Before the Dawn – Chapter 1

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Not mine now. Never was. Never will be. World without end.

Summary: Sequel to Walk the Shadows. After a horrific summer, Harry seems to be recovering from his ordeal, with the help of Snape and Lupin, as well as his friends, including, oddly enough, Draco Malfoy. But appearances can be deceiving.

If you haven't read Walk the Shadows, you'll be hopelessly lost, I'm afraid, in this story. Go forth now and do so . . . I'll wait.

From the Journal of Harry James Potter

Thursday, Sep. 12, 3am

Nightmares have been bad the last couple nights.

Okay, maybe more than just a couple nights. Maybe ever since M/a/l/f/o/y Draco stopped by to say "Hi," or whatever it was that he wanted. The nightmares were worst that night, of course. Good thing I put up a silencing charm over my room so Snape could get some sleep. I forgot it last night, though.

He was kind of grouchy this morning.

And angry that I'd been Silencing, when I promised I wouldn't. But if he could see the bags under his eyes on mornings when I've kept him up. . . . He has too much work to do to stint on sleep. He puts so much effort into his lessons, for one thing. I never realized before how much planning has to go into it, into everything he does. He spends hours just making antidotes for the potions we make in his classes, so if something goes wrong, he has what he needs on hand immediately to counteract various spills, explosions and ingestions.

He also makes most of the potions for the Infirmary, so the school doesn't have to buy them, just the ingredients. Not to mention, until recently, his spying for the Order. At least he doesn't have to worry about that any more. No more having to face V/o/l/d/ Old Snake Face and be Crucio'd or whatever. No more trying to lie to that monster or grovel for him or any of it.

Anyway, he needs the sleep far more than I do. Besides, I can't have nightmares if I don't go to sleep. I can get by on an hour or two here and there. I'm sure of it.

Harry closed his journal and suppressed a yawn. Then another one, this one making his jaw crack. He pointed his wand at his head and murmured, "Excito Sursum."

A rush of adrenaline swept through him and he had to hold back a mad bout of laughter. He'd found the Excito spell in one of Snape's books that he'd borrowed. The spell was meant as a counter for the Somnambulus curse, but worked just as well, he supposed, as a way to stay awake when tired. The main side effect, as far as he could tell, was an initial feeling of giddiness, which wore off fairly quickly.

This was the fourth time he had used the spell, though only the second time tonight, and the giddiness fled after thirty seconds or so. That was far faster than any casting before, and even as Harry considered what that might mean, a headache replaced the sensation. He pressed a hand to his forehead, careful to avoid the lightning bolt scar. His scar had taken to tingling whenever he touched it, so he didn't touch it. It had been weeks since it had split his head in two with agonizing pain, weeks since those days he had faced Voldemort and had to put the pain in the cupboard in his mind in order to not go mad with it.

A few minutes later, the headache was gone.

Just a head rush, he decided. He took a book off the shelf in his room and sat propped up against the pillows on his bed to read. The book was one Hermione had given him, for his missed birthday. She had also given him the index supplement that she'd tried to send later, when his present had been returned the first time around, when he had been in Topsham, being tortured and blinded and raped.

Shaking his head to clear it of those memories, he concentrated on the text of the hefty tome from Hermione. The Noble Sport of Warlocks, by Quintius Umfraville, was quite good, and included several diagrams of a 17th century pitch. Of course, the book was originally published in 1620, so many of the rules and such of Quidditch had changed since then. But only in the specifics, and the number and variety of fouls. Most of the general rules and methods of scoring and so forth were the same as they'd been almost four hundred years ago.

The book was interesting enough to keep him awake through the remainder of the night.

Several hours later, when he heard Snape moving around down the hall, Harry put his reading away and went into the shower. After luxuriating in the flow of warm water for a while, Harry adjusted the temperature. With a judicious use of cool to cold water, he was able put on a semblance of being awake, without casting the Excito spell again. He didn't want Snape to see him being all tired and ask him how he slept. He needn't have worried, though, since by the time he made his way out to the sitting area and the nearby table where Harry took all his meals, and Snape took all the ones he could get away with, Snape was already standing back up and draining his teacup.

"Did you have anything to eat?" Harry asked him.

Snape shook his head distractedly as he reached the door and grabbed his teaching robes from the hook.

"You're not setting a very good example for me," Harry told him with a cheeky grin.

Snape merely lifted an eyebrow in return. "I assure you, I have had ample sustenance to maintain my good health."

"Uh huh." Harry slid into his chair at the table and called up breakfast. He wasn't all that hungry either, and so just stared at the toast and eggs and bacon that appeared, with no real intention of eating it.

"Which is not to say that you can do the same," Snape said, from far closer than the door, only a few paces behind him. "You will eat something."

Startled, Harry jumped; he couldn't help it. Throwing a glare over his shoulder, he said, "Yeah, the old 'do as I say and not as I do' gambit. I've heard that one before."

Snape's eyes narrowed, and he gave a long suffering sigh. Then, in three long strides, he was across the floor and near enough that he could have grabbed Harry if he chose. As Harry flinched out of the way, Snape reached out and snatched a triangle of toast from the plate in front of him. He tore off a bite, chewed swiftly, swallowed, and glared right back at Harry. "Satisfied?" he snarled.

The picture was so absurd, Harry couldn't not laugh. "Very much so, sir," he said though his chuckles. "Have a good morning."

"You, as well," Snape said, and glared at him again for good measure, even as he took another bite of toast as he headed back to the door. "We will be dueling after lunch. Do not be late."

"Oh. Yeah. Okay." He had forgotten they were to duel this afternoon. A cleared throat made Harry wince at his utterly craptastic manners. It was a wonder Snape let him get away with such disrespect as often as he did. Merlin knew Uncle Vernon never had. "Sorry. No, sir, I won't be late."

He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Snape nod once, his face already curtained by his black, greasy hair. And then, a moment later, he was gone, off to teach his dunderheads. Fourth years, this morning, Harry thought.

After Snape was gone, Harry drank some tea. He pushed the eggs around on his plate for a while, finally eating a couple bites, just so he wouldn't have to lie later if - when - Snape asked if he'd eaten. Of course, Snape would probably be all tricky and ask Dobby or something. Now that Snape wasn't sitting - or standing - over him and making him mind his manners, Harry propped his elbow on the table and rested his head on the heel of his hand. He really was very tired.

Covering a yawn with his other hand, Harry called the house elf - not Dobby - to take the dishes away, and went to set up his things for class. He had Transfiguration first today, and they were meant to be turning pots into pigs. Small pigs, Harry hoped. Professor McGonagall was supposed to send the pot he was meant to use with Hermione . . .

Ah, he thought as a knock sounded at the door, and there she is.

Even though he was expecting Hermione, Harry still drew his wand as he approached the door, unwilling to be incautious. But there were no Death Eaters beyond the door when he opened it, just Hermione, and her huge stack of books, upon to top of which was balanced an old, cast iron pot.

Harry leaped for it as it started to topple, and snagged it just as some of the books fell loose as well. Hermione juggled them for two seconds, three, before they fell with a resounding crash and splatter of old leather.

"Damnit!"

"Hermione!"

Her face was already turning pink. "What?" she asked innocently, as she crouched and started gathering up her books.

Harry set aside the pot and helped her. "Surprising language is all," he said with a shrug.

"I've said worse."

"But not in the middle of the hallway. In front of Professor Snape's door."

The red of her face turned magenta. She clapped one hand to her mouth. "Oh! You don't think-"

"He heard? Nah, he's already gone to class." Harry put the stack of books back in Hermione's arms.

Her sigh of relief brought a smile to Harry's lips. "Thanks, Harry," she said, and turned to go.

"Oh, wait a sec. I have an essay for you to turn in for me. For Professor McGonagall. If that's all right."

"Of course."

Hermione waited while Harry ran to his room to get his Transfiguration essay. And the one for Herbology, which he had almost forgotten. That class was a bit of a struggle, what with him not being able to do any of the class work in the dungeon apartment, but Harry was trying his best.

His Potions practicals, of course, he had to complete under Snape's watchful eye in the evenings after supper. The first time he had made a potion this way, just the two of them, Harry had nearly blown up Snape's private laboratory, he had been so nervous. But Snape had not screamed at him, nor called him three kinds of idiot, but just vanished the mess and left the room for a little while, and when he returned, and told Harry to start again, his voice was quiet, but not that desperate, deadly quiet Harry knew he could invoke without even trying.

That second time, Harry had managed to brew the thing properly - though not as well as Hermione would have, obviously. But well enough for a passing mark. The next practical had gone much smoother, altogether, and Harry was starting to think he could get an honest handle on Potions, now that he didn't have to worry about Snape berating him in front of everyone all the time.

Back at the door, Harry handed over his assignments, and mentioned the one for Herbology, too.

Hermione tucked them away with a fair bit of book maneuvering. "Ron wanted me to ask if you'd come up to the Common Room some time soon."

Harry shrugged one shoulder, and his stomach flipped over. "I don't know, Hermione . . ."

"I told him not to push it, but he made me promise to ask."

"S'okay. Why doesn't he just come down and visit here?" Hermione gave him a long look, and Harry sighed. "He's letting Severus scare him off? Where's that Gryffindor courage?"

"The same-" Hermione cut herself off, but Harry knew what she had not said.

"Could be said of me, huh?" Harry felt his face heat, and he stepped back over the threshold of the apartment, back into the relative safety of his home. He knew he was being a git, and quite probably a coward, but he couldn't help it. The mere idea of leaving his dungeon home these days - with all the students in the castle, half of them probably Death Eaters - made him dizzy and more anxious than he had ever been in his life. "But I was almost sorted into Slytherin, so it makes sense for me. Slytherins are all about self-preservation, you know."

"Harry . . ." Hermione shrugged the weight of the books over to balance on her left arm so she could lift her right hand toward Harry, like she wanted to touch him or something. He moved back farther. "Harry, I'm worried about you. Ron and I both are. And Professor Lupin says you haven't been to see him either."

"You all know where I live."

"Yes," she agreed. "But you need to get out, too. Go outside, you know? Visit your friends, maybe eat in the Great Hall. Fly. When was the last time you went flying?"

Harry shrugged, but he knew exactly when it was. With Ron, the day before the students arrived, with Hermione watching their backs. It was the last day he had felt free to leave these rooms.

"But you love to fly!"

"I also love being not kidnapped. Being not tortured. Being alive and stuff," he growled.

"That's not fair," Hermione protested. "No one is going to kidnap you from Hogwarts."

Unlike from his aunt and uncle's home, was what she was probably thinking. But he'd been kidnapped from here, too. Half of his mouth curved up in a sardonic smile. "Too late. Someone already did. Weeks ago."

She gasped, eyes widening. "But, but-"

"I got better," Harry told her thickly. He didn't like to think about what had happened at the Ministry after Dumbledore - or rather, Voldemort wearing a Dumbledore suit - had told him lies about Ron, to get Harry to go along with him. He had been captured again, and nearly imprisoned in some "special cell" that Malfoy prepared for him, where he would have undoubtedly been tortured - again. "Just had to make Lucius Malfoy a squib."

Another gasp. Wider eyes. "I heard a rumor, but . . ."

Harry took a breath that hurt a bit, going in. His stance was all casualness and uncaring, as if he wasn't sickened by the thought of so much power running through his own veins. Disgusted. Afraid. Like everyone was, or should be. Even if he killed Voldemort and wasn't killed by him, the Ministry would still want to put him down like a rabid dog. And they would be right to. "It's true. I sliced up his magical core into so many bits they couldn't repair it. Could have just killed him. Wanted to."

Hermione's face had gone gray, and she was shaking her head, as if he wasn't telling her the honest truth. Her voice was a hoarse whisper when she said, "What made you stop?"

Harry smiled without humor. "Severus did. He told me to stop, that I shouldn't have Malfoy's death on my hands. So tell that to Ron when he gets all snippy about the moral high ground. That Severus is a better man than I'll ever be."

With that, he closed the door in Hermione's face, and waited for the fallout.

TBC….

Before the Dawn – Chapter 2

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Not mine now. Never was. Never will be. World without end.

Summary: Sequel to Walk the Shadows. After a horrific summer, Harry seems to be recovering from his ordeal, with the help of Snape and Lupin, as well as his friends, including, oddly enough, Draco Malfoy. But appearances can be deceiving.

Warning for language.

With that, he closed the door in Hermione's face, and waited for the fallout.

Severus had barely begun his lesson, with the fourth year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, when he was interrupted. Usually, interruptions would cost those doing the interrupting an arm or leg, or their self-respect at the very least, but when he saw Hermione Granger's face as she burst in on his lesson, he was startled into doing something he rarely - if ever - did. He left his classroom.

"Instructions are on the board, if you can be bothered to read them. Ingredients are in the cupboard. Well?" he snarled at the students as he strode toward the door. "What are you waiting for? Begin!"

As the students scrambled madly to obey, Severus steered Miss Granger into the corridor and put up a hasty - but effective - muffling spell to keep their conversation quiet. "What is it?" he asked harshly.

"It's Harry-" she started.

"I gathered as much." His hands clenched into fists, and he barely kept himself from surging down the corridor toward their rooms. "Is he hurt?"

"No!" she said quickly. "Or, I don't think so. . . ."

"Explain," he snapped.

"He's . . . " Granger hesitated, and shifted her weight from foot to foot nervously, even as she shifted the weight of the books in her arms. "I think he's not doing well."

Severus knew that. The boy had not left their quarters since classes began, or, more specifically, since the students returned from summer holidays. And he had not been sleeping well, having nightmares when he slept at all. He needed to have a frank discussion with Harry about the use of his Silencing charm, if nothing else. But rather than say any of that, he crossed his arms over his chest and sneered at the girl. "You interrupted my class for this?"

She frowned back at him, and Severus tried to remind himself that Harry considered her a friend, and he should not decapitate her in front of witnesses. The simple fact that she had interrupted his lesson was almost proof that something was more wrong than he had assumed. He knew she would never have done so otherwise. And wasn't she supposed to be in class!

"Yes. Did you know he blames himself for what happened at the Ministry? With Mr. Malfoy?"

Of course Harry did. He had, after all, reduced Malfoy to a Squib. But Severus had not thought Harry had told the girl what happened. Still, "It was self-defense."

"Obviously," the girl said, fairly dripping disdain, and Severus itched to take her down a peg. "But I don't think Harry sees it like that. He sounded almost . . . like he thought he'd done something really wrong. Like he thinks he's going Dark. He said you were the only thing that saved him from killing Mr. Malfoy."

Surprised, Severus showed it with no more than a slight narrowing of his eyes. But he realized, a moment later, that he should not be surprised. When had Harry not taken up the burden of others' guilt? After all, he blamed himself for every death, every torture that the Dark Lord had meted out since his return, as if his being forced to give the monster his blood at knife point had made him in any way culpable. And he blamed himself for what happened to the Headmaster, too. Not to mention Cedric Diggory, and his Dogfather . . .

With a sigh, Severus said, "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Granger. I will speak to him."

"Thank you, Professor." The girl pressed her lips together, then added, "And I don't think he's sleeping or eating. He looks . . . less rested, and a bit thinner than he did a couple weeks ago."

"I know," Severus said. "If that is all?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry for interrupting your lesson."

He nodded stiffly, and returned to his classroom, mulling over what the girl had told him. A headache bloomed behind his eyes, and he rubbed at his temples to ease the pain. Harry was a difficult problem to solve, no doubt about it. But the boy seemed to be making progress. Was it all a lie?

When one of the Hufflepuff's cauldrons started to smoke, he was almost glad for the diversion. Yelling at students was far easier than considering how to deal with his wayward ward.

Draco Malfoy was in a quandary.

Despite what he projected to everyone, had projected to everyone, at least in Slytherin, at least until recently, he really did not want to be a Death Eater. And he really did not like his father. The latter of these particular feelings had been growing stronger since he was a small boy and had learned a healthy respect for his father's sliver-topped cane.

The not wanting to be a Death Eater thing, though . . . that was new. He'd been contemplating the uselessness of the Dark Lord's whole campaign of terror for the last year or so, especially when dealing with idiots like Umbridge and Fudge and the hash they were making of his Hogwarts education. But the feeling had grown resolute after his father had bragged to him about what happened to Harry Potter over the summer, only a week or so before he lost all his magic.

Draco could not believe how naïve he had been.

That his father could do something like that. That the Dark Lord could do it, and encourage his followers to . . . As a pureblood and a Malfoy, he had been raised to believe himself better than everyone else. He had learned he could have anyone he wanted, just as his father could. But willingly. Not by rape. Merlin, never that.

It was so . . . completely uncouth. So unnecessary.

So utterly despicable.

His father's bragging had elicited the opposite reaction Lucius was hoping for, Draco was sure. Draco's feeling of revulsion for his father had been cemented, and he was more than pleased to gloat over the man's misfortune, when he and his mother had learned his magical core had been destroyed.

Despite the fact that his family was now in disgrace, thanks to Lucius' Squibness, Draco had wanted to congratulate Potter on a job well done. But when he saw his one time rival, on the night the students returned to the castle . . . all he had been able to say to the other boy was that his father had disgusted him.

In the dim dungeon light, Potter's face had been so . . . hard, like stone. Like brittle stone. His eyes were filled with too much knowledge, too much pain. Draco had wondered again if the rumors about Potter's home life - about a cupboard and being starved and beaten - were true. Even if not, Potter had been through far too much of late to emerge unscathed.

Thus Draco's quandary. He had a reputation to uphold, and fellow Slytherins to support - if they didn't try to kill him first - but he could not do so if it meant hurting Potter any more.

He, Draco Malfoy, actually cared. About Harry bloody Potter.

He had thought the very idea would be enough to make him throw himself off the Astronomy Tower at first opportunity. But he had managed, for almost two weeks, not to do so. But he had also managed to stay away from Harry, even though he was pretty sure the guy could use a friend, or someone to talk to, at the very least. Oh, sure, he had the Mudblood and the Weasel, but neither of them would truly understand the darkness that Harry had seen, had experienced . . .

And since when had he become 'Harry' anyway?

But then he found out that no one had seen Harry since that night, and he knew such isolation wasn't good for the dark haired boy. And then Granger had arrived late for NEWT Transfiguration. Granger! Though Professor McGonagill was properly horrified, Draco had been merely curious, especially when the Mudblood turned in an essay of Potter's. She had been to see him, then, but from the look of things, their talk had not gone well. Granger had sat down next to the Weasel, of course, and whispered with him, until they were both looking grim.

Thus, after class, when he had a free period, he found his feet taking him to his godfather, Severus', quarters, with barely formed plans of how he would talk to his one time enemy. How he would offer an ear to bend, or something, and how they would be fine old friends, despite the way Potter had rejected him so long ago.

Or, maybe they could just have a truce. No hexing, maybe. And maybe, Draco could get in good with the Chosen One and could salvage something from his father's abjectly miserable failure. Maybe Harry would help protect him from the Dark Lord, now that his father was no longer able to run interference.

Draco really did not want to be a Death Eater.

Drawing a deep breath, Draco knocked on the door. He was not sure what he had expected to see when the door opened, but a bloodshot and wobbly Potter was not it. He did expect the wand currently leveled at his chest, as well as the look of wary curiosity. But Potter was scrawnier and more exhausted looking than he had been less than two weeks ago. Had Severus not noticed?

"You look like hell, Potter," he said. It wasn't what he'd planned on, but the sardonic twist of Potter's lips told him his gaff wouldn't make any difference in his reception.

"Thanks. What do you want?"

"To talk to you."

"Yeah?" Potter's eyes narrowed. They were dark underneath, like he was sporting two black eyes. The only thing steady about him was the wand. "What about?"

"Protection." He drew a breath, and ostentatiously peered over his shoulder before he lowered his voice. "From certain megalomaniacs. Can we not discuss this in the hallway of the dungeons?"

Potter stared at him for a long, long time. Draco tried not to peer down his nose at the other boy, but it was tough not to. Potter was short and scrawny. How could he be the hope of the Wizarding world? But then, he had turned Lucius into a Squib . . .

"I don't trust you," Potter said at last.

"I know." Draco sighed. This was going to take some drastic measures. He slipped his wand into his hand, and Potter tensed. But then Draco spun the wand around, to extend the length of Hawthorne to Potter, handle end first.

Potter stared at him. "That's . . ."

"Take it. I wasn't going to hex you or anything, but now you can be sure of it."

"I don't . . ."

"For crying out loud," Draco said with some asperity. "What do I have to do to get you to talk to me? Just talk, nothing else."

Potter rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked away, shrugging. Then his off-hand zoomed out and he caught hold of Draco's wand, snatching it away as if it were a snitch. Bloody Seeker reflexes. He weighed the wand in his hand, watching Draco from under his fringe, which was shaggier than usual. Draco was trying really hard not to grab his wand back, but his hand kept twitching.

"All right," Potter said after a moment, sounding more weary than anything. "You can come in."

"Thanks ever so," Draco replied, but he followed the smaller boy into Severus' sitting room, where he made himself comfortable on the settee. Potter, he noted, did not sit down, but hovered at the edge of his vision, shifting his weight from foot to foot, while still twisting Draco's wand in his hand.

Finally, Potter said, "Do you want something to drink? Tea?" Then he shook his head. "No, forget that. I'm not have a tea talk with you."

Draco raised an eyebrow in response, an expression he had learned at Severus' knee, and he almost smiled at Potter's scowl. "Tea's all right."

"No!" Potter sighed deeply. "How about hot chocolate?"

"That'll do," Draco said, wondering what the heck was wrong with tea.

A few minutes later, they were sipping cocoa together, and Potter said, "You wanted to talk. So talk."

"So, all right . . ." Draco stalled by taking another sip of cocoa. "I want protection. Like I said."

"Uh huh. And why should I help you?"

Well, Draco had not really considered that Potter wouldn't want to "help someone turn to the Light." This might take some actual work. "I'd think you'd want to help a fellow student, a Slytherin no less, turn his back on the Dark Lord."

Potter's eyes narrowed again, and even though he looked like crap, the predatory gleam in his eyes was very bright. Yet his tone was ice cold when he said, "Call him Voldemort."

"I . . ." Draco steeled himself. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Are you serious?" He shook his head. "Potter, do you not know anything? Saying the Dark Lord's name when you're a Death Eater is just asking for pain."

Draco realized immediately that he had made a mistake.

Teeth gritted and hands clenched into fists, Potter snarled, "You're a Death Eater? Already!"

"No, no, I'm not! I swear! But I was raised to be one. Raised to know what not to say!"

"Let me see your goddamned arm!"

Flushing with humiliation and shaking with anger, Draco rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, knowing which one Potter wanted to see, to show pale, unmarked flesh. This had probably been a big mistake, altogether. "Nothing, see?"

Potter was just as red faced as he was, but he nodded once. "Sorry," he said harshly. He turned to face the fireplace, away from Draco. "But I . . . I mean, your father . . ."

"I know," Draco interjected softly, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Potter had just apologized to him. "I know what you mean."

"Do you?" Potter asked, looking briefly over his shoulder.

Draco stood, to try and put them on more equal footing, and Potter turned back to face him, though he didn't back up as Draco thought he might. "Yeah . . . Listen, Potter . . . I don't want to be like him. And I don't want to be a Death Eater."

"No?"

"No." Draco sighed. "You have no idea what it's like, right now. Since my father . . . since he's been disgraced. I mean, if you think Severus has it bad-"

Potter's head jerked up, and the light in his eyes flared. "Wait, what? What about Severus?"

"What do you mean, what about him? He abandoned the Dark Lord. He helped you escape. You didn't think he'd get away with that, did you?"

"He hasn't said anything . . ."

Draco sneered. "Oh, right. Like he was going to tell you about the problems he was having in his House."

"Slytherins?" Potter looked lost, suddenly.

Just managing to not roll his eyes, Draco could not keep the sarcasm out of his tone. "No, the Prince family home. Imbecile."

"Fine, you little snot." Potter glared at him. "Don't tell me. It's not like it's my goddamned life we're talking about here."

"Don't be so melodramatic, Potter."

"I'll be as bloody melodramatic as I bloody well want," Potter growled. "Now get the hell out of here."

"No, wait." Draco held up his hands, to remind Potter than he didn't have his wand. "Please. I . . . I honestly don't want to fight with you. Can we just have a normal conversation for once?"

With a self-deprecating noise, Potter shook his head. "Normal? I don't even know what that means anymore."

Draco bit his lip, and released it almost immediately. Wouldn't do to have Potter see him as nervous. Even if he was. Especially if he was. "Having a bit of a hard time then?"

Rather than snarl again or get angry, Potter shrugged one shoulder and looked away. "Doesn't matter."

Frowning slightly, Draco moved a little closer to the smaller boy. "What doesn't?"

"Any of it. Life, the universe . . . I have a job to do, and I have to get on with it. Everything else is meaningless."

Wondering what, exactly, that was supposed to mean, Draco hesitated a few moments. Then, very quietly, he said, "Everything else is life, Harry."

Potter jerked as if he had been slapped, but that feral gleam was gone from his eyes, and he now looked just tired. World weary. For the first time, Draco honestly thought about what it might be like to be the Boy Who Lived. And he didn't find the idea appealing in the slightest.

"Yeah," Potter agreed in a small voice.

They stood facing each other for a long time, until Draco finally said, "Do you . . . do you want to talk about it?"

A quick shake of the head, but then Potter said. "Thanks, though. I, um . . . I'm kinda tired now. Thanks for coming down."

Recognizing the dismissal, Draco nodded and headed back toward the door. Potter followed him and when they reached the door, handed him back his wand. "I could come back sometime," Draco offered. "If you want."

Potter looked away again, and ran a hand through his hair, which looked more unkempt than usual. "Um, yeah. Okay. If you want."

Draco nodded, but waited till the door closed behind him to smile.

TBC….

Before the Dawn – Chapter 3

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Not mine now. Never was. Never will be. World without end.

Warning for mentions of abuse and rape, but nothing graphic.

When one of the Hufflepuff's cauldrons started to smoke, he was almost glad for the diversion. Yelling at students was far easier than considering how to deal with his wayward ward.

Severus hesitated a long moment after dismissing his last class of the day and before he stepped through the Floo back to his quarters. He was concerned with how Harry was faring, especially after Miss Granger's interruption that morning. He was concerned . . . but he was also nervous. He had faced the Dark Lord, been cursed dozens of times, played the spy for both Light and Dark for almost a score of years, and yet he, Severus Snape, was afraid to go home, for fear of what he might find.

Though he had come to care for Harry, almost as if he were his son, he could admit that he was exhausted, emotionally and physically, from dealing with the boy. He had not known - how could he? - how much Harry had been through in his life before ever reaching Hogwarts. And he had only known a fraction of the tragic "adventures" Harry had been through during his first five years at school.

And now . . .

With the events of the summer, the kidnapping and torture - both physical and psychological - the horror of that last night in Topsham, and the following weeks of possession and night terrors and the apparent betrayal of Dumbledore . . . it had been hard on Harry, yes. But it had been almost as difficult for Severus, who had been trying to remain calm and accepting, helping the boy while subsuming his own emotions and reactions. There had been so many times he had wanted to lash out, or just give up.

But Harry . . . Harry needed him. Someone actually needed him, for the first time in his life. And so, for Harry, he persevered.

And so, for Harry, he went through the Floo.

Harry was not in the sitting room, and Severus took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and strode to the boy's bedroom door.

His knock went unanswered.

Dread curled low in his gut. He should have come down sooner, right after Miss Granger came to see him. He knocked again harder, longer. When that, too, went unanswered, Severus drew his wand and attempted to open the door. It was locked, and Severus immediately recalled the day, soon after Harry had woken from his fugue state, when he had been in the Dark Lord's thrall and had locked his door with a series of powerful spells.

This time, the door opened with a simple Alohomora.

Severus pushed the door open wide, having no idea what to expect. He was pretty sure, however, that finding Harry slumped over his desk with his forehead cupped in the palm of one hand and a quill dangling from his fingers, was not it.

Peering over the boy's shoulder, Severus took a gander at what Harry was working on. He recognized Harry's journal immediately. And though he knew he should back away and not read the boy's private maunderings, his gaze was drawn to the messy scrawl when he caught the words, "fingertips are numb."

With a scowl, Severus traced back to the beginning of the entry, wondering what else the boy was hiding from him.

September 13th, 3:37pm

I've had a bunch of visitors today, more than any day since the start of school. I know Hermione's been busy and all, but I'd hoped she could come around more. And Ron . . . well, he's just being a git about Snape, but I expected that.

