Classes finally returned to something resembling normal by the end of the week. Harry moved through them in a daze, raw and quick tempered. Everyone gave him leeway, though, so he didn’t get into trouble for it. He didn’t sense any diminishing of everyone’s tolerance of him, either, which only added to his feelings of separation.

His spare time was spent answering letters. He had started with the easy ones: the handful of exceptionally moving letters of thanks. He spent many recopied parchments on composing a heartfelt response that he then rewrote, with slight tailoring, to each of them. That left three letters that he couldn’t ignore, mostly because McGonagall had strongly urged him not to. These letters included the one from Lord Freelander and were similar in that they made offers of financial assistance for his ongoing training. Even after taking them out of his knapsack many times over, they still brought a flush of something akin to pain. He knew he shouldn’t be annoyed at the two men and one woman of social standing who had penned the letters he now held, but he couldn’t completely help himself.

McGonagall’s firm insistence that he reply played through his mind yet again as he sat alone in the quiet library late one night. He pulled out Lord Freelander’s letter and a blank parchment. He just had to write what he truly thought, he told himself. Writing extra neatly, he wrote out the salutation. He thanked the man for his kind offer. He was flattered, among other less clear emotions. Harry put that down, the first part anyway. In awkward phrasing he explained that he couldn’t see himself being adopted, at least not right now, ten years ago, certainly, even three or four, maybe.

Harry reread what he had written so far, discovering that he couldn’t write an honest letter to someone else until he had first written one to himself. No wonder he had left these in his book bag all this time while he stumbled through his regular routine. 

He put the quill down and rubbed his eyes. What was the real problem, anyway? he asked himself.  He imagined himself with a house to go to, a nice one. That sounded very appealing in and of itself. But when the nightmares started, what would his new guardian think? What if he slipped into that vision? He would have to explain that he wasn’t what they thought he was, and the thought of having to do that made him feel sickened.

He reread Freelander’s letter and, feeling that this stranger had gone out on a limb, Harry felt he should reply with as much honesty as he could manage. He picked up the quill again, and explained, in what felt like clumsy prose, that he needed to find his own way from here because, until now, the prophecy had left him no path of his own. He reiterated his gratitude for the offer and his hope that assistance remain available, should he need it.

With a frown, he rewrote it out three times and closed them all in envelopes.

In Potions, Harry frowned at the instructions and added two drops of essence of silver leaf. He stirred once and waited for the cauldron to cool down. Snape stepped past, pausing to eye Hermione’s cauldron and then Harry’s. Hermione gave their teacher a warning look.

“What was that for, Ms. Granger?” Snape asked.

Very quietly, she said, “It was a Don’t be cruel to Harry look, sir.”

“Hermione,” Harry said.

Equally quiet, Snape retorted, “Have I been cruel to our resident hero even once this week? Granger, Potter is the one being cruel to himself.” At her look of confusion, he went on just above a whisper. “His wallowing in self-pity is doing him far more damage than I ever could.”

Harry's silver stirring stick hit the table with a twang as he put his hand down suddenly. Then his eyes glazed over.

“Profes—” Hermione started to protest. Snape jerked his hand up in front of her to halt her response as he watched Harry intently. Hermione turned to Harry and reached for his arm, only to be restrained by Snape.

The web pulsed and glittered around Harry. He thought this time that he could feel the torn strands like open wounds. He was immersed in the vision, part of it, but he could escape. He simply had to suppress his anger. As he gathered himself together to back off, a dark shape slithered up just before him, sliding through the spaces of the web effortlessly to loom above him.

With a gasp Harry returned to himself and looked up at his teacher. Startled to find Snape standing so close, Harry jumped back off his stool and had to catch himself on the bench behind to remain standing. The whole class froze and stared.

Snape’s brow went up. “Ms. Granger, monitor the class for five minutes while I speak with Mr. Potter.” Snape went to the door. “Potter?” he said in a voice not to be disobeyed. Embarrassed and breathing fast, Harry rubbed his temple and followed quickly. In the empty corridor, Snape pushed Harry gently but firmly against the stone wall. “What did you see?” When Harry shook his head, Snape said, “Look at me.”

Harry shook his head fiercely and stared at the bottom edge of Snape’s robe, determined not to be Legilimized. “Don’t you dare,” Harry whispered. It came out shaky rather than insistent like he had tried for.

“All right, Potter, but you must tell me what you saw.”

“I don’t know what it is,” Harry complained. “A web. Glowing. It is all torn up. And there is this thing like a giant sea urchin—it moves around on it.” With a frustrated frown he looked up at his teacher, who looked nonplussed. “Any ideas?” Harry asked sarcastically.

Snape rubbed his forehead with his fingertips as he thought. “No, I don’t. Except that it seems to happen only when you are very angry, correct?”

Reluctantly, Harry admitted, “Yes.”

“Perhaps then, you should endeavor not to be,” Snape drawled. Harry glared at the door to the classroom, ignoring him. “Cheer up, Potter. You have everything you could have wanted—the world wrapped around your little finger.”

