Without really thinking of where he was going, Harry preceded Snape over to his shed and let him in. At least this was a soundproof place. In one gaze, Snape took the room in.

“You live here?” he asked brusquely. “Doesn’t Miss Ginny put up with you at the house?” Harry shot him a dark glance.

“I spend my nights here,” he replied shortly.

Snape started to pace the room up and down.

“You’ve got something that is mine,” he stated.

Again, Harry was at a loss. Did Snape want his old book of Advanced Potion-making back? That would be no problem. Harry had a bad conscience for keeping it for so long already. Hermione had told him to get rid of it from the very start, before they even knew it was Snape’s. Harry must have looked perplex, for Snape continued impatiently and with rising tension in his voice:

“I want the extract of my memories back.”

Harry blinked of incredulity as it dawned on him what Snape referred to: the memories that had oozed out of the professor in the form of a silvery substance as he lay dying after the attack of Voldemort’s snake - memories he had asked Harry to take. Harry had collected them with his wand and put them in a bottle. Later, he had watched the memories with the aid of Dumbledore’s Pensieve and they had revealed Snape’s love for Harry’s mother and conveyed Dumbledore’s last instruction to Harry: that Harry must die by the hand of Voldemort, in order for the piece of soul that had once etched itself on Harry’s to be destroyed. Harry gaped at Snape before he closed his mouth, cleared his throat and said:

“You gave the memories to me, Sir, therefore they’re mine. I intend to keep them.” Harry flinched as Snape stepped forward and put his face only inches from Harry’s, the usually so composed features twitching.

“They are mine. I was dying and tried to convey a message to you. They have served their purpose and now I want them back,” Snape hissed hoarsely. Instinctively Harry resisted.

“They’re safe. I haven’t shown them to anyone and I won’t, unless you ask me to. They concern me too...“ Snape drew his breath. Harry could see he was fighting for control but lost it and exploded at Harry, face contorted with anger.

“You have already told Kingsley about them! And you spoke to Voldemort about it… about my… about Lily… in front of all those people! That was MY secret! I DID NOT WANT ANYONE TO KNOW!” roared Snape and turned away. For a moment Harry had been afraid that Snape would hit him.

“I had to tell Voldemort,” Harry persisted quietly but stubbornly, “so that he would start doubting whether the Elder Wand answered to him or not.  And I told Kingsley in order to convince him that you were on our side. He wanted to watch the memories, but I said I thought you’d rather not. I promised him I would keep them in case of a future trial against you.”

“Kingsley spoke to me again yesterday,” said Snape, fury rising again. “There will be a trial, or at least an inquiry, and he wants to use those memories.”

“But they will clear you! They are proof you were on our side all along,” protested Harry, incredulous. “There’s nothing shameful in…” He didn’t dare continue because Snape let out a roar.

“I will not speak a word about her to anyone, do you hear me?” 

Harry remembered the words Dumbledore had said to Snape: “You don’t want me to reveal the best of you.” This still seemed to be true, but why?

Snape turned on him again with a cooler and more calculating expression on his face. As a reflex, Harry brought out his wand.

“Where have you hidden them?” asked Snape and stared without blinking into Harry’s eyes.

“Don’t!” Harry tried to avert his gaze. “Protego!” The spell was weak. Snape merely received a nudge in the chest. Harry knew that Snape was trying to read his thoughts by means of Legilimency and realised that he fought a losing battle. He had never been able to resist Snape’s violations of his mind because he had never learnt to master Occlumency.

“Protego! Protego!” At last Snape was pushed away hard enough to be knocked off balance and lose eye contact with Harry. “Don’t you do that to me!” exclaimed Harry, but Snape approached him again, his wand lifted. Harry backed off until he collided with the wall behind him. “I’ll give them to you willingly,” Harry panted, “...if you’ll help me out in return.” Snape stopped, hesitated and finally lowered his wand.

