Pain.

His mind was being squeezed through a sieve, and the holes were too small, and there was no give, and he was being crushed, and pain pain pain. Crushing, blinding pain—

In the next instant, like a drowning man who had taken in his first mouthful of water, it occurred to him to fight. He pushed as hard as he could against the crushing weight, and he felt it ease slightly. Not enough for him to escape its hold, but enough to not die. Yet. He continued to fight, as if his life depended on it.

Which it did.

As did Snape’s.

Rage flooded his veins, and he knew it was Voldemort’s rage, not his own, and it frightened him until he felt the other wizard’s fear, and he’s afraid of me, he thought, and it helped. It gave him the courage to keep pushing, knowing that somebody as powerful as Voldemort could be afraid of him. Of just Harry. And then he couldn’t think anymore, all he could do was fight, because the mind he was Legilimizing was now fully awake, and the dark sludge surrounding him rolled in waves of anger and panic and indignation, and it was all he could do to not drown in a sea of thick, pulsing dark magic.

Memories began to pour through his mind, old memories. A boy at Ollivanders, gripping a wand, feeling a burst of power for the first time. The same boy, slightly older, casting a spell on a frog. Later, running toward the lake at Hogwarts. Eating chocolate in Hogsmeade—

He ripped his mind away from the memories, knowing that they were being given to him as a distraction. Voldemort was trying to lead him away from this part of his mind, trying to separate him from the thread of magic that tied him to Snape. Voldemort knew what he was attempting: it was quite obvious why he would be in this part of his mind. The rolling grew worse, and it was like being in an earthquake, or on a ship in a deadly storm, and he couldn’t find his footing. He didn’t know which side was up or whether he would survive. He only knew to meet the crushing force head-on and to not give an inch, because he needed to stay. He needed to get back to the snake if he wanted to cut off Voldemort’s access to Snape. He needed to survive, and he needed to not be moved. If he gave up ground, then he would never finish his mission. Voldemort was too powerful. The wizard would never again allow him the opportunity to find his way back here.

Another attack came, this one like a sledgehammer to his temple, and he wasn’t prepared for it, and he felt it so deeply that in that other world, where his body existed, he faintly registered the wash of sticky wetness upon his face, and he knew that his scar had broken open under the strain of Voldemort’s attacks. He screamed, partly from the pain, but mostly as a battle cry. He couldn’t give up. This was too important. He pushed back with all that was in him, and he finally felt Voldemort falter. He took advantage of the small reprieve to pull up the element of air. He grabbed onto it, poured as much of his love for Ron and Hermione into it as possible, and he felt a surge of power, and he knew—he knew—that he’d just somehow manage to siphon more power from Voldemort’s core, and it made him feel almost giddy with power.

He tamped the emotion down quickly. He couldn’t afford to be distracted.

But then he was distracted despite himself when a small tear appeared in the cavern, a break in his connection. He breathed harder and frantically tried to repair it. It thickened, trying to draw him away, and Voldemort began to attack from the other side, pummeling his mind until he was flattened and surrounded by the thick blackness of the cave-like wall, and he somehow knew that the tear wasn’t Voldemort’s doing; it was happening within his own mind. Without thinking, he threw himself at both the tear and the attacking wizard. The tornado ripped into Voldemort’s mental force, and he was gaining ground, pushing him back, and the sludge was writhing, tossing him about, and he managed to stay in control, managed to push Voldemort back. He felt powerful, even as he sensed Voldemort regrouping, readying himself to rip Harry apart. But the tear…the tear shrank. And then it pulsed and grew and pulled at him.

And he felt, in that other world, the whisper of a strong hand peeling his own fingers away from Snape’s arm. Hands, other hands, on either side of his head.

Snape. Snape and Dumbledore. They were the cause of the tear, the break within his mind, he realized with sudden clarity. They were trying to break the connection. They were trying to save him from Voldemort, regardless of whether he wanted to be saved.

No! He frantically shook his head, not even knowing if he was doing it physically or inside his own mind, and he felt despair. He wasn’t done! They couldn’t break the connection. If they did, Snape would never have another chance to break free. He would die! Harry couldn’t let Snape die.

