Potter doesn’t have to go to the hospital wing. All Severus has to do is say the magic word (Potter) and Poppy is invading his office, her wand tapping her hip as she veritably swoops down on Potter, which would have been funny except the boy flinches. She sends a look at Severus, then sets to work on Potter, sitting him down and making him track the point of her wand with his eyes. As she does this, she begins to talk to Severus, as though Potter isn’t there.

“He should be hospitalized, Severus. This is not an injury that can properly be treated here, he should go to St. Mungo’s - ”

Potter stiffens, and Snape snorts. “Of course, the ever capable staff of St. Mungo’s.”

“Don’t take that tone, Severus, they are perfectly capable, and - ”

“No matter their qualifications, this is irrelevant. St. Mungo’s is not a secure location. Halfway in the Minister’s pocket - ”

“And he’ll be secure here if he has a breakdown? He is delicate - ”

“I’m not delicate!” The boy almost roars this, and Severus thinks that makes the point quite clear, even if the tone is more spurred by fear than strength. He continues. “I’m not, and I don’t want to leave Hogwarts.” Potter’s voice sounds high and worried, even though his face is hovering somewhere between terrified and blank, likely from the calming draught Severus slipped into his water. Poppy looks at him halfway sympathetic and frustrated.

“Mr Potter...”

Potter just looks at her. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, an explosion of frustration that involves her arms and her head as well. “Fine! Fine! Even though my professional opinion is apparently worth nothing, against my best judgement, may I at least examine the boy, or - ”

Potter looks slightly less panicked and allows Poppy to examine him, though the results are the same as yesterday. There is nothing physically wrong with the boy. Severus could have told her that. She checks on the boy’s forehead, though the scratches he made yesterday are long healed, and frowns unhappily that there is nothing more she can do.

000 000 000

She still wants to have him spend the night in hospital wing, and that is one thing Harry will not do. He needs to see Hermione and Ron; he needs to stay somewhere with a password, not a lock, a place that he’s safe but he can get out, if there’s trouble, if he needs to. He needs to sleep in his own bed and dream about something different. He doesn’t need hospital issue pyjamas and Madame Pomfrey watching him like a hawk. 

He needs to be safe. He’s not sure how he can make that happen, but he knows it won’t happen in the hospital wing overnight, which is why he refuses to go.

Snape, surprisingly, is on his side. “There’s nothing wrong with the boy, is there? You’re pandering to him.”

“Nothing wrong?! The boy is going through an ordeal!”

“And a night in the hospital wing will not cure that. For Potter to recover, he must be able to return to life as usual. Is it usual for Potter to spend every night in the hospital wing?”

Harry thinks that at some points, it almost seems like he does, but it’s a humor with a sort of hysterical edge and he knows Pomfrey and Snape wouldn’t appreciate it, so he keeps quiet and tries not to think of what it means. An ordeal. An injury, apparently. Hospitalization. When Uncle Vernon hadn’t been talking about the orphanage or St. Brutus’, he had occasionally talked about the hospital, or, as he called it, an ugly sneer on his face, ‘the loony bin’. The loony bin was for people who thought that motor bikes could fly or snakes could talk, people who weren’t right in the head. Harry’s head doesn’t feel right. He thinks about the only hospital he’s ever been to, St. Mungo’s, thinks of Neville’s parents, on the closed ward, and he feels sick and terrified. He doesn’t want to be like that. He doesn’t want to be locked in, with mad people. Not there.

But Madame Pomfrey is leaving and Snape is looking at him, and he forces himself to look at Snape; not in the eyes, but his hands again. Snape’s hands are surprisingly interesting--long, thin fingers, with stains and callouses and the odd scar, probably from chopping potions ingredients wrong. Harry’s own hands are short, the fingers thin, but not clever, like Snape’s hands, except when he plays Quidditch, and the only thing that makes them more interesting is the scar on the back from Umbridge. He tucks his hand into his sleeve and watches as Snape’s hands smooth his robes, tuck his wand away so quickly Harry’s not sure where it’s gone.

“Sit, Potter.”

Harry starts, then shakes himself. That’s what he gets for getting distracted. “I - Can’t I just go? I’m tired.”

