lupin likes him, treats him different than any other teacher he’s ever had. He shouldn’t be scared of him. He shouldn’t be scared of anybody, because there’s no reason to be, he doesn’t think, he doesn’t remember any reason why. When he finds out about Lupin being a werewolf, he clings to that. Maybe he knew. Maybe he could just tell. And Lupin leaves, and Harry is never alone with him again, and he feels safer. Maybe.

He doesn’t like being alone with Professor Moody, either, but he hardly ever is. Moody tries to help him--with the task, in class, when he almost gets caught by Snape. But sometimes he catches Moody watching him, in the Great Hall, or in class, his blue eye going up and down and after the Yule Ball, he tries to keep himself covered by desks and other people, but he knows Moody can see through anything, and it makes him uncomfortable. He’s not scared, though--he doesn’t get scared. At the end of the year again, after the graveyard, when he learns that Moody isn’t Moody, then he knows it. He’s not scared of people. He’s just smart. He just knows that they’re hiding something.

He just can’t remember what...

Oddly enough, one of the people he’s not afraid of is Snape. Snape is mean and ugly and cruel, Snape hates him, but that’s all right, because he can remember this. He can see it. Because Snape isn’t hiding anything. He lets everyone know how much he hates Harry, and in detentions he just sits at his desk marking things and lets Harry be at the other side of the room, he doesn’t make Harry sit at the desk with him (he doesn’t remember anyone making him do that, but Snape doesn’t, at least). Harry disgusts him--he never tries to touch him, or be nice to him. Snape is sharp and biting and sneering, but he is always that way with Harry. He is predictable, and Harry likes that. He hates Snape, and that feels so much better than being scared and unsure and so he clings to it, he feeds it. Sometimes he feels safer around Snape than Professor Lupin, or even Sirius, and he hates that as much as he hates Snape. He hates himself sometimes too--how can he let himself be alone with Snape when being alone with Sirius, who loves him, who wants Harry to live with him, makes him check the exits and almost flinch when he touches him? After his hearing, all he can feel is relief, that he won’t be left alone with Sirius forever in Grimmauld Place, where the doors all stick and lock and Sirius sometimes comes to his room at night and just watches him sleep. Snape watches him sometimes, but always with a scowl. He hates Harry, and Harry likes it that way. It’s comfortable, like the Dursleys, to always know where you stand. To know that some things don’t change.

The Occlumency lessons scare him, though. He doesn’t like it, Snape rummaging through his mind, and he doesn’t get scared, not around Snape, so why is he trembling every time he leaves? Snape is seeing everything, and Harry can’t close his mind, because he can tell that there’s something in there, something Harry can’t find, but maybe Snape...but he doesn’t want Snape to find it! He can’t! He lets Snape see the Dursleys and Voldemort and his dreams, but he knows there’s something else. He just doesn’t know what...

When he sees the Pensieve, part of him thinks that maybe Snape found it. His stomach rolls and he almost retches, but he has to know. He leans in and it’s not his memory at all. And he’s disappointed and relieved, but then Snape is there, Snape is touching him, pulling his arm, and Harry is scared, and he runs, and he says he’ll never go back. Snape was wild, Snape lost control, Snape wasn’t predictable, and he didn’t like that. He’s glad Snape decided to stop the lessons. But his mind has been agitated, and the nights where he dreams about the corridor, he wakes up feeling scared, and he doesn’t know WHY.

The next lesson they were meant to have was on a Monday. On Tuesday morning, Snape corners him in the hallway and snarls at him for missing his lesson. When he stammers out that he thought they were over, Snape smiles and says ‘Tonight, Potter,’ and stalks away and Harry is scared. Maybe Snape is hiding something. Maybe Snape got scary. He doesn’t want to be alone with him, not alone in the dungeons with no one there to make sure, to help him if...

The first thing that Snape does is lock the door. Then, without even an introduction, Harry hears ‘Legilimens!’ and he is falling, falling--Snape is being too hard. His head feels like it is torn in two, like Snape is digging for something--he sees himself with Professor Lupin, touching his shoulder and Harry pulling away--Moody demonstrating the Imperius curse--Sirius hugging him, too tight, too tight--and then, suddenly, the terrain is unfamiliar, it’s fuzzy and blurry like he’s not wearing his glasses, and someone is touching him, somewhere, everywhere, and he can hear the word whore, like he heard it after Aunt Marge, and suddenly he is pushed against the door and the ground is underneath him and his forehead stings, stings like crazy, and he reaches up and there’s sweat and blood, oh god, his scar--no. He scratched his forehead hard enough to break the skin, trying to pull Snape and the memory out. 

He looks up at Snape, who looks shaken, and Snape reaches out and Harry can’t stop himself, he flinches back, he stands up and tries to open the door and he pretends he doesn’t want to cry. 

He can’t remember. He can’t remember.

000 000 000

His express purpose in restarting the lessons was simple. He wanted Potter to know. He wanted Potter to suffer. He wanted to humiliate him, to pull out his dirty laundry. He wanted Potter to feel violated, as he had. He wanted all the memories that Potter had awoken, all the regret and pain and self hatred, he wanted them gone. And if bringing Potter back and teaching him a lesson was the only way to settle back into his semi comfortable piece of mind, than he would do it.

Dumbledore would be furious if he stopped the lessons, anyway. 

Potter is shaking when he shows up, and Snape is glad. Potter has always been too mouthy, too defiant. If Snape can teach him to behave, just this once, if Snape can scare him straight, then he’ll do it. For the good of the wizarding world, of course, and he was a part of that world, wasn’t he?

He doesn’t play around, this time. Before, he would just let the memories come, steering them here and there but never actively seeking. Now he is looking, looking for something deep and buried and humiliating, something to show the boy what’s what, to teach him to respect other peoples privacy. He looks for some time the boy was scared, so he can laugh at it, so he can understand humility. But he’s confused. These are all innocent memories. Lupin, giving the boy unjust praise. Moody, teaching a class--or Crouch, he supposes. The mangy cur welcoming him to Headquarters. He gives a push--this is not what he is looking for!--and suddenly a memory darts by, colored black and thick and sludgy, and Snape reaches out and pulls it into the open, demands it reveal it’s secrets, and it tries.

It is corrupted. Snape had seen such things before, but never like this. It is twisted, the colors twirling together, black and red and gold and green, and being smashed and crushed and remolded every moment, a kaleidoscope--it is almost enough to make Severus sick. And if that didn’t, the sound track, an obscene, slow, warped set of panting and groaning, would have. Severus listens, tries to decipher the noises, and hears one high pitched, saying ‘No. Please.’ And one lower, going ‘Yes. Yes. Say it. Say it.’ It is grotesque and vile and every inch of the memory is foul, making Severus pull out and stumble back, making him gag. And then he sees Potter.

The boys forehead is a ragged, bleeding mess. His nails have blood on them. His eyes are out of focus, and he has fallen against the door, pushing himself against it with his feet, and he is gasping for breath. Severus doesn’t know what to do except try to help him up--a chair would be better, at least--but the boy lets out a shrill, terrified cry, pushes back against the door even harder.

He had wanted to violate Potter. He had wanted to humiliate him, tear his privacy from him, make him suffer. And he had done that, surely. He had succeeded, somehow. But this was no victory. 

He sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Backed away from Potter, slowly, watched the boys shoulders ease a little in their shaking. He grabs the Floo powder and calls for Poppy, who comes spinning from the fireplace a moment later, scolding Severus before taking steps forward. Potter. Always had to stir up something. 

If he noticed the lack of venom in his thoughts, he dismissed it, and watched Madam Pomfrey try to put the pieces back together. He wasn’t sure she’d be successful.

Maybe as successful as you, some little voice inside him says.

There's nothing wrong with him. He says it over and over again to Madame Pomfrey as he tries to get out of Snape's office, as she Floos him to the hospital wing. He says it to Hermione and Ron who come to visit, Ron with a ugly look on his face when he asks what Snape did, Hermione with a worried little crease between her eyes as she holds out his school books. He says it again to Madame Pomfrey, who doesn't listen, who puts a stinging antiseptic on his forehead and orders him not to touch it. He's sitting on his bed, not touching his forehead, running his hands nervously along the sheets, when Madam Pomfrey opens the door to return to her office and Dumbledore is standing there, in the doorway.

Harry looks at him and a feeling of relief washes over him. He hadn't realized how cold he was until that moment, how much he was shaking until he feels himself start to calm down, feels his shoulders stop shivering and the feeling come back into his legs. It's all right, now. Dumbledore is here. If there was anything wrong with him, and maybe there was, just maybe, he didn't remember anything being wrong, but maybe there was, and if there was, well, Dumbledore could fix it. No matter what happened, Dumbledore would take care of it, Dumbledore would make it all okay. Dumbledore would remember, he knew it, he would know what had happened because he knew everything, and soon this would be over, would be something he could forget and not care about, something that didn't matter. He watches the man, turns towards him and he feels a smile, one of the first real smiles he's had in ages, creep up on his face.

