Harry wakes to the sound of heavy rain assailing the window. The drops are wild and indiscriminate, missiles of cold water that splatter rhythmically against the glass. As the lethargy encumbering his body begins to lift, Harry opens his eyes, hardly aware of the dull ache pulsating in his forehead. He blinks a few times, expecting the room to come into focus with the light, but he soon realises that it is still the middle of the night and the room is dark and foreboding. Outside the window, the sky is a fathomless black, the night oppressive and uninviting. Even the wind seems to whistle in a sinister way. It is cold too. Harry shivers underneath the grey blanket and pulls the sleeves of his oversized sweater down, willing his body to go back to sleep. But after tossing and turning a few times, the dull ache in his forehead turns into sharp pain; his entire skull feels as if it has been split open and his sinuses are on fire. It doesn’t last long, however, and a few short moments later, the sharp pain recedes once more to a dull, inconsistent ache.

Frowning, Harry sits up in bed and softly traces the outline of his scar; it feels blotched and swollen, tingling slightly under the pressure of his finger.

The iron-barred door swings open and Lucius Malfoy strides in, his features melting into a skewed grin the minute he lays eyes on Harry. Dragonhide boots clink ominously on the stone floor and the damp air shifts uncomfortably with his movements. Harry’s nose picks up the familiar musky scent of the fougère cologne and is stomach drops with anxiety. He has become exceedingly familiar with the pain that usually accompanies that smell and braces himself for another day of—

No! It isn’t real! I’m imagining this, Harry desperately tells himself as he squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, Lucius Malfoy is still forging ahead. 

“This is not the proper way to greet me, boy,” he seethes, his grey eyes narrowing to predatory slits. “Must we have another talk about manners?” He stops right in front of Harry’s bed and takes his wand out of his robe, the movement sharp and taunting. His frozen eyes glint in pleasure as he points it at Harry and—

“NO!” Harry squeezes his eyes shut once more, focusing on nothing other than the frantic beating of his heart against his sternum. It isn’t real, it isn’t real, it isn’t real…

Breathe, Harry, a familiar deep voice urges.

Harry inhales and exhales and inhales again, and with each breath, the scent of fougère fades further and further away, until it is no longer distinguishable. Raw magic rises up around Harry’s mind like an impenetrable wall and everything is blocked out; his mood morphs into dodged indifference until at length he is looking on his own existence with the passive interest of an outsider. The pain in his forehead is completely blocked out, his limbs become nothing more than instruments for movement and balance, his heart, a simple mechanism that pumps blood around his body. And when he opens his eyes again, Lucius Malfoy is gone and the room is as it was before.

He suddenly becomes aware of all that was repressed by his feverish psyche. His stomach makes a loud, groused sound, reminding him that he has not eaten since lunch, and the relentless rain begins to make his bladder feel exceedingly uncomfortable. Without further ado, he swings his legs over the bed and stands up, wincing a little when his bare feet touch the cold wooden floor. Picking up his glasses from the nightstand, he puts them on and heads out of the room.

The corridor is cold and dark, but the sound of rain is muted by the absence of windows. Harry treads carefully past Snape’s room, and realises that his door is wide open; the curtains are seemingly drawn, though, because the darkness inside is almost solid in its intensity. Harry knows that Snape is not inside, almost as if he has grown sensitive to the man’s presence when nearby, and is surprised to realise that the professor’s absence in the middle of the night makes him feel somewhat uncomfortable. But he shakes the feeling aside, thinking that Snape is probably doing some late-night brewing in his lab, or reading in his tome-packed lounge.

The water almost scalding and his skin turn red underneath the jet, but he doesn’t register the burning. However, he does notice that the scars that used to run down his forearms are barely visible now, and images of Snape smearing ointment over them every evening flash across his mind for a second. But they don’t linger. Nothing lingers, not even core memories, and when he raises his head to look into the mirror, the green-eyed boy staring back at him is as familiar as a stranger. The lighting-bolt scar is red and blotched and somewhat enlarged and Harry knows that under different circumstances he would have felt quite self-conscious about it; he would have probably even tried to hide it underneath his messy black fringe.

