“Dumbledore knew this would happen.”

Harry paused with a fork full of scrambled eggs and ham half-way to his mouth. He had joined Snape at the breakfast table nearly ten minutes earlier, but Snape had done nothing more than nod at Harry’s morning greeting while he continued pursuing the day-old copy of the Daily Prophet that Dobby brought him each morning. “Knew what would happen?” Harry asked.

Snape shook out the newspaper and laid it flat on the table, spreading his fingers wide as he placed them over the moving pictures. “He knew that the Dark Lord was capable of invading your mind and implanting false visions.”

Harry set down his fork, his appetite vanishing. “He knew?”

“Indeed.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Harry demanded.

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “Does anyone know why Dumbledore does what he does?”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then snapped it shut. Snape had picked up the Daily Prophet again, clearly dismissing him. Fuming, Harry pushed his plate away and made to get up from the table.

“Stop pouting, Potter. You aren’t the only one he kept secrets from.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that it doesn’t matter why Dumbledore did what he did. What matters is what is to be done now that we know.”

Harry hesitated a moment, then finally sat back down. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Snape snorted but said nothing.

Harry picked up his spoon and started spinning it on end, seeing how long he could make it balance. He felt a shiver run through him as a thought crossed his mind. “If he can invade my mind and make me see things that didn’t really happen, what else can he do?”

“Meaning?” Snape said, his attention drawn.

“Can he make me do things?” The thought was so abhorrent, Harry had to force himself to continue. “Can he control me?”

Snape’s sharp obsidian eyes bore into him as he spoke, leaving Harry feeling even more vulnerable and exposed. “The link the Dark Lord has forged with you is on an emotional level. He seeks to control you via your weaknesses—by using those you care about against you. I do not believe that he can control your actions directly.”

“In other words, he’s trying to drive me mad.”

“No, Potter,” Snape replied. “I believe he intends to use your impulsive nature and your Gryffindor loyalty to his advantage. I suspect he thinks that he can get you to come out of hiding if you believe he is torturing those you care about.”

“He’s probably right,” Harry muttered. “I mean, if I didn’t know that everyone was okay…” Harry trailed off, lifting his finger from the tip of the spoon and letting if fall with a loud clang.

“Your friends are safe at Hogwarts.”

Harry scoffed. “Like I was?” he challenged.

“Without your rule-breaking influence, Potter, I am quite confident that Miss Granger will be able to keep Mr. Weasley safely ensconced in Gryffindor tower after curfew, don’t you agree?”

As much as Harry wanted to deny it, he could not. Their escapades around the castle under the invisibility cloak were generally his idea. Instead, he took a deep breath. “So how do I keep him from invading my mind?” Harry asked. “You know I’m pants at Occlumency.”

Snape snorted. “I have another idea, but it will take some time. For now, focus on clearing your mind before you sleep and do your best not to be an open book to the Dark Lord.”

Harry lay in bed that evening, images of the vision from the night before relentlessly tormenting him. Was Voldemort able to do more than just make him see things? Was he somehow able to imprint those images in Harry’s mind so that he could not forget them? Harry shuddered at the thought. The memory of Voldemort torturing Hermione had been so real.

He sighed, trying his best to clear his mind as Snape had said. Snape, who had vanished into the master bedroom and not come out the rest of the day. When Dobby arrived with dinner, Harry had asked if Snape was alright and had been assured that the potions master was doing what he did best—brewing. Harry hadn’t dared interrupt him. Instead, he’d wandered the small cottage, thinking about his mother, touching all of the knick-knacks and trying to imagine what they might have meant to her. Maybe Snape knew. Harry could not imagine his mother being best friends with Snape of all people. It defied reason. Maybe Snape was different when he was younger. Who knew?

Harry flopped over onto his other side and saw a tiny spider crawling up the wall. He felt the cloying, trapped feeling of the walls closing in on him and promptly flipped back over to assure himself he was not trapped in the cupboard beneath the stairs on Privet Drive. There had been spiders there too, too many of them. Taking deep breaths, he focused on the room at large, the empty bed across from him, the closed door. After a few moments of internal struggle, he got up and opened the bedroom door a crack—just enough to assure himself that he wasn’t locked in. Shaking his head, he crawled back into bed.

“Why am I so edgy?” he wondered aloud. But it didn’t take a genius to figure that out, he knew. Just closing his eyes brought back images of Hermione’s bloodied and battered body. Who would Voldemort torture him with tonight? And why hadn’t he had the foresight at breakfast to ask Snape for more dreamless sleep potion? Fidgeting restlessly, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on counting sheep, but that reminded him of the Burrow. He switched to dragons, only to be reminded of Hagrid. He pounded his fist into his pillow with frustration as the clock in the hall chimed twelve midnight.

It was almost one in the morning by the time Severus had finished brewing the potion. He was sweaty, hungry, and exhausted. His head ached from concentrating so hard, and his arms and legs were stiff from standing and stirring all day. But the hard part was over. He’d managed to take a potion that normally took two weeks to brew and another two weeks to ferment and successfully concoct it in a little over fourteen hours. In four days time, it would be ready to use. How much damage could the Dark Lord inflict in ninety-six hours?