“Well, that was my initial offer, wasn’t it?” replied Snape in his usual drawling voice, “I’m glad that you changed your mind.” He backed off a few steps. “Your spells are weak,” he continued in a matter-of-fact voice. “You do look ill.”

“I only sleep two or three hours a night since ten weeks,” Harry explained defensively.

“You’re bound to have tried different sleeping draughts of course?” asked Snape businesslike.

“I’ve tried every single sleeping draught I’ve found in the books,” said Harry and gestured towards the shelf in the potion-making corner of the room, which was full of small glass bottles.”

“And they don’t work?” replied Snape. “Well, I don’t know what you expected, Potter, you were always lousy at making potions.” Snape took the bottles down one by one, uncorked them and sniffed.

“Professor Slughorn didn’t think so, and they do work,” objected Harry, “but when I stop taking the draughts, the nightmares come back ten times worse.” Snape continued to poke about among the bottles.

“These would be all right,” he muttered. “You seem to have improved, Potter... Uh-oh, what’s this now? Mind-strengthening Potions? Relaxing Potions? Obliviating Potions? Now that’s a treacherous one, did you really try that one out? You seem to have experimented quite a lot this summer, Potter!” Snape sounded almost appreciative. “Well, I can’t come up with anything offhand - you seem to have tried the lot. I could go through my books, of course, and see if I find anything,” Snape went on dismissively.

“I don’t think it’s a potion I need, Professor. They only provide temporary relief,” replied Harry. “I… I don’t think these are ordinary nightmares. I believe there’s something else behind them.” He looked expectantly at Snape.

“Harry Potter’s above having ordinary nightmares, is he?”  Snape sneered. “You’ve always had a tendency to believe yourself exceptional and expected special treatment. Perhaps you’re not to blame, considering your history.”

Harry shook his head indignantly.

“It’s most likely to be a mental problem, I’d say,” Snape said curtly. “It’s not surprising – you’ve been under a lot of strain for a long time and witnessed many deaths. If I understand it correctly you went out to face Voldemort with the intention to let yourself be killed. That’s a trauma, in short, that would operate on anyone and leave its traces, no shame in that... You would have expected, though,” Snape added thoughtfully, a streak of disdain in his voice, “...that the person who conquered The Dark Lord would be a wizard of some extraordinary class and would not be afflicted by such problems.”

Harry felt himself flush.

“I don’t claim to be an extraordinary wizard,” he said quietly, “and of course it could be a mental thing, but I don’t think it is.”

Snape disregarded Harry’s remark, turning away as he looked out of the window.

“I don’t know much about Mind-soothing treatments,” he said carelessly. “But I know they’re used at St Mungo’s. The mind healers make you relive your trauma in a safe context by gentle Legilimency and wrap you up in a series of incantations, that are quite complicated and slow working, and in my opinion - if you care to know - not very efficient at all. But they have some long-term results of curing. Although, it’s hard to tell what time has done for itself and what is their doing.” Snape turned back to face Harry. “I’m afraid I cannot help you in this matter, Potter. Maybe your best option is St Mungo’s after all.” There was undisguised contempt in his voice.

Harry felt disappointment imbibe his body. Snape had not even asked him to describe the nightmares and yet he already dismissed Harry’s problem as mental. What if it was, then? Harry felt defeated, tired beyond anything and sank down on one of the chairs. What would his life be reduced to?

“Potter! What’s this?” Harry lifted his head at Snape’s outcry. Snape had removed the lid on the cauldron suspended from a tripod over the now extinct fire and examined the newly made enamel black potion inside.

“Oh, just another experiment,” Harry said vaguely.

“This is a Vanishing Potion,” Snape stated slowly. “I’ve never made one myself. It’s nothing you teach. It’s a very unreliable draught - do you know that, Potter? Where did you get the recipe from? You don’t find this in any reference book of Potion-making.” 