Hermione asked me to come up to the Tower, and I said no, that Ron and them should come down here. She basically called me coward for hiding out here. She's right, I know. Just wish I could make everything better by just agreeing with her. I told her what I did to L. Malfoy . . . and she looked at me like I'm a monster. She's right about that, too. Dursleys shoulda beaten the freakiness outta me. Then I wouldn't have hurt anyone. Then I wouldn't hurt anymore.

Draco didn't seem to think that, though. That I did a bad thing, I mean. He came by, said I looked like hell. It's true. I mean, I'm not sleeping, hardly, and the spell isn't working so good anymore. Cast it two more times, once before lunch and once after, and I swear my fingertips are numb. It's hard to hold my wand steady, though I held it steady enough on Draco before I let him in.

I should look up that spell again, make sure there aren't any bad side effects I missed. But . . . but I can't remember what book it's in.

Besides, it's the only thing keeping me awake, and I can't fall asleep, just can't, or el-

Seething, Severus clenched his hands into fists and glared at the boy. So Miss Granger thought Harry was a coward, eh? And that he was a monster for defending himself? He growled over that for a minute before he could tackle the real source of his ire. The little idiot! Forcing himself to stay awake? Casting a spell on himself - repeatedly! - without knowing the side effects? Casting it again, even after his extremities started getting numb? And worst, still blaming himself for what happened at the Ministry! It took all his willpower to not shake the boy awake and knock some sense into him.

Instead, taking deep, measured breaths, Severus paced Harry's room. What in the hell was he going to do with the boy? He had made every accommodation possible to ensure Harry could deal with his classes and being at school, but it seemed the setting was still too overwhelming for him. Perhaps . . . No, he had promised not to go that route unless Harry forced his hand, by causing himself harm. And despite the brat's idiocy in using a spell he didn't fully understand, he did not seem to be actively suicidal.

But Severus just didn't know what to do anymore.

His musings were cut short when a piercing cry rent the silence, followed by stuttering breaths as if someone were choking.

Harry was bent backwards in his chair, hands scrabbling for purchase on the desktop, obviously in the throes of a nightmare. Even as Severus was reaching for Harry's shoulder, to wake him, he could see the boy's eyes were rolled back in his head - lids still closed - and his jaw was working as if he were trying to scream but had no breath to do so. Horrible retching, choked sounds emerged from his throat instead.

"Harry!" Severus grabbed his shoulder and was not surprised when Harry wrenched himself out of his grip and flung himself half way across the room. And yet, still, he seemed not to wake. His body shook, hands trembling so hard Severus ached to hold them, steady them.

"No!" the boy croaked. "Nuhn! Please . . . don'!"

"Harry!" Severus snapped again; sharp, like a whip crack. "Wake up!"

"Please . . . m'sorry." Harry scrambled backwards like a crab. When he hit the wall, his hands went up to protect his face, his head. What horror was he reliving in his dream this time, Severus wondered. The Dark Lord's torture, or his Muggle uncle's abuse? "Please . . . nuhn!"

The anguish in Harry's plea tore at Severus' calm façade. He had to get the boy to wake up, but without actually touching him. He drew his wand again. "Congelo Tactus," he intoned and doused Harry with - the sensation only - of a bucketful of freezing water, without actually getting any water on the boy . . . or his floor.

Harry gasped and sputtered. His eyes flew open. Panting for breath, he leaned forward to rest his hands on the floor, and shook his head. "Wha . . . where?"

"You're in your room," Severus told him. "I woke you from a nightmare."

"What?" Harry's voice was still rough, even though he had only been choked in the dream. "Wha' time zit?"

Severus cast a quick Tempus charm. "Just after half four."

"Morning?" Harry rocked back to sit on his heels and rubbed his hands over his face. He looked very small, just now. Vulnerable. Exhausted. How had Severus not seen this before?

"Afternoon," he said quietly. "Did you have lunch?"

Harry nodded absently, and Severus knew he was lying.

"What did you have?"

With a one shoulder shrug, Harry shut his eyes briefly. "Don't 'member."

"Did you actually eat anything?" When Harry hesitated, Severus barked, "Look at me! If you're going to lie, at least do me the courtesy of looking me in the eye when you do."

Harry's gaze snapped to meet his, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Surely that wasn't possible! "S-sorry, sir. I d-didn't eat any lunch. Wasn't hungry. B-but Dobby did bring it."

"A technicality at best."

"Y-yes, sir. Sorry."

Severus closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened them again, Harry was still on his knees like a penitent or some such foolishness. "Get up. Come out to the sitting room. We need to talk." He paused. "I'm making tea."

Ignoring the groan of protest from the boy, Severus went to their tiny kitchen and spent the next few minutes heating water and steeping tea leaves. He ran warm water in the cups to prepare them, and set up a tray with milk and sugar, and even added a plate of raspberry filled biscuits. The simple ritual of preparation was a calming influence in itself, and Severus used the time to master his emotions and organize his thoughts.

By the time he emerged from the kitchen, Harry was seated at one end of the settee, feet drawn up under him and knees in front of his chest, in a classic defensive position. Severus lowered the tea tray from where he had levitated it, and gestured for Harry to take a cup.

With a small, put-upon sigh, Harry did so, fixing it to his taste before leaning back. After a moment, one side of his mouth quirked up. "Draco was here earlier. I almost offered him tea. Decided against it."

"Mm," Severus said, deciding a non-committal sound was best.

"Don't you want to know what he wanted?"

Of course he did. But that wasn't the most important thing right now. "Not particularly," he said quietly, then added, a bit more honestly, "Or, not right now, at least. I'm more interested in what your nightmare was about, and why you fell asleep in the middle of the day in the first place."

"I was tired."

"I imagine so." Severus tried to keep his tone mild. "The question is why. I was under the impression you were sleeping well enough at night, with one or two exceptions." Please don't lie to me, he thought furiously, while trying to keep that wish from manifesting in his expression.

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to tell me the truth!"

"That's . . ." Harry shook his head and avoided Severus' gaze, and when he spoke again, he sounded defeated. "That's not possible."

"What isn't?" Severus prodded, starting to feel a bit irritated. How could he help the boy, if he wouldn't say what was wrong? "You telling me what's truly going on, or me wanting to hear it?"

"Both," Harry whispered. His eyes closed again, as if it were simply too difficult to keep them open anymore.

"How about I worry about what I can handle and determine my own thoughts and feelings, and you just keep your mind on your own."

Harry looked up at him blearily. "Huh?"

"Eloquent as always," Severus said, but there was no bite to his remark. "Tell me what's going on. Why can't you sleep?"

"Nightmares." The word was spoken softly, but carried an infinitely sharp edge.

"About?"

"Everything." Harry shrugged. His shrugs had a variety of meanings, Severus was learning. This one meant he was afraid to say more. But why? Did he fear a flashback, or that Severus would not believe him?

"That's a fairly broad term. Care to narrow it down a bit?"

A one shoulder shrug, meaning he would if he could, but had no place to start from and needed a nudge.

"The nightmare you just had," Severus offered as a starting point. "When you were in the midst, you were saying 'no' and 'please' and 'sorry.' What was that one about?"

Harry bit his lip and turned his face away. Severus felt bad for pushing, when Harry was so obviously distressed, but he had let this particular problem go on long enough already.

"Harry. Answer the question."

The boy glanced at him and mumbled something. Severus lifted a single eyebrow, just enough to make it clear he was unsatisfied with the answer. "Sorry," Harry murmured, then drew a steadying breath. "Was my uncle," he said more clearly.

"Your uncle." Severus nodded. "And what happened in the nightmare?"

"N-nothing." If the stuttering had not given him away, the refusal to meet Severus' gaze would have.

"Oh? You often have nightmares in which nothing happens?" Severus frowned as soon as the words left his mouth. He didn't mean to mock the boy's feeble attempt to deny the problem. But neither could he let the dissembling stand. "The sooner you tell me, the sooner you can let the thing go. Nightmares are somewhat like poison," he continued in a calm tone, sensing he had slid into lecturing mode. "Talking about them, bringing them into the light of day, is like leaching that poison away. Purging it. You'll feel better," he added when Harry only looked confused.

"I don't know . . ."

"It's all right, Harry," Severus said soothingly. "You're doing well. Tell me what happened."

"It . . . it never happened, all right?" Harry wrung his hands together. "Not . . . I mean, he never did that, not really, but just . . . just in the nightmare. Okay?"

"All right," Severus agreed, not sure what he was agreeing to, but willing to play along if it would get Harry to talk. "What happened in the nightmare?"

"He . . . I mean, my Uncle Vernon, he . . . he hurt me."

"Harry," Severus said carefully and watched the boy's expression, "your uncle did hurt you, before they left you alone." To die, he wanted to add, but did not, as he did not want to upset Harry further about an unrelated topic.

Harry flinched but nodded. "But he never . . . he never . . ." He wrapped his arms around his chest.

"He never what?" Severus was almost certain he knew what Harry was going to say, but Harry needed to say it, needed to purge those images, those false memories, before the poison had a chance to fester.

Harry clamped his eyes shut and hunched up his shoulders. "He never raped me."

"Good. I'm glad you could tell me," Severus said calmly. "That's good. But in this nightmare, he did?"

Harry nodded and swallowed hard. His hands were trembling again, and he clasped them together on top of his knees. "It . . . it was right after he killed He-Hedwig. There . . . there was blood everywhere. I slipped it in and fell, and h-he fell on top of me, and," Harry paused and swiped violently as his eyes, dashing away the first vestiges of tears before they had a real chance to form. "And I told him I was sorry . . . I bloody apologized 'cause Hedwig's being dead was so messy it made him fall, and that's when . . . that's when . . ."

"He raped you."

"But not really! Honest!" The tears were falling freely now, and Severus was glad to see them; this child could stand to shed a thousand times more tears.

"I know. You said."

"He didn't."

"All right," Severus said agreeably, wondering if this could be a case of protesting too much, and hoping against hope that it was not. Harry had quite enough to be going on with as it was. "Did anything else happen? Before I woke you up?"

Harry shook his head. "No."

"It sounded for a bit like you were choking. . . ."

"Oh." A shrug, this one meaning what he was about to say was of no consequence. "He always did that."

Severus tasted something sour in the back of his throat. "He always choked you?" A nod. "Explain."

"What's to explain?" Harry was watching him now, looking puzzled. "Was his favorite way to keep the freak in line, is all."

"Harry . . ."

"Sorry, I meant, favorite way to keep me in line."

Though he had heard Harry use the term "freak" any number of times, when he described how his relatives treated him, he had never heard it said in such a matter-of-fact way, so devoid of any emotion or sense that the term was inappropriate to use on him. He wondered if it had anything to do with Miss Granger's earlier visit, and Harry considering himself a monster.

But first things first. "You said - you told me specifically when we spoke of this abhorrent behavior before - that you had been choked 'a couple of times.'"

Harry's frown of puzzlement deepened. "Yeah . . . ?"

Severus took a breath and unclenched his jaw. "How many then, in your estimation, is 'a couple'?"

"Oh." Harry brought a hand up and rubbed at his scar. "I dunno. Three or four times, maybe," Severus was going to question him again, until he heard the last two words, "a week."

And once more, Severus had the sensation of everything falling out from under him, with no one to catch either of them when they crashed to earth.

TBC….

A/N: Thanks to all who read and review!

Before the Dawn – Chapter 4

By jharad17

Disclaimer: What?

Warning for mentions of abuse and rape, but nothing graphic.

Previously:

"Oh." Harry brought a hand up and rubbed at his scar. "I dunno. Three or four times, maybe," Severus was going to question him again, until he heard the last two words, "a week."

And once more, Severus had the sensation of everything falling out from under him, with no one to catch either of them when they crashed to earth.

Closing his eyes briefly didn't seem to help. Neither did opening them again to see Harry giving him a frankly confused look. Perhaps speaking? "Harry . . . you realize that's not . . ." Severus sighed, not wanting to say 'not normal,' even though it wasn't, as he wanted to give the boy no ammunition against himself and his self concept. Maybe just say it plainly. . . . "Choking is abuse, Harry, even once. But so many times . . . I know we've spoken of other things your uncle did, the verbal abuse, the neglect and starving-"

"Well, it was mostly Aunt Petunia who wouldn't feed me."

Severus swallowed, but held Harry's gaze, hoping to ground at least one of them. "Yes. All right. But choking you, so often . . . It's even possible he did you some permanent damage. Brain damage."

The confused look in Harry's eyes was replaced almost instantly with a burning rage, and he snapped, "If you want to tell me I'm stupid, just say the word 'stupid.'"

Severus sighed in frustration. "I am not calling you stupid, or any variation thereof. You are obviously not stupid. You did very well on your OWLs, if I recall correctly." He watched the flush of anger cool somewhat from Harry's cheeks before he went on. "But brain activity accounts for far more than just intelligence, and if he cut off the blood flow, and thus the oxygen getting to your brain, there's no telling what that might have done."

Sighing again, Severus considered the possibilities in silence, not wanting to frighten Harry, though the boy would have to know sometime. There were areas of the brain that, if damaged, could account for the difficulty Harry had confessed to having in his Muggle school, and in some classes at Hogwarts, just being able to concentrate on lectures. Or might have effected the way he read or organized his thoughts, or his ability to manage his temper. Even his eyesight, for Merlin's sake.

"When did you first discover you required glasses?" he asked at last, thinking to start with something relatively easy to fix.

Harry shrugged, a 'I'm not sure where this is going, but I'm willing to play along' shrug. "When I went to primary school. About half way through the first year, they gave us all eye tests, and I got sent home with a note telling them they should take me to see an optician." He smirked. "Never went. Aunt Petunia got a free pair of glasses from St. Vincent's."

Severus shook his head wonderingly. Honestly, how had the boy survived? It was entirely possible that he had inherited the poor eyesight from his father, but it was also possible that cerebral anoxia was the cause. "And?"

"And?"

"Did they help at all?"

"Not demonstrably. I still couldn't see at school. Had headaches kind of a lot."

"Did you have headaches after the choking, too?"

Harry nodded.

"Did you ever lose consciousness?"

With a sigh of resignation, acknowledging that Severus was not going to drop this subject till he'd wrung it dry, he nodded again. "A few times, yeah. But just a sore throat afterwards, mostly."

"And was anything different when you woke up those 'few times'?" he asked, and did not want to ask at this time if 'few' really meant a few, or if it meant once a week. He would have to, he knew. Just not right now.

"What do you mean?"

"Was your coordination off, or did you have difficulty remembering things?"

"Um . . ." Harry appeared to be actually considering the question, instead of just snapping out an answer. Good. "One time, I think, I had a hard time standing up after I woke up. I was real wobbly for a few days. Like I was drunk or something, staggering around."

Severus did not ask how Harry knew what drunkenness felt like; likely from seeing his Gryffindor friends overindulge at one of their notorious post-Quidditch parties. He knew, from an earlier discussion of theirs, when Severus had settled down with a glass of Firewhiskey one night, that Harry disliked alcohol and was disdainful of those who became inebriated to the point of passing out, or even having trouble with their coordination. Probably a remnant from his experience with his uncle's escalated violence while pissed. "Define a few days, in this instance."

With a rueful smile, Harry rubbed at his forehead, then said, "A week maybe? It's hard to remember. I was about six or seven, in school by then, but Aunt Petunia wouldn't let me go while I could hardly stand. But I couldn't work either, 'cause of being wobbly, so she was real angry." He shrugged; one of his, 'It doesn't matter, that's just the way it was' shrugs.

Oh, he could just imagine. Petunia, all puffed up and self-righteous, complaining about the boy's utter laziness, most likely, since he could not be her little house elf at her beck and call, nor could he walk to school under his own power . . . because her husband had bloody well strangled him. Had cut off the supply of oxygen to Harry's brain to the point of unconsciousness, and Harry could have died. The ataxia could have been permanent, at the very least, or the boy could have been rendered a drooling vegetable for the rest of his life. Seething once more at the Muggles' barbarism toward their nephew, Severus steepled his fingers together, pressing the tips of the digits so hard against each other that they were white down to the first knuckle. He didn't know what to say, but he had to unclench his teeth somehow. Finally, he muttered, "I see."

Harry's eyes narrowed, bright with anger again. "What do you see, exactly?"

Incapable of answering that question, Severus asked another. "Were there any particular things that sent your uncle to choking you?"

Eyes narrowing even more, Harry snarled, "Do you honestly think, if I knew, I wouldn't have stopped doing those things? I didn't want him to pin me to the wall with his fucking fist around my throat!"

"I know that!" Severus was quick to say. "Harry, that's not what I meant at all."

"Then what the fuck did you mean!" The shelves around the perimeter of the room, filled with books and sample bottles of potions, rattled along with the rising tide of Harry's rage.

Severus fought to keep his voice calm, quiet and as soothing as possible, fought to keep his own temper in check. "All I meant was, were you able to pick out any pattern to his abuse? Did you notice if he choked you on particular days, or only if he had been drinking, or when things went wrong for him at work?"

"Oh." Once more, Harry seemed to swallow his anger, but the color did not fade from his cheeks this time. Severus thought it must be shame coloring his skin now. That simply would not do. Before he could say anything, though, Harry shook his head. "I never could tell. I mean, yeah, when he drank, everything was worse. But he blamed everything on me. If the neighbor's car backfired and he spilled his scotch, or if he lost a client or got a flat tire, it was my fault, 'cause I wanted bad things to happen to him. And since I was a freak, I could make them happen."

Severus frowned, watching the boy, digesting what he said, and his tone, and the look in his eyes. He came to a sudden realization that actually frightened him. Softly, he said, "He was wrong, Harry. Those things were not your fault."

"I know," Harry replied, but he looked away.

"Harry." Severus' tone was sharp this time, but he had to make sure this got through the boy's thick skull. "You did not make those things happen. Not because you wanted to annoy him, or your other relatives, and not because you were angry or wanted attention or anything else."

"Yeah," Harry said, his voice dull.

"No! Listen to me. You did not do those things! You were not at fault for any of it."

Harry's head came up and his eyes were watery. "How do you know? I know about accidental magic. What if I . . ." He waved his hand in the air like he was holding a wand. "I deserved what I got."

"Harry!" Severus was on his feet now, but he was careful not to loom over the boy. Harry shrank back on the settee, even so. Severus crossed his arms over his chest and leaned away, lest he try and shake some sense into the boy. "That's not how accidental magic works. You could not have made a car backfire so that damned beast spilled his drink! Nor could you make him lose a client at work or any other damned thing like that." He shook his head. "When children, especially, display accidental magic, it's . . . it's not something that can be explained like that. Things happen that are far from ordinary. Teddy bears fly across rooms, windows break for no reason, or thousands of precious potion bottles tremble on the walls."

The last was said with a small, sly smile, and Harry seemed to understand. At least, the corner of his own mouth twitched up as he glanced at the walls and the now quiet shelves. "I guess," he said.

Severus rubbed a hand over his face, tired beyond reason. And Merlin, but they were getting completely off track from what he had first wanted to talk to Harry about. The damn spell! And the not sleeping. . . First they had to finish this little problem, however. "I want to have Poppy do a complete work up on you," he said quietly. "After finding out about the choking, and after all that happened over the summer, I think it will be important to make sure there are no lingering . . . effects."

"Of what I did to Dumbledore?"

"Professor Dumbledore," Severus sighed, "And yes. As well as-"

"What I did to Malfoy."

Severus nodded. "And of what he - and the Dark Lord - did to you."

Harry swallowed, but nodded. Drawing a deep breath, he appeared to be drawing up his courage, too. "Do you think they could've given me some kind of disease?"

Severus frowned. "I don't understand."

"You know, like AIDS or something."

"Ah." Severus could have used a large tumbler of Firewhiskey right about then. Instead, he held Harry's gaze, giving him strength and assurance. "No, Wizards are not susceptible to Muggle venereal diseases."

"But . . ." Harry bit his lip. "Are there Wizarding venereal diseases then?"

So young, Severus thought for the hundredth time. Too young to face issues like this. "There are, but I very much doubt-"

"Can you have her check for that, too?"

"Of course." He studied his young ward carefully.

"Are we done then?" harry asked hopefully.

"Not yet. We're going to try and figure out why you're having nightmares. Or, more importantly, why I had no idea you were having them."

"I dunno."

"Harry, please don't lie to me." There, he'd put his request plainly. He held the boy's gaze, noting again the bloodshot eyes and the heavy, dark circles beneath them. "You haven't been sleeping at all at night, have you?"

Harry looked down at his hands and shook his head.

"How many nights have you kept yourself awake?"

"I dunno," came the almost whispered reply.

"Two?" Severus prompted. "Three? A week?"

"Maybe a week."

"How?"

"I . . ." The shoulders hunched. Severus didn't even need to have Veritaserum to know what he was about to hear next was a lie. "I dunno."

"Tell me, Harry." Severus made his voice cool and clear, so there would be no question that he meant what he said. "I cannot help you if I do not know what you are doing to try and help yourself. And if I cannot help you, I'm afraid I cannot let you stay here, unsupervised . . ."

That brought Harry's head up. "What! You'd send me away? You promised you wouldn't-"

"If you would work with me. If you promised to not harm yourself." He shook his head. "Not sleeping will lead to more problems than you can possibly imagine."

"Worse than nightmares?" Harry asked sullenly.

"Far worse. Sleep deprivation leads to irritability, headaches, lack of coordination, muscle weakness and tremors, and if it goes on for too long, you'll suffer depression, memory loss, hallucinations, psychosis and even death."

"You're having me on." Harry tried a smirk on him, with looked simply pathetic with the pallor of his skin, and his eyelids drooping tiredly.

He glared at the boy. "I am not. When have you ever known me to lie about your health?" He pursed his lips. "Which of those symptoms are you already dealing with?"

One shoulder hitched up, but Harry didn't ignore him this time. Nor, Severus hoped, did he lie. "Headaches, I guess. But I always have those. Ever since He came back."

Severus nodded and made a motion with his hand for Harry to continue.

"And I guess I'm kind of . . . well, irritable, too."

"I would agree."

"Harry shot him a glare. "Thanks."

"Go on," Severus ordered. "What else?"

"I don't know. What else did you say?"

"Memory loss, then."

"No! I remember things!"

"Do you?"

"Yeah! All kinds of things! I remember that I hate dungeons and I'm sick of you sticking your nose in-"

"I suggest you do not finish that sentence," Severus warned. "Instead, I want you to tell me about the spell you are using to keep yourself awake."

Harry's pale face drained of blood to the point Severus thought he might faint. "How did, uh, what are you talking about?" Severus lifted one eyebrow and Harry shouted, "How do you know!"

"I have my sources."

"I don't . . . how did . . . why would you say something like that?"

"Harry, please just answer my question. What is that spell?"

"No! I don't . . . I'm not . . ." Panic was making color come back to his cheeks, but Severus was afraid he might throw a fit or lose his temper in such a way that he let his magic loose.

"Harry." Severus lowered his voice again, using the most soothing tone he could. He took a step closer to the boy, his hands up, showing his palms, to prove he meant no harm. Harry had been particularly skittish lately; probably the lack of sleep. "Tell me. I want to help you. Please."

He knew that, often, it was the "please" that got through to Harry. As he had been discovering more about the boy's upbringing, Severus knew that it was a word Harry had rarely or ever heard before. Certainly not from his relatives. As he'd thought, his plea brought Harry up short.

The boy nodded and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "All right," came the muffled answer. "It's for countering Somnambulus. Um, you have to say, Excito Sursum."

Severus closed his eyes briefly and rubbed at his temple with his fingertips. There were any number of spells Harry could have used to stave off sleep, ones that were not addictive or dangerous if used repeatedly. Did he have to pick the one that would eat away at the divisor between the waking and the sleeping world? Depending on how frequently he had used it, it might be nearly impossible for Harry to fall into an actual restful sleep until they could get him over the addiction.

Even the nightmare Harry'd had earlier in the day had come after only an hour at most of sleep . . . depending on how long it had taken him to write his journal entry.

Keeping a tight rein on his emotions, instead of screaming at the boy for being such a fool, Severus said, "All right. Good. Thank you for telling me." He drew a deep breath. There was no way he was going to be able to handle this mess, plus teach his classes. Yet neither he nor Harry could leave the castle without being a target for the Dark Lord.

Yet if this wasn't fixed, Harry would fall apart even more, emotionally and physically, with the hallucinations, psychosis and death to follow. What in the world were they going to do?

TBC….

A/N: Thanks to all who read and review!

Before the Dawn – Chapter 5

By jharad17

Disclaimer: What? No, no, no, don't put it there! The drapes are all wrong. . . .

Warning for language, and mentions of abuse and rape, but nothing graphic. Also, huge amounts of scientific research included in this chapter, which if I made mistakes in, is all my fault.

Previously:

Yet if this wasn't fixed, Harry would fall apart even more, emotionally and physically, with the hallucinations, psychosis and death to follow. What in the world were they going to do?

Harry sat on one of the beds in the Infirmary, hidden by a screen and a Privacy Charm, and waited for Madam Pomfrey to return. Snape had let him use his Invisibility cloak to come up here, and had walked alongside him, to make sure no one attacked him in the halls, with hexes, mind control or an illegal portkey. Harry knew he was being paranoid, but he couldn't help it. He didn't feel safe anymore, anywhere except in his quarters. His and Snape's.

Sitting on the bed, Harry rubbed his clammy, sweaty palms on his legs, which were covered by a light blanket. He also wore a hospital gown, which he had only worn a couple times in here, usually in between stages of injury: clothes he'd been injured in, then hospital gown if there were tests he had to undergo while conscious, then pajamas, until he was released. Usually, though, he went right from clothes to pajamas, since if he was injured badly enough, he would be unconscious, and any tests were bound to be of the life-saving variety.

He figured there was probably something really wrong with him, that he knew those stages.

Or really wrong with the amount his body got wrecked, anyway.

Last Spring, a little before the debacle at the Ministry, and right after he had suffered a weird backlash from a hex one of his DA students had cast, he and Ron had jokingly tried to calculate how many times, exactly, he had visited the Infirmary.

Too many times, from what he could remember.

He hadn't needed to be here, though, since Snape had nearly died in the broom accident, and then it was to bring Snape in. Of course, he'd been injured since, just he'd had Snape to look after him instead, and Madam Pomfrey probably didn't know as much about mind-blowing stuff like what he'd done to Draco's father.

Probably just as well.

He wiped his hands again, wondering where Snape and Madam Pomfrey were. It had been at least an hour - maybe two - since they'd left him here on the bed, saying they'd be right back.

He sighed. It was bad, he knew it. Whatever was wrong with him, whether from Uncle Vernon's choking, or from being raped, he knew it was bad. They wouldn't have looked at him like he was a kicked puppy otherwise, and then left, saying they "had things to discuss."

It was his fucking life! What could they possibly have to discuss that they couldn't talk about in front of him?

He was working himself up, and he knew it, but he could hardly stand the suspense anymore. He just wanted to know. Deciding getting yelled at was better than sitting still, if it got him some answers, or at least a break from the agony of waiting, he slid off the bed, pulled his cloak around his shoulders, and padded over to the curtain, ready to draw it back and seek out his guardian, consequences be damned.

His fingers were on the fabric already, when the screen was shifted aside by Madam Pomfrey, who glared at the empty bed.

"Mr. Potter," she muttered, looking around for him, though he was well hidden by his father's cloak, "I swear, I'll tie you to the bed next-"

Harry pulled off the cloak quickly, before she could get more wound up and declare she would hex him, and her expression instantly softened.

Oh god. It must be really bad.

"Sit down, Harry, please."

She didn't say 'Mr. Potter.' It must be even worse than he thought. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing we can't help you get through," she said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he snapped. He still had not resumed his seat.

"Professor Snape should be back in a few minutes. We'll discuss your treatment then."

On the tip of his tongue was a number of protests to that remark, but he just sighed. Clearly, she did not think he could handle the news. And neither did Snape. Fine. He was clearly fucked.

"Sit down," she said again. "Please, Harry."

This time, he did.

At least she had told him the truth about how long Snape would be, as Harry had barely scooted backwards on the bed and started worrying again before the dour professor eased his way behind the privacy screen. He caught Harry's eye immediately, and Harry was glad to see the man frowning, rather than sporting the ill-fitting stricken look he'd had before he'd gone.

"Potter," he said, glaring now. Probably because Harry had sighed too loudly.