But Dumbledore just stands there, in the doorway, without even looking at Harry, without meeting Harry in the eye, and suddenly Harry feels his hands start to shake again, and he grabs the sheets to make them stop. It's all right, now. It's going to be all right, because Dumbledore-but he can't finish the thought. Maybe Dumbledore knew. Maybe he had found out and that was why he wouldn't even look at Harry. He was disgusted. He had to be. Harry was disgusting, he could feel it, all of a sudden, like a layer of grime worked over his skin and his hair and his eyes. He didn't remember why, but this was something he knew, deep to his core. Something he had always known, but that he had forgotten. His hands are still trembling, and he wraps his arms around his chest as he watches Madam Pomfrey step into her office, as Dumbledore steps out of the doorway and the door begins to close, and Snape is there too, and his throat goes dry. All he hears before the door closes again is 'What did you see, Severus?' Harry can't tell if he wants the door open so he can listen or if he wants it closed so he won't have to. No matter what he wants, it is closed, and he closes his eyes and drops his head and keeps his arms wrapped around his chest and tries not to think of anything.

There's nothing wrong with him.

000 000 000

"What did you see, Severus?"

The headmaster is straight to business, looking grave. No twinkle, Snape notes idly as he relates the entire sordid ordeal, his desire to humiliate Potter aside. The man's eyes are steely, and after he finishes talking, Dumbledore takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs.

"Nothing ever goes as it should with him, does it?" he asks, his voice tinged with sadness, and Snape wonders what that means. As it should? If life had gone as it should, the boy would be long dead and the Dark Lord would still be alive. Life didn't go as it should for anyone-it just went.

Dumbledore looked at Pomfrey. "Do you have anything in your files that might pertain to this memory? Any suspicious injuries, or-"

Pomfrey looked as though she might slap the old man across the face. "If I had seen anything, I would have reported it immediately! Not only to you, but the appropriate authorities! Do you think I would take note of any suspicious injury of that nature and not report it? Really, Albus!"

He held up a hand. "Of course, Poppy. Of course. I apologize. I suppose I hoped that there would be some other way to answer this." He met Snape's eyes. "When is your next lesson with Harry?"

"You cannot be serious."

"Does the boy remember what the memory contains?"

Poppy shook her head. "From what Severus describes, it sounds like a repeat Obliviate to me. It's been documented that they lose effectiveness after multiple uses. He doesn't seem to be aware of there being anything wrong, not consciously-though he'd worked himself up into a well enough state."

"Then Severus, there's no other option. At your next lesson, you will try to find this memory again. If you can break the Obliviate, good, otherwise put it into my Pensieve and we'll work on unravelling it there."

"I will not do it. You cannot ask this of me."

"Severus-"

"I cannot stand the boy, and he cannot stand me! I am not the one to be prying into his mind for this information!"

"You are the only one capable-"

"You are just as capable, if not more so! You are more skilled than I, in Legilimency, and the boy trusts you-"

"I am not available for this, Severus. For the reasons we discussed."

"You care for the boy, don't you?"

"Of course I do. That is why I will keep my distance. It's not safe-"

"It is not safe for Potter's mental state for me to do it! The boy despised me before tonight, how do you think he feels now? He may not remember what's in that memory, but he knows, somewhere, he knows and his reaction tonight shows exactly why I am the last person that should force my way into his head again!"

"You may take it slow. Go a little at a time-gain his trust. This memory is a wild card. Who knows what it may contain? If it is something the Order must know-"

Snape scowled. "Don't bring the Order into it."

"You respect the needs of the Order more than you respect Harry."

"Which is why I am the wrong person for this job!"

"Nevertheless, you are the only person." Dumbledore's eyes met his, serious in a way that made Snape clam up and glower. "It is you, or no one, Severus."

000 000 000

Harry doesn't realize he is staring at the door to Madam Pomfrey's office until it swings open and Dumbledore, Snape, and Pomfrey exit. Pomfrey is immediately hovering over him, checking his forehead and his temperature-god knows why, he doesn't have a fever-as Dumbledore and Snape converse near her office door, then part ways. Dumbledore is heading for the hallway, and Harry feels it wash over him again, this feeling of griminess that makes him cringe (though that might also be the way Madam Pomfrey is currently poking his forehead).

"Professor Dumbledore?" he says quietly. It's the voice he used when he was younger at the Dursley's, after he'd had a nightmare or during thunderstorms, when he would call, in his softest voice, for Aunt Petunia, even though he knew she couldn't hear him all the way upstairs and that she wouldn't come even if she did. Dumbledore, however, is not upstairs. Dumbledore is just across the room, right by the door, and maybe he will hear, and if he hears, he'll turn around, he'll come-

But he either doesn't hear or doesn't care, because he reaches the door and is out in moments, leaving Harry feeling embarrassed and stupid. It's probably the embarrassment that makes him stop paying attention, which is why when Snape suddenly appears in the corner of his vision, a big black shape too close to him, he flinches.

Madam Pomfrey whips out her wand and taps it smartly in the center of his forehead. Snape isn't scowling at him, just frowning, the way he frowns in class if a Slytherin's potion isn't right, and that makes Harry nervous, a little. Snape's looking at him in the eye, and he remembers what started all this, what brought him here, and it makes him duck his head and squeeze his eyes shut. There is a stillness in the air, and then an impatient sigh.

"Potter." Harry ducks his head further, then opens his eyes. He is staring at his shoes, school shoes, with the shoelace slightly frayed where he fixed it in a hurry after it broke on the way to Defense the other day, the other with a scuff mark on the toe. He doesn't look up, even when Snape says his name again. "Potter!"

"What?" Harry says, and it doesn't come out right, he means for it to come out rude and disrespectful and brave, he wants it to make Snape narrow his eyes and start acting normal again. But it sounds softer than he wants, not rude at all, and for once all he wants is for Snape to call him arrogant and give him a detention-

No. No, not a detention. But points, yes, he wants Snape to take points, he wants Snape to sneer and say he's just like his father, or to make him scrub the Trophy Room floor to ceiling with Filch. Anything but this weird, so neutral that it's almost kind, frightening voice.

Snape doesn't do any of those things. "You're to stay in the Hospital Wing tonight. Madam Pomfrey will release you for classes in the morning, if she deems you fit. At our usual time, we will meet in my office-"

This makes his head snap up so fast it hurts, makes him almost meet Snape's eyes before he remembers and looks away, focuses on Snape's forehead. "What?"

Snape's forehead creases with familiar irritation, but his tone stays the same. "Don't interrupt, Potter. At the usual time, you will report to my office with your mind clear and ready to work, is that understood?"

Alone. Alone in Snape's office, the way he has been a million times, but Snape wasn't acting right and maybe there was something wrong, but he couldn't remember what, so did it matter? It didn't, it didn't, but he still didn't feel right, so maybe it did, but-Snape. Alone in Snape's office. And he could do-

No. No, he's brave. He's in Gryffindor and he's brave and he's smart, and no one can hurt him, they can't, hasn't he proved it a million times before? He's brave. He just has to be brave.

He just hopes he can remember how.

Part of him hopes Madam Pomfrey won’t clear him for class the next day--the first time he’s ever hoped that. Madam Pomfrey doesn’t seem to want to let him go--she checks his temperature four times, makes him track a little floating light with his eyes, and recite all the potions ingredients he can remember in alphabetical order. He does miserably on this last test, and Madam looks about to pounce on it, but Ron had shown up with his school bag and a change of clothes, and he did even worse. Reluctantly, and with orders to return to her immediately if he felt unwell, or any time he ‘needed to talk’, he makes his way from the infirmary to class.

The whole day he feels as though he is wrapped in cotton wool, thick and dull and fuzzy, and nothing seems to penetrate except to notice that time goes too quickly. It isn’t the first time he hasn’t paid attention in History of Magic, but it is the first time that  the class doesn’t crawl by. Hermione and Ron are a constant presence all day--sitting on either side of him, protective. He begs off of lunch, taking a nap in the dorm under Ron’s watchful eye, but Hermione herself comes to chivvy him out of bed for dinner. At the table, Hermione tries to question him, gently, and he shrugs. 

“I just didn’t feel so well, during...Remedial Potions. So Snape made me go to Madam Pomfrey. I’m fine--she let me out, didn’t she?”

