Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you all so incredibly much for your reviews! I literally grinned like an idiot when I read them all. Twice. Three times (Don't laugh at me, I'm new at this).
I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations.
Too Good to be True

Harry awoke abruptly the next morning, and he was crouched in a corner halfway across the room before he remembered where he was.

What-how-? Oh, right.

Heart rate gradually slowing, Harry looked around, and noticed a clock on the wall, which dictated the time to be nearly eight.

I haven’t slept so well since, well, pretty much never.

Harry was surprised that he’d slept undisturbed. He rarely slept for more than three or four hours at a stretch, and he’d just slept a solid six hours.

I guess it was the shower, and the warm bed, and the blanket, and the closed door, and the clean clothes…

Harry luxuriated in the use of the clean bathroom, then found some clothes in the pile that Dumbledore had supposedly provided. Harry wondered where Dumbledore had procured them from, and why he had even bothered.

Maybe he’ll hold this over me somehow, maybe they’ve been tampered with, laced with poison or something. Oh, sure, and maybe they’re made of human skin, seriously, who cares? It’s not like these people are short of murder methods.

Harry dressed, for once in clean, well-fitting clothing, relishing the softness of the cloth. He slipped his dagger in the pocket of his new jeans.

Wonder what Snape would do if he found this. He would probably assume I was planning on slashing his couches apart. Or murdering him in his sleep.

Harry remembered that Snape had mentioned breakfast. When was the last time Harry had eaten a decent meal? He usually got by on scraps from the trash.

Don’t get your hopes up, he might not even let you eat. Maybe he wants you to serve him and just watch.

Harry had to almost physically push back the remembered agony of days without food, forced to cook for and serve the Dursleys, inhaling the succulent scents through the vents on the locked door of his cupboard-

No. It never happened. They’re dead, they never existed.

Noticing the hands of the clock inching towards eight thirty, Harry left the room and went down the stairs. Now most likely in the vicinity of Snape, Harry fought the anxiety that began to take hold.

Keep it together. Maybe you’ll get food.

After trying a few doors, (Snape hadn’t exactly given him the grand tour), Harry found the kitchen. It was small and, like the rest of the house, dimly lit, but there were delicious smells wafting from the circular table in the center of the room where Snape was seated, face hidden behind a newspaper, which, Harry noticed, was hovering in midair, unsupported.  Harry walked cautiously towards the table and sat down at a clean place setting.

I guess this is for me, but now what do I do?

Harry felt acutely uncomfortable and anxious as he sat, unwilling to serve himself, but unable to ignore the hunger. The table was set with plates of food and a pitcher of milk, all fresher than any food Harry had had access to in recent memory.

What will he do if I take some? Do I even care what he does? 

“The food is not here for decoration.”

Harry jumped slightly when Snape spoke.

“Is the food not to your liking? Is the Boy-Who-Lived accustomed to gourmet feasts?” Snape growled, face still obscured by his paper.

Again with the Boy-Who-Lived…

Harry did not hesitate; he hastily filled his plate, and it was all he could do not to inhale the whole lot at once.

Pace yourself, if you spew all over the floor, you’ll never see the light of day again. Ever.

So Harry ate slowly, choosing to savor the burst of flavor that filled his mouth. Warm toast dripping with butter. Hot, flavorful eggs, and fresh strawberries and grapes. Cold, sweet milk sliding refreshingly down his throat. Harry had never eaten such good food as far back as he could remember. The best he could generally get was old leftovers from the trash outside various restaurants, and the occasional candy bar he nicked from the drugstore. And back at the Dursleys, Harry had been lucky if he got-

Stop. Thinking. About. Them.

Harry tried valiantly to clear his plate, but midway through, he had to admit defeat; if he ate another bite, he doubted he would be able to keep it down.

Snape abruptly set down his newspaper with a wave of his hand, directing the full force of his glare at Harry. Harry stared back, face calm, fiddling with his fingers nervously under the table.

“Potter,” he said irritably. “I will be spending the majority of the day in my potions laboratory, as I do most days. As I previously articulated, you are not permitted to be anywhere in its vicinity.

Are you repeating that for your health?

“Therefore, you have a few options. You are permitted to make use of the library, which is located down the hall to the left.”

Library? This changes things! Books. Must read books. Must figure out what the bloody hell is going on here. Books will tell me all I need to know

“Additionally, you are permitted on the grounds, provided that you are indoors before dark. As said grounds are protected by powerful wards surrounding all sides, I strongly suggest you refrain from attempting to bypass them.” He gave Harry a look that clearly indicated a painful death if he dared to try.

