CHARLIE: Paranoia is just the bastard child of fear and good sense.
JACE: Poor thing. Let's adopt it, give it a last name and raise it right.
CHARLIE: You want to get it a puppy, too?
JACE: Sure. We'll call it Panic. It and Paranoia can play together at the park and scare the hell out of all the other kids.
D.D. Barant
~~~
Sometimes, Harry wondered how he had survived over 16 years on planet Earth. For here he was, sitting at the dining room table ready for breakfast... a whole, entire hour early.
How exactly he had managed such a feat only proved a passing remark Snape had made about him once in fourth year; he was the living contradiction to the theory of evolution. The idea of "survival of the fittest" ought to have refuted Harry's mere conception.
Harry had woken up lying on the cold, wooden floor, with his glasses digging crudely into his nose. Ten years of sleeping on a thin cot in a dingy cupboard meant the sensation wasn't completely lost to him. But then the six other years of thick, downy mattresses meant his neck did have quite a stiff crick in it.
A blurred glance at Dudley's old digital watch had then told him it was 05:50 —he had less than ten minutes until breakfast. Though he was rather used to the panicked rush of getting ready in the morning— the Dursleys had trained him well for that— it was still a shock.
And so the boy who had once out-flown a dragon had leapt up to his feet... only to immediately hit the back of his head on the door handle. Hedwig's hoots had sounded suspiciously taunting.
Several minutes later, and for the second time in a week, the portraits of the manor cringed before the disgrace of a wizard with his wand in his mouth, mismatching socks (not that he owned any matching pairs, but he usually made some effort to co-ordinate them), the wrong shoe on the wrong foot, and hair pointing haphazardly in all directions.
He had then discovered that he'd read the time wrong. It had been 06:50, not 05:50. And he was completely tangled in his hoodie.
The last thing Harry really remembered was putting his head down on the table to contemplate the meaning of life. Only he must have fallen into a light sleep during his very philosophical, deep thinking, for he lifted his head to the sound of footsteps breaking through the enticing fog of sleep.
Indeed, the two Slytherins had walked in and found themselves looking at a bowed head of raven-hair, with a smugly pale figure watching and stroking a sleeping serpent. Harry woke up in time to see their unimpressed expressions.
Malfoy's pale eyebrows for one, were raised so high they practically merged with his hairline.
"Merlin, Potter," he barely breathed out, "you look sick."
Harry sniffed, then sniffed again; he really needed to blow his nose. "I'll have you know this is an authentic zombie look." The words came out rather ruggedly, quietly; his throat sounded more parched than sore. Not that that fooled anyone.
"I thought I told you to occlude, Potter," Snape drawled.
Don't be obvious and look at Malfoy, you idiot, his brain warned him. Harry was offended his own brain thought he was that stupid.
"I did," Harry started, on what technically wasn't a lie; he had managed to occlude until his little... agreement-that-didn't-involve-voodoo-blood-magic with Malfoy. "It's just... a bit harder to maintain when I'm sleeping."
"I imagine that is perhaps something we may be able to rectify today." Snape sounded dangerously delighted. Harry's brain wisely went "oh no". A happy Snape often meant a very miserable Harry Potter. "I do believe we ought to recompense for our missed Occulemency lesson this morning."
Occulemency in the morning? Oh, but that would be horrid. And he had Theory after lunch and—hold on. He had Occulemency in the afternoon as well...
Harry groaned in his head. A whole day of Occulemency. A whole fucking day of Occulemency. He should've let the basilisk off him whilst he had the chance.
A glance at Snape told him the man knew exactly what he'd done.
Greasy git.
Only... was it really right calling the man that anymore though? Well, he was still greasy, and a git, but after yesterday... Harry knew how much the Cruciatus hurt. Once had been bad enough for him, twice had been torture. He also knew exactly how many times Snape had suffered under it this past month.
