Abnormal… Worthless… Useless… Boy! You open your mouth, and there’ll be hell to pay…

No… nooo…

Starve on the streets for all I care… Filthy little runt! That’ll teach you to nick food from my shop…

No… Stop…

I’ll knock your bloody teeth out… I’ll have none of your freakishness in my home… Needs to stay locked in like a rabid animal…

Lovely little lad you’ve got there… I am willing to negotiate…

Noooo…

That little girl? What was ‘er name, some sorta color? Oh, she left ‘ere a few days back, or, weeks, was it? Went to live with ‘er mum…

“Mr. Potter!”

“No… Stop…”

A hand is shaking his shoulder…

“Stop… Get off… No!”

“Mr. Potter!”

Harry jerked awake, gasping for air, to see Snape hovering over him. Harry’s breathing slowed a bit, but he turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut, biting down hard on his lip

Weak, pitiful... Why does he have to see me like this?

Harry felt Snape’s hand settle on his shoulder. He opened his eyes, turning his head slightly, but didn’t pull away. He lay there silently, then stiffened in surprise when Snape reached out with his other hand, slowly, to prise Harry’s lower lip from between his teeth. He allowed it, a bit bemusedly, feeling oddly calmed by the gesture.

“Did you attempt to clear your mind before bed, tonight?” Snape’s tone wasn’t accusing, just inquiring.

Harry shuddered, closing his eyes. “Didn’t help,” he whispered.

I’m so utterly pathetic.

“That is not an uncommon occurrence, Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked up again. Snape was standing in the same position, his hand still resting on Harry’s shoulder, an unreadable expression on his face. “Would you perhaps like some assistance?”

No. I should be able to do it myself. Makes me weak if I need help. I am weak. Pathetic. Useless. Vernon was right about that…

“Mr. Potter?”

“N-no, no thank you, sir.”

Snape, for a moment, looked as though he wanted to object. He just sighed, however, and stepped back. “Very well. Do not hesitate to seek out my assistance, should you need it.”

Harry nodded, and Snape, after another long, contemplating look, turned and swept from the room.

Harry felt an odd sense of loss as he watched Snape go. He shoved his hand under his pillow to clench a fist around the handle of his dagger. His hand trembled.

I wonder what it would be like, Harry thought idly, leading back into his armchair, if I didn’t have to deal with any of this, anymore.

What would it be like not to feel anything, not to worry about anything, not to care? An existence without pain or fear, simply cool blankness.

What about the opposite? Like happiness or pleasure?

But emotions like that were out of reach for him, he just knew. The best he could hope for, or imagine, was neutrality.

I never asked to be born, I never asked for any of this. Yet people seem to think that they can do with me whatever they please, like I’m their personal property. It’s never going to end. If it’s not Vernon, it’s that man. If it’s not him, it’s Dumbledore. And even if I got away from him, someone else would just take over. If they won’t go away, I’ll have to.

Harry looked up vaguely, and noticed that it was already over five minutes past lunchtime. He didn’t care.

I’m not hungry, and no one can make me eat. No one. I can do whatever I please.

Harry hunched back further into his seat, trying to focus on the book he’d had resting on his lap for the past hour and a half.

…Nonverbal spells require not only a level of magical power and prowess, but a strong focus and understanding of the workings of the spell being cast is vital for success as well. It is for that reason that nonverbal spells are generally not attempted until the start of NEWT level-

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry purposefully kept his head down, his eyes trained on the next passage.

-NEWT level studies. It has been found that those who are practiced in the mind magics, or, as discovered in a more recent study, learned in the musical arts, tend to-

“You will look at me when I speak to you, Potter,” said Snape sharply.

Harry stiffened, then looked up reluctantly. Snape did not look pleased.

“Yes, sir?” he asked in a flat tone.

Snape looked as though he was searching himself for the last vestiges of patience he possessed. “It is nearly ten minutes past lunchtime. I am quite certain you are aware.”

“I’m not hungry, sir.”

 Snape’s face tightened. “Nonetheless, you will eat. Come.”

“I’d rather not, sir,” Harry replied, eyes on Snape’s left shoulder. He started slightly when he saw the shoulder tighten. He looked towards Snape’s face.

“Have I given you the impression that that was a request?” he said, in a slightly dangerous tone.

Why can’t he just let me be?

“You told me once, sir,” Harry said through gritted teeth, “that you don’t care whether or not I attend meals.”

Snape looked exceedingly frustrated, his breaths coming out in short, deliberate bursts. “I have indeed told you that, Mr. Potter. However, I have also stated that I regret my initial negligence and intend to rectify it.”

“I don’t feel like eating. You can’t force me.”

“I believe you will find that I can.”

“What, do you plan to shove food down my-"

“Watch yourself, Mr. Potter. You are treading on thin ice.”

