Harry Potter 1. How can you fly?

Disclaimer: I own zilch. Zero. Zippety-do-dah.  
  
Summary: I hate writing long summaries, so you're being warned here- mentions of self-harm, depressive themes. Also might get a little violent in later chapters.  
  
Archive: Sure, knock yourself out. Give me lots of credit, though.

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**WINGBROKEN**

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It was when Harry realised life became a grind he began to smile.

At lease he'd isolated the cause of his problem. The problem of his eyes no longer sparkling with interest. The problem of his taking insults far too literally. The problem of his lack of enthusiasm for anything. Quidditch didn't count there; he now regarded the sport as ferocious competition, designed only to prove to himself that what he strived for whilst playing was not that important at all, when compared to the general scope of things. What did a single Quidditch victory, or even many Quidditch victories, mean to Voldemort (Never. Never. Never was Harry going to call him ('Lord'.)? How did the capture of a small, winged ball matter in the great dance of life?

Still, he played. He practised every night. He found that, if he was tired, the nightmares weren't as long lasting; Sirius didn't have to die every night, and neither did Cedric. Quidditch was a repreive from everyday thought, where he didn't have to concentrate on anything other than the Chasers, the Bludgers and the Golden Snitch. He would play for a dreamless sleep, void of thought or even consciousness. That was the reprieve he hoped for.

He had, long ago, considered cutting himself, but hadn't even started, for several reasons: first of all, the evidence was not well hidden; second, he had no energy. The thought of causing him more energy loss was not appealing. And thirdly, because he thought he owed more than that to his parents. His friends. His godfa-

That was when he began to tread the dangerous road to depression, and swiftly busied himself with some form of homework or study.

It was when Harry realised life became a grind he began to smile.

Everyday, the timetable never varied; lessons, homework and Snape. Lessons he could cope with; it was his sixth year, after all, and he was finding it easier to absorb facts. Homework wasn't too bad as he no longer relied upon Hermione for every answer, and it was only in these times when his outer shell would crack, and a ray of his personality slipped through. He would crack a joke, laugh uproariously at a gag from Ron or groan in sympathy when Hermione was beaten by Ron in chess. For her brains, that happened a surprising amount.

Snape. Ah, there was a challenge, something that demanded his defences be up constantly and his skin thicker than a rhino's. It also required his wit, brain and intellect to be at a speed that would have given lightning a nasty shock, and sharper that Buckbeak's would-be executioner's axe. Snape; ah, yes. His hatred for Harry had, if possible, intensified over the summer. He had taken points from Harry for deliberately breathing too loudly and disturbing the class (Harry was just recovering from a nasty bout of 'flu), for his thickening concoction to be red as opposed to maroon (whereas Goyle's was spitting sparks, Neville's had the consistency of air and Malfoy's was on the point of explosion) and one time when Harry walked in and sat down, Snape promptly took ten points. Without explanation.

Snape seemed determined to give Harry as hard a time as possible. Harry suspected it was because of last year's fiasco with the pensieve but to be frank, Harry couldn't give a shit any more.

It was when Harry realised life became a grind he began to smile.

There was no variation to his life, and he supposed that was the root of his... boredom of existence. People expected him to have strong opinions against Death Eaters, whereas Harry regarded them as people who'd chosen a different walk of life - except perhaps Bellatrix. They expected him to hate Snape, but he didn't have the strength to despise Snape for hating him anymore. Although sometimes... when the rage became too much to bear... he felt as though he could scream at Snape, demand answers, demand a reason to why he tomented him so much.

Idealism became his cue to exist. They expected so much of him; people approaching him for autographs which he refused to give, wanting painful accounts of the graveyard or the Department of Mysteries. Fame was something many desired, and something Harry shied away from. More than once he considered suicide, but the prophesy always floated to mind and he knew that he couldn't leave the wizarding and/or muggle world unguarded. He could have coped more if it wasn't Snape trying (and succeeding, to a point) to slam him to the ground. How was he supposed to fly with his wings broken?

Harry felt so isolated, so insular. His consciousness was something no-one could get into. The only exception was sometimes, in the evening, when his mind drifted from his homework and he found himself laughing at something one of his two best friends said. That was when he could forget he was meant to save the world, that was when he could be an ordinary teenager again, when he could talk about romances, teachers, lessons and other people. These were the times when he drew from his shell and temporarily left Cedric Diggory, Sirius Black, Bellatrix Lestrange and Tom Riddle behind.

He was sure Ron and Hermione had noticed by now. Surely they recognised the empty glint in his eyes? Surely they couldn't fail to recognise the times he came out from his inner shell, and compared the to the rest of the days?

He was grateful they did nothing about it. He supposed he was using the time he had to let his mind adjust to a world with too few people he liked (a depleting score) and too many he didn't. Unfortunately, this was taking a long time, but Harry just wanted to exist for the time being. He could live later, he could let his emotions and hormones run rampant at some other point in the future. For now, he just wanted to clear his life of obstacles.

It was when Harry realised life became a grind he began to smile.

He smiled, and that was the eerie thing; he smiled because he had taken what life had thrown at him and survived, at least physically. Sure, his mind was in tatters, but he was still here. He smiled because the worst had already happened. He smiled because it infuriated people who tried to put him down. He smiled because he knew there was a horizon out there he had yet to spy. He smiled because he knew that his life wasn't over. And he smiled because he had nothing else to do. If he didn't smile he would probably collapse instead. And he knew he had to white and brave, strong and smiling, until he smote Voldemort a mighty blow and his arch-nemesis crumbled into dust, or vice versa. Then he knew he would gratefully sink onto the ground and quietly go to sleep, either way. Death or rest he waited patiently for the day, but he did look forward to it.

The day when he could rest, and let others take the brunt of the fear that had swamped the nations.

The day he could rest.

It was when Harry realised life became a grind he began to smile.


	2. Safe in Insecurity

Routine was something that was easy to ignore, but hard to avoid. Harry finished the last paragraph to his particularly nasty Potions essay on the components and uses of Veritaserum. He was the only person to receive the essay in the class, but since Professor Snape thought that Harry didn't know enough about a potion he hadn't studied it was worth it to set him the task.

Harry's anger boiled below the surface as he stared blankly out of the window of the common room. It was about ten thirty and dark outside. The common room was uncharacteristically empty, but that was only because one of the Creevy brothers had set fire to a classroom in the Charms corridors, and everyone had gone to look. Harry could feel the rage inside him, subdued but hotter than the slopes of Hell. It was a dull pressure inside him, but he kept it controlled.

There were some days when he felt like walking up to the top of the Astronomy Tower, tipping his head back and screaming for all he was worth. Just to let the pain, the suffering, all the angst loose. To see what it was like to exorcise the demons. Hell, to _exercise_ the demons for all he cared.

It was three days to the Christmas holidays, and he had declined Ron and Mrs Weasley's offer to either stay at the Burrow or at number 12, Grimmauld Place. He wanted a little space to himself, and had told Mrs Weasley so. She had seemed to understand, even if she was a little disappointed. A little while after that, he had come across Moody and Lupin talking to Professor McGonagall. He caught the tail-end of the conversation before Moody spotted him:

"... boy barely talks let alone laughs."

"This could be affecting him a lot more that we thought."

"The boy's lost his parents, his friend and his Godfather, and his worst enemy has risen from the grave. Whatever elastic band propelled Harry along before seems to have gone slack. He's probably wondering what he's got to live for any more."

"Shh, he's coming..."

Yes, Harry had wondered, deep in the night, when the only thought that came to him was that people would come to his funeral only to see if he was dead. It was not a comforting thought after waking from a dream in which his reason for living was swept away in the swish of an old cloak, or blasted away in a jet of green light. Then again, it wasn't a comforting thought full stop.

Harry turned again and looked at the two rolls of parchment, lined with his own crimson handwriting. He had long since accepted the extra work Snape gave him. It meant he was staying up longer, but he also recognised the fact it gave his a head-start in classwork and future coursework.

It was especially satisfying when, a few lessons ago, Snape had offered fifty points to whomever could concoct a Draught of Peace without instruction. Only Harry and Hermione put up their hands. Once again, eager to make a fool of Harry, Snape had chosen him. Within fifteen minutes, there was a vial of clear, deep green potion sat on Snape's desk. Harry had just smiled as he retreated to his place. Snape had snarled that he pitied his friends if he spent more time studying than socialising, and Harry had simply replied that the Draught of Peace was the topic of the essay Snape had set him personally three weeks before, because he could not answer a question about the uses of the potion in question. He then asked politely for his fifty points, knowing Snape could hardly refuse.

Harry smiled grimly as he wrote his name carefully at the top of both rolls of parchment, along with his house and his age. He wasn't falling for 'the other Harry Potter' trick again.

The portrait hole opened up and Harry felt a genuine smile creep onto his face at the sight of his friends. During one of his midnight wonderings, he had decided that it wasn't worth taking his friends for granted any more. Should he lose them...

He busied himself with helping Dennis Creevy, who had badly-singed hair and no eyebrows, through the portrait hole. Hermione, who had her well-known expression of I-told-you-so plastered all over her face, began to work a series of simple charms that reduced the blistering, and gave him a healing potion. Harry laughed as Dennis belched smoke, and then his hair returned to normal. His skin lost its red tinge, and everyone laughed and clapped him on the back. Harry got up from his armchair by the glowing fire and clapped Hermione on the shoulder.

"What would we do without you?" he grinned. Hermione rolled her eyes, but Ron was laughing.

"Y'see, Dennis was cornered by Malfoy, the little git, and Malfoy threatened him, right, but Dennis said the _expelliarmus_ spell wrong, and it set fire to Malfoy's head. He's okay," he added hastily through his laughter, seeing Hermione's face. But even her lips were quirking upwards in a reluctant smile. Ron reached over and tickled her. "Come on, Herm it wasn't all bad. I'm sure Madam Pomfry'll fix his ears in no time."

"Why, what happened to his ears?" asked Harry, trying to control the laughter.

"Well," said Ron, a dreamy expression on his face, "It's never a good idea to attack the younger brother of a) a Gryffindor, b) a DA member, or c) the aforementioned in front of a classroom of said members..." Harry burst out laughing, but he caught the shared look of relief on both his friends' faces. Ron grinned again. "After his ears, don't worry, Madam Pomfrey can cure those antlers, those tentacles and even possibly his nasty demeanour, but there are some things not even St Mungo's can achieve..." Harry smiled.

"Hermione, can you check my essay over?" he called to her. She turned and rolled her eyes. "Harry, the last few you did for Snape were perfect. If you're trying to piss him off you're doing a very good job of it."

Harry grinned as he slipped the parchment into his bag, making a mental not to drop it off before breakfast, just to irritate him even more.

As soon as he walked up the steps to the dormitory, however, his mood evaporated. The gibbous moon stared down at him from the window, and his fingers clenched and unclenched on the windowsill. One more night toward Voldemort becoming stronger, one more night of worrying for him that a house would be in the Prophet tomorrow with the Dark Mark fired above it...

He changed and slipped into bed, but not before he slipped his glasses from his nose and placed them carefully on the table. He watched over a period of twenty minutes as the other boys came up to the dorm and closed their four-poster hangings around them.

Harry preferred not to. He didn't like the feeling of claustrophobia, and besides, no-one could see him anyway.

He pointed his wand at his throat an muttered "_Silencio_." He put his wand back on his bedside and shut his eyes. His nightly ritual was complete. He allowed himself to sink into sleep in the knowledge that if he screamed, no-one could hear him...


	3. Hidden Wounds

_He was walking along a sandy plain. Dismembered heads dotted the sand all around him, no-one he knew._

_He converged upon the graveyard; scenes from the battle flashed either side of him and he walked straight through without glancing to either side. Then he looked left, and saw Sirius had been crucified. A chill crept up on him. He turned and ran. He saw other faces, other corpses of people whom he knew, faces he'd killed. He began to shiver and he couldn't stop. Sweat, cold and sticky, beaded on him, drenching his clothing. He was running now, but it took an age to pass each corpse. He saw all of them; their faces twisted into death masks and the rictus of of pain and terror, but each set of eyes penetrating him, accusing him and saying why did you kill me? And theses stares became more and more accusatory. And as his legs felt like they were trying to move through tar, he slumped to his knees, gasping silently and uncontrollably. People approached him as he curled into a ball, naked and alone, wrists bound behind him with chain that burned with an icy flame, ankles the same. He was screaming forgive me, God please no I didn't mean to it wasn't me then they made me I never wanted to kill anybody nobody asked me if I wanted to take lives..._

_And he screamed and screamed, and ghosts came to him, faces he knew, saw and slaughtered, and he curled into a tighter ball in this black infinity of space, bound and bleeding as crimson liquid spilled from wherever these ghosts touched him. Back, legs, arms, chest, he tried to protect himself from these souls that he'd harboured inside himself for so long. They cried for revenge, for blood, hunger and thirst for his suffering. He had hurt them, killed them, maimed them, tortured them, and they wanted their payment. Each touch was a jolt of white, cold and pain, then a trickle of blood. His soul was drenched but he had not understood this. This was what they meant when he could not escape the lives he had taken, and through the red obscuring his vision, he saw a pale form of his mother come to him. Her hands tenderly touched either side of his face, holding him, and blood pooled over her fingers as he began to bleed. She touched her lips to his cheek._

_You couldn't save me, she whispered, drawing back, and he could see her eyes were obsidian black. You couldn't save me._

_Now he could see he gaping wound punched through her chest, spilling gore into the abyss. I tried, he cried, but no words came out. I tried honest to God I tried please listen to me forgive me I tried, I did..._

_The souls drew back, and he saw Lily clearly. Everyone he knew, everyone he was close to stood a little way back. Both Ron's eyes were gone; the back of Hermione's head was blown away; Lupin was missing both arms; Fred and George were both disembowelled and Cedric stared with eyes a vivid, all green. Dumbledore, McGonagall and Hagrid had all been decapitated and their heads rolled forward. Sirius' eyes were all black, his face partially eaten away. Every wound bled as if fresh. There were other faces, so many more, of other people he knew but they were cloaked in the darkness and he couldn't see them properly, but he could hear them, he could hear them all right..._

_You did this to us, they said in a bad unison. You did this to us, with your own hands. What did you do?_ What did you do?

_God, no, he tried to scream. I didn't - I never -_

_They all approached him, touched him, whispered words to him, made blood trickle into his eyes so he saw the world through a haze of red._

_Then Sirius approached him, looked into his eyes with his own dead, lifeless ones, thrust his hand into Harry¹s chest and pulled out his heart. He fell, and as he looked upwards, he saw both his mother's and father's impassionate faces as Voldemort's hands reached out for them.  
_  
Harry woke, and sat bolt upright in bed, the tears streaming from his face, his shoulders hitching with unconstrained sobs. No sound escaped him.

This nightmare he recognised as something to do with his feelings of powerlessness. They came interspersed with his dreams about Cedric and Sirius. If anything, they were worse. He swung his legs out from bed and walked shakily over to the windowsill. This nightmare had been particularly vicious and with a new twist. Voldemort had never been indirectly involved before. Could it be that he was more scared for his friends than he was of his own death? It was entirely possible. He didn't not look forward to the day he could rest but it wasn't like he wanted to die; Nature could not breed a species that didn't want to live and Harry was no exception, but sometimes... sometimes it was all too much to bear. Sometimes the prospect of death was all too appealing.

He stared up at the sky, longing to fly on wings of his own. The moon pushed everything softly into monochrome, and for a second the face of the Golden Boy was all but Golden.

The Boy Who Lived was waiting until he didn't.

lllllllllllllll

When Harry awoke the next morning, he quickly scrubbed the tear marks from his face with a handful of water from the jug on his bedside table. He was the first up, and so he dressed quietly, then padded down to the common room. Glancing at the smouldering remains of the fire out of habit, expecting to see Sirius' head sat there, he swiftly climbed from the portrait hole. He headed at a brisk pace to the dungeons, taking a couple of concealed shortcuts. He glanced at the walls as he did, noting the sliminess and the darkness, and was forcibly reminded of his Potions Master. Pushing open the door the the classroom, he found it pleasantly empty, and was about to drop the essay on the table when he realised that Snape might just pretend he hadn't received it. Better bring it during the -

The door to the supplies room slammed open with an unnecessary amount of force, and Snape came out carrying a couple of glass jars. The door slammed shut again, but not before Snape had seen Harry, standing by his desk, had holding two rolls of parchment.

"What," he snarled, "Do you want?" Harry mutely raised his essay, as he had learned anything he said was usually used against him. He looked Snape straight in the eye, however; he didn't care that the Potions master could be probing his brain. He deliberately let some of his anger bubble up a little. He wanted the man inside his head, to show him he didn't care any more, to show him that he was tired of playing games and that he had grown up far more than Snape ever had.

Snape extended his hand for the two rolls of parchment, and Harry handed them wordlessly over. Snape, still keeping eye contact, ripped them apart and let them drift to the floor.

It was when Harry realised life became a grind he began to smile.

So he did. Still smiling, he took another two rolls of parchment from his pocket. This time, red handwriting could be seen through the thin paper-like material. Harry glanced at the strips of parchment on the floor. They were blank.

"I will never, ever stoop to your level," he said in a low voice. "But at least you're so low I can predict your every move."

Harry felt a thin rush of satisfaction at the look on the man's face, but this was quickly overpowered by his feelings of lethargy and the loneliness that had been plaguing him for several weeks.

Harry had been quite insular since the beginning of the year, but that still didn't mean he didn't crave the touch of a fellow human being. He smiled sardonically at the thought. Harry Potter wanted a hug.

Still smiling in a faintly bemused way, he turned and left the dungeon.

"Potter!"

The voice rang out as he put his hand on the latch of the classroom door.

"Yes, professor?" he asked evenly.

"What, Potter, do you think you will gain by these acts of foolish pride?" Harry opened the door, but as he did so, the irony hit him like a punch in the stomach, and he began to laugh. "And I could ask you exactly the same thing," he smiled quietly. Harry Potter shut the door behind him as he left the dungeons.


	4. Unpleasant Surprises

It was Friday, the last day of the term before Christmas, and the Great Hall at breakfast was even noisier than usual.

Harry took his place by Ron and Hermione as the post arrived. Hedwig fluttered down but she had no messages for him. He gave her a bit of toast and bacon rind. Sensing the mood he was in, she nipped his thumb affectionately before taking off to the owlery. Harry watched her until she was out of sight, before listening to the conversation going on between his friend.

"Snape'll set us somethin' really hard, jus' to make us work," said Seamus, nose wrinkled. Neville sighed miserably into his porridge. Snape wasn't goading Neville as much as he used to because his primary target seemed to be Harry, but Neville was still petrified of the Potions Master all the same - and Harry wasn't feeling any especially good thoughts about Snape either. Double Potions on a Friday morning had that effect on most people.

Harry supposed it was possible he was depressed. He mused this on his way down to the dungeons. He didn't see the beauty in the mundane world any more, he wanted to fly out to where nobody would know him, where his scar meant nothing, where he could live his life out as he wanted to.

A group of first-year Ravenclaws oggled at him on their way past. Harry supposed the most irritating thing about them was not the fact that they appeared, to him, to be three feet tall with pointy hats and fishing rods, but rather that they could put at least four vowels in the sound 'oh'. Had he ever been that small and irritating?

"That's Harry Potter, that is."

"Noeua!"

"- yeah, check out the scar, you knouewa –"

Harry gritted his teeth as he strode past them, blocking his ears to the tirade of mutters and whispers.

"-ah, Potty, the Mudblood and the Weasel..." Malfoy swaggered up to the trio, and grinned. Harry couldn't bite back a reply.

"Nice to see you got your ears fixed, Malfoy. I head you got beaten by a second-year Gryffindor. Losing your touch?" Malfoy's sneer slid off his face like Stinksap as he pulled out his wand, aiming it at Harry's throat.

"All I want is one reason, Potter," he snarled. Harry just let a fake- feeling grin twitch the corners of his lips as he focused his gaze over Malfoy's shoulder.

Contrary to popular opinion, Harry held no animosity toward Malfoy‚ at least not any more. He regarded Draco as deluded and in need of serious help, and only kept the banter up so appearances would do the same. Still, it was a bit ironic, to say the least...

Professor McGonagall tapped Malfoy on the shoulder.

"Young man, you have just lost twenty-five points from Slytherin and have earned three night's worth of detentions."

Malfoy, looking positively livid, slid his wand back into his robes and shot a death glare at Harry. Professor McGonagall turned to address the class.

"Professor Snape cannot take this class today, so I will be instead."

There was an almost visible sigh of relief from the Gryffindors. Professor McGonagall turned to Harry. "Potter, Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you in his office immediately. The password is 'Sugar Quills'." Harry nodded, feeling slightly confused and a little apprehensive. Nodding to his friends, he headed toward Dumbledore's office.

lllllllll

When Harry stepped into Dumbledore's office his first impression was of it had always been: warm, gentle orange light filtering in softly though the long windows; the air warm and quiet with an old, pleasant smell; the portraits of snoozing witches and wizards still littered the wall; and Fawkes was stood on his perch by Dumbledore's desk. The air spoke of quietness and serenity. The circular room seemed spacious and pleasant to be in, and Harry felt himself relax. Then he noticed the other visitor, and he tensed. 

Dumbledore was sat serenely behind his desk, but standing in front of it, chair thrown a little way back as thought he had stood up very quickly, was Snape. He was breathing heavily and his face had an ugly flush.

"Headmaster," he said in a deathly whisper, "I have never questioned your judgement before -"

"Ah, Harry," said Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling at him from over the tops of his half-moon glasses. Snape whirled to face him, and the ugly look on his face deepened. Harry was sure that the only thing preventing Snape from throttling him on the spot was Dumbledore's presence.

"Harry, Severus, sit please."

Harry took a chair, and Snape reluctantly did the same. Harry focused his gaze on the soft white flakes falling from the sky and longed to be out there.

"Harry," said Dumbledore gently. Harry faced him, and he got the impression that Dumbledore was speaking to him as though he wasn't entirely stable. _Damn right_, he found himself thinking distractedly.

"Harry, Professor Snape and I have been discussing -"

Snape gave a snort.

"-discussing your presence here over the Christmas holidays, and I think it will provide a little time for you to continue Ligilimency."

All of Harry's conscious thought actually shut down completely at this point. Raw emotion surged in its place.

"Excuse - excuse me, Professor Dumbledore?" Harry's voice sounded disbelieving and distant, even to his own ears.

"You will be continuing Occlumency over the holidays."

Harry returned his blank stare out of the window.

"Oh," he said after a minute of thought. He believed that if he said anything else he would explode in a maelstrom of red and black fury.

The anger he had kept so successfully inside him was threatening to overrule him. His green eyes sparked dangerously as he balled his fist to stop them from shaking.

As many had noticed over the course of the school year, Harry's temper had been almost non-existent. This was only because Harry reckoned he was in a perpetual state of shock. This gave him a little more control over his temper, but when he lost this his fury was as pure and unadulterated as Hell unleashed. The emotion was threatening to engulf him but he forced his eyes up to Dumbledore's, whilst repeating the mantra _It's important. It has to be. You owe Dumbledore a lot._

Harry closed his eyes in a partially successful attempt to quell the rage.

"Headmaster, I have never questioned your judgement before, but I don't believe this is necessary. The boy has no aptitude for learning, he wears his heart on his sleeve like so many Gryffindors, he can't control his emotions- "

"Nevertheless, Severus, it may prove useful in the battles ahead."

Harry heard Snape sit back in his seat with a creak and a sigh of defeat.

"Very well, Headmaster."

There was another creak as Snape stood up, but before he could go the Headmaster rose as well. "Severus, one more thing. Because there will only be myself, Minerva, Poppy, Hagrid, you and Harry staying in the castle over the holidays it will be necessary for Harry to stay in your quarters."

_Ohgod.  
The nightmares._

Harry hadn't even realised he was standing when the windows exploded. The panes burst both inwards and outwards, vomiting shards of glass into the room.  
Snape stared at Harry in what could have been surprise. Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the windows repaired themselves.

Harry tried to slow his breathing, but the anger pumped through him. The vitriol powering him now was crying for release in the form of some physical attack, but Harry bit it back.

"Harry?" asked Dumbledore quietly, and Harry realised with some vague amusement that his chair was on the other side of the office. When he stood he must have thrown it some way back, just before the windows burst.  
Harry managed to shake his head with some difficulty. He felt that if he said anything he might just have leapt for someone's throat.

"I'm sorry Harry, there is no other way."

Harry stood a deep breath and tried to stop from shaking. "Why can't I stay in my dormitory, sir?" he managed to say. Dumbledore gave him a slow stare.

"We can compromise. How about, you spend a week with Professor Snape, and then Professor Snape stay a week with you? We'll sort out the last week when we get to it."

"Do I have a choice? Sir?"

The anger was abating, he could feel it now, and a numb sense of despair was replacing it. He could feel it washing around his bones. The rage was furious but short-lived, but only because he didn't have enough energy to sustain it for longer.

"Accio chair," he muttered dully. He sat down on the chair he had called and put his face in his hands. He couldn't use the silencio charm at night because, knowing Snape, he'd probably bust in at three in the morning for a surprise Occlumency lesson. How could he explain his silenced voice?

He'd better start thinking.

He risked a glance at Snape who was facing the door. His hands were clenching and unclenching. Dumbledore allowed himself a sigh.

"I need you two to be able to work together," he said softly. "You're both important in the upcoming war. If the both of you cannot co- operate..."  
Harry stood and walked uneasily to the window. The ledge was hot from the sunlight reflected off of the snow. Snape hadn't said a word.

"Harry- "

"Yeah. All right."

"Harry, it's natural to feel angry."

And, like a rash, the rage was back. And twice as strong. Fists shaking, Harry said, "You know nothing about anger. Nothing."

He heard Snape snort, and he could almost picture him rolling his eyes. Harry bent his head as he felt slightly ashamed. He was right. He did wear his heart on his sleeve, he let his anger get the better of him, he let his own depression rule his mind.

A hand settled itself on his shoulder, and he looked to his left to see the weathered fingers of his headmaster.

"Harry?" prompted the much older man gently.

"When do I move in?"

"Tomorrow."


	5. An Old Start

Harry sat on the windowsill of his empty dorm.

The farewells from his friends had been brief, and, for the most part pretty cheerful. Only Hermione had though that staying at Hogwarts wasn't a wise thing to do. It was empty, and she had wondered in the privacy of her own head how Harry would cope.

With the return of Voldemort becoming publicly known, parents had panicked and wanted their children to be where they could see them. Harry had laughed when he first thought of that. You want your children to be safe, so take them out from under Albus Dumbledore's eyes. Oh, the irony.

Harry had walked up the path to Hogwarts slowly, stopping once or twice along the way to gaze out at the scenery.

He had decided that, as soon as the war was over, he would find himself somewhere to live in a secluded spot. He wanted reprieve. As soon as this whole fiasco was over, he would find himself somewhere to just be. Somewhere where there were no judgements, no eyes accusing him over blood he would undoubtedly spill.

He shifted his position on the ledge. The stars were out, and the snow was still in the quiet moonlight.

It really was quiet out there; the only sound was the wind chasing itself lazily through the parapets of the tower. The snow reflected the moonlight surprisingly well, twinkling where the lethargic gusts knocked flakes carelessly from the ledge.

Harry found himself searching for faces against the reflection of the glass, but for once did not restrain himself. When he found himself looking for Cedric's face, for his godfather's face and for his parent's faces, he usually shied away. He did not want their guilty stares.

He saw his own face, pale and withdrawn. He noted the scar and the acid green eyes. Then he saw an owl flutter past the castle; he saw Cedric Diggory stride past and wave casually at him, then explode in a flurry of green feathers. He saw Sirius approaching him, but he got no further than a few feet before falling into a long dark pit. Harry tried to reach him, screaming his name, but all he could see was his pale form disappearing down a long dark shaft then there was a swish of curtain and the man was gone. Harry was screaming now, screaming more and more and more and he fell, but he wasn't falling down he was running, trying to outrun the tachometers of Hell, toward a green light, but only as he reached it he realised he'd been running to his death -

Harry jerked awake with a start, shivering. He glanced at the clock, and saw it was four in the morning. Someone was tugging on his leg. He looked down.

"Oh hi, Dobby."

Harry swung is legs down from the ledge, but his muscles were stiff from sitting there.

"Dobby was cleaning sir, and Dobby is waking up sir because sir was having a bad dream," said the elf fearfully. Harry smiled.

"Thanks."

The elf beamed and disappeared with a flash.

Rubbing his head tiredly, Harry climbed into the cool sheets of his bed. He fell asleep almost immediately.

When Harry awoke the next morning, it was to an empty room. Slightly disoriented for a moment, he dressed and headed down to breakfast.

It was a subdued affair. The tables had been replaced by a single, smaller one. Harry managed to strike up a conversation with Professor McGonagall about his transfiguration homework.

He left the table and took his time wandering up to the tower. He didn't want to move to Snape's living quarters. It was as simple as that.

Actually, it wasn't. His rage was subdued but very, very fiery.

All his stuff was packed and ready to go. He stared dully at his trunk and kicked it half-heartedly.

Why, oh why, did he have to do this? He knew Voldemort was in his head and wasn't in his head, and he knew how Snape hated him. He hadn't the strength to forgive Snape for hating him anymore.

Before he knew it he was sat on his bed, face in his hands. The depression settled in his system like the snow outside, a dead white blanket. He expected to cry, but no tears would come. Instead his eyes burned and his soul hurt.

He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his face tiredly. Growing up was a harrowing experience, to say the least, and having the burden of the world on your shoulders really didn't help.

lllllll

He was levitating his trunk down to the dungeons when he saw Snape standing, arms crossed menacingly, next to a tapestry of snakes winding through each other.

"These are my personal quarters," rapped Snape sharply as Harry lowered his trunk. "If you reveal their location, if you divulge the password, if you in any way abuse them you will have me to answer to."

Snape seemed to consider this a suitable threat. He was making no effort not to ominous, and his dark eyes glittered strangely with a light that clearly bespoke menace. Harry almost raised an eyebrow, as tempting as it was, but he was going to have to live with the man for a week, after all.

Snape turned and tapped the tapestry with his wand, and muttered "Infinitum."

The snakes writhed for a moment as they all wriggled aside, revealing a menacing, dark oak door. Snape took ahold of the handle and stepped in, not bothering to wait for Harry.

Harry stepped onto a cold stone floor. The room he had entered was spacious, with tall stone walls. A fire burned in a huge grate on Harry's left, and there was a chair by the fire. It was leather and high backed, and had the look of a lot of use. Harry also spied another, stiffer-backed chair behind what looked like an overused mahogany desk. Papers were strewn all over its surface, and it looked desperately in need of a holiday. Harry saw several large bookcases against the opposite wall. There was a green rug covering perhaps half of the floor, and Harry could see down into a passageway with three more doors branching from it.

A fire burned in the hearth but it seemed cold and indifferent rather that cheerful. The room was chilled and impersonal... except for the chair in front of the fire. It had a slightly worn-through-the-years look that too much time had been spent there, too many emotions spilled in its leathery embrace -

Not for the first time Harry wondered if Legilimency could not only be applied to the mind, but to the places were the mind had spent a lot of time -

Harry's three-second reverie was cut short by Snape striding to stand in the middle of the room. Harry Occluded his mind and waited.

Snape's eyes seemed to glow with malignancy.

"These are my quarters. This is my main room. You will not leave mess. You will not eat in here. Any time you spend in here will be silent and productive. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," said Harry simply.

Snape narrowed his eyes, obsidian glinting maliciously in the firelight. Harry didn't permit himself any kind of surfacing emotion.

Abruptly, Snape turned on his heel and stalked down the passageway. Harry, resigned to the worst, levitated his trunk and followed.

Snape stopped abruptly in the middle of the hallway, and he pointed to the door at the end of the passage.

"That is the bathroom."

He then pointed to a second door.

"That is my room. You will not, under any circumstances be it death, torture or dire need, enter."

Snape paused in front of the third door in the hallway.

"I see Albus has been tampering with the dimensions in the castle already. I believe this will be your room."

Snape turned the handle and pushed the door in.

The room was large enough, with a simple four-poster and a half-empty bookshelf. There was a fire on the opposite wall, and a cozy-looking chair in front of it. There was a small desk and chair in the opposite corner of the room from the bed. There was also a dark-wooded wardrobe.

In contrast to the main room, it had a touch of homeliness and comfort about it, and Harry couldn't quite place why until he realised there was a large scarlet rug with a gold lion upon it. The colours were not brass but comfortably faded.

Harry heard the door close unnecessarily loudly behind him, but he didn't flinch. Instead, thinking that at least he could charm the door against noise, he began to unpack.


	6. Why don't you see that you are my child?

Harry stared around his new room, finally done. For some reason, even though the room had stone walls and floors, it seemed much more detached from the rooms beyond it. It held warmth, where the others did not. It seemed like it belonged somewhere.

Harry browsed the books already on the bookshelf mindlessly, tapping the spines of each with his finger. They were mostly various textbooks, and Harry was surprised to see a fair variety of compendiums: everything from Transfiguration to Astronomy. And, of course, Potions.

His forefinger touched a handsome book, blue bound with silver. Immediately, it leapt backwards on the shelf and the bookcase dissolved like mist, revealing a passageway beyond. It was the first few steps to the start of a spiral staircase. The walls were rough rock but the steps were polished stone, smooth like limestone worn after years of submersion in a river. The air was faintly damp as it flowed towards him but Harry gathered one useful piece of advice from this: the passageway, somewhere, opened out of the castle. Harry stared at it for five seconds, startled, and the bookcase snapped back into existence.

Harry stared stupidly at the bookcase for a while, tempted to explore, but he was feeling exhausted. Tired, he changed into his pyjamas and stood thoughtfully before the door.

Pointing his wand into each corner of the wall, he muttered "Silencio." A blue haze settled over the wall momentarily, but it disappeared and took all noises with it.

Harry climbed into the four-poster, threw the bookcase a mistrustful look, and shut his eyes.

llllllllillllllll

Sleep took a long time to come to him that night. His body and mind were tired, but his system didn't want to shut down. He drifted in the pleasant warm sensation most commonly found just before and after sleep. He was vaguely aware of a faint light in his room, emitted by the still-lit fire. Its glow was comforting.

Harry snuggled down further in the blankets and he felt the firelight play over his face. And soft caresses of heat turned into soft caresses of fingers, and he felt a voice echo toward him _i can't find you. Harry opened his eyes and ran, feeling rough road beneath his feet, feeling air whip past him, and he was running, he saw faces, so many faces he wanted to see again but they were too far away and they were sad and hurt, and an iron gate slammed across his path. He crashed into it, shouting his parent's names, his godfather's name, his friend's name, but he felt soft tendrils of red mists wrap around his limbs and they were dragging him back, back toward a cloud in which malignant characters moved, and the tendrils of mist were cold, freezing cold. He felt his skin solidify as the mist froze into pure ice, binding him tight to a wall of frozen water and those figures approached him. He was still calling out names but he couldn't even see them anymore, and he felt tears flow down his face even though he was silent now, no sobs racked him. He felt detachedly calm, not there and yet strangely tense, and as he opened his eyes and looked up he saw Voldemort in front of him with an almost fatherly look upon his twisted features. Harry heard him say _

_ why don't you know that you are my child? _

_then a long white forefinger touched his scar and pain rocketed through his system -_

Harry awoke with a violent jerk to find himself on a freezing stone floor. He was horribly disorientated, and he felt cold terror sweep his system. He struggled to his feet, chest heaving, a thin patina of sweat beading on his forehead.

His battered mind took in his surroundings: the walls, the floor, the rug, but perhaps most importantly, the fire.

His crippled anger filled him again, doubled by the fact that his muscles shook too much to respond properly. He stumbled over to the wall nearest him, rested on it a moment, then began to punch.

He let the rage pour out of him as his left hand stuck the wall with rising intensity. All the pain, anger, suffering and rage began to pour out from him in an unretractable stream as tears began to flow for the second time that night.

Harry struck harder and harder, pain, becoming sharper, dulled out by the rising flare of adrenaline. And before he knew it he'd pulled his fist back and smashed it into the wall with all the strength he could muster.

"I'm not, I'm not, I'm _not his child_ -"

The pain reached a pitch Harry hadn't thought feasible. White light exploded behind his eyes. The world pitched threateningly for a moment before the sudden flow of pain ebbed marginally.

Harry stared at the lump of red on the end of his arm he supposed was his fingers. He moved them, but the grinding pain told him it wasn't a good idea. A steady stream of crimson flowed down his arm and splashed onto the floor.

Harry quickly swapped pyjamas for jeans and a t-shirt. The t-shirt proved difficult, and he managed to get it on with few blood spatters. He jammed his shoes onto his feet, checked his glasses and opened his door, stepping into the hallway.

He idly noticed that he was leaving a thin trail of red, but found to his idle astonishment that he really couldn't care.

Right.

He kicked his grudgy brain into action, and started to move down the passageway.

As he emerged into the main room, he vaguely gauged that Snape was sat in the chair by the fire, fingers steepled and eyes glinting. Harry moved his left hand back slightly until it was hidden behind his back. He walked forward trying to fight the grey mist threatening to obscure his vision. Snape didn't move.

Harry moved his hand with his body so Snape could not see it. He paused at the door, located the handle, and opened it with his good hand.

The chilly night air of the dungeons hit him like a slap as he closed the door behind him, and he began his trek up to the hospital wing.

His feet took him in a business-like stride, leaving his upper half to think dazedly about what the hell was happening. His feet, each with an independent brain traced the familiar route up to the hospital wing.

When he arrived, he opened the door in a surprising amount of exhaustion. Madam Pomfry bustled out of her office holding a vial of potion; she looked particularly unusual in a hairnet, a pink, tasselled dressing gown and matching slippers.

She handed the potion to a boy sitting up in the bed. His face was a pale shade of blue, and as he drank the potion his skin took on a more normal shade of peach.

"There you go dear, I can let you out in the morning," she said kindly. "And you promise not to get caught in the crossfire of a salamander and an unarming spell again."

"I won't ask," said Harry, swaying with tiredness. Madam Pomfry noticed him immediately.

"What brings you up here, dear?"

Harry pulled his fist out from behind his back and stared at it bemusedly. Madam Pomfry's mouth tightened into a grim line as though she were fighting some kind of emotion. She took his arm with some care and gently manoeuvred him to a bed. Harry's eyes were beginning to close of their own accord when she brought a blood- replenishing potion. She held the vial to his lips, and Harry swallowed all of the bitter-tasting liquid. The haziness in the corners of his brain snapped away like a light switch being flicked, but he still felt that same exhaustion. He felt his brain flying away on a wave of pain and he didn't fight the blackness as it closed in on his vision.


	7. I'm waiting

Snape stared at the fire. The boy had been gone for about three quarters of an hour now but Snape felt no desire to follow him. The boy could go where he wanted, especially when he was hiding something in his left hand as he so blatantly was.

The door of his quarters opened and he glanced around, expecting to see Potter, but he was both shocked and surprised to see Madam Pomfry and Professor McGonagall stepping through the door. He stood up immediately, a genuine look of confusion on his face, which was quickly surpassed by a sneer.

"What has Potter done now?"

"Only landed himself in the hospital wing," said Professor McGonagall sharply. Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Whatever he does in the castle -"

"He didn't do it in the castle," Madam Pomfry said, voice bordering on angry, "He did it where he was sleeping."

Snape gave them both an equal stare.

"What," he said evenly, "Are you talking about?"

"What do you think that is?" McGonagall stated crisply, pointing to the floor. Snape spied the trail of brown-red on the floor, and followed it from the door to the passageway. He pushed the door to Harry's room.

There was a large patch of dribbling red-brown on the wall. Snape rapped on the door. No noise was heard.

"He spelled the door," he called back, wondering what had possessed Potter to do such a thing. "He's not in a regular habit of smashing his fist into the wall, is he?" Snape questioned sarcastically.

"No," came Madam Pomfrey's voice, holding a hint of dangerous warning.

Snape retraced his steps to the main room, and raised an eyebrow.

"Well?"

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Madam Pomfry.

"Albus wants to see you."

Snape exhaled, knowing he was going to be berated. He didn't know if he could handle the disappointment from Albus. He followed the pair out of his quarters.

llllllllll

Professor Dumbleore was sat by the sleeping boy's side, Harry's left hand heavily bandaged. Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfry stepped in.

McGonagall nodded to Dumbledore and left as Madam Pomfry stepped into her office.

"Pull up a chair, Severus."

Snape did as he was told.

"What could have possessed him to do such a thing?"

Snape was incredulous. "You're asking _me_ this, Albus?"

"Severus... I have been very concerned with this boy's behaviour for the past few months. His friends report that he has no unusual dreams anymore, which surprises me..."

"Why?"

"The occasional nightmare would be normal for his kind of stress. This, I think, means that he is having nightmares almost every night, and he is charming himself to silence. That would also explain his initial reaction to my suggesting he move in with you."

Snape was silent for a moment.

"You always have been incredibly perceptive," he remarked. "But are you sure you're not looking too deeply into this?"

Albus smiled, and Snape didn't like it.

"I need to ask you a favour, Severus," he said gently. "I need you to stay with him tonight."

"_By all the gods,_ Albus, _why_?" he exploded in a virulent whisper.

Dumbledore gave him a steady look.

"I'm asking you this, Severus. The boy may wake, and he may try to hurt himself again."

Snape closed his eyes, knowing that nothing he said would make Dumbledore change his mind.

"Thankyou," said Dumbledore quietly, blue eyes sad as he laid a thin hand on Snape's shoulder.

llllllllll

Harry dreamed again that night. He watched his usual dream about the graveyard, followed by exactly the same dream that had caused him to smash his fist into a wall; the knowledge that Voldemort considered him his child, his son, his heir

_ why don't you know that you are my child?>_

This time he had time to reply before he succumbed to the pain.

_I'm waiting._

llllllllll

Snape was sat by the boy's bed for an hour before he started to move. Harry moved restlessly on the bed, and Snape frowned slightly.

When the boy's movements became more pronounced, he considered calling for Madam Pomfrey, but stopped short when he heard what was issuing from the boy's mouth. "No... no, wait, Cedric... Dad, don't leave me, don't ... mum, stay, please, don't leave..." Harry was sweating slightly, and Snape was beginning to feel an emotion he hadn't felt in a long time. He had begun to feel _panicky_.

What on Earth was he supposed to do? Wake the boy up, or let the nightmare run its course?

Harry's voice rose slightly, and Snape recognised names all too well...

"I didn't mean to kill you, God, forgive me, please, nobody asked me if I wanted to kill anybody -"

Harry stopped abruptly and settled back calmly onto the bed, although his harsh breathing didn't slow.

Snape was just beginning to calm down.

"_NO_!"

Harry sat bolt upright, sweat pouring down his face. His breathing sounded like someone sawing through a log with a rusty blade. His eyes, trying desperately to see something through his faulty vision, searched around the room for something to focus on. His eyes fixed upon the candlelight from across the room, and he sight appeared to calm the boy down.

Harry slumped against the headboard of the bed and let his head tip backwards. His breathing slowed, but the silent tears didn't.

He raised his head slightly as his hand groped around for his glasses. Snape held them out silently. Harry took them, wiped his face mindlessly with the sleeve of his jumper and put them on.

He appeared to notice for the first time the presence of the hand.

All expression on the boy's face physically closed down. Snape could feel him radiating this-just-gets-better-and-better vibes, without needing ligilimency to tell him so. The defeat in the boy's stature was obvious to tell.

"How -"

"Three hours."

There was a short period of silence. Harry seemed to be transfixed by the candle flame. Snape's face was unreadable, as were his emotions. How the hell was he supposed to react? He'd just seen the Boy-Who-Lived-To- Torment-Him visibly breaking down.

"Why -"

"Albus asked me to."

Again, there was a length of silence. Snape supposed neither of them really knew how to act. Potter had just woken up from what appeared to be a particularly vicious nightmare to find his most hated teacher watching him have a nervous collapse.

Potter appeared to notice this.

"What is there to say?"

"I am going to have to inform Albus -"

"No you don't."

Snape narrowed his eyes as the boy's stubbornness infused with his own irritation for Potter, creating a precariously balanced mix of anger, panic and sheer irritation at having to psychoanalyse the Golden Boy.

"It's not your place to tell me what to do, Potter."

"Ditto."

Snape slowly stood up, obsidian eyes flashing dangerously, and opened his mouth to reply. Then, in a flash, he saw, for the first time, the scene before him.

Harry Potter was sat with his knees pressed into his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around his shins. His chin rested upon his kneecaps, and his eyes gazed blankly at some point in the middle distance. Snape only just realised the reason the boy's eyes were so glassy was because he was trying not to cry. The irony was like a slap to the face.

Harry Potter wanted a hug.

This shut Snape's mouth with a snap. It was quite clear to see, from this moment in time, that the adolescent in front of him, while being the walking hormone bomb waiting to happen, could also be mentally unstable. Had no-one considered the possibilities? You put a fully grown man through five life attempts by the most evil wizard the world had ever seen. Throw in a pinch of parents dying, a sprinkle of losing a friend and then an unhealthy dash of your father figure hopping the twig, as they say, and you were left with a nervous wreck.

Snape supposed the reason Potter had survived so long was that teenagers were particularly adept at hiding emotional crises, and with this backup he had managed to bottle it up and stamp it down until he hadn't turned into a nervous wreck, but a dangerously balanced boy, trapped in a shell of depression, six feet from the edge and thinking that maybe six feet down wasn't that far after all.

Snape realised he'd been silent for too long, but Potter hadn't noticed. He still had that still, vacant stare but Snape noticed with some unnerved uncertainty that he'd sunk his teeth into his lower lip.

He decided it wasn't worth saying anything after all. He turned on his heel and stalked out of he hospital wing.

He was a teacher, for crying out loud, not a shrink. If the Golden Boy wanted someone for moral support, he could  
_(do with a few resurrections to keep him sane)_  
buy a hamster.


	8. Hellbound

Harry waited until the footsteps of the Potion Master had faded away before he let his arms and his face relax.

Tears trickled in a steady stream down his face as his shoulders shook, face screwed up. He didn't utter a sound; charms or no he had somehow become quite adept at it. Practise, that was all.

He looked at his hand, and wiggled his fingers experimentally. There was no pain, and that nasty grinding sensation had gone.

He felt physically drained, as thought an immense apple-corer had been thrust inside him and then pulled out, taking most of his soul with it. He felt tired, as well, but the thought of more nightmares chilled him. He didn't want to know what Voldemort's reply would be. The look of surprise that twisted his features as he replied _I'm waiting -_

Waiting? Waiting for what?

Harry pondered this as he swung his legs out of bed, still clad in his jeans and t-shirt. His feet encountered the freezing stone of the floor, in contrast with the woollen rug under his bed, and the icy sensation was a pleasantly jolting one. He padded quietly across the floor, and checked the potion cupboard on the wall just below the clock which displayed the time of three in the morning. His finger tapped the vials he found there until he found one that didn't quite have the clear ring of the others.

He tipped a little of liquid into a glass tumbler and he was assured of what it was by its smell: the potion for dreamless sleep had a sweet, honey- like texture, smell and colour.