The man was cold and cruel, but if Snape really was a double agent for the Order, then he definitely went through a lot to help the fight against Voldemort. And in that sense, perhaps Snape wasn't as bad as Harry thought he was. Perhaps the man had morals, something beyond the icy facade Harry was always on the recieving end of.
But there Snape was, looking quite smug at his victorious ploy, and the argument presented itself once more.
He decided the bacon he'd been picking at was shredded enough. With a defeated sigh, Harry left the dining room. He wondered how many pages of 'Mind Magick For Morons'—the Occulemency book Snape had bought especially for him—he could skim-read in an hour.
Well, he was about to go for the world record anyhow.
***
Severus Snape was not, in any way, concerned about Potter. If anyone had dared to tell him he looked so, they would've found themselves sentenced to an interminable stay in St Mungo's remedial ward for long-term magical convalescents.
Be that as it may, something had clenched at his chest the moment he'd caught sight of the boy at breakfast. True, Potter did often return to Hogwarts every summer looking a little worse for wear— skinner, messier. But at this point Snape would find himself wheeling in a corpse.
The boy had... well, for lack of better word, withered.
Potter was thin. That was definitely the first place to start, and yet it was barely scratching the surface. There were olms that ate more than the boy. Potter had gone beyond teenage scrawniness to outright emaciation. He looked far too breakable.
Potter also now spoke in such soft, hoarse tones Snape had half a mind to apply a permanent sonorous to the boy. He may be rumoured to have hearing like a bat, but even he had to strain to hear the rusty words through the air. And he said rusty, mind, because Potter's throat sounded more sore than anything else. Sore from what however, Snape could only have unfound suspicions of.
And Potter's eyes— Potter's eyes which were Lily's eyes—which Snape had been accustomed to seeing burning, gleaming, shining... were now dull and flat and almost black with the lack of life in them. He thought he'd been spared of seeing them so; his childhood friend had died with her eyes closed. Apparently Fate had relinquished that mercy. And he hated it.
Oh, but it went beyond that. Perhaps he ought to be... have been kind to the boy. Less biased. Less cold. But ever since that first day of class, when he had caught sight of the boy, the spitting image of his father, a trickle of long-dormant rage had awoken within him, and he had fired the first salvo. And since then, every word to the boy was a deliberate provocation, every glare challenged him at some primal level.
But absent thoughts of amendments and apologies had long since abandoned him, much the same way the dust had settled and the roots of their antagonism had long since firmed themselves.
What was done was done. What would be would be. That was all that needed to be said.
Potter finally came in, looking strong and stubborn as always, yet with that added weariness Snape had seen haunting more the Headmaster lately.
Hastily dismissing all thoughts of Potters and petty not-concerns behind cool waters, Snape jumped straight into the lesson.
"You have proven yourself proficient in constructing an immediate Occulemency shield, as well as filtering out a combination of memories to fool any amateur Legilimens," he drawled, quelling the instinctive urge to add a more gratuitous barb. "However, the Dark Lord is no amateur. Therefore, you will now learn to produce a shield on command, rather than having one ready in advance. Perhaps you may develop the mental capacity for one to exist perennially. Though such an idea in relation to youself is rather fanciful, we may see."
Potter's face had adopted quite a confounded expression; it was clear the boy was completely lost. As entertaining as it would be keeping the boy that way, he decided to generously elaborate... after a debatably unnecessary sigh.
"You will allow me into your mind with no shield, Potter. Your memories will run forth unguarded and unrestrained. Upon a sudden command, you will construct your Occulemency shield, and I should see nothing."
"How will I know when to get my shield up, sir?"
That was another bothersome thing about Potter, Snape deliberated shortly. Bar from their... difference in opinion during their first Occulemency lesson almost a week ago, the boy had done nothing more to directly aggravate him. In fact, he had been almost polite. Oh, there were small things, such as the way he spoke to Salazar and the unexplained changed air between the young Slytherin and Gryffindor, but even Snape could tell his annoyance was unfounded and petty.