Harry knew that he was crossing a line, and every ounce of reason he possessed was screaming at him to shut the hell up, but he didn’t care. He was far too angry. How dare these people abandon him for years, only to show up and try to control him as soon as it was convenient for them?

Harry pressed his lips together, glaring at Snape, refusing to move from his chair.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, in a voice that was almost a hiss. “Should you continue to disobey me, you will find that it is well within my capabilities to bar you from the library.”

Harry was almost shaking with a fury that was entirely disproportionate to the situation. Snape had every right to refuse him access to the library; he owned it, after all. But the logical side of his brain was growing fainter, and his anger was growing so rapidly that he felt his fingers tingling with magic.

No. I don’t need to destroy the library again.

With difficulty, Harry managed to reign in his anger. He looked up slowly to see Snape, his face tight with irritation.

“Have we reached an understanding, Mr. Potter?”

Condescending git.

Harry rose without looking at Snape, angry and humiliated. He followed Snape out of the room in silence. Before they reached the kitchen, Snape paused, turning to face Harry.

He tensed.

What now?

“In the future, I will not be quite so tolerant of your rudeness. You would do well to keep that in mind, or you just may find yourself spending the afternoon scrubbing cauldrons,” Snape said tersely.

Harry nodded shortly, beginning to feel a bit idiotic. He had gotten into an argument because Snape wanted him to eat? Considering that he’d spent most of his life scrounging for food, his behavior had been downright irrational.

He sat in his usual place, piling whatever food was nearest on his plate, looking everywhere but at Snape.

I’m being an ingrate. He’s giving me food and everything, and I just… He should throw me out.

At that thought, Harry felt a bit panicky. He’d end up entirely under the control of Dumbledore if that happened. And then he’d never be able to get away from… everything.

I have to apologize.

Harry looked up hesitantly. “Sir?” he asked in a tentative whisper.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked in a neutral, if short, tone.

He doesn’t sound too angry… Or maybe he is and is just pretending not to be…

“I… er- I’m…” Harry’s voice trailed off, and he bit his lip and turned his head.

What? I’m sorry for being a rude, ungrateful little-

“Is there something you wish to say, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked impatiently.

Harry inhaled quickly.

There’s no time for this. Just apologize and maybe he’ll forget about what happened.

Harry meant to say sorry, but what came out of his mouth, in an almost inaudible tone, was: “please don’t send me away.”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “Pardon, Mr. Potter? I did not quite catch that.”

God, I sound pathetic.

“I- I’m sorry for… please don’t kick me out,” Harry said, only slightly more loudly, a shaky undertone in his voice.

Snape sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He opened them to look at Harry, who was looking back at him with poorly concealed trepidation.

“You will not be sent away, Mr. Potter. You will remain here for as long as necessary. However, should you continue to refuse to efficiently communicate-”

Harry felt his breath catch in his chest. So that was the way it was. He was welcome here only if he complied with the rules. If not, he was out. And he didn’t even know all the rules. Classic. He’d end up breaking them beyond repair at some point, and then he’d be at the mercy of Dumbledore, whose plans for Harry would not accommodate his need to escape.

He did not want to hear any more. He let his fork drop onto his plate and dashed out of the room and out of the house as quickly as he could.

Had Harry only remained for a few moments longer, he would have heard the rest of Snape’s statement: “-your time here may well be less than enjoyable for both of us.” And perhaps, had Harry not run away, he would have felt Snape’s hand brush his shoulder lightly, telling him that his presence in his home was more than welcome, even if he did insist on defying rules put in place for his own benefit.

But he heard none of it.

Harry scampered up his tree, feeling both guilty and betrayed. Snape didn’t want him. But it was his own fault for not being good enough. He was never good enough. Not for anyone.

I was for Jade… I hate her! I hate her for leaving. She never even said goodbye. So maybe she didn’t care after all.

Harry’s hand reached into his pocket of its own accord. He stared into the blade of his dagger, his eyes reflecting back at him. He moved it away quickly, into the path of a ray of sunlight. The blade glinted oddly.

Why is it sunny? I want rain… Rain makes everything go away… But so can this dagger.

Harry felt the familiar calmness wash over him as he ran a finger carefully across the sharp edge of the blade.

No one would care if I did it. Snape wouldn’t care, and it would serve Dumbledore right. And the effing wizarding world would have to find a shiny new Boy-Who-Lived. Maybe next time they’ll pick one who isn’t damaged goods… Stupid Jade. She didn’t need me, so I don’t need her. It wouldn’t matter to her, either.

Harry scraped the blade of his dagger across a tree branch, carving in his initials; H.J.P..

There. He’d left his mark on the one safe place nature offered. A tree. The trees would remember him, even if he was gone. Perhaps the trees would miss him when no humans would.