“Well--I’m sure that you’re fine physically, if Madam Pomfrey says so,” Hermione says, slowly, as if not wanting to give any ground. “But--I mean, emotionally--”

“There’s nothing wrong with me emotionally!” He says that louder than he originally intends, and Seamus, sitting two seats down, doesn’t even try to stifle a snort. 

Ron glares at him, then looks back at Harry, who is picking at his food with nervous, shaking hands, and who keeps looking at the Head Table, at Dumbledore. At Snape. 

“Aw, lay off, Hermione,” Ron says, taking a bite of his bangers. “There’s nothing wrong with Harry.”

Hermione shoots him an incredulous look--has he seen Harry today? Of course there’s something wrong!--but then Ron gives her a Look, and she shuts her mouth and begins instead to talk about the History of Magic paper, which Ron completely missed hearing and which Harry couldn’t care less about. When the table begins to empty out, Harry looks at his plate, filled with mangled bits of sausage hidden by lumps of mashed potato, and it pops out of existence. Now he has no excuse. He leaves Ron and Hermione and goes to the dungeons, feeling for all the world like he is marching to his death.

000 000 000

Severus Snape sits behind his desk and wonders how exactly to prepare for a lesson he doesn’t want to teach. Is not qualified to teach, really. He knows about himself that he does not have the capacity for kindness some people have. He falls short, always, not just against Dumbledore, who has a capacity for kindness that outshines almost everyone, but against even brutes like Lucius Malfoy, who, though capable of immense cruelty, could and did truly care about his family. Snape has no family, though; none that he would claim. He doesn’t count his father, who may be dead or drunk or who knows where, or his mother, whose location he knows exactly, in the pauper’s grave in New Mills. He has never found it easy to truly care for anyone--it has always been a struggle, though some people, like his mother and Lily, seemed to be worth the effort. Since they died, no one else had been, especially a boy like Potter. Does he need to care, to do the job? To do it right, he suspects he does. But he can’t care. Not for Potter. Not for anyone. It just isn’t in him.

The knock on his door is hesitant and soft, as though Potter is hoping he won’t be in, or won’t hear the knock. He finds himself sneering, tries to stop, but can’t. He opens the door, sensing that if he said ‘come in’, Potter would contrive not to hear him, and when he does he is confronted by how much he does not want to do this. The boy is standing there, looking as jumpy as a jack rabbit, fear in his eyes, but a scowl on his face. His hands are tangled around the strap of his school bag. He hesitates, the scowl flickers, but then it returns and he looks down at his hands and Severus does not want to do this.

“Well? What are you waiting for, an owl of invitation?” Snape turns his back and doesn’t watch the boy enter the room. It already feels out of control. He doesn’t watch Potter enter but he can sense him as he takes out his wand and turns around.

Potter visibly flinches. The door is closed, and Potter bumps into it--he hadn’t entered the room any further than strictly necessary. He clutches his school bag harder, one hand groping in his pocket for his wand. Severus bites his tongue on the speech about constant preparedness that tries to force it’s way out of his throat, and instead gestures towards the chair with the wand.

“Sit, Potter.” He does.

There is something Snape should say, he knows, but he doesn’t know what that is and he doesn’t know how to be kind and he doesn’t know how to help, not now, not with Potter. And so he leans against his desk, feeling unspeakably tired all of a sudden, and does the best he can.

Somehow, he isn’t sure it will be good enough.

000 000 000

“What do you remember of the memory we uncovered yesterday?”

Harry stiffens, then forces himself to shrug. His eyes, on Snape’s hands, anything better than his face, note how they twitch on seeing the shrug. Good. 

“When I ask questions, I expect to hear an answer, Potter. I, unlike some, do not talk to hear myself speak.”

Harry feels his cheeks flush, and he shrugs again, then speaks. “Lupin and Moody and Sirius. They were in the memories from yesterday.” He pauses, watches Snape’s hands clench. “Sir.”

“You know that is not the memory I am referring to.”

His throat is a wasteland all of a sudden. He clears his throat, licks his lips, then stops. He scrubs at them with the back of his hand. He clears his throat again. All the while, he sees Snape’s hands get irritated--the tip of the wand starts to tap on the table, he grips his wrist--but this time he isn’t doing it to get a rise out of Snape. 

“That wasn’t a memory.”

“Then what was it doing in your head?”

Harry feels his cheeks flush. 

“No. I mean...that wasn’t a real memory. It was just...” He doesn’t know how to say it, and he feels his blush deepen, staring at Snape’s hands. “I guess it was more like...feelings.”

The tapping stills. “What type of feelings?” 

Harry feels his breath start to quicken and he doesn’t know why. He shakes his head. “It was...I don’t know, it was a nightmare. It must have just been a nightmare.”

There is a loaded pause, and Snape sighs. Harry hates it. He hates it when Hermione sighs at him, like she’s disappointed, or Ron’s sighs, which are more like explosions of frustration. He hates it from them because it makes him feel small, but he especially hates it from Snape. Snape isn’t his friend. He isn’t nice, he isn’t thoughtful, and his sigh just sounds vexed and frustrated, but his tone is still that same fake polite neutral voice that makes Harry nervous, and he wishes he were anywhere else but sitting in front of Snape’s desk in a room with a closed door.

“Do you recall ever having this nightmare before?”

He starts to say no, then he stops. He can’t remember. He isn’t sure. But it didn’t feel new, what happened. His forehead starts to itch, and he reaches up to tug at his fringe. 

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t remember. I--So no, I guess, no I don’t recall--”

“Watch your tone.” Harry stops talking. Snape sighs again. “The contents of this memory--”

“It’s not a memory--”

“Do not interrupt me!” A pause. “The headmaster has decided that our time together would be most useful if we chose to pursue the contents of this memory--” Harry opens his mouth to object, and Snape raises a hand, “--or whatever it may be.”

“Why does Dumbledore--”

“Professor Dumbledore to you.”

“Why does Professor Dumbledore think--it isn’t like those other dreams, those don’t even seem like dreams, I think it’s just a dumb nightmare--”

“As has been ascertained previously, there is particular concern about the Dark Lord gaining access to your thoughts, and we have prior evidence that he has influenced your dreams. The headmaster has decided the route we should take in this next course of our lessons, and we will take that course. It may be a precaution, but that is the decision that has been made.”

The room suddenly feels very small. He wants to get out of the chair but he can’t. His breath still feels fast, and he starts rubbing his forehead.

“I--I want to talk to Dumbledore about this. Professor Dumbledore, I mean.”

“He has relayed all the information to me. I can answer you questions.”

“Wh--no, I don’t want you, I--sir, please, I need to talk to Professor Dumbledore, I can’t--”

“Potter, that is enough.” Snape has stood up and the force of his rising has knocked the other chair over. Harry jumps, looks at his face even though he doesn’t want to. Snape’s nostrils are flaring, his lips are thin. He looks furious, and even though Harry feels frightened and uncomfortable for reasons he doesn’t know why, he suddenly feels a little less frightened of Snape. This is how Snape is supposed to operate. This is who Snape is. “Do you believe either of us are pleased with this little arrangement? Do you think I have nothing better to do than pick around in that empty head of yours for children’s horrors? I assure you, were the headmaster willing to take on this job, I would have gladly handed it off to him! Situations as they are, you and I are in this position, and whinging to the headmaster will not change that. 

 “So stand up, Potter.”

Harry does, wordlessly, and is inordinately relieved to put some space between him and Snape. He has his wand out, ready, when Snape turns. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose, then he shakes his head and and assumes a more defensive position.

“You may attempt to clear your mind.” The man’s voice is mocking, low, and Harry feels himself flush and his face pull into a scowl but his hands are shaking, he doesn’t want to see it again, because when he’s in it he can’t see anything, just feel those hands--he scrubs at his forehead with the back of his hand, and Snape takes that opportunity-- “Legilimens!”

000 000 000

Part of Snape wishes that he had found this memory at the very beginning of their lessons, because Potter is putting up a fight now where he never had before. It is not that Potter has cleared his mind--Snape senses that the real objective is to bait him, to distract him, to tire him out, rather than eject him, and perhaps that is the tactic he should have been taking all along. He sees snatches of Professor Dumbledore, his halfmoon glasses gleaming, for the well organized mind, Christmas at Hogwarts, Potter’s lone black head with a mountain of red haired Weasleys, Pettigrew’s drawn white face and bloody stump, bottle fame brew glory stopper death, flying, looping around the Quidditch goal posts with the wind whipping past, the youngest seeker, letters filling up the small sitting room, are you a witch or not, a grey, scabby hand opening the door with coldness rushing in, stale cake and cats, the werewolf demonstrating the Patronus, a happy memory, peering over the edge of a rooftop at angry teachers far down below, we’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss, a glittering mass of fluttering keys, The Chamber of Secrets has been opened...