He carried the tumbler over to his bed and lay down, sliding underneath the covers. He swallowed the sweet, thick liquid in one gulp, and had just enough energy to place the glass onto the table next to his bed as waves of black sleep engulfed him and he drifted into a blissfully empty void.

llllllllll

When Harry woke, golden shafts of sunlight were slanting in through the gaps in the curtains. Harry sat up and rubbed his face, surprised to find someone had removed his glasses. He found them on his bedside table, and pushed them up onto his nose.

The bright beaming orange light solidified into shafts of gold with edges so sharp he felt like he could have cut himself on them. He twitched aside the curtain.

The snow gleamed like a multitude of pearls, scattered in a thick shower over the grounds. Harry, unaccustomed to the feeling growing inside him, couldn't help but smile as he was forcibly reminded of all the snowball fights he, Ron, Hermione, Fred and George had shared. The sun glinting off the pure white gave him the strangest, longing feeling inside, and he supposed he was happy. He glanced at the clock, startled to find he had enjoyed seven and a half hours of blissful, empty sleep. It was half past ten, and he felt curiously complete... as though an absence of his nightmares had given his mind a chance to sew a few patches over his tattered thinking. His mind was clearer, more concise.

He knew he wouldn't be able to use the potion again, as he had read in Divination last year that dreams were essential for the smooth running of the mind, else he would go insane, and that nightmares were a safety valve, a way of letting off steam. His nightmares would be back that night and they would be longer.

He mentally waved it off with a grin. He had this euphoric feeling, his energy was restored, and he wasn't going to waste it.

He gave his injured left hand some careful consideration before he thought about his next move. Carefully unwinding the bandages, he discovered his hand tender but fixed. He smiled. Time to catch up on something he hadn't been paying nearly enough attention to...

llllllllll

Snape stalked grumpily though the corridors, a sour expression on his face. Albus hadn't been very approving when he'd told him about absenteeing himself from the boy's bedside, but he was not in the mood to argue. The boy would no doubt be moping about somewhere feeling sorry for himself, no doubt drowning in a vat of his own self-pity -

There was a whooping noise outside, and Snape looked out of the window sharply.

A small, slight figure was speeding above the grounds on a broomstick at a ridiculous speed. Snape knew at once it was Potter.

The figure skimmed the grass blades poking above the snow then rose sharply, rising, rising, and the he did a complete turnover in mid-air. He fell a few feet, and then sped off along the length of the lake.

Snape realised he was staring, and narrowed his eyes. The boy had a flair for showing off

_(no-one to impress)_

and he be damned if he was going to be forced to watch it.

llllllllll

Harry landed, exhilarated on the ground, panting furiously for breath. He laid his broom on the ground and lay down next to it, chest heaving.

He was feeling a hell of a lot happier than he had in months. Sure, there was icy snow soaking up through his jumper, but right now he couldn't care. The heat from his body didn't seem to have an end, and he let the warmth melt away into the ground, until the bite of the snow soaked through.

He got up with a groan, and fondly wiped the handle and tail of his broom. Slinging it over his shoulder, he headed back towards the castle.

He found Snape waiting for him at the entrance.

"Yes, professor?" he asked icily. His rage, which had been non-existent for the past two hours, flooded him like a dragon's flame. He had the sudden urge to hurt Snape very badly.

_Suppose this is how Snape must have felt when he saw me in the Pensieve,_ he thought detachedly, and some of the anger abated. They were quits, he supposed.

The rage faded, but the general animosity remained. He hadn't actually thrown things at Snape. Yet.

"The headmaster wishes to see you, Potter."

Harry norrowed his eyes and stalked past the still figure, broomstick carefully balanced over his shoulder. What a way to end a happy-trip.

llllllllll

Harry allowed himself the privilege of changing clothes before he headed up to see Dumbledore.

Harry thought as he headed up to Dumbledore's office; the password had not changed. He wondered if he thought too much about... well, about anything.

He really respected Dumbledore, and he knew nothing could ever change that. Asking him to stay with Snape... well, Harry couldn't say he wasn't doubtful, but Dumbledore had to have had his reasons for asking him to.

He opened the door to the circular office to find Dumbledore waiting for him, behind his desk. His fingers were steepled gravely but his eyes twinkled as they always did.

"Please sit, Harry."

Harry did so, pulling up a chair. He had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming next.

"Harry. I would like to think you could trust me."

Harry's feeling of dread grew.

"Nightmares are the body's way of coping, Harry. Silencing them will simply not help."

Harry stared, completely numb. How had Dumbledore known? Not about the nightmares, Snape would have talked till his face turned blue, but about them getting worse?

"You know as well as I do that a dreamless sleep potion is not he cure," Dumbledore continued. "But what I think is that you must talk to someone about them."

Harry felt strangely weak, as though Dumbledore was reaching inside of him and pulling shreds of his heart out in great handfuls.

"I know you will not want to talk to me, or to anyone about them. But you must, eventually, or you will not understand how much they are hurting you."

Harry slumped in the chair, and glared at a small patch of carpet to his left.

"My suggestion, Harry, is to write them down, every single one of them. That way, you're not carrying the burden of them by yourself. Should you choose to reveal them to anyone, you can, or should you wish not to, et cetera. It is possible Harry that you are carrying far too big a burden for you to manage on your own."

Harry raised his eyes mutely to Dumbledore's, to find the electric blue eyes swimming with sadness. The steepled fingers were now folded on top of each other on the desk. Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Mr Weasley and Miss Granger have already been to see me several times about your concerns, Harry. I have told them each time that you will eventually solve your problems, but maybe I was expecting too much. The world has turned its attention to you as its saviour, Harry, and that would weigh hard on the strongest of shoulders. You are still but a boy."

"M'not a boy," Harry mumbled defiantly, but he couldn't resist a sheepish grin. He looked at Dumbledore again to find him smiling.

"It's good to hear you can still be yourself, Harry."

Harry smiled sheepishly at his fingers, surprised to find his old, teen irritation still buried between the layers of his depression. The thought that he could still be himself gave him a little hope.

Dumbledore's face became grave again.

"I must impress upon you the importance of this, Harry. You must at least write your nightmares down, before you can even begin to heal."

Harry stood up, taking it as his cue to leave, but he glanced at Dumbledore and was surprised to find him smiling.

"My mistake, of course you're not a child anymore. I would have thought that your Quidditch skills proved that, more than anything."


	9. Think of the soul

I won't be able to update for awhile, so here's an extra-long chapter... some of it is unbeta'd thought, because I sent my beta the wrong chapter by accident. Soz.

* * *

Harry returned to the Entrance Hall solemn-face but smiling.  
  
He had missed both breakfast and lunch, and as he had spent the last two hours practising every Quidditch manoeuvre he knew he was extremely hungry.  
  
He walked across the Great Hall and out of a door on the other side, and followed the stone staircase. He emerged into the corridor full of the paintings of food and looked for the one that was most familiar.  
  
Locating the gigantic silver fruit bowl, he tickled the green pear, opened the handle and walked inside.  
  
He recognised the enormous ceiling and the multitude of pots and pans around the stone walls as well as the duplicate four, long tables, but the thing he noticed most was that every elf stopped and stared at him.  
  
"Er... merry Christmas?" he ventured.  
  
Harry became vaguely aware of a squealing noise, growing steadily louder. It reached its pitch as what felt like a cannonball, moving with the velocity of a small rocket, smashed into his midriff. Harry staggered backwards as the elf hugged him tightly around the middle. "Harry Potter has come to see us, sir!"  
  
"Er, merry Christmas, Dobby."  
  
Dobby looked up from under his teacozy, tennis-ball eyes brimming with tears.  
  
"Is there anything we can be doing for you, sir?" squeaked a nearby elf. It looked particularly comical, in a sad kind of way, in a neatly-kept dress made of safety-pinned tea-towels and a curtain rope as a belt. It looked vaguely Romanish, in a chequered-and-tasselled fashion.  
  
"Yeah, I was wondering if I could get a sandwich or something -"  
  
Immediately, a tea-tray supported by three elves came zooming forward. On them was a selection of sandwiches, but also some cakes.  
  
"Er... thanks," said Harry weakly. Dobby had finally let go of his stomach, and was holding his teacozy in his hands.  
  
"Bye, Harry Potter!" he called as Harry made his way out of the kitchens, a sandwich in one hand and a pastry in the other. Harry waved as the painting swung shut, and headed back up to the Great Hall. 

llllllllll

And so he did.  
  
He wrote every single one of his nightmares down.  
  
It was far from a pleasant experience. It took him sixteen rolls of parchment, two bottles of ink, three hours of writing and two collective hours of sitting in the chair in front of the fire and letting the tears roll silently.  
  
It was painful. It was so unbelievably painful. It was like the time when he had to tell Dumbledore what happened in the graveyard, but not only was the poison being extracted but a hefty number of his emotional back teeth.  
  
The hours he spent in the chair were times when he couldn't write anymore, when his tears became too strong for him to stop them. Anger, rage, fury and low-grade paranoia was dammed up behind thin walls of self-control and reason, and these walls did not need much battering to break them down.  
  
He laughed through his tears when he thought what the world would make of it if they knew. Harry Potter, have a hard time with his emotions? Rita Skeeter would have a field day: Emotionally Unstable, Is Harry Potter Entirely Sane?  
  
The answer would have to be 'yes', he reflected. There was no such thing as insanity. People like, say, Voldemort, simply were men (or whatever the hell he was) with no mental barrier. They believe that the rules didn't apply to them.  
  
And what was more, they were right. For a short period, anyway, just before they got gunned down, but for that brief moment in time, they know full-well that common, everyday conventions did not need to apply.  
  
Seriously: what were the point of rules. You felt strangely obligated to toe (most of) them, like Do Not Murder and so on. But once in a while, a creature would come along that wasn't entirely human and it would see slap- bang through that. Life was short, precious short, and why waste it worrying about the mundane things? Harry supposed that humankind had an amazing ineptitude to see past their own small, private internal universes. For a person their everyday relations and situations WERE the universe; that humankind had no perception of anything else seemed perfectly true. Should someone see beyond that... well. How could the rules be applied if they mattered no more to the wide universe as, as Firenze had put it, the scuttling of ants? One tiny human life would not affect how the planets spun, and one existence would not affect the great cosmic balance. Harry doubted humankind would survive the next thousand years; and when the human race was gone the universe wouldn't distress... hell, it probably wouldn't even notice...  
  
_the void can feel but it will not care...  
_  
Harry rolled the parchment into a cylinder, and then pressed it flat. He removed everything remaining in his trunk, and was about to throw the rolls in carelessly when he saw something that made his breath catch in his chest.  
  
Fragments of silver littered the bottom of the trunk. The empty frame of a mirror stared resolutely at him, insulting the world by its presence.  
  
"_Repairo_," Harry whispered, and the shards of glass and silver collected themselves and flew back into the mirror.  
  
Harry picked it up, hands shaking. The glass winked at him, shining in the dull light from the fire.  
  
A lump rose in Harry's throat, but he had nothing left to cry with. What had left him so unbelievably unhappy in the first place was sat in front of him: Sirius' disappearance. With Cedric, he would have gotten over it in a while, but knowing that Sirius was gone made it so much harder to heal. And it didn't help when your subconscious kept knocking the scab from the wound.  
  
Harry let his finger run over the mirror's bright surface, fingertips leaving misty trails along the glass. The surface of the mirror was cool and pleasantly so.  
  
Harry carefully wrapped it in a strip of parchment and placed it reverentially at the bottom of the trunk.  
  
Strangely, his heart felt lighter. It was like he could release a small part of Sirius from within him; this kind of burial helped him feel like he was saying goodbye.  
  
The heavy burden had lightened a little, but it was still there, and as oppressive as ever. Harry supposed, somewhat detachedly, that he couldn't start to heal until he could cry over Sirius one last time, and let him go.  
  
He couldn't do that, not now. He couldn't let go of him now. Grief was too heavy and too desperate, thrashing around inside him like some weighty parasite.  
  
Harry noticed the forgotten scrolls of parchment. He supposed they had made him feel a little better. The knowledge that everything wasn't weakly dammed up, like a paper cage for a rhino, made him feel a little more consoled. 

llllllllll

Snape looked up momentarily as Harry entered the living room (if you could call it that. Snape didn't live much. He just, sort of, existed.), but went straight back to marking his papers. He had more important things to worry about than one 

_(possibly suicidal enraged saviour of the whole-friggin-world)_

miserable teenager.  
  
Harry paused, looked round for a second, then settled into the armchair by the fire.  
  
Snape felt his metaphorical hackles rise. The boy was sitting in his chair. The nerve -  
  
He calmed himself down by trying to imagine what he would say to the boy. All his results made him sound weak, pathetic and foolish. He absorbed himself into his marking.  
  
Harry returned to his thinking.  
  
The human species.  
  
He remembered, those seven years ago, when he was nine years old and in primary school a single science lesson. He'd done okay in science, his marks were fair, and he'd always thought it was an okay lesson.  
  
His perception of his lessons did not change that day, but his perception on life did. They had been covering the human body insofar as you did in year four of school. They were coming to the bit about infection, and the teacher was giving a brief summary of why you felt ill. All of it modified so a nine- year-old could understand, of course.  
  
The teacher had briefly explained about viruses, and someone had asked: but miss, don't they kill whoever they get into?  
  
Only if it gets bad enough, Stephen, and few people die from viruses nowadays.  
  
But, miss, right, why do they do it if it kills whoever they're living in, right, and then they die too?  
  
No-one knows, Stephen. Now sit down.  
  
And Harry had understood, in his simple, childlike simplicity, that that was exactly how the human race operated. They stripped the Earth of its minerals, of it resources, and one day they would pay the price. Global Warming was something generally accepted but thought of in a its-never- going--to-happen-to-me kind of way, and Harry felt detached from the human race - watching and wanting to yell you're all going to die! All of you! You're killing the world, you're killing yourselves, you're killing me –  
  
And no-one would care, or listen.  
  
Harry had understood, then, at a mere nine years of age, that humankind was as significant to the universe as a sneeze.  
  
It hadn't been a happy thought, but it hadn't been a sad one either. The knowledge that he was inferior both saddened and delighted him: he was not cared for, and he was not cared for. No-one could care about him but that also meant that what he did was of no consequence. There were no rules. The understanding here made him feel dizzy. He didn't know why, but he went back to the Dursley's that night, his head reeling.  
  
He'd woken up in the morning and, amidst the chaos of Dudley not wanting to get up because he'd spent all night on his Playstation, his thoughts had been forgotten.  
  
For a whole seven years.  
  
Well, now they were back, and instead of knocking on his brain they had brought out the iron boots.  
  
This was probably exactly how murderers thought before they committed their crimes, Harry mused; every single crime started out with thinking of people as objects that were not worthy of attention. Morality, compassion, non of these things existed.  
  
Harry managed a twisted smile, watching the flames dance wildly in the hearth.  
  
But somehow... humanity prevailed. Why? Simple. Humans did not think beyond their own sphere of existence. Their genes kept telling them they had a reason to live, the world they saw was the only one that existed, and that their survival was crucial.  
  
Harry breathed a sigh, pleased to have gotten to the bottom of his mystery. Humankind existed because humankind wanted to.  
  
_the void can feel but it will not care..._  
  
Introduce something that does, then. It may make no impact... a few little strands of DNA ... but at least something thought beyond the blank exterior of the Universe, and invented a little something: emotion.  
  
Emotion was the reason for living. It was like a candle in a black room: it would die eventually, but whilst it was there it was different, it was noticeable, and it didn't change the darkness but it changed its own surroundings. What was dark became white heat, and it would got back to dark again, but whilst it as there it was seen.  
  
And that was all that mattered.  
  
Harry considered getting up from the chair, but he'd just gotten comfy, the firelight was playing flamboyantly over his eyes, and his lids were closing of their own accord.  
  
He didn't fight them.

* * *

**Severus' Wife:** what do you mean, as close to canon as possible... 'behaviour-wise anyway'? Am I missing something? Yes, there will be more...  
  
**kraeg001:** Yep, more coming.  
  
**Shada Bay:** I'm flattered! I can feel my head swelling. When I started writing this fic, my intention was that I would eventually let up on Snape... he's my favorite character, after all. Watch this space... (not literally.)  
  
**kateydidnt:** I'm still kinda fuzzy about the whole 'Severitus' thing - I've had so many definitions.  
  
**hrry ptter:** How do you mean, channeling Dumbledore? I always try to do nighmares as creepy as I can, even if they do freak my friends out.  
  
**Nadezhda:** working as hard as I can, although updates will be few and far between the next two months...  
  
**wolfawaken:** Glad you enjoyed chapter   
  
**'unregistered person':** Hmm, re-reading your reviews... you're smart. The whole dream-diary thing... I'd been trying to avoid it, the whole cliché scenario (ugh) but I may slip it in somewhere... I'll go with the flow.  
  
**Foureyedsnail:** Yes I'm giving the Greasy Git an conscience. Snigger. Update speed... uh oh... read the reply for Nadezhda... Yup, that's the story I'm following (I think I have it on Author Alerts.) It's good. From my point of view I'd keep writing it from Snape's POV because switching between POVs is a dodgy business - you have to be careful. As for the title... I've seen a hell of a lot worse.  
  
**leggylover03:** interesting name. Unfortunately, updates are gonna slow down a bit. I lie. They're gonna slow down a LOT. At least for a little while.  
  
**starinthedark11:** I'm amazed you've followed this story nearly all of the way through. Very flattered! Anyway, updates are going to be tediously slow from this point onwards.  
  
**enahma:** groovy. Updating will be tricky...  
  
**Etzgo:** hanks! Are you referring to the chapter, or to the story? No, wait, don't answer that. It sounds somewhat bigheaded, donchathink?  
  
**Mikee:** very formal. Trying hard...  
  
**ThePlatypus:** Great name. Yeah, trying hard, but struggling with the whole updateability.  
  
**EireVerde:** My head is visibly swelling. I'm glad I don't come over all twelve-year-oldy (I know what you mean... there are some truly terrible angst fics out there.) but considering I was twelve a meagre three years ago... sorry, I'm leaving year/grade ten (choose according to nationality) and I keep coming over all nostalgic.  
  
**Jioiudfeascoiuoheroilfljckm/ A.Person:** and, of course, to my faithful beta. Thankyou so much!

* * *

Thanks, everybody so much for reviewing! Because of the HUGE amounts of reviews I am receiving (!!!!! KEEP 'EM COMING) I'm finding it a lot easier to respond if you leave an e-mail address. It's the personal touch. If you don't want to leave an e-mail add. that's fine, I'll get back to you via my next chapter although it is faster by e-mail. And by the way, if you like angsty stuff, check out and check out the poem about the storm. It's in the summary. It is very cool. Leave a review there. No, it's not my poem. It's someone else's. 


	10. Six feet

Harry awoke about an hour later. He felt sleepy and drugged, but he forced himself awake. He idly swung his leg a couple of times, and it made him think of a pendulum. How could pendulums be so perfectly balanced?

_Everything has to have balance,_ he thought sleepily. _Everything is exactly where it is ­-_

No it isn't.

Vanishing spells. Where does the stuff go?

This woke him a little more, and he blinked sleepily. The leather was warm and comfortable, and the yellow firelight flickering over the faded red seemed safe. He thought about Vanishing spells a little more.

It would be theoretically possible to Vanish a human, but extremely difficult. Where would they go? Could you get them back?

"Sir, there has to be balance in the world, right?"

Harry seemed surprised at himself. He hadn't meant to speak out loud.

Snape was absorbed in his marking.

"Yes," he replied, absentmindedly.

"Everything has a place in the world, whether physically as a shape or molecularly."

"Yes."

"So where does stuff go when you Vanish it?"

Snape paused, his mind readjusting to fit the question beyond monosyllabic answers -­ and then who asked it. His face took on an irritated expression.

"Why do you care?" he snapped, turning a page, angry at having his concentration broken. Harry shrugged, and looked back into the flames.

"Just didn't make sense, is all," he said quietly.

Snape rolled his eyes.

"And what else doesn't make sense, Mr Potter?" he asked scathingly.

"Humanity. For a while."

"Don't give me any of this philosophical -"

"It's just what I've been thinking," Harry said, irked. "I didn't ask you to criticise it."

Snape gave Harry a full on glare, and Harry stared right back, annoyed. He'd asked a fair question. What right did Snape have to bite his head off?

Snape narrowed his eyes malevolently. Unfortunately, the boy had a logical point; the sheer irritation emanating from him quite clearly was asking what was going through his head. On the other hand...

"I am still your teacher, whether it be the holidays or not, and you will call me 'sir' or 'professor' at all times," he said quite slowly. Now it was Harry's turn to roll his eyes. Snape felt himself getting angrier and he stood up, fingers itching for his wand.

_ You still have the trump card to play... cool it, cool it..._

"Do you really think I'm my dad?" asked Harry bluntly

This stopped Snape in his tracks. Acid green met obsidian black and held, and Snape felt shock cloud his mind as it did not his expression.

_What did he say?_

"Do you really think I'm my dad?" Harry repeated. This was obviously not a rhetorical question.

There was only one reply left for Snape without losing face.

"That is not the question, Mr Potter. The question is of your insolence."

It was Harry's turn to stand up. He removed his glasses and wearily rubbed his face.

"This, professor, is called the _holidays_. It is meant to be a time of _relaxation_. This means that you cannot take points, award detentions or any other kind of punishment. And seeing how you're being less than fair to me, I think it's only in my rights that I can get _angry_ sometimes!"

Harry's voice, having grown steadily more snappish, left the word 'sometimes' a positive bite.

Snape grinned.

Harry immediately felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. It was the kind of grin you saw on sharks, just before they sunk their teeth into their prey.

Snape carefully placed his quill onto his desk, and folded his arms across his chest.

"Potter," he said slowly, appearing to savour every word, "Dumbledore wishes me to inform you that your Occlumency lessons will start the day after Christmas. Boxing day, to be specific."

Harry narrowed his eyes, pushing his glasses back onto his nose.

"And?"

"And what, Potter?"

"Is that supposed to mean something significant?"

"The more you disrespect me, the more chance there is that I might _accidentally_-" at this Snape smirked, "­ -batter further into your mind than is absolutely necessary."

Harry sat back, exhaling.

He was tired. He was Godawful tired.

How was it that Snape could be so immature? It infuriated Harry beyond the limits of endurance. Harry closed his eyes, trying to block out the burning feeling that comes from keeping your eyes open for too long.

"I never, ever thought you would be as childish, as immature, as... as _puerile_ as to threaten me with blackmail," said Harry in a low voice. "For God's sake..." Harry opened his eyes, and met Snape eye-to-eye. "Have you no honour?"

Feeling much older than his sixteen years he levered himself up and stalked to his room.

llllllllll

Apathy draining, he paced furiously, and it helped calm his rage a little.

Trying to distract himself, he turned to the bookcase in search of something to read, and for a moment wondered why none of his books were there. Then he realised; he hadn't actually got round to properly unpacking.

He smiled grimly to himself, and tapped a blue book.

The bookcase vanished revealing the stone staircase. Harry smiled again and began to climb. The stone steps went around a couple of times and then evened out into a long straight passage. Harry followed it warily, wand out and lit.

About three minutes later, the passageway ended in another set of spiral stairs, and Harry followed them around about three times, until he came upon a wooden door. Carved on it, in a delicate script, was the word _Vive_.

He pushed it open.

It opened into a room that looked like an estate agent's nightmare. The wooden walls looked in a state of disrepair as did the floorboards, but it seemed sturdy enough. There were broken windows on the walls, and a nippy breeze blew through them. Harry strode to the opposite end of the room, and opened the wooden door.

It opened into a clearing in the forest. Soft turf and moss created a natural carpet. It was almost completely silent, as nothing but the wind and the birds could be heard... oh, and the distant scream of something being eaten. Normal foresty sounds.

It was obviously out of the way here. Harry felt himself begin to grin. Dumbledore was trying hard, and he'd gotten it right. The place was perfect; it was isolated and alone, and reasonably quiet. The sun in the sky marked it as early evening.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked moodily at the turf. The knowledge that Dumbledore had gone out of his way to create this little space was comforting but completely useless. Someone would know where he was should he ever go missing.

He felt his rage rise again as his trainer scuffed at the grass. Could he ever be out of this hell-bound castle?

llllllllll

Harry made it back to his room, surprised at the time. He'd spent all morning on the Quidditch pitch and all afternoon thinking, reliving his worst memories and getting into another scrap with Snape.

Sometimes he felt perilously close to breaking point. The happy pink bubble that surrounded everyone, kept them sane, was threatening to pop on him. The tension in his mind and his body was unbelievable. He was close to the edge

_six feet from the edge and thinking that maybe six feet down wasn't that far __after all_

and he knew the slightest push would send him over.

Going out of his way to avoid arguments of Snape would be counter-productive. Admittedly, Snape was pushing him further toward a huge mental cliff, but fighting with him was a way of siphoning of some of the tension. He relaxed and became more agitated with every passing word.

He wanted a scapegoat, he could feel it building in his chest. His current one held an awful lot of power over him and that wasn't too good for the sharp retorts.

He could feel it in his muscles. After a long day lying in his bed, he could feel his sinews shaking and his eyes threatening to cry. One little slip and he'd be

_six feet from the edge_

tumbling down the greased slope and into instantaneous mental shmoozy.

Punching the wall a few nights ago had only helped a little, mainly because the wall didn't fight back or return the animosity. He knew he was dangerously close to a breakdown

_and thinking that maybe six feet_

of possibly genocidal proportions. He also knew that he was losing the will to exist sometimes. Suicide held no attraction but had never been more appealing.

It was times like this he wished he could just break down. Get this world-weariness out of his system. Earn himself a nice private ward in St Mungo's, and the world could go hang. He realised he was actually welcoming the idea that

_down wasn't that far after all._

the War couldn't come sooner.

Harry Potter glared at the fireplace and wished fervently that life could go fuck itself.

He tired, and wished it would simply end. Where was the bliss of the void when you needed it?

* * *

Hi everybody. I won't be able to update for at least two weeks, due to the fact I will be in Corfu, St George's. That would be why this chapter is longer than usual. Thanks everybody for reviewing, I really appreciate it. If you leave your e-mail address with your review I will be able to get back to you as soon as I get back. See you all! 

**Severus' Wife:** Ironically enough, your conceptions of Snape are extraordin-arily similar to that of Harry's, and I think that's where I'm trying to go with this fic. If the two think that maybe the other has a chance of understanding them, then maybe there is hope after all. Sorta.You've got a good point, however, about slushy-Snape fics. I read a fic by someone who will remain unnamed and Snape became Harry's dad, a caring sharing person and loved Harry, all in the space of ten minutes. I mean, how is that possible? Seriously?I would love to be able to e-mail you, but my (somewhat crappy) computer refuses to load the pic on an author profile page that displays the e-mail address. If you could leave it if you review again, that would be great. Thanks!

**kateydidnt:** Harry;s depression issomething thatno-one except Snape seems to have noticed. Harry thinks that there may be life in the universe but nothing will ever make a difference... I spent a while thinking about that a couple of months ago after I read 'Paradise Lost' for the second time. Oh, yes... and this is most definately NOT a severitus.

**kraeg001:** Everyone went home for Christmas. Still, you may see Ron and Hermione sooner than expected...

**FUBAR**: Indeedy. Tell Leigh I won't be able to update for at least two weeks... oh, the look on her face...

**lovelydarkness:** Groovy. Thanks for reviewing!

**texasjeanette:** working as hard as I can... I'm in Corfu for the next two weeks, so don't expect to hear much from me, though.

**leggylover03:** who doesn't love Legolas?

**starinthedark11:** yes, I'm beginning to like the chair the more I write about it. Expect to hear more. Just as well it played a crucial role in this chapter.

**Dragonmaster Kurai:** Thanks for reviwing!

**Foureyedsnail:** I can see why it would be hard writing Harry in the situation you are in in your story, because you have not only hatred and anger, but also sadness, regret, remorsefulness, depression, etc, yawn snore... oh, where was I?Personally, I like using repetitive phrases, because like you said, they emphasise stuff. The first friend I showed the first chapter to said it was crap to my face (ISN'T THAT RIGHT, 'FUBAR'????!!!! Sorry. Said friend reviewed this chapter.) but I like the idea.Oh, and I LOOOOVE long reviews. All the more to make my head swell, my dear.

**Shada Bay:** Yes, I was in a particularly dark mood when these thought first came to light. Still. My guess is the human race will kill itself out in the next thousand years or less. Neh. What are you gonna do.

**ckat44:** What the hell, I'll reply here as well. Snape and Harry angst is brewing on the horizon, and neither of the characters have any idea how soon it will come...

**Ahmad53832:** Yeah, I reviewed your stories. I quite like their themes.

**Shadowface:** Groovyness. Thanks for reviewing!

**Bekquai:** Hello again.

**Sue:** How lucky I got this review, mere seconds before I was due to upload the next chapter. Yes, I am a strange little girl as well. Strange Little Girls Of The World Unite! I know totally what you mean about reviewing something, only after you've finished it, 'cause I do the same thing.The trombones are in my head, tootling along quite comfortably with the Pink Panther tune at the moment. I'll send them when I get the chance Your unofficial friend, Bluethought

**Kip:** You're making my head swell. What the hell, it's good for my ego. Snigger.We appear to have similar senses of humour. I have a favour to ask you: could you A) give me your e-mail address so I can get to you to have a good chat, and B) tell me which bits of the story made you laugh? I have tried to include some humour, and several people told me it made them laugh, but I appear to have fed bits in that I didn't mean to. That is not a bad thing and I won't remove them, I just want to know which bits they were. Ugh. I hate soppy Snape fics. Let's hunt down their authors and burn them at the stake.Ahem.

**A. Person:** Oh, my trusted beta, what would I do without you?


	11. When the dark calls

Harry had been in Snape's quarters for six days when he approached Dumbledore.

"Sir, it's Christmas next Tuesday."

"It is indeed, Harry."

"I was just wondering sir... if I could... well, if I could go to Hogsmeade."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and gave him a grave look. Dumbledore was good at that. It created a gap in the silence that the other person felt obliged to fill.

"Well, I wanted to see if I could find some things for Hermione, Ron, Ginny..."

Harry let himself trail off lamely. Dumbledore appeared to be giving it some grave thought. He spoke at last.

"I would have to ask that you would be accompanied."

"Of course," Harry said immediately. Half of him accepted this without complaint; it was only fair, with a hoard of Death Eaters after him. His mind could be quite useful to them. The rest, of course, would have been disposed of. On the other hand...

"Who would accompany me, sir?" he asked quietly. Dumbledore didn't need to say anything, and Harry felt his shoulders slump.

"I can't see him as the Christmas shopping type," said Harry with a grin he didn't feel.

"On the contrary," Dumbledore replied, "He can simply wait for you. As long as he is in the village." Harry shrugged, but he'd already begun to feel slightly better about it. As long as the man wasn't constantly invading his privacy, he'd be okay.

Harry nodded, feeling a little bit better despite the fact it would be Snape going with him.

llllllllll

Harry pulled his coat on and reflected on the bitterly cold weather outside. There was a harsh wind blowing, and having experienced it on a broom (of all places) he knew that the wind would be like little knife blades, prying into his clothing and attacking his body. On a broom, and especially for the male of the human species this was somewhat... unpleasant.

He put his scarf on. Hesitantly, he took it off again. It wasn't that he didn't feel like he needed it, it was just that he enjoyed the play of cool air across his skin... it helped him realise he was actually alive, it was all real. He needed that; he needed the reassurance. What would have completed it nicely was human compassion, but he wasn't exactly going to get it from Snape, nor McGonagall, and besides, Dumbledore was far too busy to spend at least three hours listening to the ranting of a viciously hormonal teenage boy. Feeling slightly saddened, he headed down to the Entrance Hall to wait for Snape.

He didn't have long to wait. Snape strode across the cold stone floor, the very angry look in his eyes betraying the battle he had lost to Dumbledore.

"Get on with it, Potter," he spat venomously. "I don't intend to baby-sit you all day."

This put Harry in a worse mood.

"I didn't ask you to come along," he ground out, beginning to feel his hackles rise. He didn¹t ask for this. He had tried to reasonable with the man, tried to be mature, had fucking given up his _dignity_ for this arsehole who had the _effrontery_ to be angry with _him_. He visibly watched Snape bristle with indignation.

"Be careful of your words, Potter," he snarled.

Harry had had enough.

It was time to strike back. He felt his personal space, his shield thinning, and weakening. He wasn't sure how much longer it could hold out. Time to let off some steam before he exploded. It was risky. Hell, it was suicide, but it would be worth it, just to see the look on Snape face before he himself was blasted into millions of slimy pieces. Thinking of this, he made sure he knew where his wand was.

"You listen to me, _sonny jim_. I have tried to be reasonable, I have tried to be logical, but you insist of grinding on my nerves like wet sandpaper. I have given up _everything_ for Dumbledore's sake and the least I would expect of your _miserable ass_ is that you pay him the same respect! Had it ever occurred to you that maybe Dumbledore hasn't confided all his plans in you? That maybe you don't know more than he does? So maybe there is a good reason for me staying with you, even if it has momentarily slipped your all-knowing intelligence and you can bloody well get _out_ of my _face_ and _out_ of my _life_!" Harry's voice had grown louder, up to a shout.

Snape seemed to grow taller. The air grew colder. Harry saw Snape's black eyes shine like twin dark pools, and saw the rage unfold like a monstrous black bat. Harry had never seen Snape this angry, and he knew he hadn't even stepped over the line yet. That, however, could wait. His sheer rage would not give him the vitriol to support another argument; he could feel apathy draining back into his body. Snape, however was only just starting. Harry knew what he had to do.

"Potter," he began in a in icy whisper. "You have no idea how I have tried for Dumbledore. The fact that you do not know what it was does not mean that what happened did not exist. The only way you will ever understand is if you get your tiny little mind out from whatever bodily crevice it has been stuck in and get yourself to _wake up_ -­"

"That's exactly what I have done, and the dream was better. You have no idea, _Severus Snape_, how absolutely bloody lucky you are. _Have you ever had your sanity pushed to the limit?_"

Snape growled, and was about to reply, when Harry held up both hands in a strangely submissive gesture that managed to stun Snape into silence for a few seconds. Harry used the time he had.

"At least I have something to be grateful for. _I never turned out to be like you_." Harry saw the point ram itself home, and he turned on his heel and walked out of the castle.

He was about halfway down the drive when he realised Snape wasn't following, and he allowed himself a wry smile. It would be nice to have a bit of time to himself; forbidden time, so much the better.

He took his time walking down the rickety road that was the drive up to Hogwarts. He enjoyed the chill of the numb wind caressing his throat and so he stopped, and turned to face into the wind. He put his glasses into his pocket, close his eyes and tipped his face into the breeze.

llllllllll

Snape leaned back into his chair, and the leather creaked comfortably. He stared at the faded red leather fondly; this chair had been something he'd bought, when he came to teach at the school all those years ago. This chair had seen him through every emotion possible.

That brought his situation sharply back to life. He was well aware of Potter's age, but the eyes that had stared at him, filled with so much pure rage, were much older than Potter's sixteen years and it had shaken him. He knew that he himself was bitter and unforgiving ­- they had been a couple of his more loveable characteristics, he remembered someone saying. Oh, wait a minute, it had been himself.

He massaged his temples with one hand, and gazed tiredly at the fire. Potter had been right; he had had absolutely no reason to treat the boy as he did, but whenever he saw Potter's face he couldn't help himself. Not only was it a way of siphoning off his own frustrations, but Potter ­-Potter just infuriated him, and he had no idea why. He assumed it was a throwback from James, that the boy should get under his skin so much, but...

His rage was inexplicable. He had tried, once or twice, to start over. He had tried, once or twice, to try and understand Potter's position, Potter's stance in life. Sometimes forcibly, sometimes accidentally... but the rage refused to be subdued. And since when had Potter had such an enquiring mind? _When you vanish stuff, where does it go...?_

That was a question he himself had studied exhaustively once, but he had received no answer. And it didn't make sense.

Snape tried to think back to the last time he'd looked at Potter, just before the anger kicked in. He was surprised no-one else saw what he saw, in the precious seconds before the pain.

He saw a boy. A young, god-exhausted, world-weary, frustrated and frightened teen. He saw a child

_(a sacrificial lamb)_

who was struggling through life because there was nothing else to do. He was suffering... suffering quietly, no, silently. When others cast a golden glow over Potter, the glow blocked out the truth; remove the aspirations, and the praise, you saw a simple child with his props removed from under him, dangerously unstable. Take away the light and you're left with a boy barely able to stand on his own. A kid. Just a _kid_.

It should have been obvious to the most dimwitted, that, from the beginning of the year, Potter had been taking the mutt's death harshly. Surely... surely Potter didn't blame himself?

No... not even he would be that stupid.

Snape smirked to himself. He had ended up psychoanalysing the Golden Boy, in his own spare time.

_God help us all. Dumbledore's rubbing off on me._

* * *

I'm sorry I can't reply to everyone here, but my time is limited. If I haven't replied to you, know that I've red your review and love you more than words can express!

**ravin** **mad**: Leigh is a friend of mine, who has inspired me to keep writing. Bet you didn't know that, didya, Leigh?

**unregistered** **person**: yes, hello there. Pleasse keep reviewing. I love you so much in a non-gay way.

**leggylover3**: hey, review what you want. I'm not fussed. It may take another few cvhapters for Snape to get his head out of his ass. Rest assured it WILL happen.

**texasjeannette**: hmm, you've been doing a lot of thinking, haven't you? It's nice to see someone out there who at least uses the brains they were born with.

**Bekquai**: neato. Indeed. My inspiration for the idea of the repeating italics came from Stephen King. He is a groovy author.

**Vaughn**: belive me when I say it is music to my ears.

**Foureyedsnail**: Harry's not suicidal, he's not that stupid. However, Snape his going to have an interesting time battling his conscience, which he never realised had so much power...


	12. Central Worlds

Harry strolled into Hogsmeade. The place was bustling with wizards and witches. Nervously, he tried to flatten his fringe over his forehead, but he reckoned too many people had seen photos of him anyway.

Hogsmeade was cheery, but somehow, the laughter had a layer of fear overlaid. Harry could understand; Voldemort was loose and angry, and there was no telling when he and his followers would pop out of the snow like so many flesh-eating zombies.

Harry kept staring down. Fortunately, it being nearly Christmas, no one paid much attention to a boy, coat zipped up to the chin and staring fiercely at the floor, much attention.

Harry wondered where to go first. Well, he knew what he was going to get Hermione, anyway. He'd seen an advert for them in the Prophet.

He slipped into the bookshop opposite from Dervish & Banges, and sighed as he encountered the pleasant heat of the warmly-lit shop. The shop smelled musty and old... but approachable. It didn't have quiet the same busyness as, say, Flourish & Blottes.

The bookshelves leaned at crooked angles. In fact, as Harry took a closer look, they were not merely crooked; the bookshelves themselves did not go up in a straight line ­ there were strange twists in the walls. He saw one bookshelf that was positively X-shaped. However, they seemed friendly as opposed to menacing. The shop was small, by wizarding standards; he could see to the end of it. The high ceilings, half cast in shadow, were comforting. They eased the sense of claustrophobia.

Looking up, he opened his mouth in amazement. Where the bookcase ended, another began, and there was an extremely rickety-looking balcony to that one, with an extremely rickety-looking ladder. All the bookcases, except for the ones in the centre of the floor, were many-tiered. Harry got the feeling that there was more knowledge in here than anyone could ever suppose...

The place was empty; all Hogwarts students were away, and not many people bought others books for Christmas in a magical community. For a start, Dervish and Banges was just down the road, and since the Weasley twins had opened their own shop...

He ran a hand though his hair, noticed what he was doing and hastily flattened it down. He approached the small desk near the door and rapped on it apprehensively.

A small man with a fringe of white hair and milk-bottle glasses opened a door behind the desk and stared at him curiously. Harry was forcibly reminded of Professor Trelawney.

"Can I help you, young sir?"

"I'm - I'm looking for a Magically Expandable Notebook?"

"Ah, you want one of those new Maexans, I presume."

"Yes."

"You're in luck. I've a few left. If you could just wait a minute..."

The old man bustled back into the door he had appeared from. Harry took another look around, and this time spotted the large, faded orange rug on the floor. His gaze travelling further, he spotted a huge fireplace. In fact, it was so big, he wondered how he had missed it. Surrounding it were three black couches.

He heard footsteps approaching and the man came back, wheeling a tall metal trolley with a cardboard box on it. He lifted out three notebooks. Each appeared to be about forty pages thick. They were smaller than sketchpad paper but bigger than an excercise book. The first was a medium shade of brown, with ripples of copper and gold where the light hit it. Harry thought immediately of Hermione's hair, and knew which one he was getting. He looked at the second; it was a deep, rich red with fancy gold trimming that seemed entirely too pompous. Harry smiled slightly at that.

The third was black. Not matt black. Not even jet black. It was completely void of colour, but imagination caught the tails of light playing across it and turned them into angels, winged creatures... or of demons, and eerie flames.

Harry picked up the gold-brown one, and opened it. It did not change, but it became obvious that the book did not hold forty pages. More like five hundred. Harry nodded his approval, but his eyes strayed to the black one.

"I'll take this one," he said, hefting the brown volume.

"Excellent choice, young sir. It's funny, really, but I can't seem to get rid of that black one. I think it's because it's a little bit eerie. People seem to think it's jinxed. Ah, well..."

llllllllll

As Harry walked from the bookshop he checked his mental list. Hermione: check, Ron... what could he get Ron? And, as always in life, his mind drifted back to his world.

He had been right, in a way, when he thought that people were focused on their own existence... he just never noticed when he was, as well.

llllllllll

Harry had got just about everything; his last present had been for Ginny: an ornamental dragonfly with jade wings that flapped when you said its name.

The snow was swirling and he estimated he had another hour until Dumbledore got really pissed off at him.

Ducking his head, he stepped into a mildly populated tea-shop and rubbed his forehead, trying to appear tired. He was, in fact, trying to hide his scar.

Seating himself at a table, a waitress appeared and took his order. She paid him no attention, and Harry paid her none in return.

He stared out of the window; he had landed himself a small table in the corner of the shop, right next to the glass.

Harry rubbed his face tiredly, for real this time, and stared at the swirling flakes. It was about five o' clock, and already getting dark.

Still... no worries. The café was warm, pleasant and friendly. Voldemort wouldn't try anything so near the castle, surely...

Harry felt a twinge of unease, but it was nothing like the stab of certainty he felt when Voldemort was about to strike.

Harry took another sip of his drink, and glanced around the café properly for the first time.

The walls were painted a warm and comfortable orange. The tables were a light polished wood, as was the floor and the counter. The windows were tall sheets of glass, smooth and unmarred - Harry assumed they were magically protected.

The light was pleasantly dimmed, and was cast by lamps on the walls, in the shape of half-moons (assuming that a half moon had only the upper half missing). The walls were quite low, and the ceiling was oak-beamed.

Harry hadn't caught the name of the café on the way in, but it was painted above the counter, on the wall: _The Lull Spirit_

Someone had evidently taken pains with this. The wall was lush with painted plant life and waterfalls, high mountains and low green valleys. The text itself was in a curling, peaceful script that flowed and became part of the background. Harry eyed it appreciatively; it was work well done and something the café ought to be proud of.

Harry grinned into his hot chocolate as he drained the contents of the cup. Paying for it and leaving a tip, he headed back towards the castle.

He entered the Great Hall as quietly as he could and snuck up the stairs. He was sure Dumbledore knew he was back, and managed to make it to the dungeons as silently as possibly using a couple of hidden routes, even though it meant it took him longer to get to the dungeons themselves.

He entered the main room and brushed his hair back. Snape was nowhere to be seen. Good; him being around would probably complicate things just a little bit. That was similar to saying that a hurricane was 'a bit of a light breeze'.

He walked across the rug, and entered his bedroom, closing the door as quietly as he could.

* * *

**espergirl04:** Sweet. Interesting take on it... er... you have me worried, now. You have no idea how close Snape came to killing Harry ­ and in a little while, the roles will be reversed... watch this space... 

**ShadowedHand:** I am (I cry bitter tears of loss) nearing the end of the fiction on my computer at home... I've a little way to go yet, but I can see the end. And it's not going to be what you expect, I can tell you.

**Bekqua:** 'Dramatic and Angsty'... well, dramatic is right... and I loooooove reviews no matter the length. Please keep 'em coming!

**starinthedark11:** you have to love that chair. I;'s my favourite invention.

**Severus' Wife:** Hello. I hope you're not too swamped over with work... I have exams coming up so I can totally sympathise.

**emilym.47:** Hey! Thanks so much! I'm glad you can understand my Harry.

**Dark Phoenix In Flight:** Oo. Long name. Thanks for reviewing!

**Shada Bay:** Thanks! I don't think that the Marauders' era will ever fade until Lupin is dead (God forbid). Pettigrew gave up his right as a Marauder, the slimy, stinking...

**Shadowface:** Yay!

**leggylover03:** Snape? Love? Snigger... how ironic.

**J Black:** 'J Black'? Is this a reference to the great Jack Black of Tenacious D and many movies? Or are you the real deal? Anyway, thanking you very muching! P.s: I am looking for someone to co-write the next chappie (if there is one) of When Shrinks and Hogwarts Collide. Any good at funystuff?

**Mrs. Tom Riddle:** Please tell me you are not attracted to Tom Riddle... nevermind. I do not intend to turn Snape sappy. I intend to have him panic, suffer and have some stress he doesn't need... but not make him sappy. He is my favourite character, and I owe it to him.

**A. Person:** I love you in a totally non-gay way!!! I mean, totally. No kidding.

* * *

Please, everyone accept my apologies for not updating like, forever. My computer... access to the internet... time... exams... etc. I love you all. Trust me on this. Don't leave me! 


	13. A lull

Hey guys. Bear with me. I know it's gotten a bit dull, and I'm cutting out some later chapters to speed up the action. Thanks for reading!

* * *

When Harry woke, he knew it was going to be_ one of those days_.

He didn't question the feeling as he dressed himself, and knew at once he was right as he caught Snape's glare at him in the main room. He decided that saying nothing was probably the best option, and headed to the kitchens.

He mentally planned his day to avoid as many people as possible, including teachers bearing messages. Dumbledore was, no doubt, pissed off with him, and Harry didn't want to see the saddened look of disappointment on his old and wizened features.

Curiously, physically going out of his way to avoid people made Harry feel a little better. Made him feel like he had a purpose. He welcomed the sensation.

He checked to make sure no-one was around, then ran out of the Entrance Hall and into the Grounds. Following the familiar path, he jogged lightly along the gravel until he came to Hagrid's cabin. He knocked on the door and knew by Fang's barks that he was home.

The wooden door was ripped open, and a huge hand grabbed Harry by the scruff of the robes and promptly dragged him in. Immediately, he was crushed into a massive bear hug.

"'Arry! Bin awhile, 'ant it?"

Harry managed a smile and nodded his head.

"You doin' okay for yerself?"

Harry shrugged. It seemed an appropriate answer in any case.