"You will know." Snape whipped his wand out with unfathomable speed. "Legilimens!"
He struck before Potter even had a chance to ready himself. The stream of memories crashed into him in the same chaotic way they had all those months ago. It only spoke of Potter's improvement, and the mixture of pride and annoyance only served to nettle the Potions Master further.
Potter and Weasley were trapped in the Whomping Willow's wild branches... Potter looked down exasperatedly at another lost chess game... a Muggle teacher knelt down to ask Potter why he was wearing a sweater; Potter told her he was cold—
Hadn't it been summer—
The stench of cabbage consumed Potter's olfactory senses... Petunia Dursley ran through a kitchen wearing a salmon pink frock... "The Cruciatus Curse ought to loosen your tongue," Dolores Umbridge said with undisguised glee; dread and determination and readiness washed over Potter, he had done this before—
What?
Snape almost found himself searching for that memory— how prepared the boy had been to face the Unforgivable had more than set the Potions Master off-kilter. He'd heard that Potter had met the Longbottom's at St Mungos... but this spoke of experience. And there was no way Potter had ever experienced the Cruciatus; he'd searched the minds of the Inquisitoral Squad— the boy had been spared.
He could withdraw and ask right now, if he wanted to. He could ravage Potter's mind silently for answers, if he wanted to. The Gryffindor would never know that way.
Only those alternatives spoke of rash action, thoughtlessness. He would still need to train the boy after today, and Merlin only knew how much worse their sessions would be with more tension between them.
A memory of Potter being chased by a dragon reminded him he had lingered long enough. If he remained any longer, Potter would think he was fishing for memories, and he'd felt some resistance from the boy already.
Snape resolved to keep silent. Coiled up and dormant— the Slytherin way. Salazar would be proud.
Besides, he would have more opportunities to search, if only he let this one slide.
"Now."
Snape pushed the command forwards, had it echo in the chambers of Potter's not-so empty mind. He idly allowed memories to pass him— a couple of bright flashes caught his attention. But if Potter was to learn, then it was better he offered minimal resistance for now.
There was a weak surge of force from somewhere; it felt more like a budge really, as though the rocky foundations of a great wall had been lay down.
Yet the memories still came.
Potter stared disbelievingly at a question about Lockhart's favourite colour—
Quite literallly the most ridiculous teacher Albus had ever hired; Snape recalled the man with distate. How Lockhart had ended up in Ravenclaw... the Potions Master wondered whether there was a correlation between age and mental stability. The Sorting Hat had truly lost its mind placing the arrogant fraud in the house of wits and intelligence.
Dolores Umbridge gave Potter a smarmy smile; a repulsed shudder shook him all over—
The Gryffindor's overwhelming abhorrence towards the Toad was concerning— what had the woman done to him? True, Hogwarts had never been so unified in their hatred towards one being, his Slytherins excluded. Minerva's Animagus form had proven so delightfully useful. As had the Weasley's inventive flair and élan for trouble. But for them, it had been mere dislike.
With Potter however... it was pure loathing. Pure, unadulterated loathing.
Potter and Weasley glanced through the doors of the Great Hall; Snape's own absence from the table filled the two Gryffindors with hope and joy—
There was more resistance from elsewhere, Snape could sense it, but it was feeble and tiring rapidly. Potter's foundations were far too disrupted and unstable; the strength of emotions Snape had felt from the last few memories had told him that.
There was no use continuing now. Next time, Snape decided. He would get his answers then.
Snape withdrew as silently as he'd went in. Only to find, as reality wobbled back into view, that he may have pushed the boy a little too far.
Potter had at some point sunk to his knees. Even the deep, searing gasps from the Gryffindor couldn't displace the overpowering silence.
He ought to help the boy. But that last memory... so like the arrogant, big-headed James Potter that had laughed and laughed when Snape had left Hogwarts for a week. He'd only gone to attend his mother's funeral.