“Furthermore, while it is no concern of mine at which hour you opt to retire,” Snape said with a derisive look, “you will be in your bedroom by half-past eleven. I will not have you traipsing throughout my house at all hours of the night.”

“Am I understood?” he asked austerely.

Harry nodded. This was better than he had expected. It really seemed as though Snape was intent on ignoring his existence, which suited Harry perfectly.

I’ll just have to make sure not to annoy him. Best way to do that is to stay far out of his way.

Snape spoke again, his caustic tone cutting through the air.

“Lunch will be at one, and dinner at six. Far be it from me to care if you choose not to attend. However, I will not tolerate you wreaking havoc in my kitchen should you feel a sudden urge to satiate yourself later on, so I do suggest you show up.”

Harry nodded again.

“I will be alerted if you get into any trouble, so I strongly suggest you stay out of it, as I will be most displeased should my work be interrupted. You have been warned. Is that perfectly clear?” Snape looked positively ferocious as he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, get out of my sight.”

Harry immediately rose, carrying his plate towards the sink.

“Leave it,” Snape snapped.

Harry jerked slightly, then shrugged and set his plate back down on the table.

Wait, he did let you eat.

“Thank you, sir.”

Snape grunted, hidden once more behind the paper.

Harry then left the kitchen in search of the library, immensely relieved to be out of Snape’s company. He found it easily, then opened the door.

Harry's eyes widened. The room was large; much larger than it should have been, considering the layout of the house. Rows of bookshelves crammed with copious volumes filled the room, reaching nearly toward the ceiling. There was a corner occupied by some comfortable looking armchairs and small tables supplied with writing materials.

I could definitely get used to this place. This room alone is worth having to deal with Snape. And the food. Definitely the food.

Harry had, in fact, taken refuge in public libraries on many occasions, both when he’d lived with the Dursleys, and after he had run. Harry liked the calming atmosphere, the quiet, the knowledge, and the almost magical spark he felt in the air. Libraries had always been his sanctuary. 

Harry had had few friends in his life. He much preferred books. Book were predictable, helpful, and often funny. They couldn’t hurt him, not like people did. Harry knew what other kids said about bookworms; indeed, cruel comments had often been directed towards him back when he’d still attended school. But Harry didn’t care. Books meant knowledge, and the more knowledge he had, the less likely he was to die. It had also won Harry many a battle of wits that left his opponent staring dumbly, which gave Harry time to flee, or to strike back unsuspectedly.

But there was something more about books that drew him. It was the escape they provided, the one place where Harry could forget everything, could forget who and where he was, could stop being Harry altogether. They were proof that maybe one day things would be different, that maybe he could be happy; perhaps he did actually experience a level of happiness as he read, despite that fact that he knew it wasn’t real, and, sooner or later, he would have to face reality and all the pain that came with it.

Harry smiled, and walked almost reverently towards the bookshelves.

So I need to find out who the Boy-Who-Lived is, and whether or not it’s me. I need to learn about the workings of this magical community; I can hardly join it unprepared. I need to know about Hogwarts, and if there’s a government, and what the limits of magic are.

A short while later, Harry had a pile of books stacked on one of the tables. He had found Hogwarts, a History, Magical Law and Customs, The Wizarding Community of Britain, Wizard and Muggle Relations, and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. Harry figured that he’d be kept busy for quite a while, and curled up on an armchair.


 Three hours later, Harry’s head was spinning. Rubbing his aching eyes, he attempting to sort out all of his recently acquired information. Apparently, according to The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Apparently, his parents had not died in a car crash (not that he’d really believed that), but they had been murdered by some sociopathic maniac akin to Hitler called Voldemort during the first wizarding war of Britain. Then he’d tried to kill Harry, but for some reason had not succeeded, and ended up, to use the phrase, impaled upon his own sword. Thus Harry was named the Boy-Who-Lived, and celebrated all across the wizarding world.

Harry felt strange. Though he’d suspected that his parents’ deaths had been magically related in some way, he’d never imagined something like this.

How in the world? I’m famous? No wonder Snape thinks I’m some sort of narcissistic horror. And how is it possible that a baby could’ve defeated him? It was probably something my parents did. How irrational are these people to believe this? Or maybe they were just desperate for a hero.