Still, unsure what he could have done to merit this level of irritation, Harry scowled back. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong with me now?"

"Watch your cheek," Snape snapped.

Harry opened his mouth to tell Snape that he'd love to watch it, except that his brain damage was getting in the way, but Madam Pomfrey interrupted him. Probably for the best.

"Is everything set?" she asked Snape. "Is he giving you time?"

Snape gave a sharp nod. "With strings attached, naturally," he added with a snarl. Apparently, whatever the strings were attached to did not meet with Snape's approval. Harry's greatest concern was over what the time given was for, however.

Madam Pomfrey's eyebrows shot up. "That's lovely," she said, and when Snape started to respond, she overrode him with, "But not really relevant at this moment." She jutted her chin at Harry, and Snape nodded sharply, looking away.

Great. More secrets.

The Medi-witch sighed and turned to Harry. "We did a number of tests on you this morning, as you know." He nodded, as she seemed to expect some sort of response. She gave him a little smile. "First of all, there are few residual effects from your captivity this summer-"

"So no diseases?" Harry dared to hope. With the way his luck ran, and after so much shit had happened . . .

"No diseases. No damage to your internal organs, either." She grimaced slightly. "There was a small amount of nerve damage from repetitive use of the Cruciatus, however. I'm afraid you may always experience light tremors or tingling in your extremities, especially when you're over tired or stressed."

Harry nodded quickly, well aware of that particular remnant. But there was obviously more; why else would Snape not be looking at him, still?

Madam Pomfrey drew a long breath. "The spell you were using to stave off sleep is an addictive one, but it can also exacerbate certain nerve defects. As it had done with you, with regards to the numbness and tingling." She regarded him severely. "You will not use that spell anymore. Agreed?"

When he hesitated for the merest second, Madam Pomfrey frowned heavily at the same time Snape growled, "Potter! We've already discussed this!"

"I know! I'm not going to, I told you! I just-"

"I know what you told me, Potter-"

"I hate when you call me that! You only do it when you're angry at me, and I don't even know why you're angry this time."

Snape glared. Harry glared back. He hated not knowing what he'd done to make Snape all nasty again. He wanted to yell at Snape to just tell him for pity's sake. But he knew Snape wouldn't, that he'd just sneer or something, and Harry would feel even worse.

"I said I wouldn't use it again," he mumbled. He just didn't know what he was meant to do instead. He could not sleep. Or rather, he could not deal with the nightmares that came with sleep. And he wasn't sure Snape understood that. Not really.

"There are treatments," Madam Pomfrey said calmly, now that he and Snape weren't yelling anymore, "that will hopefully heal some of that damage." She glanced at Snape. "There are two different potions that your professor knows of, and a few salves. But the best results have surprisingly come through a process of individual, specific muscle exercise."

Harry frowned. "Like physical therapy?"

"Is that the Muggle term?" she asked. When Harry nodded, she said, "Something similar, yes."

"Will I do that with you?" From what little Harry knew of physical therapy, it involved a fair bit of touching between therapist and patient, and Harry was not keen on anyone touching him. But if anyone was going to, she would be his only choice."

"No . . ." She glanced at Snape again, who was trying to appear as if he was ignoring the conversation, and suddenly, Harry knew why.

He drew in a sharp breath. "You?"

Snape gave one curt nod.

Oh, god.

Harry swallowed, starting to feel a bit nauseated. "What else?"

"I did discover a bit of damage to your visual cortex," Madam Pomfrey went on, relentlessly, "which I would attribute to repeated strangulation." Before Harry could turn to bright a shade of red for her bringing up the abuse, as Snape had called it, she continued, "The damage can be corrected with some specialized spell work." She held up a hand, "And no, I do not have the skill required. There are at least two Healers at St. Mungo's who do, though."

"But I'm not going to St. Mungo's, am I."

"No," she said and glanced quickly at Snape. Harry wished she'd stop doing that; it was like she wanted him to be part of the conversation, but he was refusing, and Harry couldn't figure out why. "Not at this time. Professor Snape seems to think it's not safe."

In response - or maybe because someone had stuck a bug up his nose - Snape curled his lips into a bit of a sneer. His attitude was really starting to cheese Harry off, but damned if he was going to say anything. It's not as if it mattered at all, if Snape was an arse.

"Anything else?" Harry asked, wondering if they were saving the best for last.

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips. "There is . . . some other damage."

Harry's mouth went dry, but he made himself ask, "What is it?" For the first time, Snape looked at him without snarling or glaring. That, more than anything else, put the fear of the Medi-witch's next words into Harry.

And then she hesitated again. Harry wanted to scream at her to just get on with it, already. "There is substantial scarring on the frontal lobe of your cerebral cortex, as well as the cerebellum."

That sounded bad. But what did it mean? He waited for Madam Pomfrey to continue.

"I believe much of the damage itself was caused by repeated anoxia - lack of oxygen," she clarified when Harry gave her a questioning look, "- caused by your uncle."

"But not all?" Harry asked, still trying to figure out what this damage meant.

"No, not all. From what I can tell, and Professor Snape concurs, some of what is showing on the scans is much more recent and has a peculiar, magical signature to it. I think that the earlier scarring did not impair you unduly, although I might contest that your ability to control your impulses was affected more than we may ever know."

She huffed out a breath. "But after the mental battles you fought this summer, with both the Headmaster and You Know Who," and Lucius Malfoy, Harry added silently to himself, "we found odd bright spots on the scan surrounding much of the scarring . . . It's not anything I've seen before. Frankly, I don't know whether that old scarring will manifest now, because of this magical element, or if the magic will block that from happening." She gave him a long look. "We're going to have to find out one way or the other."

It took him a few moments to figure out what she meant. There was damage to his brain, but she thought it hadn't necessarily been apparent before. Now, though, it might show up, because of all he went through this summer. And what did Snape think? "Okay . . . but, the scarred part of my brain," Harry pushed her for an answer, his hands clenched together in the blanket on his lap, "what's it do? Or what's it supposed to do, if it's not damaged?"

"Your frontal lobe is responsible for your higher thinking functions, memory, planning, reasoning and judgment, as well as impulse control."

Harry gulped a breath. "And now that part is damaged."

She shook her head. "It's been damaged all along," she said softly. "But as far as I can tell, you've not suffered many of the effects. You are capable of retention, and reasoning and judgment, too."

Harry looked sidelong at Snape, who had on one of his best blank faces, though at least he was looking at him. "I bet the professor would disagree." He lifted his chin defiantly as the implications became quite clear. Probably Snape was all snarky right now because he was embarrassed at his previous behavior. Harry had actually not been as capable of planning and remembering stuff as other people, because of the damage to his brain, and Snape had been taunting him about it for years. "In fact, he's been saying for five years that I couldn't do any of those."

In his wildest dreams, Harry would never have guessed that Snape could actually blush. But when twin spots of color appeared on the professor's cheeks, Harry had to admit that it was possible. He also knew he was right about the embarrassment.

In addition, Snape did not deny the charge. So, Snape must have disagreed with Madam Pomfrey. He knew that Harry had been affected by the damage to his brain. Now they just needed to find out if the magic spots were going to help him, or if they would make everything worse.

Madam Pomfrey's eyes narrowed as she gazed at the professor. "Severus?"

Snape refused to meet her eye.

For some reason, Harry decided to rescue him. "Doesn't matter anymore, really. But hey, maybe I'll be better now, with that magical stuff in my head."

Snape snorted, arms still crossed over his chest protectively . . . defensively, Harry revised. But he nodded, a bit less curtly than before. "It is possible," he allowed. Then he met Harry's gaze head on and continued, "But it is also possible nothing will change."

"Yeah, I'll still be a impulsive idiot. But at least we'll know why."

"Pot . . . Harry, you are not an idiot." His earlier snarkiness apparently abating, Snape appeared to take this point very seriously.

Whatever. "No, I just can't remember things very well. Or organize my thoughts properly. Or plan worth a damn. But really, I'm fine." He shrugged. "So long as I'm a good little weapon for the cause, what does the rest really matter?"

"Mr. Potter!" Madam Pomfrey gasped.

Snape's "Mr. Potter," was tinged with a much more disappointed tone.

Harry looked away from Snape, as shame made his face burn. He didn't think the Headmaster - or Snape - really felt that way about him. Just . . . a lot had happened this summer, especially with Dumbledore, and he wasn't sure he could ever look at the man the same way again. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled.

"Mm," Snape said, sounding unconvinced.

Harry set his jaw, refusing to apologize again, and brought them back on track. "Erm, what about the serra- sara bell thing?"

"Cerebellum, dear." Madam Pomfrey seemed to have gotten over her shock of Harry's outburst. "The main part affected is the vestibulocerebellum, which is primarily responsible for your sense of balance and your gait, the way you walk."

Harry frowned, then grinned cheekily. "Could it have caused the problems I have Flooing? I always fall down."

"It's possible," the Medi-witch said slowly, "but I would be hesitant to say you were affected at all, given your prowess on a broom."

Sobering, Harry asked, "Well, do you think I'll have more problems with my balance now, or less? I mean, I was able to fly all right the day before classes started."

"It's possible there will be no changes, as with the other issues," she said.

"But it's possible things could get better, or worse."

"Correct." Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "We just don't know. Unfortunately, it looks like we'll just have to wait and see."

"More tests?" Harry asked with a sigh.

"Not at present."

Harry took that in, grateful to not be at the business end of her wand again for a bit. He hoped they were done cataloguing his problems, but he had a feeling they were not. "So . . . was there any more damage in my brain?"

She nodded, and Harry's stomach sank. He didn't think he could take much more of this. Madam Pomfrey pinched her lips together, then said, "In addition to the problems in your frontal lobe, I found a number of perfectly round lesions in the pons Varolii."

"Pons what?"

"Varolii, after the Italian Muggle scientist who found it and named it."

"What's it do?"

"It has many functions . . . including, as Wizarding Healers have discovered, a rather large role in dreaming."

"Nightmares, too?"

"I believe so." She hesitated, then said, "The lesions you have on your pons Varolii are not as a result of anoxia, but solely from magical means."

"So my uncle had nothing to do with it, then?"

"No, nothing. I . . ." Her gaze went to Snape once more, "Rather, we believe that the magical visions and dreams you had with alarming frequency during your fifth year and this past summer, combined with the recent overuse of the Excito spell, as well as your current insomnia, are all contributing causes. These lesions are . . . pure magic."

She stopped, regarding him. He stared back, having no idea what she wanted from him. So he asked. "Does, erm . . . what's that mean?"

"It means they can only be cured by magic."

"Okay . . ."

"But I have never seen such lesions, have never even heard of them appearing like this, so perfectly round and . . . I will need to do some consultations - very discreetly," she added quickly when Snape threw her a glare that Harry was just glad was not aimed at him, "- with my colleagues at St. Mungo's, but it may take some time to figure out exactly what we can do to heal them."

"But you'll be able to?" Harry asked. Normally he wouldn't even question such a thing, but something in her tone made him wonder. "Or, well, someone can, right?"

"I believe so."

"But you're not sure."

She held his gaze. "No, I am not sure."

Harry nodded. His hands were still clenched together, and he stared at them, shivering slightly in the cool air of the Infirmary. This just kept getting better and better. "What will happen to me, if they can't be healed?"

"Look at me, Mr. Potter. Please." When Harry did, Madam Pomfrey gave him a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but it only made the whole thing more unreal. "We will do everything we can to help you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said quietly. He did know that; he just didn't like feeling so helpless. It was all just starting to sink in. Brain damage. Merlin. Uncle Vernon had really fucked him up, probably more than the obese man had ever planned. Harry didn't think, to this day, that his uncle ever really meant him harm. He just didn't like having Harry in his home, and was always in fear of what Harry's magic could possibly do to his precious family. He had resented Harry, and probably felt as helpless to protect his family as Harry felt right now.

And yet, Harry recalled with a sense of dread, this particular problem wasn't even his uncle's fault. It was solely Harry's, for using that damned spell. Well, and maybe Voldemort's, for sending him the visions.

Letting go of the lip that had made it's way between his teeth, he said, "So, what do the lesions mean then?"

Instead of answering his question directly, she said, "We only allow the use of Dreamless Sleep potion on a limited basis, even when a student suffers terrible nightmares. Do you know why that is?"

"It's addictive," Harry answered. It was what he had been told numerous times, by her and Snape both.

"Yes. But also, if any human's unconscious mind is not allowed to dream on a fairly regular basis, their mood can be adversely affected, as well as their long term memory retention. In the magical community, however, dreaming is far more important than even that. Dreaming replenishes your magical core. Not dreaming doesn't allow that to happen, and very quickly, you can be magically weakened to the point of being unable to cast even the simplest of spells."

Harry stared at her, almost tempted to laugh. Karma was a bitch. "So . . . unless we fix this, I'll be a Squib?"

"We will fix it," Snape said.

Harry rounded on him. "How?"

The professor sighed. "You and I are going to leave Hogwarts for a time. I will endeavor to help you to sleep, and to dream."

"Potions?"

Snape nodded. "Among other things. It will be . . . trying, for both of us. Which is why I am taking a leave of absence from teaching until we have this figured out."

Harry gaped at him, not sure if he had heard right. "What? You can't leave! What about the Slytherins? What about Draco?"

Snape's eyebrows went up in surprise. "What about them? I am your guardian, Mr. Potter, a responsibility I take very seriously. I will see you through this latest crisis. No other obligation of mine is as important."

Gobsmacked, Harry could only say, "But they need you!"

"So do you, Harry." He sighed and moved closer to the bed. Harry got the oddest feeling that Snape actually wanted to give him a hug. It was a weird sensation, but passed quickly, even when Snape sat next to him on the bed. The man kept his hands firmly in his own lap, but Harry was sure he wanted to reach for one of Harry's. To offer comfort? Harry could not wrap his mind around the concept.

As he regarded Harry, some kind of heavy emotion settled in the professor's eyes. Even his voice sounded choked as he said, "One day, you will learn that you are as worthy of receiving aid as anyone else. That you are worthy of others' time and attention. Perhaps I will be the one to teach you."

Harry didn't have it in him to tell Snape how very wrong he was. It was simply one revelation too many that day.

TBC….

A/N: Thanks to all who read and review! Please contribute to the Hugs-For-Harry Foundation. A local chapter is standing by to take your pledge.

Before the Dawn – Chapter 6

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters.

Warning for slight language, and references to abuse.

Previously:

As he regarded Harry, some kind of heavy emotion settled in the professor's eyes. Even his voice sounded choked as he said, "One day, you will learn that you are as worthy of receiving aid as anyone else. That you are worthy of others' time and attention. Perhaps I will be the one to teach you."

Harry didn't have it in him to tell Snape how very wrong he was. It was simply one revelation too many that day.

Harry hated portkeys. The first one he had taken - to the Quidditch World Cup - had not been bad, and the second had only been a little traumatic, after a night of Death Eater activity had frightened everyone into fleeing the site of the arena. But the third and fourth trips had honestly scarred him for life. He had yet to determine which had been worse: the portkey away from the Third Task to a graveyard, with an alive Cedric, or the trip back, away from the graveyard, but when he had to drag the dead body of Cedric home with him.

Though Snape had told him - in general terms - where this portkey went, Harry stared at the small, battered cauldron without touching it.

"What is the hold up?" Snape asked, with one of his less mild sneers. "We do not have - as you seem to assume - all day."

Harry's gaze flicked to Snape's face, meeting a dark-eyed scowl. He knew he was being stupid, he knew there would be no graveyard on the other end of this portkey. But knowing wasn't enough to overcome the nausea churning in his gut which threatened to make his meager breakfast come back up.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Calm yourself," he said, dropping his sarcastic tone. "Clear your mind. Recall what we worked on yesterday . . ."

Swallowing his bile, Harry nodded. He was glad that Snape continued to hold his gaze, grounding him. "The mist."

"Correct. Now. Picture your scene, then start counting."

Harry drew a quick picture in his mind of a field with a small, square cottage and one tall tree in it. "One," Harry said softly, willing the mist to start filling his mind's eye. Rising from the ground, it began to cover the tall grasses in the field. With, "Two," the mist expanded, rising further with, "Three." As he had been instructed, he encouraged or . . . allowed the mist to fill every space inside that picture in his mind, dampening sound and draping the house, field and tree in light gray. Slowly but steadily, the world encompassed by that field was muted, as was the noise in Harry's head, the panic that had grown since he had been shown the portkey. "Four," he said as the nausea faded, becoming merely a background sensation. Gray coated each leaf of the tree, each tile on the roof, until everything was shielded by mist. "Five," he concluded, and drew a slow breath. Then he gave Snape a nod.

"Good," Snape said. "Now, put your hand on the cauldron."

With very little hesitation this time, Harry obeyed. This form of limited self-hypnosis, as Snape called it, would not actually leave him open to suggestion, but would just help him overcome his irrational fears so he could do what he wanted (or needed) to do in the first place.

Snape gave him a curt nod. "Haven," he said, and the portkey yanked them away from the sitting room.

Harry kept the gray mist firmly in place as they hurtled through space toward a house in a field, until Snape's calm, low voice said, "Let go now."

When he tore his death grip from the cauldron, Harry stumbled upon hitting the ground, but unlike every other time he had traveled by portkey, he did not fall. Pleasantly surprised, Harry turned to flash a smile at Snape, who was brushing off his hands, as if the cauldron he had held in his hands for almost ten minutes had soiled him in some way.

They had landed in a field. A cottage, not unlike the one Snape had described to Harry so he could picture it in the calming exercise, sat about fifty meters away. A tall beech tree stood to its left, towering over the red, Spanish tiled roof. At nearly 9am, the sun was well up, though hidden by clouds, casting the whole area in gray shadow. The field itself covered at least a half dozen acres and was surrounded by a low, rambling, stone wall.

Wand in hand, as it had been since he first presented the portkey to Harry, Snape nodded brusquely and strode off toward the house. Harry drew his own wand and trotted after him. Merlin, Snape's strides were long. As they neared the little house, Harry was able to take in more of the details. The tiled roof was angled sharply enough that, if there were a second story, it would be very difficult to stand up straight in, except in the very center. Weather beaten shingles covered the exterior of the cottage, coloring it a speckled gray. Two wooden steps led up to a heavy looking door, painted red.

"Where are we?" Harry asked. It was warmer here, despite the lack of direct sunlight, than at Hogwarts, and the countryside - fields in every direction, the distant ones dotted with sheep, and with those little rock walls carving them up in no discernible patterns - did not bring Scotland to mind. Or not Hogsmeade, at any rate.

Snape shook his head quickly, refusing to answer. Despite his words earlier that morning, about how safe this location was, his gaze whisked back and forth around them, as if he expected Death Eaters to jump out and hex them from behind one of the large stones in their field.

His hyper-awareness was making Harry rather anxious, but he did not say as much, just keeping the mist up in his mind, so he would not panic.

Finally, they reached the door. Snape swiped his wand across it in an X formation, muttered a few syllables in a low voice, then turned his sharp gaze on Harry. "Place your palm on the door and repeat after me."

"Yes, sir." Harry laid his palm flat on the old, worn wood, and after Snape told him what to say, in what sounded almost like Welsh, repeated his words. A warm tingle traveled up his arm from the contact point with the wood, moving swiftly to his chest where it bloomed like a white, hot rose. He sucked in a breath, though there was no real pain, as the heat engulfed him fully: legs, both arms, torso, and his face felt like it was on fire. "Wow," he managed after a moment. "Those're some wards."

"Indeed." Snape gave him a tiny smile. The tension seemed to visibly drain out of the professor, just as the heat in Harry's body subsided. He opened the door without even looking 'round again.

They must have actually been in some danger as they crossed the field, Harry realized. But now, after activating the wards . . . "Are we safe now?"

"We are." Snape pushed the door open wider and stepped inside the cottage. Apparently, he decided that it was safe enough, too, to give details on their location, as he continued, "And we are in Devonshire."

"Oh. Thanks." Harry slipped his wand into his pocket as he followed the professor again. Just inside the door, Harry stopped short and gaped at the interior of the cottage. He should have guessed, honestly. He knew about wizard's space, such as inside the Weasleys' tent at the Quidditch World Cup. Even so, he had not expected to find such a thing in this little cottage in the middle of nowhere.

The room where he now stood was large enough to store galoshes or Wellingtons and outdoor gear for a dozen people - though it currently held none - as well as having a rack for brooms, two benches that doubled as storage chests, and two other doors that led farther inside. From the exterior, this one room should have taken up half the cottage, but it obviously did not, as through one door, Harry could see part of a large living room with several stuffed chairs, a sofa and a wide stone fireplace. The wood beam ceiling appeared to stretch far higher than his original view of the roof would have suggested possible. The other door was shut.

Harry sank onto one of the benches and removed his wet trainers, which had gotten rather soggy while tromping through the dewy field. As they were also damp, his socks came off, too. In the meantime, Snape had swung his outer cloak off and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall before going into the living room. Harry copied him and hung his cloak next to Snape's.

Barefoot now, Harry traipsed into the living room, after Snape. But Snape had apparently gone straight through, as he was nowhere in sight. Harry looked around before trying to find him again. The room, despite being rather large, was cozy: the sofa and two comfortable looking chairs were done in dark browns and tan and each had an afghan as well as throw pillows in burgundy and navy blue. A small table sat between two windows that looked over the field they had just crossed, with a pot of fresh wildflowers on its pale blue tablecloth, but all the other walls were covered with dark walnut bookshelves, which were crammed with books. Hermione would love this, was Harry's first thought. A fire flickered warmly in the hearth, which the sofa and chairs all faced, while sitting on a thick braided rug that covered much of the floor.

After warming himself briefly in front of the fire, curling his toes into the soft rug, Harry crossed to the far door, which he assumed Snape had gone through, and ended up in a short hallway with several more doors. Harry went through the only open one, into a bright, airy kitchen. A row of windows, along one wall above the sink and several counters for food preparation, let in as much light as was possible. Numerous cabinets took up the rest of the walls, except where there were two other doors. A heavy wooden table, large enough to seat a dozen, sat in the middle of the room, but did not make the kitchen feel small. Both other doors were open, and Harry recognized one as heading back to the entry hall. The other led to a descending set of stairs.

Seconds later, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and almost before Harry had his wand out, Snape appeared, coming up out of what was apparently a basement. When he reached the top of the stairs, and re-entered the kitchen, he closed the door behind him.

"What's down there?"

"My potion lab," Snape told him, lips pursed. "Do not go down there without me."

Harry gave him a tiny smile. "Still don't trust me, huh?"

Snape lifted an eyebrow. "While you have proven yourself capable of not causing complete destruction whilst under supervision, I hesitate to allow you free rein around volatile substances." His tone was matter of fact, but Harry caught a glimmer of humor in his eyes. Without that hint, he might have actually been annoyed by the implication that he was still so incompetent.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, smirking. "Wouldn't want me accidentally leaving fresh ashwinder eggs next to an erumpent horn or anything. Might blow this nice house up."

Snape smirked back. "Indeed. Have you seen to your room yet?"

"No, sir." Harry considered the layout of the house, then gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "They're off the hallway?"

With a nod, Snape said, "Mine is closest to the kitchen."

"And the potion lab, by happy coincidence," Harry said. Snape snorted, as Harry continued, "So by simple elimination, assuming the third door is for the loo, the other is mine. . . ." He broke off, frowning. "Sir?"

Snape had begun going through the cabinets, including one that looked like it held refrigerator goods, like milk, checking their supplies, and grunted in reply.

"Where are the other bedrooms?"

This time, Snape lifted his gaze from the drawer he had pulled open and glanced at Harry. "Hmm?"

"Well, unless each of those bedrooms sleeps six or so . . . I mean, I figure there's enough room at this table for twelve, same as the entry hall. Either people who stay here have loads of dinner-only guests, or the bedrooms are dormitories?"

Giving Harry a rare smile, as if he had figured out the mysteries of the universe, Snape slid the drawer closed. "Actually, Dormenhause adjusts for the number of people inhabiting it. Additional bedrooms insinuate themselves into that hallway when needed, and I believe additional furniture is magically added to the sitting room as well."

"Brilliant!" Harry retraced his steps to the hallway, then grinned back at Snape as he pushed open the middle door, which proved to be the loo, with one sink, one toilet, and one tub with a shower attachment. "I'd hope the house would insinuate another bathroom or two, too. 'Specially if a bunch of Fifth Year girls were staying."

Another snort sounded from the kitchen, and Harry grinned again and opened the last door in this hallway, the one closest to the living room. Inside was a well appointed bedroom, with a bed large enough to sleep three comfortably, hung with navy outer curtains and sheer inner curtains of sky blue. A wardrobe sat next to a roll top desk with all sorts of intriguing little drawers and nooks, and there was even a padded chair, also in dark blue fabric, in front of a small, currently cold, fireplace.

A tall window next to the desk, with a window seat containing several large decorative pillows, let in the midmorning light, and Harry crossed to it to peer outside at what must have been the "back yard." More fields.

He settled into the window seat, leaning back into the pillows. He was a million miles from nowhere. Alone - except for Snape - in this house. With no one to bother him - except Snape - or accuse him of being a coward for not leaving his room, and lots of peace and quiet. Maybe it would be okay here. Even if it did mean Snape had to give up teaching to take care of him.

Harry frowned, remembering the overheard snip of conversation between Snape and Madam Pomfrey. Not only did Snape give up teaching, but also whatever other strings Dumbledore had attached to his permission. He wondered what those strings amounted to. And really, he thought, there was only one way to find out.

While Harry got himself settled, Severus continued cataloguing the supplies in the safe house. There was enough food to last the two of them till Yule, if they were frugal, but he hoped not to be here nearly that long. But he had to be prepared for that eventuality. Harry was really and truly injured, and not just psychologically, which would be plenty for any one person to deal with all by itself. But when, two days ago, he and Poppy had tallied up the damage the boy's uncle, as well as the Dark Lord, had dealt him, Severus had been shocked and outraged. Perhaps even more so than Harry himself.

In fact, so far, Harry seemed to be taking the news very well. Too well, from Severus' perspective. The boy should be shouting, railing about the unfairness of it all. Yet, he thought, shaking his head as he closed another cupboard, who knew more about the unfairness of life than Harry? Marked by the Dark Lord at the tender age of fifteen months because of a prophecy he had nothing to do with, hunted by that same maniac years later, abused and used by various teachers and Headmasters, for his entire Hogwarts career, and then all of the exhausting, traumatic events of this last summer. . . . What was a bit of brain damage from strangulation on top of all that?

Severus went through another cabinet, finding various dry goods, including some small shell pasta he pulled out to add to a minestrone soup for dinner. He had already laid out potatoes to peel later, as well as celery, onions, and tomatoes to dice, and some fresh basil and parsley that wanted chopping. Still considering what he had learned and what he needed to do to help Harry, he half-filled a pot with water and added several handfuls of northern beans from the cupboard to soak. They were kept in stasis, not quite dry, so he did not have to soak them overnight, but merely for a few hours.

He set the pot on the cooker. Some of this safe house was set up with wizarding conveniences - like the cabinets, charmed to keep their food fresh and/or cold, and the several housekeeping charms which would free them from the necessity of sweeping or doing laundry - but much of it was not. Anything they wanted to cook had to be done the Muggle way, for instance, and for security reasons, especially after the disaster that was Kreacher, there was no House Elf in attendance.

Turning from the cooker, Severus glanced at the hallway, and the door to Harry's room, which was not quite closed. He sighed softly and brought a hand up to his forehead, to rub away the tension there. When he had first learned of the extent of the damage that blasted Muggle had done to Harry, Severus had first been so angry he could hardly see straight. But then he recalled all the times that he had mocked the boy, humiliated him and taunted him. Over and over, through five years of classes, through that horror of Occlumency training, Severus had called him an idiot and shouted at him that he hadn't a brain in his head, that he couldn't think things through to save his life . . . and now, to learn he had been right, in a way, but through no fault of the boy's, was a real kick in the gut.

Harry could have applied himself to his studies till the dragons returned to Britain, but he would not have done any better. No matter how much Severus criticized him.

And Occlumency. Severus damned himself six ways from Sunday for that debacle. This summer, in the couple weeks before school started, their training in Occlumency had gone so well that Severus had thought, rather uncharitably, that perhaps the boy just needed the death of his dogfather to really focus on the training. Giving him a book to work from hadn't hurt either - except for the dismal failure of using stone to hide his emotions. But Severus realized, after speaking with Poppy, that it was far more likely none of those things had mattered. No. Harry had previously been incapable of learning to Occlude himself because of the damage to his brain.