He dug in, not sure how tightly he was holding on to Snape’s arm, but certain that it would bruise, and pushed out instinctively with his power until the hands tore from his body as if burned. Unwilling to consider whether he had hurt either of his professors, he immediately attacked within Voldemort’s mind at the dark sludge, which was now attempting to engulf him, to trap him within its depths. He felt himself began to sink into the sticky blackness, like quicksand, his own mind’s attacks managing to keep him sane and alive, but not much else.

He took his attention off his efforts long enough to eye the writhing snake, and he noticed with alarm that more snakes were writhing and hissing and spitting. He knew which was Snape’s, but he also knew that Voldemort had called perhaps a dozen Death Eaters to his aid. He had no idea what they could do to help their master in this situation, but their presence certainly wouldn’t help Harry. He dug into the sludge, trying to use it to brace himself, but instead he sank further into it, and he gave in to a moment of panic before reeling himself back in. He pulled up memories, infused his tornado with as much love as possible, but it was weakening. Voldemort spasmed away briefly, but then he pressed closer, and Harry felt his breath punch out of him. The twister didn’t bother Voldemort as much as before, and Harry knew that it was his own fault. It was becoming difficult to stay alive and not sink and keep his wits about him and attack and infuse his mind with love while worrying that he would be pulled away before he could save Snape.

Give up, Harry Potter. You will not win.

No. No. No. No. He repeated the word over and over, like a mantra in his head, determined to not give in, even while he felt himself sink lower.

You think yourself strong, but you will never be as strong as I. Never. I will crush you, as I should have done long ago.

Voldemort’s confidence was growing. Harry could feel it in his mind, not only in the words, but in the sureness of the attacks. The dark wizard was winning, and Harry allowed himself a moment of fear.

Shall I give Severus time to mourn you? Voldemort was confident enough by now to laugh, and the darkness around Harry pulsed. A day, perhaps. I think I will allow him a day to mourn you, to look upon your dead body and to know that he could not save you after all. To know that he has lost. And then. Then I shall kill him. Swiftly, but not without pain. Oh, no. Not without pain. Severus Snape will know pain like he has never known before.

No. He had to save Snape, he thought frantically as a wave of blackness attempted to pull him under and nearly managed to do so, its thick, inky tendrils sticking to his mind. So invasive that he could taste its foulness in his mouth. He gave into a single sob before pushing back with all that he had, but he knew that he was too weak by now.

Snape was depending on him, even if he was probably cursing Harry right this instant. But Harry needed him to stay alive. He wanted to stay alive himself yes, but he wanted Snape there with him. He needed his guidance and his skills. And not only that, he wanted to help Snape in his lab some evenings and maybe sit with him while he read his books. They didn’t even have to talk. He just wanted to spend time with him, and to hear him say Harry again. He wanted to be around his dark humor and even his awkward hugs. As rare as they were, they made him feel safe, even when the world around him was big and frightening.

The sludge balked, and almost without conscious thought, he took advantage of the withdrawal to advance his own attack forward. His twister was growing in strength. It ripped through a portion of Voldemort’s defenses, causing the inky blackness to writhe in pain, and he didn’t even have to think very hard to understand why.

Love.

His love for Ron and Hermione was strong, yes, but it wasn’t why he was here, was it? No. He was here because of his love for Snape.

The realization that he could possibly describe his care and concern and newfound respect for Snape in those terms nearly broke his concentration. It was…it was an epiphany, to say the least, and one that he would likely keep to himself. But he could ponder and quantify it later. For now, he would use it.

Voldemort hadn’t wasted time in doubling his fighting efforts, and Harry cried out as the wizard used his distraction to send another wave of agony into his scar and throughout his entire mind. He regrouped as quickly as he could through the spinning of his mind, knowing that Voldemort’s attacks were weakening him, and he didn’t have much time. He populated his mental landscape with as many recent memories of Snape as possible, as many emotions of his own that he could drudge up to go along with them.

