Snape extracted a promise from Harry that he wouldn’t run off and “do something stupid.” What the man expected Harry to do, he didn’t know. What was he going to do? Walk to England? Attack Voldemort with a rock because he didn’t want to alert the trace?

That must have been the scar pain Harry had. Voldemort had been angry. At Harry’s continued disappearance, or at not finding Harry in the Burrow?

Did it even matter? The Weasleys had still been attacked, been hurt.

Angry at Snape and angrier at how helpless he felt (promise or not, there was nothing he could do), Harry stomped out the back door. The man didn’t call him back, so he marched right out of the village and towards the hills nearby. At first he walked, and then he ran. He ran, feeling angry tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. He pushed his limbs harder, until his breath came in ragged pants and his chest burned. He felt his body start to lose strength until he stumbled and sprawled out in the grass, scraping up his hands and knees as he braced his fall.  Head hanging down, sweat and seawater dripped from his hair and he closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the day as a stifling blanket trying to smother him.

He gave in to the trembling of his arms and let go, rolling onto his back as he collapsed fully on the grass. Staring at the sky, Harry squinted against the sun as he fought to control his breathing.

He briefly lifted his head to look around, but the village had disappeared behind the crests of rolling green hills. He saw only a wild expanse of highlands, a view he’d grown used to during those first few days after the trial. He let his head fall back again.

He felt terrible. He felt responsible. Even though he could imagine Snape’s reaction if he knew, Harry’s chest constricted under the weight of guilt. Mrs. Weasley’s injuries, the Burrow burned down… all of it, because of him. Voldemort cursed and attacked and killed because he was looking for Harry. 

You are not responsible for the actions of a madman. Snape’s voice echoed in Harry’s head, deep and stern and yet gentler than Harry would have thought possible from the forbidding professor. As more liquid dripped from Harry’s head, this time his eyes, he dashed it away angrily with the back of a bloodied hand. 

He stayed there for a long time, allowing the sun’s heat to burn away his anger. When the pain from both his fall and the news had faded to a dull throb, he clambered heavily to his feet. His head swam a bit when he stood, and he had to wait a moment for the dizziness to fade. Once it had, he began the slow walk back to the village.

The tips of the roofs had just come into sight when he encountered Snape. The man, looking harried and more than a little angry, crossed his arms when he saw Harry. “I’ve just started looking for you. It’s been hours, and when I looked outside, you were gone. I waited, but you didn’t come back. I was ready—” he started to reach out to grab Harry’s shoulder but stopped abruptly when the teen shied back, wary of the man’s anger. In response, Snape lowered his arm and took a few deep breaths. His rant on pause for the moment, he peered closer at Harry. “You’re burned.”

Harry glanced half-heartedly at his arm, not surprised to see a red tint to his skin. “I’m sorry,” he croaked, mouth dry. He blinked the spots out of his eyes, wishing that he wouldn’t sway so much.

“And dehydrated.” The energy seemed to drain out of Snape as he looked down at Harry, the anger lines on his face shifting to creases of worry. He looked as though there was more that he wanted to say, but he only sighed, “Come on. Let’s get back.” Hesitantly, remembering Harry’s instinctive flinch, he reached out again. Harry’s eyes followed his hand, but he didn’t move away when Snape grasped his shoulder in a grip that was gentle despite his anger.

Harry kept pace with him, grateful when the man slowed his stride to match Harry’s tired tread. He glanced up at Snape and away again, guilt gnawing at his stomach until he felt slightly ill. He hadn’t meant to worry him.

Back in the cottage, Snape made Harry sit down at the kitchen table with a large glass of cold water while he stood next to him, arms crossed. Harry sipped slowly at the glass, sensing that as soon as he’d finished, the scolding would begin anew. He really was thirsty, however, so when he finished, he stood to get himself another glass as Snape began talking.

“What you did was reckless and foolish. Anyone could have attacked you out there, muggle or magical, and you would have been virtually helpless! I wouldn’t have even known what had happened to you.” He started pacing back and forth. “Look! You nearly passed out from dehydration. It appears that you don’t need the help of an enemy to put yourself in harm’s way. I understand that you were upset, but you cannot allow emotion to cloud your judgment. It will get you killed.”

Harry returned to his chair, eyes cast downward. He’d been scolded by adults before for his reckless actions, but he’d rarely felt guilty about what he’d done. Eager to escape the shouting, sure. Defiant, even, when he felt that his actions had been justified. He almost never felt guilty. Not like this.

“I didn’t think,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t think,” Snape repeated caustically. “That, I believe, is obvious.”

Harry frowned, gripping his cup a little tighter and keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the floor. There was no reason for his eyes to be stinging right now. He was fifteen, not five.

A pair of boots appeared in his line of sight, and then Snape was kneeling in front of him. Harry reluctantly looked up into his face. Black eyes caught green, and Harry’s heart twisted painfully at the worry he saw there.

“Harry,” the man said softly, and the teen blinked strongly. “You cannot afford to lose sight of the dangers that hunt you. Neither of us can allow the comfort of this village to grow into complacency. The Dark Lord, his Death Eaters, and the Ministry are all looking for you. I hardly need to remind you of the consequences, should they find you.”

“No, sir,” Harry whispered, fighting against the water in his eyes.

Snape stood and looked away, as if uncomfortable at this display of emotion. He cleared his throat, but didn’t walk away. He laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder again and didn’t say anything when Harry blinked his tears away.