Hagrid invited him to sit, and Harry did so. Fang put his head in Harry's lap and drooled a bit.

"So, what brings yeh down here?" asked Hagrid curiously, beetle black eyes alight with interest. He plonked a mug of pumpkin juice down in front of Harry on a surprisingly small and rickety table.

"A bit of refuge," admitted Harry, sipping at the juice. To his surprise, it was warm. It made a pleasant change from iced, especially in the winter months.

"Refuge, eh? Well, I can' say you've ever done anythin' that ever made you _run_ from anyone before."

Not for the first time, Harry wondered if Hagrid was far more intelligent than he looked. He had a way of interpreting what others said... usually accurately.

"Me and Snape -"

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry."

"– we had a bit of a... confrontation."

Hagrid was silent, stoking the fire. Finally, he stood up with a groan, and sat himself laboriously in the chair in front of Harry.

"Yeh? What was it abou'?"

For a few seconds, Harry stared at the light dusting of orange foam in his warm juice. He let his eyes idly trace patterns.

"Some things were said that maybe shouldn't have," he said, choosing to ignore the question. "And what we me having to stay with the man, I think I've overstepped a boundary. I just... I just..."

Harry found that he was close to tears. He was immediately angry with himself, and he bit his lip hard.

Harry was finding it increasingly harder to cope with life... the world was just too oppressive... he found himself longing for a place that did not carry so much weight. Dreamless sleep was his only horribly short and horribly rare refuge.

The bubble Harry had likened his sanity to was becoming perilously thin. Even the small things were beginning to needle him, and he was starting to doubt if he could hold out much longer before he cracked like an empty eggshell.

Speaking of eggshells, that's what he felt like he was treading on. Even on a subject they both agreed on, he and Snape still managed to pick a row over it. Only last night they'd had a short, formal argument of the merits and demerits of jumpers. How they had even reached that topic, Harry didn't know. They usually avoided speaking to each other.

Harry put his juice on the table in front of him. The burning feeling in his eyes wouldn't leave no matter how hard he tried. Hagrid copied him, his considerably larger tankard making the table creak pathetically.

"'Arry, I been watchin' you these past few weeks. Can you truthfully tell me that yeh're okay?"

Harry shook hs head, not trusting himself to speak. He gave his eyes a quick wipe.

"I just feel like the worlds a bit too much," he croaked after a few seconds' silence.

"You getting' bad dreams?"

Harry nodded.

"Tol' Dumbledore abou' 'em?"

Well, broadly speaking... Harry nodded again, then leaned forwards and put his face in his hands. He felt a hand touch him on the shoulder, and then a handkerchief that would serve quite well as a fair-sized dining table cloth was poushed into his hand.

Harry felt a grin twitch his lips as he gave his eyes a quick wip and passed it back. He looked up to see Hagrid's eyes crinkled in a friendly smile.

"There yeh go, Harry. Jus' need to get it outta yer system every once in a while, righ'?"

Harry nodded, grateful. He didn't mention that 'once in a while' didn't quite cover it.

llllllllll

Harry didn't bother to keep himself concealed as he headed back out across the grounds.

Hagrid and himself had spent the rest of the evening discussing breeds of dragon. Whereas Hagrid preferred the Norweigian Ridgeback and the Hungarian Horntail, Harry liked the Hebridian Black because of its vivid purple eyes, and the Swedish short-snout because of its blue flame and skin.

Harry wasn't too fussed about getting caught. It was going to happen sooner or later, he mused. Hiding was all a bit pointless, really.

Shrugging, he changed route.

llllllllll

Snape stalked the hallways. Although he didn't actually need to (absence of students to catch) he found the motion calmed him, the routine strangely relaxing.

His footsteps, controlled and regular, echoed back off the stone walls and into his ears. Everything was peacefully silent. Even the distant screams that occupied the long corridors seemed to have vanished with the students.

His feet traced their regular path, totally unconsciously; Snape let his legs do the work, carrying him to all the usual student haunts

For once, his mind was ablissful blank, although thought of Voldemort had begun to nag lately.

The Dark Lord had been quite worrying of late. No recent killing, mutilations or torturings, and only a few had swollen the ranks.

_If the Dark Lord appears to be backing off, it's only so he can get a good run-up._

Snape allowed himself a snicker as his feet echoed up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower. Laughter was a precious gift and he had never received his fair share. Generally, he assumed that there wasn't really much to laugh at.

Echoes faded away as he reached the top of the Tower, and is attention was immediately drawn to Potter.

The boy was asleep, the moonlight bathing his face in a soft, silver light, and pushing everything into quiet monochrome. Shadows were cast into sharp relief, bringing Snape's attention to the sharp point of a quill held limply in one of the boy's hands. Snape moved closer and studied the parchment resting on the boy's knee.

It was a fairly detailed map of Canis Major, The Greater Dog. Everything was marked out pretty well, but one of the stars was deliberately missing, the main star, in fact... Sirius was gone.

So. The boy was still pining over the mutt.

Snape looked out over the landscape. It was a clear night, and there was gentle but chilly breeze blowing over the treetops. The sound of them softly heralding the night air was pronounced in the unusual silence that cloaked the castle.

Snape swung his attention back to the present as Harry shifted slightly on his stone seat. He'd somehow managed to wedge himself into one of the gaps in the stone wall that surrounded the top of the tower. He had a pretty good view of the entire Hogwarts grounds and a pretty grim one of the God-knew-how-many foot drop below him.

He'd fallen asleep. On a high vantage point. At the top of the tallest, coldest tower in the castle. Potter was _suicidal_.

Snape bent over to shake the boy but froze, inches from Harry's shoulder

Potter had _lines_ around his eyes. Tiny, almost untraceable, but they were there once you saw them.

What could – what could a _sixteen-year old_ have to worry about?

Well, that was a bit of a dumb question, really, considering this was the Boy-Who-Lived, but still. He'd coped with it before.

What was the problem? Had potter had so much to cope with that he was cracking?

_It took little to make a teen feeling angry and misunderstood... but quite a lot to make them world-weary._

Rolling his eyes, Snape very carefully picked up Harry, trying to keep the boy's blessedly dreamless sleep unbroken. Judging by the last time he'd watched the Golden Boy sleep, he'd wound up watching a bit of a worrying performance. If Potter had no dreams, it was best to let him stay that way.

_God God... don't say I'm softening up,_ thought Snape is genuine horror. _I'd lose my reputation._

* * *

**Mystic Phoenix:** Thanks for your response! A death... hmmm... don't count on it, mis amigo. I am (horror of horrors) nearing the end of my story on my computers. It's good few chapters away from where I've posted it, trust me. The end looms in sight, but the reason you shouldn't trust in a death is because I am toying, just toying, with the idea of writing a sequel. Of course, before I could make any decisions, it would have to wait until book 6 is published. Still. I've got the ending to this story all written out.

**Greeter**: Er... hello.

**Kip**: I love you in a non-gay-way-if-you-are-female, did you know that? I attempted to hunt down your e-mail address, but couldn't find it. Nevermind.

I find your critical analysis of other angst fics highly cynical, highly dismissive and entirely accurate. There are a good few angst fics out there but they're few and far between. If it's not some Harry listening to Nine-Inch Nails over a CD player and slitting his wrists then it's a Nirvana-crazed Potter running around, breaking down and upchucking into the toilets because he thinks he's fat.

(I realise if anyone else who writes these kinds of fics is reading this, you will probably hate me forever. Sorry. Please forgive me.) And as for the rape ones... ugh.

Still your reviews keep me sane. Check out someone called Forty-two Dreams; you may find some similarities between yourself and them, if they've written any fics yet.

It's nice to know a reviewer has a least half a brain.

**A.Person:** Call it (ugh) cliché, but...what _would_ I do without you?

**Foureyedsnai**l: Righteho. cracks knuckles.

Yup, no slash, but you may be surprised at what comes later. Harry does not need a father-figure, and God, would it never be Snape. What he will find... well, I'll let you judge when it happens.

Ron and Hermione... they don't come back until the end of the Chrimbo holidays which may, due to unforeseen circumstances (evil snigger) been much sooner than you think. By that time, Harry angstyness will have undergone an awful lot of changes. In some respects it will be worse. In some it will be better.

And as for what happened to me... my computer does not have any text program compatible with I cannot post from it. I have to e-mail stuff to my hotmail account and pick it up from another computer, which worked fine for a while, until my server broke down. AND my computer doesn't run hotmail. Currently, I'm typing this at my dad's borrowed laptop onto a floppy to take to school tomorrow. I'm going to try to steal some time and upload it. On the plus side, my mum says we need a new computer (ABOUT TIME) and we're going to get a new one. On the negative side, she's been saying this since August 2003.

Thanks for asking questions! I like being able to respond.

Keep reviewing!

**Forty-Two Dreams**: I'm trying my best. As for WSAHC, I desperately need a co-writer. I'll start work on new ideas as soon as I've got a new computer, which shouldn't be TOO long in coming. The ideas you sent me sound _verrrry_ promising...

**Espergirl04**: yes, well, you might find some interesting moments later on... not sweet, but not sarky, either. Black notebook? Ask no questions, tell no lies...

**Prophetess of Hearts**: Strangely, no. Not in this story, at least (I'm toying, just toying, with the idea of a sequel. It's... uncertain.). The idea was to get the dreams on paper, because they've festered inside for long enough. It's a method of extracting the poison, but sometimes that can be more painful than the bite...

**Shelly101**: Great! People love me... sniff...

**Mrs. Tom Riddle**: Oh dear, oh dear. What is the world coming to? Anyway... what _do_ you think I have planned for Snape?

**Read300300**: If you're looking for a particular author, I find it easiest to type (e.g ) and bingo! You get their bio and their list of stories. Anyway... so, someone else is using ICT lessons to read fanfic? Snigger. I hope you're working hard. I'm still passing this class with an A average. God alone knows how.

**Briana Potter**: Oh, you just have to _love _Snape. He became my favourite character after the fifth book. As for 'less depressed'... watch this space.

**ShadowedHand**: Nothing happened? Yes, I'm afraid to say so. I have been keeping a slightly cynical eye on my story as a write, and looking back (this chapter I wrote about two months ago) I have to admit that it's slap-bang in the middle of a fairly lull stage in activity. If you're finding the action boring, bear with me. I have a couple of fight scenes (nothing so crass as a formal duel) coming up... well, maybe 'fight' isn't the right word. Watch this space. I've tried to keep distanced commentary up and not slip into the mindset of the hormone-fuelled adrenaline junkie fifteen year old that I am.

**Vendethiel**: Hmm... come the end of this story, some things will have changed... but some things will stay the same. There will be a reason for this. As I have told others, I _may_ or may not write a sequel. I wouldn't pass judgement on this until you've read the whole fic.

**Lalaluu**: Indeed. More will come.

**Molly** **Morrison**: (At the risk of sounded abrasively teenagerish) OMG!!! Molly Morrison?! I so totally loved your story 'Lies'.

Ahem. Rant over.

Confrontation _will_ come, have _no_ fears about that. It may not come for a while yet scans story for gap between confrontation and now. I'm cutting out a few of the later chapters because there's no action.

Let's put it this way. If there was a risk Harry could be caught out of the castle, Dumbeldore wouldn't let him out of the dorms, let alone the castle. There's always a risk, but Dumbledore will severely miscalculate – admittedly with Harry's help.

* * *

Okay... hey people.

You have no idea how frustrating things are at the moment (see rant in the last paragraph of Foureyedsnail's reply), and I am doing everything I can to keep updating. The problem lies mostly with getting stuff to my beta, who I could not live without. Still, I'm working on fixing it. To all those who thinks there's a lull in the activity, you're right. There has been. Hang around with me for a few more chapters, though. You might be surprised.

_Bluethought._

Oh... and by the way. Any of my reviewers live in the UK? If so, review and tell. It'd be cool to know if there's anyone from the home country reading .


	14. Waking Up

Snape walked as speedily and as quietly as he could down to the dungeons, Harry curled up in his arms. Snape was vaguely aware that Potter weighed next to nothing. On the negative side of the scales. The sixteen-year-old was absolutely no problem to carry. Frankly, Snape had carried heavier cauldrons.

Thankfully, he had met no one else on the way to his quarters. He didn't know if he could cope with the embarrassment of a), being forced to look after this brat of a boy, b), being forced to care for this brat of a boy, and c), having to _carry him_ (of all the indignities!) down to his rooms.

He muttered the password to his rooms, and used his wand to open the door.

Striding across the stone floor, he opened Potter's room door whilst supporting the frame resting against his chest easily with one hand. He really was _far_ too light, for a growing child.

Snape lay Harry down careful on the bed, and placed the parchment and quill on the desk. His eyes landed on a loosely rolled-up piece of parchment, with half an empty ink bottle next to it. Snape made to pick it up, to read it ­–

Harry moved slightly as he settled into the new texture of the bed. Glancing quickly at the desk, Snape left the room.

Snape settled into his chair and steepled his fingers.

_At least I never turned out to be like you_.

Snape rubbed his forehead tiredly. Things were getting more confusing by the minute.

Voldemort had held only two Dark Revels recently. They were basically an excuse to do some Muggle torturing, with a body count afterwards with a prize to the winner... usually it was a young, crying, female muggle.

But the starling lack of frequency... Snape was beginning to suspect something nasty was being planned. Very nasty.

Potter had _lines_ on his face. He had the expression of a forty-year-old who had seen and lived too much, had experienced _far_ too much of the world to know that there was no such thing as a fairy tale ending... people were lost, lives destroyed. He had seen death, but precious little life.

_Sounds like me_, he thought with an ironic mental snigger.

..._it took little to make a teen feeling angry and misunderstood, but quite a lot to make them world-weary..._

Being the head of Slytherin house, he had to deal with quite a lot of adolescents with suicidal and homicidal tendencies. And in every case it was someone did not understand them. Snape asked them the same question every time: _if I gave you the means, would you kill them/yourself right here and right now?_

And there was, every time, a slight hesitation, and Snape knew there was hope for them. They hadn't thought it through; they were merely making threats for attention, whether they knew that or not, and Snape made sure they received it... not from him, never from him. Children had to learn to find comfort in their friends and fear in their  
_(overlords)  
_bosses. Snape may have been cold and uncaring, but he did not appreciate the senseless waste of life. Especially a _child's_. _Especially_ a child.

Not once had he ever come across a child who was quite happy to do away with themselves, purely to escape the life they lived. Snape knew such children existed, but he had never met one. Snape did, however, have a nagging suspicion that he could predict Potter's reaction without the aid of ligilimency.

_Children should not be tired of living. Children should not have to shoulder a burden that would crush the strongest man._

_Child..._ even the word itself seemed to emit innocence, defencelessness, purity. Here did these values vanish  
_(at such an early age by god at such an early age)  
_to?

Potter was clearly waiting out the war. Waiting for when he could know the Dark Lord was dead, or that Potter himself had nothing left to live for and failed in the task delegated to him by the entire wizarding world

Snape had absolutely no idea what was in the prophecy, but he could tell Potter did. And it was not showing well upon the boy's face; Potter had trained himself to hide his feeling from everyone. Whether unconsciously or not, he was not only hiding his emotions from those around him but also from himself... somehow. They boy's mind was a pressure-cooker, simmering gently in the furnace of its own heat.

_Children should have no place in the fights of supposed adults who should know better._

What was Potter's place in the War? People expected so much of him.

_People say _I_ am cruel to him, but I don't expect the world of him... how is it that he has stayed sane so long? How is it he has stayed _alive_ so long?_

Snape knew that Potter really had nothing to prove to him. He could become the best Potions brewer in the world, he could discover a cure for cancer, he could slay Voldemort blindfolded and with nothing but a blunt fingernail...

... but Potter would always be nothing more than an arrogant pinprick  
_(who couldn't find his arse with both hands)  
_to Snape.

_Does that make me the right person for him to talk  
__(oh god oh god please no, anything but that)  
__to? Because I have no real preconceptions of what he should be capable of, does that mean I have more right than anyone else to try to understand him?_

_Oh, God, no. Dumbledore, you steered me into this, you –_

llllllllll

Harry opened his eyes.

For once, his mind was a blissful blank of optimism. Yes... lack of nightmares did indeed affect his mental attitude. He tried a smile and was surprised to find it fitted quite well. It remained in place long after he gave up trying, and the smile didn't make him feel that the top of his head was going to fall off.

He stood up and stretched, feeling renewed vigour in his muscles. Stretching his neck from side to side, he wondered where the stiffness he would have expected had gone, what with spending the whole night –

Wait a minute. He was in the room he used in Snape's quarters (the idea still filled him with disgust). Why wasn't he on top of the Astronomy Tower, or at the bottom of it in lots of little pieces?

Harry gave it careful consideration, and deemed that a teacher had found him or maybe Hagrid. It wouldn't have been Snape. Snape bringing him down here? That went against all of the man's principles.

Harry realised he was still dressed. Yes, someone had brought him down here.

_Weird. I've been in Snape's place (ugh) for exactly seven days now. Back to the Gryffindor rooms in two days, and into Occlumency in four. Oh God, Occlumency._

Harry changed into a fresh robe and walked out into the main room. His head was unusually clear and worry-free; he felt like his mind was rested. A night's worth of not having to think, to cry, to remember had done him some good  
_(then why is the burden still there still heavier like you forgot them)  
_and probably just as well.

Harry shook a couple of unnerving thoughts to the back of his head as he backtracked to his room, retrieved his broomstick, and headed out again.

llllllllll

Watching Snape wake up was an experience in itself.

Most people go through a bit of an... _amnesiac_ stage, i.e. who am I, where am I, who is she/he, why am I cuddling a traffic cone and wearing fluffy suspenders, _oh my God what happened at the party last night?!_ are all part of the natural process of a mental brain-check to make sure that someone else has not come along in the night and replaced You with someone else.

Again, watching Snape wake up was an experience in itself.

One moment he was asleep, the next he was awake. Snape was unconscious to instant operation on all eight cylinders in the blink of an eye.

He heard a door open. He heard footsteps pause. He heard them fade, pick up something and then close the door again. The footsteps grew louder until they were passing behind him and out of the tapestry hole.

He tapped his fingers a couple of times and stood up, hearing his joints click. He'd evidently fallen asleep in his chair again. He'd better be careful. Next thing you know it'd be fluffy slippers and a nightcap with a bell on it.

Snape usually _hated_ Saturdays. All the noisy bustle of the students, all the obnoxious kids yelling and shouting, pounding noise into his heavy mind –

Holidays were a real godsend. Snape preferred his own company, and the silence of absolutely no one else. Sometimes his brain felt so hot it could explode, and the silence was like a cool sheet of water, culling some of the heat. It was a pleasant sensation, and Snape savoured it while he could. It wouldn't last much longer anyway; another fortnight, most of which would be spent in the Gryffindor rooms. What he did for Dumbledore sometimes...

* * *

**Weirdcraz24**: Yay! Blushes 

**Starinthedark11**: Nyawww. Will do!  
The notebook? Hmmm...

**Emerald Black Snake**: ... bit of a conflicting name there, Emerald Black. Yay!!! UK-ness!! It's cool to know that some of my reviewers live in the good ol' UK (although there's nothing wrong with Americans minor panic). As you can see, just updated!

**Ravin mad**: Hi there. You live in Bradford? NO SHIT!!! SO DO I! Suffice to say that if you see a teenage girl in city centre in a red Che Guevara t-shirt or a black top with a white outline of a hand on it it's probably me.  
Leigh... she's the sister of one of my friends, and she, y'know, sort of hangs around the bus I get on... I nearly gave up on this story due to really bad writer's block (I hope it's not too obvious) but she wanted me to write more, so I got back into the swing of things. Yay.

**PadfootsNoxed**: Interesting name.  
'Cute'... er... I'm worried now.

**ShadowedHand**: Hey there. 'Tip of the iceberg'... you have no idea ironic snicker. Contemplative... I should hope so. There will be more compassion later on, but from whom and to who may come as a surprise...

**Kazaera**: Yup, I'm unique, just like everybody else. Quite.  
Nyawwww... you're making me blush. The reason I've written this fic is because I really can't see how else a human being would react... Harry is supposed to be human, after all, and the human brain has this habit of blocking out things it thinks can't possibly be true (my impending exams, for one... I need to revise, oh panic panic panic...). In this case, Harry having to save the world. He can't grasp the gravity of the situation. In this fic, he's been allowed to sight the reality of life, but not how fate is neither cruel nor kind and that only human frailty judges it so (yeah, I know I'm pretty cynical for a teen). Imagine what it would be like if you fully understood everything... there's a level of protection built into he brain to stop something like that happening. You want proof? Okay. Can you seriously tell me you can picture the size of the universe in your head, compare yourself to it and still feel normal? Try it sometime. It's really not pleasant. That emotion is where most of my philosophy comes from.

**Erisinia**: Oh, I mean, _wow_. That is SO TOTALLY NEAT!  
Um... 'egomaniac'? That's a tricky one. How about... pack, black, knack, track... I hope you write that second verse. You should make a fanfic out of it.

**Kirsti-Lee**: Hey there! Yay! Sniff... I love it when people make me feel worth it... every me and every you... sorry, I'm listening to Placebo right now, and I keep randomly typing lines and then deleting them, so I won't bother this time.

**Shelly101**: Hey there! Wow... short review, long words, and not one spelling mistake!

**Forty-two dreams**: Slacking?! ME?! Yes, sorry about that. Class time, leisure purposes... well, I'm passing the class quite nicely and I always have free time at the end of the lesson anyway.  
Your rant against those specific metaphors has been psychically taken aboard long before you wrote the review, because I looked back on it and decided it was a bit melodramatic. A lot of rewriting has gone on in later chapters because of a similar thought of my own, and where I suspect mushiness has crept in it has been removed with a harsh and pitiless stroke of the delete button. Still... some sympathy and other stuff will remain. I wan tot write about the people and not the caricatures they are portrayed as.

**Espergirl04**: Yay! I feared it was getting too soppy, and I'm injecting some more vitriol in later on. It won't get too harsh, though. I don't want a snappy Snape.

**Kip**: I tried to e-mail you and my e-mail server promptly broke down again. How typical. My computer is, if you will excuse my language, UTTER SHIT, hence me spending ICT lessons updating. Yes, it was Molly Morrsion's 'Lies', which I thought had an interesting note of disparity in it while they force-fed Harry calming draughts.  
I don't think I see the world in a 'funny' way, except possibly to remark that the world is a funny old place. I prefer frankly cynical and downright narcissistic (in the philosophical sense). Well, thankfully, I'm apparently funny.

**Jen**: Will do.

**Leggylover03**: hello there, o faithful reviewer. Well... no, quite frankly. However, situations may make it seem so...

**Shada Bay**: Thanks. I really appreciate it. No, I mean it. As for the two lines, the first I had had a mental picture of Voldemort backing away down a racetrack. As for the second, well. Snape is Snape, what more can I say.  
Everybody's human. Snape has forgotten this fact about Harry, is all.

**Read300300**: Naughty, naughty. Either I'm rubbing off or you're just plain bad. Snickers. Anyway, as you can see, I have updated.

**Mystic Phoenix**: Father-son? Hmm... Harry is sixteen, going on seventeen (stupid Sound of Music film, get out of my head) and he needs less of a parent and more of a... well, a friend who understands, I guess. I wanted to write a father-son fic but I wanted to stay true to the characters... the only person I know who has every plausibly been able to pull _that_ one off was a certain GreenGecko.

A sequel.... I don't know... I couldn't simply not wait until the next book, because I would plan to base it over a period over the holidays, and I need to know what has happened during the year to make it plausible.

Anyway, I'm trying as hard as I can to update, so hang in there!

_Bluethought_


	15. Art and Music

Harry was packing his things, methodically and carefully. He had only a day more in Snape's quarters.

He'd grown quite attached to the armchair by the fire; the big, faded-red leather one. It was a warm, leathery embrace that wrapped around him when he sank into it. It was extremely comforting, and caressed all his bodily aches away, leaving his mind free to roam.

Perhaps the chair had absorbed some emotion in the time it had spent in Snape's service, because comfort seemed to be its primary role. Harry found himself spending time in the chair when he just wanted to think, half-listening to the scratching of Snape's quill as it no doubt gave some poor undeserving sod a 'T'.

Harry sat on his bed and idly swept the room with his eyes. He'd tried to make sure everything he wouldn't need immediately was packed away. The only things out were his broomstick, a pair of pyjamas, a single roll of parchment and a quill.

True, he was currently wearing the pair of pyjamas. Still.

The day had been okay. His mind had felt rested, refreshed, but Harry held no hopes for the night yet to come.

His fingers tightened on the quill held in his right hand, but he made himself put it on the desk.

Harry wasn't entirely sure about how much more nightmare-like dreams he could take before he completely smashed. Made like an amoeba and split. Et cetera.

Harry put his glasses on the table next to his bed and lay back, staring at the canopy above him.

The firelight traced intricate patterns on the blood-red material, and Harry shivered. Turning on his side, he faced the dancing flames staring, unseeing, right through them.

Voldemort was planning something big. He could feel it in his bones. It was going to be big and it was going to be soon.

Harry pulled the bedcovers around him tightly.

_Is it worth it to just give up now?_

Harry longed to do just that...

_It'll be someone else's problem then. No more stress beyond the norm..._

_Don't kid yourself. Everyone will blame you when you won't save them, even if it's only marginally more if you can't. You lose either way, so you may as well be known that you tried..._

Harry sat up again and put his face in his hands.

No matter what he said, he was still a kid, for chrissakes. He was sixteen. Sixteen! The average age for your stereotypical hero was about twenty through one hundred and twenty five. Not slap-bang in the middle of adolescence.

Then again, you stereotypical hero didn't have a sight defect, need to eat more, or have severe depression.

He allowed himself to smile at that. The Boy-Who-Lived really needed a hug.

Harry got out of bed and stood before the fire.

He knew that he would have to win the War no matter what. He still had his morals.

Ha. Pull the other one, it's got bells on.

He didn't honestly believe he would survive it, anyhow. No doubt he would drag Voldemort down with him if he was killed one way or another, or vice versa. To be honest the thought was a bit of a relief. How would he be able to cope after that? Seeing who'd died, who hadn't and who he was guilty for.

More blood on his hands... he already had the lives of  
_(at least)  
_four to account for. How many more did he need? How many more would he end up regretting?

No doubt he would be hailed as some kind of hero. That wasn't what he wanted. What he wanted was to be able to sneak off quietly somewhere, and live out the remainder of his life as peacefully and quietly as possible.

Some chance of that.

Feeling tired, Harry climbed into bed and tried to prepare himself for the night to come.

llllllllll

Harry watched small flecks of silver swirl in the night air, dancing for the remainder of their short lives. Dancing for Harry.

_God knows I have to dance for others. What do they want from me? What is there to give, beyond my life into destroying Voldemort?_

Harry shivered, but this was more to do with the chilliness of the room he was in.

Admittedly, sneaking out of Snape's rooms in the middle of the night was not a good idea. Especially to tiptoe into the library at the dead of night  
_(don't say dead)  
_just to look out of a window.

Harry shivered again, and pulled his cloak about him tighter.

He sighed, and watched his breath mist against the pane. He was glad he'd decided to change; pyjamas were not a good idea for this experience. Jeans and a t-shirt were much better equipment to sit on the windowsill of a south-facing window, just when a storm was coming in.

He shrugged to himself and pulled his cloak tighter again.

Coming to a decision, he swung his trainered feet from the window ledge and onto the floor. He felt his body welcome the detachment from the freezing windowsill.

He felt the vibrations from his feet as he traced a path from the library and into the corridor. He tried to keep a window in sight at all times; the sight of the Great Outdoors released a kind of freedom inside himself. The wind was the closest thing he had to music; the snow the closest thing he had to art.

He slowed his pace and glanced around furtively as he approached the Entrance Hall. The Hall had a peculiar ability to cast echoes; Harry was sure it was caused by a spell.

Taking off his trainers, he padded reasonably quietly along the stone floor. He had just made it to the doors when he felt the hairs along the back of his neck rise.

He had learned, long ago, to trust his instincts on such matters.

Secure in the knowledge that Mrs Norris was about to round the corner, he shot through the doors, jammed his trainers on, and ran out into the gently-falling snow.

llllllllll

In the same way that you know when you're being watched, Snape knew that Potter had gone.

Dressing quickly, he headed from his rooms and up toward the Entrance Hall.

_Where the hell could he have gone?_ he thought fiercely as his footsteps echoed through the hall. His face was enough to make even the most sturdy soldier to in his trousers what his mother had so patiently taught him not to do all those years ago.

Mrs Norris glared up at him, and Snape glared right back. He was in no mood to argue.

"Get me Filch," Snape ground out, and seconds later, Filch's panting was heard as he hurtled up the corridor as fast as his rickets would allow.

Filch stopped, wheezing, put a hand to the small of his back and pushed. Snape winced involuntarily as a gut-churning collection of cracks followed the straightening of the ancient man's spine.

"Ahr, it's you, professor," said Filch, leering.

"We have a student out of bed, Mr Filch," said Snape slowly. "I don't know where he has gone but I intend to find out. Please keep an eye out in the halls."

"Yerse... can I flog 'im if I find 'im?" The hope was painful in Filch's eyes, and Snape uttered a soundless sigh.

"I don't think it would sit very well with professor Dumbledore. Pity," he added feelingly. He didn't appreciate being dragged out of bed to hunt down a troublesome student.

Snape strode out of the hall and into the porch to the grounds. His head snapped in both directions, eyes narrowing. He intended to hunt Potter down like the prey he was. His lip quirked in a sneer.

Let's make this a game shall we, Potter? Hunter or the hunted, you choose. Ah well, too late...

Snape strode out into the snow and looked around him. Instinct had pulled him outside, but instinct had served a heavy part of this game so far; he felt his resolution wobble.

Footprints, not disguised in any way, led around the side of the castle. Snape followed them without a moment's hesitation, shoes crunching in the medium-depth snow. There were still flakes falling from the sky, and Snape allowed himself a moment's pause to savour the feeling of them on his face; little electric sparks of iciness that melted when they came into contact with his (admittedly sallow) skin. Snape smiled at that; who thought he'd actually have any heat in him?

He returned to the task at hand.

The footprints had so far led him a quarter of the way around the castle, and he had just made it to the halfway point when they broke away from the shelter of the castle and into the windier terrain of the flat school grounds.

The wind picked up, and the snow began to fall in a more determined fashion.

Snape picked up his pace as well; he needed to find Potter before the storm closed in. He could feel the storm in his mind, like a dull pressure within his head that was ominously purple.

The tracks were a little faded out, and increasing in obscurity. The wind and snow were ganging up to make the task in hand harder but Snape persevered. He had never been the kind to give up, not now, not ever.

Snape's eyes continued to pick out the foot-shaped impressions along the lawns as snow swirled about him, wind prying knife blades of ice into his body.

He was out looking for Potter. In a blizzard.

_Oh, great, my robe's got rising damp._

The footprints veered in their previously determined course somewhat uncertainly, and began to head toward the lake.

Of course. Trust Potter to head for a bowl of frozen water, on a winter's evening, in the snow.

Snape changed direction as well, glancing behind him to see his own larger, deeper footprints swallow up Harry's completely. A few meters behind him the prints were swept into oblivion. Snape could see the footprints he was following were being slowly nibbled away by the wind. Snape upped his pace yet again; the trail was growing dangerously, should you excuse the pun, cold.

Snape kept his eyes sweeping the lake; the sooner he spotted Potter the sooner he could slow his punishing pace. Already, his muscles were complaining from the exertion. Oh, well, at least he wasn't cold.

Snape was only seventy paces from the lake, approaching the tree that he knew all too well. He was thirty paces away when he spotted Potter, and angrily made a beeline for him.He slowed his stride, mentally checking Potter over for signs of cold and/or hypothermia. The boy appeared to be shivering, despite a knee-length cloak; it was not a good sign.

He was a few steps away when Potter said, without turning around:

"Don't. Just ­- just don't."

Harry's voice was low, and he was still shivering. He stood, hands wrapped in his cloak, staring out across the lake.

After a long internal battle, Snape wordlessly unfastened his own cloak and dropped it unceremoniously on Harry's shoulders. Harry twisted his head around, puzzlement in his eyes.

"I daresay Dumbledore would not forgive me if I let his favourite boy freeze to death," Snape said in a sarcastic tone, as way of explanation. "I am not quite sure how he would respond to you ending up in the Hospital Wing. Again," he added pointedly.

Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously and turned away again, but Snape had already seen three things: firstly, that the cloak was quite a bit too large, the end trailing the ground miserably; secondly, that Potter had fingered the edge of the cloak appreciatively and pulled it tighter around him; and thirdly, that the boy had tearstains on his face.

Snape felt the bitter cold, but he did not show it. Instead, he folded his arms across his ribcage, and tilted his face to the night sky.

The snow had stopped, but the wind had picked up yet again. Shaking his head slightly to clear strands of hair from his vision, he picked out as many constellations as he could before the clouds rapidly coming up from the south swallowed them up. It would be half an hour, he estimated, before they really should be inside the castle.

Stars told stories, and these stories changed. In fact, they were rarely the same. Stars danced, patterns changed, and the cosmos rearranged themselves to tell new secrets. Every night, a masterpiece was written; every day, a masterpiece was lost.

Snape let his imagination run riot; he saw Orion throw his shield across the skies and hit Centaurus on the head. Centaurus bucked angrily, scaring Lupus into crashing into Scorpius and in return causing Sagittarius to rear...

Such fantasies were childish and immature; much like his recent behaviour, in fact. But then again, such stories were what kept the human mind occupied whilst the human body froze to death.

_Wait... yes, all feeling lost in nose, fingers, toes and what appears to be lower legs_.

Snape glanced at the clouds again, and noticed they were closing in a lot faster than he thought they would. Alarm flared up in him, but he allowed himself a second of the wind playing across his face until he turned to Potter.

"Cut your reverie short, Potter," he snapped. "There's a storm closing in and unless you want to freeze before you get to the castle I suggest we begin to head back. Now."

Potter didn't move, and for a second Snape thought that Potter had either not heard him, or had simply chosen to ignore him.

He turned around, and started back to the castle, Snape following.

* * *

**Mystic Phoenix**: I'm glad you're enjoying it. I've yet to look at our favourites page, but as I'm on holiday this week, I most certainly will...

**Starinthedark11**: Snape is going to be less than willing to move out, even temporarily, but I guess you probably got that. I do try to infuse some humour here and there.

**Vendethial**: CANADA!!!! YEAH!!!! Ahem. Hello there. Ooooooh, wooooow, one of my reviewers is from Canada!!!!

**Wolfawaken**: Groovy.

**Mistress-Genari**: 'Reading a song'... I think, in many ways, that is what I'm trying to do here. I'm taking all the emotions I feel from 'Chop Suey' and numerous others by System of a Down, several by Nirvana (GodrestKurtKobain'ssoul), and 'Bother' by Corey Taylor. I never would have thought to say 'Reading a song...' I'm impressed.  
I think the majority of my inspiration, the idea that kicked this whole fic off, was 'Ender's Game', a book by Orson Scott Card. It is one of the greatest angst stories I have ever read, if you look past the slight sci-fi theme. If it weren't for this book, 'Wingbroken' would never, ever have existed.  
I.e., I suggest reading it.

**Padawan Jan-AQ**: Yay! Thanks! It's people like you who keep me going.

**ShadowedHand**: I'm glad this chapter isn't a lull. Comparing these chapters to later ones, I have to admit they are quite boring. As for compassion... a little, here and there.

**Read300300**: At home?! Shock Horror!!

**Forty-two dreams**: There will be very few comparisons of history between these two characters. Instead, some sort of understanding of each other's emotions must become apparent for them to... well, understand each other. Because they are two vastly different people, each harmed in different ways by their pasts, this may prove difficult. However, nothing is impossible.  
Oh, and I read up to chapter twenty of 'A Year Like None Other'. How is it possible to feel such and incredible swell of inferiority? It is a good story, I'll grant that, and it did hold true for a while, but I gave up at chapter twenty because Snape became too different a character too quickly; he got fairly soft fairly fast. Sorry...

**Sakura** **Saisaka**: Update I will.

**Shelly101**: I've toned down a little on the nightmares. However, one in particular will prove to be very, very important to later chapters...

**Leggylover03**: If the 'aw' moment in this chapter wasn't enough, then there may be a few more to come...

**Kaloma Enera**: Oh, I'm gonna keep going all right...  
Your comments are making me blush. Seriously. I can slowly feel my head gently expanding to roughly the size and shape of Jupiter. Still, it can't hurt me, I suppose...  
Oh – and who _doesn't_ like Tamora Pierce? Sorry, I've been reading a few of my reviewer's bios. I used to be really into Tamora Pierce. Then I lent my entire Wild Magic collection to my friend and she lost it. Major bummer.

**Espergirl04**: ABOUT FLIPPING TIME!!!! It only took you reviewery people this long to figure out that that was a System of a Down line.  
Sorry. I tend to rant a bit.  
Yessss! I'm glad someone discovered it. I was kind of hoping there was a S.O.A.D fan floating around somewhere. Which is your favourite album? I can't decide between Steal This Album and Toxicity, although I'm veering towards Toxicity, purely because it's got Chop Suey on it. System Of A Down, sigh... the only band in the world who can write songs about pogo sticks and refrigerators and make them sell.

**Pessimistically optimistic:** -- paradoxical name. No, Harry won't try to commit suicide, although he'll think wistfully about it. I am determined to have him alive at the end of this fic, if only because I'm toying (just toying, mind you,) with the idea of a sequel. It'd be nice to leave my options open. Originally, when I stated writing this fic, I wasn't even going to suggest suicide, but as I wrote it I began to see the emotions I was writing, and it sort of made me mention it... who wouldn't want to commit suicide, in Harry's position?

**Green**: I _have_ been writing novels since I was eleven. That may have had something to do with it. The key is to write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write, write and write some more. You eventually find what fits your style best. I would suggest writing fanfictions, and learning from the critisism.

**FUBBAR**: Ooooooooof course. I should have known you'd be reviewing.  
I hope Leigh appreciates this new chapter. Of course she will. -bigheaded snicker.-  
There will be blood and death and destruction in later chapters, you can depend in it. Incidentally, how _could_ I write Mr D and Mr A into it? My fic is no place for St J's teachers (more's the pity, I can name a certain RE teacher's brother who would be going doooooown...). Mr D's not too bad. It could be worse. We could have Miss K.  
(Note how I have cleverly excluded names to avoid many, many detentions should a teacher read this. If you ARE a teacher, and you ARE reading this, betcha couldn't guess who I am anyway. Nyah.)

**ravin mad**: I go to St Joseph's too! At the beginning of any lunchtime and some breaks, check all the smoker's haunts. I don't smoke (God no) but my best friend Natalie Dzerins does... you may know her. Everyone knows Nat. Chances are I'll be wearing a rainbow stripey scarf and red'n'black stripey gloves.

**Foureyedsnail**: what would I do without you reviewing?  
I'm glad Snape's not too much. I'm trying to stay as in canon as possible (I would apply the phrase 'IC' but I'm not sure what it means. Does it mean 'In Character'?)  
I'm glad that Snapey-sleepy-bit made you think. I love it when that happens egotistical snigger. I have to say, generally speaking I'm okay getting up in the mornings, but that's only because I set my clock fifteen minutes fast and in the morning I don't twig to that. So after I hit the snooze button for the fourth time and realise my clock says it is 6:50, I panic, jump out of bed, shower, dress and pack my bag and reach the kitchen to discover it's actually 6:45 and I really got out of bed at about 6:35. The adrenaline rush is still going, and I'm not late for school.  
Hmmm... you really are quite smart. Yes, the surroundings will change the relationship. It will look better for all of two minutes, and then Harry will crash even harder than before. Believe me when I say that in 2 to 3 chapters something happens that is enough to make Snape care about Harry for about five minutes and thirty seconds. Then we're back to normal for Christmas day. See if you can guess what it is...  
I'm glad this story in unpredictable, although it is following several base rules. Firstly, there will be three, and only three, major events in this fic. They are all grouped quite close to the end. And when I say 'Major'...  
Secondly, his mindset changes quite slowly from the beginning of the fic to the end. See if you can spot how.  
I'm also glad my writing is actually readable; when Wingbroken started out as a one-shot (you lovely reviewers convinced me otherwise) I was worried no-one would want to read it, and indeed, it took two weeks and a plea to a fellow writer to get the reviews rolling in. Oh... and keep an eye out. I have only just started writing a new HP fic called 'Inversnaid', but I won't be posting it for a while. Ten zillion points if you unravel the history behind the name.  
If you want an inside into my Harry Potter's head, I would suggest listening to the lyrics of tracks 13, 14 and 15 of 'Steal This Album' by System of a Down, and track 6 of 'Toxicity' by the same band.  
To be honest, almost the whole of 'Toxicity' and 'Steal This Album' play a major part in the fic, but that's entirely too many tracks to name and explain why they are crucial.

**Fhippogrif**: 'A long way to go'? You have no idea... believe me when I say that there are going to be a couple of... shall we say, the kind of arguments in which some control will be lost. Actually, a lot of control.

**A.Person and a half**: Please, please, please don't give up on me yet. I'm trying to get as many chapters to you as quickly as possible.  
Also, I've started writing another Harry Potter fic (called Inversnaid... you have to read the foreword for it to make sense). I won't be posting it for agggggeeeeeeeeessss yet, but when/if/banana I do, would you do me the honour of beta-ing it for me?


	16. Your Average Hero

When they reached the Entrance Hall, Harry dried out Snape's cloak using a charm and handed it back silently. He didn't bother to give his own cloak the same treatment.

Fastening his cloak back around his shoulders, Snape appreciated its thick quality, not for the first time. Whereas other witches and wizards chose thinner materials for their lightness and for their billowability (wizarding fashion statements of today, Snape couldn't help thinking) he preferred thick, heavy material for persistent outdoor use. It stopped him freezing his balls off, for a start.

Harry followed Snape silently down to the dungeons, and Snape wondered what   
_(kind of nightmare)   
_could make the fiery Boy-Who-Refused-To-Pop-His-Clogs so silent and co-operative. He didn't dwell on it too much, though. Whatever had drugged the boy into submission was saving him a hell of a lot of effort.

As they entered Snape's chambers, both of them felt warmth flood their bodies in sharp contrast to the icy dungeon corridors. Snape pointed at Harry.

"Sit," he rapped sternly, and Harry complied. Walking into the bathroom, Snape opened a cupboard door and scanned the collection of potions there. Locating the liquid he needed, he pulled the rotund bottle from its resting place and shut the door.

He walked back into the main room to find Potter in the leather armchair, and beginning to doze off. Snape thrust the bottle in Harry's direction.

"Drink," he said venomously, and Harry did so without complaint or argument. This was turning out to be very interesting.

The Pepper-Up Potion had its usual effect of making its drinker smoke at the ears. Colour crept into Harry's cheeks, decided it wasn't worth it and made a dash for his forehead.

Harry shook his head a couple of times as the smoke dissipated, and blinked.

Rubbing his forehead, Snape returned to the bathroom and placed the now empty bottle onto the rack from whence it came. He was due to make another batch for Poppy anyway, he could make a little extra to replenish his own diminishing stocks -

Snape closed the door to the bathroom and stared at the boy. Potter had fallen asleep, his head resting against the wing of the chair. Snape sighed in an irritated fashion and rolled his eyes. Striding across the floor, he unhooked his cloak from its peg. He let the cloak drape over the boy.

Boy, that cloak was working for its living tonight.

Snape stood back and viewed the scene critically. He shook his head bemusedly.

_God help me. I'm becoming sentimental.   
__Ugh._

Snape was about to open the door to his room when he noticed Potter's still open.

He lay his hand on the doorknob and had swung it half-closed when he saw the quill lying on the floor.

His eyes followed the trail upwards, to see a bottle of ink lying smashed on the stone. Judging by the angle, it had been accidental.

He walked over to the desk, preparing to Vanish away the mess, when he spotted the parchment.

_Quite into discoveries today, aren't we?_ he thought wryly.

The parchment was half folded.

Snape stood before the desk for several long minutes. His tall form towered over the wooden furniture, his dark eyes quickly flickering across its wooden surface, searching for marks that would reveal what had happened. Any kind of evidence that would tell him what had taken place.

His hand reached out to the parchment, but jerked back again.

It must be quite the picture, he thought dryly. Severus Snape, stood indecisively over a piece of parchment, totally unsure to whether or not he is doing the right thing.

His hand touched the corner of the yellowish paper, and his other hand unfolded it.

_I don't know whether or not I _

Ink obscured the rest of the page, and Snape felt on odd wave of disappointment flood him. Potter's psyche would have been an interesting mess to probe into.

The handwriting was shaky, almost illegible, even for Potter. The boy usually has writing like dragon tracks anyhow, he thought distractedly, as he carefully put the parchment back how he had found it. Retreating from the room, he headed back to his own accommodation - careful to leave everything the way he'd seen.

lllllllll

Harry awoke and stretched his neck painfully. He was sat in a strange position with a blanket of some thick and pleasantly heavy material covering him.

He stretched, and the cloak fell away from him.

For three precious, precious seconds Harry believed he was ten; waking up in a foreign place, covered in a cloak that he had seen someone else wear, ready to face a life he knew nothing about.

Full of pointless optimism.

Then reality came crashing back.

Harry eyed the cloak and fingered the hem. It had done a good job of keeping him warm in the somewhat chilly dungeon.

Harry tried to think back, eight days, to when he had first arrived here. The main room was completely impersonal; lifeless and devoid of personality. Even the fire was cold and indifferent, haughty and distant.

A few days into a new occupant, the rooms seemed... different. Not bright, God no. You could not apply that to Snape's rooms. Anything but.

It seemed more purposeful now. It was like someone had come and melted the walls of ice to reveal walls of stone... Where ice was chilly, stone warmed. If you gave it enough time.

Harry sat up properly and the cloak nearly fell off him. Grabbing it, he stood and stretched. After hearing the satisfactory clicking of several joints, he put the cloak back on a peg, just behind the door.

He tried not to entertain the thought of who had covered him with the cloak.

Harry padded around to his room, and found the door half-open. Panic flaring in his throat, he slipped in and shut the door behind him.

Everything was exactly how he'd left it, and Harry felt the relief rise off him like steam. Picking up the quill and depositing it in his trunk, he Vanished both the spilled ink and the parchment.

"Repairo," he muttered, and the bottle flew into one piece and back into his luggage. Good ink bottles were hard to come by.

Harry looked around, hands on his waist. He'd pretty much cleared the room of all his stuff. He sat on the bed and stared at his hands.

The nightmare last night had been, whilst not the worst one to date, pretty horrifying in itself. He tried not to think about the details, but he allowed himself to think about the end.

_why don't you know that you are my child?>   
__I'm waiting.   
__of life, death, intoxication?>   
__They're all the same._

It all made about as much sense as one of Neville's strength potions. The entire conversation seemed a bit meaningless, but Harry felt, in the gaps after the sentences, flashes of strange feelings, like time had been disjointed and pasted back together a bit wonky. Time... was he divining something to come...?

Harry had a sneaking suspicion that at least half of the conversation was missing, presumed... er... gone.

