Harry pulled back from Snape’s touch the moment he was released from the torrent of memories. It wasn’t that he found the professor disgusting, he simply found that being touched made him nervous. Hermione and Ron were generally the only ones who touched him on a regular basis, but even that was generally short hugs from the former or a pat on the back from the latter. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never touched him and Dudley just punched or shoved him occasionally.

The professor didn’t seem to notice his quick withdrawal, though. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say from Snape’s expression that the man was still stuck in his head.

“Professor?” Harry prodded hesitantly. Then a bit louder, “Professor?”

Snape blinked and his face reverted to its average glare as the lights turned on inside.

“Did everything go alright, sir?” Harry asked mildly.

“As expected, Potter,” Snape acknowledged. “You will return here on Saturday right after lunch. We will need time to discuss what I saw and will put in my pensieve.”

“Yes sir,” Harry nodded, hurrying out without being dismissed. Snape let him go and didn’t comment, which didn’t really ease the anxious knot in his stomach.

“Hey Harry, did it go alright?” Hermione asked as soon as he entered the common room. She had been dropping subtle – and not-so-subtle – hints about trust and Snape all week, and Harry suddenly realized that Snape must have already told him what he was to do during one of his Blank Outs, and Harry had then told Hermione. And Ron, probably, since the redhead was also looking at him with inordinate expectation.

“It...yeah,” he mumbled tiredly. “I think it went fine.”

“You think?” Hermione asked cleverly. Harry, too exhausted from spending almost an hour stuck in memories to explain fully, simply yawned and nodded, heading upstairs and to bed.

That night he had a nightmare, one that he hadn’t had since he came to Hogwarts. He was in the cupboard under the stairs, carefully watching the faint outline of light around the door so that he didn’t feel quite so suffocated by the darkness. But even as he watched, the door and wall melted together, gradually sealing the door shut.

“No! NO!” he cried, pounding on it with his fists, but it wouldn’t budge and felt hard as rock under his hands.

In his dream, Harry wished for light – any light – to show him that he existed, that he hadn’t been swallowed up by the inky blackness that filled his eyes. His wish was granted, in the form of a flash of green and a burst of painful heat in his scar, like Hell itself had reached out to touch him.

Harry woke in the comfortable, dim darkness of Gryffindor tower and went to the window, watching as the eastern sky lightened with the coming dawn.

All that week found Harry in a constant state of nervous excitement. He found it extremely difficult to sit still and pay attention in any of his classes, and got told off by McGonagall more than once for it. He was grateful he didn’t have potions again until next week, because he would most likely spend the whole period thinking about what Professor Snape saw in his head. As it was he had barely eaten all week because Snape was at each meal and, though he was careful not to stare, Harry hadn’t been able to stop the man’s presence from sending him into deep thought.

By Friday, Ron and Hermione both had come to the conclusion that it was better to just let him be during these introspective moments. They would give him a nudge if it was time to go to class and he wasn’t responding, but usually they just talked together, sharing hopes that everything would be alright and Snape wasn’t being too much of a git.

Draco Malfoy, however, had finally decided that Harry wasn’t going to kill him and used any opportunity he could get to insult the Gryffindor and his friends.

“Well if it isn’t Potty and his lackeys, the King of Weasels and the Know-It-All Mudblood,” as they walked out of Transfiguration on Tuesday.

“I think I just dropped a knut in the lake. Hey Weasel, if you fetch it you can have it, and maybe then you can afford a patch for those rangy clothes,” as they went to visit Hagrid during their free period on Wednesday.

“Hey Scar-Head, didn’t your mother ever tell you to wash your hands if you’re going to eat after touching a mudblood? Oh wait, I guess not,” as they came in for dinner on Thursday.

Then, on Friday, Harry was alone as he headed to the Quidditch pitch to do some flying, and hopefully work off some of his nervous energy. His Firebolt was clenched in one hand and in the other a practice snitch he (presumably) owl-ordered (it had shown up after a string of Blank Outs last year with his own signature on the order form). Harry had just turned exited the castle when he heard languid footsteps and spotted Malfoy – for once not flanked by his mountainous goons – walking along the grounds towards him.

Harry turned away, intent on ignoring the pale-faced prat, but was stopped by the Slytherin’s voice.

“You’re looking exceptionally grim, Potter,” Malfoy sneered delightedly. “What happen, your dog die?”

A surge of something rose in Harry, so powerful and fierce that it scared him, and he desperately didn’t want to be there anymore.

Everything went Blank.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Draco noticed Potter’s back stiffen with satisfaction. Getting no reaction three days in a row had been frustrating, but now he knew he’d struck gold. Potter turned slowly to face him then stopped, resting all his weight on one foot, and sneered.

Since when did Potter sneer?

“Yeah, what d’you think I ought to get as a new pet?” Potter asked, his hand hovering false-casually over his wand-pocket. “A ferret might be nice, so long as I kept it in a cage in the owelry; wouldn’t want it stinking up the dormitory after all.”

The Slytherin felt his face flush in embarrassment and he reached for his wand. By the time he felt the familiar ebony handle settle against his palm, Potter had drawn his own and had it pointed steadily at his heart.