Suddenly everything becomes frantic and panicked. Severus seizes on that, follows the fear down a rabbit hole. Enemies of the Heir, Beware, dueling club, seeing his own self sneering, ghosts floating through platters of rotten food, Granger with cat eyes peering up at him--pixies swarming, charging--bars on the window, a gaggle of Weasley’s looping a rope around--for full details, see my published works...

Finally, he sees it dart past, dark and ungainly. He snares it like a fish in a net, and it struggles to break free, but he will not let go. He plunges in, and, with a lurch of his stomach, realizes right away that this isn’t right. Or, it is right, but it means something terrible.

It’s similar: still distorted, still broken, the sounds going unnaturally slow while the movement is fast and blurred and twisting into and out of each other. But it isn’t the same. The colors have changed, the sounds in the background are not the same. In one way, this is better. While he still feels sick and disgusted on every part of him, the sounds seem--almost normal. It sounds as though he is hearing it under water, though--he can tell it is voices, human voices, but the rest remains a mystery.

The problem is, this means there is more than one memory that has been tampered with. And that means that however innocent this memory could have been, it feels sinister and slimy to Snape’s mind. And he cannot stay there long.

000 000 000

Part of Harry wants to be proud of himself. He held out for a while, for longer than before, and if these were still just lessons, he would be happy with that. These weren’t lessons anymore though, they were something else, something dangerous, and when Snape pulls them into another memory that is twisted and dark and awful, he finds himself so ashamed and disgusted that he can understand almost every word.

“You mustn’t let it happen, you understand? Harry, Harry, Harry.”

He wants to be sick. He hates his name, all of a sudden, feels that grime from before suddenly working it’s way over his hands, his back. He feels himself--is he really, or is it all in his head?--pulling in on himself, hunching his shoulders, contracting. But the voices do not stop.

“I understand, of course--fame is a powerful mistress. But you’re too young for all that, don’t you see? You aren’t ready--”

“Professor, I’m not--”

It’s him, he realizes with a jolt, though it should have been obvious from before. It’s his voice but it’s so young. It feels almost like watching a video tape of him when he was younger, except Aunt Petunia never taped him, only Dudley. He closes his eyes and tries to keep breathing.

“What, Harry? Not too young?” Suddenly the air is too close, too thick, he really can’t breathe, he can’t, it’s like he’s drowning and he tries to breathe but all he gets is this memory. The air is buzzing in his ears but it’s not buzzing loud enough, because he can still hear the next part.

“No, maybe you’re not too young. Let me see...”

When he comes back to himself, even before he looks to see where Snape is, he throws up. Not having eaten much that day is good--it’s not much of a mess. It burns against the back of his throat coming up, and when he finishes he looks around for Snape, maybe to apologize, maybe not. Snape is standing in the corner, his lips still pinched, but this time with disgust. Harry feels disgusting.

Snape clears the mess with his wand and regards Harry. Harry tries not to look at Snape, but it’s hard. He can’t tell how much Snape heard, or saw.

“Potter.” Pause. Harry feels like he may need to heave again. “Harry?”

“Don’t!” he says, and he thinks Snape will take so many points, for his tone and his cheek and throwing up on his floor and the door is locked and he can’t get out and maybe it will be worse than points, maybe a detention, and he can’t--

“Potter, then.” There is a glass of water in front of him suddenly. “Drink this. Then, I feel a trip to the hospital wing is in order.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. He looks at the glass, wonders what’s in it other than water, wonders if he cares. He doesn’t. He feels his limbs straighten out, relax, and his head feels like it’s about to fall asleep, and the last thing he sees is Snape activating the floo in his office and sticking his head into the fire.

Maybe there really is something wrong.

Potter doesn’t have to go to the hospital wing. All Severus has to do is say the magic word (Potter) and Poppy is invading his office, her wand tapping her hip as she veritably swoops down on Potter, which would have been funny except the boy flinches. She sends a look at Severus, then sets to work on Potter, sitting him down and making him track the point of her wand with his eyes. As she does this, she begins to talk to Severus, as though Potter isn’t there.

“He should be hospitalized, Severus. This is not an injury that can properly be treated here, he should go to St. Mungo’s - ”

Potter stiffens, and Snape snorts. “Of course, the ever capable staff of St. Mungo’s.”

“Don’t take that tone, Severus, they are perfectly capable, and - ”

“No matter their qualifications, this is irrelevant. St. Mungo’s is not a secure location. Halfway in the Minister’s pocket - ”

“And he’ll be secure here if he has a breakdown? He is delicate - ”

“I’m not delicate!” The boy almost roars this, and Severus thinks that makes the point quite clear, even if the tone is more spurred by fear than strength. He continues. “I’m not, and I don’t want to leave Hogwarts.” Potter’s voice sounds high and worried, even though his face is hovering somewhere between terrified and blank, likely from the calming draught Severus slipped into his water. Poppy looks at him halfway sympathetic and frustrated.

“Mr Potter...”

Potter just looks at her. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, an explosion of frustration that involves her arms and her head as well. “Fine! Fine! Even though my professional opinion is apparently worth nothing, against my best judgement, may I at least examine the boy, or - ”

Potter looks slightly less panicked and allows Poppy to examine him, though the results are the same as yesterday. There is nothing physically wrong with the boy. Severus could have told her that. She checks on the boy’s forehead, though the scratches he made yesterday are long healed, and frowns unhappily that there is nothing more she can do.

000 000 000

She still wants to have him spend the night in hospital wing, and that is one thing Harry will not do. He needs to see Hermione and Ron; he needs to stay somewhere with a password, not a lock, a place that he’s safe but he can get out, if there’s trouble, if he needs to. He needs to sleep in his own bed and dream about something different. He doesn’t need hospital issue pyjamas and Madame Pomfrey watching him like a hawk. 

He needs to be safe. He’s not sure how he can make that happen, but he knows it won’t happen in the hospital wing overnight, which is why he refuses to go.

Snape, surprisingly, is on his side. “There’s nothing wrong with the boy, is there? You’re pandering to him.”

“Nothing wrong?! The boy is going through an ordeal!”

“And a night in the hospital wing will not cure that. For Potter to recover, he must be able to return to life as usual. Is it usual for Potter to spend every night in the hospital wing?”

Harry thinks that at some points, it almost seems like he does, but it’s a humor with a sort of hysterical edge and he knows Pomfrey and Snape wouldn’t appreciate it, so he keeps quiet and tries not to think of what it means. An ordeal. An injury, apparently. Hospitalization. When Uncle Vernon hadn’t been talking about the orphanage or St. Brutus’, he had occasionally talked about the hospital, or, as he called it, an ugly sneer on his face, ‘the loony bin’. The loony bin was for people who thought that motor bikes could fly or snakes could talk, people who weren’t right in the head. Harry’s head doesn’t feel right. He thinks about the only hospital he’s ever been to, St. Mungo’s, thinks of Neville’s parents, on the closed ward, and he feels sick and terrified. He doesn’t want to be like that. He doesn’t want to be locked in, with mad people. Not there.

But Madame Pomfrey is leaving and Snape is looking at him, and he forces himself to look at Snape; not in the eyes, but his hands again. Snape’s hands are surprisingly interesting--long, thin fingers, with stains and callouses and the odd scar, probably from chopping potions ingredients wrong. Harry’s own hands are short, the fingers thin, but not clever, like Snape’s hands, except when he plays Quidditch, and the only thing that makes them more interesting is the scar on the back from Umbridge. He tucks his hand into his sleeve and watches as Snape’s hands smooth his robes, tuck his wand away so quickly Harry’s not sure where it’s gone.

“Sit, Potter.”

Harry starts, then shakes himself. That’s what he gets for getting distracted. “I - Can’t I just go? I’m tired.”

“I don’t know whether to be pleased that your lamentable listening skills are not just a product of disrespect in Potions or appalled that you may be certifiably deaf. If you had been paying the slightest bit of attention, Madame Pomfrey has decided that you are to be under observation for no less than three quarters of an hour to an hour after each lesson. So sit, Potter.”  

Harry sits, in the same chair he started the lesson on, and he stays tense and ready to leave the chair. Alone with Snape, again--why can’t anything go right?

Snape at first ignores him, and that suits Harry just fine. He is scribbling something on parchment, and Harry lets himself relax, a little, lets himself look from Snape’s hands to the desk to the floor, listening to the sound of the quill on parchment, because maybe Snape and he will just sit here for an hour and not talk to each other, and that would be just fine.

He feels his eyes start to droop closed, and suddenly the quill and parchment sound isn’t so nice. It’s a little frightening, like when he was younger and sometimes mice would get into his cupboard, a skritch skritch skritch that works its way under his skin, makes the back of his neck and his hands itch, his scar from Umbridge is twinging but he can also hear something else, a slithering off in the distance, a hissing, sibilant voice saying his name...

