He had hoped that he would start to sleep better once back at Hogwarts, but his sleep patterns had not improved at all and now he would have to watch the canopy above his head for another our and half, at least.

The nightmare had been bad. – ‘When aren't they?’ -- It was Sirius, Cedric and then Voldemort all over again, with just an added pinch of the Dursleys for seasoning: they had been accusing him, cursing him and laughing at him. But it had been a real nightmare at least, not a vision from old Voldie, so the pain had only been in his mind, remembered pain. There wasn’t any lingering tremor in his limbs and he could still think clearly.

‘But the remembered pain was bad enough’, he mused, lightly caressing the scar on his right arm, the one the blood for Voldie’s brand new body had come from. The skin was still oversensitive there and the wound had actually re-opened more than once during the summer, when he had visions from his mad foe and felt the after-effects of the curses he had so magnanimously bestowed upon his followers.

Scars and wounds from so called Dark Magic were the only things that his own Freak Thing would not cure. He had often thought about it, in the moments when his mind was suspended in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, and would allow him to indulge in the morbid thoughts of his consciousness that would otherwise be banned during the day.

This time there was no blood from his arm, but the thought did not make him feel any better. Moreover, he was still hurt badly because of his Uncle's farewell gift: although he was still taking pain potions every morning and evening, every movement was difficult and painful. During summer he had often wished his relatives had not locked and hidden his trunk away. He had been able to smuggle his more precious items into his stifling bedroom, but whereas the invisibility cloak and the wand had been easy to hide under the loose floor-board under his bed, there had been no space to hide the ample stack of anti-cruciatus potions he had been supplied with before leaving Hogwarts the previous June.

After the total failure with the Occlumency lessons, Sirius’ death, and his own yearly near death encounters with Voldemort his dreams – ‘Nightmares, that is’ – had become totally uncontrollable. His connection with Voldemort, even though his counterpart did not seem to be aware of it yet, had become even stronger than before. Or, maybe, it was Voldie who had become more powerful than he had been in ages. Either way, Harry had started seeing glimpses of revels and feeling the viciously aimed curses that the Dark Lord would throw when angered enough, with alarming frequency; Madam Pomfrey had been worried that they would take their toll and make serious damage to his nerves. Since there was nothing else that seemed to work well enough and he had to leave Hogwarts for the summer holidays anyway, the matron had decided to at least provide him with means of caring for himself.

She had actually hoped that the familiar environment would help him deal with the whole situation better, settling his emotions a bit, making his mental shields a bit stronger but, as usual, things had turned out differently. Pity that the potions had been snatched away from him before he could even try and take them out of his trunk and pity that the damage inflicted on him by his uncle whenever he dared wake him or another family member with his screams in the night had been way worse than a little bit of Cruciatus.

Not that the visions of Voldemort had been his only plague: regular nightmares, like the one that had just woken him up, had accompanied him like faithful, exuberant dogs all summer long. ‘Anti-Dursleys Potions and silencing charms, that’s what I need’.

As things were, his limbs had been trembling a lot during the holidays, even in the short periods when he had had a little respite from his uncle’s beatings; the trembling had actually slowed him down while doing his chores, thus earning him even more punishments, either from Vernon’s hands or from Petunia’s ever swinging frying pan. Apart from the obvious consequences on his daily life (or survival) Harry had been afraid that the damage would become permanent, so although the Freak Thing had saved him once again and the tremors had all but subsided, he had wanted to stay on the safe side and had been swallowing his potions twice a day for the last few days.

Now, even after being at school for almost a week, he was still running a fever and his head pounded in synch with his heart. The mild muggle fever-reducers and aspirin he had purchased in London before boarding the Hogwarts Express were nothing but a short relief between pain potions. Harry was afraid that if his health did not improve soon, his friends would force him to go to Madame Pomfrey and he wanted to avoid it at all costs, even if this meant brewing the potions he needed on his own, in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom or in the Room of Requirement.

His first Quidditch practice had been a living, agonizing, nightmare. Flying, balancing on the broom and trying to catch the Snitch with only one good hand had proved nearly impossible. His friends had thought that he was improvising, or trying some new move, but he knew he would not be able to keep on for long in a real match. He still could not move his left hand and wrist at all, the fingers were stiff and unresponsive and truth be told he could not even feel his little finger, let alone flex it. Then there was the dizziness from just standing for a few minutes.

Soon his friends would realize that he was not feeling well and if he knew them well enough, they would take matters into their own hands, and drag him to the infirmary or even – 'Merlin forbid!' – to Dumbledore himself.

Ron and Hermione were more than suspecting already, but as much as it pained him - almost like an added physical pain - he was trying to keep them at a distance. This was one thing he was not ready to speak about yet. He knew the two other Gryffindors thought that it was still about Sirius and were just giving him time and space. Maybe, in a sense, it was. But it was also so much more, wasn’t it?