But, now that some of those injuries were coated with the magical . . . lesions, Harry was better able to control those mental functions which included the study of Occlumency. Severus should have recognized the signs earlier, right after Harry Legilimized the Headmaster, in fact. He hadn't, however. And he had not realized for five years that the boy was trying hard in his classes, but that he had quite literally been unable to process information, or retain it, or control his impulses as well as the other children. Severus was not at all comforted by the fact that no one else - not even Minerva, whose job it had nominally been - had noticed either.

They had all failed him in this, too.

So, they would stay in Dormenhause as long as they needed to. As long as Harry needed them to.

"Sir? Professor?"

Severus turned from where he had been looking out over the fields behind the house. Harry stood in the doorway, feet still bare as they had been since they arrived - did he have no slippers? - and nibbling on his lower lip. Dark purple, almost black, circles of skin made his eyes look bruised, and his face was thinner than Severus had seen it in several weeks. His arms, bony and pale, stuck out of a red tee-shirt, and Severus could see how tiny - almost frail- his wrists had become. They would do something about Harry's lack of appetite, too, while they were here. And work on rebuilding his muscles, as well. "Yes?"

"I was wondering . . ." He gaze slid away, as it did when he was not sure of the reception his question would receive.

"Just ask," Severus said. "What is it you want to know?"

With a tiny nod, Harry said, "Well, when Madam Pomfrey asked if you'd gotten time off to come here with me, you said you had, but there were strings attached. I was wondering . . ." He swallowed again, as if his mouth was bone dry. Had Severus really instilled such fear in him that he hesitated so much to ask anything? Stupid question, Severus derided himself; of course he had.

"What those strings were?" he provided, rescuing the boy from his aimless flailing about.

Harry nodded, looking back for a mere instant to catch his gaze.

"I could say they are none of your concern."

Harry nodded again. "I, um . . . You're right, 'course. I mean, I was just curious. It's just you . . . you seemed upset about it, and I wanted to know if there was anything I could do to, er, make it less onerous for you to be here."

"Less onerous, eh?" Severus almost smiled.

"Yeah, you know, wearing. Hermione always said helping me and Ron with homework was onerous. Like a burden."

"And you do not wish to be a burden to me." He was not surprised by the information about Miss Granger, but was surprised to have heard the word 'onerous' come out of Potter's mouth. Perhaps his vocabulary would improve, along with his reasoning skills, and his ability to Occlude.

"No. I don't, sir. I mean, you've done so much, even, you know, being my guardian and all, and I-"

"Harry, stop." Severus sighed. "I know this is difficult for you to understand, and not-" he held up a hand, to keep the boy from saying something about his brain damage, " not because you are unable to reason it out on your own, all right?" He waited until Harry gave him a tight nod. "Good. I suspect I will say this again, but let me say it now for your benefit. I came here, with you, because I wanted to. Because I believe I can help you. Because you need me to be here for you, right now."

Harry's shoulders hitched up, and he looked away. "But I'm okay! I mean, yeah, getting over that anti-sleep spell will be hard, but I can get over it on my own. I've always-"

Severus interrupted him. "You've always done things like this, gotten over things, on your own because you haven't had anyone who could help you, previously. Anyone who would help. But that has changed. I am here for you."

For a brief moment, seeing the look of shock morph into one of remembered pain on Harry's face, Severus was sure the boy would let some of his grief go, would weep long and hard, and get rid of some of the tension riding him for the last couple weeks. And his eyes were watery when he glanced back at Severus for just a second, but then he just shook his head and gazed down at his feet. "'Kay."

"Good," Severus said, his own voice sounding rough, so he cleared his throat. "Have you settled into your room?"

A tiny nod. "Yes, sir."

"Then we shall begin with some exercises, to work on your muscles." Poppy had given him several books detailing how he could best work to overcome the damage done by Cruciatus overload, which Harry had undergone on their last night at Topsham. "Change into running pants, and put on some socks, unless you've some house slippers. Meet me downstairs in five minutes."

Harry frowned. "In the lab?"

"There is space for exercising, as well. A separate room."

"Oh. Okay."

When Harry headed back to his room, to change out of his Muggle jeans, Severus went to the basement to wait for him. Later, they would work on a potion - and Severus had to admit that when he was not carping at the boy, Harry did passably well in Potions - that would induce dreaming in a normally awake person. After dinner, they would try it out. Hopefully, it would induce dreams in Harry.

And perhaps, if he was feeling generous, he would tell Harry about some of those strings Albus insisted he take up. He was sure the boy would be pleased.

A/N: Thanks to all who read and review! Next chapter will have potions and soup and maybe even strings!

Before the Dawn – Chapter 7

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters.

Warnings: language

When Harry headed back to his room, to change out of his Muggle jeans, Severus went to the basement to wait for him. Later, they would work on a potion - and Severus had to admit that when he was not carping at the boy, Harry did passably well in Potions - that would induce dreaming in a normally awake person. After dinner, they would try it out. Hopefully, it would induce dreams in Harry.

And perhaps, if he was feeling generous, he would tell Harry about some of those strings Albus insisted he take up. He was sure the boy would be pleased.

A bit hesitant, Harry headed downstairs after changing into running pants and a tee shirt. He knew that they were to work on his muscles, which were so screwed up after being hit by the Cruciatus Curse over and over that they often trembled or twitched even when he wasn't using them. Muscle seizures, is what Madam Pomfrey called it. It sounded worse that it was, she'd promised, and he dearly wanted to believe her. He'd known a kid in his primary school who had epilepsy, and twice while he'd been in class with her, the girl had fallen off her chair and had a seizure, where she cried out as her eyes rolled up in her head, her limbs flailed around, and then she'd fallen unconscious.

When explaining it to a classroom of seven-year-olds wide-eyed with fear, the teacher had called that flailing about "convulsions." Harry's seizures were nothing like that, obviously. And thank goodness, too. According to Madam Pomfrey, though, his smaller seizures could become just as debilitating, if they weren't dealt with properly.

Supposedly, the professor knew how to help fix them, using Muggle physical therapy. Harry certainly hoped so. He was tired of dropping things when his fingers suddenly jerked, or tripping over stuff because he couldn't control his ankle all of a sudden or lost his balance. And feeling his muscles jumping in his arm, when he wasn't doing anything at all, was really aggravating, too.

The room he entered in the basement was on the left after coming down the stairs. A short hallway went around to the right of the stairs, then towards the back of the house, leading to the potion lab, he assumed. In clothes similar to Harry's - though black instead of gray - Snape stood straight and tall in the center of the room. Mats, such as wrestlers or gymnasts used, covered the floor. Along the walls were various kinds of Muggle weight training equipment, with pulleys and bars and heavy weights and everything. Harry hadn't seen equipment like this since the one time he'd been allowed to go to Dudley's boxing club, to fetch his cousin home for dinner. That place had been filled with similar stuff, and Harry wondered how come Dormer House, or whatever this place was called, had it, too. Why would those needing a safe house have such equipment around?

His question must have been obvious from his expression, because Snape interrupted Harry's perusal of the room by saying, "I brought all this with me and just unshrunk it now. The Headmaster sent me out to purchase what we needed whilst you were with Madam Pomfrey."

It must have cost a fortune, Harry thought. "Wow."

Snape lifted one eyebrow. "Indeed."

"How'm I . . . I mean, I'll pay you back for all this, sir, I swear."

"Harry, don't start worrying, please," Snape replied with a frown. "In the first place, as your guardian, it is incumbent upon me to provide such things as you need to get better from your injuries. And in the second," he added, holding up a hand when Harry started to object that this was too much, and that Snape hadn't been his guardian yet when Voldemort tortured him, besides, "I bought these items with the Headmaster's largesse."

Harry swallowed. Then he nodded. "Okay."

Snape's expression evened out as Harry acquiesced. "All right then. Come over here, and we'll start with some warm up exercises, then I'll test some of your muscles and see what we need to work on most."

With a gusty sigh, Harry did as he was told. Both standing on the mats and sitting, they ran through twenty minutes of stretches before Snape told him they were ready to get started. Harry was already sweating a bit, and felt rather embarrassed about it, too. Then he realized that, except for the few times a week he worked out with Snape in their duels - which were now less frequent due to Snape's class schedule - he got no exercise at all. He never flew anymore, nor did he have to climb the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, or any other tower, and he didn't even need to walk to classes anymore, as they were all being delivered to his sitting room.

The truth hit him like a bludger: because of his hermit-like ways, of late, he was really getting out of shape.

As Harry wiped sweat from his neck, Snape noticed him frowning slightly and nodded. "You'll find these exercises easier each time we do them. And now that you're protected by the wards here, you can go flying as well, which will also help you build up your muscle strength again . . . Though, I still want to accompany you, at first, if you go flying, at least until we are sure no spasms will throw you from your broom."

Harry bit his lip and agreed. He hated feeling like a bloody invalid, but he knew Snape was right. "Okay. What's next?"

"Lie down on your back, yes, like that, and I'll take your right foot." Snape knelt in front of him and picked up one of Harry's feet. Harry lifted his head to see what he was doing. "No, lie back, Harry. I need you to concentrate. I will press your leg toward your chest, and I want you to press back and not let me. Ready? Begin."

With Harry's foot in a firm grip in both hands, Snape pushed forward, letting Harry bend his knee a bit. Harry pushed back, against the professor, but Snape was pushing harder than he was, and his foot moved back towards his torso easily. Too easily. Unwilling to let Snape "win," Harry fought him, putting more effort into keeping his foot still or moving away again, but he felt weak even so. Over the next few minutes, he pushed more forcefully, until his thigh trembled with the tension, and his hands clutched into fists at his sides.

"Enough," Snape said, and the tension was gone suddenly, making Harry gasp a breath as his leg shot forward. There was a pause as Snape gently lowered his foot, and the man's silence was troubling, until he said, "Now the other."

This leg was the same, Harry feeling unable to keep Snape from pushing his foot back towards his torso. He struggled to keep his foot in place, sweat breaking out on his face and rolling down his neck, making him feel weak and stupid and . . .

"This is stupid," he growled, and wrenched his leg out of Snape's hold. "You're doing it wrong."

Harry rolled to the side and sat up in time to see Snape lift his eyebrow as he often did when he found something droll, but there was no light, playful smirk to accompany the professor's words when he said, rather stiffly, "I do not believe you are in any position to correct my technique."

"'Cause I'm on my bloody back! How's that supposed to fix the muscles in my hand?"

"Language, Mr. P . . . Harry," Snape said through gritted teeth, and Harry wanted to point out that Snape had nearly gone against their bargain: that he wouldn't use Harry's last name when he was angry.

But he didn't; he wasn't that stupid. Instead, he said, "That's not an answer!"

"Indeed not."

"Well?"

Snape crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn't nearly as intimidating as when he was wearing his robes and towering over a student. "Well, what?"

"What is the answer? Why do I have to push my foot at you, when it's my hand giving me trouble?"

Snape was quiet for a moment, and Harry got the impression that he was counting time before he answered, lest he yell or say something really cutting. His gaze, however, caught Harry's and held it. His dark, fathomless eyes brooked no nonsense, and Harry wanted to squirm away from looking him in the eyes.

Finally, Snape said, "I do not believe that your hand was the only set of muscles that Madam Pomfrey identified as 'giving you trouble.' Am I incorrect in my recollection?"

Harry set his jaw. He didn't like being called a liar, even if he was being one about this issue, but he hated feeling weak even more, or worse, appearing weak in front of others. Not here, not now. Not ever, especially with Snape! The last thing he needed right now was for Snape to mock him for being out of shape or being an utter pansy about their exercises. He figured he could work on his legs himself. He didn't need Snape for that; there was plenty of equipment here that he could use to strengthen his legs and arms and anything else he needed, all without having to endure Snape's sharp comments or critiques.

"I'm fine. It's just my hand."

Snape stared at him, lips pursed. And he stared. And stared.

Harry couldn't take it any more. This was worse than being mocked, for sure. "All right! Fine. Whatever."

"Whatever, what?"

"Whatever, sir," Harry snarled. His hands were clenched into fists, and he looked away from Snape's knowing gaze. He wanted to punch something, a wall maybe, or his own thick head. "You were right, okay? It's not just my hand."

Snape sighed and shook his head. "I was not requesting an honorific, Harry. I am . . . concerned that you are thinking of these exercises as some kind of punishment. I assure you, they are not. I have only your best interests in mind."

Harry still wouldn't look at him. "Whatever."

In a rather dry tone, Snape said, "I believe we exorcised that word from our vocabulary, did we not?"

"No, we didn't. You tried. I still liked it."

"Indeed." Snape stood from where he had been crouched on the mat, then held out his hand for Harry to take, to help him rise as well. Harry ignored the hand, though, and Snape sighed again. "Perhaps it was too soon to start these exercises. Perhaps you need a better night's sleep, first."

"I'm sleeping fine, sir," Harry mumbled.

"Do not insult my intelligence, Harry," Snape said sharply, making Harry shiver, despite the sweat still trailing down his back. "Doing so is not in your best interest, nor will it aid in anything we do here."

"What are we doing here?" Harry asked, still mumbling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape frown. "We talked about this back at Hogwarts, Harry. Do you not . . ." He cut himself off, as if remembering that Harry might have difficulty recalling things, because of his bloody brain damage. In truth, Harry did remember that conversation, but a lot had been said about treating his "condition," and he wanted a summation, if possible. "We will work on getting you to dream again, for your mental health, as well as heal any lingering effects of the Dark Lord's torture upon your body."

Harry shuddered involuntarily, hearing Snape refer to the that evil man by the name he wanted his followers to call him. "Why do you still call him that?"

Snape turned his face away, quickly, which he needn't have, as Harry still wasn't really looking at him. Harry wondered if he turned away in shame, or anger, or what, and if he would even answer the question, one which Harry was (almost) willing to admit bordered on rude. After taking a long, slow breath, however, the man said, "Habit, I suppose."

"Habit?" Harry echoed, wrinkling his nose.

The professor crossed his arms over his chest again. When he wore his encapsulating black robes, the action would have wrapped him tight, hidden him, almost, from prying eyes and probably given him some measure of . . . comfort, Harry thought. Or safety. But here, in the gym clothes . . . Snape just looked uncomfortable and uncertain. Harry turned his head slightly, so that he could see Snape better, but not so he was staring. The professor's face was tight, especially around the eyes and mouth, almost as if he were . . . nervous. But what had Severus Snape to be nervous about?

"Yes, habit," Snape said after a minute. He swallowed, hard enough that Harry could hear it. "It was what he insisted we call him, and failure to do so was severely punished."

Well, Harry knew that Voldiewarts had tortured his followers - he'd seen it in visions and dreams all last year, after all. But he'd sort of had the idea that The Unmitigated Bastard tortured his Death Eaters only when they failed at something, or openly questioned his orders. Not just for something stupid like calling him the wrong name.

Snape had not continued, but was still looking away from him, Harry realized. Had he been tortured for not calling Old Voldie by the epitaph he favored? Did Harry dare ask?

Of course he did. "He punished you for it, didn't he." It wasn't really a question, and Harry didn't expect an answer, so when Snape nodded, he was suitably stunned enough to actually look at Snape full on.

Then Snape shrugged, also a rare occurrence, and Harry nearly gaped at him. "All of us were, I imagine, at one time or another."

Harry shook his head. "I don't understand it at all."

Snape turned on him, dark fire in his eyes. "You don't understand the Dark Lord's torments?" he asked with a sneer.

"That's not what I meant," Harry said quickly. "I don't understand why so many wizards, powerful wizards, joined him twenty years ago, or still keep joining him now. It doesn't make any sense. Why would people, all of them powerful in their own right, want to bow and scrape to a maniac? Why did they - why did you put up with it? I just don't get it."

Blowing out a breath, Snape frowned again. "That's not important right now."

"I think it is. I mean, what-"

"I say it isn't!" Snape wrapped his arms around his body, obviously missing his robes. "Leave it be, Potter!"

Stung, Harry said, "Don't call me that. Not when you're angry."

"I'm not angry." The words sounded almost sullen.

"Right. And I'm not a bloody Gryffindor."

The professor snorted quietly, then shook his head. He rubbed at his face with his hands. "Enough . . . Harry. I do not wish to discuss this now."

Harry hesitated, then nodded. He climbed to his feet, and swore under his breath when his knee gave a twinge as he put weight on it. Stupid Cruciatus. "So . . . I'll go then?"

"Perhaps that would be best. Try to get some rest, will you? I will call you for dinner, and we'll try this again tomorrow."

Though he tried not to show it, Harry was a bit hurt that Snape wanted him to leave. He was tired, but he was always tired, and he didn't know how putting off working on his muscles would improve anything. But maybe Snape was tired, too. He was obviously still miffed by Harry's pushing him on the "Dark Lord" thing. Shoulders slightly hunched, he headed for the door and the stairs beyond. "Fine. I'll see you later."

Behind him, once the boy was out of hearing range, Severus swore heatedly. Things were off to a rocky start, and were bound to get worse before they got better. Harry needed to sleep, and soon, or his temper - and Severus' already strained patience - would have both of them at each other's throats before nightfall.

How right he was. . . .

TBC….

Before the Dawn – Chapter 8

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters. Only the crazy situations I put them in.

Warnings: Language.

Previously:

Shoulders slightly hunched, he headed for the door and the stairs beyond. "Fine. I'll see you later."

Behind him, once the boy was out of hearing range, Severus swore heatedly. Things were off to a rocky start, and were bound to get worse before they got better. Harry needed to sleep, and soon, or his temper - and Severus' already strained patience - would have both of them at each other's throats before nightfall.

How right he was. . . .

Alone in his room, Harry fumed. Even though he had suggested it, he hadn't wanted Snape to tell him to leave. He wanted Snape to help him with his muscles, and all the other stuff, but all that aggravating man would do was harp at him and not answer his questions. He expected Harry to answer his questions all the time, with all his tea time talk and feelings and everything, but he never wanted to answer anything in return. It wasn't fair!

Besides, how were they supposed to learn to get along if Snape sent him away all the time? He wanted Harry to sleep, but he knew Harry couldn't sleep without nightmares. He'd forced the truth about that out of Harry, after all, along with the Silencing spell Harry'd been using and the Excito spell, too. And anyway, how was he supposed to sleep when he was all worked up like this? The exercises had exhausted him, but his heart was still beating fast. From their argument, too.

Harry glared out the window at the fields and low rock walls he could see in the distance, criss-crossing the landscape. A fairly strong breeze made the occasional copse of trees lean away from the oncoming wind, as if paying some sort of weird arboreal obeisance, and suddenly, Harry wanted to be outside. Needed it. Desperately. Except for their quick trip across the yard when they had first arrived here, Harry had not been out of doors for far too long. Weeks, even. And Snape had said it was safe for Harry to be out there, now that the wards had acknowledged him. And Snape had said that Harry should get back on his broom, too. Specifically, to rebuild his nonexistent muscles.

The memory of the look on Snape's face as he said that, about Harry's muscles, when Harry had been panting for breath, reared up once more. He had made Harry want to hit him in the face, with his insinuations about Harry's weakness.

Damn him, Harry snarled under his breath. Damn him to hell. What did Snape know of muscle weakness from being fucking Crucio'd nearly to death, or fucking brain damage from being bloody choked by a bloody lunatic of an uncle? Did Snape think this was easy? Did he think Harry liked to be called soft, or reminded that he couldn't bear to leave the dungeons? Did Snape think he wanted to be a coward? A cowardly monster, he corrected himself, thinking again about what he had done, and what he had wanted to do, to Lucius bloody Malfoy.

The few shelves around him, as well as the roll top desk, rattled enough to cause various knick-knacks to clink together, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, swallowing his rage. He really needed to cool off some.

Outside. Yes. With his broom. Yes.

Maybe he'd use a little Excito to take the edge off his exhaustion, and help keep his wits about him, too, so he didn't doze while flying. One more spell couldn't hurt him, not with all the times he'd cast it already. Just once.

Snape wouldn't need to know.

After all, Harry hadn't promised not to use the spell, he reasoned, ignoring the little voice inside that told him he'd done as much to both Snape and Madam Pomfrey, even if he hadn't used the specific word "promise."

The little voice was nothing. The little voice could go hang.

Lifting his wand to his temple, he whispered, "Excito Sursum."

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Severus put the finishing touches on the minestrone soup by grating fresh parmesan over the top of each large serving he had ladled into the heavy crockery bowls he'd taken from one of the cabinets. The fragrant herbs of the hearty vegetable and bean soup mingled with the sharp tang of the cheese, and Severus gave his portion another long sniff, smiling slightly, before he put the two bowls on the table and went to call Harry from his room. There was little, he felt, that could go wrong with hot soup on a chilly, windy day.

Harry was not in his room.

At first, Severus was not concerned, thinking perhaps the boy had been in the sitting room all this while, possibly with a book, instead of lying down as Severus had earlier suggested - strongly - that he do. He'd known that Harry could not have been sleeping for two reasons. First, Snape had made sure no Silencing Wards could be erected on the boy's bedroom, and second, since Harry did not sleep without having nightmares these days, Severus would have heard him wake, screaming, if he had succumbed to sleep.

He didn't doubt Harry's word about the frequency of his nightmares, knowing Harry had little reason to lie about something the boy probably thought made him look weak. Above almost anything else, he knew Harry detested other people thinking he was weak or needed help. That attitude was why helping Harry was often so difficult.

Severus noted, in passing, that Harry's trunk was in a corner, and that his school books and supplies were on his desk, as was the journal that had first truly alerted Severus to the danger Harry was putting himself in by not sleeping. Taking a less cursory inventory, then, he noted one door of the boy's wardrobe slightly ajar, so presumably his clothes were put away, too. Harry had very little in the way of personal possessions, especially after the cursed Death Eaters had searched the place he'd once lived, in Little Whinging, and had taken the few things allowed him by the Muggles. But they were visible, too: the picture album, which Lupin had returned, with photos of his parents and his yearmates at Hogwarts, was on the small table beside his bed; and the thrice-damned Invisibility cloak from the boy's father was crammed into one of the nooks of the roll top desk. Nothing else.

Satisfied that Harry was not to be found in his room, and that the boy had indeed settled himself into Dormenhause to stay, at least for a little while, Severus turned from the door. He entered the sitting room, expecting to see the boy curled up on the sofa, or in one of the comfortable looking padded chairs in front of the fireplace.

Harry was not in the sitting room either.

Now Severus was concerned, but not unduly, not yet. Perhaps Harry had just gone outside, to cool off from their earlier sniping. And surely, had he done so, Harry would have realized he needed to stay within the perimeter of the stone wall so as to stay within Dormenhause's protective wards.

Surely, he had.

Still, it had been several hours since Harry had left their exercise room, and though it was warmer here than at Hogwarts, there was quite a breeze blowing outside. . . . As Severus headed for the front door, he hoped that the boy had thought to wear a warm cloak, at least. Sometimes, the boy was more than cavalier with his own health, a habit Severus intended to break him of as soon as possible. Starting, of course, with weaning him off the nasty spell which had wreaked such havoc on his sleep patterns and capacity for dreaming, and thus, for replenishing his magical core.

Harry's trainers were gone from the entry hall, Severus noted as he entered the tiny room. They would have been dried instantly by the charms put on this room, so he wasn't worried about the boy going about in wet shoes. And his cloak was gone, too. Good; at least he had some sense. . . . Severus paused. Blinked. He knew he had missed something important, but it was not till he turned round again that he realized what else was missing.

Harry's broom.

After wracking his brain for a few brief moments, Severus knew he had not seen the blasted Firebolt in the boy's room either. Wanting to convince himself that surely, the boy had not taken his broom out to fly, he shook his head. He wouldn't have gone, when he had agreed only a few hours ago that he would not do so without Severus' accompaniment, right?

Surely not.

Yet, when he opened the front door, catching a gust of wind full in the face, cold enough it sucked the air right out of his lungs, his gaze was drawn immediately to a scrap of red near the edge of the property. A flag, which looked very much like a Gryffindor scarf, flapped from the low branches of a scraggly tree, marking the dark heap lying below. The heap was sprawled across the low stone wall at the base of the tree like a sack of potatoes, and looked quite a lot like a body.

Severus ran.

Never having been much of a sprinter, especially in cross-country races, Severus would later marvel slightly at his ability to get from the front steps of Dormenhause to Harry's side so quickly. He just ran, without once tripping over an exposed rock or root, nor flying headlong into the wall once he came to a halt at the boy's side. But all he could think about during his wild flight was, "Oh no, oh god, oh no, please no . . . "

Harry's face was a mass of blood and gashes, and his legs were at an odd angle to his torso. Even as Severus pushed his fingers into the boy's neck to feel for a pulse, he was bracing himself for the worst.

Yet, the boy lived. Though thready and weak, the pulse of Harry's heart pinked against his fingertips, and Severus nearly sobbed in relief. But there was so much blood everywhere, he hardly knew what to do first. Stop the bleeding . . . or, what if Harry had punctured a lung . . . he must get him inside, out of the cold. . . . but first, to check the spine. . . .

Severus had never been so jittery before when faced with this kind of situation, and for a long minute, he stood stalk still, unable to make a decision. Finally, choking on his own breath - he would never in a million years confess to weeping in fear or consternation - he closed his eyes and drew on his own Occlumency skills, wrapping calm and equanimity around him like the cloak he wished he was wearing.

"Stupid, stupid child," he hissed at last, and opened his eyes to look with new sight at the boy, taking in the injuries with a more practiced, objective air. "Idiotic, imbecile of a boy," he whispered to himself as he spent the next minute or two running diagnostics, and then began the process of Healing.

Not till he had the bleeding stopped, both internally and externally, some quarter hour later, did Severus move Harry indoors. He levitated Harry into the sitting room, in front of the fireplace, and after he lit the fire and spelled Harry into a Healing sleep, he spent the next few hours fixing him up. As he had done on several previous occasions in his life, Severus fell into a sort of Healing trance. He summoned several potions from below stairs when warranted and fed them directly to the boy, and once paused long enough to take a sip of water to salve his parched throat, but otherwise, he did not stop chanting spells or monitoring Harry's condition for the next four hours. He barely bothered to take a breath.

Dark had fully fallen by the time Severus looked up again. The fire was the only light in the room - in the house - and its flickering flames transformed the bookcases surrounding them into bulky, squarish beasts. As one of his last spells, he pulled an armchair closer to the sofa where Harry slept, which the boy would do now till he woke naturally, so he could drop down into it without needing to move any more. While one of his hands clutched his wand, his other still rested on Harry's forehead. He brushed gently at the boy's fringe, exposing the puckered, reddened flesh of the lightning bolt scar, before he let his hand fall to his side and sank back in the chair. He was absolutely exhausted. His clothes stuck to his body, at his back and sides, soaked with sweat. Healing took a lot out of him; out of any Healer, truth be told, and he had not been officially trained in that art.

Little evidence of Harry's accident remained but for the blood, which Severus now removed with a non-verbal Tergeo. His hands shook as the last of the blood vanished, trembling as if he had just undergone a dozen rounds of the Dark Lord's punishment. He clenched them tightly together, as if that would make them stop. But trembles wracked his whole body, and he felt like he was flying apart. Though he recognized the sensation as an excess of adrenaline, now that the emergency was past, he could do little about it. He had to remain here to monitor Harry's state, especially if the boy started to dream. Harry's nightmares would just top this whole situation off, he thought sourly, with cherries and a bit of whipped cream.

With a grimace, he stared at the boy's pale face, noting the lines of tension in Harry's face, even in sleep. Neither of them were like to get a break, he thought. But if Harry would just think betimes, and not run off like this, foolishly putting his life in danger at a whim. Merlin, Medraut and Morgause, what do I do with the boy? How can this ever work?

Obviously, Harry had completely disdained the rules - several of them - as they had been laid down. Severus didn't know whether his defiance was just pique, due to their earlier tiff, or for some other reason entirely. Perhaps this escapade meant his impulsiveness was less under his control than they'd thought. Merlin knew the boy was impulsive, though Severus had been hoping that the new, magical lesions would be helpful, rather than harmful.

Regardless, the two of them would need to rationally discuss this whole mess, despite the fact that Severus wanted, more than almost anything else, to just avoid what he knew was going to be an unpleasant confrontation. He was tired and angry and uncertain if he had done the right thing in bringing Harry here.

Perhaps he was completely unfit to be the boy's guardian.