Harry also noticed that none of the books actually explained what had happened to Voldemort. Terms such as ‘vanquished’, ‘defeated’, ‘conquered’, and ‘vanished’ were used, but never the word ‘dead’.

Maybe didn’t die. What happened to him then? Where has he been? Oh god, if he’s still alive, and I’m the hero who defeated him, they’ll all probably expect me to get rid of him for good, eventually. This is not good. Well, I’ll show them… I have better things to do than be everyone's hero.

Well, at least the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ mystery had been cleared up, thought, admittedly, Harry wasn’t sure if that made him feel any better. He did not like being noticed.

And Hogwarts. Harry was intrigued, and he was actually looking forward to attending. The school had been around for thousands of years, and it was considered to be one of the most elite schools of magic there was, or, at least, that was what Hogwarts, a History had said.

He had ascertained what Dumbledore had meant by Slytherin as well. Apparently, students were sorted into four houses, all with unique traits, Slytherin being one of them.

How can anyone determine what the predominant traits of a person are when they’re eleven? People change. It’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy, being labelled that way. And what if a person doesn’t like the house they’re sorted into? Is switching an option?

Harry also had to raise his eyebrows at the notion of Snape being a head of house. He didn’t exactly seem like the nurturing type.  

The Ministry of Magic was a whole different story. It was apparently a bureaucratic government led largely by incompetents without an ounce of logic between them.

People with little brain and large amounts of power are dangerous.

Harry rubbed his head, his brain actually aching. He was feeling restless as well, his limbs twitching, so Harry stretched, and jogged out of the library and towards the front door. It was a warm day, somewhat cloudy, and a slight breeze ruffled his hair. Feeling a sudden burst of energy, Harry ran. He relished the sensation of running for its own sake, as opposed to running for his life. Finally out of breath, Harry stopped beside a sprawling tree and sat down underneath it, breathing hard, hands curled around his knees.

What was the point of his life? What was the point of him? Harry had spent the past nine years alone, unloved, uncared for, hurt, hungry, scared, angry, and finally, empty. He did not feel like a kid, he’d never been one, really; he’d never had the chance to enjoy any semblance of childhood. His innocence had been torn away from him before he’d learned to talk.

And all this time, I was the famous savior of the wizarding world. It was here the whole time. I didn’t have to suffer, but I did anyway. The wizards left me to rot.

Not liking the direction in which his thoughts were going, Harry impatiently pushed them aside and rose. It was probably nearly time for lunch, anyway. He headed back towards the house and into the kitchen, where Snape was, once again, seated at the table, concealed behind a newspaper.

Harry sat, and, this time, did not hesitate to help himself. Harry tried to pace himself, to chew slowly, but the food was just so good. Less than halfway through, Harry began to feel uncomfortably full. He reluctantly laid down his fork, and took a long draught of water.

Bad idea.

Harry felt an intense nausea rise up in his chest, and before he could so much as blink, he vomited all over the floor.

No.

I am dead. So dead. He’s gonna murder me, slowly and painfully. Why did I have to eat so fast? You complete. Utter. Idiot. He’ll never let you eat again, he’ll-

“Potter.”

The sharp voice snapped Harry out of his panicked trance. He realized he was sitting frozen in position, eyes squeezed shut. He opened them slowly, and looked up. Snape was looking at him oddly.

“Are you quite well?” Snape asked, sounding annoyed.

Harry exhaled slowly, grimacing slightly at the sour taste in his mouth, and nodded, reaching for some napkins.

Maybe he won’t murder me…

“Stop.”

Harry immediately dropped the napkins. Snape then waved his wand in an exasperated motion, and the mess vanished.

Oh.

“Are you well, Potter?” Snape asked again in a neutral, if slightly terse, tone.

“Fine, sir. I-”

Shut up, don’t say anything, maybe he’ll ignore this.

Harry started as Snape handed him a glass of water.

Do attempt to drink more slowly, Potter, and we may be fortunate enough to avoid a repeat of such histrionics.”

He doesn’t even sound mad. Annoyed, maybe, but not like he’ll rip me apart. He even gave me water. He’s being, like, decent. What the hell? He was supposed to make me clean it up and toss me out of the kitchen, not inquire about my well-being and hand me a glass of water.

Harry drank slowly, the water soothing his burning throat, and noticed Snape looking at him appraisingly. Harry looked back, carefully blank, waiting for… something. But Snape said nothing, eventually looking away and turning back toward his food.

