**

“The people of this world are like the three butterflies
in front of a candle's flame.

The first one went closer and said:
I know about love.

The second one touched the flame
lightly with his wings and said:
I know how love's fire can burn.

The third one threw himself into the heart of the flame
and was consumed. He alone knows what true love is.”
-Farid al-Din Attar

**
Pain.

One pain, two pains, three pains…

“But wait Harry,” a voice interrupted him, cool as ice on a blistering wound. Comforting. “It doesn’t work like that,” the voice said. “Pain doesn’t work like that; you cannot count pain like you can count cookies.”

Harry thrashed in the invisible chains that were holding him down, arching, flailing and shrieking, feeling hot lava churning in his stomach. “How does it work then?” He wanted to screech his question at the voice.

He was in /pain/. The pain wasn’t singular; it wasn’t just spread out in one place. It was /everywhere/ and nowhere at once. There wasn’t just pain; there was the stages of pain that couldn’t be catalogued in the same group as each other. They couldn’t even fit into such a short, worthless word like pain.

If he couldn’t number them then what would value his suffering? Paper cuts caused pain. By that definition, this wasn’t pain.

One pain felt like burning while the other felt like freezing. He was being choked and stabbed at once, he was drowning and dying of thirst at once, he was falling and getting buried at once. How was that pain singular?

One died and another started in a never-ending loop, at one point through it all, he just wanted to die. Then the voice held him back again, it told him he wasn’t allowed to die.

KILL ME! He shouted with all his might. KILL ME!

HARRY YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO DIE!

Fuck the voice. Harry hated the voice.

The voice was nice at first until it wasn’t.

Harry wanted to kill the voice. He planned the brutal act through the pain. Harry wanted to close his shackled hands around the voice’s throat and throttle it to death; he wanted to dunk its head in freezing water so it would /feel/ the pain Harry was feeling.

Then it’d see about choosing death. It would wish for it like Harry. It would kill for it; it would embrace it with open arms. It would grip onto it.
He wished and wished and wished for the chance…

Until he didn’t want that anymore.

The pain just stopped.

It disappeared as if it wasn’t even there, Harry was unshackled at once, and there was nothing. No evidence of his suffering, nothing that indicated the torture he’d been through perpetually.

There was no numbers to hold accountable. There was no pain to count.

The voice went away, and Harry dreamed of colors.

**

The world looked funny upside down.

He only knew that, because when he opened his eyes, blinked a few times and closed them again he could see the picture of the ceiling printed upside down in his eyelids. Then after realizing his moment of stupidity, he chuckled. Ceilings couldn’t be upside down. They already were upside down.
His head felt funny, hilariously, he found everything to be funny, but for some unfathomable reason he wanted to cry. Cry and cry and cry and cry…
He groggily chuckled. That was funny too. It was funny when people repeated the same word again and again and again and again and again and again.
He felt the mattress with his hands; his eyes roamed the orange-lit room. His head was hurting.

He had no idea where he was, this didn’t look like his room, he didn’t have…brown mattress and warm pillows and knitted afghans. He had broken toys, big shirts, and the bars on his window.

He had a bird, or he was a bird himself…he couldn’t remember which was right.

He lifted himself up with his elbows, taking note of the empty chair set beside his bed on the -left or right side of the bed? Which was left and which was right?

There was a pitcher with glasses and a flower vase set on this table next to the chair, the floor was wooden.

He noticed the oddest things as he struggled to seat up, the way the curtains were drawn in and out the window with the wind, the specs of dust rising from the desk, the fact that he could see perfectly fine without his glasses.

Glasses…where was his glasses?

He fumbled with the blankets-they all tangled with his limbs, he realized that he hated the feeling-, and his fringe wasn’t covering his forehead anymore. Harry brought his -left…right. - hand up to caress his bald head, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

Harry had no idea where he was, he had no idea when he got here and most importantly, why he was here, in a scarce, scary room that wasn’t his, with his hair and glasses and his bird missing. He was wearing his clothes at least; the shirt hung off him so he figured that hadn’t changed. He had gray sweat pants on. It was scratchy. He didn’t like that either.

He stood on wobbly knees, staggering a bit. As the world titled sideways, he blindly started walking to the desk. He slammed into the chair. Biting down a whimper, Harry carelessly reached and took the silver letter opener for protection.

Why did he have a letter opener anyways?

The door wasn’t locked; Harry leant against the wall as he opened it, stepping into the darkened hallway with caution. None of the lights was on and the walls were bare, the hallway led to a door at one end, there was a tall mirror hung near the door. The other end led to a stairway.

Harry chose the stairs, clenching the knife tightly in his cold sweaty hand, and leaning heavily against the wall.

There was a small beacon of light coming from a room, Harry couldn’t see from the stairs but he heard the shuffling. Someone was there. His heart skipped a beat. Maybe it was his kidnapper.

He saw the man’s silhouette brush against the opposite wall, his throat tightened in anticipation and a feeling he couldn’t quite place, the one that made him want to cry. Harry ignored both feelings and made it downstairs, creeping alongside the dark shadows that engulfed the strange house.