“I don’t know whether to be pleased that your lamentable listening skills are not just a product of disrespect in Potions or appalled that you may be certifiably deaf. If you had been paying the slightest bit of attention, Madame Pomfrey has decided that you are to be under observation for no less than three quarters of an hour to an hour after each lesson. So sit, Potter.”  

Harry sits, in the same chair he started the lesson on, and he stays tense and ready to leave the chair. Alone with Snape, again--why can’t anything go right?

Snape at first ignores him, and that suits Harry just fine. He is scribbling something on parchment, and Harry lets himself relax, a little, lets himself look from Snape’s hands to the desk to the floor, listening to the sound of the quill on parchment, because maybe Snape and he will just sit here for an hour and not talk to each other, and that would be just fine.

He feels his eyes start to droop closed, and suddenly the quill and parchment sound isn’t so nice. It’s a little frightening, like when he was younger and sometimes mice would get into his cupboard, a skritch skritch skritch that works its way under his skin, makes the back of his neck and his hands itch, his scar from Umbridge is twinging but he can also hear something else, a slithering off in the distance, a hissing, sibilant voice saying his name...

He jerks awake, suddenly, and his wand, which he had been clutching in his hand, drops to the floor with a clatter and he dives to go get it. Snape is watching him, one eyebrow raised, and Harry feels himself blush even as he wraps his fingers around the wand and clings to it.

“Potter?” It’s a question, but it isn’t, and Harry straightens himself up and doesn’t answer it. Instead, he asks his own.

“Did you hear that?”

Snape looks at him like he’s crazy and he feels his blush deepen. “Hear what?”

“I - I thought I heard a voice.” Snape hadn’t heard it. The back of his neck was prickling, it wasn’t safe -

Snape, eyebrow still raised, looks at an hour glass on his desk. Whatever the amount of sand in it means, he puts down his quill and looks at Harry, which makes Harry look away.

000 000 000

It has been almost twenty minutes since he gave the boy the calming draught. The boy’s eyes look less glassy, and his hands are locked into each other, but definitely alert. The potion should be out of Potter’s system by now, and so Snape stops grading essays and looks at the boy and tries to think of how to have this conversation. The boy looks pale, his eyes are wide, he is looking away, but Snape doesn’t know what else to do but start to speak.

“I have never come across a memory like the one in your head.” He is trying for mildness, but it comes out stiff, and he sees Potter stiffen, bend his head so his eyes are firmly planted on his shoes, saying nothing. Snape tries again. “It has been interfered with, do you understand that?”

Potter shrugs. Severus feels his hackles rise. “What have I said about responding--”

“No, sir. I mean--yes, sir. I--”

“Do you understand or not, Potter?”

“I--I don’t--”

Severus tries to calm down. Any other student and he wouldn’t be this defensive. Potter is obviously distressed--it is not a willful rebuff, this inarticulate stutter, his silence. He tells himself this, but he does not fully believe it to be true, because this is Potter, and everything Potter does is calculated to annoy. Snape breathes.

“These memories. Do they appear to you as the other memories during our lessons do?”

Potter swallows, then shakes his head. “No.”

Snape grits his teeth at the omitted sir, then continues. “That is because they have been tampered with. Someone has cast an Obliviate on you--possibly repeatedly, which accounts for the state of your memories.”

“I--Couldn’t it just be that--that they aren’t memories?” Snape is about to snap at the boy, stopping when he sees the boy’s shaking hands. “Can’t they be just--dreams? Nightmares?”

“No.” Snape almost says more, but Potter covers his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes, then running the hands through his hair, making it stand up even wilder than normal. His face is pale and looks haggard. He closes his eyes.

A kinder man would give him a minute. Would offer him some comfort. But Snape doesn’t know how to be kind. He does know how to ask questions. 

000 000 000

“Can you describe how these memories appear to you?”

Harry opens his eyes, very suddenly. He doesn’t want to see it again. He shivers, and tucks his arms around his chest. “I don’t know.” 

A sigh. He doesn’t look at Snape. Doesn’t want to. All he wants is to go back to Gryffindor Tower and go to sleep in his bed with the curtains closed around him. But he can feel Snape’s eyes on him, and he speaks again.

“I--it’s hard to see. It’s like I’m not wearing my glasses. It’s all--blurry. Things keep--changing.”