The nonchalant, ruffled hair. The features twisted in cruel delight. The undeserved adoration. All the very same, the very mirror of James Potter.
So he left. He took the coward's way and left.
The mental motion was natural; roaring deep blue waters came as a saviour to drown out all obtrusive thoughts— any centred on regret and remorse because damn it— he was giving more than enough, he was giving all he could— the price of his redemption could not demand something he was incapable of giving.
He drove them down, down, to sleep with the monsters under the ocean surface. The waters reflected light like diamonds now.
By the time he was nearing his study, the tsunami had faded to a more or less violent autumn breeze, something Snape could easily submerge under shimmering Occulemency pools.
Until a loud pop announced the presence of Minky, her tennis ball eyes bulging out so much from their pockets Snape fancied he could have them preserved as rip-off Eyes of Graeae.
"Mister Master Potions Master!" Minky squeaked. "Minky be seeing something most horribles! Minky be believing Mister Master Harry Potter is dying!"
***
Harry's head bloody fucking hurt.
It always did after an Occulemency lesson, but this killed. Nothing as bad as what he got from Voldemort's intrusions, but he'd much rather go without the feeling that his skull now contained brain plasma puree.
Snape may have released him early, but Harry used up all that time walking into walls on the way to his rooms, and then running his head under cold water in the hopes that some of the sloshing brain matter would solidify.
It had worked. A bit. But Merlin, Harry never wanted to go through something like that again.
The amount of restraint Harry had to put forward into not immediately erecting his cupboard and slam the door shut had been startling high. Perhaps he had nudged a couple of more... harmless memories Snape's way; quite a few of the flashes he'd caught had come dangerously close to revealing things he was much happier keeping to himself.
But he'd never felt so helpless before. He had been forced to stand and suffocate under the savage swarm of his memories until Snape's say-so. And he'd hated it.
Sure, there had been times where he'd felt damned to hell and powerless. But those instances had mainly come with the Dursleys; Uncle Vernon's alcohol-fuelled attacks, Dudley's gang's relentless chasing. In the Wizarding World, magic had always found some way to help him in magically troublesome situations, whether it be his wand or a Portkey or intuitive phoenixes.
Then, to make matters worse, it had been painstakingly hard to bring his cupboard forth. The fuzzy, oppressive smog of panic had set in; everywhere Harry looked, there'd been soft yarn and thorny vines, silk and poison lace.
He'd failed. He'd tried, tired out and failed. The fate of an entire world rested on his shoulders, and he'd been too weak to win a simple battle.
He hated it. And everything still bloody hurt.
Now, he sat slumped at the dining room table, dicing up his left-over grilled chicken in a both vicious and gentle manner. He'd eaten very little, but two months of forced starvation had left him with a very shrunken stomach. He'd rather not start throwing up mid-lunch.
Speaking of lunch, Harry glanced at his watch. He'd lingered at the table for long enough. Ten minutes and ten seconds to be exact, and the extra ten seconds had been to finish off shaping a deformed bunny out of his decimated chicken.
Harry made to leave.
"Remain for a moment if you will, Mr Potter."
Harry froze. Snape looked back at him, unfalteringly, giving a small pass of his hand— an umistakable gesture for him to sit back down. If it wasn't for the bemused crinkle of Malfoy's eyebrows, Harry would've presumed the Slytherin had snitched. Hell, even Salazar looked a little interested.
The chair then decided to scrape across the wooden floor as Harry drew it back. Harry very much wished to ask the chair why it had to do that.
Instead, he sank back into his chair, almost curling up; every part of him tried to shelter the other. Head bowed, eyes downcast, hands clasped tightly in his lap, ankles locked together. If Harry had looked up, he would've seen every one of the Slytherins silently acknowledge his posture as defensive.
"Draco," the platinum blond looked up. "If you could return to your chambers, that would be most appreciated."