But now he doesn’t care and after another cursory look at his appearance, Harry switches the light off and heads out of the bathroom. He walks back down the corridor, past Snape’s desolate bedroom, and makes his way down the stairs, plunging into the darkness of the small hallway. The rickety stairs creak under his weight and at once he is reminded of a small, green-eyed boy who used to sneak out of his cupboard at night to rummage for (and steal) inconsequential leftovers. Uncle Vernon’s vindictiveness together with Aunt Petunia’s indifference meant that young Harry was often reduced to stealing his dinners in the early hours of the morning when Number Four Privet Drive was as quiet as a grave. 

This doesn’t feel like stealing, though. It is strange to think that Snape does not seem to mind him rummaging through his old fridge in the middle of the night. But then again, Spinner’s End is not like Privet Drive. And Snape, loath as he is to admit it, is not like Vernon Dursley.

Harry slides open the doors to the lounge and steps in, feeling somewhat surprised at finding no sign of the potions master. He half expected to find him reading or marking papers at his desk, but the room is desolate and strangely cold. Frowning, he ventures into the kitchen and immediately searches for the familiar light underneath the basement door. There is none. A terrible sense of dread washes over Harry, but after a moment, his wild magic obliterates it completely until he can focus only on the task of making himself a sandwich.

Harry takes the plate back to the tome-packed lounge where he turns on a solitary corner lamp and lowering himself in the armchair usually occupied by Snape, remaining completely insensate to the feeling of safety that spreads through his chest. It doesn’t take him long to finish his snack, and soon enough, a postprandial lethargy makes it suddenly challenging to keep his eyes open. Harry rests his head against the soft fabric of the armchair and it isn’t long before he falls asleep.

He is jolted awake several hours later by the sound of the front door banging open. He is confused by his surroundings and by the dull ache in his neck from having fallen asleep whilst sitting up, but then his eyes rest on the crumb-filled plate and the memory of his late night snack comes back to him. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on this, however, because in the next moment the parlour doors slide open and Harry’s blood freezes in his veins; his mouth goes dry, his fingers prickle all over and his heart plummets to the ground.

Lucius Malfoy has found him.

Lucius Malfoy is standing in the doorway, the holes of his cranium-white mask staring straight at him, black robes hanging menacingly over his wide shoulders.

In the next moment, a wild thrust of wild magic bursts from within his chest and several objects begins smashing; the crumb-filled plate shatters to pieces, sending shards of broken glass all over the room; several books fly off their shelves and rip themselves apart, their pages flying through the lounge as if caught in a tornado. But Harry doesn’t notice any of these things. His wild magic wraps around him like a cocoon, sheltering him from reality, from the Death Eater hurriedly coming towards him.

“No!” a deep voice says, but Harry doesn’t hear it.

Suddenly, strong hands grab his shoulders, forcing him to snap out of his self-imposed trance. Harry attempts to fight them off, to get as far away from Lucius as possible, but the hands are relentless. When he doesn’t calm down, they shake him. Harry blinks a few times and looks straight at Snape’s hard features. The man is kneeling before Harry, his hands still holding onto his skinny shoulders. A discarded white mask lays ominously at his feet.

“Professor?”

The levitating objects fall to the floor as the flames of Harry’s wild magic burn down to embers and a wave of relief washes over Snape’s face.

“I thought you were…him”

“I know,” says Snape, his voice sounding raspy and tired. He doesn’t let go of Harry’s shoulders and for a moment or two, his black eyes study him in consternation. “The potion I gave you…you should not have been awake to witness this” Snape slowly intones, looking at Harry as if he might break.

“I’m fine,” Harry quickly responds, too quickly to actually mean it; the Potion Master’s obvious concern makes him feel uncomfortable, as does the dark gaze closely studying him. He looks down at his feet. As if registering his discomfort, Snape abruptly lets go of his shoulders and stands up. Harry doesn’t miss the sight of his knees buckling a little as he does so and for a fraction of a second, the professor’s face contracts in unmasked pain. This unfiltered show of emotion doesn’t last, though, and the stiff, insensate expression is back before Harry can blink. With some degree of effort, Snape walks over to the opposite armchair and lowers himself in it, resting his head against its back and closing his eyes as his body suddenly palsies in violent jolts. This, he cannot hide.

“Sir…are you alright?”

Black eyes snap open in irritation. “I’m fine, Potter.”