I can’t figure this guy out. He’s unpredictable. Unpredictable is bad. He was supposed to be angry.

I need to get out of here, Harry realized.

He got up slowly, his eyes on Snape, half-expecting him to refuse to let him leave. But the man simply jerked his head and went back to his newspaper.

“Th- thank you, sir.”

Snape looked at him oddly again, then closed his eyes for a moment.

“Do refrain from strenuous activities, Potter, if you will. We do not need a reenactment of today’s episode,” he said, in a tone oddly bereft of its usual venom.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry left the kitchen.

How weird was that? He’s not following the pattern. At all. How can I figure him out if he won’t even act normally?

Harry didn’t know what to think. No one had ever tolerated his illnesses; he’d been locked away, denied treatment, and punished for daring to be ill, and Harry had learned long ago to suck it up and ignore it. Later, in the streets, that ability had served him well, as pain and discomfort had never prevented him from doing what needed to be done. Snape’s actions were foreign to him, and Harry did not know how to respond.

Caught up in his thoughts, Harry had barely noticed that he was now facing the door to the library.

Back to the books, then, I suppose.

Hours later, Harry had completed Hogwarts, a History. He had now acquired a basic understanding the lessons he would be learning, and what they consisted of.

I must admit, while definitely unique, the curriculum does neglect the sciences, maths, literature… Why? Science and magic have got to be connected, and probably work together. Maybe wizards are just not into the ‘why’ or ‘how’ of things. Won’t stop me. But this means everything that I believed about physics was wrong. Or maybe magic does fit in with the laws. So far, potions seems to be the most scientifically based subject; technically, a non-magical person could do it, unless it requires spellwork. It’s mostly based on skill and logic. Arithmancy too, maybe, seems like a form of maths. 

Noticing the time, Harry set down the book.

I should probably go to dinner, I’ll just keep throwing up if I don’t get used to food.

Nonetheless, Harry was anxious. He had no idea of how to face Snape after his… episode.

What if he won’t let me eat now?

Harry ignored that thought and walked toward the kitchen. If Snape didn’t let him eat, so be it.

Harry entered the kitchen, where Snape was, once again seated, though his newspaper was resting on the table instead of hiding his face. Thinking that this could mean nothing good, Harry cautiously sat down.

Harry noticed that, though Snape’s plate contained what appeared to be a steak, there was lighter fare set in front of Harry’s plate; chicken salad, toast, and some sort of soup.

He got this for me, especially?

Snape nodded to Harry, and he filled his plate.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said quietly.

“Do not thank me, I merely wished to avoid having my dinner spoiled by the scent of bile,” Snape said sharply.

Harry felt his chest tighten, and he could feel his heart pounding.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry whispered. Maybe he won’t hit me if I apologize.

A strange expression crossed Snape’s face. He opened his mouth slightly, as if to say something, but then closed it again, starting on his food. Harry followed his cue, and began to eat, careful to chew slowly.

What in the bloody hell is going on? Why is he being nice?

Harry knew Snape had only given him different food because he didn’t want to deal with a repeat of lunchtime, but he could have more easily avoided it by simply not allowing Harry to attend meals at all. Harry could not wrap his head around it, so he tried not to think about it in favor of focusing on his meal.

Later, in bed, Harry clutched his dagger in his fist, his grip so tight it hurt. He knew this was too good to be true. There was no way that he could be well-fed, have constant access to a library, and be pretty much left alone while in the home of an adult who hated him. Or even just in general. Harry knew that the other shoe would drop; the question simply was, when?


 A large, beefy man is shoving him against a wall, fingers pressing down on his windpipe… Freak… Burden… Better off dead…

Meaty fists are striking his face, his ribs, his stomach… He chokes on the blood filling his mouth… He can’t breathe…

A glass slips from his hands, but before it hits the floor, it floats upwards back into his grip… He is yanked backwards and knocked to the ground… A heavy foot stomps down on his chest… Abnormality… Freakishness… Beat it out of you…

He is curled up behind an abandoned warehouse, eyes squeezed shut and palms pressed against his ears as the sound of gunshots reverberates around him…

He is in the dark room… He wishes he was dead…

He screams.

Harry awoke with a gasp. He trembled violently as he fumbled about wildly for his dagger, curling into a fetal position.

Stupid nightmares.

