Before the Dawn – Chapter 7

By jharad17

Disclaimer: Who me? Nah, I'm not responsible for these characters.

Warnings: language

When Harry headed back to his room, to change out of his Muggle jeans, Severus went to the basement to wait for him. Later, they would work on a potion - and Severus had to admit that when he was not carping at the boy, Harry did passably well in Potions - that would induce dreaming in a normally awake person. After dinner, they would try it out. Hopefully, it would induce dreams in Harry.

And perhaps, if he was feeling generous, he would tell Harry about some of those strings Albus insisted he take up. He was sure the boy would be pleased.

A bit hesitant, Harry headed downstairs after changing into running pants and a tee shirt. He knew that they were to work on his muscles, which were so screwed up after being hit by the Cruciatus Curse over and over that they often trembled or twitched even when he wasn't using them. Muscle seizures, is what Madam Pomfrey called it. It sounded worse that it was, she'd promised, and he dearly wanted to believe her. He'd known a kid in his primary school who had epilepsy, and twice while he'd been in class with her, the girl had fallen off her chair and had a seizure, where she cried out as her eyes rolled up in her head, her limbs flailed around, and then she'd fallen unconscious.

When explaining it to a classroom of seven-year-olds wide-eyed with fear, the teacher had called that flailing about "convulsions." Harry's seizures were nothing like that, obviously. And thank goodness, too. According to Madam Pomfrey, though, his smaller seizures could become just as debilitating, if they weren't dealt with properly.

Supposedly, the professor knew how to help fix them, using Muggle physical therapy. Harry certainly hoped so. He was tired of dropping things when his fingers suddenly jerked, or tripping over stuff because he couldn't control his ankle all of a sudden or lost his balance. And feeling his muscles jumping in his arm, when he wasn't doing anything at all, was really aggravating, too.

The room he entered in the basement was on the left after coming down the stairs. A short hallway went around to the right of the stairs, then towards the back of the house, leading to the potion lab, he assumed. In clothes similar to Harry's - though black instead of gray - Snape stood straight and tall in the center of the room. Mats, such as wrestlers or gymnasts used, covered the floor. Along the walls were various kinds of Muggle weight training equipment, with pulleys and bars and heavy weights and everything. Harry hadn't seen equipment like this since the one time he'd been allowed to go to Dudley's boxing club, to fetch his cousin home for dinner. That place had been filled with similar stuff, and Harry wondered how come Dormer House, or whatever this place was called, had it, too. Why would those needing a safe house have such equipment around?

His question must have been obvious from his expression, because Snape interrupted Harry's perusal of the room by saying, "I brought all this with me and just unshrunk it now. The Headmaster sent me out to purchase what we needed whilst you were with Madam Pomfrey."

It must have cost a fortune, Harry thought. "Wow."

Snape lifted one eyebrow. "Indeed."

"How'm I . . . I mean, I'll pay you back for all this, sir, I swear."

"Harry, don't start worrying, please," Snape replied with a frown. "In the first place, as your guardian, it is incumbent upon me to provide such things as you need to get better from your injuries. And in the second," he added, holding up a hand when Harry started to object that this was too much, and that Snape hadn't been his guardian yet when Voldemort tortured him, besides, "I bought these items with the Headmaster's largesse."

Harry swallowed. Then he nodded. "Okay."

Snape's expression evened out as Harry acquiesced. "All right then. Come over here, and we'll start with some warm up exercises, then I'll test some of your muscles and see what we need to work on most."

With a gusty sigh, Harry did as he was told. Both standing on the mats and sitting, they ran through twenty minutes of stretches before Snape told him they were ready to get started. Harry was already sweating a bit, and felt rather embarrassed about it, too. Then he realized that, except for the few times a week he worked out with Snape in their duels - which were now less frequent due to Snape's class schedule - he got no exercise at all. He never flew anymore, nor did he have to climb the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, or any other tower, and he didn't even need to walk to classes anymore, as they were all being delivered to his sitting room.

The truth hit him like a bludger: because of his hermit-like ways, of late, he was really getting out of shape.

As Harry wiped sweat from his neck, Snape noticed him frowning slightly and nodded. "You'll find these exercises easier each time we do them. And now that you're protected by the wards here, you can go flying as well, which will also help you build up your muscle strength again . . . Though, I still want to accompany you, at first, if you go flying, at least until we are sure no spasms will throw you from your broom."