“He crucioed you, didn’t he?”

“You need not concern yourself with this,” Snape says, closing his eyes, a gesture meant to be dismissive.

“I could bring you a tonic?” Harry offers. “Or perhaps—“

Snape’s lips turn into a thin, compressed line. He parts them just enough to speak. “I said I’m fine. Since it is still early morning and you just suffered a shock, I suggest you take yourself upstairs and rest.” The tone is not exactly contemptuous, but it is not very encouraging either.

“No offence, sir, but I think you’re the one who needs to rest. You look like you’ve been trampled by a Hippogriff,” says Harry feeling somewhat put out at having been sent to bed like a toddler. “I could—“

“Potter!”

“What?! I’m just trying to help!”

Snape grits his teeth, his eyes flashing with unmasked annoyance. “Then go upstairs so that I may have a modicum of peace in my own home!” he seethes, his temples at once pulsating with pain.

“Fine! But you know, you don’t have to be such an absolute bastard all the bloody time,” Harry suddenly explodes, glaring at Snape and storming out of the lounge before the man has a chance to reply. A few moments later, the sound of a bedroom door slamming shut reverberates throughout the house.

Snape closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, his expression calming by what looks like sheer will. He is annoyed at himself for lashing out at the boy, for losing control like that, but he finds that the dull pain pulsating all over his body renders his patience suddenly inert.

He cannot deal with Harry right now, cannot have those wide green eyes look at him with innocent concern. He is not deserving of such consideration, especially not from a boy whose mother died because of him. Of all the reminders he had ever received of her absence, there is none as forcible as the look of concern in Harry’s eyes. It is the same look that she often gave him when they’d meet by the park across the street, during summers when Tobias’ viciousness left painful marks on his face and scars on his heart.

Sighting, Snape occludes the memories away and summons a flask of amber liquid. He drowns it in one go and closes his eyes, mentally preparing his body for the inevitable epileptic convulsions that he knows are inevitable.

Harry creeps tentatively out of his room, his steps sheepish and light as if he is afraid of making too much noise. He knows that Snape is probably asleep in his bedroom; the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs a few hours earlier, the loud closing of a door and the subsequent silence that followed, have been good indicators of this fact.

But now Harry finds himself unable to spend another minute laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. His efforts of cajoling his body back to sleep have been futile, to say the least and a multitude of conflicting thoughts are whirling through his mind. 

The irritation he felt towards Snape earlier that morning is gone and Harry feels ashamed for lashing out at the man in the first place. And the more he replays the scene in his head, the more annoyed he becomes at himself. Really, what was he thinking?

He needs a distraction. Or rather, his body needs a distraction so that his mind can successfully occlude. His hands are itching to brew, but he knows that Snape would never allow him in his private lab unsupervised and he certainly does not want to incur any further wrath from the man.

Instead, he timidly makes his way down the stairs and creeps back into the lounge where he scans the damage made by his burst of accidental magic. Several books lay crooked on the floor amidst torn pages, broken quills and shattered glass. The coffee table is overturned next to the fireplace and the small painting of a dark landscape has somehow ended up in the middle of the room—it is not damaged, though, and Harry breathes a small sigh of relief as he picks it up and hangs it back onto the wall. It is hard to imagine Snape sitting unfazed in his armchair, surrounded by a sea of debris, and Harry begins to wonder just how much pain was hidden beneath the man’s stoic demeanour.

A wave of guilt suddenly begins to spread over Harry, starting at the sole of his feet and making its way all the way up to the top of his head; it lies heavy on his stomach, making his chest contract painfully every time he draws in a new breath and for a moment, he just stands in the middle of the room, feeling suffocated by the myriad of broken objects.

Perhaps a month ago, the idea of thrashing Snape’s home would have brought him satisfaction. But now, Harry doesn’t quite know how he feels about his draconian Potions Master. It is a strange thing to acknowledge, the care with which Snape tended to his physical and mental injuries. Nobody had ever cared for him like that before, and although Harry finds the thought disconcerting, he also begins to recall, albeit dimly, the feelings of warmth that always accompanied such ministrations.