He jerks awake, suddenly, and his wand, which he had been clutching in his hand, drops to the floor with a clatter and he dives to go get it. Snape is watching him, one eyebrow raised, and Harry feels himself blush even as he wraps his fingers around the wand and clings to it.

“Potter?” It’s a question, but it isn’t, and Harry straightens himself up and doesn’t answer it. Instead, he asks his own.

“Did you hear that?”

Snape looks at him like he’s crazy and he feels his blush deepen. “Hear what?”

“I - I thought I heard a voice.” Snape hadn’t heard it. The back of his neck was prickling, it wasn’t safe -

Snape, eyebrow still raised, looks at an hour glass on his desk. Whatever the amount of sand in it means, he puts down his quill and looks at Harry, which makes Harry look away.

000 000 000

It has been almost twenty minutes since he gave the boy the calming draught. The boy’s eyes look less glassy, and his hands are locked into each other, but definitely alert. The potion should be out of Potter’s system by now, and so Snape stops grading essays and looks at the boy and tries to think of how to have this conversation. The boy looks pale, his eyes are wide, he is looking away, but Snape doesn’t know what else to do but start to speak.

“I have never come across a memory like the one in your head.” He is trying for mildness, but it comes out stiff, and he sees Potter stiffen, bend his head so his eyes are firmly planted on his shoes, saying nothing. Snape tries again. “It has been interfered with, do you understand that?”

Potter shrugs. Severus feels his hackles rise. “What have I said about responding--”

“No, sir. I mean--yes, sir. I--”

“Do you understand or not, Potter?”

“I--I don’t--”

Severus tries to calm down. Any other student and he wouldn’t be this defensive. Potter is obviously distressed--it is not a willful rebuff, this inarticulate stutter, his silence. He tells himself this, but he does not fully believe it to be true, because this is Potter, and everything Potter does is calculated to annoy. Snape breathes.

“These memories. Do they appear to you as the other memories during our lessons do?”

Potter swallows, then shakes his head. “No.”

Snape grits his teeth at the omitted sir, then continues. “That is because they have been tampered with. Someone has cast an Obliviate on you--possibly repeatedly, which accounts for the state of your memories.”

“I--Couldn’t it just be that--that they aren’t memories?” Snape is about to snap at the boy, stopping when he sees the boy’s shaking hands. “Can’t they be just--dreams? Nightmares?”

“No.” Snape almost says more, but Potter covers his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes, then running the hands through his hair, making it stand up even wilder than normal. His face is pale and looks haggard. He closes his eyes.

A kinder man would give him a minute. Would offer him some comfort. But Snape doesn’t know how to be kind. He does know how to ask questions. 

000 000 000

“Can you describe how these memories appear to you?”

Harry opens his eyes, very suddenly. He doesn’t want to see it again. He shivers, and tucks his arms around his chest. “I don’t know.” 

A sigh. He doesn’t look at Snape. Doesn’t want to. All he wants is to go back to Gryffindor Tower and go to sleep in his bed with the curtains closed around him. But he can feel Snape’s eyes on him, and he speaks again.

“I--it’s hard to see. It’s like I’m not wearing my glasses. It’s all--blurry. Things keep--changing.”

The scratch of quill on parchment again, making the back of his neck prickle, and he curls a hand around to rub at it. The sound stops.

“So you cannot make out anything clearly.” There is a pause, and Snape sounds blank as he says “And--can you hear--”

Suddenly everything is close and hot, too warm, his throat feels like it’s swollen shut and he can feel his hands scrabbling over his arms, trying to hold on to something solid but everything is changing. He ducks his chin to his chest and tries to breathe, and he’s maybe doing an all right job of it. He wants to try the door but he’s scared that the door will be locked, that he’ll be trapped and he’ll know it and then Snape will---

“Potter!” Something is rolling across the desk. Another potion. It falls off the desk and runs into his foot and stops, and Harry looks at it but doesn’t bend down. He licks his lips, then scrubs at them with the back of his hand. He shouldn’t do that. He can’t remember why, but he shouldn’t. It makes him look--it just makes him uncomfortable. He shakes his head.

“You are hyperventilating, Potter. Either you take that calming draught, or--”

“Or what?” He’s trying to sound brave, trying to put his chin at a cocky angle, give Snape a sneer, but the best he can do is slow down his breathing. “You put another potion in me, you’ll just need to keep me here longer.”

Snape frowns at him. “If you faint, you will find yourself under observation in the hospital wing, after I put in considerable energy earlier in ensuring that would not be the case.” A pause. “At least pick it off the floor!”

Harry leans down to get it and rises up quickly--too quickly, the room spins a moment. He grips the potion in his hand, hard, feels the cool glass, smooth, and he feels his breathing even out more. He squeezes even harder, but doesn’t open it. He sits there for what seems like hours, breathing, clutching the potion, eyes squeezed shut. Soon, it’s easier to breathe, but he keeps his eyes closed and holds the potion because it would be harder to uncurl his fingers then anything else. Snape is watching him, and he holds the potion and flinches when Snape sighs and just tries to feel the vial in his hand. 

“Your time is up. I will see you again tomorrow - ” Snape’s voice makes him jump, he opens his eyes, and he finds himself looking at Snape, slightly flabberghasted.

“What? But normally we don’t have lessons every day - ” The dismay in his voice makes Snape’s eyes narrow. 

“This is my own time I am giving up to work with you on your little problem, Potter. A little gratitude - ”

Right. Gratitude. Whenever anyone does anything to you you don’t like or need, you’re meant to be grateful. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, fingers still gripping his wand. Snape continues talking.

“The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better, Potter. Tomorrow. Continue to work on clearing your mind - ” He drawls the last words, and Harry’s ears burn. “Do not be late.” He pauses a second, then snaps “Well? What are you waiting for? You are dismissed!”

He gets up, slings his bag over his shoulder, and is halfway to the door before he stops. Snape starts to bark something out, but before he can finish, Harry blurts out “Nothing.”

Snape is staring at him, at his back, and he turns halfway, so he’s staring at the shelves and he can see Snape out of the corner of his eye. Snape spits out “Pardon?”

“What I hear. I don’t - I don’t hear anything.” Snape’s face looks disbelieving, and Harry feels himself get desperate. “I don’t!”

Snape doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “Tomorrow, Potter.”

Harry is out of the room and halfway down the hall before Snape’s door even closes.

000 000 000

As much as he wanted to get back to Gryffindor tower and his bed, once he closes the curtains, he can’t sleep. There is homework he should be doing, he vaguely feels, or something in the common room - Ron and Hermione had been waiting up for him when he returned and had exchanged looks when he begged off of homework and chess and chatting and had instead trudged up to the dormitory. But he can’t bear to be with people now - not when his heart is pounding and his hands feel sweaty and all he wants is to fall asleep and hope that when he wakes up, he will feel normal again.

Instead, he stares at the top of the curtains and counts and then, all of a sudden, he falls asleep and he dreams of detentions. Not the detentions that make him nervous, the nebulous, fuzzy threat that is hovering behind his eyes now, but detentions he’s already had. Like a whirlwind, images of pickling rat brains, crashing through the underbrush in the Forbidden Forest, writing -

writing lines in Umbridge’s office, the back of his hand stinging, but it’s not Umbridge across the desk, it’s someone else, but it’s blurry like he isn’t wearing his glasses, and his hand stings and stings and suddenly there’s a hand covering his and another hand on his shoulder and someone behind him but he has to keep writing, he keeps writing lines and pretends that the hand on his shoulder stays on his shoulder and doesn’t move lower, he just keeps writing and it stings but not badly enough because there is someone touching him and it isn’t right it doesn’t feel right, I MUST NOT TELL LIES I MUST NOT TELL LIES I MUST NOT TELL LIES

- he wakes up to Ron shaking him, pale beneath his freckles. “Is it another dream? Is it Dad? What happened to your hand?”

His hand is bleeding, and he stares at it and for a moment wants to throw up again, but then he realizes it isn’t from the quill, or the dream--it’s the other hand, and he tastes blood in his mouth too, and Ron is pulling him to the bathroom, running his hand under the tap, handing him a cup to drink from, looking at him with serious eyes.

“Is it - Him?” 

Harry shakes his head, the rubs his face. His hand is throbbing, dully, and he runs his fingers over it gently. “I - it’s Occlumency. It’s just - ” He can’t think of the words, so he shrugs. “It’s hard.”

“Is Snape treating you all right? I mean, you know, for Snape?”

