Snape heard the first screams as he was shutting off the taps in the shower. Quickly, he toweled himself off and threw on a robe. He found Potter writhing, wrapped tightly in his sheets, begging someone to stop.

“Potter,” he said curtly. “Potter! Wake up!”

The boy howled in pain and rage, oblivious to the potion masters presence.

“Potter!” Snape shouted. Still nothing.

Grinding his teeth, Snape was just about to reach out and shake the boy when another idea occurred to him. Gathering his still wet hair into his hands, Snape pulled it into a column and twisted it over the boy.

“Oi!” Potter shouted, bolting upright in an instant “What was that for?”

“Your incessant screaming,” Snape drawled.

“Next time trying calling my name,” Potter muttered indignantly, using the blankets to mop the water from his face and chest.

Snape studied the teen a moment longer. He was relieved to see that whatever dreams had been haunting the boy hadn’t seemed to leave a mark. “Next time try clearing your mind before you go to sleep,” Snape retorted. He almost smiled at the offended expression on Potter’s face.

The rest of the night did not pass in peace as Snape had hoped. Nor the next. Snape had finally taken to using the other bed in Potter’s room and sleeping—if that’s what you could call the miniscule intervals of rest he got between Potter’s screaming fits. The Dark Lord was invading Potter’s mind at 90 minute intervals. While the invasions only lasted 5 to 10 minutes, they were designed for maximum impact—shorts testaments of horror designed to break Potter down, bit by bit. And although Snape had taken to napping during the day to keep up his strength, Potter refused.

“You have to rest,” Snape said on the afternoon of the third day.

“No,” Potter said stubbornly. “He can’t attack me while I’m awake.”

‘Actually, he can,’ Snape mused, but refrained from saying so aloud. So far, the Dark Lord had limited his attacks to the night time hours, though Snape suspected that would soon change. He knew better than anyone that the Dark Lord took little for granted, especially when it came to The Boy Who Lived. Surely He Who Must Not Be Named had a grander scheme in mind; likely he was just preparing for some grand finale. Snape shuddered. He couldn’t let the deranged lunatic get that far. While he and Dobby had managed to save the boy physically after Draco had delivered Potter to the Dark Lord, Snape doubted anyone could repair the psychic damage that Potter was being subjected to if it wasn’t stopped soon. Witches and wizards suffered from post traumatic stress syndrome to an even greater degree than Muggles due to the fact that their magical cores enhanced the sensitivity of the psyche to both positive and negative stimuli. Potter wouldn’t be the first wizard to go mad, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Snape narrowed his eyes and exhaled through his mouth. “The Dark Lord has not seen fit to attack you during daylight hours. I demand that you try and sleep. Dobby or I will be here to pull you out of a vision if needed.”

Potter ran his hands through his hair, looking thoroughly defeated. “I can’t watch it again, I just can’t.”

“One more day, Potter. Tomorrow the mind strengthening potion will be ready.” Snape vehemently hoped it would work. Nothing else he’d given Potter so far had made any difference, though he had tried everything he could think of including dreamless sleep, mind numbing potions, and even a detachment draught. If only Potter could occlude, but there was no way Snape would be able to teach the boy in Potter’s current mental state.

Potter shook his head, denying the refuge Snape was offering.

“Lie down on the couch, now, before I put you in a full body bind and levitate you there.”

Haunted, betrayed eyes stared up out of a hollow face.

“Potter,” Snape warned.

“Fine,” Potter muttered. “On your head be it.”

Snape rolled his eyes as he reached for the coverlet on the back of the sofa and threw it over the boy. Then he retired to the adjacent arm chair to read a book.

Snape drifted in and out sleep with the boy, awakening every time Potter so much as twitched a muscle. The calm before the storm, Snape thought wearily. Setting down his book, he pushed himself to his feet and went to prepare lunch.

By mid-afternoon, Potter was up and pacing the cottage. Snape had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at the boy to sit still. He could feel the waves of tension radiating from the teen. Didn’t the idiot child know that worry and waiting didn’t help anything? Snape had forced himself long ago to learn to relax in the few precious moments such a reprieve granted. But Potter was still young; too young to have gained the self-discipline for such an exercise.

“Potter,” Snape said, finally out of patience. “Why don’t you write your little friends a letter.”

“Can’t,” Potter said. “Can’t focus. Can’t concentrate.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Can’t be still.”