But Harry doesn’t want to think about it, because it is far easier to turn a blind eye to these developments and go on like he always had, without expecting to depend on any sort of parental figure. And anyway, Snape’s earlier short-temper towards him has made it pretty clear that Harry’s presence in his home is inconvenient to say the least and for his part, Harry does not want to indulge in another fantasy.

Because Harry has always looked after himself. It’s not like he suddenly needs a father figure.

Oh, God.

Is that what Snape had become? A father figure?  

He has been foolish enough as it is, thinking that just because they brewed a few potions together things between them must have changed. Dumbledore probably assigned Snape the task of looking after Harry and it would certainly be irrational of him to assume that the Potions Master had been doing anything more than that. So Harry fights the bitterness growing in his mouth and shuts out the memories of Snape holding him through his panic attacks, telling him to breathe, making him feel safe.

It isn’t real. None of it is real. He’s just playing a part. He doesn’t really care…stop fooling yourself.

With these thoughts whirling through his mind, Harry begins tidying up. He picks the books up and piles them back on the shelf, careful to tuck in the pages that have come loose. He then kneels on the floor and begins gathering the shards of broken glass and torn parchment that have haphazardly dispersed through the room, willing his mind to focus on nothing but the movement of his hands.

By the time Snape returns downstairs, an hour or so later, Harry has finished re-assembling the lounge and is sweeping the floor. He seems wholly absorbed in his menial task and does not notice the professor until the lounge doors are swiftly slid open.

Even then, he only chances a small look at him before averting his attention back to his sweeping, which turns suddenly more rigid.

“Stop that,” Snape says after a moment, the silky baritone of his voice filling the room as he steps fully into the lounge.

“I have to finish this, sir.”

“You do not,” he intones, taking another step towards the boy. He is surprised to see him visibly shrink. Even then, however, he does not stop sweeping. The brat’s unhealthy affection for brooms during Quidditch he can understand. This, not so much. It seems almost as if his life depends on the jerky movements of the sweeper, to and fro, breathing in and out. The boy looks miserable.

“Allow me, Mr Potter,” Snape says a moment later and with a flick of his wand, any remnant of debris vanishes and the modest lounge is spotless once more. Harry, on the other hand, looks somewhat put out.

“You shouldn’t have…” he begins, but then presses his lips firmly together without saying anything else.

“I was not aware that the state of my living room floor could precipitate such potent angst.” Snape arches an eyebrow as Harry flushes and turns away.

“It’s not that,” he says quietly.

“Care to elucidate?”

“No.”

“Harry.”

Sighing, Harry turns around to face Snape, his eyes at once wary. He doesn’t look up, he doesn’t want to see the anger with which the man greeted him earlier that morning, so he keeps his eyes firmly affixed on Snape’s feet. “It was my mess. I should have been the one to clean it.”

“You are not responsible for what happened.”

“I am responsible. If it weren’t for my magical outburst, your lounge—“

“Idiot boy!” Snape suddenly snaps, walking up to Harry in three long strides and grabbing his shoulders. Harry looks up at him with startled green eyes, noticing that the anger is discernable once more in the harsh features, but strangely enough, he does not feel it is directed at him. “I was not referring to my sitting room. Can you not see that?”

Harry cannot. What he can see, however, is that Snape’s face is etched with lines that seem deeper than they were the day before, and his hair lies limply by the side of his face. Even though his limbs no longer tremor, he still looks exhausted. Harry’s throat feels suddenly dry and he struggles with the guilt that flares up in his throat and plummets to his stomach, leaving behind a trail of anxiety. I did this to him.

“But I am responsible,” he says, as if repeating the words would somehow make the Potions Master understand.

Snape sighs and lets go of Harry’s shoulders. “I think I’ve had as much as I can take of your unwarranted remorse for one day,” he drawls, but his voice lacks the caustic tone that usually accompanies such comments. “Nevertheless, I ought to mention that you are labouring under a misapprehension.”

“I’m not!” Harry persists, feeling suddenly angry that Snape doesn’t seem to understand. How can he not see? “You got tortured because of me! You must have. There’s nothing that angers Voldemort more than his followers not being able to bring me to him.”

“I am not, his follower,” Snape seethes, his dark eyes looking suddenly so ominous that Harry fights the urge to take a step back.

“I didn’t mean that,” Harry quickly says.

“Then what did you mean, pray tell?” Snape inquires in a snide voice.