The nightmare had changed drastically from its original setting. In fact, it was a completely different dream. Harry tried not to dwell on it.

The fact that Voldemort considered him his heir was only natural. If you can't beat 'em, make 'em join you. Simple as that. Harry still found it a bit unnerving, though. Anyone would, really. The most feared wizard for, like, well, forever, wanted you as their son.

_Luvverly jubberly. I can just see it now: hey guys, Voldemort adopted me. Want to meet my new dad sometime? He's just_ great _at football..._

Shaking his head, Harry levitated his trunk and met Snape in the main room. Snape had his cloak around his neck, a small bag over his shoulder and a ferocious expression.

Harry wisely chose to say nothing.

"Well?" said Snape contemptuously, "Are we going?"

Turning to the tapestry hole, Harry tried very hard to fight a grin.

llllllllll

Their first port of call was McGonagall's office.

Harry lowered his trunk and rapped on the door. McGonagall opened it.

"Oh, Potter, do come in."

"I'm sorry professor. He's a bit of a tight -" he glanced a Snape and appeared to change words mid-air, "- schedule. What's the default password for Gryffindor tower?"

McGonagall, for once, shared the joke, with a tight-lipped smile. Snape's glare increased in intensity.

"There isn't a default password for the holidays. You should be able to get in an out quite easily."

Harry nodded and grinned for a second, before heading up the staircase with his trunk.

"What, boy," ground Snape, "Was that all about?"

"Private joke," smirked Harry. He felt better, knowing this time that he was not on the receiving end of said smirk.

It had stemmed from when Harry had referred to Snape (to Ron and Hermione, of course) as a 'tight bastard' just as McGonagall rounded the corner. He'd lost five points for his language, but he swore he heard her mutter, "Ten points for being so brutally honest," just before she rounded the corner again. And sure enough, ten points were added to the Gryffindor hourglass. Admittedly they could have come from anywhere, but still...

Harry grinned and turned to Snape, just as they reached the Pink Lady. He resumed a deadpan expression.

"These are Gryffindor's personal quarters," said Harry sharply. "If you reveal their location, if you divulge the password, if you in any way abuse them you will have me to answer to."

Snape's eyes widened, and for a moment, the glint of light in his eyes sharpened to twin razorblades.

"You arrogant -"

"You said it first, not me. Hey, Pink Lady?"

"Back a bit early aren't we dear?"

"Um, yeah. Would... oh, I don't know, 'Nimbus' do as a temporary password?"

"I don't see why not."

"Good, could you let us in?"

The Pink Lady swung forward on her hinges, and Harry clambered trough the portrait hole.

The Common room was blissfully clear and quiet, a rare thing in so popular a room. True, it was holidays, but Harry was accustomed to seeing it overflowing with students.

He dumped his trunk on the floor and glanced out of the window; ten am was entirely too early in the morning to be thinking.

"Sleeping arrangements," he said bluntly. "I think it's worth saying that I refuse to sleep in the same room as you."

"Be assured, the feeling is mutual," said Snape levelly (but still managing a sneer), staring in distaste at the Gryffindor decor.

"I'm quite sure neither of us wants to sleep in the girls' dorm," said Harry. "One upstairs in the sixth year boys', and one in the common room."

"What about one in the seventh year boys'?"

"You don't want to know what's found in there, even with house-elves cleaning. And the others are too small."

Harry was feeling reckless; taking on a conversational tone with Snape would probably earn him the label: Completely Suicidal. Please Give Me A Knife.

"Really," said Snape.

"Well, I'll take the common room, if it's all the same to you."

Snape stared at him for a couple of seconds, face expressionless. Harry rolled his eyes.

"The room isn't booby-trapped in any way, shape or form. The house-elves have been in to clean. The room is aired. Its up the stairs and on your left."

Snape turned and headed up the staircase without another word (but not without a ferocious glare that said, quite clearly, _you are in for it, boy_) and Harry slumped into his favourite armchair.

What had he been thinking? Being Friendly With Snape was not on his holiday to-do list. It was probably the room; being in familiar settings drained some tension and made him feel more relaxed.

Well, at least he'd gotten the room with a) a fire and b) the largest window.

Harry pushed his trunk next to the chair and wondered where he was going to sleep. Well, the three-seater sofa would do him just fine, and he knew he could ask Dobby for blankets, duvets, whatever.

Harry got up and walked over to the window; the storm last night appeared to have been exceptionally vicious. A couple of trees had blown down, and the snow had deepened considerably. Snape evidently had an eye on the weather. Had Snape found him any later, he might have not made it back to the castle at all.

Harry shivered. It was not a pleasant thought; it had been cold before the storm set in.

Harry retreated back to his armchair. It was Christmas in two days, and then he had a week and a half until school term started again.

Harry ran his fingers though his hair, and then unconsciously flattened it down again. He'd better start work on some of those Christmas essays, now that he was back in a comfortable and familiar setting. The homework total given to him for the holidays was a little alarming... mainly because he had three for Snape.

Harry pulled out some parchment, a bottle of ink and a quill. He shut his eyes momentarily, recalling the question:

_State all magical parts of a unicorn, their uses in potionmaking and their discoveries through the ages._

That was one even Hermione would struggle with. Frowning, he stood and collected his stuff, putting it into his schoolbag. He set out to the library.

* * *

What's Next - Chapter 17   
He felt calmer, but not better, when he entered the Entrance Hall. His joints still felt like they were held together by old rubber bands.   
   He decided to head back to the Library, pick up his stuff and go back to the dorm. The way he was feeling right now, he wasn't in the mood for any more studying.   
   He was three corridors away from the Gryffindor Common room when the pain hit him like a scream.   
Harry didn't even have time to stop walking, to clap his hands to his scar, to cry out, to screw up his face. White screamed across his vision and his sight was lost completely to the yellow in his head that was his nerves exploding.   
The agony was _unbelievable_...

* * *

**   
Read300300:** Hey there. Computer Science... tut tut tut. I s'pose that's rich, coming from me, who used the first ten minutes of my IT lesson today to upload it.   
Three questions, and I understand fully I may not want to know the answers to these: 1), Why were you so close to the BB gun, 2), How bad are your injuries and what treatment did you have to get, and 3) what were you doing to get shot by a BB gun in the first place?   
Anyway, I hope you get better - that hole sounds mighty painful, and I for one have always hated dentists. On the bright side, you should now be able to whistle with your mouth shut.   
Sorry. That was tasteless.   
I'm glad the chapter is making you feel better... you're the kinda people I write for -huge feeling on warmness inside-. 

**A. Person and a half:** Ursula LeGuin is soooo cool. Sparrowhawk is a really good character despite the fact he's really bigheaded. I suppose it gives him more human characteristics though. Have you read a book called 'Across the Nightingale Floor', I forget who by? You might like it.

**leggylover03:** I think my purpose of introducing the whole snow-melting idea was not to prove that SNAPE'S heart's melting, but that he's human, and has been all along. People tend to get caricatured, and Snape is a prime example of a person who is not usually seen in a human light.

**shelly101:** I can' really say there will be more graphic nightmares... they're not as important as The One, which will pkay an excruciatingly important part later on.

**espergirl04:** "Hey you, see me, pictures, crazy, all the world I see before me passing by..." I met a person today who did not like System. I felt like crying. Seriously, though, who doesn't like Chop Suey? It puts me in mind of Jesus' thoughts on the cross, seconds before he died (apart from 'Get Me Off This Bloody Thing', of course.)   
Evanescence? Yes, my friends may laugh at me for liking a minimosher band, but there you go...   
Yay! Hugsies

**gltrgrl14: **Yay! Will do.

**Sakura Saisaka:** Yah! My story rocks? Cool!

**ShadowedHand:** Yeah, I kids arote out the whole nastiness issue for a little while. I wrote it when I thought it was apt for an 'ah' moment in the story. Feeling good? Groooooovy.

**mysterychatter9: **Will do.

**SleepsInOctober: **Wow. I'm like - wow. Your review has certaintly put a smile on my face. It's something to take out on rainy days and admire.   
Emotions... that was the whole idea behind this fic, I suppose... I based it upon music, and we all know that musc is bascally emotions through he ears, and it kinda... clicked. Just as well, I guess. It was nearly a one-shot.   
'A parody of a conversation'? Never heard it like THAT before. Glad you're up on ff cloud 9... slightly amazed it's me whose put you up there.

**Green:** Okay... all the novels I've ever written were crap. Complete and utter CRAP. But at least I got the practise of learning how to define a situation, you know, imagery and suchlike, so if you don't like it stop writing it, but try to carry on with something else. And NEVER delete a story, it might provide inspiration or a basis for comparison later on.... another tip would be to read LOTS of books. You pick up style for them. I have lerned an awful lot from a) Orson Scot Card, who without his book 'Ender's Game' this fic would not hve been written, and b) Stephen King, who is simply a genius. If you ever do read a book by him (I suggest 'IT' - it's a long read but well worth it. I read it forst when I was thirteen. Smashing.) you might notice I stole some of is style.

**bluewitch22:** Am doing.

**Padawan Jan-AQ:** Aww... thanks!

**rosiegirl:** Will do.

**amber.moora:   
**1) Curiosity killed the cat. Just as well you're not a cat, then.   
2) Simple. It wouldn't have made a good story plot.   
3) 'Grind' - you know, dull, boring. Not worth it. Too much effort. Can't be arsed. Tiresome. Repetitive. Repeats itself over and over, kind of what I'm doing here.

**colie:** Hey, if you had ideas, write it! I for one would totally want to read it.

**starinthedark11:** Snape is, by far the BEST character in the HP series, only because he's so believable. Yay for leather chair-ness.

**forty-two dreams:** I LOVE ORSON SCOTT CARD BECAUSE HE IS A SMEGGING GENIUS. Ahem. His best, I think, is Ender's Game... Speaker for the Dead, Xenocide and Children of the Mind were okay-ish. I haven't read the Shadow of the Hedgemon series or the Ender's Shadow series... yet.   
Snape doesn't have Harry-senses, he just has this... thing about people being near him (my Snape, that is... dunno about J.K's).

**Saphire Starlet:** Hi! You sound fun.

**Kalorna Enera**: Yay. I'm glad I'm at least writing this stuff right. (Does that make sense?) It#'s snowing? Yayness! The most I've got is a harsh frost at the moment. Where do you live?   
Nyaww. You're making me all happy insode. 'Write that line down...' Actaully, why, exactly?   
My rate of updating has nothing to do with my reviewers (though, if I had no reviews, I wouldn't update). It's more to do with how fast I can get to something that runs Microsoft Windows, which does not include my home computer.


	17. Ouch

Hey guys. Glad you're still bearing with me, seeing as how it's only just starting to get interesting. Anyway, I just need to explain a little bit about this chapter.

Chapter 17 contains the first of three major events that will; occur in this fic, and all of them are linked. This event means that the next can happen, and so on. Suffice to say that Voldemort will begin to play a much more active role in the story from this point onwards.

I'll keep reviewing if you keep writing.

Oh, and 'Susan': if you're going to wait to review until the end of the fic, you may be waiting a while.

* * *

Three hours into his Potions essay, Harry put his head down on the desk. 

He'd decided to order the essay as neatly as possible. He'd just fished describing the uses of mane, blood and horn in as many potions as he knew and he was exhausted.

_Still... only the entire history of unicorn substances to go_, he thought with a yawn.

Harry stood and stretched. His brain felt hot, exposed and vulnerable. His mind felt weak. Deciding he'd better make an appearance at lunch, Harry left his stuff where it was and set out to the Great Hall.

llllllllll

Harry stared when he got to the Great Hall. Admittedly, the decorations had gone up quite late this year, but Harry assumed it was because of Order work or similar.

It became evident that this was not so.

The entire hall was frozen; icicles dripped from the rafters onto the floor, which appeared to be a sheet of ice. Mirrors decorated the walls, framed by pillars of ice. The House tables were gone, and it is place was a reasonably long table near the front of the hall. It was not wooden, but either made of ice or frosted glass.

In the very centre of the hall was a giant ice statue of a phoenix. Harry approached it, and swore he saw something move. He moved closer to the giant sculpture; he was right! Orange and red swirls and sparks danced inside the crystalline structure, forming, regrowing, splitting.

A hand dropped onto his shoulder, and Harry knew it was Hagrid's. No other hand could make his knees buckle and his shoulder sag.

"Hey, Hagrid."

"'Ello, 'Arry. Shall we join 'em?"

Harry followed Hagrid to the strange table, and Hagrid rapped on it. Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall were already there.

"Crystal, Hagrid," said Dumbledore jovially. "I thought we could do with a break from traditional decorations."

Harry chose to say nothing, seating himself whilst studiously trying to avoid his own reflection. It wasn't that Harry didn't like his reflection. While Draco Malfoy may make claims that Harry had fallen out of the ugly tree, Harry considered it a much better option than what Malfoy had done, which was stay in it. Besides, he was sure he wasn't too bad-looking. Hadn't Cho gone out with him for a while?

He didn't like his own stare. He really hated it. It was bad when other faces accused him; he did not need his own pale face arraigning him. There were other people to do that for him... most of them dead.

Dinner was, for the most part, fairly uneventful. Harry was more or less silent, concentrating on his plate so he had to look at neither anyone else or himself.

Dumbledore, Hagrid and McGonagall chatted earnestly, with a few comments here and there from Snape; how thick the snow was, whether or not any Care of Magical Creatures needed extra attention, that boy who had stayed behind for an extra three days because of that misfortunate accident, those salamanders had an extraordinary temper, my, didn't they just, it was just as well Severus had been cooking a batch of that Pepper-Up potion for those final few students who had suffered so from colds, hmm, wasn't it, Severus?

Snape grunted, and glared at McGonagall. Conversation was not his forte. McGonagall knew this. So why did she bother?

Harry shook his head, and put his knife and fork down as he frowned slightly. He felt hot; not feverish, but getting there. His head hurt in that vague, distanced sort of way you find when you're midway through a serious illness. Colours seemed starker, brighter and more painful to his eyes. Harry closed them for a second to quell the ache, but when he opened them again nothing had changed. His limbs felt tired and leaden; his back and neck felt like someone had been standing on them. His head felt tight, his mind overheated and confused. The air in his throat appeared to have risen several degrees in temperature, and this made it harder for him to breathe. He pushed his plate away from him slightly, losing his appetite. _God knows what I could be coming down with... I wonder if there are any wizarding diseases that I'm not immune to?_

Hagrid, on Harry's right, appeared to have noticed Harry's behaviour.

"Okay, 'Arry?"

"I -"

Not liking the sound of what was coming out of his vocal chords, Harry cleared his throat and started again.

"I'm not feeling too good. Could - could I leave the table, please?"

Dumbledore nodded, but his face was thoughtful.

Harry slipped from his seat and walked across the Great Hall, feeling jerky and conscious that all the teachers were watching him go.

He felt calmer, but not better, when he entered the Entrance Hall. His joints still felt like they were held together by old rubber bands.

He decided to head back to the Library, pick up his stuff and go back to the dorm. The way he was feeling right now, he wasn't in the mood for any more studying.

He was three corridors away from the Gryffindor Common room when the pain hit him like a 16-wheeled Artic truck.

Harry didn't even have time to stop walking, to clap his hands to his scar, to cry out, to screw up his face. White screamed across his vision and his sight was lost completely to the yellow in his head that was his nerves exploding.

The agony was _unbelievable_.

Sheer pain filled his skull as his next step hit the floor, his knee crumpling fluidly and dragging the rest of his body down with it. His muscles were completely lax as the white lightning filled his head and Harry lost sense of self, lost the knowledge of himself, lost what it was like not to hurt, what it was like to live, all that filled the universe was whiter whiter pain hurt agony suffering

_no this was wrong this was too much the pain in his head white now red now whiteyellow not thoughts but feelings pain has consciousness all of its own_

_pain hitting the insides of his skull with force enough to lose all sense of self pain so unbelievably intense, yellow white stars burst in front of his vision as his skull filled with acid_

_all pain no hurt just pain pain pain head felt like it was being filled with sand yellow white red pain make it stop, stop now, please make it stop stop stop -_

_white white pain pure undiluted concentrated pain as head got heavier filled with universes breached a seal no more sanity no less walls mind open to whim of the stars_

Harry's eyes slowly opened as the pain, did not intensify (that would be impossible) but consisted. Staring vacantly at something that didn't exist, Harry's mind gave up all control, and accepted the pain. The agony took over Harry and passed out the other side...

_pain so unbelievable so intense like losing a dream when you wake up trying to grip onto the details but they slip away only backwards_

Harry blinked his eyes, and the pain stopped like a switch. He stared with surprising focus at the base of the wall opposite him.

He didn't know who he was. He had no concept of 'he'. For a single second, which lasted fully ten minutes to Harry's snail-slow brain, his self-possession was non-existent.

Slowly, details trickled in, like water through a dam. The floor was cold. Cold. He had a body. The floor was hard. Hard. He had a brain. The wall opposite was slimy. Slimy. He had eyes.

He blinked these new-found eyes and, oh so slowly, pushed himself up a little with the palms of his hands, sliding them down the stone floor until he was in a position to raise his torso from the floor and onto his side. Supporting his weight on his hip, the palm of his left hand and his right arm from the elbow to his fingers, the world slowly let slip little details to his brain.

This was the calm after the storm. His body felt strangely smooth and trouble-free.... a bit like plastic.

Harry's mind was completely and truly blank. No thoughts or emotions passed through his head. He blinked, and consciousness slowly crept back in. He blinked again. This seemed to be the key to be regaining control, and something in the back of his head was stirring. It felt like Himself.

Self-perception rose through the mists and calmly slipped back into place in his mind. Harry lay down and leaned his head against the cool stone floor. Every muscle in his body was completely relaxed. The tension he had not realised he'd been carrying in his shoulders was gone. Harry shut his eyes lightly.

Something told him that this could not last. Slowly, lightly, he pushed himself into a sitting position and stood. Everything was calm. Everything was right. Time to go, then. Such islands in life were not meant to exist for long.

He calmly picked up his bag. Every sense was heightened, every perception elevated, and he knew exactly what had just happened.

* * *

What's Next: Chapter 18

Snape was thinking as well. He watched the boy, unseeing, pace up and down, and let his own thoughts take control.

The sheer power that had been behind the boy's mind had been phenomenal. Snape knew that it was not force of mind that affected such attacks but pure determination... or an outside force...? And Snape thought, for a second, that maybe Potter had been trying to show him something, trying to make him see something subconsciously. Snape had no idea what in Gods' name it could have been. What did the Golden Boy have to show Snape, or even hide from him, that could be so important?

* * *

**one small instrument**: Hmm. We may have ourselves an intellectual here. Interesting.   
You do, at least, appear more intelligent that the average bear, which is always a good thing in a reviewer, despite your apparent fear of capital letters.   
Originally, it would be the whole fic in Snape's place, but I got bloody sick of that as well. I'm extraordinarily glad that I was writing this at least four months before I began posting it... the story plot has undergone so many different changes, I can't remember what the original storyline was. It had something to do with red books, I think.   
Yes, anyway, I rewrote a fair chunk of it to the dorms. Looking back, the dig at Snape by Harry seems a bit childish and I kind of wish I hadn't written it, but it gelled the end of that scene to the next one.   
'Both of the main characters play with their cards close to the vest'. Excellently put. I never really thought of it that way, but it seems to ring true enough.   
People ask me to keep updating. I'm asking you to keep reviewing.   
Cheers, too. 

**Sapphire Starlet**: Hi there.   
'Of it actually being funny'? Yes people keep saying this, but no-one ever points out the funny bits. I just don't get where it's amusing. Either it's intentional at a subconscious level, or my somewhat overly-cynical brain is found highly entertaining. Whatever.   
Snape is easy to provoke, and that's good. It makes digs easier... 'sonny jim' indeed.   
Yes, the sixth year dorms does belong to him, but he wanted the common room. Let me put it this way: if you were Harry, would you like to come downstairs and catch Severus Snape changing his clothing? I really don't think that, from Harry's perspective, he would particularly enjoy that.

**leggylover03**: In the words of Banksy (very famous London graffiti artist whose work has inspired many) I love ironies unless they're real. The ultimate irony... getting run over by an ambulance. Snigger.

**shelly101**: Yayyyy!!!

**ShadowedHand**: I'm glad that Harry has at least begun to fight back, in your opinion. I am not overly fond of very angry Harrys or pathetic Harrys... I'm glad I appear to have the right balance.

**Kalorna** **Enera**: Well, I'm glad that joke made someone happy, because it certainly didn't for me. I thought it was a bit too... you know, obvious, but it seems to have gone down well, so what the hell.   
I'm dithering with the idea of putting a bit in a later chapter where Snape goes absolutely mental, just because of how funny I could make it, but there seems to have been no room for it... yet.   
Myself and some of my friends have often discussed how it is unfair that New York gets snow like, every year, when it's my country that is usually rumoured to be the most dismal place for weather (possibly except Moscow) in the whole world. Growls.

**duj**: Thanks.

**sphinx12**: Yeah, I included that little peek at chapter 17 for several reasons. Firstly, I was afraid I was losing readers due to lack of action, so something was needed to keep 'em reading. Secondly, to emphasise this fact: there will be three, that's three, 3, tres, etc, major events in this fic, and this is the first.   
ORSON SCOTT CARD... yay... seriously, though I totally ripped his style off to write this fic. Ah well. Whatchagonnado.

**Vendethiel**: Most definitely.

**A. Person**: language arts... sounds fun... I've never heard of it. Schooling in America and in England is sooo different, don't you think? I'll keep an eye out for the book. I can probably order it from my library.   
Sorry I haven't been in touch as much as I should. I have my mock exams coming up in about a week (as I write this). In England, we have a set of MAJOR exams at the end of year eleven (I don't know what the equivalent is in America - we're a big bunch of 15-16 year olds.) called GCSEs which decide what courses we can take for things like College and University. We have a set of mock exams in November-December which decide which papers we take - higher (hard) or foundation (easier - although the max grade is only a C as opposed to A) and they are quite major. At the moment I'm revising hard for them, so updating is going to be interesting.

**Read300300**: Yeah, pretty much... I am totally wincing even as I read this. My friend Natalie has to have root canal as well, and the description of what it contained sounded nasty. Anyway... getting shot by a BB gun cannot be fun, and I understand this is a gross understatement. Let me just say that I hope you're feeling better real, real soon. : )   
And as far as pain goes, I think you're the one that's awesome for being able to handle a shot in the mouth by a BB gun.   
Yep, still wincing.

**forty-two dreams**: You make my story sound dull and monologue-ic, which is was. Ten points for observation. This is the first of three major events that will happen... and trust me, they're worth reading.

**sakura saisaka**: Dancing around a computer whilst onlookers stare in confusion and cotempt? Yeah, it's fun, isn't it?

**espergirl04**: "Battalions of riot police with rubber-bullet kisses, baton courtesy, service with a smile!" System are like... so... yeah. I got crushed last year at Leeds Festival when I saw them live. It was quite painful, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world.   
Bob Marley's okay, I'll grant you that. Jimi Hendrix rocks, Lenard Skynard is cool and Stevie Wonder is totally out there.   
Chop Suey is the REASON I started listening to System in the first place. I haven't seen the video (curses wildly)... yet.   
Nah, Snape ain't sentimental, just paranoid.

**FUBBAR**: Thanks, Danni. 'out of character'. Snape's human, live with it.

**Chip**: Yay. There will be much more Snapeiness, him being best character EVER, obviously.


	18. Thinking too much

Harry was sat, gazing at the fire, when Snape entered the common room.

"Professor," said Harry quietly, not breaking his gaze from the flickering flames.

"What?" spat Snape.

"I believe we will need to start Occlumency lessons early."

Snape narrowed his eyes. Potter sounded... strange. His choice of language sounded far too formal.

"Give me a reason why I should waste even more time trying to get you to bury your Gryffindor heritage and stop acting like the spoilt Golden Boy you are," drawled Snape, sitting down somewhat heavily in another armchair.

Harry didn't stop staring at the fire.

"Voldemort has just tried to break into my mind," he said quietly.

"Don't exaggerate. It was probably just a headache," growled Snape, massaging his own temple with his fingertips.

Harry slowly turned his head.

Acid green eyes penetrated Snape, and he felt something gently touch his consciousness. Snape felt fingers gain holds in his mental shields and slowly, inexorably, peel them back. Snape sat, rooted to the spot, unable to move as Potter carefully began to tear down some of the best structured mental shields -

Harry suddenly shut his eyes hard, and Snape felt the power release him. Harry kept his eyes shut, but the calm exterior had disappeared; instead, a mixture of panic, misery and shock replaced it.

"God, I - what - what did I just do?"

"You just began to strip away my shields," said Snape in a perfectly level tone.

Harry locked eyes with Snape again, but there was no penetrating gaze there this time; just acid green worry.

"_How did I do that?_"

Snape was unnerved, and as a result, his face was completely unreadable. God alone knew how much power this boy harboured.

Snape chose to ignore this question for something much more pressing.

"Voldemort has just tried to get into your mind, you said."

Harry shook his head, stood up and began to pace from one end of the common room to the other.

"Yes," he said simply, rubbing his scar. It felt a little tender. Harry was not surprised. He would never again think anything else was nearly as painful as what he had just been though. Bring on cruciatus, torture, end-of-year exams - nothing would ever quite be as searing as the pure, white-yellow pain that had totally taken over his system.

It wasn't even pure white pain. It was the kind of pain, the kind of heat and light you associate within the heart of a star; an overload of the senses until human words can no longer describe it.

Voldemort could be trying to do any number of things; possess his body, possess his subconscious, or even merely talk to him. There was the faintest flash of a grin at that one. Why the hell would _Voldemort_ want to _talk_ to him?

Snape had already realised that Potter was hiding things from himself, as well as from others. Could these have fashioned walls inside Potter's head, walls which not even he could breach, and walls which behind lurked a persona of the boy's personality? A character who wanted Snape to know something?

Why?

What was there for Snape to see?

... well, what did he know? Some part of Potter had tried to break through to Snape. Potter had managed to overrule it, and with no idea of what had just occurred. Potter was still bloody hopeless at clearing his mind. Was it possible that the boy was trying to stand on his own, and had had to break off a part of his subconscious, to store those memories he did not want to see during the day? And this part of him melted away during the night, releasing a flood, a torrent of nightmares. And during the day it kept him sane.

It was not a split-personality, gods, no. This was merely Potter trying to defend himself, trying to keep himself sane. It was working damn well, too.

"Did Voldemort gain access to you mind?" Snape barked suddenly. Potter mutely shook his head.

Aha... this hidden part of Potter's psyche was also protecting him... Voldemort planted an attack quite firmly at Potter's mind, but it bypassed this walled-up snippet of subconsciousness, and without the full target to hit the end result was failure.

Oh... oh dear.

"Potter," said Snape harshly, standing up. "Sit down."

For once, Snape noticed with mild amusement, Potter did what he was told without asking. A calm look had come over the boy's face. Snape highly suspected Potter had managed to gain control of himself, and was fighting his internal battles without displaying this on the outside. He was good at that. Stoicism in one so young was a rare thing.

Snape took a few paces forward, until he was towering over the boy. Emotionless eyes locked with his own, and once again Snape was startled by how old they looked.

"Now listen to me, very carefully, Potter," he began in a low voice. "It is _absolutely_ _crucial_ that you clear your mind, that you occlude your mind every night before going to sleep. It is crucial. _Do you understand?_"

Potter nodded and Snape took a step back.

"Stay here. I have to go talk to the headmaster."

In a flourish, Snape was gone.

llllllllll

Snape returned to the Gryffindor Common room to find Potter, to Snape's relief, exactly where he'd left him. It had been roughly half an hour since Snape had left.

Potter was staring intently into the fire. Too intently.

"Wake up, Potter," barked Snape. Potter blinked, but that was the only sign he gave to display that he knew that Snape was there.

Snape paced across the room, and sat down in another armchair. Potter was idly plucking at the fabric of the right arm of his armchair; by the looks of the frayed and exhausted cloth, this was an old past-time.

Snape moved his own gaze to the fire, and ran his eyes over the fireplace. In contrast the the usual Gryffindor frippery, it was quite plain, and simply-carved black stone. The dark rock absorbed some of the heat from the fire, Snape supposed, and that kept the room warm long after the fire had gone out. Gryffindors were stupid, but they weren't impractical.

Harry was trying not to think. He wasn't feeling well again.

After the impromptu assault on his brain, his mind was feeling overheated. Glancing out of the window, he judged that it was about one o'clock. Amazing that the whole charade had taken about three quarters of an hour; feeling ill, leaving the table, Voldemort hitting his mind wham-bam with enough force to make him forget he was alive.

Harry had more than enough reason to expect it again. He really wasn't looking forward to it.

His mind felt blank, but Harry assumed tiredly it was because he didn't feel too good. His head hurt a little from where he'd hit it on his route to the floor, during Voldemort's attack.

He settled himself more comfortably and rested his head on the wing of the chair, closing his eyes. It was a couple of minutes before he drifted into darkness.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What's Next: Chapter 19

_The first ray of light that heralded Christmas crept wonderingly over the horizon, illuminating the snow-capped trees and the frozen ground in a golden gaze._

_Everything was quiet for a few long, long seconds. Pure silence: a rare resource that only the fortunate encounter…_

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**Jen:** Will do.

**shelly101:** Tee hee... hope the above is as good an answer as you wanted.

**starinthedark11:** Thanks!

**PadfootsNoxed:** -Blushes- awww, thanks.

**reachout:** I find your argument interesting, and not only because you appear to have a pathological fear of capital letters and punctuation.  
Okay:  
1) You don't have to agree with it. This is your God/Allah/Insert-deity-or-government-of-choice given right.  
2) I would not know. I have never committed suicide.  
3) Generally speaking, I do not just 'live'. Bacteria just 'live'. If I just 'lived', where would my sentience go?  
4) I don't really think there is a meaning to life, apart from to support a few choice proteins called DNA and help them reproduce.  
4 1/2) Why wouldn't you try to define the meaning of life? Douglas Adams, I feel, summed it up quite nicely: 42. Makes perfect sense. Besides, I did a lot of research when I wrote this, stealing a few viewpoints here and there, and it proved to be an interesting experience. While I may never pin down a satisfactory argument, at least I learned something along the way.  
5)If there are holes in every argument, then why do you think 'every idea is valid'? Holes invalid idea.  
6) I was stealing a few existentialist ideas taken from philosophers such as Jean Paul Sartre ("Existentialism and Humanism") and Albert Camus ("The Myth of Sisyphus" and "The Plague"). While I generally regard existentialists as strange people, I feel that, as in every argument posed by a philosopher, there is a grain of truth. If my argument is 'not sufficient', then take it up with French existentialism and its wide cult of followers, not me.

**ShadowedHand:** Thanks! I got a little tired with angsty titles... they were beginning to sound mournfully rubbish, so I went for a little... detail.  
Three major events... next is (checks story in progress) in about 5 or 6 chapters...? I don't know, I tend to restructure the story as I go along.  
Snape WILL get better... eventually.

**sakura saisaka:** I do try.

**Sapphire Starlet:** Hmmm indeed...  
Snape changing? Ewwwww. I bet there's more meat on a butcher's pencil than on him. Is he a teacher, or do they use him in the hallowe'en decor?  
Yes, I am slight p that the pain spell was predictable, but what the hell.  
Snape isn't going to get sympathetic for a while, but he will do eventually. I just love their mutual dislike. It makes confrontations entertaining.  
Please keep reading!!

**leggylover03:** You'd really be quite surprised. Actually, no, you wouldn't, it's got Snape in, after all.

**one small instrument:** I shall of course, keep updating. I hope this is satisfactory. I would say this is more of a symbiotic relationship (between reviewer and writer) than anything else.  
What would be wonderful would be you telling me some of these traps (or e-mailing them to me, if you think someone might get REALLLLY offended). I do know what you're talking about... specifically, for me, it is when Snape gets sappy within the first five seconds/minutes/chapters.  
I have been recently re-writing chapter 27 (don't hate me all those other reviewers who are, for some reason, reading this.) and I worry constantly about whether I am, as you say, slipping into the time-honoured groove of crappy predictability. It's not pleasant, I can tell you. That is the advantage of writing ahead, however - you can change the plot at a moment's notice. This has happened, oh, eight or nine times now, with about a billion different endings... strange, as how I haven't actually written the ending... just the last chapter.  
I'm impressed you've been reviewing my old author notes, although I'm not quite sure why. Never mind.  
I know exactly why I'm impressed in other areas, however. You seem to have author styles down to a sixteen-figure decimal point. Your accuracy with how you describe some authors is really quite startling. I've pondered that very same issue myself, and I think I've come up with a hypothesis.  
All authors see the characters in their own way, and when they write a fanfic these impressions jump out all over the place - and the author assumes we know this. For example: an author might think that Snape has a big pink squishy soft side and leaps into the fic with that presumption. We instantly get a side of Snape that is soft and mournful - we know Harry/Draco/insert-character-here and Snape are going to have a big happy hug-therapy style thing, and it kind of ruins it. The way I see it, people build up impressions involving their favourite characters and then act out scenarios they want to see happen between them.  
I'm very flattered that you think that I could lead the reader along in such a way... character development has never been something I've taken a lot of notice in but I do like to expand a character's thoughts. That is probably the reason why I wrote Conscienceness (one of my other fics). Some people aren't too keen on the philosophy but there you go. (I am adding one more chapter to that from Snape's POV but I'm not sure if it would ruin what the fic is already about. Comments would be useful. Hint hint.)  
Besides. Actionnyness comes soon.  
That is a very fair point. I suppose because my handwriting is all loopy, these formal letters will do to balance out my writing.  
Your 'prattling' is entertaining. I do so love long reviews. Do review in a major way next time as well.

**Shadowed Rains:** Yes, I know the problem... lousy narrowband connection and only one phone line. You can either have friends via e-mail or friends via the phone line, not both. It's a bugger.  
I am somewhat flattered that you are reading my author notes.  
IT SNOWED WHERE I LIVE!!! FINALLY!!! Cough. Yes. Because I live on the top of a valley, and there are lots of fields nearby. and I have a sledge... let me just say I think I'm mildly conscussed after attaining speeds of about mach 2. Snow where I live is kinda cool... it usually hangs around for a while as well. Then you have all the pretty scenery... sigh... I love where I live. I'm going to take photos of where I live in every season and post them on the internet someplace.  
'My writing style is unique, just like everybody else's...' I've always found comments along those lines extremely enteraining. They're something to giggle mindlessly at.  
Hey, stick with your notes... if you didn't copy me word-for-word then you're notes will be as original as they can be... if anything, mine aren't. I took a fairly commonly-used scenario of Harry/Snape. Do an all-ratings angst search between Harry and Snape and you come up with about 44 pages of the stuff.  
I daresay fanfiction did indeed let you send your review, judging by my response.

**sphinx12:** Thankyou!

**Shea Loner**: Nyawwwwwwwww... I like it so much, I am dedicating this chapter to you. As you already may have noticed. Hey, I'm writing this before the chapter's posted, so... yeah. Whatever. I have decided, from this point on, whoever writes poetry will have a chapter dedicated to them.

**ilikebooks:** Do you indeed? So do I.  
Perhaps... or perhaps not. Follow the story and find out. -cackles insanely for no apparent reason-

**texasjeanette:** Thankyou. Stumped, eh? Hope this answered a few questions...

**BlownAway56:** 'Prestigious fanfic writers'? Oo-er. I may have to upgrade the quality of my writing. '-'  
Yes, I was wondering when someone would pick up on that. I put in the first one and waited for a couple of chapters to see if anyone would notice, and decided to make it a personal challenge to see how long I could plagiarise the man before it called attention. Frankly I'm amazed it waited this long. There is a fourth reference (the last Terry Pratchett I used) knocking around in one of the chapters that you have failed to spot. Let's see if you can find it.  
I intend to try and find a space for a Dark Lord reference (a vague re-write of lines 1-33, page 285 of 'The Last Continent') merely because it would be extremely entertaining. I'll give him his due credit for that one, of course.

**espergirl04:** Yeah, although I have to say that 'Aerials' is probably the most bizarre song on Toxicity.

**duffy:** 'It doesn't go anywhere'? There's gotta be balance. BAAALLLLAAAANCE. Sorry, I just wanted to say that.


	19. White

Hey everyone. This is my Christmas episode of the Wingbroken saga, and rest assured its timing was completely accidental. I had no idea that I would be posting this around Christmas. Still, the timing _does_ make for a happy coincidence.

I would like to take this opportunity to note that, as far as reviews go, I am taking up far too much space for their responses. Therefore, I am no longer going to respond to reviewers who post the shorter reviews. Rest assured the reviews are read (they're a matter of my pride and they over-indulge my ego… why wouldn't I?) but after this post I can only respond to reviewers who a) ask questions or b) say something I find interesting. And as I find the word 'spadoinkle' interesting, chances are I'll reply to you.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

* * *

Harry awoke on Christmas Eve's morning feeling tired, sleepy, and not in the best state of health.

He glanced over to the armchair where he'd last seen Snape watching the fire over steepled fingertips, and found it empty.

Someone give the man a white fluffy cat to stroke, and the image would be perfect, he found himself thinking grumpily.

His head ached, and his body was stiff. Harry sat up, and instantly regretted it, and lay down again; a wave of nausea engulfed him. Hestood up again,carefully. He walked jerkily over to the three-seater sofa, and lay down again, but something was missing.

He stood up _again_, not relishing the way the blood pounded in his temples, or the sudden shivers that seemed to have taken control of his muscles. Glancing around the room, he spotted Snape's cloak. Walking over to it, he carefully unhooked it from the wall and retreated (a little unsteadily) to the sofa. Curling up on the cushions, Harry pulled the thick, heavy material over him and drew his knees up to his chest. Still shivering, he closed his eyes and waited for oblivion.

llllllllll

Snape descended the stairs without much thought to anything other than the disgusting taste in decor the Gryffindors had. Whoever had chosen the colours ought to be drowned in a vat of their own red dye -

Wait, it had been Godric Gryffindor, hadn't it? Oh, well. Pity he was already dead.

Snape's eyes cast over the form on the sofa.

Potter was curled into a ball with Snape's own cloak covering him.

Snape managed to bypass this fact, and instead jumped straight onto Potter's shivering.

The boy was horribly pale and horribly weak-looking. Snape moved around the sofa swiftly and touched the boy on the shoulder.

"Potter! Potter, wake up! Can you hear me?"

Potter opened his eyes, ad squinted up at Snape.

"Whaddyouwant?"

"A reason why you are lying on a couch with, may I add, _my_ cloak, with what looks like some kind of illness?"

"Jus' feel a bit funny," mumbled Potter, and sunk his head underneath Snape's cloak. Snape snarled and ripped the cloak away from Harry. Harry curled up suddenly as the coolness of the room struck him.

"Hospital wing. Now," said Snape venomously.

Harry was still fully dressed. He sat up, swayed a little with dizziness, and stood up. Snape grabbed Harry's elbow as the boy stumbled.

"Good Merlin," muttered Snape irritatedly. He led the boy over to the fireplace, and withdrawing a small bottle from his pocket, he threw its contents onto the fire. The flames began to burn an emerald green. Snape pushed Potter in, stepped after him and snarled "Hospital Wing of Hogwarts!"

This was exactly what Harry did not need.

Fireplace after fireplace flickered past him, and the feeling of nausea in him began to build.

Without warning, his feet hit the hard stone of the Hospital Wing's fireplace, and his knees buckled. Snape quickly pulled on Harry's shoulder to stop him collapsing completely.

"You wouldn't have a favourite bed, by any chance?" remarked Snape snidely. Harry still felt well enough to shoot him a death glare, and simply headed to the one at the furthest end of the Wing. It had the largest window, and caught the morning sunlight quite well.

Madam Pomfrey bustled in.

"What is it this time?" he said with a sigh of resignation. Harry simply glared at Snape. Snape raised his eyes to the rafters.

"God knows, Madam Pomfrey," he drawled. "Symptoms: fever, shaking, nausea -"

"How did you know that one?" demanded Harry, although his voice was weak.

"One look at your face on the way here was enough."

Harry rolled his eyes and flomped onto the bed.

Snape turned his back to Harry, and shook his head.

"What an annoying brat," he muttered.

"Hey, you're not exactly a bundle of roses yourself, sonny jim," came the snarl from behind him.

Madam Pomfrey took one look at Snape's expression and burst into laughter. Snape turned with a feral snarl, drew his wand, and began to advance towards Harry's bed, but Madam Pomfrey grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back.

_I'll give him 'sonny jim'_, thought Snape furiously, but Madam Pomfrey pulled him around.

"He's got a point," she snapped, but there was a twinkle of laughter in her eyes and around the corners of her mouth. "I can take care of him from here."

Snape threw one last vitriolic glare at Potter and stalked from the room, robes flying out behind him.

llllllllll

Harry lay on his back and stared at the afternoon sunlight playing along the ceiling. Pomfrey had given him a potion to counteract his fever, but it wasn't working very well.

He felt a bit like he did after he came out of Snape's Occlumency lessons, but raised to the power of fourteen and a third.

Was it possible that every time someone tried to break into his mind his body's defences were lowered - including his immune system? It was entirely possible...

Harry turned onto his side and tried to sleep.

llllllllll

Snape paced the Gryffindor Common room furiously.

'_Sonny Jim?' Jesus Christ! It was arrogant the first time..._

Snape turned on his heel and started to stalk away from the window. Angrily, his fist swept around and hit the wall. Turning, he kicked at Potter's trunk, and heard something inside it shatter. It didn't budge much, but then again, it was quite heavy.

Snape stood and silently fumed, clenching and unclenching his hands. The way that brat wound him up was doing his head in -

Snape stood, breathing hard. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself down and think straight.

Right. It was only a comment, a comment that he no doubt had coming.

_What right do you have to anger one and then get angry yourself when they return the favour?_ his mind whispered. Snape smirked. Severus Snape, have a conscience?

Still, the cool calm and collected part of him called to him, hovering in the higher part of his brain:

_You know, even thought Dumbledore didn't tell you straight out, it was your job to protect the boy. You have unofficially been delegated the task of to make sure Harry does not end up sliding so far that he sees no point to living any more._

_Don't scowl. There are two Potters. They are both different, you know this. Do not confuse them._

_You know what it is like to have no-one listening. You, more than anyone, should listen to him._

_He could end up turning out like you. _

Snape pounded the wall again in frustration. This was _not happening_! Not only had he been press-ganged into being Potter's baby-sitter, he had to serve as the Golden Boy's therapist and now he was getting a battering from his own conscience!

Am I _not being tortured enough? As well as having to spy I have to suffer in Hogwarts?_

Snape sat down wearily and rubbed his face. Wasn't The-Boy-Who-Lived having a cushy enough time in the Muggle world? What in the name of all things holy, unholy and Fred and George Weasley was there to help with?

llllllllll

_The first ray of light that heralded Christmas crept wonderingly over the horizon, illuminating the snow-capped trees and the frozen ground in a golden gaze._

_Everything was quiet for a few long, long seconds. Pure silence: a rare resource that only the fortunate encounter._

_The sun raised its face to Hogwarts; golden light cast over the solid stone, the grey brickwork, and reflected from the windows, returning the sun's favour._

_The entire castle was bathed in gold. An onlooker would have seen the way that the light caressed even the most sharpest of edges, momentarily rendering them softer and happier. The light slid up the castle, slipped through a window and gently touched the face of a young man who had sat up past midnight to ponder why, on this sweet Earth, that such a thing as Evil could be allowed. And why Good could never win. Equilibrium was not a fine balance, but it was a balance nonetheless. Tip the scales, and there is nothing left to conquer. For good or evil._

_There were no onlookers. The boy was asleep. The light illuminated the scar, casting shadows deep within it; if it was possible to believe, you could almost see it fade a little against the golden hues of the rising sun. Light slid over skin, pale and untouched by the years. It glinted on blue highlights deep in his hair, and softened the shadows of his pronounced jawbone._

_The light also crept into thin, almost untraceable lines around the boy's eyes. The light appeared to know they should not be here; the brightness of the rays blotted them out completely._

_Still, it was silent._

_An almost golden glow enveloped the boy sat on the windowsill of Gryffindor tower; a boy who had crept back to the common room in the early hours of the morning so he could know he was safe, so that he could know that he was in a familiar place._

_A boy who understood nothing anymore. A man who did not know whose eyes he was looking through._

_Where was the distinction? Where was the line that separated the two?_

_The boy's eyes still did not open. Sleep was a precious mercy._

_They say that Christmas is a magical time and it is, oh it is. Just how magical it is, no-one knows. And just what the magic is, no-one will ever know._

_Until someone could stay awake and watch this... not dawn, this rebirth of the world, no-one could know. But it will never happen. Some things are not meant to be seen by human eyes._

_... but who is to decide what is human anymore?_

_For now, this boy slept on in peace, unworried and dreamless. Maybe the magic would last, and maybe it wouldn't._

_Then again, what does?_

* * *

What's Next: Chapter 20

Everything seemed different. The forest, the earth itself... had there been a magical overflow? As Harry looked out of the window, he noted that everything seemed... glad. Glad that there was a new day, glad that the white, dead blanket of snow was all part of... well, everything.

* * *

**one small instrument:** May as well respond to your review for Conscienceness here.  
Yes, anonymity does usually hold a certain appeal. Damn website. Someone I know had a load of fanfics deleted. Apparently they were chat, which they most blatantly weren't. 's good, but it can get on your nerves sometimes.  
Yes... I specialise in blatant subtlety.  
Er.  
Anyway, I'm glad you read it. I'm responding here because if I ever do write another chapter for Conscienceness, God knows when I would post it.  
Reading over this review as I type this response, someone certainly has been reading their dictionary, haven't they? 'Binary deconstruction'... you use longer words than I do. I'm impressed.  
Having superimposed personalities on characters is something I will point out in later chapters of Wingbroken - the idea that a person is caricatured by the other, every obvious feature standing out... in Snape's case, all greasy hair, yellow teeth, big nose and evil voice. It is possible to view these characters as human, but it is hard to do so, what with J.K.Rowling presenting the characters as they are... i.e. from one point of view. I think, in Conscienceness, I just wanted to separate minds from faces... perhaps the mental caricatures, and not the physical.  
I think, as far as good vs. evil goes, I've always had a kind of obsession with it. This is why as soon as I can access , I'll be posting my first original fic - the idea of Heaven vs. Hell, and what happens when you combine the two. (Yes, I've been reading Paradise Lost again.). Fingers crossed I won't get shot down too badly.  
You do have a point about balance... it's a necessity in life.  
I don't know if I could have another chapter to this fic. Writing the Snape one gave me, for some reason, a lot of fun, and it was constructed in under twenty minutes. The only problem I have is that, after writing something, I will perpetually go back and alter it... thank God I posted the chapter before it became completely unrecognisable.  
Anyway, I've exhausted both POVs. I wondered for a short while if I could write a chapter from the castle's POV... magic seeps into the walls over thousands of years, stone becomes sentient, etc etc etc... but I gave up on that. I didn't know what to write, to put it simply.  
Hey, have you ever, like, gone into a field and just screamed? It's called a Primal Scream, and apparently is very good for you. That's where the line "never tried to find time to scream" came from.  
As for the Dr Seuss connection, I never thought of it like that... I guess I was too busy filling in the numbers. Should I write a new chapter... hmmm, red for anger, blue for depression... interesting.  
I'll have to think about that...