He was right, there /was/ a man in the kitchen, with his face buried in his hands, his shoulders sagging. The man’s long black hair was tied at the nape of his neck, shifting as his shoulders moved. Harry approached the man, the knife held high in front of his face. The pain in his head was like a low stabbing behind his eyes.

The floorboard creaked under his swaying feet and the man suddenly turned, his face colored with shock. He scrambled to stand; Harry stumbled back in response, his breaths speeding up.

“Harry what are you doing out of bed?” the disheveled man gasped, reaching out to steady him. Harry flied back against the wall, swinging the knife at the man. The man froze in his tracks, his eyes widening.

“Stay away!” his voice trembled and tears of pain formed at the corner of his green emerald eyes. He was scared beyond words, he was confused, and in pain. Crying seemed to be the right response to those feelings.

The man collected himself, the hard edges of his black eyes softening as he reached out to Harry again, this time as if he was trying to calm a frantic rad animal. “Harry, put the knife down, or you’ll hurt yourself…” he stepped a little closer, but Harry felt like he was too close.

The man was too close, and he didn’t like it when people became too intimate with him. Aunt Petunia said that was bad. No one wanted to be near the freak. “Come let’s get you back to bed.” The man was saying, his voice calm and soothing.

Harry fought against the calmness; his head was too foggy to process vital information. “No! What do you want from me?”

The man, much to his credit, looked taken back at the question, his eyes suddenly narrowed as if he was contemplating something. Harry whimpered quietly, fresh hot tears streamed down his sweaty face as his guts churned in fear.

The stranger snapped out of his stupor with a jostle, his eyes widening as he saw the tears streaming down Harry’s face, his expression openly soft and caring towards the young boy.

“Shhh, it’s alright, I’m here,” he said, Harry’s chin started trembling. “…Harry, give me the knife before…”

“No!”

Harry swung the knife in front of his face, his shoulders shaking with half formed sobs. He didn’t quite know why he was crying, all he knew was that he was /scared/, and he didn’t know this man and his head hurt a lot. Uncle Vernon would be so mad if he got home late, uncle Vernon would get the belt again if he didn’t do the dishes on time, and the dinner got late.

He was in so much trouble.

The kind stranger stumbled back, almost knocking his chair over as he flinched away from the knife. “Alright! Keep the knife!”

He reached out and took Harry’s shaking shoulders, maneuvering his body to accommodate the sharp edge of the blade. “It’s okay Harry…it’s okay.”

“You’re just confused, I know.” The man continued sympathetically. His hand rubbing cautious circles on Harry’s back. “You woke up, you did not know where you are, and you were alone. It’s okay, I’m sorry for leaving you alone, alright?”

“Where am I?” Harry knew he could stab the man if he thronged the knife hard enough in his robe clad side. But the man was hugging him, and that was nice. It helped the crying.

“We’re at my house,” The man subtly moved to his right as he kept on hugging him. Out of the knife’s range. “But we weren’t before, I’m so sorry for scaring you, it’s okay.”

“Take me home please sir.” Harry pleaded with the man. He was nice, surely, he would listen to him without Harry having to beg or licking his boots. When Harry was younger, Uncle Vernon had tried that a few times. It wasn’t nice.

“You are already home. Trust me.”

The man moved Harry to one of the chairs but didn’t make him seat on it. Aunt petunia would have shoved him. She would scald him if he didn’t make dinner tonight, and then start screaming and screaming and screaming at him. Then she would lock him in the cupboard until Uncle Vernon came for his punishment.

Bad Harry. Bad freak.

He needed to go home.

“We were in Exeter, remember?” the man asked him kindly, oblivious to Harry’s inner conflict.

“We had a room there; we went to the museum and watched the buildings.”

Harry’s body shook with dread. “We’re not there…Uncle Vernon’s gonna…he’s gonna...”

The man shushed him again. “No, not anymore. He’s not going to do anything.”

“No he will. I know he will, he would-”

The man cut in. “You live with me now Harry,”

There was silence in the kitchen, with the dripping faucet and Harry’s irregular breathing the only sounds filling the room. The kind man gently lowered Harry into the chair and crouched in front of him. The man was so tall that his hands were still comfortably resting on Harry’s shoulder even in his kneeling position.

“What?” Harry breathed out.

“You live with me and there was an accident, four days ago. You had a seizure Harry. You really scared me but everything’s fine now. You needed rest so I brought you home,” he said ‘home’ as if the word held meaning behind it. Shaking, Harry shrugged the man off, his mind reeling as his mind processed the words.

Seizure. What was a seizure? It sounded dangerous. Mrs. Turner hasn’t told them about seizures yet; maybe Harry should ask her after he was out of the cupboard. From the sound of things, it was scary, because the man genuinely looked frightened.

“I don’t know you and I don’t- cannot remember any of these.” He confessed, hanging his head.

The man’s face held no shock or judgment, and he nodded, as if already aware of that fact.