Maybe it was time to call "uncle" and bow to the Headmaster's views, as well as Poppy Pomfrey's. Though he had thought he would be able to help Harry, perhaps they were right. Perhaps he was not up to this challenge. Had he had bitten off more than he could chew?

With a soft sigh, he shook his head, now resting in his hands. What did it matter if he had no reserves left, or if he was at the end of his rope with Harry? What other options did the boy have? Who else, if not he, did Harry have? Who else would take care of him, help him get over these trials, or even prepare him properly to meet the Dark Lord in a fight to the death.

No one. No one else, only Severus. Only Severus could take on this job, even if he did make a hash of it.

Impossibly, utterly spent, he waited for the boy to wake.

XOXOXOXXOXOXOXOOX

The screaming started an hour later. As they did every time, Harry's nightmares broke Severus' heart. Once more, he battled with Harry, first to waken him, and then to calm him down enough to breathe. Afterwards, when the boy's hyperventilating had given way to soft, almost inaudible sounds of distress, they talked in low tones about the nightmare, or rather, Severus tried to get Harry to talk. But there was little new material: Harry's uncle committing a series of progressively more bloody beatings, along with the boy's sense that he could not breathe and could not escape from that particular hell.

While talking, Severus reminded Harry several times of where they were, and who was in the room - and more importantly, who was not. Harry nodded in the right places but looked away when asked to express any of his feelings about the dream aside from, "Was bloody awful."

And then, though it was past half-ten, Severus broached the topic they both were dreading. That he was able to keep an even, level tone spoke wonders for his self-control. "What possessed you to go flying this afternoon?"

When Harry squinched up his face, as if he remembered doing no such thing, Severus decided to enlighten him, a bit more sharply. "I found your body near the Betula Pendula at the edge of the property and spent over four hours patching you back together again, from spleen to spine. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Harry's blank look was almost enough to send him over the edge, but finally the boy seemed to rouse what was left of his brain. Even while his cheeks grew red - which they would not have been able to manage without the recent Blood Replenishing Potion - he offered what he could of an explanation. "I needed to be outside. I haven't hardly been outside in weeks."

"I thought we had agreed you were not to go flying until I could accompany you."

Looking away again, the boy's shoulders came up. "Yeah."

Yeah? Yeah! "What, exactly, is 'yeah' supposed to mean?"

"Um. Er." A sigh, wherein Severus was hard put not to take the boy by the shoulders and shake sense into him. "I forgot."

"I don't believe you."

"You're callin' me a liar?"

"I am. Prove to me that you aren't."

Harry glared. "What? How'm I supposed to do that? You want to rummage 'round in my memories? Fine! Go ahead!"

With narrowed eyes, Severus almost took him up on the offer, but forbore to do so, knowing it would do nothing to resolve this situation. Perhaps Harry had forgotten about their agreement, but it did not explain the rest of his condition, which he had determined whilst doing his diagnostics. He nodded slowly, waited till Harry relaxed minutely, then went in for the kill. "You did, however, use Excito Sursum again, and I have a quite clear memory of your agreement to not use that particular spell again."

The boy's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "How . . ?"

"How I know is completely irrelevant to our discussion. You disobeyed by flying without me, and used a spell you knew was prohibited to you. The combination no doubt led to your crash into the tree, and very nearly, to your death." Severus crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring Harry, who was, characteristically, drawing ever more into himself as Severus lectured. But he would not be deterred. "I will not allow you to endanger yourself in this manner again." After a small pause, he added, "Since I did not see your broom out there when I rescued you, I am not even sure you could engage in like behavior again anyway."

For some unaccountable reason that statement brought tears to Harry's eyes. The damnable broom, given to him by a damnable mutt.

"Oh," Harry whispered. "Are you sure it's not-"

"Of course I'm not," Severus interrupted sharply. "It could be out there, broken in two pieces or ten, for all I know. I was rather pre-occupied, previously, with making sure you didn't bleed out."

"Oh," the boy replied, again, nonsensically. "Can I go and-"

"Absolutely not!" Severus was rapidly losing his temper, and he brought it up on short rein before he lost it completely. But the boy was focusing on the wrong details, as usual! "The bits will still be there when next you are allowed out of the house. At that time, likely to be far in the future, a simple Accio will bring them back."

"But I could-" he started again, more loudly.

"NO!" Severus cut him off. "Merlin's beard, boy, are you truly having so difficult a time understanding? You. Almost. Died. Through your own foolish behavior. Thus, I tell you now: You. Are. Grounded. No flying at all until I deem you responsible enough - and physically well enough - to not get yourself killed. And let me add that, unless we get your reliance on that damnable spell under control, you might never fly again."

"Wait! No! I can't believe you're doing this!" Harry yelled. He squirmed out from under the throw blanket that Severus had laid atop him some time ago, to keep him warm, even in front of the fire. As he fought free, his arms gleamed pale as bone in the reddish light of the sitting room. Though wobbly on his feet, Harry clenched his fists and bared his teeth in a fine old fit. "I have to fly! You can't tell me not to fly!"

"I can, and you won't; not till I believe you're safe on a broom."

Harry's chin went up defiantly. "I am safe!"

Severus sneered at the boy, who was wavering still, despite his anger, as if he might fall down even now. "Not if you're so exhausted that you fall asleep mid-flight!"

"I didn't!"

"You did. Even after casting that spell. And let me tell you, finding out you lied to me and broke your promise about Excito has done nothing to aid your case."

The boy's face screwed up in a fierce rictus, and he screamed, "I hate you!" When Severus, too tired to argue anymore, made no move to contradict him, the boy yelled it again, then fled to his room. The echo of his slamming door rocked the sitting room.

Once more, Severus put his head in his hands, with one thought playing over and over in his mind: Damn.

TBC….

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

A/N: Thanks to all who read and review! Alas, we still didn't get to the potions or the soup or the strings! Well, the soup, kind of, but it's more or less ruined at this juncture. Just leaves more stuff for next time.

Update: I have a new Yahoo group dedicated to readers of all my stories, where you can ask questions about plot, characters, what-have-you, get updates of new chapters, or chat with other readers. Please join, via the link on my profile page! We're waiting for you.

Before the Dawn – Chapter 9

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters. Only for the mean things I do to them.

Warnings: Language.

Previously on "Before the Dawn":

"You did. Even after casting that spell. And let me tell you, finding out you lied to me and broke your promise about Excito has done nothing to aid your case."

The boy's face screwed up in a fierce rictus, and he screamed, "I hate you!" When Severus, too tired to argue anymore, made no move to contradict him, the boy yelled it again, then fled to his room. The echo of his slamming door rocked the sitting room.

Once more, Severus put his head in his hands, with one thought playing over and over in his mind: Damn.

In his room, Harry fumed, his anger sending sparks up and down his body like a welder's torch. His hands were in tight fists, his teeth gritted; he felt them grind against each other, heard the grating sound. How dare that bastard tell him not to fly! How dare he ground Harry and pretend he was doing it for Harry? For his own good? What kind of shite was that? And how dare he try and feed it to Harry like it was ice cream?

Snarling and grousing, Harry paced and he fumed and he cursed Snape some more, worse than Vernon bloody Dursley had ever cursed his bloody nephew. He made up new curses that Bill Weasley could never ever break, and he yelled long lists of anatomical bits and parts that he would make boils erupt on, or make fall off, for anyone who had ever thwarted him, most especially Snape. Harry was shaking and growling and wishing he was far from here, far from this stupid little cottage in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, with a madman set on denying him the only pleasure he had in his whole miserable life, his whole insane, blasted, fucked up, miserable shite life. If he couldn't fly, he'd go mad . . . or madder, and he'd scream the walls down, and then, maybe then Snape would get a clue and quit acting like a bloody wanker, or like the greasy prat Harry had always known he was.

Before long, he was screaming wordlessly with inchoate rage. Everything in him was swirling and frantic and seething, and all unformed and real, more real, more primal than he had ever felt before. Everything he thought and felt and knew was reduced to want and need. He wanted to fly. He needed to fly. He wanted to scream; he needed to scream, so he screamed, again, and it was loud, the rough, snarling roar of the caged beast, for that was him, now. Caged. He wanted to break everything in this fucking room, break everything breakable everywhere, Snape be damned. Yes! Damn Snape. Damn him forever and ever! He hated that man and his sneers and his poking at things Harry didn't want poked, and his talking and his fucking condescension and nastiness and mocking and . . . and . . . everything he had ever done to make Harry's life miserable.

Harry raised his wand - when had he taken that out? - and found his fingers were numb, he was gripping it so hard, and the amber colored wood had bitten into his fingers. They were pinched white around the wand, and there was a bit of rust red on the wood itself. His blood, he realized, from the accident with the tree. The blood, and the realization that went along with it, gave him a momentary jolt of . . . sanity(?) before anger washed over him again. He raised his wand high above his head, intent on damage, somehow, then slashed it down sideways as he snarled some spell he had seen maybe once. The gesture was so dramatic he was sure it would level this damned room around him, if not the entire house.

Nothing happened.

In the aftermath of Harry's departure to his room and the slamming of his door, Severus had sighed softly, then enacted the cottage's failsafe, which he had hoped to avoid. He walked to the hearth, only a pace away, and placed his left palm on the stone slightly smaller than all the others and centered above the mantelpiece. Wand in his other hand, he closed his eyes and "spoke" to Dormenhause, letting it know of the special circumstances of its guests, particularly the one staying in the nearest bedroom to the sitting room.

Albus and he had gone round and round on this particular issue, but the Headmaster had finally convinced him - with good reason, Severus saw now - that he should learn the proper incantation in case such measures became necessary, and that he should keep an open mind about enacting them if circumstances required. That this kind of safety precaution was even possible here was one of the main reasons Albus had suggested - and Snape had acquiesced - to use Dormenhause in the first place. The cottage was not just an Unplottable safe house, able to put up between one and twenty lodgers at a time, but was also an inherently magical dwelling, as Hogwarts was, capable of adapting its wards, internal and external, to the needs of its occupants.

Though by no means as old as Hogwarts, Dormenhause had been in the Dumbledore family far longer than Albus had been alive, according to the man himself. Severus had no idea how much of the magic that infused the cottage had been added by the Headmaster during his stewardship of the place, or by stewards before Albus, nor how much had been part of its original creation. But one thing was sure: the cottage had magic aplenty in its very stones and beams.

Although as recently as the last war with the Dark Lord, Dormenhause had been used by the Order of the Phoenix as a safe house for the recuperation of those who had been injured or who needed a place of sanctuary and quiet contemplation, it had another function as well. Severus was personally familiar with both of the cottage's main uses. A number of years ago now, Albus had worked with the magic of Dormenhause to return Severus to health from a specific malady, and just as the Headmaster had once done for him, Severus would now do for Harry.

Muggles had numerous methods of mucking up their lives with addictive substances, whether drink or drugs or endorphins from pain. Wizards and witches had those opportunities, of course, but also many, many more. Potion addiction was one of the least dire ways a wizard could magically throw his core into a tailspin, and was thus one of the easiest to overcome. Depending on the kind of spell, or its derivation, becoming addicted to a particular spell, as Harry had done, was more difficult to heal from than potions, but not generally as bad as, say, overcoming the prolonged use of Dark Magic.

If Dormenhause had been able to assist Albus to get Severus to give up his addiction to Dark Magic, Severus was sure the place could aid him with Harry. That is, if Harry didn't manage to "accident" himself to death before they had a chance to work it all out. One of the first things the house would do, however, now that Severus had woken it to this purpose, was put special wards on all the rooms against particular spells - in this case, one specific spell - being cast inside them. The house would also closely monitor any spellwork going on within its walls, especially by Harry, and would actually prevent Harry from casting anything that could be considered harmful, to himself or others.

Of course, when the house had to do something like that, it would also alert Severus to the necessity, like a tiny compulsion charm that made him want to seek out his charge immediately.

Like he wanted to right now.

NOW!

Very well! Severus sighed, not looking forward to another confrontation so soon, but headed over to Harry's bedroom nevertheless, where he knocked at the door. To his surprise, he heard a distinct, "Come in," from within, instead of a snarl for him to go away. Inside, he found an intact Harry, though short-winded and staring at his wand - held in a white-knuckled grip - as if it had betrayed him. Which, in a way, because of the house, it had.

Softly, calmly, so as to avoid any unpleasantness of more spells going awry, Severus said, "What were you trying to cast?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. His voice sounded hoarse, as if he had been yelling, but Severus hadn't heard anything. Perhaps, as an added bonus, the house could muffle any childish yowling and carrying on, so long as Harry wasn't actively hurting himself. It was obvious the boy had been having some sort of fit: he hadn't been in his room more than twenty minutes, but he was panting as if he had been running for his life, his hair was standing almost on end, and sweat ran down his face almost like tears. "Why won't it work?"

After considering for a moment, Severus settled on telling him the truth, to see what the boy made of it. "Dormenhause is protecting you, from yourself."

Harry turned his green gaze on Severus, and instead of the rage he'd expected after the earlier outburst, Severus saw only exhaustion in the boy's expression and stance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Still trying for gentle, Severus said, "After you used the spell you've become addicted to, I had to wake the house to its other function. You won't be able to cast Excito Sursum anymore, nor any spell that will do damage to yourself, the house, or to me."

"I wouldn't hurt y . . . anything," Harry protested, and Severus wondered briefly which spell the house had thwarted.

"Dormenhause will keep you at your word, for now."

"What's that mean? It's just a house, right?"

"No. It isn't. I told you before how it can expand itself, if necessary, to hold more people. The house can also protect those within as they recuperate from various illnesses."

Though he was practically swaying on his feet, Harry managed a frown that was almost a glare, as if insulted by the idea he was in need of recuperation. "Like me."

"Yes, like you." Severus stepped forward as the boy swayed dangerously. "I think it's time-"

"Will it keep me from having nightmares?" Harry interrupted. "Will it protect me from those? Or will it just keep me from casting spells that help me deal with them?"

"Harry," Severus said, taking another step towards him. "You aren't dealing with the nightmares. With that spell, you were pushing them, and all other dreams, away, which was just making you sicker."

Harry's chin came up. "I'm not sick."

"Well, no, that's not what I meant. You aren't sick, as such, but you aren't healthy either. You're not sleeping, not eating well, getting no exercise . . . We're only staying here to help you get back to healthy."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Harry sneered. "And the house is protecting me."

"It is."

"You didn't say if it was going to keep the nightmares away."

Severus was right in front of Harry now, but even though he wanted to reach out and clasp the boy's shoulder in comfort, he didn't dare to, not just because of their recent argument, but also because Harry was obviously - with his attitude and his crossed arms - erecting a barrier he wanted no one to cross just now. "I didn't say, because I don't know."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Great."

"Even if it could take them away, that wouldn't be you dealing-"

"What is this hang-up you have with 'dealing'? Why should I have to deal with nightmares? Why not banish them? It's not like they're good for me."

"I know," Severus agreed. "They're fairly nasty."

Looking away, Harry hunched up his shoulders. "What do you know?"

Severus sighed. "Only what you've told me. From that, I've inferred a bit more."

"They suck."

"Yes."

"And I can't sleep, and I'm so tired I could die."

"I know."

"And I didn't know what else to do, and that spell seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I imagine so."

"And I hate you for never letting me fly again."

The words hit Severus like a punch to the gut. He knew Harry didn't really hate him, but the boy had said it twice now, and so casually . . . And he'd never said Harry couldn't fly again! Before making a quick excuse, however, since Harry had certainly been left with a different impression from what Severus had intended, he thought over his words, trying to recall what exactly he had said. He realized that, yes, from a certain point of view - such as Harry's - a threat of "no flying, ever" was what his punishment had sounded like. He shook his head slowly, and saw Harry looking at him again, warily, from under his fringe.

"No, Harry. I can see how you thought that, how you might have interpreted my words. But I only meant you were not to go flying again until you are safe doing so. That means fully rested and physically well enough to sit a broom without crashing."

Harry stared at him for a long moment before letting out a long sigh. "Oh."

Oh.

"It's late," Severus said after another minute. "Tonight I'm going to give you a Dreamless Sleep potion, so you can get at least one good night's sleep, all right? We'll worry about trying to undo the damage from that spell tomorrow."

Harry nodded heavily. His arms hung by his sides as if he wasn't sure what to do with them, but then he shrugged with another, smaller nod. "Yeah, okay."

Severus didn't bother to correct his manners, but left to get the potion from his storeroom in the basement. When he returned, Harry had already changed into pajamas and was settled in the comfortable looking bed, battling to keep his eyes open. To his credit, he barely made a face as he swallowed the noisome draught Severus handed him.

"You shouldn't have any dreams tonight," Severus told him, "But in case you do, I promise I'll be here to help you through them. Even if I don't hear you, the house will let me know if you need me."

There was a peculiar look on Harry's face that Severus could not begin to interpret, so he didn't try. He was half way to the door again when he was stopped by Harry's call of, "Sir?"

"Yes, Harry?"

His words came out slowly, but he rallied against the potion enough to say, "What're those strings you mentioned? You said you'd tell later."

"I did," Severus agreed.

"C'n'ya tell me now?"

"I can," he said with a small twitch of a smile.

That drew a huff of almost-laughter from the boy. "Will you?"

"Certainly. The Headmaster wished for me to make sure you were not . . . lonely during your recuperation. Thus, I was allowed to take time off from work, and take you away from school to help you regain your health, if I agreed to allow your friends to visit occasionally." He paused, considered the Gryffindors in question. "Very occasionally."

Harry's eyes were wide. "Ev'n Ron?"

"As much as it pains me, yes."

An actual smile appeared for a few brief seconds on Harry's face, before it slackened in sleep as the potion won. Quietly, Severus returned to the bed, and tucked the blanket in more securely - something he would never do were the boy conscious - then lay a hand lightly on his forehead. "Sleep well, Harry," he murmured. "Tonight, at least."

TBC….

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

A/N: Thanks to all who read and review! Strawberry lemonade and Danish butter cookies all around!

Before the Dawn – Chapter 10

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters. Only for the mean things I do to them.

Warnings: Language. Reference to abuse.

Previously on "Before the Dawn":

An actual smile appeared for a few brief seconds on Harry's face, before it slackened in sleep as the potion won. Quietly, Severus returned to the bed, and tucked the blanket in more securely - something he would never do were the boy conscious - then lay a hand lightly on his forehead. "Sleep well, Harry," he murmured. "Tonight, at least."

From the Journal of Harry J. Potter:

September 18, 1996 9:45amI really and seriously screwed up. Snape is probably going to throw me out on my arse, and he'd be right to, considering the way I treated him yesterday. I remember screaming at him that I hated him, but I didn't mean it, not really. He was just . . . he took away my broom, or said it was broken or . . . something, I can't even really remember. And my head hurt, and I used that damn spell, the one I said I wouldn't, but I can't help it. I don't want to sleep, 'cause the nightmares are so bad, and that spell helps me stay awake. Except that it didn't, and I crashed into that tree. I don't even remember doing that, but Snape said I did, and he never lies to me, even when I wish he would. I remember going outside, and starting to fly, and then I woke up on the sofa in front of the fire, and then I was yelling at him. Something weird happened in my room last night, when I tried to cast a spell, though I'm not even sure what spell I wanted, just that it was going to be messy. But Snape said the house is protecting me, or protecting itself from me, or something. He said I wouldn't be able to cast spells that hurt it, or him, or me. Weird house.

Snape didn't seem angry last night, though, when he gave me the Dreamless Sleep potion. And I finally had a decent night's sleep. But he'll probably punish me for being stupid about that Excito spell, and I can't blame him. I just wish I knew what the fuck was wrong with me.

I'm just so tired. I just want it all to stop.

Though Severus rose around 6am, as he always did, he let Harry sleep in the next day, hoping the boy could make up some of the deficit he had been creating, by getting little or no sleep for the last several weeks. Last night's dose of Dreamless Sleep had been enough to knock the boy out for twelve hours, if his sleep wasn't interrupted, so Severus did not even consider waking him until almost noon. He would not allow that sort of lying in everyday, of course, but this once would be good for Harry's health.

He was in the sitting room, reading a book on Muggle child psychology when the door to Harry's room eased open, and the boy sidled into the hallway, as if he feared punishment. And though Severus was certain the boy deserved something for the hash he'd made of yesterday, he had already decided that Harry breaking his bones in the crash, and losing his broom to the tree was punishment enough this time. Especially since Harry's lack of sleep had been playing havoc with his ability to apply rationality to virtually any situation.

"Harry," he called. "Come in here, please."

Harry obeyed, and entered the sitting room with his head down, obviously contrite. Severus took a breath, but before he could say anything, Harry surprised him by speaking first. "I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't thinking, yesterday, and um, I didn't mean it, what I said to you out here."

Lifting an eyebrow, Severus waited until Harry glanced up at him through his fringe. Catching the young man's eye, he said, "I forgive you."

Half of Harry's mouth quirked up in a sardonic smile, but he looked away again. "Yeah, okay. Good."

Severus nodded. "Breakfast is available for you in the kitchen. I put a warming charm on a plate of eggs, bacon and toast. The cabinet next to the sink has a cooling charm on it; you'll find juice in there. I want you to eat and then come back in here, all right?"

"Okay." Harry bit his lip, eyebrows coming down as he frowned. "Are we going to do exercises again?"

"Not today. I don't think your body is ready for that, yet, after yesterday's accident."

Harry nodded, drawing a heavy breath. He met Severus' gaze for an instant, then looked away again. "About that . . . I really am sorry-"

"I know, Harry," Severus said, making his voice as gentle as he could. "We'll talk about that later, though. Please go eat some breakfast."

"Yes, sir." He headed into the kitchen, and Severus could hear him moving around out there, opening cabinets and pouring juice. Then it was quiet but for the almost inaudible sound of cutlery on porcelain.

For most of the morning, Severus had been considering what they were going to do, how exactly they were going to get past this addiction of Harry's, and also deal with the underlying causes. He had consulted a number of books, not just the one he was currently perusing, and hoped he was on the right track.

When Harry returned, he slipped into the room as quiet as a mouse, and with all the self-confidence of one, as well. He was frightened, Severus realized, but of what, he could not divine. He watched the boy for a few moments, as Harry eased himself onto the sofa as if it might break, then nibbled on thumbnails and cuticles, flexed and tapped his sock-covered feet on the floor, and bit into and released his bottom lip over and over. Nervous, definitely. Scared and self-flagellating, certainly.

Was he ready for a talk?

Severus pursed his lips for a moment, then waved his wand in a figure eight, then a square. Moments later, a tea set floated into the room, complete with sugar bowl and tongs for the cubes. He suppressed a smile when Harry groaned softly from his seat.

"It's been a while since we had tea," Severus said, and waved the levitating set onto the table in front of the sofa.

"There's a reason for that," Harry replied.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I don't like tea." He huffed when Severus gazed at him in silence, and lowered his eyes. "Not this kind anyway."

"It is my belief that this will help us both figure out the best way to help you."

"I don't need any help," Harry said, but his heart didn't seem to be in it.

"I think you do. So does the Headmaster. And your friends."

"Sod my friends!" Harry's fists clenched in his lap. "They won't even come and visit me anymore!"

"Language, please, Mr. Potter."

"Don't call me that," Harry snarled under his breath.

"Don't give me cause," Severus countered.

There was silence for a few minutes, as their battle of wills filled the space between them. "I don't like tea," Harry repeated at last, pouting slightly. When Severus merely raised an eyebrow, he amended, "Tea time, anyway."

"I know. But it is necessary."

"Is it really? Or do you just like torturing me?"

Severus gazed at Harry for several long moments. "You and I both know," he said quietly, "that what happens in our talks is not torture. We have both seen - and been through - actual torture."

Harry hung his head. "I know. Sorry."

"Why do you say these conversations are like torture, though?"

"I dunno."

Severus was not going to let him off the hook this time. "Of course you do. Tell me."

Harry merely shrugged and looked away.

"Harry," Severus said, his tone a little sharper this time. "Tell me."

A one shoulder shrug, and quiet words, "I don't like talking about my feelings and stuff. It's stupid."

"Stupid?"

"Lame. Makes me feel like an idiot. A wanker. Like I can't handle anything on my own."

"What can't you handle?"

"Anything."

"Be specific, please."

"I don't know."

Severus shook his head. "If you can't come up with a specific thing you don't want to talk about, how about we just talk until you do?"

With another shrug - which Severus was becoming heartily sick of - Harry agreed. Sort of. "I guess."

Severus was willing to accept that as a go-ahead, no matter how half-hearted it was. "Excellent. Let's discuss your recent nightmares."

Immediately, Harry hunched in on himself and shook his head. "I don't want to."

"I imagine this might be one of those things you feel you can't handle."

A sigh, and a small nod.

"If you want, I can go inside your mind and look, instead of having you talk about it," Severus offered.

The blood drained from Harry's already pale face. "No! That's . . . No, I'll tell you. Just don't do that." Severus nodded in acquiescence, but another ten minutes passed before Harry spoke again, long enough that Severus was tempted to bring up another topic, but he really wanted for Harry to pull himself through this one. For ten minutes, Harry twisted his hands together, clenched and unclenched his hands, changed his position on the couch, looked out of the window, and then down at the rug, and drew a number of very heavy breaths, just to sigh them out again. Finally, the boy whispered, "I'm a monster."

"In your dreams," Severus said, making it not quite a question.

"Them, too."

"Why do you think you're becoming a monster?"

"You mean, why am I a monster."

"No. You are not one."

"I am."

Severus frowned. Harry seemed so certain. "Why do you think so?"

"You saw what I did."

Recalling what Miss Granger had told him, he said, "To Lucius Malfoy, you mean?"

"Yes! Even Hermione thinks I'm dangerous. That I'm a monster. And she's right! I'm dangerous. A killer. I almost killed him, and I wanted to. I wanted to-"

"Harry. You're hyperventilating. Slow down. Take one slow breath, easy . . . let it out . . . good." Severus waited while Harry's breathing returned to normal - or as close as it got these days - before he continued. "I have spoken with Miss Granger, and she is concerned-"

"Concerned! She's scared spitless-"

"No, Harry. She is concerned that you are blaming yourself for what happened to Mr. Malfoy. She informed me that you were avoiding her and Mr. Weasley because you were afraid of hurting them."

Harry nodded. "Because I could. I would. I hurt Malfoy-"

"You kept Lucius from kidnapping you. You acted in self-defense."

"And almost killed him."

"But you did not kill him."

"But I wanted to! Don't any of you understand?" Harry rubbed his hands over his face. "Can't you see? I'm dangerous. I can't be trusted. You should lock me up in Azkaban and throw away the key."

Severus watched Harry for a few minutes. The young man really believed what he was saying. Severus realized he would need to say the same words over and over before they would hopefully, eventually, sink in. Harry was wrong, but it would take a good while before he accepted that. "You did not kill him. You didn't kill anyone."

"I wanted to."

Severus smiled, just a little. "I've wanted to kill a lot of people. I daresay most people want to kill someone else, every day. But you did not kill Lucius Malfoy," and he held up a hand to keep Harry from interrupting again, "and the important part of that statement is to consider the question: Why didn't you kill him?"

That stopped him. Harry's hands were twined together around his tea cup as he stared at them. "Because you . . . because you told me to stop."

Severus sat forward and waited till Harry met his gaze. "Tell me, Harry, would a monster have listened to me? Would a monster have stopped because I asked him to, when he had his enemy in his grasp? Or would a monster have killed anyway?" He could see Harry wavering, so he pushed, "Lucius Malfoy hurt you in the most vile way possible, and no one would have blamed you if you had killed him. He tortured you. He raped you. He was going to kidnap you to quite possibly do even worse, and yet you did not take his life when given the chance. You took the higher ground, Harry. Lucius Malfoy was the monster in that situation. You were not."

Staring at his hands again, Harry hunched his shoulders. But he looked like he was at least considering Severus' words instead of dismissing them outright. They sipped their tea in silence for a while before Severus said, "Has that been the primary issue with your nightmares? Turning into a monster?"

Harry nodded. "Mostly. Some other stuff, too."

"Such as?"

Harry shrugged.

"Please don't shrug, Harry. All that tells me is that you don't care enough about the conversation to think about an answer."

Harry clenched his jaw this time, but gave a jerky nod. "Okay, fine. I sometimes feel like I'm choking."

"Such as what your uncle did to you."

Nodding, Harry gripped his tea cup hard and stared into its depths. "I never really thought that what he did hurt me, though."

Severus barely kept his jaw from dropping. "He choked you into unconsciousness. Several times."