Harry felt torn. And guilty. Torn that he could not speak with Ron and Hermione, guilty that he was not grieving enough for Sirius. Was he being too selfish? He was wallowing in his own pain, while he should be mourning the man his stupidity had killed. HIS own stupidity not Snape’s, not Dumbledore’s, and certainly not Sirius’. He had played right into Voldemort's hands. He had made it easy for him to lure Harry to the Ministry of Magic. How would his best friends judge him for his foolishness?

They had approached him more than once, at King’s Cross, on the train, every morning and every evening, if their eyes could pierce his soul… they would be able to see through his back by now. He hated it. And he secretly craved it, because as misplaced as it was – ‘I don’t deserve it! I am a freak!’ – it was proof enough that there was someone caring for him in the world. ‘How pathetic am I?’

It was finally Friday, the last day of the week and he was so tired that he didn't know how he could make it through the day’s lessons. Especially Potions. This would be the third Potions lesson of the week and the first two had been so bad that he did not know how to survive the third one. ‘If this is actually going to kill me, please do it now.’

It seemed that his heartfelt apology to his professor didn't have the desired effect: Snape seemed to hate him more than ever and even though in the previous school years. Harry would have given everything he had - 'not that I have much' - to have Snape ignore him, now that willful avoidance on part of the professor was a reality, he would rather have that he took points from him, than snarl at him even and dissect him with that nastily skilled tongue of his. ‘Gods! Slap me! Do it! Do it!’

It was as if he were not there at all, instead. The professor would not even look at him and to Harry, the little worthless freak, it was way worse than a slap on the face. The last lesson of the week was running true to tradition and was as bad as the previous ones.

Potter thought that he was ignoring him, but nothing could have been more far from truth. He, Severus Snape, had certainly not given the arrogant spoiled Gryffindork any chance to spot him looking at him, but he had never really let him out of his eye sight.

Truth be told, he did not need to look at him at all. There was enough gleaming metal and polished glass in the classroom so that he needn’t look at his students to know what they were doing.

And it seemed Harry, The Brat Potter, was as much out for trouble, as he was out for Potter’s blood.

Merlin! How he hated the boy. If the brat hoped his pathetic, false apology was going to get him any favors, he’d divest him of the thought fast enough.

First of all, it was obvious that the inseparable trio was not so inseparable any longer. Secondly it was even more obvious that the brat was hiding something. He could see it from his rigid posture, from his pale face… and he certainly did not think it had anything to do with the deceased mangy mutt, Sirius Black. No, Potter was in trouble and he had been hiding something all week long, that he was sure of. He could read it on the brat’s face and it was his duty as a professor to find out what was wrong with him, wasn’t it?

Snape watched once more as Potter’s, slightly distorted, countenance mirrored on the nearest cauldron. He lacked coordination, seemed to be favoring his left arm, and the look of concentration on his face was too forced. He could almost sense the tension in his frame every time he was within close proximity of him. The brat was even ignoring Draco Malfoy's smirking face and taunts. A fight maybe? Something to hide… a glamour maybe?. But he would soon know.

He had been planning it for days. And he knew just the ideal potion to teach the brat a lesson. Cordem Obscuro.

Lovely Draught indeed. “Today we will be brewing a very ancient draught.” The students were watching him with baited breath. Or fear, which he undoubtedly preferred. In both cases, they were silent for once and it was more than all right with him.

“The ingredients are on the board”, a lazy swing of his wand. “This potion is rarely brewed nowadays, but when you will drink your own batch, assuming it doesn’t kill you,“ -- ‘A feat in itself’ -– “you will experience something you never felt in your life.”

“You will be muggles for five minutes.”

Shocked gasps from his audience. And there was Granger again, her hand straight up. “Five points from Gryffindor for interrupting, Ms Granger.” He snarled, ignoring Weasley’s outraged mumble. Potter seemed oblivious, for once.

“As I was saying, before the unrequested interruption, this something you have never felt.”

“Even though you could only access your powers a few years ago – and some of you obviously still cannot –” he went on “still your magical core was always part of you, your magic was simply dormant”.

“This draught will take your magic away entirely, for exactly five minutes. It will be enough for you to feel what it would be like to be a muggle, magicless and at the mercy of your enemy. And I certainly do not need to tell you how much more dangerous a simple spell is compared to this potion..” ‘And you, Potter, will experience it in first person.’

“Now start! You will test your potions before the end of second period. You have plenty of time to complete your assignment.”

Harry, head low on his cauldron, was busy cutting ingredients and stirring the boiling potions. He would get full marks for this potion, even if it killed him. He ignored his pounding head and pain in his hands. The right one was still working well enough and, if he breathed carefully, the throbbing in his ribs from bending on the cauldron would be nothing but dim ache. He could do this, he could brew this potion right. He would show Snape. And the potion, a miracle in itself, was bubbling happily, its color a deep burgundy, just as it should be.