“Alright, that’s okay too. You’ll remember in no time.” His hands were warm, Harry noticed, and he smelled of fresh laundry, and mixed herbs. It added to the calming affect when the man talked. “Whom do you know now? Do you want me to call your friends to keep you company?”

Harry’s brows furrowed in puzzlement. “Friends?”

He had no friends. He only had Dudley, piers, John and Holland. They were the ‘Harry Hunting’ squad, Dudley specially hit very hard. Friends didn’t hit friends, but Dudley did. Did the man meant the Harry hunting squad?

Some stray hairs fell into the guy’s eyes as he nodded. Harry had the strangest urge to reach out and push them away as they annoyingly obstructed the man’s eyes. “Ron, Hermione…maybe Molly?”

Harry’s frown deepened. The man sighed, dropping his warm, soft, hands from Harry’s shoulders. “You have no idea what I’m talking about do you?” Harry gave him a blank look, secretly mourning the loss of contact.

“It’s worse than I thought then.” The man muttered under his breath, almost as if he was talking to himself. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

“No.”

“Do you remember your name?”

“Aunt Petunia said…Strangers….”

He cut in. “I’m not a stranger, but that’s okay.” Harry was growing sick of the word /okay/. The man was clearly overusing it. Nothing looked even remotely ‘okay’ from where Harry was sitting. The air shifted and the man moved to sit on a chair across from him, his shoulders straightening when he looked at Harry.

“My name is Severus. Severus Tobias Snape. Do you remember that? You call me Sev sometimes.”

“No.”

“It’s alright.” Severus reassured him.

“Harry. I’m Harry but no one call-calls me that.”

“What do they call you Harry?”

“I won’t tell.”

Freak, boy, insolent wimp, whelp, brat, fucking bastard, good for nothing monster, slacker…they called him by so many names, sometimes it was difficult for Harry to remember his real name. Like the first day of school, when Mrs. Turner asked for his name and Harry stupidly forgot what he should say. There were so many to choose from, so many options. Harry didn’t want to get punished for choosing the wrong one.

Mrs. Turner didn’t know that he forgot his name; she thought he was being naughty and told on him to the principle and Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Petunia scratched his arms as she wrenched him from the car and dragged him into the kitchen, roughly shoving him into his cupboard and almost cutting off his fingers as she slammed the door shut.

Was that why he didn’t live with them anymore?

“Do you want something to eat? We have soup; Mrs. Weasley brought some over this morning.”

“I don’t want to wash the dishes.” Harry flushed as soon as the idiotic sentence left his mouth, and berated himself for his prompt and unwelcome childishness.

Who knew what this man could do to him if Harry disagreed with him? Sure, the man had nice hugs, but that didn’t mean anything.

“You won’t have to touch a dish,” the man promised him amusedly, but Harry thought he could see a speck of sadness behind Severus Snape’s eyes.

“I’m still not hungry.”

Pursing his lips, the man promptly pushed Harry to sit down on a chair and then bustled around the kitchen, murmuring to himself as he patted down his pockets and looked through the cupboards, sparing a confused Harry with short apologetic glances.

Harry twisted the lean blade in his hands as ‘Severus’ rummaged the small kitchen, his eyes blown wide as Snape finally reached over the refrigerator, /into/ a fruit bowl and pulled something out.

“Sorry,” Severus sheepishly turned. “You kept on finding the vials, so I had to find new hiding places. There are so many I lost count myself.” He shook a clear vial in his hand and placed it on the table, his eyes roaming Harry’s face for a reaction.

“I keep finding them?”

“Not that it happens often, but you keep flushing the fresh ones down the toilet and I could only brew so much before…” Severus ceased his ramblings at once, and clasped his hands. His face morphing into a perfectly crafted blank expression.

“What is that?”

Moreover, why was Harry flushing them down the toilet? It couldn’t be anything good if the man was openly hiding the stuff from him.
“It helps; it’s your medicine.” Snape shortly supplied, pushing the vial into Harry’s direction.

Harry stared.

Rolling his eyes, Snape leaned and took the vial; he uncorked it with precision and took a small sip. “It’s harmless I promise…here, see?” he took another sip and then held the vial out for Harry.

The pain was pushing his will, and Harry only lasted a minute before he snatched the vial and drank it all in one go. The taste was foul and murky, as if he was swallowing warmed expired milk, but the smell wasn’t unbearable to him.

Harry dropped the vial and leaned back in his chair, eyeing Snape warily as they both waited for the potion to take effect with bated breath. Suddenly the pain in his head dissipated and Harry gasped, feeling everything just clicking into place.

He scrambled away from Snape’s hunched figure, his face turning a deep shade of tomato red that would have had Ron proud.

“Pro-Professor Snape!” he blurted out incredulously, his eyes wide.

Snape harrumphed, his eyes narrowing as he scanned Harry’s indignant face.

“Not quite there yet, but yes Harry. Are you feeling better now?”

Mortified, embarrassed and confused, Harry wrung the hem of his large shirt. “I’m not sure.”