Harry seriously considers this. Is he? He’s snarky and mean, but not predictably so. He goes into his head and finds terrible things, but he gives him potions and stops Pomfrey from making him stay in the hospital wing, and Harry isn’t sure which of those things is good or bad. 

He settles for another shrug. “Dunno.” He looks at his hand, then closes his eyes. When he does, he feels the hands on him again, and they shoot open. Ron is looking at him, concerned, looking like he's about to fetch Hermione, but Harry just shakes his head. There's something wrong, but if Hermione knows, it'll all be real, it'll be something he has to deal with and talk about and all he wants to do is pretend that it's all a dream, a mistake, even though as time passes he starts to think this may not be true.

They sit there, in the bathroom, hearing the other boys sleeping, and Harry wonders why he can’t ever just be normal.

000 000 000

The next morning, Severus keeps a close eye on Potter. He normally keeps a close eye on Potter - the boy is always up to something, and forewarned is forearmed. The boy looks shaken - his hair even more of a mess than usual, purple smudges almost bruise like under his eyes, he looks exhausted, and his friends are again on either side of him. Weasley is glaring at everyone who dares look at Potter, which means that more people do, and Granger is loading food on the boy’s plate that he pushes around tiredly with his fork. Even the head table has noticed, a fact which would disgust Severus if he himself were not feeling so tired. Minerva is frowning - Albus hasn’t told her, Severus can tell, and he wonders if he should, except that then there would be another person watching and judging how he handled the boy. Poppy has her lips narrowed. Albus is not looking at the boy at all, even though Potter is watching him. 

Madam Umbridge’s reaction is perhaps the most disturbing. She is watching Potter with a wide, stretched smile with no real joy in it. She is sitting next to Severus, as she frequently does, if only because he is meant to be cooperative. She turns to him, with that stretched smile, and says “You’ve had to Potter boy in detention lately, haven’t you?”

Severus picks up his cup. “Unfortunately,” he drawls, and takes a sip of coffee. Umbridge does not take the hint.

“I’ll have to talk to you about your methods. I’ve never seen the boy so quiet.”

Severus looks at Potter, who is currently lifting his own cup to his mouth with a shaking hand. Severus is surprised it doesn’t spill, but Potter is doing fairly well until a Ravenclaw - Goldstein? - comes over and puts a hand on his sholder and the boy jumps, sloshing pumpkin juice all over his front. Weasley gives Goldstein a glare, while Granger siphons the mess up. Potter pushes away from the table, resulting in Granger looking worried and Weasley half-standing to follow. Goldstein finishes exchanging a few words with the boy, wide eyed, then head back to the Ravenclaw table to spread the news. Potter leaves the hall, leaving behind his full plate, the spilled cup, and a ridiculous amount of whispers. Snape, watching, can see his shoulders tighten up, his head twitch to one side, and his shaking hands clench into fists.

Umbridge watches with glee as the boy rushes away, out of the hall, and turns again to Severus. “You’ve really put him in his place!”

"Quite," Severus answers, and remembers how he wanted this. He wanted to be responsible for the boy finally being put in his place. And now he is, and he wishes (or he would, if he thought wishing was worth anything) that he had been responsible for something else. 

000 000 000

 The lesson that night goes much the same as the first. Afterward, Harry dreams of the corridor, the door dark against his mind, but as he approaches it, to open it, he gets scared and ducks down another hallway and finds himself in the first memory, and when he wakes up Ron is still asleep and he lays there, in bed, shivering. The lessons all seem to go the way of the first few--he gets there, he puts up a fight, but Snape always finds a way in and then he’s somewhere else, somewhere dark and muddled and frightening and never the same twice, a fact that seems to disturb Snape. Snape can’t navigate them as well as Harry, something which seems to frustrate the man, something that Harry is grateful for but also hates.

Harry can understand them better and better as nights go on, but he doesn’t tell Snape this. He doesn’t want Snape to know more than he has to, because at some point this neutral Snape will snap, has to snap, and he doesn’t want to leave him with any weapons for when things go normal again. He also wishes, desperately, that he could be like Snape and not understand what they were saying, what the sounds meant. The sight is still hopelessly tangled and fuzzy, but Harry can hear every word, and sometimes, like with the first memory, he can feel things...Those as the nights that he wakes up and he’s been biting his hands again, or scratching himself, and when he showers his skin stings and he doesn’t feel right. 

Some of the DA are giving him trouble. Not trouble, but they don’t understand why they don’t meet anymore. He tells them he has lessons, that OWLS are coming, and Zacharias Smith sneers at him and asks him since when did he put his lessons first. It’s not just Smith, though, it’s Ernie and Anthony Goldstein and even Neville and Ginny and the twins. Not Ron, though. Not Hermione. They know something isn’t right, they know it’s bigger than just the DA, and sometimes at meals or in classes he can tell that they are watching him, and he knows it should make him feel better, that they care, but it frightens him, a little; what if, with all their watching, they figure it out? 

He has been at the lessons for two weeks when, one night, it changes. He’s on the floor, again; somehow, he always ends up on the floor, though he’s stopped throwing up, at least. He’s gasping, pulling himself up, feeling clammy, when Snape slams his hands down on his desk.

It’s an act of temper that he hasn’t really seen Snape indulge in, and it scares him. It reminds him of that night that started all this, when he looked into the pensieve and Snape caught him, and he moves closer to the door, finds the handle, so that, if he needs to, he can get away.

“This isn’t working.” Snape’s voice doesn’t sound as angry as it should, which makes Harry even more on edge. “Clearly, another approach is necessary.”

“Can’t we just - forget it?” His voice is raspy. He clears his throat. “It - maybe it is just dreams, maybe - “

“It is not dreams, Potter. You know that just as well as I do.” Harry wants to tell him he knows it better, but what would that accomplish? And, Snape just keeps talking, so he wouldn’t have the chance anyway. “Tomorrow, we will use the pensieve.”

The word makes Harry’s blood freeze, and he shakes his head. “You - what? No! I won’t let you - ”

Snape looks at him and Harry pushes himself against the door, feels the handle dig into his back, because that was the wrong thing to say.

000 000 000

Snape’s eyes are narrowed and he couldn’t stop the spite in his voice if he tried, and he’s not trying. “What - would it be an invasion of your privacy, Potter?” He takes a step towards the boy, tries to ignore the telltale twitch. “Heaven forbid we make you uncomfortable.” The boy ducks his head down. 

“Sir, I’m sorry, only don’t - don’t do this. Dumbledore - ”

“Professor Dumbledore is the one who has leant me the pensieve. He has entrusted you to me in this matter, or have you forgotten?”

“I can’t - ”

“This is not about you, or your feelings, Potter.”

“Sir, please!”

Snape wants to slap the boy. How dare he plead, how dare he sound so desperate! Does he think Snape enjoys this? That he wants to see all this? Does he think this is a pleasure of his, that he is the kind of man who - 

Night after night, Severus watches. Night after night, he immerses himself in these foul, polluted images, he makes himself pay attention, take notes, so he can figure out what’s happened, so he can understand. So that he can stop watching, so that it can end. Night after night after night, fourteen nights of this, and it isn’t for his own health, is it? It is for Potter, for a boy he hates, and the boy won’t appreciate it, the hours he gives up, not just in lessons, but in lost sleep. 

Night after night after night, and every night the sounds get more and more garbled, the images are still jumbled, and while he cannot see the whole picture, he can see enough that, when he finally removes himself, he lets Potter go as soon as he possibly can, but even when the boy is gone, everything else stays behind, lingering in the air, and it is driving Severus mad. The pensieve is the only way. Can’t the boy understand that? He is stupid and selfish and blind, and Severus is sick of him. Once the boy puts his memories in the pensieve, he will unravel it and it will all be over and Severus will sleep again. He looks at the boy, feels the anger on his face and, with the last vestiges of his control, says one last thing.

“Tomorrow evening. Here. On time.”

The boy opens his mouth again, then shuts it. His hands are shaking, and Severus does not stop him when he flings open the door and races down the corridor, not waiting for the forty five minute observation time to pass. Severus does not care. He gets up, closes his door, and seats himself at his desk. There is a pile of essays in front of him, but he does not read them - even on a good night, the first years spelling drives him to distraction, and his nights for the past two weeks have never been good. The fire is crackling; the sound is almost clean, and he closes his eyes and lets himself listen to something that isn’t scrambled, something that doesn’t hurt. 

Tomorrow. It will get better, after the pensieve. For him, and for Potter. It will be over, then. He just has to wait until tomorrow.

000 000 000

The next day, Zacharias Smith throws a taunt at him in the hallway as he leaves the Great Hall, and Harry takes out his DA coin in History of Magic and sets the time and date of the next meeting for that night. He feels a flare of guilt as he does it, and fear. Snape already hated him, skiving off would only make him angrier, but on the other hand, the idea of going to Snape’s office after dinner makes him more scared than the idea of missing it.