“It was in some junk they found among Mundungus’ belongings.” Harry started to feel uncomfortable under Snape’s scrutinising gaze. “Mr Weasley has Mundungus’ things stored in here - he inherited them for what they’re worth.” Harry pointed towards one of the heaps of junk. “It’s not as if it’s Dark Arts or anything,” he added defensively. “It’s just for vanishing, getting away from everything for a while. You do come back again... usually.” His voice trailed off, because he had read, what he suspected Snape already knew, that the Vanishing Potion, being difficult to dose correctly, had been known to cause deaths.

“You’re more desperate than I thought!” said Snape with some apprehension in his voice. “So this is your idea of travelling, is it?” The sarcastic tone was back.

Harry turned his head away.

“This is dangerous,” emphasised Snape.  “It will make you disappear, for various lengths of time and reappear, not reliably on the same spot as where you took the draught. It provides no pleasure, you don’t know in which form of existence you reside in when you’re gone and it weakens you considerably.”

Harry shook his head as if to avoid Snape’s words to sink in. To take that potion really did not seem an appealing option.

“This is a potion used by criminals who fear to be caught and by the most poor and destitute to escape a deplorable existence. Is Harry Potter reduced to this now?” Snape continued relentlessly.

“I haven’t decided whether to try it or not. I made it just for experimenting,” Harry tried to retort but his voice was cracking up. Snape started to pace back and fro in front of him.

“They all believe you the most powerful wizard of our time,” said Snape and gestured towards an imagined wizard community outside the walls of the shed. “Whether you are, or not, you have friends to support you, and there is Miss Ginny, if I’m not mistaken. She showed her concern for you in there just now. It’s perfidy to do this to the Weasleys! Why, Mr Harry Potter - the Chosen One - leading a criminal’s existence! You disgust me, Mr Potter. You’re a coward, just like your father was. Not able to face up to a little suffering? No guts to fight for yourself?”

Harry’s defences broke down as Snape spoke. He pressed his head hard between his hands and tears started to stream down his face.

“I die in pain every night!” he hissed between clenched teeth, beyond himself. “It’s torture! It comes back again and again and again...”

Snape stood still as if not knowing what to do.

“The Vanishing Potion would at least enable me to come back to them… to see them from time to time, whereas….” Harry’s voice broke. 

Snape stared at him with repulsion written on his face. Suddenly, his attention was caught by the small cauldron stowed away at the upper shelf and his eyes widened then narrowed suspiciously. He stepped forward to lift the cauldron down carefully, but the mismatching lid slid off and banged loudly on the concrete floor.

Harry lifted his face which was hidden in his hands. He rose.

“No!” he said, “No!”

Harry and Snape stared at each other, horror etched on both faces. There was only a heeltap of potion left in the cauldron but Harry had no doubts that Snape recognised the Draught of Permanent Peace. Harry fell to his knees in front of Snape.

“Please! Please!” he said, “Please don’t tell Mr and Mrs Weasley! I know it’s so unworthy of their cares for me.” He shrank away from Snape, shying as if he expected a blow.

Snape stayed mute but his dark angry gaze bored through Harry.

Harry let out a wild bawl of anguish and made a forceful sweeping movement with his hands over the rough concrete floor as if to wipe something away. He stared wildly at his now bleeding palms. He wanted to do it again, but Snape kneeled down and got hold of his left wrist.

“Why?” said Snape, sounding suddenly more puzzled than reproaching. “You’re young and famous and have friends. And still you think death is the solution?”

“I don’t want to die,” Harry said automatically, sobered by the stinging pain in his palms and perplexed by the tone of Snape’s voice. “I haven’t really planned to take the draught. It’s just a relief to know I have it at hand. It makes me endure a bit longer.”

Snape continued to stare at him with his black eyes.