“I don’t want it,” Harry said. “What good is it?”

After studying the boy, Snape opined, “It must be worth something. Everyone seems intent on obtaining it.” At Harry’s lack of response, he said, “Stay after class. Perhaps we can determine something about this web thing in your vision. I would do it now but I have visions of my own—of Mr. Malfoy shrinking Mr. Longbottom down into a potion bottle and then shelving it.”

Harry laughed despite himself. “You don’t really think that’s possible, do you, sir?”

“When teaching Slytherins, I have found it does not pay to underestimate their creativity or their dogged pursuit of trouble.”

Harry shrugged. “Your house, sir.”

Snape put his hand on the door. “As I am frequently reminded,” he said as he pushed it open.

“What was that?” Hermione asked when Harry returned to his seat.

In a faint whisper, because everyone around them was trying to listen, he replied, “I don’t know. It happened during the party too. When I get really angry, I get this weird vision.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Don’t get angry anymore,” Hermione urged him.

“Thanks for the advice,” Harry breathed flatly as he tried to figure out where he was in his brewing.

After class, Harry followed his teacher to his office. “Sit down,” Snape said as he closed the door. Harry obeyed, slouching in the visitor’s chair. Snape leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his arms. “I am curious whom you are punishing,” he said.

Harry’s brow furrowed at that, but he didn’t have a reply.

“I will assume you are not so foolish as to think you can punish me with your difficult behavior.” He paused. “Your friends…seem accustomed to it, quite frankly.” He waited for Harry to meet his gaze. “If you are trying to punish the headmaster—I will tell you in strict confidence that you are succeeding.”

Harry felt hurt at that, then turned away to gaze at the shelf to the right of him. Glass bottles with frosted glass stoppers sat in neat rows upon it. Was Snape right? Was that what he was trying to do? Part of him didn’t understand why he wasn’t just ecstatic to have reached this point: free to do whatever he pleased. He rubbed his scar, which made him realize that it hadn’t so much as tingled in the last week. He should be thrilled just for that, but hurt and anger kept wiping it out.

Snape huffed and said, “If the other teachers haven’t convinced you, presumably I won’t be able to.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked him quietly.

“No one else has spoken to you? Not even Professor McGonagall?” When Harry shook his head, Snape hissed in frustration. “You are sacrosanct, Potter—that is the problem,” he stated, as though it were Harry’s fault.

“You were going to help me with this vision…” Harry reminded him, regretting giving in and telling him anything about it.

“Yes, I was, wasn’t I?” Snape said as though he regretted it as well. 

“I can just go. That would be fine too,” Harry said, then added, “Sir.”

Snape stood silently, crossed his arms, tapped his fingers on his crossed arms. “A web, you said…”

Harry shrugged his right shoulder. “Sorta. It’s not clean like a spider’s web. It is more like something made of slime or taffy. It glows green.”

Snape’s head came up at that. “It was the same both times?”

“Mostly. This time it…” he frowned and stopped.

“Potter,” Snape threatened to make him continue.

Harry struggled for words. “Uh, it was as if where it was torn was an open wound.” He shook his head, frustrated. “And the urchin thing was almost more like an amoeba, reaching out in all directions. I didn’t hear voices this time.”

Snape stiffened at that. “What did they say last time?”

“I couldn’t understand them. They were muffled and distorted, but they were getting louder.” Harry didn’t add that they had sounded a bit like people in torment from a long way away.

“My fear, Potter, is that you are tapping into something the Dark Lord left behind.”

“That is kinda what I’m assuming,” Harry admitted quietly. He sat back and looked at the ceiling. “I have to keep reminding myself he’s gone.”

“We all do,” Snape said, sounding almost human. He gave Harry space to consider this before adding, “I do not intend to come across as completely unappreciative for what you did, but old habits die hard.”

“Are you saying that you have actually been trying to be nicer to me?” Harry asked in disbelief.

“It seemed…reasonable to do so,” Snape grudgingly admitted.

Harry snorted. “I hadn't noticed.”

Snape uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on the desk behind him. “Regarding this vision. It appears very organic, correct?” At Harry’s nod, he continued. “I do not know what it is, but I suspect it will dissipate if left alone. It is worrisome that you felt it more the second time. That implies to me that you are capable of sustaining it, even if you don’t know what it is.”

“It just fades in when I get angry,” Harry explained.

“That was the Dark Lord’s primary emotion.”

Harry sighed. “I’ll try.”

“Try very hard. It has only happened twice?”

“Yes.”

“If it happens again, Professor McGonagall wants you banned from the Quidditch match.”

“No.” Harry grimaced. “You’d like that though—wouldn’t you, sir?” he accused grimly.

“Hm. A combined Ravenclaw-Slytherin win is not worth much, really,” Snape replied airily.

Harry lowered his brow at his teacher. The dark edge was gone from Snape’s voice—he just hadn’t noticed.

“It is time for class,” Snape pointed out dismissively.