The scratch of quill on parchment again, making the back of his neck prickle, and he curls a hand around to rub at it. The sound stops.

“So you cannot make out anything clearly.” There is a pause, and Snape sounds blank as he says “And--can you hear--”

Suddenly everything is close and hot, too warm, his throat feels like it’s swollen shut and he can feel his hands scrabbling over his arms, trying to hold on to something solid but everything is changing. He ducks his chin to his chest and tries to breathe, and he’s maybe doing an all right job of it. He wants to try the door but he’s scared that the door will be locked, that he’ll be trapped and he’ll know it and then Snape will---

“Potter!” Something is rolling across the desk. Another potion. It falls off the desk and runs into his foot and stops, and Harry looks at it but doesn’t bend down. He licks his lips, then scrubs at them with the back of his hand. He shouldn’t do that. He can’t remember why, but he shouldn’t. It makes him look--it just makes him uncomfortable. He shakes his head.

“You are hyperventilating, Potter. Either you take that calming draught, or--”

“Or what?” He’s trying to sound brave, trying to put his chin at a cocky angle, give Snape a sneer, but the best he can do is slow down his breathing. “You put another potion in me, you’ll just need to keep me here longer.”

Snape frowns at him. “If you faint, you will find yourself under observation in the hospital wing, after I put in considerable energy earlier in ensuring that would not be the case.” A pause. “At least pick it off the floor!”

Harry leans down to get it and rises up quickly--too quickly, the room spins a moment. He grips the potion in his hand, hard, feels the cool glass, smooth, and he feels his breathing even out more. He squeezes even harder, but doesn’t open it. He sits there for what seems like hours, breathing, clutching the potion, eyes squeezed shut. Soon, it’s easier to breathe, but he keeps his eyes closed and holds the potion because it would be harder to uncurl his fingers then anything else. Snape is watching him, and he holds the potion and flinches when Snape sighs and just tries to feel the vial in his hand. 

“Your time is up. I will see you again tomorrow - ” Snape’s voice makes him jump, he opens his eyes, and he finds himself looking at Snape, slightly flabberghasted.

“What? But normally we don’t have lessons every day - ” The dismay in his voice makes Snape’s eyes narrow. 

“This is my own time I am giving up to work with you on your little problem, Potter. A little gratitude - ”

Right. Gratitude. Whenever anyone does anything to you you don’t like or need, you’re meant to be grateful. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, fingers still gripping his wand. Snape continues talking.

“The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better, Potter. Tomorrow. Continue to work on clearing your mind - ” He drawls the last words, and Harry’s ears burn. “Do not be late.” He pauses a second, then snaps “Well? What are you waiting for? You are dismissed!”

He gets up, slings his bag over his shoulder, and is halfway to the door before he stops. Snape starts to bark something out, but before he can finish, Harry blurts out “Nothing.”

Snape is staring at him, at his back, and he turns halfway, so he’s staring at the shelves and he can see Snape out of the corner of his eye. Snape spits out “Pardon?”

“What I hear. I don’t - I don’t hear anything.” Snape’s face looks disbelieving, and Harry feels himself get desperate. “I don’t!”

Snape doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “Tomorrow, Potter.”

Harry is out of the room and halfway down the hall before Snape’s door even closes.

000 000 000

As much as he wanted to get back to Gryffindor tower and his bed, once he closes the curtains, he can’t sleep. There is homework he should be doing, he vaguely feels, or something in the common room - Ron and Hermione had been waiting up for him when he returned and had exchanged looks when he begged off of homework and chess and chatting and had instead trudged up to the dormitory. But he can’t bear to be with people now - not when his heart is pounding and his hands feel sweaty and all he wants is to fall asleep and hope that when he wakes up, he will feel normal again.

Instead, he stares at the top of the curtains and counts and then, all of a sudden, he falls asleep and he dreams of detentions. Not the detentions that make him nervous, the nebulous, fuzzy threat that is hovering behind his eyes now, but detentions he’s already had. Like a whirlwind, images of pickling rat brains, crashing through the underbrush in the Forbidden Forest, writing -

writing lines in Umbridge’s office, the back of his hand stinging, but it’s not Umbridge across the desk, it’s someone else, but it’s blurry like he isn’t wearing his glasses, and his hand stings and stings and suddenly there’s a hand covering his and another hand on his shoulder and someone behind him but he has to keep writing, he keeps writing lines and pretends that the hand on his shoulder stays on his shoulder and doesn’t move lower, he just keeps writing and it stings but not badly enough because there is someone touching him and it isn’t right it doesn’t feel right, I MUST NOT TELL LIES I MUST NOT TELL LIES I MUST NOT TELL LIES

- he wakes up to Ron shaking him, pale beneath his freckles. “Is it another dream? Is it Dad? What happened to your hand?”