Harry thought he heard the front door of the house open, though, the tree being a considerable distance from it, he couldn’t be sure. He looked toward the house, and saw Snape standing at the entrance, looking toward him. Harry could not make out his expression, but he looked back blankly, surreptitiously sliding the dagger up his sleeve.

After a few moments, Snape turned and re-entered the house. Harry thought he would’ve felt relieved, but he didn’t. He just felt a brief flash of an unidentifiable, but painful emotion, and then… emptiness.

Harry floated through the rest of the day like a ghost; he showed up for dinner, dutifully clearing his plate, all the while refusing to look at Snape. He sat in the library, staring at the same spot on the page, but for how long, he didn’t know.

He lay in bed, flashes of terror and fury engulfing his senses, so much so that he scarcely slept. Even if he had been able to sleep, he knew it would not offer him any respite. All Harry had was his dagger, which, to him, was the one thing that kept him grounded in reality, reminding him that there was a way out. Otherwise, he didn’t know where he would be.

Harry awoke the next morning scarcely an hour after he’d finally drifted off. His eyes were gritty, and he felt sluggish and disoriented. A quick shower woke him up some, but he still felt exhausted.

Better than the nightmares, Harry thought darkly, rubbing at his eyes. But I shouldn’t be so tired; it isn’t the first time I couldn’t get to sleep.

When Harry further examined the situation, he realized that the cause of his exhaustion wasn’t solely sleep deprivation.

I’m just tired of… everything.

Harry dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen, stumbling a bit on the way.

Am I actually tripping over my own feet? he thought vaguely. 

He sat down, barely noticing what he was serving himself, and, once again, avoiding Snape’s gaze. He lifted his fork, which felt abnormally heavy, and the food on his plate appeared distinctly unappetizing.

“Did you not sleep well last night, Mr. Potter?” Harry heard Snape ask.

He shrugged listlessly, picking at his food.

“Nightmares?”

Harry looked up at that. Why did Snape keep having to ask him questions like that? What was he, a five year old who woke up crying every night? And why did Snape even have to know about them at all?

“No, sir. Stop asking me questions,” Harry bit out through clenched teeth. No one had the right to know anything. No one. Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone? He wanted to kick something. Hard.

What’s to stop me? I have nothing to lose, anyway.

Harry rammed his foot into the table leg, causing it to shake violently. He watched with satisfaction as a glass crashed to the floor and shattered, its contents splattering everywhere.

The satisfied feeling left him quite abruptly when he heard a distinct clearing of a throat.

Oh, god. What the hell did I just do? What was I thinking? What’s wrong with me? You don’t do stuff like this-

“Mr. Potter,” Harry looked up slowly at the icy tone, his insides all but curdling with dread. Snape looked angry. His lips were white with tightness, and his eyes were snapping . 

“Can you provide for me any sort of explanation for your actions, Mr. Potter?” Snape hissed.

Harry looked down, shaking his head slightly. He had no explanation; he didn’t have the faintest clue as to why he’d just done what he did.

Harry heard Snape take several deep, controlled breaths. “Look at me.”

Harry looked up, blanking his face. He didn’t care what happened next. He didn’t.

“I understand, Mr. Potter,” Snape said in a tone of deliberate calm, “that your judgment at present may be clouded as a result of a sleepless night. However, that does not give you leave to behave as a young child in the midst of a temper tantrum.”

I don’t care what he says. I don’t care about anything. I don’t care. I don’t care.

“Have you anything to say, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shook his head faintly, his eyes on his lap.

“Look at me, Mr. Potter.” Harry obeyed, noting how odd it was that Snape didn’t seem angry anymore, just a bit annoyed, and resigned. He rose, clearing the table and the mess on the floor with a quick wave of his wand.

“Follow me.”

Harry followed Snape out of the kitchen, feeling increasingly more fearful.

You complete idiot. What happened to laying low? What happened to staying under the radar?

 Snape entered a room that Harry had never been in before; he’d only stood outside it while eavesdropping on Dumbledore and Snape the day he’d first come here. It turned out to be a small study, with a wide desk piled with notes, a couple of wooden chairs, and some ever-present bookshelves.

“Mr. Potter.” Harry looked up, confused and anxious, an ominous feeling rising in his chest.

“Stand in that corner of the room,” he pointed, “and remain there until further notice. I will be at my desk.”

Er… Sorry? Did he just send me to a corner? What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?

“I’m not quite sure what you mean, sir,” Harry finally replied, feeling completely at a loss, and not a little fearful.

Snape raised his eyebrows. “I believe my instructions were quite clear. You are clearly incapable of behaving in a manner befitting your age, just now, so you will spend some time in the corner, contemplating your actions.”

 Snape stood, there, waiting, while Harry walked slowly to the corner Snape had pointed to, leaning against the wall when he reached it.

What’s the point of this? What is he trying to say, or do, or whatever…?

