MINDSCAPE - The Healing Journey by chrmisha
Summary: When an Occlumency lesson goes wrong, Snape learns more about Harry’s past than he ever wanted to—and it changes everything. But change doesn’t come easily, especially for two who have spent five years loathing each other’s very existence. Can Snape and Harry come to a mutual understanding of sorts to defeat their greatest enemy—themselves? Spring of 5th year, A/U. Completely written and posted in chapter installments.
Categories: Healer Snape, Teacher Snape > Trusted Mentor Snape Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required), Hermione, Original Character
Snape Flavour: Snape is Angry, Canon Snape, Snape Comforts, Snape is Kind, Snape is Stern
Genres: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort
Media Type: None
Tags: Injured!Harry, Snape-meets-Dursleys
Takes Place: 5th Year
Warnings: Abusive Dursleys, Physical Punishment Spanking, Neglect, Rape, Romance/Het, Torture, Violence
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 40 Completed: Yes Word count: 98424 Read: 234349 Published: 26 May 2017 Updated: 31 Oct 2017
Chapter 17 by chrmisha

It was Monday and Harry was exhausted. He’d felt okay Sunday morning, but by 3pm, when it was time for Snape and Healer Covey to escort him to Muggle therapy, he was nervous. The new memories of his arms and legs getting broken were hard to swallow.

And talking about them in therapy was even harder. His therapists, the Stanleys, were nice, always very understanding and caring, pointing out repeatedly how none of what had happened to him was his fault. And yet, Harry had a hard time believing them because he couldn’t tell them the whole story.

He couldn’t tell them that his aunt and uncle had tried to beat the “unnaturalness” out of him. He couldn’t tell them about magic. So he’d ended up saying he didn’t know why they had punished him. Thus, he left the sessions feeling drained and off-balance, as if they meant well, but they just didn’t get it. The anonymity was nice, but their inability to relate to him was becoming an issue.

He’d returned to the castle after therapy, distinctly worse off than when he’d left. He wanted to sleep and forget everything that had happened to him once again—to pretend it had never happened, to leave it locked in the past where it belonged.

He begged off Ron and Hermione to go to bed. It wasn’t until he reached for the vial of dreamless sleep that he realized it was empty. “Bugger,” he swore. He’d have to ask Snape or Madam Pomfrey for some more in the morning.

He cast a silencing charm around his bed and drifted off into a restless night’s sleep, punctuated by dreams of his uncle’s fists and his aunt’s dreaded kitchen utensils. By the time he’d woken up for the fifth time, shaken and sweating, he’d thrown back the covers, grabbed his school bag, and made his way to the common room to catch up on some homework until it was time to go to breakfast.

Harry managed to make it through his morning classes and lunch alright, but then he’d run into Malfoy and his cronies and lost it. Ron and Hermione had to literally drag him away, and by the time he’d come to his senses, he’d felt overly embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ron had said. “It’s history.”

But the last thing Harry needed was for everyone to think he was going crazy. He’d suffered that assumption far too many times during his tenure at Hogwarts.

He climbed the ladder into the Divination classroom, which was overly warm and smelled of sickly sweet incense. The scent made his stomach turn and he nearly tripped over a throw pillow on the floor, grabbing a table to steady himself.

“What is that smell?” Ron asked, holding his nose, as he sat down next to Harry. “It’s awful.”

It was awful, but it was also somewhat familiar to Harry. He remembered it from somewhere, but his tired brain wasn’t engaging at the moment. He, too, plugged his nose, and waited for class to begin.

“Today,” Professor Trelawney began, “we will be using incense to help open the mind to the vibrations of the future that are all around us.” She raised a golden lantern-like object and swung it back and forth, releasing more of the overwhelming scent into the air.

Beside him, Ron groaned, and Harry stilled. He knew. He knew that scent.