Snape? Professor Snape?! What was he doing here with the man? And since when did Snape refer to him by his name? Since when did the man hug him when he was crying?

Since he started living with the man, apparently.

The pain was back, this time as a dull reminder as the messy haired teen pressed his mind to gather scrapes of information, but came out mostly clean. Even his encounter with the potion master from a few moments ago was fuzzy.

Snape was suddenly in front of him, his face blank but his tone of voice determined and instructive.

“You need rest, let me help you up.” He helped harry stand. His warm hand around Harry’s frail, weak shoulder, while Potter himself was gaping at the man, the knife defensively elevated.

Professor Snape rolled his eyes. “You can keep the knife, come on.”

He easily scooped a peeved Harry in his arms and somberly strode to the stairs. Harry’s eyes widened, his mouth slack with shock as his teacher carried him up the stairs and back to the room he had woken up in. he was being carried. By Professor Snape. Carried like the man had done it a hundred times before, so much so that he didn’t even bother to ask for Harry’s permission.

What was wrong with the world?

Snape held Harry like he was a child, and Harry held on in fear of the man dropping him or suddenly letting go of him as a cruel prank. It wouldn’t have been that farfetched coming from the old Snape.

Suffice to say, this man wasn’t acting like Snape at all.

He was insanely close to Harry and the man didn’t even seemed bothered by that. One could even say they were cuddling on the bed, with Harry reluctantly leaning weakly against the potion master who was holding him upright and Snape comfortably looking through some parchments.
Parchments that had Harry’s handwriting on them.

Snape caught his wary glance and smiled. “I’m just trying to find the right one,” he answered his unasked question warmly, his eyes bearing no hostility.

“Did I write these?” he rasped out, his cold hand clenching the covers.

Severus Snape hummed under his breath as he skimmed through the pages. “Most of them, except those stack of letters, those are from your friends. They write weekly, Harry.”

Again, with the name, Harry thought warily. The man who had chewed him out in his classes more than once on a daily basis was cuddling up with him in his home and calling him by his name. He must be dreaming.

“Here it is,” the man declared smugly, holding the fresh parchment as if he was cradling a baby.

“I wrote this?” he thumbed the words, his head throbbing lightly as he frowned. Snape gently nudged him with his shoulder.

“You did, we were here when you wrote this one. It’s one of my favorites.” He smirked, looking at Harry so openly that Harry had half a mind to stab the man anyway. This cannot be real, he thought. This was wrong.

However, it didn’t feel wrong, Snape’s shoulder against his, the smell of laundry and mixed herbs, the slight lines that formed at the corner of the man’s eyes, as he looked at Harry with genuine concern and fondness…It felt safe. It felt more right than Harry could have imagined. It felt /heavenly/.

“You read them?” Snape’s smirk expanded across his tired face.

“You /demand/ I read every single one as soon as you finish them.” He said, the smile on his face never fading. Harry didn’t know it was possible for the man to smile before; it was creepy seeing him do it. Some part of Harry though, a small part of him found it endearing.

“Do you like them?”

“I love them,” the potion master emphasized, giving Harry’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Harry flinched away, but Snape pretended that he didn’t notice. He handed some of the parchments back to Harry amusedly.

“We even spoke of publishing some of them as one of those, humor columns in the Quibbler, you-”

Harry cut in. “Did I even like you? I mean…I must have if I’m staying with you.”

Snape’s face fell, his shoulders sagging as though a heavy weigh was pressing him down. Snape thumbed the favored parchment as he thought.
“You felt purple about me.” He said eventually, his smile returning once again, his eyes glinting with nostalgia.

“I felt…Purple about you…Purple, the color.” Had he heard that right?

Snape looked as if he was just letting Harry in on an inside joke. “No, not the color.” He drawled amusedly.

“The feeling.” He unhelpfully clarified. “You never told me what it meant, even in your journals. Every time I asked you, you would just smile at me and say ‘Purple Sev, how many times do I have to say? It’s always purple for you.”

“I thought colors were feelings?”

The man shrugged, rearranging his arm further away from Harry. “You didn’t label things,” he said thoughtfully. “Labeling your thoughts and feelings bothered you; it made your depression worse, so you stopped.”

Depression. Sickness. Harry didn’t like the sound of those things.

He raised his hands, puzzled as to which was which. How could he forget which hand is his right hand and which one is left? How was that even possible?

“Because I couldn’t tell them apart.” He bitterly mumbled. His hands dropping back on his lap.

Professor Snape disagreed. “Because it didn’t matter to us. You’re very open to change, it barely made a difference.”

“That doesn’t sound like me at all Professor.”

Snorting, the potion master raised both eyebrows. “You don’t sound like you now too. Your speech pattern is flawless, almost better than when you’re high.”

Harry took a double take, choking on air.

“On your prescribed medication Potter, don’t look at me like that.”

“Will I get my memory back soon?”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Charlie said you’d get better with enough rest. The longest it had ever lasted was three days, you couldn’t even remember your name then, so this is progress.”

Harry swallowed thickly. “Charlie?”