“If only I had some hope, but I’ve run out of options. The Weasleys cannot help me. They have enough pain of their own. You saw what Mrs Weasley’s like. Ron and Hermione aren’t even here. If I go to St Mungo’s my condition will be discussed in the papers. I didn’t know what to do. I prepared the Draught of Permanent Peace the same night that I wrote to you.” Harry let up a hollow hacking laugh.

Snape recoiled from him.

”I wrote to you, didn’t I? That really proves I don’t want to die, doesn’t it? Exposing myself to … to your scorn and humiliation…” The laugh trailed off and turned into cramped crying. “Please help me!” he sobbed, his bleeding hands shaking helplessly.

Bewildered, Snape stood up and started to hum the same incantation that he had done for Mrs Weasley. But Harry rose in one swift movement and punched Snape’s hand away.

“That’s not what I need!” he cried furiously, tears still running down his cheeks.

Snape backed off.

“Don’t you understand?” Harry raged at him. “I don’t just want you to take the anxiety away. I want you to help me remove the cause of the pain coming back all the time.”

Snape frowned.

“Maybe it’s a demon attacking me at night, or the spectre of Voldemort or something. What if his piece of soul was not killed off properly?” pleaded Harry.

Snape looked at him, shocked.

“You wrote in your letter that this had nothing to do with Voldemort! And now you say you think the part of him is not gone from your soul?” he said accusingly.

“I wrote to you I didn’t think it had anything to do with my scar,” Harry corrected him, “that's to say, the old curse, the horcrux. I do believe Voldemort is gone, I can’t feel him, but something is getting at me, not from the inside - from the outside. Something wants to drag me to the precipice of death. And it has nearly succeeded!”

Snape narrowed his eyes.

“Why do you think I wrote to you, anyway?” Harry launched at him angrily. ”Do you really think it was to ask you to concoct me a sleeping draught or because you were the most comforting person I could think of to talk to about my traumas! You’re supposed to be the expert after all! You’re supposed to know everything about the Dark Arts. At least that was what Dumbledore thought!”

Snape looked taken aback by this attack.

Harry realised that Snape had been intent not to believe him from the very beginning - why was that? The only thing Snape had been interested in was shielding his memories from the public and to hide the story of his love for Lily. Harry gaped as it dawned on him.

“You thought I wrote to you as a pretext to make you come and speak to me about my mother!” he exclaimed. “You took it for mere manipulation on my side.”

Snape’s features remained impassive except a slightly heightened colour in his face. Harry and Snape stared at each other for a short time, then Snape turned into the efficient figure Harry had seen arrive at the house a couple of hours ago. The professor started to pace back and fro.

“I’ll help you,” said Snape with more determination than before. “I’ll need to consult my library and I need to observe you when you have your nightmares. They occur every night, I understand?”

“Yes, after approximately one and a half hours sleep. It has never failed.”

“Even if you go to bed early?”

“It’ll only repeat itself more times - one night I had seven attacks.”

“And if you exhaust yourself and go to bed late?”

“I’ll still wake up after one and a half hour, but the attacks will be fewer, so that’s the strategy I’ve adopted. I try to keep busy during daytime and I go to bed late.”

Snape looked at Harry.

“And what do you see in your dreams, what are they about?”

“Nothing, I see or hear nothing! I just wake up with horrible pain, all darkness around me and then I die – I mean that I pass out, it feels like I die,” Harry corrected himself.

“Should have asked you about this from the beginning,” Snape muttered to himself. “This does not sound like ordinary nightmares at all! It all comes down to your Muggle vocabulary and lack of subtlety, Potter. You’re worthless at expressing yourself correctly! You’re obviously having some kind of attacks caused by Dark Forces - not nightmares! Why didn’t you write that? I would have come sooner!”

Harry did not know what to make out of this accusation, but at least Snape seemed to be taking charge of things.

“You’ll have to follow me to my place. Can’t leave you alone, can I, the state you’re in? Tidy yourself up a bit, will you, and we’ll go and say goodbye to Mr and Mrs Weasley”.