“Why the Weasley’s?” Harry finally asked quietly.

“Because of their connection to you, as well as their involvement in the Order of the Phoenix. Even during the last war, Arthur and Molly Weasley were prominent members.”

Harry felt himself shrink a little. “Because of me.”

“No,” the man said immediately. “Because the Dark Lord doesn’t care about who or what he hurts in his quest for power.”

“I want to do another Occlumency lesson,” Harry said abruptly, looking up into Snape’s face with intensity.

Snape’s expression quickly hid his confusion at this sudden change of topic. “If you wish.”

The man rounded the table and sat across from Harry in their customary Occlumency positions. “Three nights ago, we—”

“I want to sort my memories of Voldemort,” Harry interrupted, fierce determination surging through him to wash away his earlier grief.

“Alright,” Snape said slowly, and Harry sensed the man’s reservation.

“I hate him,” Harry said intently, fists clenching in his lap.

Snape, to Harry’s surprise, looked at him sorrowfully. “Be careful, Harry. Hate… is dangerous. It corrodes, wears away at the psyche. To permanently cement hate into your mind… it will eat at you.” He glanced away, as if pained. “I should know.”

“He’s evil. If anyone deserves to be hated, it’s him.”

“Do you know the most hateful person I know?” Snape asked, leaning forward slightly. “It’s the Dark Lord himself. Hate is the reason he attacked the Burrow tonight. It’s the reason he tortured you in the graveyard. It’s why he killed Cedric Diggory, why he killed your parents and tried to kill you as a baby. Hate is why he started this war in the first place.

“Love is the reason you are upset about his attack on the Weasleys. Don’t let that love for your friends morph into hatred of your enemies. Fight the Dark Lord, not because you hate him, but because you love your friends and family.”

“I don’t have a family, because of him.”

Snape rubbed at his temple. “I was once just like you. Young and angry. I let my hatred guide me to make choices that I’ll never stop regretting.” His right hand brushed against his left arm, almost compulsively. “I let my hate for a dead man make me bully a first year who looked too much like his father.” It was a painful thing for him to say, if the tight lips meant anything, and Harry supposed that it was closer to an apology than he had ever expected to get. “Right now, when you sort through your memories and thoughts of the Dark Lord, you make the decision to hate or not. This moment will affect all of your future dealings with him. Don’t make the mistakes I’ve made. Please.”

Snape was pleading with him. Harry swallowed, suddenly unsure. “I… don’t know if I can choose that, right now.”

“Then don’t Occlude about the Dark Lord. Not tonight. Do it tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever you can do it without hatred.”

Harry bit his lip, torn by indecision. It would be so easy, too easy, to remember every last encounter with Voldemort, to feel the hatred and anger welling up inside of him and create for them a special, dark place in his mind maze.

A place where, he realized, they would fester and grow, maybe even poisoning his other memories.

Something in his chest broke, and with a mixture of relief and regret, he laid his head on his arms, which were folded in front of him on the table. Eyes closed, he breathed deeply to calm his racing heart.

No threat of tears faced him now. He allowed himself to breathe for a few minutes before looking up again. Snape was watching him anxiously.

“Okay,” he said blandly. “I’ll wait.”

Relief bloomed across Snape’s face. He sat back in his chair, nodding. “Good. That’s good.” 

Harry looked around, trying to distract himself from feeling bad about the distress he’d just caused. Not knowing what to say to end the painful conversation, he stood without a word and walked to the counter. It was about the time they should have begun eating dinner, but no food had been prepared. He peered into the fridge.

“We have fish,” he said to Snape, who was still sitting at the kitchen table. “And we have fish. Or,” here he gave a significant raise of his brows, “we could have fish.” Living in a fishing community meant that seafood was easily the cheapest and most readily available food item.

“How about fish?” Snape responded wryly, also standing.

“If we have any,” Harry agreed, pulling out a wrapped piece of mackerel. He stood on his toes to reach for a frying pan in an overhead cupboard, but Snape grabbed it for him and handed it to him. Harry gave him a half-hearted glare as he set it on the stovetop.

Snape walked over to the fridge and pulled out a head of broccoli. Using a knife and cutting board, he set up station on the counter next to Harry and began working. Harry glanced at him sideways but didn’t comment.

“Stir fry?” Snape suggested.

“Sure,” Harry readily agreed.

They worked together in companionable silence for a while. The familiar motions of preparing a meal helped him to calm down, to think about what Snape had said about hatred. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel, if not hatred. The emotion still prowling about the corners of his mind still felt a lot like hatred to him.

“Behind you.” Snape walked around him with a pot of rice and water. Harry stepped closer to the stove to give him room.

“Can you pass the—” Harry held out his hand, only for Snape to grab his wrist in an iron grip. He startled, almost knocking the frying pan off of the stove.

“What happened to your hand?”

Oh. He meant the skid marks from where he scraped them up. “I fell when I was running.”

Snape gave him a stern look.

“I washed them,” Harry protested. “They won’t get infected or anything.”

“Let me see the other one,” Snape demanded, and Harry produced his other hand for inspection with a sigh.

Snape gave him that same thin-lipped look that he’d had when he saw Harry’s raw wrists. 

“Why does it matter?” Harry asked, genuinely bewildered, and feeling his patience with the world wearing down. Such a whirlwind of emotions in one day, and they hadn’t even eaten dinner yet.

“Because you matter,” Snape said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.