Snape waved him off. “You call her Mc-thingy. She’s your healer. Her name is not Charlie either.” He frowned. “You just call her that for some reason. You change her name every few weeks.” He sounded exasperated, and Harry was under the impression that the man wasn’t too fond of that nasty habit. Thank merlin, Harry thought, there was one thing this man hated about him.

“That sounds complicated and a bit rude. Why am I sick?”

“You shouldn’t think of it.” Snape replied without missing a beat. “Here, give me the parchment so we can get reading.” Harry tightened his grasp on the yellowing parchment.

“How did I get sick though? Is it bad? Am I getting better, or will I lose my memory again?”

Snape gently tugged at the letter in his hands, his moves were precise, practiced, and almost indulgent to Harry’s uncooperativeness. It all made the boy’s insides churn. “All of these questions will be answered in a few hours.”

Groaning, Harry gritted his teeth. “By whom?”

Snape easily shrugged him off. “By you, if you let yourself rest properly. As I told you, a disoriented state of mind is not uncommon after a seizure.”

“Why did I have-?”

“Do you want a story or not Potter?” Snape growled. “I could just as easily give you a vial of dreamless sleep and keep you dozed until you’re less irritating.”

“Oh so now you’re acting like Snape!” Harry shouted incredulously.

“Pardon me?”

“You’re acting crazy! You’re different! You were intimidating, and cruel and insulting before, there wasn’t a time where you weren’t hating me or sneering at me! Now you’re here, in this warm cozy room, cuddled up with me, smelling like cookies and smiling like we’ve known each other our whole lives!”

“Calm down Harry. This is just the shock, trust me, you won’t feel as disoriented in a few hours.”

The boy groaned louder. “You call me by my name!”

Jeering, the professor smacked Harry upside the head with his stack of letters. “What do you want to be called Potter? Pansy Parkinson? Harry’s your name.”

Harry clutched his letter opener and brought it up to his face, feeling slightly nauseous.

“You hate me… wait scratch that, /Snape/ hated me.” He willed his legs to bend and sifted away from the man. “/This/ could just as easily be Polyjuice or-or a spell, maybe Voldemort sent some of his follower to-”

Snape cut in. “What? Offer you a nice nap and pajama parties? Potter, come on.”

The boy almost fell off the bed, gasping, Harry gawked. “Oh my god did you just make a joke? Who the hell are you?!”

“I would be one aggravated Professor if you don’t cease your ridiculousness.” Even as he said this, there was a ghost of a smile tugging at the man’s lips. “No, I’m not using Polyjuice potion or a spell. Merlin, you would be so embarrassed after you remember all of this in a few hours.”
His lips fully stretched into a smirk. “I’m recording these from now on, they’re genuinely amusing.”

“You’ve kidnapped me haven’t you?” Harry rambled. “And this is all an act, you’re gonna kill me in my sleep, or-or-or fatten me up like Hansel and that cookie witch and then cook me in your oven. Is that what this is?”

Snape seemed like he couldn’t contain his laughter anymore, the man clutched his sides, as he laughed, nearly falling on an indignant Harry as he did.
“You’re absolutely going to /hate /yourself in a few hours Harry, and I’m loving it.”

“Stop laughing, it’s creepy.”

Snape smirked amusedly, shaking his head. “Polyjuice…that’s new. I must say, I’m impressed.”

“You’re right;” Harry deadpanned. “The real Snape wouldn’t need Polyjuice to kidnap me. Let me go.”

“Where? You can’t use magical transportation and its summer.” The bed dipped as Snape stood and made his way to the desk-Harry’s desk, apparently- and returned the stack of letters from Harry’s friends he had mentioned earlier. The man turned then, crossing his arms and waiting for Harry’s next blow.

The green-eyed boy seethed, fisting his hands. “Take me to Ron’s. Right now.” Snape gave him a look, and Harry returned it as vehemently as he could.
“Or I start screaming.” He threatened.

“Several loopholes in that plan Potter, first, we live in a secluded neighborhood, the only one able to hear you throwing a tantrum would probably be that old lady that lives six houses over and she has a bad hip.” Snape strode towards the window and threw the curtains wide open.

“Secondly, I already offered to call Weasley for you.” He said as he opened the window with ease. “I wouldn’t do that if you were kidnapped and I also don’t keep your teenage friends locked up in my attic in case you asked for them.”

Harry watched as Snape took the chair that was set near the nightstand instead of joining Harry, his elbows were resting on his knees. “Those are the only loopholes left if you don’t take the fact that I’m two times your size and height into consideration.”

“Stop treating this like a bloody game Snape!” Harry glowered.

“Stop making it into a game. I told you everything you needed to know and you remember the rest in a few hours. If you still have any qualms about my sincerity then, I swear on my magic that I’ll call Albus Dumbledore myself.”

“This cannot be you. It just cannot.”

Severus’s face softened a fraction, his hand grasped Harry’s shoulder. “People change Harry.”

Harry flinched from the touch. Threateningly, he raised the blade until Snape removed his warm hand from Harry’s shoulder. “How could you have changed into /this/?”