"Yeah. But it didn't hurt, really."

"Except that it did," Severus pointed out hotly. He still could not fathom what few morals a man had to possess that he would repeatedly choke his much smaller nephew until he blacked out. How did a man come to be like that? "Even if you didn't feel as much pain as other people might have from the abuse, what he did caused you damage."

"Brain damage," Harry said bitterly.

"Among other things." Severus took a long sip of tea, then refilled his cup. He glanced at the boy as he prepared it to his liking, watching the lip gnawing and cuticle picking continue. "Did you understand what Madam Pomfrey and I talked to you about the other day?"

"I guess so. She said my uncle caused some brain damage, and it's why I had a hard time concentrating on school work, right?"

"That, and the difficulty you have curbing your impulsive behavior. It's possible that, many times, when you might have stopped and thought about what you were doing, and perhaps considered other possibilities than the course you took, you did not stop. You did not even think about stopping to reconsider. That part of your brain was damaged. Does that make sense?"

Harry started to shrug, but with a frown from Severus, turned it into rubbing his ear against his shoulder, as if it were itchy. He muttered, "Sorry. I don't know. I guess so."

Severus pursed his lips, ran his index finger along them as he did when he was thinking. "Let me give you a concrete example, shall I? When you were a Second Year and learned what kind of creature was causing students to be paralyzed-"

"The basilisk."

"Yes," Severus said, and tried not to bristle at the interruption. It was another part of the brain damage, he reminded himself. Impulsiveness was difficult to counter. "When you heard that Professor Lockhart was going after the creature, what did you do?"

"Ron and me went to tell him what we knew - that it was a basilisk, and that we knew where the entrance to the Chamber was."

"And what did you find out when you saw him?"

"That wanker was going to run away! He was packing and everything, and he wasn't even going to try and save Ginny. He didn't even care that she was dying!"

Severus ignored the vulgarity, and went on, "What could you have done then?"

"Well, me and Ron took out our wands and made him go into the Chamber of Secrets anyway. I figured out the entrance was in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, so we made him go down the tunnel with us to rescue Ginny."

"That's what you did. The end result was that you had to fight the basilisk alone and nearly died, and Miss Weasley nearly died as well. But what could you have done instead?"

"Huh?"

"When you realized Professor Lockhart was not going to be any help, why did you not seek out another teacher?"

Harry's eyes went wide.

"Professor McGonagall, for instance, given your House, would have been an admirable choice. Or the Headmaster, or even myself . . ."

"I didn't . . ."

"Stop and think?"

"Yeah."

"Just so."

TBC….

A/N: Thanks to all who read and review! You're the Best! You're like a purring cat on my lap, like chocolate ice cream in a waffle cone, like a day at the beach, body surfing in the waves. Hugs and stuff for all!

Before the Dawn – Chapter 11

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters. Only for the mean things I do to them.

Warnings: Language. Reference to abuse.

-HPSSHPSSHPSS-

Previously on "Before the Dawn":

"When you realized Professor Lockhart was not going to be any help, why did you not seek out another teacher?"

Harry's eyes went wide.

"Professor McGonagall, for instance, given your House, would have been an admirable choice. Or the Headmaster, or even myself . . ."

"I didn't . . ."

"Stop and think?"

"Yeah."

"Just so."

Harry frowned, even as he agreed with Snape. That wasn't the way he remembered crises ever happening. He never had time to think about stuff like that. In the instance they were talking about, Ginny might not have survived if he'd gone asking around for other teachers when Lockhart ended up being a wanker. Besides: "It's not like I had much choice," he said.

Snape lifted an eyebrow - something he clearly practiced, as he was so good at it. "I should not even dignify such a preposterous statement with a response, but I imagine you must have a reason for making it. So tell me, what is it?"

"My reason?"

"No, your shoe size."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You don't have to be all sarcastic about it."

A spark of humor lit the professor's eyes. "Clearly, I do."

This time, Harry had to smile. Snape was right, after all; without sarcasm, he would be nearly monotone. "So, anyway, my reason for not going to find McGonagall or you-"

"Professor McGonagall, Harry."

That particular error was something he was taken to task for quite often, and he honestly wasn't sure how to stop doing it, and how to start using titles of respect for people he didn't really respect all that much. But he knew he had to, at least around other professors . . . and especially around his new guardian. Snape didn't tolerate any forms of disrespect from students, and especially not from Harry. At any rate, he huffed a breath at being interrupted and said, "All right! Why Ron and I didn't find Professor McGonagall, or Dumble- rather, Professor Dumbledore, or Professor Yourself-" Snape's eyes glinted in humor again - "or any of you, to tell what we knew about the Chamber, besides there likely not being enough time to save Ginny if I had, was that I'd tried to, before. But no one ever listened. You know what they say about doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different result? How that's like a definition of insanity? Well, I was sick to death of being insane and wanted pure, unadulterated sanity for once."

Snape's eyes narrowed, not amused anymore. "Explain. Who did you tell, about what problems, who then ignored you?"

"Do you want a list?" The frank look Snape leveled at him spoke quite loudly for exactly that. "Fine. Once I realized my home life wasn't like other kids', I told teachers in my day school, about not having a room, not getting enough to eat, and not having clothes, whenever they asked why I wore raggedy things that were too big for me. Never once did anything good come of it. Instead, I was smacked around, starved and locked in the cupboard. Just like every other time I opened my mouth or made a fuss."

Snape nodded solemnly. They had spent several tea-times going over the Dursleys' hateful behavior towards him. He wasn't "over it" by any means; their treatment of him for most of his life wasn't something a person just got over. But at least he had relegated the issues he had with his aunt, uncle and cousin to a back burner, now that he had other, more pressing issues to deal with, like Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy.

"These teachers you told . . ."

Harry gripped his teacup, hating that he had to talk about this stuff again, but Snape had told him before that the more he talked about it, the less it would hurt. Harry wasn't sure that was true, but he was game to try. "The first two or three years I attended school, I tried to let them know what was going on. I mean, damn, I was covered in bruises some days from Dudley's 'games,' and I never had a lunch with me, nor was I allowed to go home for meals, and I don't think I ever wore new clothes, or ones that even remotely fit, except when someone from Child Services was due to call. And then I got clean clothes and a reminder to mind my tongue and tell them nothing was wrong, or I'd never see food again, once the caller was gone. I learned to keep my mouth shut."

Snape pursed his lips, looking thoughtful, then gave a single curt nod. "Continue. Why did you think you could not approach your Head of House about the Chamber of Secrets, a topic which has nothing to do with the Dursleys?" Harry was glad to see Snape's mouth twist sourly on the name of that accursed family, but he still had to answer the question.

"Because of the Sorcerer's Stone."

"I beg your pardon? What has one to do with the other?"

"Just that when I knew . . . someone was going to steal the stone," Harry said, skipping over the fact that, at the time, he and his friends had thought Snape was the thief, "I went to . . . Professor McGonagall and told her. Me, Ron and Hermione. I asked to see Professor Dumbledore, and she said he had been called away to London suddenly and wouldn't be back for hours. So we knew the call to the Headmaster was a ruse, and the thief would try to get the stone that night. When I tried to tell her so, she said we didn't know what we were talking about, and the stone was perfectly safe. I told her someone was going to steal it, but she still didn't believe us, wouldn't even listen. She dismissed our concerns and made us go outdoors since it was 'such a nice day.'"

Harry recalled what had happened right after that: he and his friends had been standing in the hall, trying to decide how to protect the stone and keep Snape from it, when Snape had come up behind them and threatened Harry with expulsion if he were caught in the halls again at night. Of course, Harry had thought it was another mark against Snape's innocence, but really, he'd just wanted to make sure Harry was safe in bed while Quirrell-mort was wandering around. Probably.

"She treated us like we couldn't possibly know anything about the stone that she didn't. Like we were children," Harry finished.

"You were children," Snape said. "No more than eleven or twelve years old, all three of you."

Harry gave Snape a hard look, reminding him that Harry, at least, had never truly been a child, except for his first fifteen months. "So we knew then that none of the adults would listen to us and we had to stop the thief ourselves. And we did, by going through a maze. I still can't figure out why all the professors thought it was so secure, if a couple of Firsties could get through all those traps in an hour. But anyway, at the very end, I was all alone in front of the mirror, and I faced Old Voldie by myself and cast him out of Quirrell's body-" nothing was going to make him call that man Professor, "-and killed Quirrell. So, in my second year, when faced with a similar situation, I chose sanity."

Snape studied him for a moment more before shaking his head minutely. Then he rested his forehead on the palms of his hands before rubbing temples briefly. He drew a slow breath and let it out, but he still sounded pained when he said, "Every time we have our talks, I think we've come to the last time this will happen, the last instance in which I learn how we failed you, Harry. The last wasted opportunity to gain your trust, when we instilled mistrust instead. And every time, I am proven wrong again." He looked up then, and caught Harry's gaze. His dark eyes were soft and sorrowful, and Harry did not understand why. "I must once more marvel at your resilience, your ability to still find, somewhere deep inside you, the where-with-all to trust me even the dearest little bit when, as you say, you have been taught over and over that adults are untrustworthy louts who will betray you, the first chance they get. I am so sorry, Harry."

Harry shook his head. "Don't. Please. It's not your fault."

Snape grasped Harry's hand and held it, not letting go, and neither would he look away. "Perhaps not all of it, but I am certainly at fault for my share in your misery, in your inability to share your troubles with the adults in your life, and in the difficulty you have asking for help. And I am sorry, for my part."

Frowning, Harry nodded quickly and took his hand back, wanting to move on, away from the discomfort of anyone apologizing to him. He didn't deserve anything like that, no good, ungrateful wretch that he-

"What is it, Harry?" Snape asked.

"Just hearing stuff in my head." Even as he said it, he knew it was a mistake.

Snape sat forward, looking worried. "The Dark Lord? Is he invading your-"

Harry shook his head again. "No, not like that. I meant, I was thinking, but it was with my uncle's voice, thinking I didn't deserve your apology, that no one as screwed up and unloved as me deserved anything like that." He shrugged, then stopped, knowing Snape hated shrugs, and muttered, "Sorry. But I never really realized that before, how what he said to me all the time . . . that stuff really messed with my head."

Snape looked pained. "Of course it did."

"What's wrong?"

"Where do I start?" Snape asked.

"Oh, great. You're saying I'm a total basket case then?"

"No, of course not. All I meant was, my paradigm has shifted again, and it's going to take me a bit to get back on the broom, so to speak. I am the one who is feeling out of place and out of sorts." Snape spent the next few minutes pouring himself a fresh cup of tea and doctoring it to his tastes, though he seemed to usually prefer it black. After taking a slow sip, he leaned back in his chair. "Tell me more about this voice which sounds suspiciously like your uncle. When is he at his loudest?"

Harry considered the question, though he didn't really need to. He knew when Uncle Vernon's criticisms were all he could hear. It was just embarrassing to talk about, especially with an adult. Especially with a guy.

"You know, don't you," said Snape, perceptive as always. "But you don't wish to say."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, but at a look, amended the answer to, "Yes."

"I want to remind you," Snape said quietly, "that I will not judge you on anything we talk about during tea time."

"I know."

"Do you, honestly?"

Harry knew what he meant, and he could only shake his head a little. "Sometimes he's louder than you. And he doesn't think so. He's always judging me."

"Yes, that's what I thought." Snape waited patiently and, after putting down his cup, steepled his hands on his chest. The dark curtain of his hair covered part of one eye, and Harry thought it was a clever way to hide; no one could see him full on. Snape often swept the hair away when they were talking, but not this time. "When is it worst?"

Harry swallowed and stared into his teacup, unable to meet even half of Snape's gaze. "When anyone tells me they care."

"About you . . . ?"

Harry nodded. "About what I think or do or say or feel. No one cares, he says. . . . He said. All the time. No one could ever care about an nasty little freak like me, not even my parents, who were lay about drunkards who deserved what they got, just like I deserved what I got, which was nothing. No one cares about an in-the-way nothing like me."

Harry's hands were clenched around his cup now, and he felt such desperate sadness and immeasurable longing, all at once. "I wanted so much to belong," he whispered, "to be part of their family. I would have done anything - I did do anything, anything they wanted, whenever or whatever they asked or demanded of me, and all I wanted was for them to treat me like one of them, for them to look at me and see me, see Harry. For them to want me, even just a little, to care what happened to me, and maybe even love me. But they never did. They couldn't stand the sight of me. I was just so alone . . ."

At some point, Snape had come and sat down beside Harry on the sofa, and he now offered one thing the Dursleys never had: a shoulder to cry on. Harry accepted the offer, even if he didn't deserve it. Hot tears ran down his cheeks and over his lips, tasting salty, as he pressed his face to the front of Snape's shirt. Snape's arms went around him, and one hand rubbed up and down his back, soothingly, the other cupping the back of his head, as Harry cried himself out.

How many times had he wished Aunt Petunia would hold him as a child, when he fell and hurt himself, or when he woke with nightmares about his parents' death? How many times had he watched as Dudley's hurts were tended and his own wounds were ignored and left gaping?

Too many, came the answer from deep within his core. Too many to make up for now.

But Snape soothed him and continued to let him sob on his shoulder, and Harry did so, for as long as he had tears. By the time he finished, his bones felt watery, and the skin on his face ached from salty tears and tense muscles. But . . . he felt better. Lighter. Less weighed by stress, as if a long crying jag was somehow cathartic. Harry had heard of such a thing, but had never experienced it for himself.

Snape continued to pat Harry's back as his breathing returned to normal. "Feeling better?" He didn't even sound sarcastic.

"Yea, er, yes, I think I am," Harry replied, surprised.

"Good." Snape eased back and peered into Harry's eyes for a few long moments before nodding. "Good. I think we've had enough tea for one day, yes? Let's have some lunch, then I'll show you the rest of the basement."

Since the previous day's trip to the basement had not been on Harry's list of Things I Want to Repeat, he tensed immediately.

Snape shifted on the sofa to see his face. "Harry, talk to me. Tell me what just went through your mind."

Giving a one shoulder shrug and looking away was not enough of a reply, apparently, since Snape followed that with, "Don't do that. Don't shut me out. Tell me what's troubling you about the basement."

"You think I'm weak."

"What? Where did that come from?"

"You do. I couldn't do the exercises yesterday and you knew it!" The words kept tumbling out of his mouth, as if he couldn't stop them. "Then you told me to go away. You didn't think I was even trying, and I was, I swear! I'm sorry I'm so stupid and brain damaged and everything, but I was trying-"

"Stop, Harry," Snape said sharply. At a glance, the professor's face was troubled, and maybe surprised, like this was all new to him. "Look at me. I'm not sure what gave you the impression that I thought you were weak or that you weren't trying your best."

"You were right there!"

Snape did the pursed lips thing he did when he was trying to recall something, then shook his head. "Why don't you tell me what you remember. Perhaps I said something that you interpreted in a way I did not intend."

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. Just forget it."

"I won't," Snape said, and he probably wouldn't, Harry thought with a sigh. "How will I know if I've pushed you away in the future, when you don't tell me what I've done to push you away in the past?"

Stupid logic. Harry sighed again. "I was tired, that was all. I wasn't, I didn't need to leave or anything, but you didn't want me to stay. When I offered to go, you just said to go. You were angry about the stuff I asked about Old Voldie, and didn't want to work on my legs anymore."

"Seems like your memory is up to snuff," Snape said laconically.

"I've always thought it was."

"Except when it comes to your lessons."

"That's harder to remember. I can't . . . um, I don't know how to explain. School work doesn't fit into one of the shelves."

Snape cocked a brow. "Shelves?"

"Where I put memories. Don't you . . ." He trailed off. Of course no one else used shelves in their minds for memories. He was the only freak who did.

"Tell me about these shelves. They sound interesting."

"Yeah, right."

"What is with this attitude, Mr. Potter?"

"You're not supposed to call me that."

"Only when I'm angry, and I'm not angry. I am, however, concerned."

"About me?" Harry scoffed.

"Of course about you, silly child. Have I not done everything I can, these last few months, to take care of you, to care for you? Know this, Harry: I understand why you don't believe me. I understand that your relatives drilled into you the fact that no one could ever care about you. But I do. I find you an amusing, caring, kind and wonderful young man, who I hope will one day realize his own potential and find happiness as an adult. I will not give up on you, even when you want me to, and I will tell you I find things interesting about how you think, because the things you say and think are interesting, and I'll ask you about your school work, or how I could better be there for you, because that is what a true parent does."

A bit overwhelmed by this outpouring, Harry could only duck his head a little, with a pleased smile on the corners of his lips.

"All right?" Snape asked.

"All right," Harry agreed. And for a little while, it was.

TBC….

A/N: Thanks to all who read and/or review! You're the Best! Harry and Snapalicious hugs for everyone!

Before the Dawn – Chapter 12

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters. Only for the mean things I do to them.

Warnings: Language. Reference to abuse.

-HPSSHPSSHPSS-

Previously on "Before the Dawn":

A bit overwhelmed by this outpouring, Harry could only duck his head a little, with a pleased smile on the corners of his lips.

"All right?" Snape asked.

"All right," Harry agreed. And for a little while, it was.

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

After lunch the two of them went into the basement, and Snape showed Harry the potions lab he had set up down there. It was eerily reminiscent of the lab in Snape's quarters at Hogwarts, except the walls were less dungeon like. Full shelves of bottled ingredients lined the walls, and at least a dozen cauldrons of different sizes took up two more large shelving units. There were two distinct work stations, but each had room for two people to work together on one potion, if needed.

"Wow. You set this up in just minutes yesterday."

"Yes," Snape said.

"How . . .?"

"Did I manage it so quickly?" Harry nodded, and Snape gave him a small smile. "I have packed and unpacked my traveling lab many, many times. Now it rarely takes more than a few minutes to put everything to rights." After a pause, when Harry was going to ask "How" again, he added, "With magic, Harry. A few special spells I created, and with a wave of my wand, everything is put away."

Harry grinned. "So wand waving is good for something in potions after all."

"Cheeky."

"That's me."

A tiny smile curved the corner of Snape's lips. "I would like to start working on the first of several dream potions for you today. Are you up for it?"

Harry stared, stunned. "You want me to help? On a potion?"

"Of course."

"But . . ." Harry didn't know what to say besides, "Don't you think I'm incompetent?"

Shape's eyes narrowed. "No. I do not. I think sometimes you don't pay as much attention as you could. But I think, at least in part, you were incapable of adhering to minute details. I have noticed that, since your brush with strong mind magic this summer, and the subsequent lesions on your brain, your attention to details in potion making has increased substantially."

"You think the lesions have helped, then?"

"Yes. I do."

Harry bit his lip. "I don't know about that, sir. I think . . ."

"What is it, Harry? Do you disagree?"

"Somewhat." Before Snape could yell at him - not that he would, necessarily, but Harry could hardly tell - he rushed on, "I think I'm better at potions 'cause I don't have to worry about you blaming me for everything that goes wrong in class. Not to mention, I don't have Slytherins sabotaging my potions, and you're not standing over me and glaring all the time. I'm not as nervous about making them, now."

Snape was quiet for more than a minute, rubbing his index finger over his lips, as he often did when he was thinking, Harry had noticed. Finally, he nodded slowly. "It is possible," he admitted.

"That maybe my troubles weren't just due to brain damage?" Harry pressed. "That maybe I could've done well in your class these last five years, if I'd just been given the chance to?"

"Indeed."

Harry felt like he had won something, though he wasn't sure of what, exactly. "So . . . what's this potion?"

Snape went into a long explanation of the particulars of the experimental potion, and how certain ingredients would interact with others, and Harry was surprised to find he understood at least half - if not more - of what he was talking about. Not that he could have come up with such a thing on his own, but he didn't feel so completely out of his depth as he usually did when listening to Snape wax on about his favorite things.

"The first stage needs to rest for ten hours after it is done, so we may as well make it now, and we can start the next stage tomorrow morning."

"Sounds good," Harry said, and the two of them started the potion, with Harry in charge of slicing the valerian root thinly while Snape got the base of armadillo bile and syrup of hellebore going.

When it came time to add the shredded Jobberknoll feathers, Harry added the first pinch of five while Snape stirred. He had a sudden thought. "When you first gave me that journal, you know?" he offered quietly. "I didn't want to write in it. Didn't know what to write. I thought it was stupid."

"Mm," Snape said, noncommittally.

Harry took it for a good sign, regardless. "But then you attached it to flying, and when I could fly . . ." He stopped briefly, pining again for his broom. At lunch, Snape had told him that earlier, while Harry was still sleeping, he had gone out and Accio'd the Firebolt. Surprisingly, when Harry looked it over, the broom was more or less intact, though a good quarter of its bristles were bent, and the handle had a decent rock-shaped gouge in it. Despite the fact that his broom could fly again, however, Harry could not. He was grounded.

"I do recall as much," said Snape, breaking into his thoughts. Just as well, too, since he was starting to dwell on things he could do nothing to change. Again. Snape's opinion was that, sometimes such ruminating made Harry more anxious or upset than a situation warranted.

"Yeah, so . . . er, I mean, yes, sir. So, because I wanted to fly, but didn't want to write, I decided to write lists instead of feelings." He put as much distaste as he could into the final word.

Snape ignored his tone, as he often did when acknowledging something would only lead to an argument. "Lists of what?"

Harry gave him a wry smile. "Potion ingredients." He sprinkled in the last pinch of feathers then put on a pair of gloves so he could hand Snape the special pure-silver stirring rod and take the regular brass one from him.

"Potion ingredients." Snape sounded so deadpan, Harry wished he had a joke ready.

"Uh-huh," he said, since that word was not on the list of banned ones. "Ingredients. Alphabetically, by potion. I started with the Aging potion, then Amortentia, and worked my way down the list."

Harry glanced up to see Snape staring, mouth open, before the man caught himself and stirred the potion correctly before it was ruined. The stirring started in a figure eight, which he repeated three times before he spoke again. "You had all those memorized?" He sounded so doubtful that Harry had to correct him.

"Yes." Harry cleared his throat. "The main ingredients in Aging potion are asphodel, powdered bicorn horn, chopped daisy roots and rat spleen. The main ingredients in Amortentia potion are ashwinder eggs, lacewing flies, lovage, and-"

"All right, all right, you know them." Snape's eyes were wide, but his hand kept stirring a perfect figure eight.

"Well, only the First through Fifth year potions."

Snape was quiet for another few minutes. "I'll say again, there seems little wrong with your long term memory."

"I know." It was not the whole truth, but it was all Harry wanted to admit.

Snape finished the required sixteen figure eights before he added three slices of valerian root and stirred thrice clockwise, then thrice counter-clockwise before motioning to Harry to add three more slices. "Tell me more about your shelves."

Damn. Just what he didn't want to talk about. Harry sighed. He'd known he wouldn't get out of that discussion, but still. Of course, if he had not brought up the memory of his early journal writing, which had been jogged by working on potions, he probably wouldn't be stuck answering questions about his freakish memory now. He watched the slow movement of the silver stirring rod as it slid through the thick, bubbling liquid. He was not looking forward to ingesting this damned concoction, either, but at least it didn't smell too bad. He had until tomorrow anyway, he reminded himself. At least.

Sighing again, Harry said, "I spent a lot of time inside a cupboard, didn't I? Most of my world was the underside of the stairs and the shelves in that tiny space. When I was really young and didn't take up much room, Aunt Petunia kept cleaning supplies in the cupboard. She had to take out some of that stuff when I was older, so my bed could fit, but the shelves stayed. I put my own things on them. Both in reality and in my mind."

Snape nodded, obviously listening, even as he continued stirring three times in one direction, then three times in the other. All the valerian root had been added, and the potion was meant to turn eggshell blue before they moved to the next step. Right now the thinning concoction was the color of sapphires. "Go on."

"It's hard to explain," Harry told him. "But it makes perfect sense in my head. I mean, sitting on my bed, I could see everything in the cupboard, right? On every shelf. If I wanted to remember something, well, I'd just figure a way to attach it to something on one of the shelves, and then attach the next thing I want to remember to the next thing on the shelf. But, um, sometimes I can put imaginary things on the shelves, too, so I'll have something to attach things to, ideas or items I want to remember.

Er . . ." He bit his lip, worried he was confusing the professor. He'd known this was a bad idea. Maybe a specific instance would help. "Okay. For example, the Aging Potion. Aging is like old, so it could be represented by a bottle of my aunt's Old English furniture polish on one shelf. Beside the bottle could be an old mop head with yellow strings, which would remind me of the yellow tube-like flowers of the asphodel, see? So asphodel is attached to the mop head. Next on the shelf might be a picture of Ron's Dad, because the bicorn devours kind-hearted and devoted husbands, and so the picture becomes powdered bicorn horn. Then a few used up BBs, for the Daisy roots, and then some mouse or rat turds, not too uncommon in the cupboard, for the rat spleen. So, if I want to remember the ingredients of the Aging Potion, all I have to do is picture the shelf with the Old English polish in my mind, then go down the shelf in order to recall each item and what ingredient is attached to it. On the next shelf, I'd figure something to attach Amortentia to, and each potion ingredient would have a stand-in there, too."

Snape had that nearly blank thoughtful expression he occasionally wore, the one with no tells as far as Harry knew. Harry hitched up one shoulder, just in case. Of what, he could not say. But all Snape said was, "Bee Bees?"

"No, BBs. From my cousin's Daisy air rifle. He got one for Christmas when he was six." It was not a fond Christmas in Harry's memory. Of course, none of them had been, not until he came to Hogwarts. But that one particularly . . . he'd had so many little red blisters from where Dudley had shot him with the air rifle BBs at close range, it looked like he had a pox when school resumed. The school had sent him home, and Aunt Petunia had been livid! Not with what Dudders had done, of course. . . .

"When you were both six," Snape said. "You're the same age, aren't you?"

"Dudders is about a month older, but yes. Mostly."

For another few minutes of stirring, Snape didn't say anything, but Harry knew he would, when he was through processing whatever he was processing. He was not disappointed. "You use these shelves for everything?"

"Mostly," Harry repeated with a rueful smile. He was currently dropping Moly petals into the eggshell colored potion, one by one, as Severus continued stirring. "I have a couple of shelves full of Quidditch stuff: Players and their stats, various teams, tricky plays and specialized equipment, like types of brooms. Another shelf or two is for everything to do with Old Voldie; everything he's said to me or done - that I've read about - since he got his body back."

He looked away when it appeared Snape was going to say something comforting. Harry didn't like comforting platitudes.

"And your other school subjects?" Snape asked instead. "Do they occupy shelves as well?"

"They do now." At Snape's, "Hm?" he continued, "I don't think they just popped into being, but . . . like with the potion ingredients . . . now I can access those shelves, when I couldn't before, no matter how hard I tried."

"Perhaps you will do better in school work now."

"Perhaps," Harry agreed. He could honestly say that, apart from the discomfort of talking about stuff dangerously close to feelings, he was enjoying himself as he worked with Severus today. And he was glad his guardian seemed to understand about the shelves without asking him too many questions. He wasn't sure he could explain it better than he already had.

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

Less than an hour later, Severus extinguished the flame under the cauldron and set a stasis spell around it so no dust or other contaminants could fall into the cauldron. The potion had to rest for ten hours before they could add the ground scarab beetles, then let it simmer for another two hours. In the meantime, he and Harry could have dinner, and - hopefully - get some sleep. Severus wasn't too certain about Harry achieving the latter goal, but the boy needed to try. Tomorrow afternoon, they would try the potion on him, to see if they could induce dreams while he was awake and better able to deal with them, and with Severus by his side to help.

If the potion did not work, Severus - with Harry's help - would fine tune it over the next few days, until they made it work, or else they could try a different potion.

Severus was pleasantly surprised to find that Harry honestly knew more about potions than he had demonstrated in class to this point. His knew understanding of the art might be due to the magical lesions having unleashed his ability of recall, using those shelves of his, which had eluded him until now. Or there might be something else at work. Severus did not know.

The shelves, now, he was surprised about Harry using that method of recall, and rather impressed, too. It was a bit of ingenious work for someone so young, not to mention without a classical education. He said as much to Harry. "Your shelves, as you explain them," he started, "remind me of the ancient art of loci memory, first described in the Rhetorica ad Herennium in 85 BC, quite possibly written by Quintus Cornificus. The Rhetorica is not only a treatise on rhetoric, but on the method of loci, which is a mnemonic device." He gave Harry a look. "Do you know what those are?"