Ron and Hermione, sitting next to him, feel their coins go off in the pockets, and look at him. Ron gives him a relieved grin, while Hermione looks worried at him; not wuite frowning, but not the same pleased look Ron has. 

What about REMEDIAL POTIONS? she scribbles at the top of his parchment. 

Harry scowls, and scratches underneath her note taking a night off. Hermione reaches over to try and write another question, but Harry tugs his parchment away, and Hermione lets him, still with the worried look, but even she looks excited after dinner, sneaking away to the Room, seeing everyone again. Harry feels his shoulders loosen, for the first time in weeks, feels a smile crack his face. He’s back, now. He’s defending himself, he’s okay, there’s nothing wrong with him. Everyone is happy to be there, even Zacharias Smith, and Cho smiles at him, and it’s all right. There’s nothing wrong with him. He almost wants to go to Snape’s office and yell it in his face, but that would mean leaving, and he doesn’t intend to leave the Room for a while, not when everything suddenly feels okay again. 

Umbridge has other plans. Everything is going well, they are practicing, Neville has cast  a patronus for the first time, when suddenly Dobby shows up squealing, ‘They’re coming, they’re coming!’ And for a moment Harry thinks it’s Snape, but it’s not, it’s Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad, and he’s not sure which is worse, so he yells for everyone to run and they all scatter. A spell takes him down in the hallway, someone is touching him, he’s not okay, everything is crumbling. Malfoy’s got a grip on his shoulder before he passes him off to Umbridge and Harry feels like he’s about to hyperventilate, the hallways are a blur and he’s not okay he’s not okay he’s - 

In Dumbledore’s office, Marietta’s there and so is the Minister and everything is going to hell, nothing is all right, and Dumbledore still won’t look at him. He’s not okay, there’s something wrong with him, because Dumbledore still won’t look at him, he’s trying to do what Dumbledore says but the man won’t look at him, he hears Kingsley whisper something that makes him almost scream, he feels about to leap out of his skin, he doesn’t like what that sounded like, someone is touching him and he can’t breathe he’s not okay he’s not - 

Everything is suddenly different. Someone’s tackled him to the ground and he is clawing at them, pushing them away, trying to get them off him, and Professor McGonagall is saying ‘Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!’ and it’s her, she’s pinned him and Marietta down and everyone else is out cold. Dumbledore is asking if they’re all right and Harry just wants to scream, because he’s not all right, he’s not, but Dumbledore isn’t looking, Dumbledore can’t see. He’s talking to McGonagall quickly, urgently, and he still won’t look at Harry.

“ - I had to hex Kingsley too - remarkably quick on the uptake, modifying Miss Edgecombe’s memory like that - ” 

Harry feels himself shiver at that, has to swallow, his mouth gone all dry, his head is racing. How did all this happen? How did everything suddenly move so fast?

“ - soon wish he’d never dislodged me from Hogwarts, I promise you - ”

“Professor - ” he whispers, and amazingly, Dumbledore is looking towards him, and he almost cries. He doesn’t know what to say first; how sorry he is, that he started the DA, that Dumbledore had to take the blame, that he’s so disgusting, that there’s something wrong with him and he’s sorry only won’t the man look at him, please - But Dumbledore doesn’t want to listen, or look, Dumbledore is just talking, quick and fast and urgent, but never quite meeting Harry’s eyes.

“You must study Occlumency, Harry, as hard as you can, do you understand me? Do everything Professor Snape tells you and practice it particularly every night before sleeping so that you can close your mind - you must promise  me - “

Someone was waking, Dumbledore lunges forward, seized Harry’s wrist, and the very feel of his hands makes Harry’s skin crawl, makes his scar burn and his hands shake and he just wants everyone to stop touching him, stop touching him, he pulls himself away - 

And Dumbledore is gone and McGonagall is taking him and Marietta away, and the first person they see in the hallway, looking very angry indeed, is Professor Snape.

Everything is wrong.

000 000 000

Severus is furious when the boy doesn't show up for Occlumency. He had watched the boy all day - seen Potter in better spirits, had thought that meant that the boy had seen sense, had understood that the pensieve was the only way, for both of them. Had even given the boy a few minutes grace when the clock struck seven and still no sign of him - while Potter was constantly insolent, he was rarely late. He waited five minutes, then ten. Had even contacted Minerva to see if the boy were ill or injured, which he had not been. Minerva, who hadn't seemed to care that Potter was skipping a lesson and had flat out told Snape that he was working the boy too hard and that he should give Potter the night off.

He did not give Potter a night off. Instead, he went searching the castle methodically, using all the knowledge at his disposal to try and find the boy. He had been almost about to concede defeat - had started to wonder if the boy was just holed up in the Gryffindor dorms and had gotten his friends, or even Minerva, to lie for him, when he had practically ran into the boy.

"Well, Severus, I've found Potter," Minerva said in an infuriating tone.

She had a Ravenclaw girl in her grip, and Potter was trailing behind the two, looking shell shocked. For a moment, Severus was - not concerned, of course not, but curious. Having repeatedly been plunged into the boy's memories night after night, he had seen many expressions on the boys face, but not this one.

"I can see that. Well, Potter? What are you lollygagging about behind Professor McGonagall for? You know you have - " Here Severus felt his lip curl, out of his control

" - Remedial Potions. Don't want to fall behind, do we?" His tone was sharp, but the boy didn't make eye contact. His whole body tensed, however, enough for Minerva to notice.

She scowled at him. "Honestly, Severus, both Potter and Edgecombe have been through an ordeal! The headmaster..." For a moment, Minerva looks at a loss for words, but not for long. "The headmaster is, as they say, on the lam. There is much to be done tonight."

Severus nods. "Indeed. Potter, for example, has a Remedial Potions lesson to do with me tonight."

Minerva gave him a swift, piercing look. "This can't wait one night, Severus?"

The thought of one more night with those images, the noises, the thought of one more restless sleep almost makes Severus scream. Instead, he says "It cannot," and reaches out and grabs Potter. The boy tenses even further, like a clockwork toy being wound too tight, but Severus does not care. Let the boy be uncomfortable; Snape had been uncomfortable for two weeks, and it ended tonight.

"Potter, I will see Miss Edgecombe to her common room and then I will come and collect you. All right?"

Snape is already halfway down the hallway, Potter securely in his grip. The boy has not said one word.

"Severus? I will be down to collect him!"

Tonight. It ended tonight.

One way or another.

000 000 000

Snape is touching him and Harry can't get free. He's afraid to really fight, afraid of what Snape will do - he's angry in a way Harry hasn't seen for a while, the kind of anger that makes him unpredictable, that makes him frightening. He wants to kick him or scratch him, tear the man's rough hands off of him and run away, but he has nowhere to go, nowhere that Snape can't find him, and it'd be even more awful to try to get free and realize how trapped he really was. He twists his shoulders and drags his feet but they end up at Snape's office anyway, and Snape throws him into the room like he used to get thrown into his cupboard, but Harry catches himself before he falls, his hands digging into his robes, pulling out his wand - it makes him uncomfortable not to have the wand in his hand with Snape like this - but Snape doesn't attack him right off. Harry wishes he would. Instead of Snape snarling at him, hexing him, wand out, the first thing he sees is Snape striding to stand behind his desk, scowling at a pensieve.

This was what made Snape change. This is why all of this is happening in the first place. This was what made the memories come. The words tear themselves out of his mouth before he can help it, even though he knows it won't change anything, even though he knows it will make things worse. "I'm sorry."

Snape looks at him, mask in place, eyes black. Harry wants to say more, wants to say how he wishes he'd never looked because memories are private, he wishes that he'd never looked because he thought he wanted to know everything and he didn't, he doesn't, he wishes and wishes he never had. He wants to say that he's being punished enough, isn't he, don't punish him more, don't make things worse. He wants to tell Snape he can't see it again, he can't see it for real, he can't let it happen all over again and just watch and not stop it. But he doesn't say any of these things because Snape's face is still and his eyes are unfathomable and Harry doesn't know what Snape would say and so Harry says nothing.

He backs up a little, wand still out, and says again, in a voice that squeaks in a way that would embarrass him any other time, "I'm sorry. Please." He opens his mouth, but nothing else comes out, so he shuts it and lets the silence hang in the air. He won't say anything else. It won't help.

Snape doesn't say anything either. Harry stands near the doorway, waiting, gripping his wand so hard he's afraid it will snap, as Snape looks back at him and at the pensieve and then, suddenly, draws his wand. Harry flinches, bumps his head against the wood of the door, but Snape just taps his temple with his wand. A memory comes out-not silvery like Dumbledore's ones, more an iron gray, and uneven, lumpy. Snape deposits it in the bowl, gentler than Harry has ever seen him, then looks at Harry.