He shrugged. “Good company and a nice vacation.”

“You’re saying that /I/ changed you?”

Snape pursed his lips, regarding Harry bemusedly. “That is debatable.”

“I’m either dreaming or you’re telling the truth.”

In response, the potion master handed a particular parchment to the wearily tensed boy. Harry snatched the parchment with some perplexity. His head throbbed.

“What’s this?”

“That time we went to the zoo and you gave balloons to everyone.” Harry’s frown deepened, his rushing blood was roaring vengeance in his ears. “This is by far, the most informative piece you have written about our relationship dynamic.” Severus explained. “I thought it would be a nice way to stop your inconsistent fretting.”

Skeptically, Harry’s eyes skimmed the blurry words. “We went to the zoo together?”

Why would he ever go to a zoo with Snape? Why would he ever go anywhere with man by his own free will? This felt like the topping to the cake for Harry. Things couldn’t possibly get any stranger than this, he thought.

Except… Snape started talking again. “Only twice, once back in April and the other time was last week, we were in Paris and you insisted.”
Harry flushed, he frantically reached for the stack of parchments set on his covers, his heart thundering in his chest as he desperately pulled a parchment form the pile.

Paris. Not only they had gone to the zoo, they took vacations to other countries, and then Harry wrote about it. He eyed the pile with distrust, feeling as if each /letter/ was a grenade. Snape watched as he rifled through the letters with labored breathing, his arms crossed across his chest and his gaze absolutely neutral.

In his futile attempts to find a non-threatening parchment, or anything, really that wasn’t written by him, Harry found a slightly different paper. He held the long piece of muggle paper with his thumb and index finger. It was a yellowed legal pad paper, a badly creased one, and Harry could barely make out any words from the large blub of smudged ink. “What is this one about?” he asked Snape immediately. “Butterfly and the candle.” Was written in his spidery scrawl.

“It’s a story I told you a long time ago. You really liked it so you wrote it down.” Snape glared at the paper like it had personally insulted the man. He gave it a glare he would often give Neville at the slightest transgression.

Harry eyed the black smudges. “Would you tell me about it again?”
Snape went rigid. “Why? You’re going to remember it again in a few hours anyway.”

“Please.”

“It’s metaphorical, are you sure certain that you have the patience for it?”

Harry contemplated the parchments with a little frown. Maybe if he got Snape annoyed enough the man would snap out of…/this/. He clearly seemed to dislike this story.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, then I want to hear it. Sir.”

“Cheeky brat.” Snape scowled, taking the creased paper from Harry’s waiting hands.

Instead of reading, the man threw it on the nightstand, his scowl deepening as Harry settled in to listen to his teacher. Harry was under the impression, that Snape had very unpleasant thoughts regarding this story, or rather, of Harry supposedly liking it.

Yet, the man begrudgingly crossed his arms and started talking, his voice steady but low.

“It was said, that butterflies have never been able to meet the allure of the flame and yet, they held it most dear. It was the most natural thing for them. To admire, and yearn for the flickering flame from afar, to wrongly hold themselves as true lovers without having to meet their beloved.

One night…three butterflies flew in through an ajar window; each of them drawn in by the flickering glow of a newly lit candle.

The first butterfly flew forward, away from the other two and admired the flames, for the other two were too afraid to get any closer. It flew back to the others and said,

“I’ve seen the candle, I’ve admired the flickering flame with my own eyes and so, I’m its true love, for I was the one to be brave enough to approach it.”

The second butterfly was envious, so he, also got closer to watch the candle, but that wasn’t enough for him, he flew closer, feeling the engulfing orange warmth the candle emitted. Excitedly, he flew back to the other two butterflies and said,

“You’re wrong.” He said to the first butterfly. “I am the candle’s true love, for I felt the warmth and the glory of my beloved. I was persuasive in my love and so I was rewarded by the flame.”

The third butterfly said none as it watched the candle from afar, without a thought it flew closer, closer than the first butterfly had gotten, and then closer…nearer than the second butterfly had flown in to feel the warmth.

He flew so close that he burned, felt his wings catch harsh laps of the fire and felt it tear through his limbs. Yet, it wasn’t enough; the butterfly flew into the flame despite knowing that he won’t last long in the candle’s cruel clutches. He didn’t get the time to goat about his achievement to the other two, and didn’t need to.

The first had only seen the beauty and the second had only felt the love from afar. /He/ had flown right into it; /he/ was the candle’s true lover, for he was the one willing to take the burn of that love. He didn’t need others to tell him about the candle, for he and the candle were one.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“You’re right, I don’t get it.” Harry promptly said as he crossed his arms.

Snape arched a graceful eyebrow down at him, his hands reaching out to straighten the blanket covering Harry’s cold, trembling legs.

“What’s not there to understand? You love this story,” the man asked amusedly. His voice tinged with mocked anger.

“I get why you hate me liking it. Butterflies are stupid, and that candle was a jerk.”

Snape snorted. “I’m glad that was your first impression from a story like that.” The man dryly drawled out.