**Thirteen Ravens:** Several things to say here.  
1) Sorry to disappoint you on the whole 'drapes' front... I guess I've read too many stereotypical Snape fics, and romanticizing him to the point of drapes (dear God) was just a little beyond me.  
2) Okay - you have a very valid point about the whole 'sonny-jim' thing, but there is an explanation behind that. Which has eluded me. I think it's just because I was writing and the words came out, and I let a little of myself into the characters... humour me, it's a fanfic. : )  
3) 'miserable ass' may not be Britishy, but perhaps it could be more in tune with my patriotism if Harry was referring to...er... Snape as a donkey. It ruins the whole context of the sentence, but it fits. It fits, right?  
4) 'Snerk'? I totally love that word now. Yayness for snerk.  
Okay, generally: I'm glad you like the fic to the point of reviewing almost every chapter, it makes me feel all warm and toasty inside. Nyaaaaw.

**starinthedark11: **Chrimbo. Yayness!

**dead feather:** I'm glad you like my writing... this is why I post, you know. All this praise HAS to be going to my head, it's only natural, I suppose.  
My chapters?! Short?! Yes, tragic as it may seem... I average 1200 - 1500 words a chapter, to keep it paced right. Ideally, I'd like to post longer, but I've hit a little bit of writer's block at the moment and I need to sort out the storyline... hence short chapters.  
Yes, I am fifteen. My beta is even younger than I am and is responsible for checking for spelling mistakes: on average there are three per chapter. Recently she has been complaining of my making her job obsolete (I'm being more careful with the spellchecker), but I wouldn't write without her: she really has an eye for the way I sometimes let characters drift a bit. Although I have to say, with some pride, everything I write is entirely original... my beta, wonderful person as she is, does not help me write it. I still wouldn't post a chapter without letting her review it first, though. She's smarter than she lets on sometimes.  
I think the reason you wouldn't have guessed I was fifteen is because (I am frequently told that) I harbour far too much cynicism that would be healthy for my age... plus a small dash of existentialism, which isn't healthy at all.  
I would love to accept the title of Bloody Genius and will wear it with pride and not just a touch of egocentricity.

**Lil Ole Me 97:** Yay. Also, thanks for the inspiration to write a second chapter of Conscienceness... I hope it was readable.

**duj:** I have now. I've explored some of them, but they're not really to my taste... Harry being Snape's son has never quite clicked... it's too bizarre.

**shelly101:** I'm happy you like this story. It makes me go all blushy.

**A. L. C.:** Writing more chaps... actually I'm working on the last ten chapters as we speak, but don't worry, there WILL be plenty more to come.

**Shadowed Rains:** Yes, you did indeedy write that. You seem to have a classic case of "I'm schizophrenic and so am I" syndrome, i.e. you can talk to yourself coherently. It sounds fun.  
Yeah. Snow melted pretty quickly but that's snow for you.  
Thanks... keep reviewing!

**A. Person: **Yes, the author notes are dragging out a bit, but I like to be able to talk to my reviewers. Even if it does take up half of the space of the page. Um er.  
I like your style ('why or why not were the character's lives meaningless')... you'd make an excellent philosophy student, you know.  
Year eleven is two years above your current grade (you are two years younger than me, right?) so guess that's probably equivalent to eleventh/twelfth grade. Yes, it's spelt twelfth... but your spelling isn't all that bad. It's like no one knows how to pronounce 'sixth'... just one of those 'things'.

**sakura saisaka:** Green Day totally rock, although they lost a little bit of credibility when they went mainstream... still, if people want to buy their records, you can't stop them. Blvd of Broken Dreams' video was good, because the director took a lit cigarette and a comb to the celluloid on which it as filmed, so you get some really cool visual effects... although in the video, when he says 'I walk alone', he isn't, which is interesting and proves once Again that logic can destroy some of the nicer things in life.  
And since when did Billy Joe become suddenly, inexplicably fit?

**espergirl04:** Voldemort had nothing to do with it. I'm not quite sure where it will go, but it plays a biiiig role in later chapters.

**ShadowedHand:** My writing is indeed happy. Thankyou!  
You make my writing sound like a river... 'purpose, direction, cool'... funky.

**Sapphire Starlet:** Interactions are the favourite part of my fic I suppose. No, Harry won't become possessed.

**Pleione:** Keep reviewing!

**minathia:** 'Blah'?

**CharmedKy:** I will.

**chip:** Crimbo. I love Chrimbo... yay!

**KrazeyForever**: Are you indeed?  
Sorry, getting distracted. Anyway, thanks for your comments... they made me go all red and blushy... .

**Kalorna Enera:** "So there is a subconscious of Harry's that keeps all the memories locked away in the daytime, but unleashes them into nightmares to keep him sane?" Er... yes? Nice way to summarise it. I have read up on this stuff. It's a particular kind of psychosis - for example, Wolverine from X-Men has it (but in a WAAAAY more advanced case). What happens is, the conscious mind REFUSES to pay attention to all this horror, so it gets subdued by the subconscious. The mind heals it over and tries to start again. The problem with this is either a) the victim loses all memory prior to the event, b) the problem is not addressed and it causes major psychological damage, c) the mind tries to vent it in ways like nervous breakdowns, nightmares and suchlike (the equivalent of a safety valve to stop the victim going insane) or any two/all of the above. The most common is c). World War I and II casualties were advised to spend a bit of each day remembering the horrors of the war... it kept them from depression and mental damage.  
I do ramble a bit, don't I? Anyway...  
Yes, chapters have recently begun to get shorter. Sorry about that. Hoping to rectify the problem.  
I think winter's okay... except I have, for the last three days (and today), been bedridden and hacking up chunks of what appears to be lung tissue. Winter's cool (excuse the pun) but the colds/flu/chest infections/viruses-in-general that come with it are no fun. No fun at all.


	20. Christmas

For those who are interested, the 2nd chapter of Conscienceness is up and running.  
Please please please review it. Please. I may not write another chapter of it. Please please please.

* * *

Harry slowly opened his eyes.

Immediately, he was hit full on by the happy sunlight that blasted in through the window. Harry frowned.

Everything seemed different. The forest, the earth itself... had there been a magical overflow? As Harry looked out of the window, he noted that everything seemed... glad. Glad that there was a new day, glad that the white, dead blanket of snow was all part of... well, everything. Nature had its cycles. The plants did not resent the snow; it was a calm break from the constant struggle of trying to be better than its peers.

Strange.

Harry shifted position slightly, uncomfortable with the feeling within him. It was neither optimism, nor happiness... it felt warm and earthy, like soil which has seen a few hours of sunlight. It felt attached to the earth itself.

Had there been a magical explosion? It was the only way Harry could have seen so much happiness in a few square feet of earth he picked randomly from his window.

Harry stood and stretched. Placing his hands on the windowsill, he carried on looking at the sunlit grounds. There was too much to look at.

He heard the footsteps coming down the steps. However, he did not turn his head. _Let Snape come down in his own time. Let him see that I'm here and well -_

Well? Yes, all trace of the fever was gone. Harry rubbed his forehead, shrugged, closed his eyes and let the light coming in through the windows turn that amber-red colour only ever seen behind the privacy of eyelids. It was peaceful; it was calm. It was all he needed for the time being. He slowly tried releasing the tension from his shoulders, felt it stretch the web of muscle between neck and shoulder blade. It was not a pleasant sensation, but it was different from the stress.

"Well, well," drawled a voice behind him. Harry didn't rise to the challenge. He was feeling too calm. "Trust Harry Potter to judge when he is ready to leave the Hospital Wing."

"Fever's gone. Nausea's gone. Dizziness is gone. Why would I want to stay?"

"Because sometimes the effects of viruses hibernate."

"I don't think it was viral."

"Really." Contempt.

"Professor," said Harry, delicately biting off the word like it was something unpleasant, "Do you remember back to our Occlumency lessons? Every time, I would come from them feeling like I had come down with some sort of illness. My guess is that my body does not react too well to a mental attack."

It was the longest sentence so far. Harry didn't say anything else. The ball was in Snape's court now.

Harry could feel the contempt burning through the back of his skull, but he didn't even allow himself to tighten his knuckles on the windowsill. He had spoken everything in a bored, I-have-better-things-to-do voice, and with quite a formal use of language. Now it was Snape's move.

Harry stared resolutely out of the window. It had begun to snow again, a gentle flurry of fluffy white flakes.

"And do you know that for sure?"

Harry gave it a moment's thought.

"Yes," he said simply. He pushed himself away from the windowsill, circumnavigated Snape and hunted through his trunk for clean clothing.

"What time is it?"

"Half past eight."

He pictured Snape arching an eyebrow in his mind, and allowed himself a wry smile as he twisted his neck right around, catching a glimpse of the man's expression.

Harry glanced at the pile of presents, and decided they could wait for him. Digging out some clean clothing from his trunk, he waited until Snape had retreated upstairs again to get changed. Swinging his cloak about his shoulders, he beat a path to the outside world.

llllllllll

The world looked like an amazingly tacky Christmas Cake decoration.

The snow was powdery, glittery, and crunched underfoot. The trees, once so dark and menacing, now begrudgingly wore little mantles of stark white which gave them a comic appearance. The mountains were no longer snow-capped but snow-covered, and the castle itself looked like a quite astonishingly cheap Lego model.

The wind was totally still, and Harry didn't like that. It lent the atmosphere an insanely cheerful mood, the land a Christmas-card type of look and the air a strangely dead quality. There were surprisingly few sounds; few bird calls, not very many animal noises... Harry didn't like it. The happiness in the air seemed to have become slightly tainted. There seemed to be no… solemnity.

Still. Whatchagonnado.

Harry retreated back inside. The cool air had slapped some sense of reality back, and he returned to the Common Room.

llllllllll

Harry dumped his cloak and hooked his foot around the nearest present. It was for him and bore Ron's scruffy handwriting. It was quite large, and very heavy.

_Don't open this in company_, the label read_. This stuff isn't on the market yet. Fred and George say hi..._

Harry carefully slit open the paper with a poker for the fire. He found a handsomely carved wooden box. He cracked open the lid carefully, shut it even more so and very gingerly placed the box on the floor below him. Dear God, that box probably had enough explosives, practical joke equipment and prank stuff to blow the roof off of Hogwarts.

He checked the next present. It was from Hermione. He weighed it speculatively. It was book-shaped. This did not bode well...

He slowly slit the paper down the side, and slid out a plain-covered book. Opening the first page, his eyes stared.

_How to become an Animagus_, it read. Harry closed the cover and placed it next to Ron's present. Were all of his gifts going to be illegal?

Evidently not. Mrs Weasley's were a black jumper with a single white lightning bolt down the left arm, and a stack of home-made mince pies. Harry grinned and pulled the jumper over his head, feeling the static making his hair stick up even more.

Hagrid's present turned out to be rock cakes and a satchel made out of some strange, flexible, silvery-blue material. Harry prodded it carefully. When it failed to move, snap, bite or in any other way attempt to remove a limb, Harry deemed it safe to investigate. There was a note tucked into the bag:

_Harry  
__This bag is made from the skin of a Swedish Short-Snout dragon skin (witch died of old age), with a bit of Augury feather powder aded. This means it shoud be protected agenst asid, fire, water and ink. Think you mite need it for seventh year!  
__Hagrid_

Harry was impressed. His dragonskin gloves had been dear enough. How much had this cost?

The only other feasible explanation was that Hagrid knew the location of a Short-Snout that had died and had... well, it was plausible. Occasionally the school needed dragon-based supplies.

Harrygrinned and set the gift aside. There were a couple more left, which contained the usual sweets from some of his classmates.

Harry turned back to his pile, and noticed something he had missed.

It was a white muggle envelope with his name on the front. Interested, he slit it open with a finger and pulled out the white sheet of A4 paper inside, folded into thirds.

_Boy, you'd better bloody well stay at that freak school this Christmas. We don't want you back, not now, not ever. If it wasn't that you have those freaks protecting you we'd kick you out right now. We want you to stay out of our lives until you have to return to our house. We had a visit from one of you people a few days ago, and we have NEVER been so embarrassed. This is all your fault, boy, and you'd better bloody recognise it. Tell your kind to stay away from my family and away from my house. I don't give a damn about Dementoids or Voldymort. You just stay away._

Harry stared at the letter in shock for several seconds. The sheer vitriol with which it had been written came something as a surprise to Harry, who had not expected to hear from the Dursleys. Normally, Harry could let such talk go straight over his head, but the fact it had been sent on Christmas... and the hatred behind the letter was unmistakable. It was meant, with every cruel word and taunting phrase.

Harry kept his face steady, and doubled his grip on the paper. He brought his knees up to his chest, and stared as hard as he could out of the window. This made him feel worse, so he stared at the wall opposite, breath calming.

Tears blurred his vision, and he buried his face in his knees, trying desperately to regain some composure.

A lump rose in his throat, and he recognised it. It was an oooooooold friend. He'd felt it quite a few times before.

_No-one wants me_, it said. _I'm just a distraction. I'm not needed. All I need to do is kill Voldemort, then I won't exist. My purpose is over as a human being._ _Everyone else gets to choose their own destinies, or else fate takes care of it for them. Me, I have to commit murder in cold blood in order to save the millions of gallons of warm blood around the globe. Once I've done that, or failed, I have nothing left._

Through this, Harry allowed himself a wry smile. He'd turned into a typical angstly teen. Hooboy.

He raised his face a little, and cleared his face in concentration.

_...lock all the memories away, lock the emotion away in a little box and store it away... make sure he will not have to look it in the face... it can wait, HE rules his emotions, not the other way around, he is weak, he will not wear his heart on his sleeve like Snape has said so many times before..._

Harry shook his ahead a little to clear it, feeling better already. He tossed the letter indifferently aside, and glanced at the stairs... Snape was coming down them, engrossed in a thick letter.

Snape finished reading it and looked at a vivid green parcel under the tree somewhat suspiciously.

"It won't open itself," drawled Harry, sounding to his own ears a bit like Draco Malfoy. "I daresay Mrs. Weasley has forgone the usual jumper, in your case."

Snape's eyes slid with distaste over the black one Harry was wearing. It wasn't as knobbly as it usually was, but it still bespoke Weasleyness with every stitch.

Harry looked pointedly at the parcel, and back to Snape's face.

The thought came to him as calmly as you please.

_Snape isn't used to opening presents._

Harry made no outward movement to show his surprise. Master actor as Snape was, Harry recognised touches of unease in Snape's demeanour and in the way he slowly slit the green paper down the side and let it fall to the floor.

It was a fairly regal black leather cloak. Harry raised his eyebrows, thoroughly impressed.

It was plain, without trimming or any kind of adornment, which was unusual for a cloak. It seemed quite heavy, and he saw as Snape stood up and tried it on that it had a black lining of some kind of silky material.

"I'm impressed," said Harry frankly. "You know you're not a real member of the Order until Mrs Weasley sends you a Christmas gift."

Snape shot Harry a look of vitriol, leaving Harry wondering what he said wrong. He said the thought out loud.

"I did not ask for commentary," said Snape silkily, taking the cloak off again.

Harry allowed himself a smile as he turned to pick up his letter. Moving towards the fire, he was about to throw it in when -

_Pop._

Dobby flung himself at Harry.

"Merry Christmas, sir! Merry Christmas!"

Harry lay gasping for breath on the ground as the elf hugged him tightly about his neck, and then released him. Harry sat himself up and risked a glanced at Snape, who had a single eyebrow raised.

Harry reached into his trunk and pulled out three presents.

"Ron, me and Hermione."

Dobby's eyes filled with tears, and he produced a carefully wrapped package as well. Harry opened it suspiciously to find a pair of gloves; one red, and one black. Harry pulled them on for Dobby's sakes, and the House elf broke into a huge smile.

"Dobby must return to the kitchens, sir!" squeaked the elf. "Merry Christmas Harry Potter!"

"They're great, Dobby. Er, Merry Christmas."

Dobby disappeared with a crack.

Harry stood up, brushed himself down, removed the gloves and threw them onto his trunk lid.

Snape was still staring at him.

"It's a long story," mumbled Harry, turning red.

"Indeed."

Harry turned away. He heard the rustling sounds of paper being discarded, and an empty silence. Harry reread the Dursley's letter. Strangely enough, it didn't hurt him anymore. He had channelled all the hurt and anger into a box inside him, and in the box it would stay. It was controllable. He was controllable.

His eyes scanned the letter. It seemed more ridiculous, more flustered than venomous now.

There was the sound of rustling again, but Harry didn't risk a glance upwards. His silence would betray him of course, but... never mind.

Hell, it was Christmas.

* * *

What's Next: Chapter 21

Harry lowered his hands, and stared into the sky as the realisation poured into him. He gave the evening sky quiet contemplation for a moment, then stood up, and smiled.

It was the brilliant smile of a boy who has just been given the gift he'd always wanted. He had, in a sense; he'd just been granted what he'd wanted for so long. He'd just been granted insanity.

* * *

**pureinsanity**: Yes, to answer your question. 

**Athena Keating-Thomas**: I'm not a depressive, and I don't take classes (thank God about the depressive bit, at least). I'm just good at visualising, I guess.  
Oh, yes,m shiny gold star... I'd like to thank...  
Okay. Less speeches, more replies.  
I'm glad you think I've expressed these things well. It makes for a happy writer. : )  
Yes, on hindsight it may have been more IC to have Snape follow Harry at a distance... but I prefer to have Harry on his own, and besides, when it comes to writing things, I'm not particularly logical. Downside of a good imagination.  
I haven't real 'The Fall' - I'm currently finishing 'I Am Legend' by Richard Matheson and starting 'The Shrinking Man', swiftly followed by thesix Stephen Kings I got recently. I'll try to make room for it.  
Mind control potions... yeeeeeessss... could make for an interesting subplot... a form of cannabis, perhaps, to make Harry let his guard down? Or just cinnamon? Hmmm...

**Shadowed Rains**: cut you off? Evil scum of the earth, grr.  
Snape's little soliloquays are fun to write... best part of Conscienceness, actually. And you can NEVER be too philosophical.

**ShadowedHand**: Poeticism, hmmm. Fun fun.  
The mud may last a while, but it WILL come to an end.  
And I hope you had a very Merry Chrimbo too.

**Leggylover03**: Reaction will be fun...

**chip**: Snape is naturally cranky. Fun, isn't it?

**SapphirePhoenix**: Well done!! Parades and trumpets!!


	21. Thinking Too Much

Um... I need to apologise here, 1) for updating quite late, and 2) for the end of the chapter... it worked out like that becauise I sliced up the chapters without paying much attention to the ending. I'm really, really sorry...

Oh, and oo-oo-oo, I got my first flame!!! Ever!!! Everyone check out my review pages for it! Should be the second page, but might be further back.

* * *

Harry made breakfast a quick one, intending to spend most of the day by himself. He headed back to the Common room, packed some of his stuff away, sat down in the armchair at nine am and woke at about one thirty by the sounds of Snape coming in through the portrait hole. 

He had been asleep, insofar as that deep dark haze that covered the vision and partially the ears; the strange sensation of being aware of the surroundings but unresponsive - almost sleeping. A period in time where the brain is a little disjointed, and what appears to be ten minutes is a little longer than an hour.

Snape's footsteps jerked Harry out of this catatonia, and he visibly jumped, swivelling around to see who had disturbed his sleep. Snape gave him a funny look in passing.

"Tired, Mr Potter?" he sneered.

"I only sat down for ten minutes," was the response.

"You sat down for ten minutes at about nine o'clock, correct?" Some snideness had infused Snape's tone.

Harry nodded.

"It is now half past one."

Harry looked out of the window. The sun had taken on a faintly heavy, yellow quality, marking early afternoon. Harry rubbed his face as Snape sat down in an armchair.

"Potter. The staff, and indeed myself, are not stupid. The fact you do not appear to be getting much sleep has become apparent in your silence, your face and your downright obedience."

Harry stared at him in shock. Snape chose to reply to this.

"Yes, Potter. The fact that the bags under your eyes have practically turned into valleys and are harbouring their own plant life has not gone amiss. Professor McGonagall talks about forcing the Headmaster to hospitalise you."

"I appreciate your frankness," said Harry distantly, staring into the fire. "What confuses me, however, is that you appear to care."

He felt Snape's eyes boring into the side of his face, and turned to meet the man's gaze.

"What?"

Snape merely shook his head in a parody of a bored student. "Potter," he drawled, "The fact that you refuse to recognise your own problem is costing your health, both physical and mental."

"What are you suggesting I do - see a therapist?"

The question was meant to be sarcastic.

"Yes."

Harry stared back into the fire, trying to order his thoughts. They were slow, sluggish and misbehaving. He had trouble aligning his next sentence.

"Why bother?"

"It could help."

"Oh well. Chances are I won't live out the War, so I may as well not waste time and money talking to some stethescoped, self-acclamied, _patronising_ -" Harry spat this word out as if it were poison, "- so-called Doctor who thinks they can solve all my problems by telling me to envisage myself in a field of flowers." Harry stared fiercely into the fire, knuckles clenched in his lap.

"You're quite an angry person." Snide.

"Give the professor a medal."

"Moving into the offensive, as well."

"You're doing quite well, keeping your hands off of my neck."

"I do try, Potter." Sarcasm.

"I daresay. Having the Golden Boy-Who-Lived in your class must crank up your stress-o-meter."

"Indeed."

This conversation had passed very quickly, words exchanged with the speed, brutality and sharpness of rifle fire. Harry began to wonder what the point of it was. Snape was not a caring-sharing person. Snape was not a person. Snape was being extremely un-snapelike in his behaviour, but strangely himself in his words. This mixture of body language and words confused Harry, his sluggish brain trying desperately to cope with this confusing barrage of signals he was getting from the other man.

"What are you getting at?" he snapped, intending to be sharp and to the point.

"What I'm getting at, Potter," said Snape silkily, staring at Harry with liquid obsidian eyes, "Is that you are travelling a road that will eventually lead to your death."

"I'm not going to take a swan dive off of the Astronomy tower, if that's what you're worried about -"

Snape shook his head impatiently.

"No, no, no! You have a battle to fight. Fighting is all about the mentality of the warrior in question. If he thinks he cannot win, ultimately he will not."

"_Will_ has nothing to do with it. _Determination_, on the other hand..."

Snape rolled his eyes and heaved a somewhat theatrical sigh.

"Potter, they are one and the same."

"No, they are not. Will is something that's vague. You have the _will_ to live. Determination applies to something specific; I am _determined_ to try to live through this war."

Snape eyed Harry, his expression unpleasant.

"'Chances are I won't live out the War,' he says," said Snape snarkily. "So why do you have the... determination?"

"Determination is one thing. A horde of angry Death Eaters and an evil warlord descending on my neck is another kettle of beans entirely! Spot the difference, Professor: one teen, one wand versus God knows how many Death Eaters and the most evil wizard the world has seen for over a century."

Snape had gone silent, and Harry could sense the anger bubbling up inside him. Harry fell silent and waited for Snape either to control himself or to let rip.

"There are other people behind you, Potter," he said at last. "Professor Dumbledore, the Order."

"That's exactly it. They're behind me. When it comes to the crunch, I will be on my own. So will Voldemort, too, but he's had a lot more experience killing people. And maybe this time, Priori Incantatem won't be there to save my neck."

Harry was screaming in his head _ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit_. He really had not meant to give Snape such an insight into the Prophesy, and into his first real battle with Voldemort -

His first real battle. The pain.

Through the pain... listening...

_"One, who I believe has left me for ever... he will be killed, of course..."_

_A high-pitched evil voice... Harry had no choice but to listen..._

Harry shook his head to clear the memories, but basic emotion, underlying feelings still remained... his link with Voldemort.

Since Snape returned to him he has suspected... never doubted, because that implies weakness, but suspected...

"Voldemort thinks you're a spy," said Harry quietly. He rubbed his eyes -

_- as if Potter were tired. Snape's senses were heightened, every nerve ending rocketed to peak performance, his skin tingling and his heart doing triple-time. Every shadow was clear, every flare of the fire casting sweet light into the darkness, and his fingers were clenched upon the armrests of the chair. And that was the most important thing. His fingers._

_He tried to force himself to relax, tried to unclench his muscles, but it wouldn't happen. He wanted to be a long, long way away._

_Slowly, his deathgrip on the arm of the chair calmed. and he forced his heartrate down slowly and surely._

Harry looked into his professor's eyes and saw something there that he never expected to see: wild panic.

Suddenly, instead of being predictable, and dependable, in that sense, Snape had become unfortellable.

Harry decided to snap the man out of it.

"Snape, get a grip on yourself."

Snape blinked, but he did not bother to correct Harry.

"Your cover is not entirely blown yet."

Harry saw assurance returning to Snape with every second. Keep him talking.

"And he's unsure."

Snape returned to normal, and there was even a snide gleam in his eyes.

"Voldemort suspects you, but he still has a little faith left. Please him whatever way you can, and his faith will be restored... insofar as Voldemort trusts."

Snape looked at Harry very strangely, and Harry stared right back.

"What?" he asked in genuine puzzlement.

"Since when have you been intimate with the Dark Lord's thoughts? Since he tried to possess you?"

"Since he tried to kill me."

"Which time?"

_If dark sarcasm were taught in Hogwarts_...

"The first time. Just as well we're staring Occlumency again tomorrow."

A sour look passed over Snape's face.

"It's not all joy and rainbows for me, either," retorted Harry, and he could sense Snape getting angrier.

_Good..._

llllllllll

Harry sat on the Astronomy Tower with his face in his hands.

He tried. He really did. He tried to be nice to Snape, and as Ron would have told him, this is where it got him. Into another row with Snape, which cranked up his stress a few notches and his anger a few million. He felt ready to explode.

'Angry' doesn't cover it. The feeling inside his head is a maelstrom of red, black, twisting and turning, until he sees for one clear second that only the anger is red and black. Pure rage is not a bright, pretty, warning colour. Rage is deep, deepest blue, the kind of blue you find at the very bottom of the ocean. And it is heavy like water. But it is as swift as air, and as evolusive. It was deep blue. It was the kind of blue you see just above the sunset, but coated in shadows. Rage was not red; it was twilight.

The bubble surrounding Harry's consciousness broke. The walls fell. The ghosts ran.

Harry lowered his hands, and stared into the sky as realisation poured into him. He gave the evening sky quiet contemplation for a moment, then stood up, and smiled.

It was the brilliant smile of a boy who has just been given the gift he'd always wanted. He had, in a sense; he'd just been granted what he'd wanted for so long. He'd just been granted insanity.

* * *

**jellybean03**: 'Most people don't want to take an hour to read a story on the Internet'? A) My story is not finished and b) have you read anything by GreenGecko? Her story is, chapter-wise, into the sixties. 

**fhippogriff**: You gotta love that name.  
Anyway: Yes well, Mrs. Weasley is a lovely caring-sharing person, I have to say. And she seems to respect everyone, even if she doesn't actually like them. I based Snape's cloak on my own full-length leather coat.  
Hate the Dursley's. Hate 'em.  
I'm not depressed, but I, too, gravitate to angst fics. Strange, isn't it?

**Erinamation-limited2**-**nothing**: Er... quite?

**Shelly101**: Interesting, because I considered this one of my weaker chapters.

**HPbabe143**: You certaintly do like to review, don't you.  
I'm flattered you've reviewed just about every chapter I've posted, that's for sure. I'l answer as many questions as I can.  
1) The creativity for this fic came from seeing another person through their own eyes and not liking it one little bit. I had to try to get comfortable within Harry's body, but it wasn't easy - a few touches of my own kept coming across. I just thought: what would it be like if I was suicidally depressed... and led from there.  
2) Harry stands his pain because he has a little hope. I'm crushing that in later chapters, you'll see what happens. He doesn't do drugs because he realises that'll just screw him up even more (look at Kurt Cobain). He's 16, but in cynicism about 156.  
3) Anger is fun. I like messing about with it. Not as fun as depression, though.  
4) Some of my chapters were a little dull, I'll admit that, but they needed to be written. Some of them contain important info for later on, even if I didn't like them.  
5) Voldy isn't Harry's dad. It's a whatsitsname, metaphor. I think. It gets explained later.  
6) Is Harry going to hurt Snape... looking back at as-yet unposted chapters, I have to laugh. Yes, he will.  
7) Harry doesn't need a father, but a brother.  
8) Fred and George are evil when you look at them from Snape's point of view... they're optimistic, cheerful... dear God, Snape must hate them.

**KrazeyForever**: I guess you hate me even more for the cliffhanger, huh.

**pureinsanity**: Sorry about that. I'm trying to skirt the issue. It won't be a slash relationship, but when they emerge from this... it will be more like brothership. Sort of. It's hard to explain. I figure Harry's seen to much to need a father; mentally, he's too old.

**Barbara Chow Chang**: Everybody needs romance. And do I detect a hidden compliment? I'm idealistic? Gee, thanks!Oh, and by the way... if you want idealism, try 'Life In Chaos' by 'agentgrrrl'. That's pretty cool. I got a lot of inspiration from that. Review/flame again! p.s. I had a good laugh at your review page. It brightened up my day. Better check your grammar, spelling and punctuation, by the way.  
Ooooh, it seems your page got taken down. Whaaat a shame.

**EireVerde**: Hey! I loooove Lego. For my fourteenth birthday I asked for one of those huge tubs of lego blocks. I still like using the stuff, God knows why. Although I have to say, I REALLY hated the HP lego stuff.

**Child-Of-Darkness1988**: Birthday, by any chance? That would put you a year older than me. Thanks for your comments.

**Princess Fictoria**: I have to reply just because I love that name so much.

**Forty-two dreams**: I think chopped your review up, because it didn't make much sense to me. If you can, e-mail it to me.

**sakurasaisaka**: Thanks. You probably would need food as well, though. : )

**starinthedark11**: I'm not going into animagus right now. IF I do a sequel, I'll look into it.

**chip**: Quite.

**one small instrument:** I've emailed my response to you... it would otherwise have taken up just too much space.


	22. Insanity

Okay... totally sorry about that double cliffy, here is the next posting. Personally, I think this and the next chapter are a bit melodramatic, but it gets better, I promise. And to make uo for the cliffy, next chapter will be double the size of my normal chapters. : )

Oh, and by the way, (I can't remember if I've mentioned this and I'm too lazy to check) I have an original fic out on Please check if you can, I've only one review.

* * *

'Insanity' is not the right word for this. Insanity is where you see beyond the world. 

Harry had snapped, his mind had broken, his soul had cracked. He could see beyond the universe, and this was enough to drive anyone mad. He knew now that nothing really mattered; he had known it before but had not accepted it. Now he knew that his actions were of no consequence -

Something, for a moment, tried to fight back. Something said that the world was a tiny, complex place, not to be compared to the infinity of the stars.

Why not? It's part of the stars. How does humanity affect them? What difference do they make? None.

The stars or the humans?

Insanity was all this could be likened to. Insanity.

Harry stared at the sky. Coldness filled his sight; it was as if he had been seeing through dark grey smoke. Everything was liquid clear. The closest thing this could be likened to was... dreaming.

He could hear sounds… like voices?

He stood up, slowly and dreamlike. He looked around him, saw through the dim fog, and noticed where he was. He also noted that he had a strong urge to be away from this place. Away from its walls of stone, away from its harboured memories, away from its foundations that echoed with unsung triumphs and unnoticed victories... and popular defeats.

Harry looked around at him slowly and precisely, eyes never missing a detail.

Almost, imperceptibly, the voices were growing louder.

This was not paranoia, schizophrenia, anything like that. These were simply the sounds of all the thoughts, all the unconscious he had blocked up over the years... and all the souls he had felt it necessary to harbour inside himself.

Harry started down the stairs, slowly and calmly. Everything was right; everything had to be right. Nothing really mattered anymore. Nothing was significant.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, and opened a door at random.

Part of his mind screamed at him, this is not the way out!

Of course. Instead of being sane, with the little voice of insanity gnawing at him, it was the other way around...

Harry didn't care right about now. He blocked it out.

The room was a classroom. Harry felt angry, cheated of his escape.

The desk in the room exploded into flames as Harry raised his hand to it.

He left, allowing the door to swing in the convection currents created in the aftermath of the blaze, which was quickly moving to engulf some of the other objects in the room.

What Harry didn't notice was that the fire burned, not flickering yellow flames, but a fierce orange blaze. These flames were Harry's anger. He just didn't know it yet. If he would ever know it at all.

Harry stalked through the corridor, robes flying out behind him.

Rage engulfed him. It swept over him like a smooth, midnight-blue silk cloak. He wanted out. So far, he had not achieved this. That was Not Right.

Insanity had also given Harry the blessed gift of a child's view on the world. Things should happen. When they didn't, he got angry.

His pace picked up from ponderous to eerily determined, then to horribly determined. He walked down the corridor, palms outstretched from his body, an ethereal glow surrounding him. Every time he passed a door, it flew open, and inside it began to burn.

He passed a bookcase standing forlornly in the corridor. His eyes narrowed, and he swung his fist as if to hit it.

At the last moment, he stretched his fingers out, and the entire thing burst into flames.

This fire was his anger, all right, and it was nothing so crude as magical fire. He controlled it. No, it controlled him. He was simply an outlet. But the rage inside was building...

Harry stopped in the middle of the corridor, fists balling, when he tipped his head back and screamed. The entire corridor exploded.

Harry walked through this, flames licking at the stones, and he could feel the temperature rising by the second. He headed down the steps onto the next floor.

He was about three floors from the Entrance Hall.

llllllllll

Snape looked up from the Library, eyes narrowing dangerously. There were thuds above him, sort of... minor explosions?  
Leaving the book he was reading, he cautiously approached the library door, and opened it.

Potter had just arrived at the bottom steps of the stairs. His head slowly turned and looked at Snape.

Eyes that showed so much hatred. Eyes that betrayed so much sheer rage. Eyes that looked insane.  
Eyes that had a red tint. Eyes that wore no glasses, yet looked perfectly focused.

Snape took a step forward, and burning reached his nose.

His head snapped to look up the stairs, and he saw wisps of smoke chasing themselves lazily down the stone steps, tumbling like children playing roly-poly...

His eyes snapped back to Potter's face.

The boy had completely lost it. No question about it. If the eyes and flames weren't enough, the thin shield of power surrounding him was.

Snape had never seen anything like this before. His hand went for his wand, and then Harry was running...

It was just like that. Harry was running. From a standing start to full-out sprint with nothing in between.

Snape began to run as well, but he only caught the swish of a cloak as Potter rounded a corner. The thing that immediately occupied his attention, however, was the fact that the entire stone passageway was on fire.

The flames appeared to be feeding off the stone. Snape wondered wildly for a second whether Potter had a salamander; the only thing that they couldn't burn was sand, rock and salamander weed. Everything else was fuel, even water. For some reason, handcrafted stone burned, whereas raw rock did not.

Snape put an arm over his mouth and nose and ran through the corridor, feeling the evil heat scorching his face, his body and his hair. He thought idly for a second that he'd never liked his eyebrows much anyway.

The heat made his eyes water, and as he emerged onto the top of the next flight of stone stairs he blurrily saw Potter, still running, heading down again.

He snarled venomously, and headed in a different, secret direction...

llllllllll

When Harry had seen Snape, the emotions that had overwhelmed him had been so strong that he couldn't stand them. Hatred, fear and rage had overpowered him, making him want to kill Snape, made him want to grasp him by the throat and slowly, painfully wring the life from the bigger man. He wanted to see Snape scared, he wanted to know how much Snape had hurt him over the last few years and the last few weeks, wanted to know that for once he was stronger than Snape.

Harry didn't think anymore; he thought in emotions. It made some things easier, and some things harder, but he knew that he had to run before he did what he thought he was going to do to Snape. People told him, in his head that he had already killed. He did not want to kill again; did not want to add to the catalogue in his head Snape's voice.

He paused for a second in a corridor, and tenderly touched his forehead with his fingers. His head felt a little bit sore.

Then he carried on running.

Every door Harry passed, every wall he ran by, burst into flames as soon as he passed.

llllllllll

Snape ran down through the hidden corridor, taking a shortcut to the Entrance Hall. He had a suspicious feeling that was where Potter was heading.

Well, it wasn't a suspicion, really. The boy's mind had been open wider than a door and had been simpler to read than a book. He wanted out of the castle, and there was one exit he knew for sure...

Snape burst from a side door into the Entrance Hall, and ran out onto the porch.

Angry, he turned to look at the main stairs.

Footsteps could be heard. Snape risked a glance up to the rest of the castle; many windows glowed with a worrying orange-yellow light.

Potter had slowed. Snape could hear it in the echoes cast by the Entrance Hall.

It was evening; the sky was in that twilight zone where it is not dark but it is not quite light. The trees were uneasy in the gentle breeze; they seemed to sense something was going on, and today of all magical days.

This breeze stirred the slightly sweaty hair of Severus Snape, eyes alight with anger, as his grip on his wand doubled and he prepared himself to fire some very, very sharp questions at Potter. With the aid of his wand, if necessary.

Hogwarts was his home. Hogwarts was the only place he could really consider his home. Potter was currently setting fire to it.

This made Snape _angry_.

The footstep were growing louder, and there were a few explosions following him.  
The wind dropped ever so slightly, but it was just enough to gently sway the bottom of Snape's robe.  
The sky was clear, Snape noticed detachedly. Time seemed to slow as he saw feet descending the first few stairs.

Potter came fully into view and stood on the doorway to the great entrance. Snape focused on the boy's eyes, and saw fire... but not just fire... deeper in he found open pressure that had gone... pressure that kept the mind in a stable shape had just vanished, and Potter's mind was free, not bound by common laws anymore.

_Oh... oh dear..._

He had to stop Potter before he did anything else stupid and for once, snide words and sarcasm may not be enough... Snape doubted if Potter understood words anymore, if his mind was nearly as uncorrupted as it looked.

Time had not slown. Snape's brain had simply sped up, powered by a rocket fuel of adrenaline and sweet vitriol. He knew that there was no telling where Potter's mind had gone, what it was doing or whether it would come back.

Potter took a single step forward, as if testing the ground before him. Testing Snape's reaction. It seemed almost... animal. No, it was childlike.

No, none of these. It was just... so simple a gesture that Snape would immediately associate it with a child or an animal, one testing the waters to see the reaction. It may have been basic but it was clever, instinctual and usually life-saving. If you know the dangers you can avoid them.

Snape made sure his wand was in plain view.

* * *

Next Chapter

Instinct usually played a major part in many of Snape's conscious thoughts and decisions, and the thought that occurred to him now was that Potter was deadly serious about this. There would be no reprieve. There would be no mercy.

There was a problem. He was gasping for breath and his muscles wouldn't respond properly. He had about as much fight left in him as a wet lettuce leaf.

Potter stood over him, face expressionless, but Snape saw the pure hatred boiling in his gaze. He also saw the fireball in his hand. This was the death blow.

* * *

**Toki Mirage:** It WILL get better. 

**severusphoenix**: Give it another few chapters... that part's already written for later postings.

**KrazeyForever**: Sorry about that... I can't apologise enough...

**Read300300**: Caught what? Sorry, I'm feeling disorientated today.

**Teahleafs**: Thanks!  
Taking to heart your comment about the whole 'proclaimed genius' thing, I will try to reply as un-egotistically as poissible.  
I have been writing fanfiction since the age of ten, but only began writing it seriously since februrary 2004... and posting it I think in June. My first one was based on X-Men evolution, was three novels long, and each lasted about 200 pages. I look back on it now, five years since I've written it... boy, it's crap. I've really had to work to improve. : ) I hope I have.

**Shadowed Rains**: Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. Soz. Sorry.  
Sorry for detaining you, I hope you weren't TOO late... still, it does credit to my ego that you were so engrossed. I'm planning a super-long chapter later on.

**HPbabe143**: Nah, I looooove long reviewers. You too.

**leggylover03**: Im so proud I finally have a flame... I feel so egotistical right nowe. I'm high enough in the rankings to warrant the attention of some flamer!

**starinthedark**: Just mentioning how you are such a wonderful, deidcated reviewer. You make my day. I'm in a happy mood. La la la la la.

**A.Person**: I love you, you know. No, really now.


	23. Fights

Hey everyone. To make up for the last cliffy, here is a soopah-long chapter.

* * *

Snape made sure his wand was in plain view.

"Potter," he said in a low voice. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Fire reared again in the boy's eyes, and the thin blue shield around him thickened.

_Harry couldn't understand the words, he was long past that point. But he understood the tone, all right. This man was threatening him._

Snape watched Harry carefully. It was probably going to be his job to bring the boy back to Earth, knowing Dumbledore. And by the looks of things, Potter wanted to scrap.

If Potter wanted to scrap, a scrap he would get.

This fight would be risky, because he didn't know the rules or the boundaries. He would just have to try and stun the boy before he hurt himself or anyone else.

Snape made sure his wand was both visible and ready to use. Potter looked unarmed, but Snape was eyeing the shield surrounding him and decided that the boy probably didn't need a weapon.

Harry shut his eyes for a moment, and time visibly stopped.

Snape suddenly felt like he was in two places at once. Then the world crumpled.

Imagine this...  
The world suddenly stops_... and reverses._

_It's like the negative of a photograph. Darks are now lights. Shadows reform themselves. All colours take on their direct spectral opposite._

_Good becomes evil._

_The world is eerie and horrible. Trees, once dark green and black, are now a light candy-floss pink with white. The sky is now white with impossibly light tints of blue. The grass is a sort of maroony-pink, and Potter..._

_Potter's skin is a murky blue, and his eyes are a dark pink, with the iris and whites seemingly reversed. His hair is pure white, as are his robes._

_The orb of power around him is no longer blue but a sickly yellow._

Snape looks at his hands. The skin is a darker blue than Potter's, more navy. He can see his hair is white, as well as Potter's.

_Around him, all that had been dark - just about everything - is now light. A black moon is cheekily peeping down from the sky. Snape feels... wrong. This is not Where He Is Meant To Be. Something is extraordinarily Wrong -_

_His mind can't cope with this, and his hands slowly go to his head as he sinks onto his knees. His mind is being split open and icicles are being pounded into his head... nothing is right here... the air is thinning, and he cannot breathe... when the world is reversed so are the elements, and his lungs are not designed to be breathing in this atmosphere. He may have changed on the outside but he is still the same on the inside..._

_He knows where his way out is, and he has to take it before he dies in this fearsome world, this horrible word where the reverse becomes true and he knows not what anything is anymore -_

_With the last remaining ounce of his strength, he leaps and bowls into Potter. The world... _shatters.

Nothing reverses itself, just pieces of the world he can see, the horrible reversed word, shatter and dissolve into the colours he knows.

Snape let go of Potter immediately and retreated to a safe distance. His hand was red raw from where he had grabbed the boy, as if he had been... burned.

The boy was angry now; the rage in his eyes was all too clear to see, as was the faint white halo of fire clinging to him.

_Fire... burns... of course._

_Harry knew he had been cheated. He had wanted to show this antagoniser what it was like in his head nowadays, and Snape had been suffering. His eyes had said it all. His eyes had been in pain.  
_Something in Harry had rebelled at this. _What are you doing?_ It had screamed in a muffled tone. _He has not done anything to you! No-one deserves this, no-one can survive this!_

There was nothing he could do about that now he was there in the parallel world, but the man had taken care of that himself. Cheated of exacting revenge, he would simply have to do it the old-fashioned way...

Potter raised a hand, palm up. Snape frowned at the gesture, until a ball of fire appeared there.

Instincts long ago honed to almost-perfection flung him to the side as the yellow ball, hurled with all the deadly accuracy of a snake bite, hit the floor where he had been stood. There was a minor explosion, the snow melted and the earth scorched.

What...? Where had THAT come from? That was not wandless magic, that was magic without a proverbial fusebox. That was raw energy, and it was dangerous... on both sides.

Hmmm. Potter  
_(is Potter still in there)_  
had no qualms about possibly killing him. Well, there's a change.

Bloody hell, what a Christmas Day...

He knew that already, but actually seeing a direct attack...

_Let's fight fire with... hmm... a stunner might work._

"_Stupefy!"_

The red beam of light arced toward Potter, hit the blue shield and bounced.

Snape ducked. He straightened up, thinking that this could be a lot better.

Due to the fact that the sun had just set and it was getting dark before he had properly accumulated his night vision, he didn't see the purple string of light until it hit him.

It whiplashed from his shoulder with a resounding _crackkkkk_ that echoed through the trees. This knocked Snape backwards, making him stumble.

Snape touched his shoulder gently to find it was bleeding rather badly.

_Worry about shoulder later. Worry about life now._

The situation was looking increasingly bad.

It began to look worse when the second attack in the form of a yellow ball of flame hit him in quick succession in the midriff.

This attack knocked him to the ground, temporarily paralysing him and winding him, and Snape saw stars for a second. Then he stopped looking blankly at the sky and started focusing upon the more immediate problem of Potter.

The wound in his stomach did not hurt. It merely felt extremely tingly.

Instinct usually played a major part in many of Snape's conscious thoughts and decisions, and the thought that occurred to him now was that Potter was deadly serious about this. There would be no reprieve. There would be no mercy.

There was a problem. He was gasping for breath and his muscles wouldn't respond properly. He had about as much fight left in him as a wet lettuce leaf.

Potter stood over him, face expressionless, but Snape saw the pure hatred boiling in his gaze. He also saw the fireball in his hand.

Instinct not only talked to him, but occasionally took over when his stupid brain would not respond, no matter how many calls instinct sent.

Snape's arm shot out and grabbed Potter by the wrist. Pain flared up his palm. Snape did not notice this, the adrenaline pumping fresh through his body, numbing all sense of pain. He pulled himself up, knocked Potter over, rolled in the snow, fought for supremacy and stood up again with Potter in a viciously tight bear hug, the boy's twisting spine jarring his stomach.

Even through Potter's clothing and his own, Snape's skin immediately began to howl in pain. The flames that Potter were incased in increased slightly in intensity, and Snape hissed through his teeth.

"_Potter_," he snarled. "Listen to me._ Calm down! I will not hurt you!_"

Harry didn't understand the words, but once again, he listened to the tone. This man was trying to hurt him, the way he tried to stop Harry escaping, the way he snarled into his ear. He could tell that that man was in pain, so why was he trying?

Pain was no fun, no fun at all. And yet the man hung on grimly, as if it were important.  
_WHY WAS HE TRYING?_

Snape's vision was beginning to cloud over with a pleasant, light grey fog, which was starting to darken. He felt fatigue slowly worm its way into his muscles. He weighed up pros and cons of pride vs. life, and decided it was probably better to condemn his ego to the furnace than his body.

"Harry," he murmured, trying to sound peaceful and calm. "I am not trying to hurt you. You are not yourself. Let us help you."

Harry's struggles slowed a little, but he was not convinced.

"I am not trying to hurt you, but you must learn control else you may hurt yourself. I am not trying to hurt you."

Snape was repeating this like a mantra. Its effect seemed to be working, as Harry was slowly becoming less resistant.