Harry nodded. "Hermione told Ron and me about them once. They're dead useful. "

"Just so. This particular mnemonic, the method of loci, is the use of locations to recall details. The classic is a palace of some kind, where each room or corridor is 'attached,' to use your wording, to something you wish to remember."

Harry's expression was midway between confused and bemused, and Severus gave him a rare smile. "In other words, you figured out an ancient form of memory retention at a very young age and without Latin tutors. Well done."

Severus was pleased when Harry smiled back. Perhaps this would lay to rest some of the boy's fears about being a "freak." How he loathed that word, especially coming from Harry's lips, when he knew Harry was just parroting his Muggle relations. It would take many years, quite likely, before Harry ceased to think of himself by those words. No child, left alone in such an environment, could do more than Harry had to overcome such pervasive, insidious programming from the age of one onwards. But he had high hopes for Harry; he had already overcome so much.

"Thank you, Severus."

Severus nodded. He had given permission to Harry to call him by his given name when he became the boy's guardian, and yet Harry rarely took advantage . . . only when he was feeling secure, Severus realized. Hm. They'd have to work on that. But in the meantime, it was a good monitor for how safe Harry could be feeling at a particular time, since the boy was so reticent about actually saying he felt nervous or insecure.

Over the next few minutes, Severus described the last few steps of the potion, which they would undertake tomorrow, and then they headed upstairs where they started preparing dinner together. Harry shredded lettuce then cut up tomatoes, mushrooms and radishes for a salad, while Severus reheated the minestrone from the night before. When the soup was hot, he sprinkled a good portion of shredded cheddar cheese on top of each serving before bringing them to the table. The cheese melted in nicely, forming long strings back to the bowl with nearly every bite.

For a while, they ate quietly together in silence, until Severus said, "Would you rather spar in the mornings, or the evenings?"

Harry seemed to consider his words before answering, which Severus always preferred to rash decisions. "If I choose mornings, can we still spar tonight?"

"Certainly."

"Mornings, then. Please."

"Very well."

After dinner, they cleaned up together, with Severus washing up and Harry drying the bowls, plates and utensils before wiping down the counters. "This is so much easier with two than one," Harry said as they were finishing.

"Most jobs are," Severus replied.

"Well, yea- er, yes." Harry gave him a shy smile. "I just mean, with this job in particular. I used to hate doing it."

"At the Dursleys?"

Harry nodded. "Sometimes . . . most times, I had to clean up when I hadn't even gotten to eat. It sucked." He pressed his lips together and looked down. "Sorry."

"It's alright, Harry," Severus said quickly. "I don't appreciate vulgarity, as you are well aware, but sometimes, especially when you are expressing your emotions about past circumstances, we can have a bit of leeway with vocabulary."

A quick nod. "Okay. Thanks."

"Now, about the suckiness of doing-"

"Can we not do this now?" Harry interrupted. "I'd rather not get into it, if it's all right with you. I'd rather just spar tonight. Can we?"

Feeling indulgent after the day's work on the potion, and Harry's fairly good attitude throughout the day, Severus acquiesced. "We can. But we will continue this conversation at some point."

"At tea, right?" Harry said with a cheeky grin. "But tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow. Go on now, get into your sparring robes."

During the ensuing hour or so of sparring, Severus took note of the fact that Harry was more on track than he had been for several weeks. Perhaps even one good night's sleep had done him good. Afterwards, they both opted for showers and a little relaxation time in front of the fire before an early bedtime. Though they were not as far north as Hogwarts, darkness came on quickly here after the sun set, and Harry's yawing was making Severus feel tired.

"Can I have more dreamless sleep tonight?" the boy asked before going to bed.

"No, I'm sorry. You just had it last night."

Harry gave him a sneer worthy of a Malfoy. "So I'll have nightmares then. Thanks."

"Harry-"

"No, it's okay, if you don't mind being woken by my screaming, who'm I to object?"

"Harry!" The sharp tone brought the boy up short. Severus stood and moved toward him, but stopped when Harry flinched back. He held up his hands and spoke softly. "Try occluding tonight instead. I know you haven't been practicing much Occlumency lately. It might help stave off the nightmares. Would you like me to help you meditate tonight?"

Looking ashamed at his outburst, Harry almost shrugged, but then nodded instead. "Yea- I mean, okay. That'd be good."

"Very well. Get into bed, and I'll be in there in a few minutes." He watched the boy go, feeling again like he was walking a very thin wire with a very dangerous boiling cauldron below, just knowing the wire was going to snap, or that he might miss a step. Harry was still - and would be for a long time - on edge, because of his addiction and the lack of decent, regular dreaming sleep. Severus had to remember that, and make the appropriate adjustments.

A few minutes later, he had composed himself well enough to go into Harry's room and pull a chair up beside the bed. For the next half hour, Severus ran through one of the more complicated, but far deeper meditations, from which he hoped Harry would naturally enter a deep sleep.

The meditation seemed to work, as he did not get any signal from Dormenhause during the night that Harry needed him, or that the boy had suffered nightmares. But soon after he rose at 6AM, the house did alert him to someone arriving by portkey in the same field as he and Harry had arrived two days ago.

The alarm did not feel urgent, and Severus realized why when he caught sight of who their "guest" was a few seconds later: Albus Dumbledore moving as fast as his old legs would carry him towards the front door.

Severus sighed. Could they not have more than two days to work on Harry's issues without the grand meddler coming to meddle?

But Albus' news - when he deigned to give it, after being plied with tea and eating half of a pastry he had brought from Hogwarts - was more dire than mere meddling.

"Draco Malfoy is in danger at Hogwarts, and from Voldemort," Albus told him, while shaking iced scone crumbs from his beard. "I'd like you to take him in."

TBC….

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

A/N: Cheers to all who read and/or review! Harry and Snapalicious hugs for everyone! And for today only: a special sneer-filled hug from Draco!

Before the Dawn – Chapter 13

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters. Only for the mean things I do to them.

Warning: for language. A bit salty.

-HPSSHPSSHPSS-

Previously on "Before the Dawn":

Albus' news - when he deigned to give it, after being plied with tea and eating half of a pastry he had brought from Hogwarts - was more dire than mere meddling.

"Draco Malfoy is in danger at Hogwarts, and from Voldemort," Albus told him, while shaking iced scone crumbs from his beard. "I'd like you to take him in."

"Explain," Severus said instead of agreeing on the spot. He hated making rash decisions, based on too little information. He knew why Draco would be in danger from Voldemort, or what might be the problem outside of Hogwarts, but he had to ask: "Why is he suddenly in danger at school?"

Albus held his gaze for a long moment, and something lurked in those deep blue eyes. Something . . . frightening. "He has been given a task to perform. One at which he can not possibly succeed."

What could it be? Severus wondered. He ran over the possibilities in his mind, since Albus seemed to not want to say outright, and that in itself was a clue. "The Dark Lord has tasked him," he said into the quiet, making sure.

"Yes."

Severus could think of only a few things that would so disturb Dumbledore . . . "Who is he meant to kill?"

"Me."

An almost inaudible gasp came from the direction of Harry's room. Dumbledore must have heard it as well, but chose to give no sign. Very well. They would both continue on, pretending neither of them knew they had an eavesdropper.

"He told you this himself?" Severus could not imagine it.

"Of course not. Could you imagine the conversation?"

"No," Severus said easily. "How did you learn about his task?"

Dumbledore smiled and took a small sip of tea. "I have my ways, dear boy."

Severus admitted to himself that this was true. And also, even if Albus had planned on telling Severus, he would not say so aloud to their listener. "Yes, of course." He paused to sip and then drain his teacup. Eyeing the depths, he scowled. It could have done with more sugar. "Why would the Dark Lord select Draco for this task?"

"Can you not guess?" Albus replied.

Blue twinkling eyes met Severus' hard gaze, and Severus wanted, for just an instant, to punch the Headmaster in the nose. Why must he be so aggravating? "Of course, I can. I had hoped you would save me the effort."

"Ah, well, you know what they say, my boy, about a knut saved."

In fact, Severus did not, and did not care to speculate. What he did know was that this was an unpleasant conversation about an unpleasantly morbid topic, and that he wanted more tea. Badly. Was he beginning to associate that particular beverage with serious talks now, as Harry seemed to be? The thought jerked up the corners of his lips involuntarily.

The Headmaster noticed, of course. Smiling slightly himself, he said, "Something about my impending demise is amusing you?"

"Obviously." Severus refilled his teacup from the pot on the low table between them, added a bit of extra sugar, and brought the cup to his lips. After blowing across the surface, he took a tiny sip of the still-hot liquid. Much better. And stronger now, for the longer steeping. With a small sigh, he rested the teacup back on its saucer. "I assume he wishes to punish Lucius for failing him so miserably, and thinks that sending Draco on a suicide mission will accomplish that."

"That is a possibility, yes."

"You have another?"

Dumbledore put down the last bite, uneaten, of his raspberry filled pastry and wiped his finger delicately on a cloth serviette. When he had stalled long enough that Severus considered lunging for the older wizard's throat, Albus spoke gravely. "Another is that he wishes to punish you."

Taken aback, Severus was delayed from immediately responding. When he could, he said, "Because I defected."

"That was my thought, yes."

"And so he would use my only godson-" Another small gasp from the hallway reminded him that he had not yet shared that piece of information with Harry - "to kill my mentor, in what? A fit of pique?"

"I do not for an instant believe that Voldemort-" Severus winced, as he always did, having been trained over the years to expect something horrible to happen each time the name was spoken aloud - "expects young Mister Malfoy to succeed. It is, as you say, a suicide mission."

Which was supposed to make him feel bad, as the boy's Godfather. As if he would not, if any of his students were forced to take on such a task, regardless of whether they were successful. But now he had a request to answer. He set his jaw in anticipation of a battle. "Even given all that . . . I cannot take Draco in at this time. You have not said why you think he is in greater danger at Hogwarts now than before the start of term. It is my thought he is in less danger, in fact, since the Dark Lord has less access to him there."

Dumbledore gestured toward the hall where Harry was hiding, with a small movement of hand and beard. "You know better than most that nowhere is perfectly safe from his influence."

Severus' lips thinned. "Then why send him here? Hogwarts is surely just as secure."

"Not for young Mister Malfoy, I'm afraid. Much of the rest of Slytherin House has seen fit to ostracize him because of Lucius' fall from grace. Those who have not shunned him have taken to tormenting him, throwing hexes and curses with equal abandon. . . ."

Severus went still, except for his hands, which clenched into tight fists, but it was the look in his eyes that must have brought the Headmaster's litany to a halt. "A little rough play won't kill him," Severus said coolly, using almost the exact same words that had been used on him - by this Headmaster - after one of his many run-ins with the Marauders almost twenty years ago, and using the exact same tone. "And if it does . . ." He shrugged as if to indicate, what was one Slytherin, more or less, the same attitude he had fended off from this Headmaster for more than two thirds of his life.

"No!" came a startled cry from the hallway.

Damn. His ire raised by Albus' machinations, he had forgotten Harry. And, he realized, he had been played. This was why Albus had said nothing about their listener. He knew Harry's heart was soft.

Severus drew himself up as the young man appeared on the threshold of the sitting room. "Were you intentionally eavesdropping on a private conversation?" he asked coldly.

"Well, I . . ." Harry stood his ground, at least, but he flushed so red his face could have rivaled Weasley hair. "Yes, sir. Sorry."

Severus very much doubted the sincerity of the apology, but he nodded his acceptance anyway. He very much expected the self-sacrificing morality that came next, but he was wearied by it, all the same.

"You can't just let Draco die! Not because of me . . . what I did to his father, I mean. It's not right."

"Nor fair, I imagine," Severus added.

"And not fair!"

Severus closed his eyes briefly, but it didn't make the situation go away, so he opened them again, taking in the mulishness in Harry's eyes. "Harry . . . what have I told you about fairness? For that matter, what have you learned about fairness and life over the last sixteen years?"

"That it isn't." Harry drew his arms up to cross over his chest. "Fair, I mean."

"Exactly." He should have known logic made no difference to this boy.

"But we can help him. When you have the power to help someone, shouldn't you at least try?"

Severus had to remind himself, again, that the boy was a Gryffindor, with all the high ideals that entailed, including idiocies about fairness and altruism, none of which Draco would appreciate, were he in Harry's place. It was partly why he wanted to keep Draco away from here. Looking over the young man fully for the first time this morning, he took in the bed-rumpled appearance, hair, face and night clothes, and guessed Harry had woken to their voices and sneaked closer to hear what they were saying. His eyes were less glassy than they had been, of late, and though his feet were noticeably bare, he seemed steadier on them. Excellent; the meditation last night, and resultant sleep, had done him some good. He needed another night like that. Another ten.

"Shouldn't you, sir?"

"Harry . . ." Severus sighed. At least Albus was staying out of it, now that he had Severus fighting with his ward, instead of with himself. "I brought you here so you could get better. For you to recover in mind and body from the terrible summer we both endured. I hazard a guess that Draco Malfoy can survive another few weeks with his Housemates without too much trouble."

Rather than spew out the first thing that came to mind, Harry actually seemed to think first. Good. Then he said, "Do you . . . do you really think I can get better in just a few weeks?"

"If you work as hard at your recovery as you did at Quidditch, I don't see why not." It was not quite a lie. The boy could be very forceful when he put his mind to something. And if he was not healed in a few weeks, the same argument about Draco's survival-

"Do you think so, Headmaster?" Harry was asking. "That Draco will be okay till then?"

Don't foul this up. Severus shoved the thought at Albus, hoping to get through whatever Occlumency shields he had up. Allow this boy what he dearly needs, for once.

The Headmaster made them both wait with bated breath as he cleaned his spectacles with a lurid purple handkerchief. And then, the bastard, instead of answering, he said, "Is there no other way, Severus?"

It was hard to unclench his teeth, but he managed. "You could isolate Mister Malfoy from the other students, as Harry was at the start of term. Forbid him to leave his chambers if he is constantly under attack. He could even use the spell I created so Harry could take part in his classes. Filius could modify it for him. You could assign him House Elves to bring him food and take his essays away."

A sparkle of something lit Dumbledore's eyes, as if he was pleased somehow with the answer. Severus could not fathom it. Why the old man had to play such a meddling part in everyone's lives was completely unfathomable. "I shall attempt that remedy then," he said finally. "But I ask you two to keep an open mind, that if young Mister Malfoy is still at risk after these precautions, you might allow him hearth space here."

"Of course," Harry said instantly.

Severus sent him a quelling look. "We will see."

"That is all I can ask," Dumbledore said, which was as close as Severus had ever caught him lying outright. With that, he left them, swirling his cloak around his shoulders as he took off across the grounds. The Portkey wrenched him from their sight.

"You and I," said Severus, giving Harry a dark look, "have many things to discuss."

Harry's gulped breath was as audible as his former gasps when he was eavesdropping, and Severus felt no pity for him at all.

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

Shit, thought Harry. I'm in for it now.

TBC….

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

A/N: Cheers to all who read and/or review! The arrival of Draco has been put off for a bit, but how long, truly, can Snape keep him away? Can Dumbledore really keep the Blond Ferret from killing him? Harry's in for a serious Talk, but how much trouble is he really in? Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of "Before the Dawn" to have these questions (and others) answered for you, by me. Innit cool? :-D

Before the Dawn – Chapter 14

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters. Only for the mean things I do to them.

Warning: Language more suited to a truck stop

-HPSSHPSSHPSS-

Previously on "Before the Dawn":

"You and I," said Severus, giving Harry a dark look, "have many things to discuss."

Shit, thought Harry. I'm in for it now.

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

"Why did you say that?" was the first question Snape asked, mere seconds after he had marched the two of them to the kitchen and gotten breakfast - corn flakes and milk, plus toast and juice - on the table. He also set a pot of water on the hob for tea. Damn, Harry thought. It was going to be one of those kind of talks. Maybe, though, if they finished up before the tea was ready . . .

"Why did I say what?" Harry asked, puzzled. Why wasn't he being told off for eavesdropping?

"You said, 'Of course,' when the Headmaster asked if we'd offer Draco hearth space. Mister Malfoy can take care of himself."

Harry bristled. "And I can't?"

Snape's frown softened. A bit. "Right now? No. You need help getting over your addiction to that spell, getting over your nightmares, and getting your life back on track. I am here to help you. Not young Mister Malfoy."

"Well, you could still help me if he was here . . ." Harry took in Snape's almost amused look. "Couldn't you?"

"It's not that . . ." Snape sighed, sounding kind of frustrated actually. "I would not usually say such a thing, but you know some of this already: Draco is a vain, selfish child. If here, he would make sure he was the focus of anything going on. No matter what else was needed."

"I'm sorry," Harry said, to change the subject. He didn't like thinking he was the focus of anything.

"For what?"

"For eavesdropping."

Snape's dark eyes bored into him, and Harry squirmed on his seat. "Ah. I thought it might be for putting others before your own well-being, again."

"No . . . I wouldn't be sorry for that." It was his Saving People thing, he guessed, like Hermione had said before they had gone to the Department of Mysteries to "save" Sirius. He couldn't be sorry for wanting to keep others from being killed. He could only be sorry when he failed.

After a moment, Snape said, "This is about your 'saving people thing', isn't it?"

Harry scowled. "Don't Legitimize . . . I mean Legilimize me without my permission."

A corner of Snape's mouth curled up at Harry's gaffe. "I did not use Legilimency on you, Harry. I simply knew what you were thinking. Miss Granger mentioned this predilection of yours to me recently, and your current thoughts were plastered on your face for anyone to read."

"I hate when I do that."

"I know."

"Can you help me not do it?"

Snape shook his head. "It is not a skill I want you to learn. Presenting no emotions for others to read, hiding your true feelings . . . that would not be a good use of your time here."

The water was boiling. Harry took the pot off the hob and poured the water into the teapot on the table, then put the lid on to let the tea leaves steep. When he turned back to Snape, he said, "What would be, then?"

Snape opened his mouth to list the - probably countless - reasons they were in Dormenhause, but Harry cut him off. "I mean, wouldn't helping Draco to not kill the Headmaster be a good use of time? I mean, he's your godson and all."

"As you gleaned from my conversation with Professor Dumbledore."

Harry felt his face heat, even though he tried not to show his embarrassment. Snape was right - he'd never be able to control his emotions if he couldn't even control his blushes! "Yes, sir. I said I was sorry."

"I know you did, three times now. You are forgiven." Snape sighed. "Besides, both the Headmaster and I were aware of your presence."

They were? "You were?"

"Naturally. Both of us are well trained in the arts of covertcy, and you are not. We both said what we did with you in mind."

Harry's thoughts whirled, racing through what he had heard, but with this new perspective. If what Snape said was true, then everything Dumbledore said was what he wanted Harry to hear. He had wanted Harry to feel bad for Draco. As he knew Harry would. He'd practically shoved Draco at them, knowing Harry would reach out to catch him.

"That manipulative old-"

"Yes," Snape interjected before Harry could finish. "Exactly."

"Doesn't he want me to get better?"

A spark of something lit Snape's eyes, and for a moment, Harry got the distinct impression that he'd said something to make Snape proud of him. "At this juncture, I am not sure what the Old Meddler wants."

"Old Meddler, huh?"

"Indeed. And if you ever tell our esteemed Headmaster about my pet nickname, I'll have your guts for garters."

It was an old saying, one Uncle Vernon had used on him a time or three, but the completely deadpan delivery from the professor, coupled with the unwanted visualization - helped along, unfortunately, by the memory of Neville Longbottom's turn against the Boggart in Third Year, when Snape had ended up in Nev's Gran's dress and feathered hat - had Harry laughing helplessly until tears ran down his face. Every time he thought he had control back, he'd glance at Snape, who would merely quirk one black eyebrow upwards, setting him off again.

He laughed until his belly ached.

Finally, he wound down enough to say, "Sorry, sir, that was . . . er, I mean-"

"Don't apologize," Snape said in an unexpectedly low voice. "I admit, it was good seeing you laugh."

Harry looked away, not sure how to take that.

Snape lifted the teapot and poured each of them a cup. Even as Harry reached for the sugar bowl, the man said, "Where do you think your 'saving people' predilection comes from?"

Sobering immediately, Harry was in mid-shrug before he could stop himself. He knew, really, it wasn't fair to Snape to waste his time like that, but shrugging was a habit he had from many years at the Dursleys. They preferred to believe he didn't exist, and didn't like it when he spoke, so shrugging was just fine for a "low born creature" like himself to use for answers to their questions. Most of the stuff they asked, they didn't expect - or want - any real answers from him anyway. But Snape wasn't like that. He wanted Harry to not only answer his questions, but mean what he said. And he listened to Harry, too.

This time, Snape wanted to know about the "saving people" thing, not why he shrugged all the time. "I don't know. Because of my parents, I guess."

"Explain."

Harry swallowed hard, staring into his tea. "If I hadn't been born, they'd both still be alive."

Snape leaned forward, his hard expression drawing Harry's gaze up to meet his. "You cannot possibly know that."

Harry scoffed. "Uh, what about the Prophecy. Remember that? The one you overheard? Voldie tried to kill me because of that, and my parents got killed instead. Remember?"

Fire flickered in Snape's dark eyes, and his words were clipped, but more brittle than cold. "Of course. But your parents were involved in the fight against the Dark Lord for years. They were in the Order. They could very well have died at any time, just like anyone else in the war. Many people did. If they hadn't died that night, your parents could have been killed days or weeks later. Your birth and that blasted prophecy have nothing to do with it."

That almost made sense, but Harry's insides were tight and his face was hot again. Not with embarrassment, but the subject was . . . hard.

"I will say it again," Snape said. He reached as if he would grab Harry's hands, but Harry yanked them away. "You. Are. NOT responsible for your parents deaths. No matter how much you blame yourself."

"I know. Um, I mean, yeah. Okay."

Snape shook his head. "I realize it's not as easy as all that. It's something you will need to convince yourself of, over time. I can not force you to believe it. But part of the prophecy did mention that your parents had thrice defied the Dark Lord, yes? They were already in his sights."

Harry held up his hands in surrender. "All right, I get it. They were dead meat no matter what."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Okay, whateh-"

"Don't finish that word."

Harry huffed out a breath. "Give me a break, Professor. What am I supposed to say?"

"How about you tell me more about your desire to save people at your own peril."

Hands back on the table, wrapped around his cuppa, Harry stared at them instead of scowling at Snape. "It's what got Sirius killed."

Snape pursed his lips. "And saved Ginevra Weasley, I imagine."

"I suppose. If you're gonna keep score . . ."

"I am not." The professor drew a deep breath. "I am not so much interested in whom you have saved, or whom you have not, but why you feel you have to."

"Well, like I said before, because of my parents."

Snape's eyes widened. "Because you feel responsible for their deaths, you feel you must save anyone else who is in danger, despite the risk to yourself? As if it will restore a karmic balance or some such?"

Harry merely nodded and looked away. "I mean, I should have died that night, as a baby. The only reason I didn't is because of some stupid prophecy, so I figure I'm on . . . on borrowed time or something like that. I know I have a job to do, and I'll do it, but I don't expect to liv-"

Severus actually stood up and cut a hand through the air sharply. "Stop, Harry. Stop right there. I know we talked about this before. It is not your job to deal with the Dark Lord, no matter what the prophecy says. And even if it were, it is not your sole reason for being alive at this time. You will cease thinking it is so. I mean it, Harry. You mustn't believe that."

"But what way am I supposed to believe?" Harry countered. "Dumbledore-"

"Professor Dumbledore."

"Professor Dumbledore wants me to save people, like Draco or Ginny or the wizarding world and everybody in it, and he gives me carte blanche to do anything I need to win. But he didn't care about me or my happiness or well being when I was a kid, and he even said it was too bad that he started to care so much about me once I got to Hogwarts, and that's why he didn't make me into his personal little weapon sooner."

Snape growled, "I do not give a fried fig what Professor Dumbledore wants from you. I don't care what your friends want, or Professor McGonagall, Minister Fudge or Doctor Who, for that matter. What I care about is, what do you want for your life? Do you want to just be the weapon used to destroy the Dark Lord, or do you want something more? Something else? Something you like doing and can feel good about every day. Something that will carry you through the rest of your life."

"I don't know!" Harry cried. His fists were clenched so hard they hurt. "I've never been anything before."

"I beg to differ."

"What? When? What have I been, besides a pain in the arse and in the way?"

Snape flashed a sudden, fox like smile. "You would ask me the hard questions, wouldn't you."

That forced a laugh from Harry despite himself. "I'm serious. What can I be? What have I been?"

Snape shook his head, allowing his hair to cover much of his face. He pushed it back with an irritated sigh. "I know the Dursleys put a wrench in your development, Harry. I know they ruined whatever sense of self you might have enjoyed as a child and adolescent, but surely you must have some ideas? You do well in Quidditch, much to my House's dismay."

"Great, yeah, I can play Quidditch. Big deal."

With another sigh, Snape slapped a hand on the table. "Now you're just feeling sorry for yourself. I refuse to engage in yanking you out of a pity party. Think, Harry. What else have you done?"

"Well, I did kill a basilisk."

"You did, indeed. What else?"

"I learned how to cast a corporeal Patronus in Third Year. And I won the Tri-" He cut himself off. Even thinking about what happened at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament made his head hurt. Cedric Diggory had had so much potential, and was cut down because he was in the wrong place. Because he was with Harry.

"Yes. You won the Tri-Wizard Cup," Snape finished quietly, sitting back down. "Where Cedric Diggory was killed."

"You read my face again," Harry said, only a little bit accusing.

"I could hardly help it." The professor paused, then, "Tell me about what happened."

"What, at the graveyard?" He had gone over it with Dumbledore and Sirius, and then later, with his friends. But very few others knew exactly what occurred there, and he didn't feel like retelling it now.

"No, Harry. I don't need to know that. I meant, afterward. After we secured Bartemius Crouch, Jr. Besides what you were able say before Crouch took you back to his office, did you have a chance to talk to anyone about what occurred? I know the Headmaster asked everyone the next morning not to question you about it."

Harry nodded. "I didn't want to, but Professor Dumbledore insisted I tell him and Sirius, before he took me to the Infirmary that night. It was better that way, I think, drawing out the horror of what happened right away, the Headmaster said, rather than letting it all fester. Like you have me do with nightmares, you know?" He picked at his thumbnail and refused to look Snape in the eyes. Sometimes, for some things, he just couldn't. "I remember everybody arguing in the Infirmary, after I woke up the first time. Fudge had just let Crouch get eaten by the Dementor, and he and Professor Dumbledore were going at it about Him being back, and you even showed Fudge your Dark Mark and he still wouldn't believe."

Snape was quiet for a long moment, nodding silently. "I remember that meeting."

"Meeting?"

"Staging ground, then," Snape admitted, his voice lacking any of its usual sarcastic bent. His eyes glittered strangely. "Before that, though, you were in Crouch's office when we were questioning him under Veritaserum. It must have been very hard for you to listen to his sordid tale, but you were so quiet."

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. "I was kind of out of it, actually. My leg hurt, from where a giant spider had attacked me in the maze, and my arm . . . from where Peter cut me for Voldie's ritual. I think I was kinda dazed, still."

Snape turned his tea cup around in his hands very casually, but his gaze stayed on Harry. "Yes. You did look a bit worse for wear. Stunned, I remember thinking, and all alone while we were all talking around you."

Well, he had been, mostly, except in Dumbledore's office, when Fawkes had sat on his knee and given him the strength to tell the Headmaster and Sirius what happened in the graveyard. And then later . . . "In the Infirmary, though, after Fudge left, the Headmaster sent you and Sirius away before he went to talk to the Diggorys. When most everyone was gone, I started thinking about it all again, about Cedric and the Priori Incantatem, when my parents and Bertha Jorkins and Cedric all came out of His wand, and it was all too much, I thought I was going crazy from it. And then, then . . . Mrs. Weasley saw I was upset and she held me. I almost broke down for good. I mean, she hugged me, and it . . . it was the first time anyone hugged me that I could remember." He smiled bitterly. "I mean, my Mum must've held me, right? They must've hugged me when I was a baby, but I can't remember them. I've only seen them in pictures, my parents, and only heard them that one time, when they told me how to get away from the graveyard . . . well, except when the Dementors come near me. I hear Mum screaming then."

Snape held his gaze, and his dark eyes were sad. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"For what? You didn't do anything."

"No. I didn't. I could have, though. Years ago."

Harry shook his head. "Forget it. It's not your fault the Dursleys are such wankers that they never treated me one of their own."