“But it’s true! Why would the butterfly fly right into the candle when the others were smart enough to stay away? What is the point of seeing his ‘true love’ for what it really was when he was just going to die in the end?”

“It’s metaphorical, Harry.” Severus reminded him. “Butterflies aren’t in love with candles.”

Wildly shifting on the bed, in spite of his blinding headache, Harry sat four legged, facing the potion master. “Alright then…what is this really about?” he asked. “What are they supposed to be representing? Love hurts? Love kills? Everyone’s going to die when they find out the truth and thus life is pointless? Your story sucks.”

Snape gave him a pointed look.

“What does that mean?” Harry snapped. “That look?”

“Why don’t you think that the third butterfly was not burned alive by the candle, and instead, consumed by its love?” Snape said wryly, arching an eyebrow down at Harry.

Harry snorted in disbelief, turning to face the potion master with an indignant look.

“He burned.” He told Severus in a tone that suggested he was talking to a child. “The candle /burned/ him. To death.”

“The candle cannot change who it is. Burning is its purpose, but it also exudes warmth and beauty. It’s just nature; people cannot help who they are. The butterfly loved the candle despite that.”

His thumb traced the sharp edge of his silver letter opener. “So love is lethal, yeah, I get it, but…but it’s stupid…Just...”

Snape hummed in agreement. “You were the one who thought of that. You thought the candle wasn’t to be blamed.”

Harry scoffed at the idea.

What a bunch of bullshit. He was really starting to hate his new self…or old self, considering the circumstances.

“Who’s the candle in real life? Death? Love? God? Our loved ones? The truth?”

Snape thought for a moment. “Anything really.” he finally said. “Because nothing is ever flawless, and our flaws are often what hurt our loved ones.”

“I still don’t understand the moral of this story.” Harry admitted.

“That really depends on how you view life Potter.”

“How did I see it before? Tell me.”

He needed to know, he felt as if he was two different people at once. If what Snape was saying was the truth, then Harry wasn’t like /that/ Harry at all, and wouldn’t be for at least a few hours.

Harry felt as if /that/ Harry was a fool for trusting Snape.

“You saw yourself as the candle.” Snape replied bluntly, he looked as if he knew exactly what was going on in Harry’s head. “And your loved ones were the butterflies.”

“I-I-I was the candle?”

“You asked me a few minutes ago that how you could have changed a man like me into who I am now…this is how. This,” he pointed at himself. “Was me all along. Assuming you were the candle in the story.”

Harry was speechless, the low throbbing behind his eyes pushed his gaze downwards, where he could do nothing but stare at his lap in silence. The well-worn afghan smelled of him and had little beads of red wool and thread sticking out, softening the texture. Harry caressed a gentle hand over the wool.

He was having an out of body experience, as if he was living someone else’s life. This was someone else’s Snape. Someone else’s afghan and warm room and cuddles.

Snape was someone else’s butterfly, whatever that meant.

“Others often take their first perception of a person and categorize them as that person’s personality, regardless of the situation…but the truth is people don’t have just /one/ persona. They only react to other people’s behavior and stance towards them in certain ways at certain times. People, tend to emphasize that reaction and mark it as personality. That is correspondence bias.”

Harry was lost on the man, his headache leaving no room for pondering Snape’s words. “How is that related to us?”

Snape scowled, his shoulders tensed. “It goes both ways with us Potter. We both moved out of the environmental conditions that defined our characteristics to each other. We left Hogwarts and we live together, I cannot remain a bitter, intimidating figure forever just as you couldn’t remain an infuriating brat.”

“Why not?!”

“Because…” his teacher paused, “We don’t go to the zoo if we were at Hogwarts, we wouldn’t feel compelled to spend time with each other, or be pleasant, or do things that a teacher and student don’t do under normal circumstances.”

Harry rubbed his throbbing forehead, feeling faint, as the swarming wave of confusion over took his senses. Snape was telling him that they were friends, maybe even more, with the man as something akin to a-Harry shuddered at the thought- father figure. Someone Harry willingly went to the zoo with, someone who cuddled up with him and told Harry philosophical stories and ideas. Someone Harry had confined in.

“As soon as their initial perceptions change, so does that person.” He said, scrutinizing the potion master’s face.

“I altered my perception of you and you changed…so in that sense…you’re the candle. Not me.”

“We show different levels of compassion and vulnerability to others.” Snape replied mysteriously.

Harry suddenly reached forward, and grabbed Severus’s wrist in a death grip, the afghan’s warmth leaving him as he leaned closer to Snape. The air shifted as Harry looked the man dead in the eyes.

“I felt purple about you and you’re kind to me now.” He started slowly. “You’re acting like you’ve been there my whole life, like you know me. The last thing I remember of you is sneering at me and saying mean things about my father. That /man/, would never be the one you are.” His cold, nimble fingers pressed hard around Snape’s reddening wrist. Harry distractedly realized that even his fingers looked thinner, but pushed the thought away as Snape calmly unclasped his fingers from his wrist with his other hand and sat back. An odd look in his eyes.