“What are you going to do, Malfoy?” Potter asked quietly, with the same wondering drawl he’d used the night he’d threatened to use the killing curse. “Curse me? Going to draw your wand so we can get into a useless duel that will last until a teacher comes out and takes points, and all the while we’re shouting insults at each other? Do you really want to be that predictable?”

Draco cursed. How in Salazar’s name did Potter know rule on of Slytherin: don’t be predictable? In any case, he had no choice but to release his wand, even though he despised being unarmed almost as much as being predicted.

“So what do you suggest, Potter?” he spat. “I know you want a fight as much as I do.”

Potter’s eyes flashed dangerously and Draco was sure the boy was remember the stupid quip he’d made about his godfather. He suddenly wondered if this whole taunting practice had been such a great idea.

“Alright, Malfoy,” Potter smirked coldly, producing a good quality practice snitch, “are you agreeable to a game of seekers-only Quidditch?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And what penalty shall there be when you lose?” Potter mimicked his gesture. “I’m afraid I can no longer be satisfied simply by watching your face when you realize that you’ve lost to me. There must be something more…humiliating in store.”

Potter rolled his eyes, but smirked. “All right, how about the loser tells the winner a secret. A big one, too; nothing like pants size or toothbrush color. Do you agree?”

Draco nodded curtly and raised his wand, summoning his broomstick from its place in the Quidditch sheds. He and Potter walked to the center circle of the pitch, standing on opposite arcs with the inactivated snitch midway between them.

“Alright,” Potter called across the twenty-foot space, “I’ll cast the activation spell, then a ten second tempus countdown. We’ll push off when it reaches zero. Agreed?”

“How do I know you won’t cheat and push off early, Potter?” Draco demanded, expecting his opponent to get flustered and indignant at the very suggestion.

But this Potter just grinned mischievously and said, “Would I cheat?”

Draco didn’t know why but the answer itching to come out was a resounding ‘Yes’. Instead he just shook his head and mounted his broom, waiting for the game to begin.

Potter fired the activation spell and the practice snitch disappeared into the sky before the tempus spell even got down to 9. The Gryffindor swung one leg over the broom in an awkward gesture that seemed nothing like the seeker Draco knew, then seemed to fade into himself, before waking up again at the count of 4 and correcting his grip, the more familiar game-ready smile on his face.

Draco was so confused that he missed the chance to get a half-second head start, as the tempus spell beeped loudly and he and Potter pushed off together. The Slytherin moved automatically toward the green and silver colored stands to start circling, and turned to find his rival, expecting to see him over the red and gold. Instead, Potter had moved to the Ravenclaw side and was circling in the opposite direction! Even more outrageous, as Draco looked closer he realized that Potter was still on the inside of the pitch and was only at the level of the lowest goal.

This was ridiculous! Potter must be mocking him; no seeker stayed inside the pitch or flew low, how were you supposed to see the snitch that way? You needed a broader view, which could only be achieved on the outer edges and far above, which Draco would prove. He inclined sharply and flew a good fifty feet above his normal height, so that Potter looked no more significant than a quaffle as he circled clockwise – clockwise! – beneath him.

He snorted quietly to himself as he watched for the snitch, easily able to see each and every mistake Potter made. The idiot didn’t seem to be looking much of anywhere except where he was going, was speeding along at twice the speed advised in every seeker’s handbook ever made – a steady fifteen miles per hour during uninterrupted game flow – and even tried to pull a couple of Wronski Feints from his low altitude, both of which were easy to spot as feints because of the way Potter didn’t so much as twitch his head before he dived. Obviously, had he seen the snitch, the Gryffindor would have jerked his head around to follow it. It was pathetic, really, and he just couldn’t understand why Potter would play like this, when he played like a worthy opponent in actual games.

It wasn’t until he caught a flash of gold in the center of the pitch and also got a clear view of Potter diving after it as well that Draco thought he might have been wrong. The Gryffindor hadn’t moved a muscle in his head or neck as he tipped his broom down a third time, in fact, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Potter then leveled out and started skimming along just feet above the grass, Draco might have thought his opponent hadn’t seen the snitch at all and was trying the feint again. Because Potter was already so low and going so fast, Draco knew he would have lost then if the snitch hadn’t somehow shot straight for him, and directly away from Potter. As it was, the Gryffindor pulled up right beside him just as the little golden ball changed direction yet again, leading them toward the East goalposts.

Potter’s Firebolt was in top shape and, though Draco pushed his as fast as it would go to follow the speedy little snitch, the dark-haired boy pulled slowly ahead of him, not even bothering to match his prey’s twists and jerks. But Draco was a Slytherin. The blonde swung his legs off his broom and grabbed the back of Potter’s with one hand, just above the bristles, using his new momentum to swing his Nimbus – held in Draco’s other hand – around and ahead. He released the Firebolt and used his own broom as a pivot to remount as it started to fly on its own again. He was now about five feet to the right and slightly ahead of Potter, if a bit below, as the Gryffindor’s speed had severely decreased with Draco’s manhandling, and it was purely luck that the snitch veered down toward him. Potter seemed to anticipate it as he turned to follow the golden ball diagonally, but Draco just had to lean forward and stretch out his arm…

Just a bit…

Just a bit…

WHAM!