“I…I only meant that he thinks you are his follower. He doesn’t know you are playing a part…” Harry stammers, feeling his face flushing in embarrassment.

“Then I suggest you pay me the courtesy of remembering this distinction,” he growls, his eyes boring into Harry like sharp knives. After a moment, however, the anger seems to leave him and when he next speaks, his tone lacks its previous sharpness. “The meeting was not about you, Potter. The source of the Dark Lord’s displeasure lies elsewhere.”

“But he must have been angrier than usual anyway because I got away...”

“I do believe you know my opinion of your penchant for assigning yourself unnecessary blame.”

“But—“

“Stop!” Snape says, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are not responsible for the actions of a psychopath. You will learn this if it’s the last thing I do, Potter.”

“I don’t know how to stop feeling this way,” Harry says after a while, looking up at Snape. “I don’t know where to start.”

The Potions Master regards Harry closely for a moment. “We start with breakfast,” he says, turning around and disappearing into the kitchen, gesturing for Harry to follow him.

Harry fights the urge to throw his Arithmancy textbook out of the window. He has been trying to make sense of isospheric* chart for the better half of the afternoon, and yet his results come out differently each time he applies Professor Vector’s formula to his numerical chart. Sighing, he slams the book shut, removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. He and Ron always started their Arithmancy summer homework on the Hogwarts Express where they could pester Hermione for help.

This summer, however, things are different and Harry is certainly not thrilled with having been sent upstairs by Snape to work on his assignments. Something to do with embracing a normal, teenage lifestyle. He has deadlines too; two days to finish his Arithmancy essay and then three days to start researching for his Herbology homework.

And Snape wants to look over his work too. Harry grimaces, his features suddenly melting into a particularly deep scowl. The man will probably shred the contents of his essays to pieces until Harry is left feeling like a complete imbecile for even attempting to write them in the first place. The prospect of completing numerous drafts until they are deemed well-written enough by the Potions Master does not fill him with enthusiasm and he cannot help but resent the professor’s insistence that Harry start his assignments early.

Is this what having a parent would be like?

Harry mulls that over, wondering if Snape would be less harsh if he were somebody’s father. Ha, unlikely. The man is as snarky as they come, he thinks. Irritable, mean, and a bully. Better alone than with a dad like Snape.

Liar.

“Oh, shut up!” he says out loud, wishing that the sound of his voice could be enough to disperse the twisted thoughts whirling through his mind.

You’re being unfair, the little voice inside Harry’s mind persists. He knows what Snape is trying to do; he almost appreciates it too, but the truth of the matter is that he can’t stay focused on anything for too long. Sooner or later, his mind wanders back to Lucius, or Voldemort, or his dead parents. And when he doesn’t have flashbacks, the guilt inside his stomach gnaws at him until his skin crawls.

Because it doesn’t matter that the meeting wasn’t about him. Sooner or later, Voldemort will get angry on his account and then Harry will be responsible for another death. Inadvertently, but still. The fact remains that Voldemort will never stop hurting other people to get to Harry.

Neither can live while the other survives.

Harry doesn’t know how to kill Voldemort. He doesn’t even know where to begin. So really, it is far likelier that he will be the one to die. His own finitude does not bother him; indeed, he has been made aware of it at an age where other children think themselves invincible. But this background awareness of his own mortality and that of those around him has flared to the forefront in moments of loss when grief sank its insatiate claws into his flesh.

Cedric being murdered taught him that death springs up on you from behind, sucking the life out of you before you get the chance to actually live it. No one is immune. No one is ready. It always outsmarts you.

Sirius’s death then tore Harry apart so profusely that his guilt became a separate entity altogether, controlling his thoughts and his actions. His friends, his teachers, everyone in close proximity to him became, in his mind, faceless victims of his future faults.

Like a plague, Harry promises almost certain death to those unlucky enough to be embroiled in his life. And each day, his guilt grows steadily more monstrous, a weighty parasite that infests his mind when he least expects it until, at length, he looks upon his own life as a burdensome curse.

Sighing, Harry places his glasses back onto his face and reaches once more for his Arithmancy textbook, determined to disperse these thoughts out of his mind. Before he has the chance to open the book, however, he winces and raises a hand against the sharp pain that suddenly spreads through his temples, pain so searing and vicious, that his eyes begin to water and his mouth goes dry.