Harry bolted to his feet and ran for the trap door. He had to get the hell out of here. He vaguely heard the shouts of Ron and Trelawney behind him, but he couldn’t stop. He felt clammy and shaky and nauseous.

He scrambled down the ladder and hit the floor at a dead run. Even the portraits shouted at him as he ran past. He needed to find someplace where he could be alone. Where he wouldn’t be bothered.

Too consumed with panic, he let his body lead him, down stairways and hidden passageways, behind suits of armor, past startled ghosts, until he found himself in the dungeons, bursting into Snape’s empty office. He fell to his knees, panting, before the memory flooded into his consciousness.

His aunt had been boiling petals from the flowers she‘d instructed him to pick that morning. She had read in a magazine about how to make your own floral perfume, and she’d wanted to try it. Having seemingly had little success with the flowers themselves, she’d started mixing other things together to try to obtain the scent she wanted.

Clearly, it hadn’t been working. By the time Harry’d come into the kitchen to make prepare dinner, he’d nearly gagged on the sickly sweet scent.

“What is that smell?” he’d exclaimed, instantly regretting his impulsive words. He’d been made to clean it all up, and told not to speak of it again. Plugging his nose, he’d poured the mess into empty condiment bottles, screwed the caps on tight, and thrown them in the garbage outside, hoping to rid himself of the odor forever.

If only that had been the end of it.

Instead, later that night, Dudley and his gang had found Harry, and cornered him. They had the condiment bottle of that foul perfume experiment, and they squirted it all over him, taunting him about being a faggot, about wanting to be pretty, about now smelling pretty.

It was humiliating and petty and it would have been bad enough if it had stopped there, but it hadn’t. It had gotten worse, so much worse, until he was on his stomach, naked below the waist, his legs spread. Dudley and his gang were laughing and jeering, and Harry was left bleeding from his arse, and “sobbing like the little girl he was.”


Snape was in his quarters, grading papers during one of his rare free periods, when an odd alarm sounded. He looked up, racking his brain to remember what he’d set that alarm for. It hadn’t sounded before, so it either had to be a new alarm he’d set, or a very old one. As he pondered its significance, it hit him. He jumped to his feet and all but ran to his office.

Snape threw open the door to the sound of retching. Potter was on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth, keening, tears and snot running down his face as he vomited. Snape vanished the putrid puddle and performed an air freshening charm, then transfigured his handkerchief into a wet washcloth.

“Potter,” Snape said, handing him the washcloth. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Potter accepted the cloth and sank back onto his haunches, wiping his face. Then he sat and pulled his knees to his chest, still rocking back and forth.

“Potter,” Snape said urgently, kneeling on the floor beside the boy and putting his hand on the boy’s trembling shoulder. “Talk to me.”

But Harry just shook his head, unwilling or unable to respond.

“Was it a memory?”

Harry nodded.

“A new memory?”

Harry nodded again and then started making that awful keening noise, his eyes squeezed tight shut. “Make it stop,” he rasped. “Please, just make it stop.”

“Do you want me to Occlude for you?” Snape asked.

Once more, Harry nodded.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” Snape directed, grasping the boy’s chin and pulling Potter’s focus toward him.

Slowly, Harry’s lids rose, revealing desperate, haunted eyes.

Snape’s gut clenched as he whispered, “Legilimens.”

And then he was watching what those vile heathens had done to the boy. Snape gritted his teeth, wishing for nothing more than to snap their worthless necks. Instead, he entered Potter’s mind, crouching on the leaf-strewn ground by where the teen lay half-naked. He guessed Potter was about 13.

“Mr. Potter,” he called out. “Ha-Harry. Look at me.”

The boy’s tortured gaze met his.

“Focus on me. Only me.” Snape said, as the boy’s gaze held his and Snape absorbed the boy’s pain and humiliation, giving him the escape he so desperately needed.

The teen huddled on his office floor before him slumped noticeably and the keening stopped. Potter closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. “I don’t want to remember this,” he uttered. “I don’t want to ever remember this.”