Snape, answering his questions about Occlumency. Protecting him in Voldemort’s lair, even while in disguise. Gifting him the lily charm.

Thankfulness. Admiration. Love.

Voldemort shuddered violently, and Harry knew precisely what to do next. If he could only get to the snake, to Snape’s snake…

He surged forward.

Snape comforting him. Snape holding him after a vision. Giving him potions to soothe his nightmares. Later, withholding potions for his own good.

Care. Comfort. Appreciation.

He pushed against Voldemort, gaining ground. Exhilaration bloomed in his chest.

Forgiving him, giving him another chance. Trusting him enough to pet a dangerous snake, just because he asked it of him. Simply talking to him, listening to him chat about his day.

Elation. Respect. Ease.

He felt Voldemort’s fear. It was back. The fear was more tangible now, more in the foreground of his thoughts, and he knew to expect the roar of a thousand gusts of dark, sludgy darts that attacked his mind, but they didn’t stick. They washed off of him, and he felt the blackness surrounding him spasm and scream and give way as his mind burst with power.

Seeking answers about Harry’s eyesight. Gifting him with glasses, just because Harry needed them, something no one had thought to do before.

Gratitude. Awe.

Love.

He sensed the breakdown of Voldemort’s defenses a split second before it occurred, and he acted on instinct, knowing that he didn’t have much time. He was powerful enough to win this battle temporarily, but Voldemort would not give up the war so easily. Abandoning all thought of fighting off Voldemort’s attacks, knowing that this task would take everything that he had, he charged straight for the snake-like tendril of dark magic binding Snape to his dark master.

He grasped it, clung to it, tore at it with every ounce of energy and love and fight within him, even as it twisted and writhed and struck at him. It attempted to wrap itself around him, to crush him, and then the attacks from behind him began anew. The darkness writhed, trembled, and lashed out at him, even while his mind was crushed through the sieve of dark magic and his senses began to shut down. He pulsed with power, directing all of it at the snake, and it gave one last writhe and went limp. It tore in two, from the base through to the tip, and fell in a dead, shriveled-up heap.

He’d done it. Snape was free. He smiled.

He would have celebrated, but the sledgehammer crushed into his mind, and the world went dark in an explosion of rage and pain.

The next thing he knew, he was a ghost. Maybe. He felt light, not like his body should feel after his mind had been crushed to death—which it had—so he must be a ghost. But he couldn’t see, so maybe he wasn’t a ghost after all? He’d never met a blind ghost. And then he thought that maybe his eyes were closed, and he remembered that ghosts had eyes, and they could probably close them too.

So maybe he was a ghost after all. Only, he’d never wanted to be one. And he’d never wanted to die so young.

The thought distressed him, and he whimpered.

He heard movement next to him, felt a brush of skin against his arm, and a voice said softly, “Harry?”

He knew that voice, had figured out something about the person behind the voice, some sort of epiphany, but he couldn’t remember what it was. But he didn’t think he was a ghost after all, and he felt nice because the hand was brushing his hair away from his face in a soft, soothing motion, and he floated back into the darkness of dreamless, potionless sleep.

He became vaguely aware of the scents in the air. Fresh salt air, muted by the musty smell of old furniture and cleaning potions. Broth. Clean laundry. Herbs. Dirt. Lilac. Cinnamon.

His head hurt, and he felt a weight on his arm, like something warm and heavy and breathing was resting on top of it, but he didn’t mind. He felt safe. He drifted back to sleep before he could even wonder if he was awake.

Something was wrong. Someone was supposed to be there. With him, wherever he was. But whoever it was, he wasn’t there.

He could tell, by something lacking in the air—the way whoever it was moved and smelled and sounded—that he wasn’t there, but somebody else was. They touched his head. He whimpered in protest, hoping they would know what he needed, who he needed, but they moved away, and he whimpered again, and before he could protest or cry, he fell back into the darkness…

“—this long?”

“Give it time…heart is steady.”