Snape released his grip a little for several reasons. Firstly, Harry had stopped struggling as much. Secondly, the fire coating Harry was still there and still hurting him. Thirdly, the fireball that had hit his stomach had done a lot more damage than he had thought and Harry's spine pressing into it wasn't helping. Fourthly, and perhaps most importantly, he simply hadn't the strength to keep his renewed grip.

Harry was still struggling, but weakly. Snape was exhausted; he just didn't have the energy to hold Harry any more, so he stepped back.

The freezing night air came as a welcome relief to his skin, but it was still extraordinarily painful. He was now viewing the world through a thin gauze of mesh.

Harry stood on his own, and Snape waited. This was entirely Harry's move now.

Snape decided to drop all sarcasm, all condescending words. These would not help the situation. So he waited.

Harry looked at the sky, looked at the snow on the ground, and back at the sky again.

A shiver seemed to pass over his body.

"It's not worth anything anymore."

Snape was sure that it had been his imagination, but no. Potter's all-but-whisper had been almost inaudible.

Snape mentally breathed a sigh of relief. They were not out of the woods yet but he could see the city.

"No. But what is?"

Slowly, Potter turned to face him, and Snape understood how lonely he was.

Suddenly, he felt his shields being peeled away again. He struggled, futilely for a moment, and then relaxed as a foreign consciousness slipped into his mind and began to show him something -

Snape snapped back to reality as a voice yelled "Stupefy!" and Potter abruptly crumpled into the snow.

He looked up to see Cornelius Fudge, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and a few random Aurors.

Quite sensibly, his last thought was _fuck_.

"God, you _bastards_," he yelled exasperatedly, and then blacked out.

llllllllll

_Harry's sleep was interrupted by moments of wakefulness which were neither welcome, nor expected. They were seconds long, insightful, and then smoothly became part of the nightmare._

_His first moment of consciousness was as fuzzy as the others were going to be, but still distinguishable. He was being carried at a brisk walk along a corridor. The shadows danced in the lights of the torches, and he uttered a very faint moan. He tried to move, but found that his muscles would not respond._

_His second was lying on a bed. He saw Snape, propped up against the wall opposite him, sitting on the bed as if on a chair. His head lolled forward. He was unconscious. Madam Pomfrey was slitting his robe open with a knife and surgical precision. Peeling it away from his torso, his skin was exposed to reveal the vicious red burns lathering his shoulders, his inner arms and his chest. What also was clear was the crater of blood that marked his stomach, and the whiplash of crimson right across his shoulder. Madam Pomfrey looked most displeased._

_He recognised fingers on his neck and realised that someone else was taking his pulse. In his mind, clawing desperately, he fell down the slippery slope and back into unconsciousness..._

_The third time, several people were talking quietly. Someone was being quite emphatic. This person mentioned 'psychiatric ward' several times, but Harry's tired brain made no connections. He looked over to where he had last seen Snape and saw him lying down, upper half swathed in bandages, eyes closed. So peaceful._

_A woman wearing the white robes with the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of St. Mungos was leaning over Snape, checking something. Harry's brow creased ever so slightly in confusion... he knew he was in Hogwarts, he knew in his bones... what was she doing here?_

_The mediwitch saw him, her eyes widened and her mouth opened. Harry found himself thinking somewhat detachedly she looks like a bowling ball._

_But he was sliding back into unconsciousness again, even as the woman ran (strangely slowly, as if through tar) to him... and he felt fingers touch his forehead... but he was already gone..._

_And in all the interludes, he had no idea how long, he had nightmares... terrible, bloody ones, where he had all the control he wanted over his body, but all he wanted to do was hurt people and he was crying, crying because he didn't want to but he found himself enjoying revenge  
_(revenge for what?!)  
_and all the time he was hurting Snape, he was hurting his mother and father, he was hurting Sirius and Cedric and Ron and Hermione and..._

_But always he saw himself attacking Snape, and he felt the sick enjoyment that came with it, and all he wanted to do was die. This was wrong. He was wrong. He wanted to stop hurting Snape, called out his name, shouted that he was sorry but it made no difference. That haunted, hunted, painful look was always in Snape's eyes as he fought for breath, and his shoulder snapped backwards with a_ crackkkk _loud enough to echo around the forest, and his stomach exploded in a splash of blood. He saw himself standing over Snape but he saw none of the old determination in the man's eyes, he just saw quiet resignation as Snape put his head on the snow and closed his eyes and Harry raised his hand to deliver the death blow and the nightmare changed but never the sickening sense of victory, never the nauseating sense of revenge._

_He wanted to stop hurting Snape, he wanted to stop hurting others and he tried to turn his murderous hands on himself but he couldn't do it, some unseen force kept him from suicide._

_He wanted this all to stop. He wanted the blissful void of emptiness, he didn't care whether or not it was heaven or hell, but he wanted it to stop._

_He didn't know how long he was out, but his next moment of wakefulness was not at all fuzzy, but extremely lucid. He saw Snape sitting up, his back to Harry, flexing his arm slightly. Blood had soaked through the bandages, and a mediwitch had begun to replace them. Harry shut his eyes. This time he did not want to see more._

_And he went back to the nightmare again. It was preferable. In his head, he couldn't hurt any more people._

_In his head he was not fighting any more. In his head he had given up fighting, and he simply listened as voices and faces taunted him. He heard their accustaions and he listened to them well. And he cried, over and over. The tears didn't seem to stop, but eventually they did. And he simply slipped into a darker kind of sleep where he was sure he would never wake. And that was how he liked it._

llllllllll

_Very, very faintly, he heard voices murmuring, voices talking, but he did not pay them much heed._

"_Why hasn't he woken up yet, Professor Dumbledore?" Fretful._

"_I have no idea, Mrs. Weasley. You would be better off asking Severus that."_

"_Why Professor Snape?"_

"_He knows Harry better than any of us do now. If the Minister had not interrupted the Occlumency, then he would know a great deal more. Like why his nightmares are no longer violent. Ah, Severus. Feeling any better?"_

"_No. The burns are hell. They can't be healed by magic, so I'm wearing a cellophane shirt, as you can see, to keep the muggle cream I'm smothered in from evaporating. It's most unpleasant."_

"_Is your strength any better? I know Poppy prescribed occasional walks..."_

"_No. I'm still using a crutch. That blast almost completely disintegrated my abdominal muscles."_

"_I dread to ask... your shoulder?"_

"_Completely healed. I'll be scarred for life."_

"_Hmmm... do you actually know how long Cornelius and the others were watching before they took action?"_

"_Thirty seconds?"_

"_Ten minutes."_

"_The _bastards_."_

"_You said."_

"_Professor! Language!"_

"_He can't hear us. He's comatose."_

"_COMATOSE?!"_

"_Then again, maybe he can. It's an occasional trait. Some can, some can't."_

"_You're being unusually bitter, Severus."_

"_It's a habit."_

_A voice, a lot closer this time._

"_Harry, dear? Can you hear me?"_

_A pause._

"_No response. I'm not surprised. His mind is in complete tatters."_

"_How do you know?"_

"_He'd snapped completely, I could see it in his head. It was a matter of time, really. When Albus asked me to talk to him I managed to put it a bay a little. I had no idea it was going to be this soon."_

"_What do you mean... 'snapped'?"_

"_He went completely insane. Googly. Nutters. Batty. Loopy. Afway afway. Any other slang I haven't mentioned?"_

"_Professor Snape. You are being very uncaring." Dangerous._

"_Sue me." _

_A resounding SLAP echoed through the halls, and footsteps stalked angrily away. There was a pregnant pause._

"_That was not very tactful, Severus."_

"_Do I look like I want to be tactful? I'm marinating in what appears to be strawberry icecream, I've no use of my hands. I get muscle cramps more normally accocated with females, and they're constant as my stomach is being rebuilt by a spell, which only happens to work quickly when I walk, which may I add, is complete agony. Now I can add my face to the list of my body parts competing for the title 'Most Painful Appendage'. And you mention _TACT_?"_

_There was a pause._

"_You still have your legs."_

"_I twisted my ankle when I blacked out."_

"_Not the most succesful of holidays, Severus."_

"_You don't say, Albus."_

_

* * *

Next Chapter: _

I'm not telling you what happens in this chapter as it would give it away entirely. Let's just say it involves Voldemort, an inflatable chair, and a poolful of strawberry jam.

That should keep you curious. ; )

_

* * *

_

**fhippogriff**: Nnyaaaw. I'm a page-turner! Yippee!

**ckat44**: 'odo'?

**Misteress** **Genari**: Fair enough. Hang on a minute, where did the flame say I was repetitive?

**Dragonero**: It will eventually.

**Dead Feather**: The ideas _are_ tied, but life isn't planned out. It just... happens.So everything's set out but it IS somewhat incidental.

**Midgette**: Awwww.

**Strega**: Methinks you'll like the next chapter...

**LumosMe**: Quite.

**Forty-two dreams**: Err... see what?  
I had honestly never thought of Harry as a leader... that would turn him into the equivalent of Voldemort and everybody want the Golden Boy to the the antithesis of evil. And dear Harry's insanity is most definately not divine, I can tell you (evil snickers).  
The Vive room, dear Lord... I had totally forgotten about that place. I think I got bored with the idea. A lot of my ideas get dropped, especialy if they don't work out.

**starinthedark11**: Snape and personal grooming have never gone very well together, have they.

**TeahLeafs**: It's ironic that you should have mentioned 'different dimensions' in your last review, isn't it...

**KrazeyForever**: I hope this fullfills expectations.

**leggylover03**: I still look at this name and think it's cool. : )

**ShadowedHand**: Gooood...

**HPbabe143**: I hope I got the 143 bit right. Yes, I did.  
I'm somewhat impressed you've managed to read through every chapter and review almsot all of them. Coolness.

**shelly101**: _I'm a firestarter... _fun fun.

**Kawaii - Syoran**: Everyone should read fanfiction. : )  
I'm glad my story was interesting enough to get you to read it... I find that once you've read a few angst stories you've readmost of them.

**Harm Marie**: Really? What has Marie ever done to you? : )  
I'm imptressed you started with chapter one and read it all the way through. Please keep reviewing, I love a fresh eye on things.


	24. Talking

_Harry slept on, settled and happy in the knowledge that it was all his fault. He heard faint murmurs of voices around him, but he didn't really pay them much attention. He floated in the black, blank void and knew he was guilty -_

"Oh really, Harry?"

Harry opened his eyes to a very, very impossible scene.

He was lying on a psychiatrists' sofa, and sat in a poofy chair near him, was Tom Riddle.

Harry eyed him speculatively.

"This is going to sound insane," he said at last.

"What doesn't?"

"You're either in my head or you are my head. Could you please define which you are?"

"You know I've been trying to get into your mind for a while now. I imagine my first right-out attempt hurt a little."

"You erased my memories temporarily and left me lying on a cold stone floor."

Harry could not muster any sense of hatred, or fear. The room he was in -

The room he was in was oak-panelled, and lit by soft, clouded glass globes on the walls. Everything had a slight orange tint, including the ceiling. The carpet was a sort of cream colour. There was a mahogany table next to him with a glass surface. The walls were four, square, door- and window-less. He wasn't too bothered. He felt quite secure, and for some strange reason, could think quite lucidly.

He looked at his hands, and found that they were smaller than he remembered... his body seemed to have shrunk. The clothes he was wearing -

Of course. He was ten years old in this place. He wondered why.

The couch he was lying on was a futon, a maroon-red colour. Riddle's chair was a sort of... poofy, chintz-style thing. Harry had to laugh. The room was friendly, safe and welcoming. How deliciously ironic.

Harry felt happily uncaring. He didn't care why.

Riddle had allowed him time to speculate, and had his fingers steepled. Harry noticed one thing about him, which made him know it was definitely Voldemort in his head: Riddle's eyes were a bright red.

"So. How's life?" asked Harry comfortably.

"The usual. You have no idea how Death Eaters have such little regard for plans."

"You'd be surprised."

"Are you kidding? They're like children fighting over sweets, trying to win favour."

"I'm living in a castle populated by viciously hormonal adolescents. I win."

"Are they trying to kill each other?"

"Often," said Harry, remembering Malfoy's last 'prank' attempt. McGonagall had not accepted that teaching a suit of armour with a nice, shiny axe to chop Harry's limbs off had been a 'funny thing to do'. Harry had escaped after blasting the armour to bits with a well-aimed _reducto_ curse, and had known it was Malfoy after Peeves had... inadvertently told him.

"So, why the depression, Harry?"

Harry gave him an incredulous look.

"You're not very clever, are you?"

"You might want to talk about it."

"To Mouldy Voldy, leader of The Fart Eaters?"

"Ha ha ha. Note how I am not impressed."

"Neither am I. It's a bit feeble."

"I'm here to -"

"Check out your adversary?"

"In a manner of speaking. A friendly chat with your enemy wouldn't hurt once in a while."

Harry changed the subject. "Where are we?"

"A place you feel comfortable."

"So if I felt comfortable floating on a lilo in a poolful of jam -"

Suddenly, they were sat in the prefect's swimming pool, Harry on an inflatable bed and Riddle on an inflatable chair. The pool was full of raspberry jam. Harry tasted some. It seemed real. He said so.

"Of course. What's real in your head will be real to you. A hypnotist can make you believe an onion is an apple. You bite it, it tastes sweet. That is real to you." Riddle examined the plastic chair he was sitting on. "Interesting what Muggles come up with."

"Do your Death Eaters know you're a half-blood?"

"They never believed you. I can't think why."

"Because they're stupid?"

Harry closed his eyes and imagined the room they had left. Opening his eyes, with no feelings of change, he found he was back.

"We are in your head, after all," pointed out Riddle, answering the unasked question.

Just for a second, Harry's mind broke away from the dreamlikeness of it all and he began to wonder. Why was Voldemort being to formal? Why was he, for that matter? He could not equate Riddle with the terror-inspiring, cruelly soft-voiced white snakelike spectre he knew and hated so well.

"How is fame suiting you, as the Boy-Who-Lived?"

"Badly. I can't walk down a street without someone wanting an autograph."

"I can't walk down a street."

"I empathise."

"So. What's life like without your mother and father?"

The change of topic was sudden, momentarily throwing Harry. He recovered.

"I dunno what life was like _with_ them. You killed them. You're insane, did you know?"

"I prefer the term 'psychotic'."

"_Clinically_ insane."

"Not much of an improvement. You've a way with words."

"Why are you being so..."

"... nice?"

"... human?"

"I want to explain something."

Now, instead of leaning back comfortably, Riddle was leaning forwards.

"I would like you to understand that there is a very good chance of you getting killed."

"Just 'very'?"

"Don't make jokes." Riddle seemed serious. "However, there is also a chance I will get killed."

"Possibly."

"I would also like you to know that you are going to be the next Dark Lord."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are"

"No I'm not."

For the first time, Riddle got angry.

"Why don't you see that you are my child? Can't you see that you're the next wizard the world is going to fear? If you kill the great Voldemort then no-one will trust you with a wand in your hand again. You will learn to make use of that. You will learn revenge."

With a sickening twist of his stomach, Harry remembered Snape.

"I've already done that. I don't want to do it again, thanks, if it's all the same to you."

Riddle calmed a little, and a smile twitched his handsome lips.

"I doubt it."

Harry thought for a moment. He couldn't be bothered sitting up, he was too relaxed.

He settled for sounding suitably sarcastic.

"Yeah..."

Riddle did not respond.

"Tommy-boy? I'm waiting."

"What exactly do you have left to live for, Harry Potter?" he said quietly. Harry gave this due contemplation.

"You know, I'm not answering that one," he said at last. "Even if you are a figment of my imagination, there's still a chance you're the real deal. And if I tell you what I've got left, you may go and destroy it."

Riddle gave him a long, slow stare.

"You're smarter than you look."

"According to Draco Malfoy, it's not hard."

"I disagree. So, tell me. How is Draco Malfoy doing?"

"He's perpetually being shamed. A muggleborn persists in beating his score in every test. Even in subjects the muggleborn doesn't take."

"His father's not very happy about it."

"Tell me about it."

"How would you know?"

"It's complicated."

"Tell me."

"Fuck off."

"Language, Harry."

Harry lay back on the couch and shut his eyes, folding his arms behind his head. He was tiring of this lighthearted banter.

'You wanted to know what I lived for," he said at last. "I live for... for, well, life. I live for everything there is in the world. If you take that away from me, I won't miss it. I'll be dead."

"Everyone misses things. What do you miss?"

Harry gave Riddle a stare. He didn't know if he should answer this. What he missed was already gone. Still, no point exposing any weaknessess, right?"

Harry settled his head back on the futon and stared at the ceiling again, hands folded on his stomach. He shut his eyes.

There was silence for quite a while. Harry thought over everything he missed... everyone he missed.

He opened his eyes, looked at Riddle, and sat up so fast it was a blur. He tried to back away, but the couch was leaning up against a wall and all he did was hit his back rather hard.

The room was full of people. James and Lily Potter, Sirius Black, Neville's parents, Cedric Diggory, some members of the Order he recognised but didn't know.

"Riddle," he breathed. "_What the hell is this?"_

"What do you miss, Harry Potter?" said Riddle soothingly. He knew there were people behind him, Harry could tell. "Do you miss memories of life, death, intoxication? Or are you human, not the Boy-Who-Lived, and do you merely miss people?"

* * *

**Next Chapter:**  
"I told you I could give you them back, Harry," whispered Riddle, but he wasn't Riddle anymore. Now he was Voldemort, stood, fingers steepled. His white, white face was thin and reptilian. His lipless mouth was crooked upwards ever-so-slightly in his cruelly knowing smile. His red eyes stared unblinking. He was shrouded in a simple black robe.

* * *

**crazNM**: Amazing, cool. You made me all smiley. : )  
I've figured that Harry is, after all, kinda human, and I thought about what I'd do if I was in his position. It involved straightjackets. I built on that. Insanity, fun fun.  
The world did actually reverse... I figure there are parallel dimensions out there, and because Harry wasn't himself he could access them... I forget who it was (some rival of Albert Einstein) who discovered quantum mechanics, but this guy reasoned that you can never fully predict things because merely observing them causes them to change... I built on that. If you took that scene in normal colour and flipped the colours, like in the colour negative of a photograph, that's what you get. I tried it out on Kid Pix.

**Breanna Senese**: Yeah, I guess it was about time for him, anyway.

**forty-two dreams**: I'm glad this has become more unpredictable... if this story were predictable I think it would take some of the fun out of writing it.

**rosiegirl**: I felt it was time for a confrontation. Fun, fun.

**Shada Bay**: Yello there Shada Bay, you faithful reviewery person you. No specific praise? General praise works just as well (egotistical grin).  
Fun fun black-leather-cloakey. I'm trying to write that in for later chapters.  
Errr... what's a 'blog'?

**HPbabe143**: The only writers who think constant reviewers are annoying are out-and-out twits of the first water. Lalala, I'm feeling strangely happy today. : )  
This fic very nearly didn't get posted on the internet due to general reluctance/incompetence/both, and it was only due to nice reviewery people like yourself which kept it from being a one-shot fic. You can kinda tell... the first chapter has a lot of the one-shottiness about it.

**cupotrevor**: All 23 in one sitting? Wow, super-reader-reviewery-person! I'm impressed. Kinda glad you like it. Incidentally, 'cupotrevor'... if you gotta cup of him, where's the rest?

**KrazeyForever**: I thought it was time Snape took a little duffing due to his general nastiness i.e. a big ol' confrontation, and I'm quite pleased on how it worked out. Especially as when I was writing it, my computer had a nervy spatz and deleted the last few pages... and so the entire confrontation scene had to be re-written from the ground up. It seemed reasonable.  
I do so love Voldemort... I love being able to describe him (I do it quite well in later chapters, hint hint) and I love his body language. I love the semblance of control he keeps over his followers and I love him because he is the MOST cliche character in the story. He likes snakes and he's the bad guy. Nuff said. Evil bastard. ; )  
And as for the strawberry jam... tee hee. I bet that caught you out.

**Strega**: I don't blame Harry for going crazy ad I'm surprised other, more talented authors haven't thought of it before... it seems like the obvious thing to do... or am I being assumptious? Nevermind.  
Personally I think it was about time SOMEONE fried Snape's butt because he so blatantly needs it... he's so far up his own backside sometimes it's a wonder he can see daylight. He's stinks of Slytherin so much he could be wearing Salazar's used jockstrap. I still love him, though.  
And believe me, there was no kidding about the strawberry jam.

**ckat44**: Thanks. Yum, strawberry jam...

**Pleione**: Hehe... that jam's been getting everyone.

**fhippogriff**: Every time I look at that name it brings a smile to my face... 'fhippogriff'. Just saying it is cool.  
The strawberry jam is not part of any insanity, as you can see. Fun fun.

**starinthedark11**: I am a control freak sometimes, and so I hate it when things seem unstoppable. But I loved writing this, I have to say.

**S**: Why, hello there, 'S'. Cool and simple.  
Um, yep. I'm fifteen and have been for little while. I'm pretty sure. My birth certificate says so, anyway... but who trusts the government?  
Assuming from your cry of 'you're only 15!' you must be somewhat older than I am, and it's cool to get such praise from you. : )  
I'm impressed you think my writing style is mature... I read too much, I think that's why.  
Saying that Voldemort is 'not exactly normal' is like saying Hitler was a little bit of a control freak, but there you go.  
If you like this fic, I'd advise you read one of my others, called Conscienceness. Chapter one isn't the greatest, but chapter two's not too shabby... I've finished the fic. I would appreciate it if you could review it... you evidently know your stuff. Also, I think I'll be posting another fic at the same time, called 'Shards'. Would you reviewy? Pleasey?  
Sanity... veeeery strange idea...  
Review again!

**Kawaii - Syaoran**: Angst is, despite is general depressing tendencies, really quite fun. : )  
I know what you mean about losing interest, there just aren't as many good stories out there as there used to... either that or you've read them all. I keep track of my favourites on my... er... favourites page. I hope this story is good enough to keep you going. : )

**TeahLeafs**: Oh, irony, such a wonderful thing.  
My favourite thing about writing this, I have to say, are the dialogue-y bits where I can really let rip with some dark sarcasm. Fun, isn't it?

**sakura saisaka**: Nuts? You are what you eat. : )  
Yes, the world is a straaange place... but that's why it's so fun to live there. Most of the time, anyhow.

**XxgemxX**: I'm glad you think it's different. For a start, it does a lot for my ego. : )  
Don't shout too much at your computer, you might hurt its feelings, and we all know what computers do when they're upset... ; )  
In accordance with your wishes, I am doing the updating-thingy as fast as I possibly can. : )  
(I think this is the most amount of smileys I've ever done in a reply.)

**Ija Ijewna**: Wow, you're a pretty zippy reader.  
Yep, you wold be the second/third eagle-eyed reviewer to spot Pratchettian references... it started out as a private competition. My friend bet me that I couldn't sneak in five without people noticing. I forget how many I put in, but I won anyway. So yay me.  
I think it is truly impossible not to love Pratchett's work (but not Pratchett himself: I saw him on TV once. He has a head bigger than Jupiter. Still, who can blame him?)  
I find it interesting that you think I've got a good sense of 'ironical humour' (your words, not mine : )) as I've always loved ironies.  
Do I honestly have a Pratchett-ian approach on ethics? I've always found Pratchett to be more observant than your average bear, and I have always admired that. What I did was tackle stuff from a darker, more cynical angle; I don't know if that's the same. Neh.  
Snape? In canon? I'm actually getting quite paranoid about that. ; )  
I don't think it's physically possible to write an angst fic with Harry IC, because, truth be told, I don't think it's possible for so naturally curious a character to withdraw into himself. I wondered what it would be like, and lo and behold, here be Wingbroken.  
I had no idea that English was not your first language as I read this. You have better grammar, spelling and sentence structure than many of my English speaking classmates (e.g. believing that 'He wor cool, innit' is the height of social intercourse. Dear Lord.) And if you are less skilled in writing that in reading, you must be quite the formidable reader. My own grip of foreign languages comprises of GCSE course Spanish for which I have studied for three of my fifteen years. I can now sing a song about cats in hats but, should I ever go to Spain, not be able to get a filled baguette for love nor money.

**BlownAway**: Hey there, BlownAway. Nice to here from you again.  
I've been thinking... is your name a Terry Pratchett-ian reference ('Moving Pictures'), or am I just thinking too much about them since responding to my last reviewer?  
They watched for ten minutes without acting because they're a) stupid and b) wanted to see how it all ended. I wanted to bring Fudge into it, but didn't really know how.


	25. Realisations

Yeah... I understand this has gotten bizarre, but some sense of normality returns for the next chapter. Bear with me.

* * *

Harry stared at the people, and tried to think. These were not real.

Suddenly, the room wasn't as comforting. In fact, he felt trapped.

Faces blank but staring, were locked onto his own. Harry's eyes flickered between their sets of gazes.

"What do you want, Riddle?"

"Why, to see what the great Harry Potter fears above all else."

"You've got the wrong memories."

Harry said this with confidence, trying to fight down the way his muscles wanted to shake. It was true. He didn't fear them. He had lost them, was all. And loss was painful... not scary.

The room darkened, and all but Harry, Riddle and Harry's parents retained their colour.

"I told you I could give you them back, Harry," whispered Riddle, but he wasn't Riddle anymore. Now he was Voldemort, stood, fingers steepled. His white, white face was thin and reptilian. His lipless mouth was crooked upwards ever-so-slightly in his cruelly knowing smile. His red eyes stared unblinking. He was shrouded in a simple black robe.

'Shrouded' was the right word; the... man? Demon? Creature? seemed to emanate death, famine, plague and war. This... thing... was all four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rolled into one. And he had their powers.

Harry was backing into the wall, no longer sat but standing. James and Lily looked at Harry with green and hazel eyes.

A man, tall, in simple muggle clothing and a scarf. Harry looked into his father's face and saw his reflection... apart from a few quirks of difference. Then he looked at his mother, saw fiery auburn hair and almond-shaped acid eyes, and saw that those eyes were crying.

"I told you I could give you them back, five years ago, but you wouldn't listen. I am willing to make the offer again."

Harry was horribly, horribly, tempted. But it was not like Voldemort to make an offer that did not have a price.

"What would you gain from it?"

Voldemort's only answer was a cryptic smile.

Harry's back was still firmly pressed into the wall, but the wall was now a cool shale grey. They were in an empty, grey room.

"Let me talk to them," whispered Harry. He was about to cry, he could feel it. "Alone."

Voldemort shrugged, a gesture unusual in so determined a... creature, and faded away.

"Are you real?" said Harry in a low voice.

Suddenly, Lily's eyes spilled tears, and the pair of them ran forward, embracing Harry.

"My son... my son," someone was whispering in his ear.

Harry was crying now, silent rivulets of tears running down his cheeks, but he pushed them away, and backed into the wall again.

"Are you real?" he repeated. If they weren't, he wasn't sure if he would like to live.

"We saw you once before," said Lily. Her emerald eyes were spilling a steady stream of tears. James was looking at Harry with the most pained expression. "We saw you, when you were fighting the Dark Lord... you ran, you took the boy back with you..."

"I came first," said James. His voice was low and dark. "I told you your mother wanted to see you... we are the memories in the Dark Lord's wand. We are the echoes you have seen."

Harry began to shake, he couldn't control it. James wrapped an arm around Lily's waist, and Lily reached out a hand for him to take -

Harry was just raising his arm when they faded into mist.

Harry waited for Voldemort to reappear, which he did, seconds later. But this had given Harry time to think.

It really had not occurred to him before.

Voldemort had taken his parents.

And instead of feeling like he could cry again, Harry felt a ball of white-hot, righteous rage unfold within him, and he suddenly had the strength to fight...

Voldemort reappeared, and found a miserable-looking Harry staring back dully.

"This is what you get when you pine," he told the boy in his cruelly soft, mocking voice.

"Why did you kill them?" Harry's voice was shaking.

"You learn to dispose of annoying persons after a while," said Voldemort in a bored tone. "They're all the same."

"They're all the same."

Harry repeated this dully. Voldemort's lipless mouth lifted in a sinister smile. It looked like he'd successfully broken the Potter-child's spirit.

"You are learning, my child."

He certainly got a shock when Harry stood up straight, met Voldmort's bloody gaze with eyes of pure emerald fire and lifted his chin.

"You did it all wrong," hissed Harry. "You wanted to make me weak. You made me strong. You took my parents, you _BASTARD_!"

Harry ran, raised a hand, but instead of a punch he let fly a ball of power. Instead of the sickly yellow colour of those before, this was a pure, liquid white that sparkled... like a spinning diamond.

It hit Voldemort's image and he shattered, and Harry knew that the creature was gone, had left his head.

There was no feeling of self-satisfaction, there was no feelings that he had done the right thing. His sadness was not alleviated, nor was his anger. What he felt, as the room melted into grey-black chaos, was a grim sense of determination. Voldemort had taken his parents. Bellatrix had taken his godfather. Wormtail had taken his friend. The Lestranges had taken Neville's parents. They would pay. THEY WOULD PAY. THEY WOULD PAY!

Harry's consciousness melted into freezing black chaos, but he had a meaning now. He had the determination to take on Voldemort and by the Gods he would win. And if not, then he would at least make sure he took the bastard down with him...

He had not grieved for those he had lost, and his depression was still there. There was nothing he could do about that. He still cried.

All he had now was the WILL.

Harry knew he was awake. There was the sensation of warm sheets, of eyes gummed shut by sleep, of aching muscles. The fact he was feeling pain snapped him back to existence, and he cracked his eyes open very slightly.

There was no-one near him. It was early morning, perhaps five am. There were several medi-witches and -wizards dozing in chairs on the other side of the room.

Harry put his hands to his face. His glasses were not there, but that was all right. His vision was fogging over. He put his hand out, found his glasses on a bedside table and pushed them onto his face. There, that was better.

Harry pushed the covers away from him and sat up, putting his feet on the cold stone floor. Ayah! Every muscle screamed in pain. Harry stood stiffly, trying to ignore the absolute agony that rocketed through his body.

He walked jerkily to the window and noticed he had been changed into pyjamas.

He leaned on the windowsill and noted that the sun was out and the sun was strong.

It looked like it had snowed again over the night, though. There were no traces of the battle that had taken place.

Harry winced. It was not something he wanted to remember. It was not something he could remember, not clearly. There had been clear vision, clearer than he'd ever seen. Everything had been stark, there had been black and white - right and wrong. Nothing was ever that clear. What had made him think so?

Snape... the poor, poor bastard. Why had he tried? Why had he tried to protect Harry? Why had he suffered for it?

How was Harry going to say he was sorry?

He'd really hurt Snape, really. He remembered vague details, as if from a dream... a shoulder, a stomach, and some burns... Harry hoped they weren't too bad.

He struggled back to bed and got under the covers. He felt horribly weak, as if he had been drained. As if someone had sucked all the energy out of him.

He remembered Voldemort. He remembered their conversation. He remembered his unconsciousness. He remembered the fight. And he remembered breaking...

He had lost sense of self, he had lost his sanity. He felt no better for it, but at least he did not feel worse. Only guilty remorse about what he had done to Snape.

God Lord... first time he'd ever really felt sorry for the man. He must be getting soft.

He slept again.

* * *

**Kip**: Nice to see you're reading me again. I do so miss your reviews sometimes. 

I liiiike strange. Fun isn't it? ; )

I'm glad I'm not Yossarianing the guy... although some of the inspiration for this fic (I have over a hundred sources of inspiration... strange) was the attitude to insanity in Catch 22. You want to get out of your turn of flights, you have to declare mental instability... but if you say you're insane then you're evidently sane. Fun fun.

p.s. Yes, I went to Greece over the summer holidays.

**Midgette** -Nyaww, cuteness.

Anyway, um, yeah. Thankyou!

**starinthedark11**: Banter IS so fun, isn't it?

**HPbabe143**: Harry isn't literally dearest Voldie's child... it's a whatchamacallit, a metaphor. Some people could view Harry as the next Dark Lord... which sounds like Voldemort's child, if you phrase it differently.

**crazNM**: Yay! Quantum mechanics. Fun fun.

What would YOU miss? My first reaction when I wrote this was 'The Nightmare Before Christmas movie' but that wasn't quite appropriate... still, that was my thoughts, not Harry's.

**Tania25**: Flattery will get you everywhere.

YAY! Englishness!

I don't think I live too near you... I live in the village of the Ye Olde Bronte Birthplace just outside Bradford... doesn't particularly sound too near Cornwall. Opposite ends of the country, actually. : I

Still. Whatever. Glad you like my story!

**Heart and Mind**: 'Heart and Mind'? Yes, put those lungs down, too. The organ bank is not a playground.

Sorry, couldn't resist. ; )

I've never heard this story termed 'odd' before, but it made me smile. Smileyness. : )

**Ceris Malfoy**: Flattery will get you everywhere. ; )

**Read300300**: Thanks for the Physics lesson... my knowledge of useful physics has grown rusty lately... I just haven't had time to read up on it, I guess.

**Toki Mirage**: In a few chapters' time, there will be muchos Snape/Harryness. I wanted to work in some Soppy Snape but it wouldn't click, so I deleted it and tried something else instead. I think it worked out quite well. It's about as soppy as Snape will ever get...

**TeahLeafs**: Yay for humouryness.

Cheesy? Up until this point my ego had been flying along on the other reviews, but this has humbled me. What WOULD I do without you: )

**LiLy MaLfOy13**: Good good.

**websurffer**: Speedy reading always has its upsides... the downside is that good books don't take as much time to read.

**forty-two dreams**: I considered, er... 'jello' (Here in Britain we call it jelly) but jam (you call it jelly... dear Lord, cross-continental differences make this interesting, don't you think?) was just more fun, I guess.

And as for the subtle hint you left me... I'm not in a discreet mood today. Are you talking about the Harry Potter film and if so, which one? Sorry... I had a particularly nasty English lesson today in which my teacher made a show of dancing around various subtle hints, metaphors and double meanings to the point where I'm sick of them today. Humour me. ; )

**Breanna Senese**: Voldemort's smart enough to realise that schneaking into people's minds (destroying them from the inside out, as you can see) is probably the fastest route to total rule.

**dalamis**: It's the bad guys that make a good story. ; )

**Kawaii - Syaoran**: Homework... blearggh.

**Strega**: 'Have you ever seen Farscape'? I used to practically live off of that program. Harvey, Harvey, Harvey... how I miss his cutting sarcasm. I particularly liked the one when it was a WW2 scene, and they're both in fatigues and helmets. : ) Fun fun.

I thought it would be a fun irony if the calmest and kindest things came from the one person who wanted him dead. It was a way of softening him up.

And as for the language... coming from a rich and prominent family, I'd suspect Voldemort would have standards (although how he can rule out murder and torture fascinates me.) : )

'Bwah ha ha ha ha'... yes, it does have a certain stress-relieving feel about it, doesn't it?

**Sapphire Starlet**: Fun fun. Glad you're still reading. : )

**XxgemxX**: )

**espergirl04**: About as snapped as you can get.

**BlownAway**: Pratchett, Pratchett... what would we do without him?

It gets more interesting for this chapter, as you can see. It just gets more complicated...

Err, social life, GCSEs (dear God, I have some RE coursework to finish... I'll be okay, I'm getting A's : )) and fanfic... okay, I put in loads of effort at school, spend some time reading/writing fanfic (I read less now... there seems to be less good stuff around), kill some homework, practise my drum kit for half an hour... divide your time up, I guess.

**KrazeyForever**: Crazy! Fun fun.

**Shadowed Rains**: I'm blushing, that you find me so readable.

I'm glad I'm so unpredictable, makes it1À fun to read reviews.

**Shada**** Bay**: What's this? Do we have ourselves a little obsession with Tom Riddle? ; )

I can't get myself a blog until I get a computer that will support such a website. As soon as I get one, I shall inform thee. : )

**Pleione**: Twas fun to write, as well.

**fhippogriff**: Smart, smart... thinking about this, I can see. I wanted to get beyond the stereotypical evil-killing-machine-that-is-Voldemort, and I think it worked OK.

**E.A.V.:** Yeeees, I wondered about 'slown'... but I stuck with it. 'Slowed' sounded too clunky, and I thought I may as well pull a Gerard Manley Hopkins and make a word up. Fun fun.

**Asiea** : Impatience is a virtue... grins

**C'mon**: Confused about what?


	26. Excursions

Yeah, there is a noted absense of our favorite potions master recently, but that will be majorly rectified in chapters to come. Bear with me, people. Oh, and I've recently put up a new story called Shards. Anybody ineterested in reviewing?

I'd also like to make a plea: from myself, and several other reviewers who have noticed it. Molly Morrison, if you're readng this... please, please, PLEASE update 'Lies' soon. We're all dying out here.

* * *

He slept again. 

He didn't really do much more than doze for a few more hours, but when he came to he was still feeling unpleasantly sleepy, the kind of tiredness that welcomes sleep but cannot achieve it. He decided instead to see who was sat around him.

He cracked his eyes open a little, surprised to find he was still wearing his glasses. A medi-wizard was about to take his pulse.

"Wzsft," said Harry, knocking the man's hand away. He was rewarded for his efforts when the man jumped like he'd seen a Death Eater.

Harry sat up, slowly and painfully, and looked around him. Dumbledore was beaming at him from the door to the hospital wing. Harry looked away. He didn't deserve it.

And right into the eyes of Mrs. Weasley, who promptly threw her arms around him.

"Harry, dear! Harry! Are you all right?"

She held him out at arms' length and viewed him critically, but Harry could see the tears in her eyes.

Harry started to say something, found he couldn't, cleared his throat and tried again.

"Uh... I think I'm okay. Apart from the achy muscles," he said. Mrs. Weasley loosened her grip a little bit, but pulled him into a hug again.

"Oh, it's so good to see you back," she said happily. The tears in her eyes did not go away.

Harry propped himself up further, and glanced at the empty bed next to him.

"Professor Snape -" he began.

"Oh, he's fine dear," said Mrs. Weasley, tucking up the bedsheets around him. She did not quite meet his gaze. Harry looked around him, and saw several mediwitches and wediwizards tidying up Snape's vacated bed.

"Why - Why are all these people here?"

"Well, Madam Pomfrey wasn't quite sure that your... injuries were within her healing ability, so we called in some help."

By 'some help' she obviously meant the six or seven healers flitting around. Harry let himself be tucked back in, and Dumbledore strolled over to his bed.

"Molly... if I may speak to him?"

"Of course, headmaster," said Mr.s Weasley, flustered. She threw him one last glance before she left the ward.

Harry sat in silence. He did not wish to speak with Dumbledore. He did not feel worthy.

"You may be interested to know you have been asleep for two days," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. Harry still said nothing.

"Severus is feeling much better."

The silence deepened.

"But I see you are not." Harry just shrugged. He wasn't in the mood for talking. He wasn't in the mood for sleeping. He felt completely useless, totally drained, and very weak. Dumbledore appeared to sense his mood, and Harry sensed Dumbledore's disappointment. It made him feel worse.

Then one rather horrible fact occured to him.

"Sir - the fire - the damage -"

"All taken care of, my boy," said Dumbledore, eyes smiling through a serious face. "The wards in place around the property in the castle are sacrificial wards - the wards burn instead of the substance. Everything is quite safe. Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall and myself will have to do some renewing, that is all."

"I don't want to cause anyone any effort," Harry mumbled.

"My boy, those wards should be renewed at the end of every year. They have not been renewed for very nearly a century. Believe me when I say any damage sustained is entirely our fault."

There was a pause.

"Would you like to talk to Severus?"

Harry mutely shook his head.

Dumbledore placed a hand on his head, and left the hospital wing.

llllllllll

Harry sat down for another rest. He was exhausted.

He really was weaker than he had previously thought. His little _chat_ with dear Tommy-boy and his wonderful handstands on the edge of the mental catastrophe curve had drained any reserves of energy he had.

The fact he actually had reserves of strength to start with surprised him, in a dull, emotionless kind of way. When this had all started he had felt heavy. Horribly heavy. Oppressed, wounded, and heavy.

Now he was hollow. He was like a chocolate rabbit: looked fine on the outside, but inside was just a large hole with a sign saying 'Space for rent' floating randomly about. It was strange. He now had virtually no co-ordination. Any grace he used to have seemed to have been sapped. Admittedly, part of this appeared to be the fact he was using a crutch, but his joints appeared to be held together with marmalade, spit, and a few well-chosen prayers. His movement felt jerky, like a puppet walking with a string missing. He didn't feel incomplete, or anything, he just felt... hollow.

Numb was not the right word. Numbness came with flesh, with solidity. Emptiness came with vacated space.

Harry levered himself to his feet, picked up his wooden crutch and resumed his way down to Hogsmeade.

If anyone found out he had left the castle, there would be hell to pay. Harry couldn't care. If anyone ran up to him right now and slapped him, screamed at him, he would simply meet them with the same empty gaze and voicelessness he had treated everyone with for the past two days.

The empty wind whistled fruitlessly over the flat plains that constituted the path down from the castle. Vacant air lay lightly on the trees, the snow-covered ground and on Harry. The sense of lightness almost overwhelmed him; he had become so accustomed to pressure it was strange not to feel trapped anymore.

He had passed through the storm of his insanity and this was the garden of the hurricane's eye. Hell rose around him, mighty walls of fire and wind, but Harry had what he had. And that was all.

Harry resumed his reasonable sped down to the village, keeping an eye on his surroundings. Apart from the few brief flicks from the tail-end of his scarf, caught by the whiskers of the wind, nothing else caught his gaze as appearing to be unusual.

Since waking up from his nightmares, Harry had become beset with paranoia. He suspected Voldemort everywhere; perhaps he could not be blamed for that. He had been forced to meet his parents in the flesh, as it were, and the experience had left him shaken. His previous determination was dormant, hiding, but not asleep. It was huddling in a proverbial corner and hugging itself. It had yet to gain self-confidence.

Harry's eyes were now fixed firmly upon the village; he was nearly there. When he arrived he flattened his fringe and surveyed the people there. Hogsmeade was always busy; It was no more than the usual. Harry limped in, aware that people were staring at his crutch. It made a nice change from his scar. He pulled the scarf up so it covered his chin and mouth and headed for his favourite café.

The _Lull Spirit_ was as empty as it had ever been, and this was exactly how Harry had wanted it. A little bit of silence, a little bit of quiet, a little bit of time where his thoughts were his own. A little bit of time without the few lingering healers metaphorically prodding him with a stick to see how he would react. Without Mrs Weasley's fussing. Without seeing Dumbledore's knowing gaze and without waiting to find Snape.

Harry did not order. He simply sat and waited out the silence. It was pleasant, and it was comfortable. Harry began to feel dozy, but he did not let himself drift away.

He unwound the scarf from around his neck and craned his head from side to side, trying to loosen up the muscles which were stiff and tense. His scar was hurting again, a raw, throbbing pain that was somehow muffled.

No matter how much he tried to stay awake, eventually his eyelids closed. He was tired and his recent nightmares had been no more than usual, but enough to drain any strength he had built up. He dropped into a black void of dreamlessness, and was thankful.

When he woke about two hours later, a woman was touching him tenderly on the shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

Harry shook his head a little bit to clear it, and looked up at the woman. She looked concerned. Then, she looked amazed. Harry noticed, with a deep sense of disgust and disappointment that her eyes had wandered to his forehead.

"Oh - I'm - I'm so sorry for waking you," she stuttered. Harry just shrugged.

"I needed to be up."

But her hands had gone to her mouth.

"Can I get you a drink? On the house, of course," she added, smiling a little disconcerted smile. Harry shook his head, and his feeling of disgust grew. His scar gave a painful tweak; its sheer volume of pain seemed to have mounted whilst he slept. He left the shop without another word, and knew that he wouldn't go back.

He was walking down the main road, feet crunching comfortably in the snow, when the feeling overwhelmed him so badly, he started to shake.

Something was Wrong, something was very Wrong. Something was here that shouldn't have been.

He tried to shake it off as paranoia

_(paranoia listen to it it's only a heightened state of awareness)_

but it wouldn't be dispelled. And then, his scar burst into fresh waves of sharp, immeasurable pain.

He swung around and surveyed the street, not knowing what a gothic picture he made. Leaning on a darkwood crutch, with a black cloak swirling about his body, a navy scarf pulled up to hide his mouth and nose, and his black muggle jeans and a t-shirt. Eyebrows frowned above a set of eyes severely dilated by pain, trying to find the source of discord that resonated throughout the world. He could not find it. People were milling around, buying things, behaving in normal people-y kind of way. So what could be wrong?

Harry thought he knew as the pain in his scar rose to a new pitch...

... and exploded into a cacophony of pain, fresh bright pain, that swirled around his brain.

Strangely enough, his vision was oddly lucid as he stumbled over to the entrance of a closed shop and pressed himself into a doorway.

With a resounding crack like several rifles being fired all at once, black-robed men and women had apparated into the centre of the street.

No-one moved. The shoppers froze. The black-robed were still.

The Dark Mark was fired into the late afternoon sky. And then the screaming began.

* * *

**E.A.V**: 'A veritable new-aged Shakespeare'? What have you been smoking and where can I get some?  
I'm glad you think I have alyrical way of describing things... I guess that was what I ws aiming at when I wrote this... evrytthing I write usually has a song or an album behind it. In this case, it was System Of A Down's 'Toxicity' album. 

**ckatt44**: Flattery will get you everywhere.

**Pleione**: Indeed. Keep reading!

**Strega**: 'Glowering BBQ Snape' - I LIKE it. I may steal that for future chapters. Don't mind me. And I almost burst into tears when they finished the progtram... stupid American sci-fi channels, pulling funding... Thanks for responding to, uh, my response.

**ShadowedHand**: Strange, strange is good.

**KrazeyForever**: Yeah, I am working on the length of my chapters. It's easier to do this now I have written the ending.

**Dragonero**: Will do.

**Breana Senese**: It was the graveyard, not the World Cup... wasn't it?  
Whatever. I ust needed a link to the past for this story, and I hate myself for the tackiness of it... but for the sake of the story, I had to do it.

**Sakura Saisaka**: It's okay, my computer hates me, too.

**Midgette**: Nyaaaw, you gotta love that name.  
Yes, your attention span does seem to be wandering. It's travelled three continents already.

**Vendethial**: My writing style reminds you of Stephen King? Will you marry me?

**C'Mon**: Yeah, I know what you mean... I get that from books sometimes.

**Shada Bay**: Yes, actionnyness will be coming, as you can see from this chapter...  
I'm working on a blog as we speak...

**crazNM**: Normal? Define 'normal' in the Potterverse. ; )  
I think insanity would not be good. What I've done is taken a stereotypcal view on insanity and romantisiced it to a sort of martyrdom... insanity is not good. Imagine beliving that someone is after you, chasing you, and you can't hide... must be a terrible feeling. Blearggh.

**Teahleafs**: Everyone loves the Teahleaf. Oh, what would we do without you?  
The James/Lily thing was not cheesy; it was EXTREMELY cheesy. Unfortunately, for the plot to have worked, it had to be done. Sorry about that. Forgive me?