Harry bit his lip and agreed. He hated feeling like a bloody invalid, but he knew Snape was right. "Okay. What's next?"

"Lie down on your back, yes, like that, and I'll take your right foot." Snape knelt in front of him and picked up one of Harry's feet. Harry lifted his head to see what he was doing. "No, lie back, Harry. I need you to concentrate. I will press your leg toward your chest, and I want you to press back and not let me. Ready? Begin."

With Harry's foot in a firm grip in both hands, Snape pushed forward, letting Harry bend his knee a bit. Harry pushed back, against the professor, but Snape was pushing harder than he was, and his foot moved back towards his torso easily. Too easily. Unwilling to let Snape "win," Harry fought him, putting more effort into keeping his foot still or moving away again, but he felt weak even so. Over the next few minutes, he pushed more forcefully, until his thigh trembled with the tension, and his hands clutched into fists at his sides.

"Enough," Snape said, and the tension was gone suddenly, making Harry gasp a breath as his leg shot forward. There was a pause as Snape gently lowered his foot, and the man's silence was troubling, until he said, "Now the other."

This leg was the same, Harry feeling unable to keep Snape from pushing his foot back towards his torso. He struggled to keep his foot in place, sweat breaking out on his face and rolling down his neck, making him feel weak and stupid and . . .

"This is stupid," he growled, and wrenched his leg out of Snape's hold. "You're doing it wrong."

Harry rolled to the side and sat up in time to see Snape lift his eyebrow as he often did when he found something droll, but there was no light, playful smirk to accompany the professor's words when he said, rather stiffly, "I do not believe you are in any position to correct my technique."

"'Cause I'm on my bloody back! How's that supposed to fix the muscles in my hand?"

"Language, Mr. P . . . Harry," Snape said through gritted teeth, and Harry wanted to point out that Snape had nearly gone against their bargain: that he wouldn't use Harry's last name when he was angry.

But he didn't; he wasn't that stupid. Instead, he said, "That's not an answer!"

"Indeed not."

"Well?"

Snape crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn't nearly as intimidating as when he was wearing his robes and towering over a student. "Well, what?"

"What is the answer? Why do I have to push my foot at you, when it's my hand giving me trouble?"

Snape was quiet for a moment, and Harry got the impression that he was counting time before he answered, lest he yell or say something really cutting. His gaze, however, caught Harry's and held it. His dark, fathomless eyes brooked no nonsense, and Harry wanted to squirm away from looking him in the eyes.

Finally, Snape said, "I do not believe that your hand was the only set of muscles that Madam Pomfrey identified as 'giving you trouble.' Am I incorrect in my recollection?"

Harry set his jaw. He didn't like being called a liar, even if he was being one about this issue, but he hated feeling weak even more, or worse, appearing weak in front of others. Not here, not now. Not ever, especially with Snape! The last thing he needed right now was for Snape to mock him for being out of shape or being an utter pansy about their exercises. He figured he could work on his legs himself. He didn't need Snape for that; there was plenty of equipment here that he could use to strengthen his legs and arms and anything else he needed, all without having to endure Snape's sharp comments or critiques.

"I'm fine. It's just my hand."

Snape stared at him, lips pursed. And he stared. And stared.

Harry couldn't take it any more. This was worse than being mocked, for sure. "All right! Fine. Whatever."

"Whatever, what?"

"Whatever, sir," Harry snarled. His hands were clenched into fists, and he looked away from Snape's knowing gaze. He wanted to punch something, a wall maybe, or his own thick head. "You were right, okay? It's not just my hand."

Snape sighed and shook his head. "I was not requesting an honorific, Harry. I am . . . concerned that you are thinking of these exercises as some kind of punishment. I assure you, they are not. I have only your best interests in mind."

Harry still wouldn't look at him. "Whatever."

In a rather dry tone, Snape said, "I believe we exorcised that word from our vocabulary, did we not?"

"No, we didn't. You tried. I still liked it."

"Indeed." Snape stood from where he had been crouched on the mat, then held out his hand for Harry to take, to help him rise as well. Harry ignored the hand, though, and Snape sighed again. "Perhaps it was too soon to start these exercises. Perhaps you need a better night's sleep, first."

"I'm sleeping fine, sir," Harry mumbled.