"Well, no," Snape said with a small smile. "But I can be sorry you had to deal with them, all the same."

"I guess." Harry rubbed his forehead with his fingers so he wouldn't clench his fists again. "I just wish I hadn't convinced Cedric to take the Cup with me, you know? I thought it would be better if we could both win, since we both saw the Cup at the same time, but I happened to get to it first. He wanted me to take it alone, but I insisted."

Remembering that night, and Peter's casual Avada Kedavra and then the ritual and later, Cedric coming out of the wand and begging Harry to bring his body back to his parents . . . it was too much. Harry's nose felt like he had to sneeze, and his eyes stung. "Cedric was . . . he was really nice to me, when everyone - even Ron - was sure I had cheated somehow and got my name in because I wanted the bloody fame, he said he believed me that I hadn't done anything. He helped me with the second task, after I told him about the dragons in the first one. And he was just . . . I mean, everyone looked up to him. He was good at Quidditch and he was funny and smart and he could have done anything! He shouldn't have died there in that graveyard. Not because of me. Not because I told him to take the stupid, bloody Cup with me because I wanted to share and make people see I could be as bloody noble as a bloody Hufflepuff, when I couldn't ever be. It was so stupid!"

Harry didn't realize, until his glasses were lifted off his face, that he couldn't see anymore for the tears swimming in his eyes. Snape handed him a handkerchief, and he mopped his face a few times until the tears started slowing. He'd cried just yesterday for pity's sake. And now again? God, he thought, I'm such a pansy.

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with a good cry over a horrible, senseless death," Snape said from very close by. He was sitting very close beside Harry and offering another handkerchief, which Harry gratefully accepted. The first one was soaked. When Harry looked up, Snape added, "Or any other number of things. I could see your self-recriminations starting already."

Harry wiped furiously at his eyes. "Yeah, well, boys aren't supposed to cry."

"And yet many men do," Snape said. "It's a biological phenomenon, and no less true for all that. I have seen plenty of men, far older and, in many ways, wiser than you, who have cried at funerals or because they were hurt, or because someone or something they cared about was taken from them or destroyed. There is no shame in expressing true feeling, Harry. No shame in it at all."

"Hmph."

"That's your Uncle talking."

"How'd you know he was so articulate?"

Snape cracked a smile. Then he tapped his temple with his index finger. "I worked it out."

While Harry folded and refolded the second hanky, Snape cleared the breakfast dishes away, as well as the tea cups and pot. Harry gestured at the table. "Does this mean we're done talking?"

"For now." Snape pointed at the basement door. "We need to finish up the potion so it will be ready to try out this afternoon."

Oh, yeah. In all the excitement, he'd forgotten about the other bit of fun planned for today. Great.

"Get cleaned up and dressed, and I'll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, without sighing, but wishing he could just go back to bed. It had been a long day already.

TBC….

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

A/N: Cheers to all who read and/or review!

Before the Dawn -- Chapter 15

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters. Only for the mean things I do to them.

Warnings: Er . . . some profanity?

-HPSSHPSSHPSS-

Previously on "Before the Dawn":

"Get cleaned up and dressed, and I'll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, without sighing, but wishing he could just go back to bed. It had been a long day already.

-HPSSHPSSHPSS-

From the Journal of Harry James Potter

Sept. 19th 4:35pm

I don't like being played, like the Headmaster has been doing with me lately. It makes me wonder if there's still some part of Voldemort in there, possessing him. Thing is, if I start thinking that way, I won't be able to trust him at all. The only person I do trust completely - and isn't this a doozy? - is Snape. He's so much different now than he was before last summer. It's like he's done a 180 from the sneering sadist he used to be - and hey, if you're reading this, Snape, I mean that you're not that way anymore, so that's good, right?

But when it comes to using me as a guinea pig for potions, like the one we're working on to make me dream right again . . . let's just say I don't wanna be the pig anymore.

Flashback

Harry watched as Snape stirred the last three figure eights in the cauldron, then removed the stirrer before it could drip any potion back into the pot. Snape said such droplets could ruin a delicate potion like this one. Once he set the stirrer down, he glanced over to meet Harry's gaze.

Harry swallowed hard. He was going to have to drink that . . . ooze. The concoction was blue and very smooth, with no lumps, which was nice, but it was opaque, which it had not been yesterday. As a rule, Harry preferred potions he could see through to ones he could not.

"Let's go upstairs where you'll be more comfortable before trying this out," said Snape.

"Do you want me to go to bed or . . .?"

"If you feel you'd be most comfortable there, yes." Snape's gaze had not left Harry's, and Harry felt like he could not look away. "It's likely to be a . . . difficult experience if the potion works properly."

Harry did not like the sound of that. "And if it doesn't?"

"Then it will be difficult in a different way."

"Great."

"If you would rather wait a day or-"

"No. No, it's okay. I just . . . I'm a bit nervous is all."

"You have every right to be. You will be the first person to ever try this potion. I have several others on hand that will counteract the worst elements of this one, if it goes wrong, but it's not going to be easy on you. For that I apologize."

"Yeah, well, I got myself into this mess."

"Indeed." Finally, Snape looked away, but he snapped back to meet Harry's gaze when Harry said, "Could I die?"

"No. Absolutely not. The worst that could happen is seizures not unlike the muscle tremors you are already experiencing, except more pronounced. And waking nightmares."

Harry's mouth went dry. Despite that, he said, "That doesn't sound too bad."

Snape gave him an understanding look. Snape. Understanding. "It's all right to be nervous," he said again.

"Let's just go upstairs. I think I'd rather be in my room."

Snape came into the room a few minutes after Harry had settled on his bed. The professor had several vials in his hands, at least one of which contained the oozing blue potion they'd just finished. He placed the bottles on the desk near the bed.

"What're those?" Harry asked as he leaned back against the pillows.

"A muscle relaxant, a Nubbilor's No-Doze, and a simple paralytic," he said, pointing to each in turn. "Just in case."

In case Harry had really bad seizures or could not be woken from his nightmares. Great.

"I'll be right here, no matter what happens," Snape said, and that, more than anything, made Harry feel better. Snape handed him a small vial of the Waking Dream potion. It looked so . . . harmless.

Harry looked over at Snape, who had drawn the desk chair up next to the bed so he could sit nearby. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet-"

"No, I don't mean for the potion," Harry said, and before Snape could do anything more than open his mouth in a surprised looking O, Harry tipped back the vial and swallowed every drop. Surprisingly, it had no taste at all.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then Harry realized he couldn't blink. When he tried to tell Snape that, he realized he couldn't move his mouth either. His teeth were clenched, grinding together. His hands suddenly formed fists and then every muscle in his body spasmed at once. Clench. Release. Clench. Release. Faster and faster until he was flailing arms and legs and biting his tongue and then Snape was there with the antidote, pouring it over his gums, and he collapsed on the bed, sweating and bleeding and heaving dryly. Closing his eyes was like a miracle. Snape put a cool, dry hand on his forehead, and it felt wonderful in contrast to his cramped, twisted muscles and blaring headache.

He never wanted to take a potion again.

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

Even as he timed Harry's pulse, Severus cursed silently. This first trial had been markedly unsuccessful. He would be lucky if he could get Harry to take another experiment potion this month, never mind this week. Damn it all to hell. Where had he gone wrong? He knew it wasn't the materials, he always got the freshest available. Nor was it the method, necessarily. Even when Harry had been the one stirring, Severus had watched keenly, and there hadn't been any errors. No, it was the two combined. He would have to try a different mixture next time. But if he ever wanted a potion that caused immediate, prolonged seizing, he had the recipe now.

As he lifted his hand from Harry's forehead - the other had been at the boy's wrist, feeling his pulse - he could say, from the looks of things, they wouldn't get any more work done today on potions. Harry was pale and still shaking from the experience this one had dealt him. Finally, Severus waved a wand over the boy and studied the results of the basic diagnostic for a minute before nodding curtly.

"Let me get you some tea," Severus suggested, rising from the chair beside the boy's bed.

"No," Harry gasped, and then sucked in another breath. He looked almost panicked. "No tea."

"I promise we're not to have a tea talk," Severus reassured him. "It's just to relax you. Peppermint perhaps?"

Harry nodded wearily. "All right. Thanks."

Severus prepared the tray and returned to the bedroom a few minutes later with the tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits. He knew the boy liked them, and it was his way of offering an apology. Harry nibbled on one and gave him the shy, "Thanks," Severus had known he would.

"I have a few ideas about the next version of the potion," Severus began, and was not unexpectedly cut off by Harry's obvious wince.

"Already? Can I change my clothes first?"

Severus almost smiled. "It will be at least a day and a half before we can test another potion; this last one took as long to prepare. But I think we should get started on the next one quickly. No sense in not getting right back on the broom."

Harry smirked. "I've never been scared of falling off my broom."

"Not even when the Dementors caused you to fall in your third year?"

"No. I didn't know I was falling. All I could hear was my Mum's screams as she told Him to leave, and when he killed her. I had no idea you and the Headmaster had to save me until Hermione told me later."

Severus pursed his lips. He was sure his own part in the rescue had not been told by Miss Granger or any other student, and wondered how Harry knew. But that was neither here nor there. "What about the other day?"

"Don't remember that one, either. I was kind of sleeping at the time, see?" Harry gave a wry smile. "Maybe that's the ticket for this potion. Needs to be combined with flying."

"I rather think not. You are grounded, recall."

"I remember," Harry said, coming over all sullen.

"None of that," Severus chastised. "Your punishment was fairly earned."

"I know. But I don't have to like it."

"Just be certain you know it."

"I'm not bloody stupid, you know!" The boy's face reddened immediately, and he apologized quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to shout."

"Nor to use that vulgarity either, I assume."

"Yeah, er, yes, sir. Nor that either."

"Very well." Severus put his own empty tea cup on the tray and rose again. "Would you like to have a lie down after your tea, or would you rather have a bit of sparring?"

"Sparring, please."

"I thought as much. Get cleaned up a bit and meet me in the mat room." Perhaps a bit of letting loose with spells would cheer the boy enough to consider working on the next potion. If not, there was always tomorrow, and Severus knew enough about this boy - and this process - to know neither could be rushed. Unless he wanted shabby results, which, when speaking of Harry Potter's health and future, was not something to dally with, everything had to come on its own time.

End Flashback

Harry's Journal, continued:

So we sparred for like an hour and my muscles - which were tight as piano wire after the seizure - are all loose and watery now. Perfect for delicate potion work, right?

Harry closed his journal and rejoined Severus in the basement to start working on the next wondrous potion.

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

Two days later, the second potion was ready. This one merely made the boy sneeze uncontrollably for half an hour before Severus could get the correct antidote applied. The next potion turned Harry's skin and hair blue. Two more were, respectively, a soporific and a stimulant, each with its own hazards. After Harry took the potion which put him immediately to sleep, for instance, it took Severus the better part of four hours to wake him without using magic, for magic in combination with that particular potion's ingredients could have irreparably damaged his heart. The stimulant, on the other hand, made the boy so restless Severus had to spar with him immediately. For two hours. Both of them earned sore muscles with that potion, but Harry, for one, seemed to enjoy the pay off.

In addition to trying a new potion almost every other day, Severus implemented the regimen of exercises he had wanted to start on their first day, workouts that were proven (among Muggles) to heal overworked and overwrought muscles, such as Harry had in his legs and arms especially. Predictably, Harry had balked at both the mat work and the close contact in required. He had given in to Severus after being reminded that although this was only one of the tactics they were using to help him heal, it was likely the best one to reduce his tremors, which he found both embarrassing and annoying.

In and amongst muscle training exercises and the potion making and testing, Severus and Harry talked. Rarely did Severus need to break out the whole tea set, but when he did, it was to help tackle the most difficult of issues, usually to do with the Dursleys or the horrific summer they had both recently experienced at the Dark Lord's hands.

They also sparred each day, but that had its own troubles.

The main reason for those troubles was that, after two weeks, Harry's nightmares had abated, but he was still not falling into REM sleep, nor dreaming regularly. This was worrisome. As both he and Pomfrey had told the boy, he had to dream in order to replenish his magical core. Without this regeneration, he would slowly lose his ability to use magic. Severus could see how much had drained from Harry already, during their sparring.

Harry seemed to do well enough in hand-to-hand combat, which Severus told him would also assist in muscle training, but when magic was brought into play . . . he was losing both power and control. When frustrated like that, things just got worse and worse until Harry inevitably exploded. He had already thrown several fits worthy of an angry dragon, and on one occasion, had nearly snapped his own wand in pieces. Severus managed to convince Harry it was a bad idea before the boy went through with it, but it was clear he was losing patience.

They needed to make a Dream Restorative potion that worked, and they hadn't much time to do so before Harry's magic core sputtered and went out for good.

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

Slumped on the sofa in front of the fire, Harry glared at the fireplace. The fire ignored him, fireplace bricks too. He felt so tired he thought he could curl up and sleep, right here. Right now, although it was early afternoon. But Snape wouldn't let him sleep during the day, not even after they tested another of those vile concoctions on him, as they did every other day, it seemed. "Sleeping during the day is a long step along the road to depression," Snape had told him.

Harry wanted to jam something in Snape's mouth so he couldn't talk anymore. Something about the size of a piano. Snape didn't understand. Harry was just so tired of being tired. Every night, he lay awake long hours before succumbing to sleep. Then dawn came too quickly, with Snape rousing him from sleep, first with a drawled out call of his name, and if he didn't appear quick enough, a dousing with magical freezing water - it felt like a bucket of water being dumped over his head, but left no wetness behind. Harry would have been impressed by the ingenuity of the spell if he didn't really, really hate being woken like that.

Afterwards, he would stumble out of bed half awake and stumble into the shower - the first of several throughout the day - before falling into a chair at the kitchen table for breakfast. Snape prepared breakfast each day and Harry made lunch, while they both worked on dinner and shared the clean-up after each meal.

It wasn't till mid-morning, after working on potions or some sparring, that Harry was really awake. But then, after lunch, all he wanted was a nap. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. Thus, in front of the warm, toasty fire as he was now, it was so easy to let his eyes slide closed, so easy to let the warmth and lethargy take him away. No one need know, he thought, forgetting the House possessed some manner of sentience.

"Wake up, Harry!" Snape growled. "It's barely half-two."

"M'tired," Harry complained without opening his eyes. As if that would work.

"I know. But sleeping during the day will not aid you in sleeping at night. Get up, now. Let's go outside."

His interest piqued somewhat, Harry struggled up from the sofa and rubbed at his eyes. They had not been outside in days, as it had been raining fairly steadily this autumn. Harry followed Snape silently to the cloakroom, where he sat on the bench to put on his trainers as well as his Gryffindor scarf before donning his warmest coat.

"Can we go flying?"

"Not until you have demonstrated better visual acuity and the ability to stay awake on your broom."

Harry sighed. He was never going to fly again.

"Stop that now," Snape said sharply. "I know what you're thinking, and it's simply not true. You will fly again, but you need to work for it. Think of it as a goal for the near future-"

"Near future?"

"Or far, if you would rather, if you think it will take a long time to get your mind and body back into proper shape. I believe, however, it will be sooner than you think."

Whatever. Harry only thought the word, since saying it was forbidden. Words like "kinda" and "sorta" were, too. Snape seemed to have no problem with "I don't know," though he growled at "dunno." It was the laziness of speech that offended him, the professor said, not that Harry might admit ignorance about something.

As they opened the front door, a blast of cold, damp air smacked Harry in the face, stinging his cheeks. Snape put a hand on his shoulder and steered him outside, down the short steps to the ground, and Harry didn't twist away from him or even jump. He was getting better, he supposed.

Outside, Harry turned to Snape. "Did you just want to take a stroll? Or are we going to spar?"

Snape's expression did not change, his mouth stayed a thin, straight line, but Harry knew nevertheless that the man was amused by the "stroll" remark. He didn't know how he knew. Perhaps it was something in Snape's eyes, or in the set of his shoulders? Maybe just too much time in his company?

"I should think a hearty stroll would do us both good." With a gesture and a flick of his wrist, Snape's wand became a walking stick, not terribly unlike Lucius Malfoy's.

"Nice one," Harry drawled.

"Thank you," Snape replied in the same tone.

"Can you teach me that?" Harry had asked the same question dozens of times over the last couple weeks, wanting to learn as much as possible, even if his magic was a bit wonky just now. Mostly, he asked about spells Snape used in sparring. Someday - probably sooner than he'd like - he was going to have to face Voldemort again, and he needed more in his arsenal than Expelliarmus and Expecto Patronum.

"I can . . ." Snape said, trailing off in such a manner that Harry realized he had asked incorrectly or ungrammatically or something dumb like that.

"Will you teach me, please?" Harry asked, throwing in the "please" in addition to the change of verb.

Snape did his not-smile smile again. "Yes, of course." He proceeded to show Harry the motion necessary and told him the incantation, which Snape himself had incanted silently in his mind. Wordless magic was intriguing to Harry, and he hoped he could learn that, too. Snape had said before than it was part of the 6th year Defense curriculum, which Harry was missing by being here. But Snape promised he would catch Harry up before they went back to school. That is, once Harry got his magic back.

Of course, first he had to dream.

After Snape transformed Harry's wand into a cane, too, the two of them walked the perimeter of the estate, staying just inside the wards by staying just inside the low stone wall that ringed the property. After all the recent rain, the sky was still overcast, and fog rose from the ground in patches all around them. The smell of sheep dung and wet wool from the surrounding farms permeated the air. The terrain was studded with both rocks and rabbit holes, making the "stroll" more like a cross-country hike. Too, the yard was not flat, but had small hillocks that you couldn't see until walking up and down them. Harry's muscles bunched and stretched and burned from the unaccustomed exercise as they made not one circuit, but two around the property.

By the time they reached the cottage again, Harry was winded and sweating profusely under his coat. Snape, on the other hand, looked just as spry as when they started. Harry hated feeling weak and exhausted, especially in comparison to an adult. He wanted to be strong, be fierce. Be capable.

Snape turned their walking sticks back into wands and they went inside.

"I'm for the showers," Harry said, trying to keep from noticeably panting.

"I'll start on supper." Snape hung up his cloak, but rather than go straight into the kitchen, he just stood there, staring at Harry.

From his seat on the bench, where he was peeling off his sweaty socks one by one, Harry glanced up, ready to throw some snarky question at the professor like, "See anything you like?"

Before he could - and for the best, of course - Snape folded his arms across the chest and said, "You did well today."

Harry wanted to say, "Bite me," but indeed said, "Right."

"You're still recovering from the spell work used against you last summer and what you used on yourself. You're not going to get better in a day."

When Harry opened his mouth to retort, Snape continued, "Or in a week or even two weeks. This is going to take time, You have to be patient, but keep working towards your goal."

Harry hung his head and pressed his fingers to his temples, feeling a headache coming on. "Right," he said again, though he knew he didn't sound particularly agreeable.

Snape shook his head slightly, which Harry could see as he peeked through his fringe, then went into the cottage, presumably to start supper. Harry leaned back against the wall and stayed where he was a while longer, waiting till his headache faded a bit before heading for the washroom and a shower. He was tired of Snape acting like it was completely normal for him to have virtually no control over his magic, and for what was left of it to be pitifully weak. He was tired of Snape's positive everything's-going-to-be-fine tripe and his thinking it would make Harry all better because everything wasn't fine and it wasn't going to be fine and he was so tired of all this shit that he just wanted to lie down and fall asleep and never wake up again.

You know, once he finished in the shower.

TBC….

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

A/N: Cheers to all who read and/or review!

Before the Dawn

Chapter 16

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters. Only for the mean things I do to them.

Warnings: some profanity.

-HPSSHPSSHPSS-

Previously on "Before the Dawn":

Snape shook his head slightly, which Harry could see as he peeked through his fringe, then went into the cottage, presumably to start supper. Harry leaned back against the wall and stayed where he was a while longer, waiting till his headache faded a bit before heading for the washroom and a shower. He was tired of Snape acting like it was completely normal for him to have virtually no control over his magic, and for what was left of it to be pitifully weak. He was tired of Snape's positive everything's-going-to-be-fine tripe and his thinking it would make Harry all better because everything wasn't fine and it wasn't going to be fine and he was so tired of all this shit that he just wanted to lie down and fall asleep and never wake up again.

You know, once he finished in the shower.

-HPSSHPSSHPSS-

From the Journal of Harry James Potter

Oct. 9th 6:35am

I don't know how much longer I can do this. The potions are the worst part of it, you know? Every time we try one, I get my hopes up that this will be the one that makes me dream, this will be the one that brings my magic back. Every time, Snape says to hope for the best, as if I had any hope left. Soon, I won't be able to use magic at all. Just last night, it took almost ten minutes for me to get a proper "Lumiere" going so I could see to read after Snape put the lights out. Sometimes I just want to tell him, forget it. Forget helping me. Go back to your Slytherins and your Godson, Draco, and leave me alone. I don't want to take any more potions and I don't want to spar anymore, when all it does is make me tired.

But he keeps on me, and keeps making these damnable potions, even though he has to know there's no use. That they're not going to work. He has to know that, doesn't he? But he's always encouraging me and badgering me and talking with me, and it's all getting to be too much. I just want to lie down and sleep forever, even if it does me no good at all. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be anywhere, really. I'm just so tired. I almost wish Voldie would find me and do me in.

Harry closed his journal and rubbed at his eyes. He could hardly believe they'd been here at this damnable cottage for a month. Every day was the same: breakfast, sparring, potion work, lunch, exercises, potion experiments (if the bloody thing was ready to use, or more potion work if it wasn't), dinner, school work and meditation, and then bedtime. Snape had scheduled almost every minute of the day, so he had no time to just lie down and rest like he wanted. Snape had told him, numerous times, that sleeping during the day was a sign of depression, and that one way to battle the onset of depression was to keep busy. But Harry didn't care if he was depressed. He just wanted things to be over.

And he wanted his magic back.

Sighing, Harry went to the bathroom for a shower before breakfast, since keeping clean was another way to stave off depression, according to Snape. Today was a potion work day, if he remembered right, and so he wouldn't be made into a guinea pig this afternoon. That was one good thing at least. But when he entered the kitchen after dressing, he knew something was wrong.

Snape sat scowling at the table, his hands curled into tense fists.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

"I have been out-voted."

That made little sense to Harry. "About what?"

Snape turned his scowl on Harry, making him take a step back. "You'll see."

It was Harry's turn to scowl. "Why can't you just tell me? I know, whatever it is, you don't like it, so it probably means Dumbledore-"

"Professor Dumbledore, Harry."

"Professor Dumbledore has done something to make you mad. If it's something that affects me, too, maybe I can help."

"Doubtless," Snape replied.

"Really?" Harry hadn't thought he really could help, but had offered as a way to get Snape to stop glaring at him.

"Indeed." Snape sighed. "The matter I was outvoted on is the matter of visitors. I don't believe they will be more than a hindrance, but both the Headmaster and Madame Pomfrey believe otherwise."

"Visitors?" Harry thought for only a second before his mind lighted on the likelu cause of Snape's frowns. "You mean Ron and Hermione? They're coming to visit?"

"They are."

Harry smiled for the first time in what felt like ages. Truth be told, he hadn't thought about Ron and Hermione much over the last few weeks, mostly because he had been too busy – and when not busy, too tired – to think about much of anything at all. But it would good to see them.

"When will they be here?"

Snape sneered. "After lunch. We will have plenty of time this morning for you to moon over their arrival."

Harry refused to let Snape's bad mood ruin his own. "How did you arrange for them to come?" he asked instead. "Did Professor Dumbledore come again?"

"No. We talked via the Floo network. It's a private line," he added when Harry was about to rant about how they might be compromised by the Floo. Harry remembered too well how dangerous it had been for Sirius to contact him that way last year. He hoped Snape was right.

"Are they coming through the Floo as well?"

"No. The banes of my existence will come by portkey." Snape's words were sharp and short, and Harry knew it was going to be a hell of a morning. But he really didn't mind. His friends were coming to Dormenhaus!

~HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS~

True to his word, only moments after Harry had finished wiping down the counters from lunch, and had moved to the table, Snape's head snapped up from where he was putting away dishes. "They have arrived," he intoned.

Harry chucked the cloth he'd been using at the sink and dashed to the front door. Out in the field, he saw his two friends, along with Dumbledore. The three of them were hurrying toward the cottage. Harry opened the door and called out, "Thought you'd never get here!"

"Oi!" yelled Ron, and he ran up the steps and grabbed Harry around the neck. He was grinning. "We just found out we'd be coming an hour ago."

"Harry," Hermione said as she hugged him more gently – but no less fiercely – than Ron. "It's so good to see you." A worry line appeared in her forehead. "You look tired."

"I am," he admitted. "But it's okay. Nothing to worry about."

The worry line did not disappear, but Hermione gave a tight nod, as if she accepted his word. "Have you been keeping up in your studies?" she asked. "We've just started silent spell casting and-"

"Hermione," Ron warned, "don't start already. All right?"

"I assure you, Miss Granger," added another voice, this one low and belonging to Snape, "I have been minding his studies. He will not fall behind."

Hermione blushed and pressed her lips together, and Ron's face started to get red. He opened his mouth, likely to give a cheeky retort.

Before he could, however, Dumbledore said from behind them, "Perhaps we can move this enlightening discussion to the sitting room."

"Oh, yeah, let me show you guys around," said Harry, hurrying to get Ron away from Snape. "This house is really wicked. It stretches when there are more people here. I bet we'll find another bed in my bedroom and another bedroom for Hermione, that weren't there this morning." Snape had shared – to Harry's delight – that his friends were due to stay for a couple of days, all the way through the weekend, and this was only Wednesday.

"Potter, finish up in the kitchen before-" Snape started to say, but Dumbledore interrupted him.

"Oh, let them go, Severus. He hasn't had company other than yours in some time. I daresay he's been a bit cramped."

"As have I, Headmaster." Snape scowled at Harry for good measure, but then waved his hand magnanimously. "Go on."

"Thank you," Harry said sincerely, and turned to go with his friends. "Let me show you the kitchen first; it's huge!" He wasn't as excited about the kitchen as he sounded, but he knew if they went in the door to the sitting room first, and Hermione saw all the books there, it would take a blasting spell to get her out again.

"Oh, there must be an enchantment on the house," Hermione guessed, correctly of course. "It's much bigger on the inside than the outside."

"Yeah, you don't know the half. There's also a really huge basement, where Snape's got his potion lab and we're an exercise room, like a Muggle gym."

"Potion lab," Ron complained. "You really got it rough here, mate. I bet he has you doing potions all day long."

"No, not really," Harry admitted. He wrinkled his nose. "Every day, though, we do some work."

"I think that's wonderful, Harry," Hermione said. "You've always struggled with potions. And now you have a chance to make up for lost time."

"Yeah, it's just wonderful," Ron mocked. "Why, think of it, he'll be able to make a decent Polyjuice potion by the end of the year . . . oh, wait, he's already done one of those."

Hermione glanced all around them to make sure no adults were nearby. "Watch what you say, Ron."

"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione."

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione said, "Maybe you wouldn't mind getting in trouble for taking all those potion ingredients, but I'm not up for it."

"Both of you hush," Harry said. "No one knows we did it; let's keep it that way." He sighed. "Besides, I am doing better in potions now. Snape's real decent to me when we're working together."

"I don't know how you do it, mate." Ron shook his head. "I'd never be able to work with the greasy git."

Harry frowned. "Don't call him that, Ron."

Ron gave him a surprised look. "Why? Is he shampooing now?"

"No, er, I mean, I don't . . . it's just . . . don't call him that." Harry's stomach tightened as he spoke. He leaned against the kitchen counter and looked down at the floor.

"Why not?"

"Obviously, Ron," Hermione said, "because it's not polite. And Professor Snape is Harry's guardian now—"

"I still don't see how that—"

"So it's only right that Harry should stick up for him."

"Er, thanks, Hermione, but I don't need you to explain for me."

Hermione huffed out a breath. "Well, fine. I was just trying to help."

"Yeah. Don't."

"Aren't there any sweets?"

Hermione and Harry looked around to see Ron going through the cabinets. The redhead held out a pack of digestives and shook it accusatorially. "Is this it?"

"Sometimes Snape makes cake." Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "It's good."

TBC….

-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-

A/N: I'm Baaaaaaaaack!

Cheers to all who read and/or review!

Sorry this installment has been so long in coming. RL has been a real problem. But I promise the next one will be along in much less time.