His hand is bleeding, and he stares at it and for a moment wants to throw up again, but then he realizes it isn’t from the quill, or the dream--it’s the other hand, and he tastes blood in his mouth too, and Ron is pulling him to the bathroom, running his hand under the tap, handing him a cup to drink from, looking at him with serious eyes.

“Is it - Him?” 

Harry shakes his head, the rubs his face. His hand is throbbing, dully, and he runs his fingers over it gently. “I - it’s Occlumency. It’s just - ” He can’t think of the words, so he shrugs. “It’s hard.”

“Is Snape treating you all right? I mean, you know, for Snape?”

Harry seriously considers this. Is he? He’s snarky and mean, but not predictably so. He goes into his head and finds terrible things, but he gives him potions and stops Pomfrey from making him stay in the hospital wing, and Harry isn’t sure which of those things is good or bad. 

He settles for another shrug. “Dunno.” He looks at his hand, then closes his eyes. When he does, he feels the hands on him again, and they shoot open. Ron is looking at him, concerned, looking like he's about to fetch Hermione, but Harry just shakes his head. There's something wrong, but if Hermione knows, it'll all be real, it'll be something he has to deal with and talk about and all he wants to do is pretend that it's all a dream, a mistake, even though as time passes he starts to think this may not be true.

They sit there, in the bathroom, hearing the other boys sleeping, and Harry wonders why he can’t ever just be normal.

000 000 000

The next morning, Severus keeps a close eye on Potter. He normally keeps a close eye on Potter - the boy is always up to something, and forewarned is forearmed. The boy looks shaken - his hair even more of a mess than usual, purple smudges almost bruise like under his eyes, he looks exhausted, and his friends are again on either side of him. Weasley is glaring at everyone who dares look at Potter, which means that more people do, and Granger is loading food on the boy’s plate that he pushes around tiredly with his fork. Even the head table has noticed, a fact which would disgust Severus if he himself were not feeling so tired. Minerva is frowning - Albus hasn’t told her, Severus can tell, and he wonders if he should, except that then there would be another person watching and judging how he handled the boy. Poppy has her lips narrowed. Albus is not looking at the boy at all, even though Potter is watching him. 

Madam Umbridge’s reaction is perhaps the most disturbing. She is watching Potter with a wide, stretched smile with no real joy in it. She is sitting next to Severus, as she frequently does, if only because he is meant to be cooperative. She turns to him, with that stretched smile, and says “You’ve had to Potter boy in detention lately, haven’t you?”

Severus picks up his cup. “Unfortunately,” he drawls, and takes a sip of coffee. Umbridge does not take the hint.

“I’ll have to talk to you about your methods. I’ve never seen the boy so quiet.”

Severus looks at Potter, who is currently lifting his own cup to his mouth with a shaking hand. Severus is surprised it doesn’t spill, but Potter is doing fairly well until a Ravenclaw - Goldstein? - comes over and puts a hand on his sholder and the boy jumps, sloshing pumpkin juice all over his front. Weasley gives Goldstein a glare, while Granger siphons the mess up. Potter pushes away from the table, resulting in Granger looking worried and Weasley half-standing to follow. Goldstein finishes exchanging a few words with the boy, wide eyed, then head back to the Ravenclaw table to spread the news. Potter leaves the hall, leaving behind his full plate, the spilled cup, and a ridiculous amount of whispers. Snape, watching, can see his shoulders tighten up, his head twitch to one side, and his shaking hands clench into fists.

Umbridge watches with glee as the boy rushes away, out of the hall, and turns again to Severus. “You’ve really put him in his place!”

"Quite," Severus answers, and remembers how he wanted this. He wanted to be responsible for the boy finally being put in his place. And now he is, and he wishes (or he would, if he thought wishing was worth anything) that he had been responsible for something else.