Apparently, the respite he’d had from his nightmares the night before had not been destined to last. Big surprise there.

Just a dream, just a dream. He’s dead, he can’t touch you. None of them can. Stop the stupid shaking. Makes you look weak.

Harry hated the nighttime. During the day, it was easy to forget, to pretend that nothing had ever happened, to feel nothing at all. But at night, all the feelings and memories came back to haunt him, to taunt him, reminding him of his weakness, that he couldn’t rid himself the feelings for good. Nighttime was when Harry felt the pain, the fear, the anger, and the knowledge that no one loved him, or ever could love him. And Harry hated himself for caring at all.

Stop being so bloody weak.

Harry suppressed a groan when he checked the clock, realizing that it was only four in the morning. He couldn’t leave the room now, Snape would not approve of him, to use his words, traipsing throughout his house at all hours of the night. So Harry tried to settle down, but he could practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his body, making his heart pound and his breaths short. He tried to think of other things; cold, scientific facts and such.

Okay, the velocity of a falling ball after 3.4 seconds would be… multiplied by the acceleration of gravity… This isn’t working. Damn it.

No matter how hard Harry tried, he could not rid his mind of the images drifting menacingly across it. So Harry sat on the floor and amused himself by making his dagger float in midair, imagining painful deaths for everyone he hated.

I wonder how the Dursleys died. Dumbledore didn’t say. Because he thought I already knew. Hope it was painful. Excruciating. Unbearable. Agonizing. Torturous. Any one of those adjectives would be acceptable. I hope Hell actually does exist so they’ll continue to suffer for eternity. I hate them. Hate them hate them hate them HATE THEM.

“I hate them,” Harry said aloud.

He focused his magic carefully, making his dagger spell out the words in the air. The use of magic tired him, exhausting him of the anger, and his emotions ebbed, retreating into the back of his mind, where they would remain, hidden and unnoticed, until he slept again.


By half-past six, Harry was dressed and down in the library in search of more books. Now that he had acquired a decent understanding of the workings of the magical community, he needed to learn about the workings of magic itself. Finally, Harry spotted a book that had potential near the top of the bookshelf.

Does Snape not want me to read it or something? Maybe it’s dangerous to know; maybe it’ll make me dangerous- oh, get a life, it’s not like he had kids in his house before now, this place isn’t childproof.

Harry considered dragging a chair over, but it didn’t seem high enough. Too bad. Harry wanted the book, and he was going to get it, one way or another.

Glancing around once, Harry focused carefully, and slowly began to rise up in the air, toward the book. At the same time, the book slid off its shelf and floated downward, toward him.

What? Things never came to me before.

In his surprise, Harry lost his focus and went crashing to the floor, book in hand.

Ouch.

Testing his limbs carefully, Harry judged them to be only bruised, so he walked, limping slightly, over to his chair.

The workings of magic. Yes.

Well into his book, Harry finally began to understand how magic worked, and what he was able to do.

Accidental magic explains all the weird stuff I do, but it did stop being accidental after a while, except when I was really angry. The book doesn’t say much about that. The stuff I do does generally seem to require a wand. Better keep it to myself, then. But a wand can be a real liability. A weakness. What if it breaks, or if someone steals it? Is a wizard completely powerless, then? But the magic is inside a person, not a wand, so why is it even necessary? Why can't magic be channeled through a hand as easily?

Darn it, breakfast.

Harry hurried to the kitchen, despite the residual ache in his leg. He did want to eat, after all, and Snape would no doubt be extremely irritated if he came late.

He entered the kitchen and was surprised to find Snape look up as he entered, newspaper nowhere in sight. He looked irritated.

Not good.

“Good of you to show up, Potter,” Snape said acerbically.

Harry said nothing, right hand clenched around the dagger in his pocket.

“Now, as I regularly have food send over from Hogwarts by the elves, it has been decided that I must take note of your apparently delicate dietary needs.” Snape looked as though he would rather be doing anything but.

He’s asking me about my dietary needs? Next, he’ll be asking me how my day went. What am I supposed to say? That my previous eating habit consisted of a few scraps every third day?

“Well?” Snape bit out.

“Er… I…” Harry’s voice trailed off. What did Snape want?

“Has your rudimentary grasp of the English language suddenly forsaken you, Potter?” Snape definitely sounded angry, now.

No. No, what do I say? Stop panicking now, you idiot. It’s not helping. Just say something. Anything.