"Extract your memories for the pensieve."

Harry shakes his head furiously. "I can't. I can't do that."

Snape's eyes narrow, but otherwise his face stays the same. "Potter-"

"No. You've seen it in my head, isn't that enough?" It has to be enough, because even that is too much for Harry, he can't watch it - what if he can see it all, in the pensieve? What if Snape can see it? He won't do it. He won't.

He can't.

000 000 000

The boy is refusing and Severus doesn't care. He's not caring about a lot of things, about never being like the man his father was, for one, because suddenly he's grabbed the boy from where he is by the door and is hauling him to the pensieve by the scruff of his neck. The boy seems almost paralyzed for a moment, then starts to kick and thrash, but Severus is determined. In this, Potter will not win.

He grabs the boy's hand, forces it up towards his head. Potter tries to let go of his wand, but Severus forces his fingers around it again, and, not so gently, pulls out the memory. It is foul, degraded, corrupted - the very sight of it makes the boy shudder and Severus want to retch. Severus does it again; the boy almost slips right out of his hands with the force of his shaking. With one last jerk, he drops the last of the memories into the pensieve.

And, with a wrench, the two of them fall, head over heels, into the darkness of the past.

The first thing Harry notices is that it is not like being in a normal pensieve. Instead of being a bystander, he feels himself seeping into every piece of the memory. He's everywhere and nowhere, and in some ways this is both easier and harder than he imagined. Snape is gone, or Snape is here, or Snape is everywhere but he isn't watching Harry with those eyes, or touching him, so it's almost like Snape doesn't matter at all. This isn't about Snape now. It's about remembering. There's no escape from it, not anymore, so he closes his eyes and lets it come.

he is in detention in the defense office and it is so hot. lockhart's got a fire going but it's only the first week in september and he's sweating through his robes but he doesn't want to take them off so they stay on even though lockhart tells him it's all right to take them off if he wants

they are in the defense classroom and lockhart is making them act out parts from his book. he keeps making Harry fall to his knees in front of him, a zombie tamed by a magic amulet, but every time he falls it's not good enough, not right, so he keeps getting up and falling and getting up and falling and getting up and falling until finally he's done it right and he gets a ''well done harry!' and a squeeze around his shoulders as he makes his way back to his seat

he is in detention in the defense office he is addressing fan mail and lockhart isn't doing anything, just watching him, and harry doesn't know what to do so he just keeps working and working until the night is over

he is in the great hall with ron and hermione she just got her pass to the restricted section and she keeps tracing lockhart's signature when she thinks he and ron aren't looking and he wants to tell her to stop but lavendar and parvati already called him jealous earlier and he isn't jealous of lockhart, the man's just weird, so he keeps his mouth shut and watches her trace the letters over and over again

he is in detention in the defense office and his hand hurts because he has been addressing so many envelopes but he keeps addressing them hoping he will reach the end of the pile and lockhart would let him go and he could go find ron or hermione like normal. but when he reached the bottom of the pile lockhart does something new and gives him an enormous stack of photographs to sort. it is mindless work, but at least it doesn't make his hand hurt like the other fan mail things. he is sorting, quidditch photos lockhart with a book lockhart with wand, the piles grow higher and he stops paying attention except to find broom, book, or wand, broom book wand broom book wand

they are in the corridor and it is valentine's day and a dwarf is chasing him down and people are laughing but these are lockhart's dwarves and harry doesn't know what message they might carry because no one can see lockhart like harry can

broom book wand broom book wand broom book

they are in the great hall and they are dueling. snape and lockhart, and lockhart goes flying, and harry smiles incredibly wide and almost claps before he remembers ron and hermione are right next to him and would wonder why he was clapping for snape. he's feeling better than he has for a while until snape calls him and malfoy up to volunteer

wand broom book wand broom book

"now, harry, when draco points his wand at you -"

harry is trying to breathe normally but it's much harder than it should be. lockhart drops his wand "whoops, my wand is a little overexcited - " and suddenly he is pressing up against harry, pretending to show him what to do, and no one seems to notice, not snape or ron or hermione and he isn't sure if he's glad no one can see or if he wishes someone would notice already

"scared," malfoy hisses at him, and malfoy is so small and weak and unthreatening compared to the terror of lockhart pressing up behind him that harry whispers back "you wish."

wand broom book wand broom book wand

then all of a sudden there is a new picture in the pile and it doesn't fit any of the other categories. it is lockhart, and he has something in his hand but it's not a wand, it's his thing, and he's naked and he's touching...harry stares and feels his face grow hot and feels sick and embarrassed and is watching photo lockhart as he winks and touches himself

lockhart was touching him and no one was stopping him, he was stroking his arm as he pulled out his wand, to fix the bones, to mend the damage, and he wasn't surprised when lockhart took the bones out of his arm instead because lockhart doesn't fix things, he makes them broken, takes the insides out, makes everything wrong

pushing up against him in class in the corridors in the great hall and no one sees no one knows not even hermione or snape who sees everything or dumbledore

dumbledore looks at him "is there anything you want to tell me, harry?" no. he didn't want dumbledore to know. he didn't want anyone to know...

he doesn't know what to do with that photo - start a pile? pretend he never saw it? tell lockhart? - and maybe he is too still for too long looking at it because lockhart notices and looks over and says "is there a problem?" and harry flushes even more and can't speak. lockhart looks and sees the picture and says "oh, my. is that all?" harry tries to nod but his throat is too tight and lockhart laughs and says "harry, harry, it's all right. it's perfectly natural, here, let me show you" and the photo keeps moving

they are in the defense classroom and lockhart makes him stay after class because he's distracting the other students, because he makes them look at him, and harry doesn't understand why that's such a bad thing because lockhart's been making him pretend to be a werewolf all class but lockhart's voice changes to a pur when the room is empty "you mustn't let it happen, you understand? harry, harry, harry" and the sound of his name pulses in his ears and his hands get slick with sweat. "fame is a powerful mistress, but you're too young, you aren't ready maybe you're not too young let me see..."

"let me show you," lockhart said but what he really wants to do is see, he's taking off harry's robe and trousers and pants and he's touching

he's always touching harry his shoulder his hand correcting his grip on his wand leaning up against his back pushing so harry can feel him ruffling his hair gripping the back of his neck stroking his arm on the quidditch pitch in front of everyone

he can hear colins camera flash and I DON'T WANT PICTURES OF THIS COLIN because lockhart has pictures in the secret drawer in his desk, of lockhart grinning and smiling and naked, of lockhart with other boys, of lockhart with harry, and harry doesn't want lockhart to have any more pictures with him.

beautiful you're so beautiful tell me tell me how beautiful i am

they are in the defense classroom and class is almost over. lockhart made harry be the troll and fall down in a swoon. he'd done too good a job, and seamus and ron and dean burst out into gales of laughter. even hermione was smiling even though they'd disturbed the class. but lockhart isn't happy and gives harry detention right then and the whole class is dismissed five minutes early and suddenly it doesn't seem worth it. lockhart grabs the back of his neck and drags him up to the defense office and suddenly he's yanks harry's shirt off and his glasses get tangled and his robe is gone and his trousers and pants and lockhart starts to spank him, over his knee, and it doesn't hurt at first but it's strange and uncomfortable because he's naked he's too big for this and lockhart is furious

"you whore, you tease, you just can't help yourself, you can't stop, they're not meant to look at you like that, no one is, no one but me you little whore"

it's starting to hurt as he hits harder and harder but then suddenly he's not hitting anymore and stands up and harry is thrown to the floor but before he can get up (to run he tells himself to get away to get help but he never makes it up so he doesn't know for sure) lockhart is on top of him and pushing in to him and

"say it yes say it say it oh god oh harry harry harry"

...HARRY HARRY HARRY HARRY HARRY HARRY HARRY...

And with that, the pensieve world shatters around them, expelling them back into the world of Snape's office. The real world, Harry tries to think, but the feeling in his stomach won't go away and there are tears pricking at his eyes even though he doesn't cry. He is shaking, he can feel, and his head is splitting and he sore and almost electrified, lightning all over his skin, awake. They're both real. It wasn't a dream, or a nightmare, or a vision from Voldemort. They're both real.

He looks over at Snape, who seems a little peaky, paler than normal, sprawled out on the floor like Harry, and Harry wants to shout at him or hit him or run away from him but he's so tired. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something like 'Hope you're satisfied' or 'Are you happy, now?', but something entirely different comes out.

"I remember," Harry says.

This time, to his surprise, it is Snape that's sicking up.