“Turn around, Mr. Potter.”

Harry gave Snape a confused look. Snape looked irritated. “Face the wall, and contemplate your behavior.”

Harry remained where he was, frozen in place.

“Do as I say.”

Harry felt uncontrollable terror begin to take hold of him. Turn around? He couldn’t. He’d be facing away from the door, and he wouldn’t be able to see… He wouldn’t know if...

No. Nononono. I’m not turning around. He can’t make me, I need to see. I won’t. I can’t.

“Mr. Potter. Turn. Now” Snape definitely sounded angry now, and he looked it, too.

Harry’s breathing began to quicken. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for escape routes.

No. Don’t make me.

Harry gasped and pressed back into the wall as Snape starting moving toward him. In that moment, Snape’s figure began to grow hazy, and Harry wasn’t quite sure where he was. All he knew was that there was an imposing figure moving toward him and he couldn’t escape. But then, the figure abruptly stopped moving and began to back away.

Harry took that opportunity to move. He dashed out of the room at lightning speed, running up the stairs to his bedroom.

Need to hide. Need to hide where no one can get me.

The door of his room slammed shut at locked by the force of Harry's tangible fear as he dashed through it. He grabbed his blanket and curled up with it under his bed, dagger clutched to his chest. As he lay there, his breathing gradually steadied.

Snape wouldn’t’ve done anything, why did I freak out like a nut job?

How the hell do you know he wouldn’t do anything?

He just wouldn’t.

But Dumbledore can get in, and I couldn’t see the door…

Harry shuddered, and curled up into a tighter ball. Snape definitely wouldn’t want him, now. Harry had been rude and disrespectful twice today, and then he’d freaked out and run away, just because Snape had sent him to a corner. Even a two-year-old would have been capable of doing that.

I’m not afraid. I don’t need to hide here like a hunted animal.

Harry crawled out from under the bed and climbed into it, feeling exhausted despite having awoken so recently.

As Harry lay in the midst of a deep, yet fitful sleep, Severus stood beside his bed, watching.

“What am I to do with you, child?” he whispered. “You will not communicate your needs; I doubt you even know what they are.”

Severus reached out and brushed his fingers lightly through the child’s hair, careful not to wake him.

“I cannot discipline you, nor can I even raise my voice without you believing that I might harm you.”

Harry moaned in his sleep slightly, forehead crinkling in agitation.

“I cannot help you if you will not let me,” Severus murmured. “As it is, I fear that I am only worsening a difficult situation.”

With a heavy sigh, Severus turned and left the room.

The next few days melded into one another, time passing painfully slowly, yet far too rapidly. It felt as though Harry was moving through a thick, gray fog, unable to differentiate between what was really happening and what was running through his mind.

Sometimes, Harry felt nothing at all, and he moved through his daily routines automatically, yet he experienced none of it.

At other times, fury and fear overtook him, leaving him wanting nothing more than to hurt those who had hurt him. He could only imagine, though.

There were times, too, when Harry felt an undefinable, yet unbearable pain engulf him, a pain that had no cure nor treatment. It was inside him, yet it surrounded him as well, leaving him defenseless and hopeless.

Sleep offered no escape. Images of the past combined with fears of his future haunted his dreams whenever he did manage to sleep.

His dagger, secured in his pocket, day and night, was what kept him going. It was the way out, the only way. It reminded him that he wasn’t truly trapped, and he could escape if he really needed to.

The dagger was the only thing that felt real.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry didn’t answer; he hadn’t even registered the question. He was somewhere else, far away.

“Mr. Potter.” the sharper tone alerted Harry of the speaker’s presence.

“Yes, sir?”

“You do not look well.”

Don’t I?

“I am quite well, sir.”

“You are most certainly not.”

“I am.”

“Cease with the fabrications.”

“I’m not lying.”

I’m not! I’m completely fine. I’ve never been more fine. Perfectly, absolutely, unquestionably, undeniably, utterly, unequivocally fine. Fine. Fine. FINE!

He bolted, ignoring Snape’s voice calling after him.

Harry lay rigid in his bed, nearly paralyzed with fear. He had not been dreaming; he could not even match the emotion with an image or a memory. He just felt fear. He was fear. And pain, and anguish, and fury.

What am I still doing here?

Harry rose slowly and walked, as though in a daze, toward the bathroom, his fist clenched around a small, sharp, object.

Time to get away. No one can hurt me, now.

Harry entered the lit bathroom, suddenly imbued with a sense of purpose. He carefully laid his dagger on the counter near the sink. He then lifted the gray bath rug off the floor and hung it over the towel rack, taking care to smooth out any creases.

He sat on the closed toilet lid, and slowly reached for his dagger, grasping it firmly in his right hand.

He dragged the dagger through the air, toward the waiting, willing target in the form of a narrow vein in his scrawny left wrist.