Snape grimaced and put his arm around Potter’s shoulders, giving Potter a quick squeeze. He didn’t blame the boy. Who would want a memory like that? “What triggered it?” he asked gently.

“Trelawney’s room,” Potter replied, “the scent.”

Some of the teachers had been told what had happened to Potter, but Trelawney was not, and never would be, one of them. They’d need to devise a plan for Potter for her class in the future.

Curious, Snape asked, “What prompted you to come to my office?”

“I dunno,” Potter replied. “I didn’t mean to. I mean, I just sort of ended up here.”

“You are welcome to come here anytime you need,” Snape murmured, surprising himself with his words likely as much as Potter.

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry said, still not looking at him.

“Let’s get you off the floor,” Snape said, taking Potter by the elbow. Once they were both seated in the two student chairs in front of Snape’s desk, Snape asked, “How are you sleeping?”

“Not well,” Harry stated. “Oh, and I’m out of dreamless sleep.”

“That can be easily remedied,” Snape said. “And calming draught?”

“Half left, sir.”

Snape stood up and gathered the necessary potions, making sure to place unbreakable charms on the bottles before handing them to Potter, who murmured his thanks.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, sitting back down again. “Do you find the therapy sessions useful?”

“No,” Potter said, before backtracking. “I mean, the Stanleys are very nice, and they try to be helpful.”

“But,” Snape prompted.

“But they don’t get it. They don’t understand.” Harry dragged his forearm across his eyes, wiping away the rest of the tears.

“What don’t they understand?” Snape asked.

Troubled eyes met his as Potter forced out the words. “My relatives tried to beat the magic out of me.” Potter glanced away. “And I can’t tell them that.”

Snape sat back in his chair, taken aback. Did that tiny detail really matter? Clearly to Potter it did. Snape knew how therapy went; he’d done it himself. You spilled your guts while the therapist told you it wasn’t your fault. But if Potter couldn’t tell them this key piece of information, then perhaps he couldn’t relate to the rest of the things they were saying.

He’d have to have a conversation with Dumbledore and Covey and see how they could handle this to make therapy more useful to the boy. In the meantime, Potter needed a babysitter.

“I am going to excuse you from classes for the rest of the day.”

“You are?” Potter said, looking both startled and relieved.

“Unless you would rather attend them?”

“I’d prefer not to, sir,” Harry said quietly, glancing at his feet.

“What would you think about helping Hagrid with his first and second year Care of Magical Creatures class? I hear he could use a hand, and as your afternoon is free…”

“Okay,” Potter said. “I can do that.”

“Very well,” Snape said. “I will let Hagrid know to expect you, and I will alert your other instructors as well.”

“Could you tell Ron and Hermione too?” Potter asked. “Just so they don’t worry.”

Snape wanted to roll his eyes but refrained from it. The boy needed his friends now more than ever.

“Here,” Snape said, handing a parchment and quill to the boy. “Write them a note, and I will make sure it gets delivered to them immediately.” Snape watched as the boy carefully wrote the note and then rolled up the parchment, breathing a thank you as he handed it over. Snape nodded.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape called as the teen was leaving.

Potter stopped and turned back to look at him.

“I am not a man of platitudes. But trust me when I say that you will get through this, and you will be stronger for it.”

Potter looked at him doubtfully for a moment before giving a curt nod. Then, he was gone.


Hermione gathered up her things and exited her Ancient Runes class to find Ron waiting for her. “Ron?” she gasped. “What’s wrong?” Looking around she said, “Where’s Harry?”

“I dunno,” Ron said. “Divination had just started when he bolted. I went after him, but I couldn’t find him.”

Hermione felt as worried as Ron looked. “Let‘s go to Transfiguration. Maybe he‘ll be there.”

“And if he isn‘t?” Ron asked.

“I don‘t know,” Hermione replied. “Where all did you look for him?”