Ten minutes before the lesson was over, he cleared his throat and put a stop to the students’ useless effort. “Enough!” he hissed. “Either you did it or you botched it. Fill two vials. Keep one and bring the other to my desk, for further evaluation. Then clean your cauldrons.”

Severus Snape did not usually think of himself as a lucky man, but this time he had been… blessed. The cheeky brat had actually managed to brew the potion on his own. Thus giving him the weapon he had been hoping for. ‘Let’s see what you have been hiding Potter!’

“Potter!”

Harry’s head shot up. His eyes overly bright and wide behind the glasses. What was going on? Why call on him right now? He had actually completed his assignment. He really had. It must be one of the times when his Gryffindor heart went on holiday, because he truly was terrified.

“Uncork your vial and drink the draught. I’m sure it won’t damage your little undeveloped intellect any further than it already is.” Potter kept watching him, good. He would swipe that arrogant disrespectful glare from his face.

“Drink it Potter, I have other activities planned for the rest of the day.” He snarled at the boy.

‘It will just be for five minutes, nothing will happen, Ron and Hermione are here, they won’t let me get hurt’

Harry swallowed convulsively. His mouth was so dry that he doubted he could open his lips wide enough to let the potion trickle into his mouth. He had a bad feeling about this. A really bad one. He could not drink it. ‘Please, don’t let me be powerless at Hogwarts. Not here, please.’

“Professor, I- I…” he stammered.

“Drink it Potter.” Snape slammed his hand on the desk, all semblance of patience gone. “Now!”

Harry watched his hand with a strange detachment. It slowly uncorked the vial and even more slowly moved it to his lips. His lips drank the vile tasting liquid.

Nothing happened.

He watched Snape.

Nothing happened.

He stared once more.

Then the pain hit. Blinding, ferocious pain.

Harry howled. There was no other way to describe the screams coming out from his throat. His hands trying to claw at the cauldron in front of him. But it was too much, too much hurt, he felt something being ripped inside. His eyes were still open, because he simply could not summon enough force to close them.

He saw the look of horror on Snape’s suddenly white face. Someone was screaming. ‘Is that me?’

His world tilted to the side. Then he realized that he was falling.

Severus Snape watched Potter drink the potion. For a few seconds nothing happened, but he knew the draught would take at least ten seconds to have any effect. Then it started.

The air around Potter started to shimmer. Potter started to scream. He could not believe what he was seeing. He thought that nothing could ever surprise him again, but Potter was proving him wrong one more time.

He could not tear his eyes from the lithe howling figure. Potter seemed to be fighting the potion. ‘No. His magic is fighting.’

He was screaming and still watching him in the eye. ‘Don’t look at me like that!’

But their eyes were locked for the longest time. And then Potter finally lost his battle and slumped forward, partially on his now empty cauldron, his head lolling on the side. Glasses askew.

Hell broke loose.

“Don’t touch him!” he barked “Class dismissed. Everyone outside now!”

He did not even look at the students, his tone of voice had been enough to give them goose bumps.

They left the classroom hurriedly. A few girls were crying and had to be led outside, but everyone moved as fast as they could. Not even Malfoy and his cronies dawdled. In less than 30 seconds the room was empty save for two students, Potter and himself.

The only two students who had not moved at all, still as statues, were Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley.

Snape forced himself into action, but his eyes would not wander from the still frame of Harry Potter, who was now whimpering like a mortally wounded animal. ‘This is not how the potion is supposed to work’ -- but the potion had been brewed correctly, of that he was positive. ‘What has been Potter been up to this time?’

From the look on their faces it was obvious that Granger and Weasley were at least as shocked as he was. Which meant, should he ever have needed a reminder, that there was no time no lose. Snape started to bark orders.

“Granger! Go to the Headmaster! Tell him to wait for us in the Infirmary! Now!” Hermione, shell-shocked, seemed torn between throwing herself at Harry and fainting, but she was too sensible; she scurried away, tears in her eyes.

“Weasley! Close your mouth and fetch your Head of House!” he bellowed. Ron watched him, his face chalk white, his eyes dilated with shock as well. He did not utter a single word, but he turned on his heels and run as fast as he could towards McGonagall’s office.

For once Snape could do nothing but admire their loyalty to Potter.

Immediately after the two students left, he threw himself into the fireplace, calling for Poppy Pomfrey to come to the classroom immediately, not even waiting for an answer before turning back and going to Potter.

He did not want to touch him, but he had to move the boy. He approached him as carefully and delicately as he could. Potter flinched when he touched him, but did not move otherwise. He took him into is arms, gently, as if the child was made of fine china, and slowly turned him while lowering him to the ground, his head securely held by the crook of his right arm. ‘Merlin. What have I done?’