**Shelly101**: You're welcome.

**Starinthedark11**: Will do.

**Tania25**: Yes, we do live quite, quite far away from each other... oh well, you can't win 'em all... and by the way, I'm still flattered from your previous review, so nyah. : )

**Illucia**: Normal? Coherent? Must be losing my touch...

**forty-two dreams**: JKR has made a lot of mistakes... like leaving the completed drafts o books 6 and 7 on a cafe table. Now she has to re-write the books because the drafts were stolen. Book 6 was supposed to come out last summer...

**Mrs. Snape**: Harry will not go to St, Mugoe's, but St. Mugoe's will come to Harry... you'll see what I mean in a couple of chapters.

**leggylover03**: I like odd. Still, it will get better...

**cynosure the heirophant: **Freaky? I like freaky. Freaky is good.  
I'm glad you like my story. Cool name, by the way.  
Right... yes, it has gotten bizarre recently, but it straightens out again in coming chapters.  
If you liked that ugly thing about Draco Malfoy, I'll let you in on something -I'm planning to try to get this quote into the story at some point: "You weren't hit by the ugly stick; you set your face on fire and tried to put it _out _with the ugly stick."

**Silver Slytherin**: I'm writing lots more. Check out my bio page.  
In your review you mentioned you couldn't get ahold of chapter 8; I had a look and it seemes to be okay. I think it's your computer. If you still can't get ahold of it, say so, and I'll e-mail it to you. Cool? My ego won't allow reviewers to not be reading my chapters. ; )


	27. Danger

Okay, just a note here... Shards is a one-shot and it will not be continued

(where have we heard THAT before? Cough Wingbroken cough). It was a one shot because it was based on a single idea and on another person's fic. If you want to see how Shards finished up, read Molly Morrison's 'Lies' (to whom, by the

way, I am eternally grateful).

* * *

It was a woman who started the screaming, as they always do in films and books. Then panic ensued. 

The woman who had screamed, Harry saw, was taken down by a stunner. Then the firer threw their hood back, and Harry saw the mask of a Death Eater.

Suddenly, the pure white ground turned crimson.

A reductor curse, fired by a Death Eater, had punched a hole right though a fourteen-year-old girl. She fell to the ground without a sound.

That was when it became surreal for Harry.

The pain in his forehead became dulled. His senses were muffled as he stared down at this girl whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Harry saw curses being fired left and right, and heard shouts of wonderful laughter. The kind of laughter you'd normally associate with a fairground, but this was far from a carnival.

Harry saw chaos. He saw people hitting the ground. Some crawled away and some lay still. The shop fronts reflected the images of people running. Running for their lives.

Harry saw no flashes of green, for which he was detachedly thankful. He was watching the whole proceeding with something akin to carelessness. I't didn't seem... real.

He heard voices through the screams and the laughter, and he recognised them. Including the evilly high-pitched one.

_No... this_ was not _happening..._

In the wide circle that was the centre of Hogsmeade, perhaps twenty or twenty-five black-robed minions were shooting spells. Harry searched for the tallest but could not see it.

The trees that quarterly circled the circle of stone that was the centre were being blasted down like a building being demolished. The once-yellow slush that had been the snow where people walked through it now had a light tint of pink. People were screaming, men, women and children all running as though the devil were on their tails. The iron-grey sky was unoppressive and good, but Harry noticed none of this. He couldn't stop staring at this young girl.

He memorised every line on her face, every little detail like the way her empty, vacant eyes caught the gleam of fire from some distance away, the way her mouth hung open slightly, the way a trickle of blood traced its way down her jaw... Harry knew he would see her later, at about 2 a.m, but he couldn't tear himself away.

His mind began to spin a tale... she was studying at Hogwarts. She had a boyfriend. Her friends, her family...

Something knocked into him and sent him sprawling face-first into he snow. Harry was roughly picked up and semi-dragged along the ground. Harry struggled to his feet to find several things: that he was further way from the group of Death Eaters that were currently killing, looting and... and _raping_ their surroundings. Secondly, that the snow had stuck his fringe to his forehead. A man in soaked clothes was trying desperately to pull him away from the group. The man gave him one last crazed tug and ran for his own life.

Harry stood and threw a glance back a the Death Eaters. He knew that because his hair was plastered to his forehead, he wasn't gong to be recognised in a hurry. He'd changed over the past year since Voldemort had last seen him; his eyes were sharper but more vacant, his face was leaner and he had a more determined, yet decidedly cynical, air. He was a very different person, and it showed upon his face.

Maybe it was enough to protect him, for now.

He turned and started to run, but a bodybind curse smacked into the small of his back. He fell to the frozen ground, stiff as a board. He heard footsteps crunch toward him, and fell unseen eyes scan his back.

"This one's got a crutch."

It sounded like McNair. A foot connected sharply, briefly and painfully with his ribs. His solid body rocked a little.

"Leave him. We've got more important things."

Bellatrix Lestrange. It was strange not to hear her voice without mocking tones infused.

He heard Voldemort's chilling voice, but it was a way off.

"Leave him. People to do, things to see..."

There was some nervous laughter, and Harry caught the tail-end of Voldemort's speech as they left him behind and as a warm, leaden-like feeling in his stomach and brain of pure relief swept through him.

"Always leave one alive to tell the story... always leave one to tell Harry Potter that this is all his fault. Undo the spell."

All of Harry's unneeded brain functions shut down.

His fault?

_His fault?_

_HIS FUCKING FAULT._

Harry felt the spell melt away around him as anger filled him up like a bodyful of lightning. He raised himself up, made sure he was sat on the ground by his crutch with his empty hands in plain view, and muttered:

"You _bastards_."

It was quiet but it was carrying in the deathly silence of the street. The rational part of his mind (which sounded horribly like Percy Weasley) screamed that this was _totally_ _crackers_. He'd been lucky to get away without death, torture or both. Why the fuck was he calling them back!

Because I need to, he understood. He didn't think it, he understood it. This is not the final confrontation, this is a meeting in the middle. I need to make him understand that I am no longer a child. They need to know that I am something... something to be feared.

Let them know I am a worthy adversary.

The group of Death Eaters had stopped in their tracks. Nothing moved for a few long, long seconds, and Harry wanted them to hurry up. His brain was lucid, suicidally calm and all he could think was _my trousers are getting wet_.

Voldemort didn't even turn. Harry knew he didn't need to.

"Mr Potter," he said calmly. "So nice of you to join us while we work."

Now they did turn, all of them, all of them armed, wands pointing at him.

"Killing, work? I can see the slogan now: "WE DEAL IN WHOLESALE SLAUGHTER'."

Nobody laughed. Harry didn't expect them to. The joke had become twisted in his mouth, but maybe it had never been intended as a joke in the first place.

Harry eyed the widening circle of Death Eaters. There was a spreading uncertainty among them, Harry could feel it. Why wasn't this boy scared? He had plenty to be afraid of...

Harry wasn't scared, mostly because he didn't feel the need. Fear would not help here...

He was now totally enclosed in a circle of Death Eaters... there were maybe forty, forty-five altogether. Harry pointed to one at random.

"Come here."

His mouth spoke the words, and his ears cried out in astonishment. He was ordering Death Eaters about?

The Death Eater looked at Voldemort, who gave the most imperceptible of nods.

Voldmort's robes were the usual dusty black, the black of shrouds and coffin lining. His eyes were alight with malicious interest, and a slim, tapering white forefinger was touching the bottom of his ghostly, lipless smile. Those snakelike eyes, so ironically the colour of the wine in the Catholic chalice, glinted slightly.

The Death Eater stepped forward, wand raised and at the ready. Harry beckoned him closer and the Death Eater stepped very reluctantly to his side.

"Hand."

The Death Eater once again sought permission from his leader. Gaining it, he very cautiously held out a gloved palm.

Harry grasped it firmly, pulling himself up and dragging his crutch with him. This appeared to startle the Death Eater, who had evidently been suspecting some kind of attack. Harry stumbled for a second, straightened, brushed himself down a bit and nodded at the Death Eater. Through the slits in the hood, Harry made out a pair of scared blue eyes. From the Death Eater's stance and build he judged that this was a man.

"Thanks," said Harry, and as the man turned a retreating back to rejoin his place in the ranks, Harry added "Good boy." He managed to sound both contemptuous and condescending at the same time.

He visibly saw every Death Eater stiffen in anger. He had just treated one of them as an underling, which was having the desired effect. They were becoming tetchy, uncertain... and they would make mistakes.

True, it was like sticking a sharp stick into a wasps' nest and swirling it around a few times... but it was always nice to have the opposition on their toes. Even if it meant losing his.

"Master!" shrieked a shrill voice from somewhere in the circle. "Master, he speaks to one of us as a dog, he defiles one of our members! He should pay!"

"Yes," said Voldemort thoughtfully. The elegant white finger still had not moved from his slightly-smiling mouth. His blood-red eyes betrayed hints of cruelty and poisonous thoughts, of evil so natural it was like deadly nightshade and belladona.

"Oh please, please Master, let me be the one to make him pay!"

The shrill voice belonged to the Death Eater who promptly threw themselves on the ground before Voldemort. Harry couldn't resist a smirk. They were all over the place.

"Bellatrix, my dear..." The hand slipped down as Bellatrix raised herself up, and slowly traced a line down her jaw in a surprisingly affectionate gesture. For a moment, Harry gained a strange bit of insight into the Death Eaters' community: he makes them do his bidding, but he does care for them. He cares for them and they know it. Maybe it's why most of them, despite the fear of death, never leave him. It's protection, in a way. Their leader. Their tormentor. Their father.

"The last time I charged you with this task you failed," said Voldemort in his softly taunting voice. His thin face was tipped slightly to the side in an expression of mild disgust. "I have not yet forgotten that. _Crucio_."

Aha. He cares for them, but he also... prunes them. He makes sure that they grow into the efficient machines he wants them to be. Disciplining is in order, but perhaps it was necessary, if you ruled this surly lot. Lucious Malfoy would as soon overthrow you as look at you. If you have the love of your minions and a strong disciplinary hand... the world is your oyster.

Mainly because you eat it alive.

True, it would be hard to find a slice of lemon seven hundred miles long, but the metaphor suffices. For now.

_Since when have I become such an expert at psychoanalysing the Death Eaters?_ Harry wondered. Surely it wasn't a habit.

Bellatrix had stopped writhing on the ground and was lying panting before the feet of her master.

"But..." continued Voldemort as if the conversation had had no interruptions, "I daresay you will receive your turn."

"Yes, Master... thank you, Master..." She kissed the hem of his robe and crawled back to her place in the circle.

At the mention of turns, everyone in the circle appeared to brighten slightly as Harry's heart sunk. They were going to torture him by rota. How... efficient. Harry spoke aloud this last sentance.

Voldemort steepled his fingers and began to walk toward him with a slow, leisurely pace. Harry's scar started to burn, and he began to believe that if Voldemort did come any closer his head would explode...

The tall, white being was stood before him, scanning his face as though looking for something. Perspiration beaded on Harry's forehead as the pain began to reach a pitch only previously found when the menace standing in front of him had tried to batter into his mind.

A long, white forefinger touched his scar with the most gentle of caresses and Harry jerked back, disliking the touch and fearing the white explosion of pain that had flared behind his eyes.

"So you see, _Harry_ _Potter_," said Voldemort quietly and cruelly, "You cannot even stand near me without feeling pain. How do you expect to defeat me?"

Voldemort stood only a pace away from Harry was ghastly enough but he knew that the effect of Voldmort's words were more for the benefit of his followers. Harry could feel confident stares watching them from all around.

I WILL get out of his alive.

"Oh, I don't know," he said brightly, standing up straight, willing his legs to do the work of the crutch. "Remember our little... chat, a few days ago?"

He felt Voldemort stiffen, and saw discontented murmurs sweep around the circle. Voldemort appeared to be thinking about his reply very carefully, and Harry saw with a deep sense of mingled terror and satisfaction that Voldemort was unnerved.

"Of course. Seeing such cynicism from the mouth of ten-year-old is not something one easily forgets."

The fear in Harry's brain was screaming something at him, but Harry wasn't listening to it. He had important things to worry about.

"Yeah? Well, I meant what I said."

Voldemort's eyes were unreadable. "I daresay you did. My offer still stands, Harry Potter," added Voldemort unexpectedly. "You meant what you said, and so did I. You saw them, you touched them. They could be real again."

For one sickening moment, Harry was horribly, horribly tempted. Voldemort appeared to sense this as he raised his snakelike head a little and focused on Harry with those red eyes.

"Well?" he prompted leisurely, almost mockingly. "I meant what I said. Do you?"

Fear surged again, but Harry caught the tail end of it as he chased it back to the hindquarters of his brain.

_Snape is a Death Eater. Where is he?_

Nine syllables usually don't have such a shock on the mind, but there you go. Harry forced himself not to look at the Death Eaters. Snape had to be here somewhere.

Harry brought his brain back to the task in front of him.

"Still do. And guess what, munchkin? I'm not playing by the rules anymore."

He picked up his crutch, threw it very hard at the nearest Death Eater and just had time to see the man/woman collapse unconscious as the world dissolved into a universe of flying light.

* * *

_There was pain._

_There was pain. _

_Cracked and bleeding lips soundlesly repeated the mantra I must not scream. I must not scream. _

_ And somewhere in the middle of it, just before he blacked out for the third time, Harry saw. And he laughed, and laughed, until his tired lungs ran out of energy, and he slipped into the mists of unconsciousness again. Soon he would wake and he would know nothing but a lingering memory, locked away, but he would remember it and he would laugh again. His torturers would not understand his mirth. When Harry would awake in peace, he would remember the irony but not the cause. _

* * *

**fhippogriff**: Hmm, first review I've ever had which appears to be aimed more at the fictional characters than me. ; ) And as to making it _safely_ through this invasion... not quite, as you can see.

**leggylover03**: Angst is fun.

**childofdarkness1988**: I am somewhat flattered and marginally impressed it kept you up. Keep reading!

**Chassa**: Yay! International relations! Thanks for reading!

**starinthedark11**: Harry doesn't get saved by Snape just yet.

**E.A.V**.: Shakespeare invented the words 'assassination' and 'bump'. Pretty nifty,

eh?

I was pretty proud of that whole 'marmalade joints' thing... I thought it flowed

pretty well. It had a cool rhythm to it, if I do say so myself. ; )

That's the thing about refined sugar... it's so addictive, and yet is a chemical

poison to the body.

Keep reviewing!

**TeahLeafs**: This is NOT, I repeat, NOT a slash story. To be honest, even if I

wanted to write a slash (which I don't) I wouldn't know how to go about it.

Wingbroken is safe from suchlike. I am not against slash (nor am I homophobic or anything) because people should be allowed to write what they want, but I find

the idea of a slash relationship between Harry and Snape frankly disturbing. I mean, some people even write stories about Snape and _Neville_.

Why?

And I will NEVER stop rocking. ; )

**PadfootsNoxed**: Good good. Keep reviewing!

**Midgette**: What could be better than a well-travelled attention-span? It'll get bored and come home. Aww, let it come to England... it can visit me!

**Strega**: Cliffies do give me a nasty case of megalomania, but what can you do.

It's a trade. I'll try to fit BBQ Snape in someplace, and you can use my chocolate rabbit simile. Deal?

**sakura saisaka:** Computers... can't live with 'em, can't jump up and down on 'em and curse 'em to hell without getting sued for destruction of library property.

I like writing the twists... they're fun.

**crazNM**: I tend to blur insanity and paranoia... again, because I tend to romanticise it. Still, what can I do.

The Death Eaters' strike was bound to happen, I suppose, what with Voldemort's interaction getting steadily more and more involved in the story. I just hope it works out okay for the readers. Keep me posted on what you think!

**Kip**: Yes, Harry does get the brunt of things, doesn't he? I liked your idea of

his chemical imbalance as a result of temporary maniac inhabitation... made me giggle. Forget Prozac, Harry Potter needs morphine.

Dear Lord, what a wonderful mental image of Voldemort singing "Fat Guy in a

Little Coat." That reminds me... check out It's a nice little mickeytake of Harry Potter and confirms my theory that no spell will stop a lead slug moving at 600m/s.

**Dragonero**: I wouldn't want you to go to St. Mungo's. I'll keep updating as fast as I can. ; )

**Asiea**: I always stop at good bits to keep you lot reading... I'm paranoid I'm losing readers, like most writers. Bear with me. : )

**Pleione**: Probably because he feels inadequate next to Dumbledore... I think, in many respects, angsty Harry Potter is a very selfish person. I haven't read a fic yet where he isn't.

**Molly Morrison**: Hey, Molly nice to hear from you. : )

I totally understand about the priorities thing... you can update anytime, but your PhD isn't exactly going to come again without a LOT of work. I can't imagine how much work you put into that because I'm still at the lowly GCSE level. I hope any family problems resolve themselves.

Harry has his wand but he knows he doesn't have a chance, so declaring his unarmed-ness leaves him open to a subliminal kind of mercy... for a while, at least. Besides, if he had been sat there with a wand in his hand he'd be dead without another moment's thought. As for the whole falling-asleep-in-the-cafe-thing... ah, stuff happens. Chalk it up to randomosity.

**fhippogriff**: He may or may not get out of this... I'll leave you hanging on that.

**SheWolfe7**: The way Voldemort 'pops' in is going to get very annoying very quickly for Harry... especially nearer the end of the story.

**Breanna Senese**: Death Eaters are, I feel, the magical world's equivalent of a nasty rash.

**Kalorna Enera**:

1) Thanks. You may use the Fred and George quote. ; )

And I totally understand about the technical difficulties - I have been suffering from the same problem ever since I started updating this in, I think it was last June.

2) I could think of some really cool stuff for Fred and George to invent, but I figured it was sidetracking from the story. Mmm, solid sugar mini pony...

3) Yesyesyesyesyesyes, insanity. Sorry about that. I thought it would be interesting. I was thinking, what would happen if Harry went through depression and out the other side? I didn't want to delve into stereotypical depression too much because it might turn into another predictable angst fic, and I couldn't be having with that.

I like making character's thought interesting to read, especially the subconscious ones. When I was comparing rage to twilight black/blue, I was thinking of that colour you fin at the very bottom of the ocean with no lights on... very heavy, very silent... just 'very'. Reds and oranges seemed too light and frivolous, if you know what I mean.

4) Yes, the plot will soon be like a small kangaroo if it keeps jumping, and indeed it will do. 'Insanity magic'... I like it. It's got a nice ring to it (not to mention a matching necklace and bracelet). I may steal that for later chapters. Oh yeah, and it's 'thorough' - it's basically 'through' with an extra 'o' after the 'th'.

5) Feel sorry for Snape? I must be better than I think. ; )

6) It was less of a dream, and more like being trapped inside your own psyche.

Yes, the jam-filled pool wasn't too bad. I just thought 'random', and then 'jam'.

7) There will be I think one more dream to come and it will be unreal but not very funny. Hmm, hot dogs... you're giving me ideas. ; J

8) I have found my story tends to move on without me, and I am usually left making excuses for it. Anyway, I think there were six or seven healers because: more people were taken to Hogwarts' hospital because it was closer; Harry was famous so lots wanted to help out; the teachers were paranoid about Harry.

That's all I can think of at the moment.

Well, you do certainly like to review... keep it up for me!

**HPbabe143** : Review whenever you want... I know about stuff getting in the way. : P

**justmehere**: Yeah, I know, it's gotten a little OOC... but all fanfictions are based on the reader's/viewer's perception of character. Provided it's realistic, otherwise it's just silly.

**Shada**** Bay**: Yes, things do change quite drastically from here. Everyone goes a little OOC, but what can you do.

I went back to putting the little sub-thought brackety-style-doo-dah-things in because a) I missed them and b) they were fun fun fun.


	28. Pain

Okay, this is a warning: I may not be able to update for quite a while... maybe not until April. I will, however, make an effort to updata within the next two weeks, so keep an eye out, just in case.  
Also, I'm working on extending the chapters.

Keep reading!

* * *

There had been pain. Pain had indeed followed, caught up with him and ground his head into the gutter.

Harry waited until he could be sure he was alone. The _crackk_ of disapparating Death Eaters is not a comfort until you are sure that there are none left that are not... restricted by their overlord's wishes.

An eye cracked open and blurrily regarded its environment. Nothing to suggest the darkness of a Death Eater's robes.

Perhaps it was the 'munchkin' that had tipped them over the edge, if not the hurling of the crutch at someone. Harry had sort of let his mouth carry on when his brain had decided what to do, and the rhythm of the sentence had demanded something snappy.

_I've resorted to Wizard of Oz references when in a tight corner. If I should live, please let God purge all such insults from my mind. It's not becoming._

Harry could see everything starkly, and his thinking was quite clear. This was not reassuring. It was as if every one of his senses had decided that they didn't have much more operating time, so they would record everything as lucidly as possible...

Harry, lying on the ground, took as much of an inventory as he dared. His legs were... yes, both broken, as were about... fine ouch ouch ouch ouch, fine fine fine fine fine... four of his fingers. Something had gone viciously wrong with one shoulder but it didn't seem too bad. His nerve endings hummed with the old memories of pain cast by many a Cruciatus and other unknown curses. Harry opened the other eye and peered through fuzzy eyes. Where were his glasses when he needed them?

The thumb and fingers of his right hand were miraculously unbroken, and they inched around the snow on an excruciating arm until he found something that might have resembled his glasses. Pulling them toward his face, his tired fingers pushed the lenses onto his face.

Everything came a little bit more into focus. Only a little, because the blood smearing the glass obscured his vision. Glancing at his fingers, he noted that he had appeared to have lost the top of his little finger from the top joint upwards. Shit happened. Harry tried not to speculate on the rest of his body with varying degrees of success.

Harry was also aware of the cold. The poisonous cold.

The centre of the town was in ruins... several small fires feasted on the remains of the plant life. Buildings had been demolished, and everything was deathly silent. The only thing needed to complete the image would be a few tribal spears sticking out of bodies -

Tribes? What made him think of tribes?

... Death Eaters.

Harry twisted his agonisingly painful neck a little, and saw the Dark Mark hovering in the night sky.

Hadn't he forgotten something?

What was it?

... oh yes. Breathing.

A lungful of cold air whooshed into Harry's lungs, and he coughed out a little blood.

His mind drifted for a moment, and for some unknown reason, settled firmly on lemon meringue pie. Lemon merang pie. Lemming merang pie. Are there lemmings in lemming merang pie?

He forced his mind to focus on the snow, and back to the present. He needed shelter. There was storm coming. He'd recognise those ominously purple clouds anywhere.

Three trees stood. Stood by themselves, their peers having taken the worst of the assault. Their bottom branches overlapped, forming a shelter from the already-falling snow.

Harry reached out his good hand and laboriously propped himself up onto his elbow. The shelter was beginning to look good, if far away. A whole fifteen meters or so.

His hand reached out in front of him found a grip in blasted rock and pulled him forward. His legs screamed in defiant protest, but shelter was more important than the pain now. Harry felt tiny flakes settling in his hair and on his skin. He needed to reach that shelter.

He focused all his being on that single hand reaching out and pulling, reaching out and pulling. His vision swam but Harry was proficient in these seas. He needed to stay conscious, above all things.

Boy, these had been an eventful few days.

Ten meters.

Seven.

Six-and-a-half.

Five n' a bit.

Four annd...

Harry did eventually reach the copse of trees, regardless of the two hours it look him to inch his way over the snow.

llllllllll

Harry lay prostrate beneath the branches of the trees panting with a harsh sound like sandpaper over rough stone.

Everything was a lot fuzzier now, and Harry saw no reason to keep his eyes open. His previous detachment from his worldly aches had evaporated somewhere along the route to this hard-won shelter. The feel of broken legs grinding over smashed rock does that to a person. Thank God the snow had acted as a kind of lubricant. He may have never made it otherwise.

His left hand was a ball of pain. His legs were no longer providing sensations for his brain to feel, which was something of a mercy and something of a worry. The cold was creeping in around the fringes of his body, but it was a blessing. Less feeling, less pain.

The snow was settling quite firmly. There was white roof above him. There was no sense of claustrophobia, just an exhausted feeling of security. He shut his eyes and drifted.

llllllllll

Visions of friends, family and loved ones danced through his chilled brain.

_Maybe I'll see them again._

Harry was having to concentrate on every breath, just in case he forgot to take another. It was entirely possible. Breathing had ceased to be an unconscious action.

There was a lot of commotion outside. Harry wished it would go away. It was disturbing his concentration. He kept an ear on the noise, however. It was a pleasant distraction from his brain.

There was a sudden lull in the commotion, then the voices rose a lot higher. Footsteps thudded on the ground all around him, making the packed earth vibrate a little, but Harry wasn't too bothered. There would have been another time when this would have been important. That did not matter. What did was the sole world around his consciousness which kept himself together; held his fragile mind whole and reminded him to breathe from time to time.

The idea of giving up was becoming more and more appealing. He was simply running out of the energy that kept his lungs going. He was getting bored of forcing his chest in and out, in and out. There was no one else to make this decision. This was just raw, ore-like emotion in its quality.

He was encased in a pleasant, warm shell of snow. Some form of light was shining through its substance, producing a comfortable, incandescent kind of light. The vibrations from footfalls shook the ground about Harry, but he took it all in his stride - well, his crawl. He let his mind blank out a little.

The effort of keeping his lungs going was becoming an intolerable burden, but some force of will... some  
_(elastic band that propelled him)  
_thing kept him going. He didn't know for how much longer it would hold out...

His mind was wandering all over the place; it was like a drunken rambler on a tightrope. He wasn't quite sure how his mind managed to stay on track, but there sure as hell was a lot of wobbling.

He was contemplating the wonders of the colour green and how it applied to such things as the Spanish language when brash light, harsh and painful, flooded his little cave. Harry squinted until something came and blocked the light out, bringing with it unpleasantly cool darkness.

Harry squinted into Snape's face.

"Well... guess we're even,"he mumbled. The next thing he knew were arms picking him up without regard to his injuries.

"Ouch,"he supplied, right before his lungs packed in, his mind gave up and his vision settled into a bottomless pool of clear liquid dark.

llllllllll

Two sets of footsteps sounded along a stone corridor. One of them sounded lopsided and strangely like their owner had three legs.

"Has he woken yet?"

"No. Not a sound from him. What time is it?"

"Auh... about two in the morning."

There was some silence.

"I mean, what were the chances?" exploded one of the voices. "I mean, come on. First time he sets foot in Hogsmeade and the entire army of Death Eaters descends on his head!"

"He's got a link with the Dark Lord. Maybe it was a subconscious agreement. Maybe they weren't expecting each other. Maybe the Dark Lord seriously did not believe that Potter would be insane enough to venture publicly so soon after the encounter."

"I never, ever, in my wildest dreams thought I'd say this, Severus, but I most certaintly have to agree with You-Know-Who on that one. Is this the entrance -"

"Yes, yes. Come on, open the door."

"Ye gods, this castle hasn't changed a bit."

"Stop staring and start moving."

"No need to be so snappy, Severus."

"It's Professor Snape to you."

"Ye gods -"

"Quite into the oaths tonight, aren't we?"

"- are you still harbouring that old grudge? And stop glaring at me. It was a half-way civil question."

"Indeed."

"The boy's lost his parents, his godfather and one of his friends who, may I add, has been through a lot with him. Now he finds out that a chunk of Hogsmeade has been slaughtered and that it's all his fault. He was beaten to within an inch of his life and past it, thank God for St. Mungo's, and now all you can think of is a _grudge_? You know, Sirius and you had a lot in common."

"I don't know why I'm even listening to you."

"You're both arrogant, pig-headed, stubborn, hateful, and you both think that Harry is his father!"

"May I remind you that the mutt-face is dead."

Therewas a very long silence. The owner of the snarky voice appeared to know he had stepped over some proverbial line, but refused to apologise.

"That's a bit rich, _Snivellus_, coming from a Death Eater, a traitor and a spineless twat."

"At least I don't try to rip people's throats out once a month. Tell me, did it annoy your mother when you did it at the table?"

"Oh, no, you do it _all the time_. Had any cases of permanent psychological scarring after one of your atrocious lessons?"

"I certainly hope so. One should always leave a lasting impression."

"On a child's psyche." The voice is flat and disbelieving. "You know, Neville Longbottom is a regular here for Calming Draughts. Perhaps if you taught with a little more... _decorum_, you _do_ know that gothic dungeons are _so_ last century?"

"Oh, yeah? Let's see you do better, teaching a classful of dunderheads -"

"Oh, you forget, Severus, I already have, and every single one of them passed their end of year exams with at least an 'A'. I could say more for your class... and it was exactly the same one. You are hopeless, always have been hopeless and always will be. Oh, grow up and put that wand away."

There was a long silence, filled with mutual enmity. Deciding there is nothing more to be said the three-legged figure pushes the door open to the Hospital Wing.

Severus Snape stepped through the door and let Remus Lupin close it behind him. It was totally black in the room save a thin sliver of moonlight coming in through the thick curtains.

"Can we risk the lights?"

"It won't harm him."

Lupin muttered a spell, and a warmish light faded into a glass globe above Harry's bed.

Lupin stepped back with a muffled cry. Snape remained as impassive as ever... and only the darkening of his eyes betrayed any kind of emotion.

Daubed onto the wall above his bed in black ink were words... huge words, four feet tall.

IM SCARED I'LL DIE IF I LET GO

"Dear God," whispered Lupin, tired eyes wide. "Dear God, Lord above, sweet merciful Jesus..."

Potter himself was huddled into a foetal position on the bed as though he were sleeping. His hands were stained with blank ink, and the remnants of a smashed bottle could be seen lying on the stone floor. Snape surveyed the scene with oddly glittering eyes, and then turned to Lupin.

"Where's Albus?"

"I don't know... he said he had to go to the Ministry tonight... Hogsmeade and all, but that's why I'm here. He didn't want to leave Harry on his own. I tried to get here sooner, but..."

"You're babbling, save it. Are the healers still here?"

"Yes."

"Get them to clear up this mess."

But they stood for a minute, in quiet contemplation of the scene before them.

"Do you think he woke?" asked Lupin in low voice.

"I've no idea," said Snape in an equal tone. "It's a fifty-fifty chance. Where did he get the ink from?"

"God only knows. Maybe he had it in his robes or something..."

They both looked at the folded black robes underneath the bed, and this appeared to galvanise them.

"Severus?"

"What."

There was a pause. "It's kind of ironic."

"Get to the point."

"You're the only adult he really knows at this school..."

"_Don't even go there, Remus. I'm warning you_."

"Yes, yes, I'd gathered. Still..."

* * *

**Angel Baby:** Hey there.  
1) No, my bio is up-to-date and my birthday is not for some months. Fifteeney I  
am. It is good fun, I must confess, teenagering and whatnot... Leeds festival  
this year, bring on the mosh pits...  
2) I'm glad you liked WSAHC, nobody seems to reviewing that or Conscienceness  
anymore. Probably because they haven't/won't be updated.  
3) Wow, I'm impressed. EVERYTHING I've written? -blushblushblush-.  
4) I want to wrire professionally eventually, when I get me an idea for an  
original fic that isn't, well, crap. It'll be reasonably dark, methinks.  
Well, I'm updating as fast as I can. Stay in touch! 

**saiyanwizardgurl:** I like scary... ; )

**Strega:** I've always found it interesting that Voldemort was a very powerful  
wizard... and half-blood. Perhaps the mixing of the bloods produces the best  
magical response? Add a little mental choas into the mix, and dearest Voldemort  
may have met his match in Hary Potter. Hmm... -strokes chin thoughfully-

Working on their length as I write, actually... I find short chapters in  
other authors annoying, I don't see why I shold be a hypocrite. ; )

**LyonsRoar**: It's an idea I¹ve had kicking around for a long time... an energy  
that everybody has, but only a few can bring to the surface. I melted it into  
Harry's character for this fic. The idea of a sequel has been kicking around my  
hindbrain for a little while... it may feature in that, IF it ever gets  
written... it probably won't, but there you go.

**SheWolfe7**: Yes, I was suffering from the effects of a rampant imagination at tha  
point, and I let it drive for a change. You'll find out what Harry found so  
funny a little later on in the story.

**Saphire Starlet**:  
1) I always find it slightly dazing ewhen someone thnks I've nailed a particular  
character, because I usually end up looking at what I've written in mild  
disgust. My best stuff is all one-shots, like Shards and Conscienceness. Still,  
it seems to be okay to read. : )  
2) I think you'll find in this chapter that the Death Eaters deal out a lot more  
to Harry than he actually wants, but you'll have read that by now... forgive me,  
I¹m writing this before I post the next chapter. : )

**Sanity Stealer Penguin**: Oh, I mean, wow. I am TOTALLY loving your name here. I  
have a giant poster on my window which says 'ONE BY ONE THE PENGUINS STEAL MY SANITY' and I made it myself... it's one of my favorites. Your namey thing  
conjures happy memories. : )

**Quillian**: Hey, **kraeg100**... yes, I remember you... you gave me some quite  
complementary reviews. : ) And you don't have to review all the chapters...  
frankly, it would be too much effort, and as I am a bit of a lazy person, I  
wouldn't wish the extra effort on anyone. ; )

**Menecarkawan**: It's not the end, and you'll see Snape pretty soon.  
I¹m not actually a Creed fan. I haven't heard ANY of their music, I just  
remember someone quoting them at a friend's party and thinking "NyaHA! That  
sounds very cool for a chapter. Hmmm..."  
Sorry about that. : P

**Tamyka**: Hey there. No, I won't kill Harry. That would ruin the fun. (Although  
there are some stories kicking around in which it couldn't end any other way.)

**shelly101**: Weird is good. - P

**starinthedark11**: I think it was a fair amount OOC, but as it seemed to go down  
well... thanks for reviewing!

**KrazeyForever**: Dude, prioritise. Grandma surgery ranks WAY above fanfiction. I  
hope she's okay. : s  
I have this thing, I like seeing Harry in dire situations just so I can figure  
out his reaction. It's bizarre and probably sadistic, but it's fun. ; )

**Breanna Senese**: It was Snape's choice to serve Voldy, I guess. Still, I wouldn¹t  
be happy about it either.

**Midgette**: It does surprise the majority of my American/Candian/Foreign readers  
that I am English. Funnily enough, they never pick up on my spelling of' 'colour'  
or 'pyjama', but there you go. ; )  
As for your attention span... it¹s amazing how far you can stretch a metaphor,  
isn't it?

**A. Person:** 'Jack Off Jill'? Oo-er. Will keep an eye out.

**Asiea**: He is calm because he's, er, in shock. To tell you the truth, this story  
tends to run away with me in a sack so I never really can tell what's going on.

**fhippogriff**: Not quite insane... although how can you define 'insane' in a world  
where carpets fly, you can talk to snakes, and furniture has a mind of its own?

**seastones88**: Everybody's mad in their own little way... mine happens to be crazy  
story plots. ; )

**Kalorna Enera**: Hey there Kalorna.  
My favorite conversations are between enemies... they're so much funnier,  
especially when you get down to the sarcasm... there's a good one between Lupin  
and Snape coming up... or did I post it in this chapter? I forget... forgive me,  
I'm writing this before I post my next chapter.  
The way the plot works is because I had the whole thing mentally planned out  
from the beginning (if I write it down I lose interest), and I am simply  
thinking my way along the line as paceably as possible... and judging from your  
response, it seems to be doing quite well.  
And that 'munchkin' thing? I nearly took it out. As far as OOC goes, it tops the  
chart, don¹t you think?

**Vendethiel**: Cynical Harry is my favorite, which is why I wrote one of my other  
fics, Shards. That's distilled cynicism, to a point.

**E.A.V**: Groovy! Thanks.

**Read300300**: Hmmm, I'm very unsure about the 'munchkin' thing... I'm thinking  
about reposting the chapter in order to get rid of it.

**TeahLeafs**: Hey there.  
The idea for the Death Eaters psychoanalysis came from my thinking about them  
more as a cult... and someone like Lucious Malfoy wouldn't attempt to seize  
control. You wouldn't put it past him, really.  
I don't really read Sirius angst, but I'll keep an eye out for you. : )

**Dee**: Glad you like it. Don't worry, there is more more more. And I'm working on  
extending the chapters.

**PanicParables**: Fiction of the month? Er, wow! Thanks.

**Chris**: It¹s ma'am, not sir. ; )  
I hate the Dursleys... not just who they are, but the characters themselves. I  
find them dull, so this fic started at the beginning of the Christmas holidays.

**SnarkyElly**:  
1)"...makes not sense."  
2)"because as it is, it's painful whenever you mention it again."  
Ever think about following your own advice?

**SaphirePhoenix**: Yep, and more to come.

**sakura saiasaka**: People tend to get bored of my philosophising... I'm glad you  
don't. : )

**Thranx**: Good good. Thanks!

**MollyTheWanderer**: I keep getting horribly paranoid that this fic isn't turning  
out the way I want it to, so it's good to know I'm doing something right. : )

**Shading in Grey**: The irony doo-dah thing becomes a lot clearer later on... if I  
told you now, it'd ruin it a bit.

**Erinamation-limited2-nothing**: Cool.


	29. Waking Up

I have FINALLY got this chapter up and ready to go. I know that my tenses are all over the place in the chapter, but when I was writing it I sort of went with the flow, so no flames about that please...

This chapter is dedicated to all those out there who feel that Harry and Snape shouldget along at least every once in a while...

* * *

Silent moonlight slices through a gap in the curtains, illuminating a bed. A little is left over, however. Enough to show an empty chair and that the bed is occupied. At one point, some seventy-two hours ago, these lungs had given up all claim to oxygen. Now they move up and down with a slow and steady increase. A thin sound escapes this figure's lips. 

This part of the hospital wing has been completely sealed off, for the peace and the quiet. A certain redhead and know-it-all have been to visit six or seven times, but now it is empty save its single occupant.

The door at the end of the room creaks open ponderously, letting in a cake-slice of orange, flickering light. A man, leaning heavily on a crutch, enters, and carefully closes the door behind him.

He limps over to the boy's bed, pauses. Everything seems to be fine.

He carries on to a bed a little further down, and sits heavily on it. He appears to fish around in a drawer in a bedside table, finds what he's looking for, and stands up again, not without some effort. He begins to limp back the way he came.

A low noise comes from the boy's bed.

The man freezes to the spot, eyes attached to the thin frame.

It's the witching hour, the abyss of night... who knows what horrors plague the subconscious of those unfortunate enough to have shaken Death by the bony hand?

This boy does. It's not pleasant. The man knows this, and he waits for fully six minutes to see if there are any other signs of movement.

The moon says it cannot be past one a.m.

The still figure moves a little, but the watcher interprets this as normal and resumes his walk to the other end of the room.

The once-prone figure mumbles something, and shifts slightly. He has woken these last few days, but not so he will remember. The brief interludes between the nightmares and sleep are not something his brain will allow him to recall clearly. His body needs time to recover, he needs time for his bones, blood and flesh to purge his system of everything that was poured into it... poisons, pain and bad memories.

The memories are proving a little difficult. Perhaps they're a lot more permanent than the brain will realise. Some things are not meant to be erased.

The movement is beyond flickers now. The arm replays scenes only it can remember and twitches violently, memory of some curse damaging the central nervous system, perhaps. No more sound escapes, but that is not important now. Breathing increases rapidly. From lungs that had once developed an allergy to air, they are working with terrible efficiency.

The man has stopped again, but there is the posture: he is less frozen and more reluctant to turn around. He knows what to expect, but he does not know how to handle it. Moonlight highlights his face as he turns a little, casting all his features into sharp relief. His expression is fierce. His stance is uncertain. Long black hair frames his face, making a sharp contrast of black on white.

The moon is round, full and white. It gives off much more light than needed.

The boy in the bed moans very, very slightly. It sounds as if it is being forcibly silenced. The still man puts two and two together as Harry rolls out of bed.

He stands up, leaning at a crazy angle, and throws an arm out to the wall to steady himself. He looks completely disorientated, and takes a few steps toward the opposite end of the ward, stumbling and reeling blindly. Sweat glistens in the moonlight, illuminates his gaunt frame and his bandages. His torso is bare save for the linen strips, and he is wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms. That is it. He takes another step forward and sinks down to his knees. Snape starts forward, hurrying as fast as his crutch will allow him.

"Lights," he snaps, and the room is immediately soaked in warm yellow light. Snape drops his crutch and follows it down to his knees. He takes Potter by the shoulders and shakes him a little.

"Potter! It is only a dream!_ It cannot hurt you!"  
_  
But he knows, even as he says this, that it is not true. Dreams can hurt so much, where it is too deep and too buried to be show a scar. During the night, however... any mental block that holds them is gone. Any semblance of self melts away, exposing these bitter memories. And once they begin to play, there is no telling what damage they can do.

Potter has his face in his hands, and he is shaking. Snape finds his shoulders icy cold to the touch. "Potter," he repeats.

Potter does not change. He is hunched over, hiding his face in his hands like a child who believes that if something is not seen it is not real. He is trembling from cold and from terror.

This... this child looks so alone. So isolated. So cut off from the rest of humanity. Loneliness is a terrible thing that chips away at a person's soul until there is nothing left but a sprinkling of dust on the floor of a vast cavern. What people do not realise is that souls can form again, but it takes a long time.

This boy is sixteen. He has taken death, he has looked at the scythe and lived to tell the tale more than once. What haunted him _then_ was that others hadn't. What haunts him _now_ is the memory of pain and torture, of high-pitched laughter and persecutors. His brain replays every single curse, every single second of red eyes taking pleasure in his pain. This is too much. A man would be dead by now, a child would be lost. Harry is somewhere in between.

Snape looks out of the window, through the slit of space between the curtains. It is a crystal clear night, much unlike the night in which he had found this boy. It had been stormy, snow had covered everything from masonry to bodies. If you put your foot in something squishy you just kept going and didn't look down, he remembers.

He'd returned to find Potter gone, about an hour later, as soon as he got out of the Death Revel -­ the body count, prizes to the highest scorer.

There had been a kind of peverse pleasure; he'd inflicted the shoulder wound with a calm kind of malice, comparing his own to Potter's, and feeling a deep swell of satisfaction. Sheer anger had ravaged his system, making him want to pay for everything he'd suffered under this boy, under the boy before him and for years of humiliation. To a boy, a child,  
_(a sacrificial lamb)_  
a youth.

And... Potter had... Potter had somehow recognised him (even behind a mask) and had just... laughed.

He had just lay there, silent, bleeding and broken, and had found it within himself to laugh instead of scream. And throughout the rest of the torture Harry made no more sounds but to laugh again. This had antagonised his torturers and increased their fury, but Harry hadn't seemed to be in control of his body...

And as this happened, someone had hauled Potter up by his shoulders and he had stood on his own until a curse had shattered the bones in his left leg. As he crumpled, someone had evidently taken this idea to heart because exactly the same thing had happened to the boy's right leg.

The memory of Bellatrix snapping Potter's fingers, one by one, was going to stay with him for a long time.

It was not right, to see a broken child like that. That's what Potter was. He had been battered and beaten, but never broken, before... he had come close, but had taken the diversion of insanity. Now Death Eaters had bent a child's spirit so far that there was nothing left any more... It wasn't right to do something to such an innocent. It just... it just wasn't... right.

_Justice_ was a concept that had never, ever honestly occurred to Snape before. It was something he had heard fleeting tales about, but he'd never seen pure justice in action before. Oh, he'd seen twisted versions, but... if you ground the universe down to the finest powder and sieved it through the finest sieve you would not find one atom of truth, one molecule of justice. Such things were human concepts and there they lived: in the brains of the human species... but not in the practise. Murderers, paedophile rapists walked free. Innocents served life sentences. Well, maybe it was a bit of a cliché example, but it was important. Such examples were what civilisation was built on. Such civilisations were what created this idea of justice.

Maybe true justice had existed with the first philosophers; Plato had had a few interesting ideas on it. But now... 'now' was the kind of era where the natives of a country were referred to as savages, which, funnily enough, had nothing to do with a rich system of beliefs, a reasonable law system and a wonderful cultural heritage, but more to do with the kind of behaviour that was more commonly found in men wearing suits. The english languge was a clumsy tool, but it served its purpose well enough.

Potter had stopped shivering. Indeed, he was no longer hiding his face. He stared mutely at his hands, stance still and lethargic. Snape wondered if Potter had been thinking the same things that he had. He tried again.

"Potter."

No respose.

"Potter, you have to go back to bed."

Potter made no more moves. Snape was horribly tempted just to let him be, but he'd never hear the end of it from Dumbledore. It would be the metaphorical equivalent of breaking wind in an echoey dungeon.

Snape was totally clueless how to act. He sensed that harsh words and sharp retorts would make no difference here, so he may as well save his breath. Snape made sure he was comfortable and sat down on the floor for a long wait.

He had no idea what he was doing.

The emptiness inside Harry's skull mocked him, taunted him. Merely by being near him, Snape was driving back some of that void. Merely by tolerating his presence, Snape was helping Harry heal a little. But not enough, not nearly enough.

"They all died."

It was barely even a whisper, but Snape heard it, in the empty stillness of the isolated room.

"Yes, they did," he replied. It didn't matter who the boy was talking about. People had died. There was no point trying to cover it up. Silence would have been worse than an accusal.

"He'll come back for me."

"Yes, he will."

Harry stood, slowly. Snape rose with him, wincing painfully as his abdominal muscles screamed blue murder.

Potter took a couple of steps forward. He made to brush past Snape, but some joint somewhere gave way and brought Potter down to his knees. A kneejerk reaction made him grab a handful of Snape's robes and drag him down to his knees as well. He slumped forwards with the momentum of it, and Snape found he had the Boy-Who-Lived crying silently and unmovingly into his arm.

This child is beyond cracking point. Such burdens were not made for one so young.

Snape sits there. He pulls Potter up slightly because he's restricting the circulation to Snape's leg. This leaves Potter leaning against the man's chest, his shoulder digging into Snape's ribcage, but otherwise, he makes no other move. Sometimes it's best just to let these ones cry themselves out.

So they sit there. Snape waits patiently but Potter seems to have no end to his sorrows. Deaths, old, new, accidental and flu, seemed to be queuing up to kick him squarely in the chest and my, isn't it painful. Potter is just getting each of his miseries out one by one, but there are an awful lot of them.

The boy makes no effort to control his sorrow. He is far too gone for that. It has been allowed to grow into an ugly, pulsating monster and it is too big for its cage.

The tears flow, completely unconstrained but strangely silent.

Snape is doing something Harry has needed for sixteen-odd years, albeit in a strange fashion.

Harry Potter is getting a _hug_.

Scientists say that a twenty-second hug is enough to noticeably boost your brain into happy-drive, but scientific facts could go hang right now. Harry had simply needed another human touch after all these years. Sure, he got hugs from his friends all the time (when pride could take a flying leap, at least), but they were simply displays of affection. There had never been anything he could remember that had told him that there was someone out there who could take a share of his pain, halve his burden and free him up a little.

A man who had never known friendship beyond the callous alliances in the dog-eat-everything world of the Death Eaters sat and held the fragile, bent and broken form of the boy-who-lived as the child sobbed tears of failure into his chest.

When Harry had attacked Snape, Harry had found a little out about Snape. When Snape had tortured Harry... Snape had seen in the laughter the shell of a person Harry Potter had become. He saw it and realised there was absolutely nothing he could do, and he was right. Only time and others, friends, would help Potter build himself back up. That was not Snape's job. Perhaps Snape's job was just to listen.