“Gryffindor tower, the hospital wing, the library. I even waited outside Dumbledore’s office for a bit.”

Hermione sighed. “I wish there was more we could do to help him.”

As they rounded the corner into the Transfiguration classroom hallway, an eager Ravenclaw first year ran up to them. “Weasley, right?”

“Who’s asking?” Ron replied.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, this is Ron Weasley. Can we help you?”

The Ravenclaw held out a scroll. “I was supposed to give this to you.”

Ron grabbed the scroll and pulled it open, ignoring the messenger.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, as she looked over to read it with Ron. In Harry’s untidy script she read:

 

Ron,

Sorry I had to dash off like that. I remembered something I’d forgotten. I am helping Hagrid this afternoon with his Care of Magical Creatures classes. See you and Hermione at dinner.

Harry

 

“At least he’s okay,” Hermione said with a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, but it’s strange though, skipping classes to help Hagrid.”

“Ron,” Hermione chastised. “Did you read what he wrote? He had a flashback.”

“What?” Ron said, “Where? I didn’t see that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at her friend. “I remembered something I’d forgotten…”

Hermione watched Ron consider her words. “I thought he just meant… Ohhhh,” Ron commented as the magnitude of Harry’s message sank in.

As they entered the Transfiguration classroom, they saw Professor McGonagall at the front of the room, reading a similar scroll to the one they’d received. They watched as she pursed her lips and then slid the scroll into her robes. McGonagall looked up, directly at Ron and Hermione, nodded once, and then began organizing the papers on her desk.

“She knows,” Ron said.

“I think so too,” Hermione agreed.


“I havne been here b’fore,” Covey said, looking around Le Fleur-de-lis, an upscale wizarding restaurant located on a side street in Hogsmeade.

“I haven’t either,” Snape replied, lifting the glass of wine to his prominent nose and sniffing its aroma. “But I have heard good things about it.”

“Aye?” Covey said.

“Aye,” Snape agreed. “And it’s nice to get out of the castle once in a while.”

Covey laughed, the smile lighting up her sparkling blue eyes.

Snape reached for her hand. “How was your day?”

“Twas fine,” she replied. “Not much ta report. An’ yers?”

“Potter showed up in my office,” Snape said, frowning at the memory. “It seems he is remembering more of the abuse.” Snape felt Covey’s fingers caress his hand in comfort.

“Aye,” she said, “I figured he would. How’s he handlin’ it?”

“Not well,” Snape replied. “He was vomiting all over my floor when I found him.”

Covey grimaced. “Perhaps he should be seein’ those Muggle therapists twice a week.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Snape responded, “or at least part of it.” Snape pulled his hand back from Covey’s and steepled his fingers, resting his lips against his index fingers.

“What do ye mean, Sevvie?” Covey inquired.

“It seems that Mr. Potter has been unable to receive the full benefit of their wisdom.”

“Because they are Muggles?” Covey asked.

“Peripherally,” Snape replied. “Potter believes that he was abused because he was a magical child and his relatives wished him not to be so.” Snape paused to take another sip of his wine, and reached for Covey’s hand once more. “And since he cannot tell the Muggles that this is the reason they targeted him, he has not been able to accept that it was not his fault.”

Covey took a deep breath, a look of concentration on her face. “So let’s tell them.”

“Tell the Muggles that he’s a wizard?”

“Aye,” Covey said.

“And the International Statute of Secrecy be damned?”

Covey waved her free hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Think of all the Muggleborns. Their parents have ta be told about our world, aye?  An’ their siblings. What’s a couple more Muggles? An’ professionals no less?”

Snape considered this. “That is a thought,” he conceded. ‘We’d have to get Albus’s approval first.”

Covey smiled. “I am quite confident I can convince Albus.”

“Are you then?” Snape said, raising an eyebrow as a smirk crossed his lips.

“Aye,” Covey replied coyly. “I am.”

The End.


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