“I can see that,” Snape said. “Why don’t you go walk outside then. Get some fresh air. Just stay within the wards.”

Without protest, Potter left through the front door. Snape watched the boy circle the cottage a few times, and was pleased to see Potter finally take a seat on a stone bench beside the garden and start pulling up weeds. Spring was coming soon and Snape had half a mind to start an herb or vegetable garden to give them both something to do with their time.

Potter came back inside to help with dinner, but his hands were shaking so badly, Snape had to shoe him away for fear the boy would slice off a finger while trying to chop vegetables. Potter had tried to set the table, but only succeeding in shattering a plate and dropping all of the silverware on the floor. It took all of Snape’s will power not to comment on Potter’s clumsiness. Instead, he gritted his teeth and said, “Sit, Potter. Focus. Clear your mind. Practice until dinner is ready.”

Snape watched as the boy slumped into a chair, elbows on the table, chin on his fists. Snape could see the lines of stress and worry and exhaustion that marred the features of Lily’s only son. He wished, not for the first time, that the Dark Lord had never existed. How different their lives would have been.

A whistling from the stove brought both of them out of their reverie. Snape pulled the boiling water from the stove and served them both a cup of tea, knowing Potter wouldn’t be able to manage without burning himself. Then he ladled out helpings of a hearty beef and barley stew.

“Eat,” Snape commanded. “Starving yourself will help no one.”

Potter grunted.

Snape watched as the boy forced himself to finish the stew, bit by bit. Snape pushed over a glass of milk and a piece of bread as well.

“I think I’ll get started on those letters now, if you don’t mind, sir,” Harry said.

“Go.” Normally Snape would have insisted that Potter clean up the dinner dishes, but Potter was walking a fine line as it was, and they both knew it.

“Sorry about not helping,” Potter muttered. “I’ll make breakfast tomorrow.”

Snape gave him a sardonic look. They both knew it was an empty promise. Tonight would be full of night terrors—hopefully the last of them.

Severus found Potter draped over the ink blotter on his desk, quill still in hand, a puddle of drool beside his flaccid face. Sighing, Snape pulled back the covers to the boy’s bed, levitated the sleeping teen onto the sheets, pulled off his shoes, and threw a quilt over him. Grumbling to himself, Snape swiped the letters Potter had been writing.

Dear Hermione,

I miss you. I wish you were here. I need to know that you are safe. They keep telling me you are but… I keep seeing Voldemort hurting you, torturing you. I hear your screams and I can see your blood, taste it, smell it. I want to gag when I think of it. I can’t stop thinking about it though. It’s not just you of course. It’s Ron and Ginny and Luna, Remus and Tonks, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Anyone I’ve ever cared about. Every time I close my eyes, I sense him there, waiting for me. He’s waiting for me to join him.

I’m scared he’s taking over my mind. I’m scared I’m losing it. The things he shows me, the things he does… It’s not just the visions. He pulls me inside—inside of them, inside of him. Suddenly I’m not me anymore, I’m him. I feel his rage and hatred, and then they are my feelings too. When I’m inside him, I want to kill. That night when he tried to kill you, I wanted to kill you too, Hermione. He made me want that. I’m so sorry. Merlin, I hate myself.

They keep telling me you are all safe at Hogwarts. Are you? Are you really? Malfoy got me away, what’s to say he won’t steal you away too? How do I know the truth? The visions are so real.

Please tell me you are alive. I don’t think I could bear it if you were killed because of me. I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. How am I supposed to stand up to him when I can’t even separate dreams from reality?

Snape growled as he read the letter, the black letters smeared in places where tears had littered the parchment. There was no way Potter would have ever sent it, Snape knew, but the letter showed clearly how fragile the teen’s state of mind had become. If only Snape had started on the potion sooner.

Snape crumpled the unfinished missive in his fist and threw it on the desk as he thought about what to do. Although it was only 8pm, he decided to prepare for bed, knowing that if tonight was anything like the last two—and he had no reason to suspect otherwise—he’d need all the sleep he could get before the invasions began. He lit a candle and settled in with a book, waiting for the long night to begin. He didn’t have to wait long.