Harry Potter, a hissing voice slithers through him, making his skin crawl. At last, I was beginning to think you were unreachable. I am pleased to see our rapport is not broken.

Harry grits his teeth and catches his head in his hands, willing his raw magic to flare up and outs Voldemort from his mind. It is all in vain, though; the pain in his head slowly grows and the Dark Lord’s voice becomes steadier and louder. After a moment, Harry is almost certain that he is in the room with him.

Do not fight me, Harry, it is futile. This does not need to be painful.

Suddenly his head feels light and the pain is gone. What do you say, Harry?

“Fuck you!”

Such a shame. No matter, there are other ways, I’m sure you know. Intense burning erupts in his scar and Harry whimpers as he slips from his chair and collapses on his knees, hunching over until his forehead hits the cool wooden floor. He grits his teeth and struggles not to cry out loud.

You are right, Harry. I will kill every single person that you care about. I will torture them into madness, I will relish in their screams before I watch the life leave their eyes. And I will send each and every one of them back to you so that you can see what you have done to them. 

“Get out!” Harry whispers because he talking any louder hurts his head. Even the whisper resonates through his mind like a sharp razor, shredding everything it touches, leaving behind bloody trails of open wounds.

Perhaps I shall start with your mudblood friend. Yes, that would go down nicely, would it not? After all, her kind has to be eradicated first. Just like your mother. Do you remember the look on her face that night, Harry? Do you remember the way she looked at you when you pointed your wand at her?

“Stop it!”

I cannot. Only you can stop it. Right now, you have the power put an end to it all. I know you are tired. You cannot win, you know this. It is only a question of time. But ask yourself this: how many more are you willing to sacrifice with your selfish fixation to remain amongst the living? There is nothing left for you here, Harry. Only death. Embrace it and I will spare them.

The pain in his head suddenly vanishes and Harry feels light and strangely inconsequential as if he could float away and vanish into thin air. His mind is numb and his limbs tingle with an odd sensation that courses up and down, not dissimilar from the uncomfortable prickling that usually accompanies pins-and-needles.

He stands on his feet without knowing that he has done so, and starts walking towards his school trunk. Kneeling, he opens the lid and begins rummaging through its meagre contents until he pulls out a shard of broken mirror. Sirius’ mirror. He cradles it in his hands, feeling the faint pulse of a beating heart. A swirl of mad longing flows through him then, and his heart plummets with images of Sirius falling through the veil, dying before his time.

You can see him again, Harry. Wouldn’t you like to spend eternity with your godfather, with your parents? They miss you as much as you miss them. But you can see them again, Harry. The veil that separates the living from the dead is thin, easily shredded. All you have to do is cut through it and you will be back with your mother and father. I can take the pain away if you like.  

“I want the pain,” Harry says, his voice almost robotic; the breath hitches in his throat as he presses the sharp edge of the mirror against the pale flesh of his inner arm. It does not take him long to draw blood and there is something eerily comforting about the sharp pain that accompanies the first cut.

That’s it, Harry, well done. The veil is thinning. Do it deeper, Harry. You are almost there.

And Harry does, because somehow, that cold, slithering voice holds the promise of respite. Harry wants to sleep, wants it all to end.

Deeper, the voice orders and Harry obeys, becoming vaguely aware of a strange sounding alarm going off in the distance, but its sound is muted by his perfunctory determination to cut deeper and deeper.

Suddenly, however, the bedroom door blasts open and the mirror is snatched from his grip. Strong hands grab his arms, hold him, apply pressure to the cut on his arm. A deep, silky voice says something, but Harry can’t hear it. For a moment, everything is blurry and hazy, but then a sharp pain suddenly erupts in his head and Harry groans out loud.

It all comes back to him then, the hissing voice, his lack of control over his own body, the urge to end it all, an urge that isn’t his.

“Voldemort,” is all he manages to croak before a strong presence suddenly penetrates his mind and a tumultuous cool ocean washes the pain away in an instant, splashing Harry with its caring, strong waves, until it covers him completely and he plunges underneath its surface and deeper into blissful unconsciousness.

The last thing he is aware of is the comforting scent of nutmeg and mint.