“I did apologize for that.” The man silently revealed. Harry startlingly realized that the man was ashamed. He slumped back against the headboard, drawing his hands under his knees for warmth.

The teenager’s face grew hard. “Did I forgive you?”

“You’re a very mature young man and I was a fool, Harry.”

“You should stop asking questions, it’s making the headache worse. You wouldn’t need to ask anything anyways, I’m confident in Charlie’s ability, and she said you would be fine in a few hours after you woke up.”

“But, if you’re like this with me now…you could still turn into Professor Snape at a moment’s notice? Like… what if you ever see Neville strolling outside? Or when you teach again this year?”

Snape glared. “You do realize Professor Snape and Severus are both the same person, correct Potter? Or should I have your head examined?” the two looked away from each other in awkward silence, and Snape seemed a bit grey. Harry rubbed his aching eyes.

“This is just too odd. Creepy, almost.”

Severus stood, clasping his hands behind his back and looming over Harry with an all-knowing stare. “You’d be fine when you remember and you’re not high up on your prescription drugs.” He nodded his chin at him. “Get some rest now, and please, put that letter opener away, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Harry quickly scrambled to put the knife on the nightstand, he pulled the comforter over his legs but also kept the afghan on him; it smelled exactly like Snape did, mixed herbs and fresh laundry, and until Harry was back to his normal self, he preferred having it with him.

“Alright, thanks Professor.” He needed the man to leave. Harry needed to think.

Snape looked like he was physically trying to resist the urge to touch Harry somehow, the boy imagined the gesture was meant to be comforting, maybe a pat on the head, an affectionate hair ruffling-he was bald though, for whatever reason-, or even another hug. As freaky as it sounded, Harry wouldn’t have minded another hug.

All in a few hours, the teenager promised himself. The exact equivalent of a nice nap would apparently get him on track, which sounded just about right with his progressively worsening headache.

As the potion master turned to leave, Harry turned his head, his eyes already drooping. “What’s really wrong with me? Am I that sick?”

Severus put a hand on the doorframe; he didn’t look at Harry over his shoulder. “You’ll remember it all in a few hours. Rest now.”

**
How do you explain death to a child? How would you tell them that when a person dies, they go away and they’re never coming back? How do you tell anyone that?

How do you tell someone they’re dying? How do you explain that concept to someone who doesn’t even remember that they’re dying? Tell them, that in less than a month they cease to exist, they will be ripped away from the land of living in a painful manner, and then whisked away to the possibility of an afterlife.

Would they want there to be an afterlife? Would Severus? For his own sake and not Harry’s?

Was it better for Harry if there was an afterlife, with his loved ones waiting for him? With Lily-his dearest Lily- and James Potter, the child’s true father or his godfather waiting for him? Or would it be better if everything just /stopped/ after his heart failed to beat again?

Severus cannot bear it; he cannot bear the weight of the truth on his shoulders. Harry’s dying. There’s nothing he could do to change that, because it /will/ happen, Severus / ensured / it would happen by dosing him up with that stupid, /stupid/ potion, just to prove a point.

In a sense, Severus is a murderer.

Harry plainly asked him if he’s sick.

“You’re not sick Harry, no.” he wanted to say. “You’re dying. You’re dying and I wished it could have been me who died instead.”
Instead, he says, “You’ll remember it all in a few hours. Rest now.”

This was his mistake; a small part of his brain tells him that getting attached to the boy was his own mistake. An error in his system, and now he was too close to the burning candle to back out.

Severus isn’t a man to be ruled by sentiments and feelings. Not after Lily, and not before her. Not after his mother’s death and not before that…what is it about this /boy/ that keeps tormenting him? What does Potter Senior’s /spawn/ have, that makes it seem like his lack of existence might just /kill/ Severus?

“Harry you’re dying, it’s going to be painstakingly gradual, you are going to beg for it through the pain, and no one can put you out of your misery and the disgrace because they’re too selfish. I cannot let you go peacefully in your sleep. Because I’m selfish. You should hate me for it.”

He could easily slip the child a mild sedative and the most ferocious poison he had in his stores. He could seat by his side and watch as Harry’s life slipped from his jelly like fingers and he died with a smile on his face…he could do it in a heartbeat.

But he never would. He never /could/ do something so horrific, even if Harry begged for it.

“KILL ME! KILL ME!”

He begged for it. He begged of Severus as Poppy and Charlie held him down so the chemo can run its course. The chemo must have felt like a shocking cold stab to his chest after so many months of warm bliss.

Harry must have seen it as a betrayal, as he thrashed and shouted vengeance. Threatening to skin /him/ if Severus didn’t kill Harry first.
That was how it normally went, after the seizures. This was the third time.

He just needed to have Paranoia added in his list, that and Harry’s rapidly failure in judgment. He had fought him tooth and nail after his second seizure and had to be sedated to be put down. This time? All it took was a few menacing words and amused glances.

Severus just hoped Harry wouldn’t remember a shred of this day when his memories came back, just like he couldn’t recall the others.