“…his mind, Albus. Even if his body…his mind. We do not know…”

The voices swirled around him, saying words that sounded like words he knew, but at the same time made no sense. But nothing made sense, really. His mind was floating, as if outside himself, but his head hurt, and it anchored him to reality, drew him a little further from the floaty feeling, and his throat was dry. It became his most pressing concern. Nothing existed outside of his dry throat, and he moaned. Hands touched his forehead, but he couldn’t move except to crack his lips open and moan again, but the hands didn’t get the message, for they ran a cool cloth over his face. But it felt so good that he decided his parched throat could wait after all.

His mind began to float again, until a few drops of water on his tongue soothed him back into the bliss of nothingness.

“Harry.” The voice drew him to it, like he had been waiting for his name to be spoken, and now that it had been, he had little choice but to obey its call. “Harry,” it repeated, “open your eyes,” and it echoed in his mind, reminding him of Ron’s loud voice in the library, and he thought to shush his friend, but that would take an awful lot of energy.

Instead, he listened to the sounds in the room as he slowly drifted closer to consciousness. A clock ticked, faintly, like it was from a wristwatch or perhaps a clock in a different room. Fabric rustled—his own sheets, he realized as he felt someone adjust them around his shoulders—and a sigh sounded from next to him. A sigh of frustration, or of worry, perhaps? He thought to reach out to comfort whoever it was, but again…it would take way too much energy.

But he felt the need to obey the voice, so he concentrated really, really hard on cracking open his eyes. A sliver of light broke through his vision, and he slammed his eyelids shut with a groan.

“Harry?” Another rustle of fabric. The creak of a chair. He felt a hand on his face, and he turned into it a fraction of an inch. “That’s it. Time to wake up now,” the voice said, and it tapped his cheek gently.

He tried again, and the light was softer when his eyes opened this time. Snape’s face hovered above him, his black eyes looking down on him intently, as if looking for something, as if searching out Harry’s very soul.

“Say something,” Snape said urgently. “Can you say something?”

Harry blinked slowly, long enough to see worry creep onto Snape’s face, though he wasn’t sure what he was worrying about. He dropped his eyes, and it came rushing back to him when he saw Snape’s arms. He gasped. The man’s arms…they matched. Both were unblemished. The Dark Mark was completely erased from his left forearm. He felt tears gather behind his eyes. He desperately blinked them away, but not before one escaped.

The hand gave his cheek another gentle pat and his eyes were drawn back to Snape’s. “I very much need for you to say something right now,” the professor said, a frantic edge to his tone, “if only to reassure me that you still have the mental capacity for speech.”

He licked his lips and croaked, “It worked?”

Snape closed his eyes and bowed his head for a long moment, breathing deeply and a little shakily. He tucked the sheets closer around Harry. It wasn’t really necessary, as he hadn’t moved in the last couple minutes, but he didn’t say anything about it since it seemed to make his professor feel better. Not that Harry could say anything more just then. It had taken so much energy to blink away tears and to say two words, that he could already feel himself closing his eyes and drifting off…

“Yes,” he heard Snape say as his fringe was brushed from his face and the hand settled on top of his head. “You did it.” Snape’s voice was rough, too many emotions mingled together for Harry to sift through them just now. Only, there was something in Snape’s voice, a note he’d never heard before, and he tried to parcel it out before his heavy eyelids got the best of him.

“You’re okay?” he murmured sleepily.

“Yes,” said Snape again. “I’m okay. We will be fine, the both of us.” There it was again, something foreign alongside the relief. Not entirely foreign, he amended. Something Harry had heard before, but never in Snape’s voice.

He tried to force his eyes open, tried to keep the conversation going so he could figure it out, but he couldn’t. Sleep was a force of nature, and it was forcing him under again. And then he thought he might already be asleep, because he felt lips brush lightly against his forehead, right over his scar, and that wasn’t right, because Snape was the only one here. And Snape wouldn’t ever do that…would he?

“Rest. We have much to discuss. But first, rest.”

He heard it again, that strange lilt to his voice, and just before he was claimed by the soothing darkness of sleep, he placed it.

It was joy.