"Do not insult my intelligence, Harry," Snape said sharply, making Harry shiver, despite the sweat still trailing down his back. "Doing so is not in your best interest, nor will it aid in anything we do here."

"What are we doing here?" Harry asked, still mumbling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape frown. "We talked about this back at Hogwarts, Harry. Do you not . . ." He cut himself off, as if remembering that Harry might have difficulty recalling things, because of his bloody brain damage. In truth, Harry did remember that conversation, but a lot had been said about treating his "condition," and he wanted a summation, if possible. "We will work on getting you to dream again, for your mental health, as well as heal any lingering effects of the Dark Lord's torture upon your body."

Harry shuddered involuntarily, hearing Snape refer to the that evil man by the name he wanted his followers to call him. "Why do you still call him that?"

Snape turned his face away, quickly, which he needn't have, as Harry still wasn't really looking at him. Harry wondered if he turned away in shame, or anger, or what, and if he would even answer the question, one which Harry was (almost) willing to admit bordered on rude. After taking a long, slow breath, however, the man said, "Habit, I suppose."

"Habit?" Harry echoed, wrinkling his nose.

The professor crossed his arms over his chest again. When he wore his encapsulating black robes, the action would have wrapped him tight, hidden him, almost, from prying eyes and probably given him some measure of . . . comfort, Harry thought. Or safety. But here, in the gym clothes . . . Snape just looked uncomfortable and uncertain. Harry turned his head slightly, so that he could see Snape better, but not so he was staring. The professor's face was tight, especially around the eyes and mouth, almost as if he were . . . nervous. But what had Severus Snape to be nervous about?

"Yes, habit," Snape said after a minute. He swallowed, hard enough that Harry could hear it. "It was what he insisted we call him, and failure to do so was severely punished."

Well, Harry knew that Voldiewarts had tortured his followers - he'd seen it in visions and dreams all last year, after all. But he'd sort of had the idea that The Unmitigated Bastard tortured his Death Eaters only when they failed at something, or openly questioned his orders. Not just for something stupid like calling him the wrong name.

Snape had not continued, but was still looking away from him, Harry realized. Had he been tortured for not calling Old Voldie by the epitaph he favored? Did Harry dare ask?

Of course he did. "He punished you for it, didn't he." It wasn't really a question, and Harry didn't expect an answer, so when Snape nodded, he was suitably stunned enough to actually look at Snape full on.

Then Snape shrugged, also a rare occurrence, and Harry nearly gaped at him. "All of us were, I imagine, at one time or another."

Harry shook his head. "I don't understand it at all."

Snape turned on him, dark fire in his eyes. "You don't understand the Dark Lord's torments?" he asked with a sneer.

"That's not what I meant," Harry said quickly. "I don't understand why so many wizards, powerful wizards, joined him twenty years ago, or still keep joining him now. It doesn't make any sense. Why would people, all of them powerful in their own right, want to bow and scrape to a maniac? Why did they - why did you put up with it? I just don't get it."

Blowing out a breath, Snape frowned again. "That's not important right now."

"I think it is. I mean, what-"

"I say it isn't!" Snape wrapped his arms around his body, obviously missing his robes. "Leave it be, Potter!"

Stung, Harry said, "Don't call me that. Not when you're angry."

"I'm not angry." The words sounded almost sullen.

"Right. And I'm not a bloody Gryffindor."

The professor snorted quietly, then shook his head. He rubbed at his face with his hands. "Enough . . . Harry. I do not wish to discuss this now."

Harry hesitated, then nodded. He climbed to his feet, and swore under his breath when his knee gave a twinge as he put weight on it. Stupid Cruciatus. "So . . . I'll go then?"

"Perhaps that would be best. Try to get some rest, will you? I will call you for dinner, and we'll try this again tomorrow."

Though he tried not to show it, Harry was a bit hurt that Snape wanted him to leave. He was tired, but he was always tired, and he didn't know how putting off working on his muscles would improve anything. But maybe Snape was tired, too. He was obviously still miffed by Harry's pushing him on the "Dark Lord" thing. Shoulders slightly hunched, he headed for the door and the stairs beyond. "Fine. I'll see you later."

Behind him, once the boy was out of hearing range, Severus swore heatedly. Things were off to a rocky start, and were bound to get worse before they got better. Harry needed to sleep, and soon, or his temper - and Severus' already strained patience - would have both of them at each other's throats before nightfall.

How right he was. . . .

TBC….