“I suppose I’m unaccustomed to such fine fare,” Harry responded flatly.

I’ll show you a rudimentary grasp of language, condescending old… Two can play this game. Why am I baiting him?

Snape raised his eyebrows, but did not appear unduly annoyed.

“Is that so,” he said, more than asked.

Yes indeed, it is so, if the understatement of the century. It looks like he knows it, too. Damn, the guy’s too observant for my own good. Although, I guess by the humiliatingly small size of me, it’s not all that hard to figure out.

Snape was looking at Harry calculatingly. Harry stared back, waiting for Snape to speak. Finally, he did, face becoming a cold, uncaring mask.

“Very well, you will continue to consume that which has been previously delivered for you by the elves. Sit.”

Harry sat, and filled his plate with the meal that had been delivered by the so-called elves.

Wait, what are elves? They’re delivering my food, I need to know. Just ask, what’s he gonna do? If he didn’t go mad when you were sick…

“What do you mean by elves, sir?” Harry asked in a carefully neutral tone. Inside, he held his breath.

Snape looked somewhat irritated at being interrupted, but answered.

“They are house elves; creatures that are wired to serve wizards in ways such as cooking and housekeeping. There is a large number of them working at Hogwarts. As I myself have little time nor inclination to cook, Professor Dumbledore has insisted on having elves deliver meals, as I have no interest in housing a personal elf.”

“Have I satisfied your curiosity, Potter?” he spoke sarcastically.

“Yes, sir.”

What? Hogwarts, a History didn’t mention anything about house elves. Seems sort of medieval. Slavery? Or do they want to do it, seeing as they’re wired to? Unless wizards have brainwashed them. It seems way too convenient, having creatures that exist solely to serve.

As soon as Harry had finished, he left the kitchen quickly; it was obvious that Snape felt that he’d had enough of Harry for one day. Per usual, Harry curled up in his armchair in the library.


 The rest of the week progressed similarly. Harry would be woken up from a nightmare, remain in his room till six, then relocate to the library, where he gradually expanded his knowledge of the magical world. He was at a disadvantage, after all, growing up so isolated, and he needed to make up for it now.

Often feeling restless due to the extensive amount of time he spent indoors, Harry regularly ran on the grounds every day, often more than once. He’d discovered that, in close proximity to the mist of protective spells, he was pushed back by a magnetic-like force, preventing him from passing it. Though Harry wasn’t surprised, it did make him uneasy that he wouldn’t be able to easily escape if he needed to. And he would need to, eventually, when Snape finally lost it, although, aside from meals, Harry rarely saw Snape at all. It appeared that he really did spend the majority of the day in his lab, brewing God knew what.

Snape was an anomaly. He clearly disliked Harry and did not want him around at all. Nonetheless, Snape did not go out of his way to make Harry’s life miserable; if anything, he did the opposite. He allowed Harry to eat, answered his questions, gave him a bedroom, and never touched him. Why? It wasn’t as if anyone would find out if Snape did hurt him, and even if someone did find out, why would they care? No one ever had before.

Ensconced in the library after dinner, Harry’s focus kept drifting away from his book.

Maybe this is a part of some master plan, my being here. Maybe it has something to do with the Boy-Who-Lived thing. But what is the plan? What is being accomplished? Dumbledore probably knows. The guy seems the type; all-knowing and everything. And the books say that Voldemort feared him, so he must be really powerful. Or maybe he knew something no one else did. Or both, probably.

Giving up, Harry closed the book. It was nearly eleven thirty.

I really don’t want to sleep. What’s the bloody point? I’ll just wake up and be all weak, like some pathetic child.

Harry went upstairs anyway. When he weighed his options, he concluded that a known evil, his nightmares, were safer and more easily dealt with than the unknown evil, which was Snape’s potential reaction if he didn’t go upstairs.

Not three hours later, Harry awoke, choking back a scream. He trembled uncontrollably, hitting his head repeatedly against the headboard in attempt to alleviate the fear, to distract himself from the memories. It didn’t work.

Even when they’re dead I can’t get rid of them. I swear their ghosts are haunting my dreams.

Chapter End Notes:
Well? What did you think? Please keep up the reviews, it keeps me going, and constructive criticism is MORE than welcome.
This chapter was originally meant to be two separate chapters, but I felt that it was getting repetitive, so I condensed it into one, so it kind of drags a bit.
Sorry there's not more Harry/Sev interaction, but I was trying to be realistic.

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