Draco’s fingers closed instinctively as he felt Potter slam into him at top speed, they went tumbling around wildly, seemingly unable to extricate themselves from the tangled mess they’d become. Finally, Draco managed to get his broom steady beneath him so he could count his limbs; two legs on either side of the broom, left arm holding the broom handle, right arm…

Holding the snitch and Potter’s fingers simultaneously.

He’d tied with the bloody Gryffindor! Now all he had to do was decide if this was bad or good. It was certainly better than he’d ever done, but it was clear Potter hadn’t been playing right.

Right?

“Potter,” Draco asked, once the wild-haired boy had gotten himself righted as well, “what was the matter with you, flying like you were? That’s not how you fly in games.”

“In games we use a real snitch, this was a practice snitch,” Potter answered simply. Draco sneered at him until he rolled his eyes and elaborated. “Look, the whole idea of a practice snitch is wonky because practice snitches have limitations that real snitches don’t.”

Draco’s eyes widened slightly as he realized he agreed, and that Potter had been flying very cleverly for a game with such a snitch. Practice snitches didn’t leave the pitch area, didn’t fly higher than the top goalpost, and flashed gold every ten minutes. Potter hadn’t been flying any further from the set area than he needed to, and could go so fast because he knew he just had to wait for the ten minutes to run out.

“But why do you have one in the first place if you know it’s not good practice?” Draco asked.

Potter grinned. “Keeps anyone from realizing that I’ve nicked the real one.”

The Slytherin could feel himself wanting to be impressed, so instead he released the snitch and flew back to the ground, waiting for Potter to follow.

Once they had both landed, Draco asked, “So what do we do about the wager? Did we both lose or both win?”

“I guess that’s up to you, really,” Potter said, resembling the boy Draco had made the original bet with not at all. “Do you want my secret badly enough to tell me one of your own, or would you rather we forget it all?”

Oh please, like he’d give up a chance at what must be some of the best secrets in Hogwarts. After all, he could just tell Potter some lie that sounded good in return; no risk, maximum profit.

“Don’t tell me you’re backing out, Potter,” Draco sneered. “Just for that, you have to tell me your secret first.”

Potter grinned and shook his head in amusement.

“Alright, come here, then,” the Gryffindor said, leaning closer. He made a shushing gesture with one finger across his lips, then whispered. “It’s hidden in a box under a cot in the cupboard. Don’t tell.”

“Potter!” Draco snapped. “What sort of nonsense was that? You agreed to tell me a secret, and a good one, not spout some gibberish!”

Potter looked away, offended. “Gibberish! I’ll have you know I just told you my biggest secret! It’s hardly my fault if you can’t understand it. In any case, we never said the secret had to make sense to the person being told, so it’s your turn anyway.”

“’Turn’, honestly,” Draco muttered, “what are you, eleven?” But he leaned in, just like Potter had done – though he refused to whisper – and said, “I enjoyed my summer.”

Potter blinked at him confusedly. Draco just smirked wider.

“Turnabout is fair play, Potter. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to that doesn’t involve barmy Gryffindors.”

With no more acknowledgement of Potter than an arrogant toss of his head, Draco banished his broom to the shed and returned to the castle, feeling rather satisfied about the evening.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8- (a/n: This is the end of the stalling, I swear!)

Finally, Saturday had come. Harry could barely eat at breakfast, and he forwent lunch altogether, in favor of sitting in the dungeons under his invisibility cloak, watching the dot that was Severus (“Snivellus” according to the Marauders) Snape shift about in the Great Hall. Long before the lunch hour was actually over, that dot got up from the head table and left through a side door, wandering through the maze of hallways toward his office, outside which Harry sat. He pulled off the cloak just as Snape rounded the last corner.

“Potter,” the professor greeted blandly, his face inscrutable. “You didn’t come to lunch.”

“Yes sir, I mean, no sir,” Harry answered, wiping his hands on his trousers. “I don’t think I can eat. I’m more nervous than I ever remember being; it’s like parts of me I didn’t know were there are nervous, too.” He realized suddenly that he was gibbering and apologized hastily, but Snape just shook his head (probably in silent aggravation) and opened the door to his office for them to enter.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Severus shut the door behind the boy softly, his words still hanging in the air. Without knowing it, Potter had revealed quite a bit.

I’m more nervous than I ever remember being – he was likely on the edge of bringing one of the alters out.

Parts of me I didn’t even know I had are nervous – not only were the alters nervous as well, their feelings were affecting their host.

Severus wondered when he’d gotten so good at deciphering hidden messages in Potter’s words. He had tried to think of something he could say to perhaps ease their anxiety a bit, but there was nothing. No way of prettying it up. No way to lead gently up to it. He sat behind his desk and leveled Potter with his calmest, most approachable face, usually only shown to his Slytherins.

“Mr. Potter, have you ever heard of Multiple Personality Disorder?”