The first disturbance came at 9pm, then 9:20, then 9:40. They continued in 20 minute intervals, mere blips on the screen—a cry here or a moan there, a limb flung akimbo—not the full out night terrors that had been plaguing the boy. Still, Snape could see that Potter could not rest easily. Nor could he. This was not the Dark Lord’s normal mode of operation. Snape checked his watch as an ominous feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. Were these little episodes leading up to something more? As 11pm drew nearer and the episodes grew closer together—from 20 minutes to 15 to 10—Snape’s sense of foreboding grew.

“Potter,” he called across the darkness. He hesitated to wake the sleep deprived teen, but if the Dark Lord had him trapped in some horrific nightmare, Snape had to break Potter free before irreparable damage was done. “Potter, wake up.”

 Snape slipped out of bed and walked over to where Potter lay sleeping. Except the boy wasn’t sleeping. Potter’s sightless eyes stared at the ceiling as small tremors ran through his body, his face a rigid mask of terror.

“Potter!” Snape shouted. “Wake up! Now!” Snape shook the boy’s shoulder, hard. “Snap out of it this instant!”

 Color stained the boy’s pale cheeks as his accusing gaze swiveled to Snape’s. “You lied,” Potter breathed, pushing himself out of bed, his green eyes shards of hatred. “You lied to me!”

“Potter, what are you talking about?”

“They are all dead! All of them! Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Remus and Tonks.” Potter buried his head in his hands as a shudder ran through his body. “He killed them! Because of me!” Potter’s head shot up, and without warning, the teen shoved Snape hard in the chest, causing Snape to stumble backward.

“Potter!” Snape shouted, recovering his balance as Potter rushed from the room. Snape followed on his heels.

“Don’t lie!” Harry shouted, covering his ears with his hands as he ran for the front door of the cottage. “Stop lying to me. They are dead. All dead. Because of me. All dead.”

“Potter, stop this nonsense at once!” Snape shouted, locking the front door with his wand just as the boy reached it.

Potter grabbed at the handle and shook it, trying desperately to get free. “Let me go! Let me out of here. Damn you, let me go!”

Snape gritted his teeth as he watched the teen’s grasp on reality slip, a combination of sleep deprivation and trauma coalescing into a writhing, paranoid mess.

Potter pounded on the door with his fists. “He killed them. Every one. Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Remus…”

Potter rounded on Snape. “I saw what he did to them. He made me watch. I watched them die. I wanted them to die. I was him and I wanted them to die. I cast the final curse.”

Potter was shaking badly as Snape crossed the room to where he stood.

“I killed them,” Potter said. “All of them.”

“Potter!” Snape hissed.

“My friends. I killed them.”

“You did not…”

“They died because of me,” Potter moaned, lost in visions of torture that Snape could envision only too well.

Snape grabbed Potter by the shoulders. “Listen to me,” he said, shaking the boy to get his attention. Potter continued to moan, locked within the walls of his personal hell.

“Look at me, Potter.” Snape commanded. When the boys gaze reluctantly met his, Snape whispered “Legillimens.”

Images rushed at him: blood and gore, screams for mercy, Ronald Weasley begging for his life, Miss Granger being tortured for information she didn’t have, Miss Weasley being raped by masked death eaters, Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks under the Imperius Curse being forced to torture and kill each other against their will.

“That’s enough,” Snape said, pulling out of the boy’s mind. “None of this is real,” Snape asserted.

Potter shook his head in denial, no longer able to meet Snape’s gaze.

“Dammit, Potter, we’ve been through this,” Snape said, shaking the boy again. “It’s. Not. Real.”

Potter stood mute, unwilling to believe.

Clenching his teeth in frustration, Snape made a decision. As he had that very first night, he said the only word that had any chance of saving not the boy’s life this time, but his sanity: “Dobby!”

In an instant there was a pop. Before Dobby could even announce his presence, Snape snapped: “Bring Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger here as soon as they can be removed from the school without notice. Tell them nothing. Mr. Potter will be granted five minutes to confirm that they are indeed alive and well.”

“Yes, sir,” Dobby said, and with another pop, he was gone.

Snape shifted his gaze to the troubled teen. “Five minutes, Potter.”

Potter was looking at Snape as if he’d never seen the man before. The smallest flicker of hope lit his bleak eyes.

“Get yourself cleaned up, your friends will be here shortly.”

As Potter made his way toward the restroom, Snape added: “Say nothing of consequence. I will be watching unseen.”

At Potter’s nod, Snape let out his breath. One way or another, this had to end, right here and right now.