Voldemort had commended Snape for his clever use of the penetrating curse... it had gone straight through the boy's shoulder and into the central nervous system, causing untold damage. Even with spells and potions it would take a while to heal, and Harry would be on crutches for a while.

Well, at least Voldemort trusted him again  
_('insofar as Voldemort trusts')_  
and he didn't need to worry so much about discovery.

The very minute they had been told to apparate back, in Snape's case to the forest outside of the castle grounds, he had gone back to Hogsmeade after bundling his Death Eater's mask somewhere secret. There were no tracks, nothing. The blizzard that had begun to quieten down had erased all sign of anything.

Snape had spent the better part of four hours running. He searched every crook and nanny in the Hogsmeade area, he searched every drift of snow. He had sent out emergency messages to St Mungo's and had them and the Hogwarts staff all working: searching for Potter, covering up the dead or healing the wounded... as best they could.

Snape was searching from four 'till eight in the morning. He watched the sun rise slowly over the horizon through a gauze of exhaustion and had stumbled back to the Square to find Dumbledore waiting gravely for him.

_"Take a seat, Severus." _

Exhausted, Snape had done so on a fallen trunk of a tree. It had given way with a wet clrackk to reveal a small hollow of snow and a cowering boy covered in blood, both legs useless, shoulder occasionally twitching...

He'd died in Snape's arms, but a resuscitation spell had gotten his systems going again despite worries of long-term damage.

And now a broken child slept in his arms. This sixteen-year-old had become ten years old again as he watched. Snape began to stand, and brought the silent form of the child Potter with him.

llllllllll

Harry took in a deep breath, and opened his eyes.

The fact he actually had lungs to breathe with and eyes to open was a surprise. Right now he'd expected to be wafting around on the next plane of existence in a shiny new ethereal body.

There were sheets beneath his back (which was becoming an annoyingly familiar sensation), there were close bandages covering his upper torso, which was bare. He wore pyjama bottoms and a worrying pair of socks.

He blinked, and found he was wearing his glasses. So that's why everything was so clear.

He focused dreamily on the ceiling. He knew he had worries and cares, they were floating around somewhere, but right now he didn't want to know. He was detached, and he wanted it to stay that way.

He flexed his fingers. There were bandages covering most of his hands but they appeared fixed, as did his legs.

His entire body felt very heavy, and he realised he was about as weak as an infant. This was not a pleasant thought.

He sat up very slightly and his entire back screamed in sheer agony. He fell back to the pillows, wincing.

There was immediate commotion, and at least three healers had somehow appeared and were fussing over him. Harry tried to wave them away, but found he couldn't move his arm above shoulder-height.

"F'ck 'ff," he muttered, not liking the rasping, painful quality of his voice or the way the world spun slightly.

The Healers appeared satisfied with whatever they had been doing, and two of them rushed off. Harry heard someone yell "Inform Professor Dumbledore!"

He didn't hear much more before he drifted off into a fevered sleep.

llllllllll

When he woke again it was evening, and the setting sun was casting an orange glow around the room. He was mercifully alone.

He felt fevered, hot. He didn't like it, but it wasn't as bad as... what else he had lived through. He could bear the discomfort.

He very cautiously pulled himself into a sitting position, and looked at his exposed upper torso. Bandages wrapped around his arms, his chest, his shoulders. He could feel the pressure of a hundred blood-absorbant pads. That was the disadvantage of magical science; some things could just not be cured by a flick of a wand. Sometimes muggle routes were the best to take.

The four fingers that had been broken were extremely sore; there, at least, the Healers had been able to do something. They were fixed but strapped together, leaving his thumb free.

Raising his arm was an effort in itself, and he realised that he was furiously hungry, furiously tired and furiously weak. His legs also felt extremely lethargic, but at least they weren't broken anymore. He took a glance around at his surroundings.

The hospital wing was thankfully empty. Orange light filled the room from long windows letting in the light of the dying  
_(no not dying nothing should die)_  
sun. It was calm and peaceful.

"Hello, Harry."

Harry's head snapped around, making his neck crick. Stood in the doorway was Dumbledore. Harry relaxed again.  
Dumbledore walked forwards and seated himself on a chair by Harry's bedside.

"This is becoming all too common an occurrence, my boy," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling kindly. Harry stared ferociously at the foot of his bed. Dumbledore knew more than to break the silence.

"They all died, Albus," said Harry finally, in a low voice. "They all died because Voldemort wanted me to know it was my fault."

"Are you going to let him have that victory?"

"Not openly."

Dumbledore appeared to be calmly thinking.

"You've suffered more than anyone can ever guess, both physically and mentally. If you cannot accept this, Harry, if you cannot understand that you need to heal, then you will never know that it is not your fault. You're far to used to taking the burden for things like this."

Bridled, Harry looked away. Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezed gently, and left Harry to his thoughts.

* * *

**kcat44**: Wow. Er, wow. Wow. Am, er, lost for words. Seriously. Wow. You know, when I started this originally as a one-shot I had no idea I'd get such a response as I did. I actually think my one-shots are better (specifically, the second chapter of Consciousness - it's quite clearly the best thing I've ever written. Ever. In my opinion, at least.)  
The story is named 'Wingbroken' for a couple of coincidences. I was writing this out longhand in front of the T.V. (the first chapter, I mean) and I was watching the Batman Forever video (my favorite Batman). There was a line in it, when Albert is packing away Robin's circus stuff: "Broken wings mend in time." I thought: 'aHA! What a good basis for this.' At the time the story was very undirected and sort of floating. And you can see that quote has made it into the summary. THEN I thought:'Broken wings... turn it into a one-word format... Wingbroken! Yay!' It's a habit of me and my friends to play around with words - for example, when asking for tipp-ex, it becomes "can you pass the ex of tipp, please?' You get the idea.  
Bluethought means... well, a variety of things, I suppose. I was thinking about a good pename because I always have real probelms finding one I am completely happy with. I thought: 'What's my favorite colour? Blue. What do I like to do more than anything else? Think. Blue+thoughts Bluethought. I do like to think, however, that it can mean whatever you want it to mean. 

**crazNM**: The ink thing... hmm. I may have mentioned this before (but I can't remember whether or not to you) but this  
story tends to run away with me in a lunchbox, so sometimes even I'm not sure what's going on. I think it was just a  
subconscious plea for help, in a way. **eav**: They talked like American kids! Argh! What has American corporalisation turned me into! Have I forsaken my  
British heritage and upraising due to overseas marketing!  
Ahem.  
I'll give that blood/snow thing some thought (possibly for later stories.. it sounds good. I just wanted to give the  
impression that Harry was so focused upon himself and his body that he didn't notice the snow... although I'm sure  
there's a refence in there somewhere. : Harry Potter DOES get a hug... and about time, if you ask me. **Strega**: I think I would have opted for suicide by now, were I in his position, but he's got more moral fibre than I have.  
I KNOW I'm a coward, so there you go.  
Actually, I'd love it if Lupin bit someone... that would make for an interesting fic. But could you imagine a  
Snape-werewolf?

**sakura saisaka**: I know how libraries are... I loaded that chapter up in my local library. I'm frankly amazed you found  
it so amusing - I never usually intend for this to be THAT funny... still, I'm not complaining.

**KrazeyForever**: There are a number of things I never wish to hear during surgery: "Bad dog! Come back with that!"  
"Fire! Everybody out!" and "Oh, no! I've lost my contact lense!" usually top the list. Having a doctor with a laptop  
would not be inspiring, although I would probably find it funny.  
My updating depends on access to computers. I used to use my school ones at lunchtime, but they just installed big  
brother software and they are not very happy about it, so I've resorted to using the central library, which is a fair  
bit out of my way. Updates will be slower, but I'll try to have another chapter running soon.

**Vendethiel**: I'm frankly honoured. If you ever do complete it, post it on some website. I'd love to look at it.

**Read300300**: Okay I'll take your word on that one... no reposting. And what's life without a little ego-trip every now  
and then? I do it all the time...  
Er, um... incidentally, what is your new fandom? I write in two - Harry Potter and one other, for which I have a different  
penname.  
I think it's because I'm the author of this story, but I really do fail to see what other see in it, when there are people  
like agentgrrl and S. Thanatos wandering around without the acclaim they deserve. I stared Wingbroken when I was  
fourteen and it sort of... balooned. You know, it was very nearly a one-shot.  
Nobel literature prize.. cough... right... although I'll agree with the no-good idiot Fudge thing...

**Asiea**: Freaky is fun.

**seastones88**: My access to computerdom has become nastily limited, and the new computer I was promised by my  
parents three years ago seems set to be arrived in April. Hopefully. That's exactly what I was told last year, though. If it  
doesn't come I may have to update like, every fortnight or something. I'll try to update next week, just for you. ; )  
Mmmm... caffeine...  
**  
Quillian**: Working as fast as I can, just for you guys. ; )

**SheWolfe7**: I'm working hard at getting access to the internet for next monday or wednesday, so I'll try and update  
soon.

**Shading in Grey**: -Gasp- You think I'm like Stephen King too? Will you marry me?

**Pleione**: Swearing is the mind's way of expressing anger. And everything in this fic is _aaaaangry_.

**Ija Ijevna**: Review when you feel you need to; I understand about work and suchlike. The pressures of exams are, as  
we speak, forcing me to cut my writing time short.  
A) A lot of my characters are a little OOC. Okay, I lie, all of them. But then again, is this not the purpose of the  
fanfiction? To show others how we view fill-in-name-of-subject's world?  
B) Voldemort, um, thought he was dead... well, they at least wanted him to suffer. I have to admit, this story  
sometimes runs away with me in a sack, so I end up having to answer to my reviewers, but anyway. If Harry died now,  
what would be the point of this fic?  
I'm glad I've got reviewers like you to keep me on my toes. ; )

**Angel Baby**: Hey there.  
'Death Munchers'... oh, I like that. I'll have to try to put that in somewhere.  
I do so enjoy writing banter between enemies... even though they end up waaay OOC. Still, whatchagonnado.  
'Mail-order penguins'? Aaaaaaaaw! I love penguins! Totally the best choice. I'll  
put a catflap on my freezer door, they can live in there.

**Magami**: Wow! Thankyou!

**saiyanwizardgurl**: 'Confuzzling'... I do so love that word.

**Susan** : Helllooo there. It HAS been awhile.  
I'm trying much, much harder to update sooner, which involves me going straight from school to the central library.  
Am working harder - April is merely the date for which the shiny new computer my parents promised should arrive.

**logi**: Good for you. : )

**Erinamation-limited2-nothing**: I have my flamers, too.

**Kalorna Enera**: I never really looked at the Wizard Of Oz as a 'movie with flying monkeys in', but I have to say it works  
and I'll never watch it the same way again.  
I don't know about Lupin... I know for a fact he was waaay OOC. I just needed him like that for the chapter to click,  
as it were.  
Keep reading for me!

**Breanna Senese**: I think that the only thing worth living for is to make sure your existence annoys someone else, be it  
flamers, siblings or a cult of homicidal madmen/women.

**Chassa**: Updating has been most interesting of late... i.e. I haven't been able to do much of it.

**totallystellar**: Glad you like it. Personally, I don't consider it my best work, but as long as it's readable I'm happy with  
it.

**yaukira**: Check out my bio page... I _lurve_ System Of A Down. Amongst others.

**SaphirePhoenix**: The whole idea was that it was slightly confusing.

**TeahLeafs**: It was Cedric that died. Remember? Fourth book, Triwizard Tournament. I haven't come across any good  
Sirius angst fics, but I'll keep looking.

**sockenfresser AKA sockie**: Oo, groovy name. Am liking.  
Here you go: line! ; ) Sorry it took me so long to update.  
I'm not suicidal, but I went through a nasty week last month when I got so overloaded with homework I considered  
myself depressed. That's about the extent of it. I just get myself into the mindset of what it would be like to be  
depressed, and then romantisize it.  
I think that, because I am not depressed, reading and writing this acts like a safety valve to stop me actually GETTTING  
depressed. I view it that way, so I don't have to USE a therapist. ; )  
I'm glad you think this is well-written... that makes one of us, at least.  
I LIKE constant reviewers... they're usually the best kind... you're not annoying me, trust me on this one.  
I find that the best person to pull you out of any mental decline is usually the person you least expect... last time it  
was Alan Rickman in Die Hard. Boy, I love that movie.

**CJ**: I'll start updating maybe twice weekly when I finish writing the story (another chapter to go... sob) and whilst it's  
not quite daily, it's an improvement.

**HPbabe143**: The whole updating-thing is getting difficult, as you can see.

**Kath87**: Hmm, advanced English... you make the perfect reviewer. : )


	30. Recuperating

I would like to dediacte this chapter to my beta Molly. I have been writing this since June last year and have managed thirty chapters since then.  
Cheers, Molly. Couldn't have done it without you.

* * *

Dumbledore met Snape just outside the hospital wing. 

"Well?"

"He's in a bad way, Severus."

"But the Healers -"

"This has nothing to do with the Healers."

Snape stared at Dumbledore, thinking.  
"Time to bring in the cavalry?"

"Indeed."  
Snape turned and walked down the stairs of the Hospital Wing, and headed to the Great Hall. The room was filled with students.

_Of course,_ Snape thought, and not for the first time. _Fear Voldemort, take them away. Panic, send them back. How... human. _

There was an instant lull in the conversation. Forks paused halfway to mouths, and all eyes swivelled to the glowering man stood in the Entrance Hall.

"Miss Weasley, Miss Granger and Mr Weasley."

Immediately, a storm of whispering and murmurs broke out from every table. Ginny, Ron and Hermione stood up and hastily made their way toward Snape. They were all dressed in muggle clothing. There were still another five or six days of the holidays left, after all.  
They followed Snape up to the Hospital Wing, and here Snape stopped them.

"He's tired. Do not make it worse," he snapped. "Miss Weasley, it would be wisest if you waited out here for ten minutes."

Ginny's expression darkened. "Why?" she said with uncharacteristic venom.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Fine." He pushed the door to the hospital wing open with one hand and strode away.

The three stepped in nervously, and spotted Harry.

"_Harry_!"

Harry's head snapped up from contemplation of his hands. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, but before he could say anything, a Hermione travelling at Mach 2 smashed into him.

"Careful, 'Mione," he gasped, and Hermione released him immediately.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Harry," she said, eyes filling up. Harry forced a smile.

"Forget it. Ron? Ginny?"

His tone was incredulous, as if he couldn't quite trust the message his eyes were sending to his brain. Ginny was the next to give him a more careful hug. Ron looked uncertain for a moment, but then friendship overruled his pride and he gave a Harry a swift one-armed hug.

"Uh, guys?" said Harry.

"Yeah?" replied Ron.

"You are real, right? Call it a stupid question, but things have been a bit... blurry recently."

Ron grinned. "Yeah, we're real all right."

Ginny threw her brother an expectant look.

"What?" he asked in confusion.

"If you don't tell him I will," she said evenly, eyes sparkling maliciously. Ron and Hermione glanced nervously at each other.

"Er -"

"Um -"

"These two," said Ginny, "Are going out."

Ron and Hermione both turned a deep, uniformred. Harry folded his arms across his  
bandaged chest and rolled his eyes.

"It had to take you _two years,_ didn't it?" he said, with a bit of grin.

Ron and Hermione then both broke out in sheepish smiles, but they seemed a lot more comfortable about it. Ron put his arm around Hermione and she leant into his chest. Ginny and Harry swapped evil grins, but Ginny's heart didn't seem to be in it. She was looking at Harry peculiarly, but seemed to be keeping her opinions to herself.

llllllllll

Fifteen minutes later, and after Snape had stood imperiously at the doorway glaring at them all, the three said their goodbyes and left the room.

"Well?" said Snape. Ginny gave him a funny look.

"What do you mean? Sir?"

"The reason you were allowed to see him was so you could judge his behaviour. _Well_?"

"You used us a therapy?" said Hermione in a disbelieving voice.

"No. Not therapy. Judgement."

Ginny's stare boiled pure hatred. "You used us."

"It was necessary," said Snape, lowering his voice dangerously.

Ron shrugged. "Dunno... there was something different about him."

"Couldn't pinpoint it," supplied Hermione. Ginny remained silent. Snape, however, was an old hand at reading silences, the spaces in between words and body language.

"You did, however," he said. "Pray tell us?" he added sneeringly.

"Why so protective, all of a sudden?" said Ginny suddenly. Snape's stare darkened and he glared at Ginny. "Because it is my job. Now did you see anything interesting or are you merely wasting my time?"

Ginny bit her lip, then reluctantly opened her mouth.

"He's changed..."

Snape said nothing, but raised an eyebrow.

"He's... empty," Ginny continued. "It's like there's nothing left inside. It all looked to be a show. He wants to left alone, he really does. So maybe you should stop bothering him, through us or by yourself!"

Snape sneered. "Why so protective, all of a sudden?"

"Because I'm human. _Why else?"  
_  
Snape was getting really angry, and Hermione grabbed Ginny's arm. "Uh, we'd we'd better be going... unpacking... um, yeah..." She dragged Ron and Ginny away, and Snape glared at them until they were gone. Shaking his head,  
he entered the hospital wing.

When he walked through the doors, he had no idea what to expect. So when he saw the boy lying down, he was somewhat relieved. He silently took a seat by the boy's bedside.

There was silence. Harry was lying down, arms limp by his sides, staring at the ceiling. He refused to acknowledge Snape's presence.

"So much for those Occlumency lessons."

Harry let out a few noises which were a cross between weak laughter and a few dry sobs as a response. He turned his head away from Snape. Snape leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes.

"I'm sorry," whispered Harry. It was almost inaudible. Snape grimaced sardonically.

"_You're_ sorry?" He managed to betray his bitterness and usual bite in two words.

"Was that an _apology_ I heard coming from the mouth ofProfessor Snape?"

Snape glared at the bed. Harry had turned his face back to the ceiling again, but there was the merest hint of sarcasm in his voice. Snape exhaled slowly.

"I hate to have to say this, _Harry Potter_, but you've earned the right to be trite. No, it was the fairies speaking for me. Of course it was an apology."

"Fairies? I thought you'd have more dignity than that."

"Indeed, Potter."

"You're more of a pixie person."

"Don't push your luck."

They fell silent again. Snape wasn't worried about pushing too hard; Potter needed familiarity mixed with a few good words, not total sympathy. And besides, sometimes the right to insult was earned. Sometimes it didn't hurt, but became more of a compliment of person's character than intended insult.

"The entire school's back again."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Panic, I assume."

Snape gave Potter a sharp look. "Cynicism is something to save for your old age, Potter, should you reach it. Looking at your more recent Potions experiment, I'll wager any amount of galleons that you'll kill yourself on the veritaserum potion I've planned for you to study."

"I'm right, aren't I."

"Yes."

Well, reflected Snape, at least Potter wasn't wallowing in self-pity anymore. There was a small bite of the boy's mocking tone, but he seemed grown, cynical and worn-down still. Aside from being positively gaunt, as well.

"It really happened, didn't it."

"Yes."

"Nothing's going to change that."

"Full points for observation, that boy."

"I hope I didn't hurt you too much."

"I'm not the one currently incarcerated in the hospital wing." Snape paused, and replayed the last lot of dialogue. "Why, Potter, I didn't know you _cared_."

"Taking responsibility for my actions, etceteras," said Potter dismissively, but there was a touch of laughter in his voice that hadn't been there for a long time. Snape looked at Potter hard. The boy still hadn't made eye contact.

"Still the nightmares, though."

"Yes... at least, I think so."

"Can't you remember?"

"Not very well. There's too many bad dream to remember. I think there's one good one floating around somewhere, but I think I've lost it."

Snape was uncharacteristically silent for a moment. "What was it about?"

Harry closed his eyes. Snape saw some tension drain from the thin, bandaged shoulders. "Comfort. Warmth. Semi-darkness," he said finally, after more than a minute and a half's quiet contemplation.

"_Semi_-darkness?"

"It wasn't empty. Pure darkness means... well, emptiness."

Snape took a moment in time to reflect on the past fortnight. Fortnight? You had to be joking. Things like this did not just occur over a fortnight. Fort_year_ perhaps. Beginning of the holidays: hating Potter's guts. Hating, in fact, every anatomical molecule of the boy. Now he was quite calmly listening to Potter spill his heart out.

"Are you psychoanalysing me?" asked Potter suspiciously.

"Well done that boy."

"No need for sarcasm."

"Why not, pray tell? You can be cynical, and I can be sarcastic."

There was a strange silence.

"I hope you finished that essay."

"Dear God..."

"It's good for your education. What's left of it. Actually, what was there to start with?"

"Did you know that, potions-wise, I know more than your average seventh-year? You're going to have to put up with my attitude now."

"Oh, I didn't have to before? Generally speaking, I found _Gilderoy Lockhart's _presence more endearing than your own."

Harry was grinning now, but he still hadn't made eye contact. He was evidently feeling a lot better for some unpleasant talk... and the way he was lightly teasing Snape also looked promising. Snape decided to broach a prickly topic.

"Dumbledore wants me­ -"

"_Professor_ Dumbeldore ­- did I really just say that?"

"Do not interrupt me, Potter," said Snape in a dangerous tone. He continued. "D-­ Albus ­ wishes me to talk to you about the nightmares, Potter."

"Really." Now there was cold indifference.

"Since... Hogsmeade, do you know how many times you've woken?"

"Once this morning ­-"

"Wrong. Excluding today, about eight times."

Harry, for the first time, made eye contact, and Snape really wished he hadn't.

Harry had been laughing, and it had sounded real. One look into the child's eyes told him otherwise. They were acid green, bright, venomous. They were... empty. So unbelievably empty. Eyes had seen too much and had seen right through death as a farce. The mind understood that humans did not live on Earth; sure, that was the place where the body did things like, eat, sleep, and... er... other things, but the human spirit, soul, mind, whatever, orbited very handily around the body's mind.  
And once this personal internal universe was switched off that was it. There was nothing left.

This boy had seen Death. The scythe had been sharp and sweeping, the robe the black of buried coffins and darkest underground. The voice had been of coffin lids dropping with a slam, and a skeletal hand had touched him gently on the shoulder, brought him into a ribcage embrace, but no further. They said that people walked with Death every day, but no one had actually seen it before in such a graphical way.

Maybe Harry could still feel surface emotions, but that was all they were. Surface. Deeper in he was shattered. Deeper in he was ten years old, not understanding. He had grown, physically. He seemed taller, darker, gothic... he had also lost a hefty amount of weight he didn't need to.

It was now fully dark outside. Snape folded his arms across his chest, and stared very hard at the figure in front of him. He flicked his wand, and a small globe of light lit up the torch bracket on the wall above Potter's bed.

"Just... go," Potter said almost inaudibly. Snape sat up straight and glared at Harry.

Snape said nothing. He simply watched Potter calm himself until he was sober again.

"I don't want to talk about them."

"You haven't. And every night so far Dumbledore's made me sit here, watching you suffer. If you want me to be how you caricature me, then look at it selfishly: I don't want to have to be here. If, for any other reason otherwise, then understand that I don't think any human being should have to go through this, and I think you will die before the year's out from sheer disparity."

Harry stared at the ceiling, and Snape realised with a horrible reality that Potter was weighing up the pros and cons of death.

"Are you seriously thinking about condemning thousands to death?" hissed Snape, and realised instantly it was the wrong thing to say. It had been selfish, and he had pulled more guilt, burden and despair upon a set of already weighted shoulders. He leant back into his chair and sighed. It was as good as an apology as he was going to give, anyway.

There was a jerky shrug of the shoulders which could have been a snort or a sob.

Snape rolled his eyes and spent a few minutes staring fixedly out of the window. When he looked back, he saw that Harry was either asleep or making a spirited attempt at it. His head was tipped to one side, and his breathing was slow and steady. Snape sighed and made himself comfortable in the chair. It was going to be a long night.

**

* * *

dead feather**

: I wouldn't say the hope has been crushed. There is light yet at the end of the tunnel, Harry just has to figure out how to reach it. I've just finished re-writing the chapter that allows him to. 

**nihil2**: I have a vague sense of guilt that I am the reason you're not going to the lectures... but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flattered.  
To be honest, I'm not sure why Voldy let him live. But, to be fair, if he had died, I wouldn't still be writing this.

**Toki Mirage**: No kisses, this isn't slash... although I'm thinking about writing one later on. A mild one.

**Read300300**: Thanks. I don't write in any of those fandoms, but it's cool to know what you're interested in.

**Menecarkawan**: I've always loved that quote: "What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger" purely because I can reply, "Yes, but what does kill you leaves you dead."

**Breanna Senese:** Harry's human. Sometimes people write that to overkill. Thanks!

**TeahLeafs**: Oui, it be Cedric.  
Last chapter is one of my favourite scenes. It turned out to be one I had to completely re-write (twice) but it was worth it.  
I will keep rocking if you keep reviewing. : )

**Kath87**: 'Cute'? Oo-er.

**Violet Karuto**: I like psychoanalysing people, and sometimes they just happen to be ficional characters. Introspection is my favourite thing to write... hence a couple of my other fics, 'Shards' and 'Conscienceness'.

**sockenfresser42**: I e-mailed my response to you.

**Laina**: Thanks, Laina! I really appreciate it. I got a bit of a nasty flame from someone who thought 'horrible' was spelled with five letters (snigger) and I need you to keep me grinning. : )


	31. Thinking at all

Harry stared grimly at the bowl that had been placed in front of him. 

It was about nine a.m the following morning. Harry had barely slept; he had lain awake almost the whole night, sleep faithfully eluding him. He had dropped into nothing more than light dozes one or twice, but otherwise the night had dragged out slowly and relentlessly.

There was a bowl of porridge in front of him.

Harry sculpted small mountains and valleys in it, marveling that something so nourishing could look so much like another animal's vomit.

Speaking of vomiting, that's why he wasn't eating. On spoonful and he felt like it would end up having a bit of an out-of-body experience, in the most literal sense.

There was honey in the porridge, he could smell it. Its sweetness was what was putting him off.

Harry sighed resolutely and leaned back into his pillows in the silence of the ward. He stared miserably at the ceiling.

He just wanted to be able to know what to think now, but everything was so... _messy_ in his head. There wasn't any more clear space in which he could just sort of... exist. Everyone had, at best, a greasy grip on the rope of sanity, and it really did not take much to let go. There were two choices: dig your nails in and fight, or slip. Harry had done both... where was he  
_(purposeless)  
_now? How could he be described  
_(purposeless yes, everything's gone, nothing to live for anymore, I'm an icon a model and people only look at the shell and not ME)  
_now?

His entire world had dissolved. Everything he thought he knew had been shaken  
_(shaken away what about ME ME ME ME ME ME ME and no one listens)  
_to its foundations, and he would have to start building all over again.

People were gone. That was the root of  
_(ME ME ME ME ME ME)  
_the Death Eaters' attacks. They considered people things. Hell, every crime started off by thinking of people as things.

His head was buzzing with thoughts. He tried to dampen down the noise, but his brain remained as active as ever. He took several deep, slow breaths, and the volume turned down a little. He continued in this fashion until he was barely aware of his body any more, just of the steady, regular breaths. He was entirely relaxed, and he opened his eyes again.

Everything was a lot clearer, and not just his vision. He felt a deep swell of emotion writhing him, but he couldn't  
_(die)  
_pinpoint it.

He put the bowl on his bedside table and pushed it away from him very slightly. This action was more for his benefit; it was an indication that he was not ready to eat.

The door to the hospital wing swung open. Harry didn't look up. It closed again, and footfalls he didn't recognise stepped smartly towards him. They stopped by his bed. Harry continued to contemplate his hands.

He heard the sounds of a chair being drawn up from the bed next to him, and more for the benefit of knowing who would be talking to him, he looked up.

Remus Lupin smiled back at him.

Something stuck in Harry's throat for a moment.

"Professor Lupin?"

"I think 'Remus' will do for now, Harry." Lupin leant forwards and embraced Harry tightly. Harry buried his face in Lupin's shoulder and hugged back as tightly as he could.

Lupin held out Harry at arm's length and studied him with a sad look on his face, despite the smile. Harry tried to smile back.

"I hear you've been having a tough time of it."

Harry lay back and grinned sardonically at the ceiling. "In a manner of speaking..."

"I came to visit you before, but you... well, you were a bit out of it. I've had to spend the last week or so with Dumbeldore, clearing up this unholy mess. Fudge wants you incarcerated, you know," he added. Harry looked back at him, and raised an eyebrow. "On what grounds?"

"You know, his usual, you've heard it often enough... 'mentally unstable', 'danger to others', etcetera. I've got a mind to sue him right back for negligence of action in a dangerous situation."

"Oh, yes, they were there, weren't they... don't bother. Why were you helping Dumbledore?"

"Fudge had a certain Delores Umbridge as a backup witness. Myself, Albus, Minerva and Severus –"

"Snape?"

"Yes ­ he described you as completely insane but harmless. Anyway, we fought back with your superb DADA results, attiude towards teachers, and the minor fact that you've had to encounter some form of Voldemort on an almost annual basis for the past six years. We asked if Fudge would like to swap position with you for a day."

"So...?"

"The press is hounding after you, Fudge hates your guts and Severus hates himself for pleading for your harmlessness."

"Ah, normality..."

Lupin laughed, but he lookeed saddened. "You're not looking after yourself, Harry."

"I'm doing my best under the circumstances. I could say the same for you. New werewolf regulations?"

"No, but the current ones still make getting a job reasonably difficult."

There was a short silence.

"What's it like being the last Marauder?" asked Harry softly, settling his gaze on Lupin. Lupin looked startled, and Harry was forced to note how he looked so, so tired.

_I wonder if I look the same to him? _

"What do you mean, Harry? Peter -"

"That _rat_ forfeited his place as a Marauder a long, long time ago. You're the only Maurauder left still living."

Lupin gave this grave contemplation.

"Harrowing," he said a last, and ever so quietly. "Scary. How many people have died at Voldmort's hands? James, Lily, Sirius, the Diggory boy, those in Hogmeade... too many, Harry, too many. All I can think now is why it is that I am still alive, after all this time. It's a heavy burden you've got, and I begrudge you it only because someone so young doesn't deserve such a thing."

He knew even as he said this, that it wasn't true. Harry Potter wasn't young anymore. He'd bypassed his childhood a long time ago, and left behind a pair of calm, serene, empty green eyes and a bucketful of cynicism.

"And sometimes I wonder," he found himself saying, "If he hasn't killed you too."

Harry gave him a long, slow, impossible stare. He concluded by leaning back again, folding his arms behind his head, and staring silently up at the ceiling.

Lupin carried on regardless.

"Look at yourself, Harry. You're wasting away. You look like Death warmed up. You're not eating properly, if at all…" He nodded toward the bowl on the bedside table. " …and you're letting yourself slip down a perilous slide. I care for you, Harry. We all do. We see you like this, and don't you think it hurts us too?"

Harry smiled waveringly.

"If you were anyone else you'd be running away with purple spotted skin by now."

"Believe me Harry, I'm playing that advantage as much as I possibly can." He pulled his chair closer. "You need someone to talk to, Harry. D'you think ­-" He looked away. "D'you think Sirius survived all this time on his own? James and myself were always willing to talk to him, and he said it would always make him feel better."

There was a fairly measurable silence.

"I feel so pointless," said Harry abruptly. Lupin's head jerked up. Harry hadn't moved.

"Why?"

"I've nothing to do. Everything's a bit... well, worthless. Compare us to the world in general."

"Well, for a start, if every person thought that and then died away there would _be_ no world. Every person is important."

"Some more than others."

"No, Harry," said Lupin very quietly. "Some just think they are. In reality, it's just more responsibility that gives them delusions of importance."

Harry straightened up a little in his bed and Lupin noticed shrewdly that there was a gleam in Harry's eye he'd seen someplace else. Of course...

"You've been talking to Severus, haven't you?"

"What?" Harry's head jerked up in genuine confusion.

"You've been talking to Severus. I'd recognise that cynical gleam anywhere. That man should come with a warning label."

"And a jingly bell so you know where he is at all times. You could tie it to his nose. It's big enough."

Lupin appeared to suppress a shudder. "Please, Harry, I don't need that mental image."

Harry smiled a little.

"Do you still have our old map?" asked Lupin suddenly.

"Of course," Harry replied with a snicker.

"Keep it to hand, Harry. Never lend it to anyone else. I have a feeling it could prove to be very useful soon."

He appeared to sigh, and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "I'd best be off. Needed back at the Ministry, and all."

Harry pulled a face. "Remember me to Fudge, won't you."

"It goes without saying. Now I believe there are some people outside who are _desperate_ to see you..."

He was halfway down the ward when he stopped and turned around.

"Do try to keep care of yourself," he said softly, and his fading footsteps were replaced by Ron's, Hermione's and Ginny's.

* * *

**Shading in Grey**: I don't think Ginny's given enough credit... read the fifth book and you realise she's really quite bright. 

**Dead Feather:** The plot twist was Voldemort's attack... then there was Hogsmeade... and the final one happens almost at the end, which, regrettably enough, is only a few chapters away.

**a friendly sort**: 'Disparity'... hmm. Perhaps the difference is between happiness and psychosis? I don't know, I'm just trying to find a way to leave it in because I'm too lazy to correct it. ; )

**fhippogriff**: Wahey for italicised comments! Brought 'em back a) because I missed them and b) for you: )

**Draco'sBrokenAngel**: Interesting name change, Aseia.

**Strega**: Hey there. Snape isn't exactly the most tactful of people, and I tried to play that in chapter 30. Snape used the trio as an evaluation... but on-one likes to find out they were used, I suppose.

**Read300300**: I'm flattered you find my conversations interesting: ) Glad Im good at sarcasm.

**USA-Jeanette**: The culminations of the smallest things in life is THE only reason to live. If I looked at the big picture I'd likely get so depressed as to kill myself. The human brain is not built to cope to think in the broader terms... and unfortunately, that's what Harry has to do.

**Sivy**: Glad you like it.

**crazyNM**: Dunno... I think Hermione and Ron are a little too wrapped up in each other. Still.  
I think the chances of a boy being treated like Harry in real lifeand emerging relatively unscathed is very small.

**Teahleafs**: You DO like to review, don't you?  
Your review was great! It pinpointed every emotion I'd involved in the story, and I'm glad you enjoyed it so much. Looks like I'm doing _something_ right! Review again!

**MoonGirlGin**: I would LOVE to make Snape lovey-dovey but I can't work it. So I'm sticking with the mean, evil guy we all love and hate.

**Kalorna Enera:** It's OK. Review when you can!  
I like to now my descriptions are worth something... I've been trying to practise them recently. You know, to sort of look eyond the physical. No, there will be no suicide attempts. I'm only telling you this because the story's not far from its finish! Review when you can!

**Bottlebrushtail**: Harry will get his break in a while.  
I know that song! Cool. Good choice...

**HPbabe143**: Yeah, I want to be a writer... unfortunatey, because I'm still fifteen, no-one would tak me seriously. That and I've had no good ideas recently. Bleh.


	32. Growing

Hey there.

Maaaaaaaany apologies for not updating... I've had exams (all you Brits know what I'm talking about), and my computer came down with a virus, meaning the whole thing had to be wiped. Including my stories. Thank God for backup discs, that's all I'm saying.

I've finally got it together for this, the penultimate chapter. Review!

* * *

Things were quiet for the next couple of days. Snape had no cause to spend any time near the boy that he didn't have to and for this he was eternally grateful... if a little guilty that he was directly disobeying Dumbledore's orders. Still, Potter seemed to be doing fine on his own. Despite the fact he was in desperate need of a Cheering Charm, everything seemed fairly normal, despite the fact that Potter slept and took his meals in the hospital wing. 

Occasionally he could be caught out of the hospital wing, leaning heavily on a crutch (he refused to use two), and staring blankly out of a window. There was an unregistered emotion on his face when he did this, part sorrow, part... well he couldn't put a name to it.

It was, in fact, the kind of hope Sirius Black had experienced ­ a kind of tunneled hope. There was going to be salvation, but it would take a while and all that time he would be stranded amidst a sea of roiling confusion and desperation. It was not sad, but it was a kind of indirect pain.

It was at about this time Snape realised he was watching Harry too closely and drew away a little, surprised at himself. It would not do to start trying to sympathise with the boy. He did have morals, after all.

Harry barely spoke anymore, but this was no general surprise. You could see it in the teachers' faces. He didn't even speak to his friends much. He appeared to prefer to stare out of the window.

llllllllll

_Harry knelt on broken legs, arms twisted behind his back, left hand throbbing dully. Parts of his body and face were spattered or soaked in blood; he could feel a small rivulet of it trying to trace a way down his scar. The irritating tickling it caused felt worse than his legs, using that bizarre kind of logic that made papercuts worse than gashes._

_The ground that he could see was pink-tinged snow, and the clouds above him were a dull yet excited grey. A thin, bored breeze was blowing, cooling the blood on his temples, making him shiver._

_The Death Eater that held him captive was being none too careful about __Harry's wounds, but he supposed in a dull kind of way that that was the point._

_There was a small clearing around him; the Death Eaters were lined up in a crude circle. Many were laughing._

_Harry shook his head to clear blood from his eyes and worked on drawing air into his lungs. He conscientiously ignored the pain in his legs and shoulders, staring fixedly at the ground, keeping breathing. Staying conscious._

_A silence fell upon his captors that could only have been caused by a signal. There were footsteps of a figure making their way leisurely across the snow._

_"Raise him."_

_Harry was dragged upwards but his legs would not support him. An arm clamped across his chest, holding him up._

_A finger slipped under his chin and raised his head up. A thin white face tipped inquisitively to the side regarded his own with unbridled curiosity._

_"What is that makes you so special, Harry Potter?" a lipless mouth murmured._

_Harry coughed weakly, but managed a reply._

_"It's my amazing charm, wit and charisma, haven't you noticed?"_

_The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in the faintest of a smile, but __Voldemort's face remained impassive._

_Harry stared unblinkingly into deep crimson resonance. He waited expectantly, wanting to know what Voldemort was looking for._

_It was strange, though... there was no hatred on Voldemort' face; no cruelty, no anger, no malice... nothing that Harry could associate with chalk skin and snake eyes. Harry's puzzlement was genuine, and any fear had been washed away in the backlog of adrenaline. He was completely occupied as to why_

_Voldemort looked so innately focused._

_Was there... regret?_

_They stood that way for a long, long time. Harry could feel something from these fuchsia eyes... it seemed saddened, fearful but accepting, regretful of an era of history gone that couldn't be brought back._

_They were stood on a flat floor of grey sand, the sky above them was black and starless. There was no snow, no blood, no Death Eaters. No pain._

_Two enemies stood there, looking at each other, and Harry realised he felt exactly the same as Voldemort did._

_"Am I your equal?" he murmured, and Voldemort inclined his head._

_There was a strange sense of solid finality in the air, but this was far from over._

_Voldemort was clothed in his robes of dusty black that hung from his thin frame. Harry could feel a Dudley-sized t-shirt and a pair of jeans on his own form._

_He broke the eye contact, and it hurt him to do so, in a sorrowful way._

_"I'm sorry," Harry muttered._

_Voldemort turned away from Harry, and Harry took a few paces forward to stand by him. It was brotherly, in a way. They looked at a window of time; they saw Hogsmeade from above, a bustling village of activity. Harry reached out to touch it; the image rippled around his fingertips, like calm mercury. It was liquid cool._

_He noticed his arm seemed longer than he expected; looking down at himself, he saw that Dudley's old clothes fitted him a lot better than they should have. __Not completely, of course, unless Harry was going to grow into a pregnant hippo, but the shoulders fitted him neatly and the sleeves did not drop further than his bicep. The bottom of the t-shirt hung just below waist level. The jeans fit better; held up with a belt, they outlined his legs. Originally, as a child, they made him look at if he were walking on two columns of air, so voluminous was the material, but now they suggested that flesh and bone might reside underneath. Harry examined himself with frank fascination, and glanced over to Voldemort to discover that he didn't have to look up as far to meet his enemy's eyes. He'd grown taller._

_There was __puzzlement in Harry's eyes. Voldemort turned back to the image of Hogsmeade. Harry looked too, only to discover that he was looking into a still silver mirror._

_He had grown._

_Face leaner, eyes darker, hair longer. Limbs elongated, chest and shoulders broader, hands wider. Harry touched the scar on his forehead; it was the only thing that seemed the same._

_He said nothing. There was no air here; the sound would not travel._

_He was wrong._

_"You grew," said Voldemort. His voice was calm._

_"How?"_

_Harry's voice was deeper._

_Voldemort raised his head a little._

_"You grew."_

_Harry turned back to the mirror to find it had metamorphosed once more. It was now a picture of Harry lying, silent and undisturbed. Illuminated by a beam of silver moonlight, his form was highlighted in a chiaroscuro of light and dark; shadow and relief. These physical changes, Harry noticed, were reflected in this form._

I used to seem ten years old,_ he thought._ Maybe I broke free from this. I think I let go. I think... I think maybe I grew. Everywhere. On the inside... and so the outside. Or maybe I realised that I had grown anyway, and just couldn't see it before.

_He turned his head to find Voldemort staring at him. They turned once more to face each other, barely a foot apart._

_"You and I are separate creatures," said Voldemort levelly, "And you have grown into your status. We are now truly equal."_

_He took a step backwards into an encroaching blackfog._

_"Life will not change," he continued, "For our enmity. You are now grown; I tried to stop it, in both the mental and the physical, and I have failed. I can only hope to defeat you on the battlefield."_

_"Is that... is this it?"_

_Harry felt a sense of regret, and he had no idea why. Perhaps he had lost that naive innocence that all children had, that shielded them from the wider view. Pros: nothing mattered as much. Cons: nothing mattered as much. There was loss. But then again, there was life._

_"Yes, Harry Potter. We are now fully each other's equal; either you or I will die in confrontation. I pray it will be you first."_

_Voldemort was gone._

_Harry stood for a moment in the black emptiness. His body felt stronger, lithe, like he'd built some muscle._

_He was Voldemort's equal; he was a man. Voldemort had said so himself._

_He was ten no more._

_Perhaps now he could fight properly._

Harry had floated in that blankness for a while, not completely unaware. There was a new sensation trickling through his body, melting into his muscles, tissues and organs. It felt like cool metal. Harry didn't fight it. He didn't know how.

Just as this feeling had covered his entire body, he felt a presence nearby.

With some effort, he dragged his consciousness upwards. He opened his eyes onto a new day, and exhaled slowly.

His memory told him that it had been a dream. His mind told him it hadn't.

Harry levered himself upwards, expecting the old scream of over-tired muscles, but instead there was a surge of fresh, new energy that gave (not lent... there was no interest to be paid on this... it was all his own energy) him the power to sit up without pain or exhaustion.

Harry locked his hands behind his back, straightened his arms and tipped is neck back as far as it would go. His neck gave up a few loud cricks, and Harry reached for his glasses.

They were placed into his hand for him.

Harry stared at Snape for a couple of long seconds. "Morning," he said at last. Snape did not reply.

Harry gave it up as a bad job and swung his legs out of bed. He paused for a second to regain his balance; his centre of gravity appeared to have shifted overnight. Harry stood up very slowly, trying to adjust to his seemingly new height - everything seemed to be on his normal eye-level, but his body refused to give up the idea that it had gotten taller. This confused him a lot and he wobbled for a second.

Snape was suddenly at his elbow, reaching out to catch him. Harry found his balance again and stood up straight. He turned, about to demand answers from his teacher.

Snape's eyes met him on his own level. Harry's question halted before it reached his mouth. Since when had he been as tall as Snape?

Harry then said the only coherent thing that had been playing through his brain.

"What the hell is going on?"

* * *

**zafaran**: Thanks! 

**Noone**: I'm trying to get back on track, so watch this space. : )

**leigh:** Hey, Leigh! No sweat.

**chip**: I'm back, and I'm updating soon! Say hi to Dale for me.

**Fate**: Thanks! Yes, it's nearly finished. I hope you'll like the ending.

**Shinigami Clara**: Yep. Bright side ahoy! Give it a couple of chapters. To be honest, I've kind of stopped liking this story, so it's just as well that it's nearly finished.

**Toki Mirage:** Sorry for the wait... I'm working on it!

**Kalorna Enera:** The end is in sight... he won't go crazy, but he /will/ grow up. To be honest, I think it's about bloody time. Is it possible to get bored of your own story?

**The Wyrd Sister**: Thanks!

**lackykaDz:** Updating!

**Read300300**: They should make a Snape action figure with a warning: 'DANGER - this figure may make you nasty, sarcastic, vicious, and give you the temperament of a menstrual rhino.' What do you think?  
It's weird being so young on a site filled with people who seem at least twent years older... still, it does mean that it's an ego trip when the say 'You're only fifteen!'

**TeahLeafs**: Thanks! I hope you don't hate me for making you wait, what was it? Two months? for an update.  
As for the map - I wanted to leave my way clear for a sequel, should I ever decide to write one. The map may be something I could pick up on, instead of starting a new story from scratch.  
I'm sorry I made you guys wait so long. And I always try to respond to my reviewers, because you're all too valuable for me to just skim over. I love you guys out there! bursts into tears

**Shading in Grey:** Hey there. I apologise for the long wait.  
You can really see Ginny's intelligence begin to shine through in the fifth book - the way she can formulate lies quickly and effectively.  
I'm glad you like the last chapter, and I hope you like the next one!

**samuraiduck27**: Thanks! I have to admit, on the one-year-and-one-month anniversary of this fic, that I can see where suicidal!Harry fics are coming from. I don't think I would ever be able to wrte one, but there you go.  
Sorry to keep you waiting, and be warned: the end is nigh for this fic...

**Adenara Yatman**: Thanks!

**MoonGirlGin**: Sorry for the long wait...

**StepfordShipper:** I quite like porridge... yes, I know, I'm strange...

**Pleione:** Thanks!

**saiyanwizardgurl:** No problem! Updating as quickly as I can!

**sockie:** I'm so sorry for not updating, or anything... forgive me?  
_Are_ you nuts? I know for a fact I am a packet of salted peanuts, but I don't know about you. ; )

**leggylover03**: Sorry for the wait...

**seastones88**: "That to me was the greatest touchy feely scene I have ever read on fanfiction."? Oo-er. No, I know what you mean. Thanks - it means a lot.  
I want to go to Bittersweet Candyland... it sounds too fun to miss.

**PadfootsNoxed**: Updating! Sorry for the wait...

**Strega**: I kinda like porridge, even though it looks disgusting.  
Snape probably thinks Harry is far from harmless, but he's an eveil git. Still, you can't help but love 'im.  
Is it fair to say that Harry is, in fact, a pawn? He's being manouvered by Dumbledore, by his friends (in some cases) and undoubtedly by the Ministry when they try to get their hand in (see third book)? Poor kid can never do what he wants, espcially in OOTP.

**Breanna Senese:** It's funny you should say that, considering what's coming in the next chapter...

**HPfreakout**: Thanks! Sorry for the wait.

**ckat44**: Thanks! I'll update as soon as I can.


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Harry Potter, Angst