There was a time to be obstinate and a time to obey, Draco knew that. A year ago, he'd been spared such knowledge. But he knew it now. So Draco left without a word, with only a small glance at the stock-still Gryffindor.
"Look up, Mr Potter."
Harry looked up. He had nothing to lose, not really. The distance between his room window and the ground seemed far enough anyway.
Only Snape didn't speak. Rather, the elder wizard waved his wand, and a rather ragged, dirty piece of cloth plopped onto the table. Only it wasn't just cloth, Harry realised. It was a shirt. His shirt. His dried blood-stained, crusty, over-sized shirt.
So that's where it went...
"I can not entirely imagine what trouble you have already gotten yourself into, to produce... this." Snape prodded his shirt with his wand. "But I do hope you have a cogent explanation."
Oh, if Harry could feel he'd be positively elated. As it was, the tips of his fingers had stopped buzzing and his head had become a little less fuzzy. The you-are-fucked black dots that had danced across his vision had now departed.
Harry could deal with this.
Blowing out a small breath, Harry began. "I just had a nosebleed." Snape's eyebrows rose in that cease-with-the-bullshit fashion. "Well, not just a nosebleed. But I was practising this spell, see— the Illusionist Charm. And there was a lot about magical strength and spell duration, but I suppose I held it for a bit too long. And then... nosebleed," Harry finished lightly, with a weak flourish of his hands.
Snape continued to look at him as though he were a dung beetle.
Well, it was better than being looked at as though he was the dung of a dung beetle, Harry supposed. Small steps. 'Every little helps', as the Tesco adverts often said.
Snape suddenly raised his wand— and did Harry flinch? Not according to him, and he'd only go and deny it if anyone said so.
But rather than... whatever his body had been prepared for... Snape only frowned at him, before murmuring lightly under his breath, and a scarlet-coloured potion in a glass vial popped into view before him, where his plate had once been.
Blood-Replenishing Potion. Harry recognised it. But why would...?
"Drink up, Potter." Snape said, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Polyjuice. It had to be Polyjuice. Or maybe Snape was high on Cheering Charms or something. Could that happen? It could probably happen. This just wasn't Snape, Harry was sure of that.
"I really don't think I need it, sir," Harry just about spluttered out.
"I'm afraid what you have assumed was a request, was not so," Snape only said. "Though the general effects of the potion will be significantly minimised given the time-lapse, it should serve some use."
"Sir, I really don't think—"
"I too think you ought to take the potion, Harry Potter." Harry turned towards the slow voice of Salazar Slytherin. "I doubt that is all the blood you have shed, or will continue to shed."
Harry's blood promptly froze.
The man looked the very personification of Slytherin equanimity— well, no surprise there, the voice in Harry's head drawled. But even as he'd said those words... Harry had the oddest feeling the founder was going for something beyond his nosebleed.
How could... Salazar couldn't suspect, surely. The man had a portrait in the library, the living room and the dining room. Nowhere near Harry's room, and Harry had always endured his bamdages remain undiscernable under baggy clothes.
Unless... The blood he would continue to shed... his own? Or the blood of others? Both? Harry tugged the sleeves of his hoodie down lightly. He'd been careful with that too. He'd been careful with everything.
Perhaps Salazar knew nothing. Perhaps Harry was just reading into everything a little too much. A residential stay with Slytherins was bound to make any Gryffindor a little stir-crazy.
Locking his doubts away, Harry reached for the vial and gulped down the potion.
***
A/N: A rather long chapter quote (more an extract, I suppose), but it mentions puppies.
Olms are white salamanders. They can go up to 10 years without eating food when resources become scarce.
Tesco adopted the 'every little helps' slogan in 1993.
The Eye of Graeae refers to the Grey sisters in Greek mythology. They each share one eye and one tooth between them.
4K?! *spontaneously combusts* I love you all!
Updates may be a bit slow because I'm an idiot nerd. Long story short, I kept doing the optional homework thinking it was mandatory and now all my teachers are giving me more work. Bear with me while I dig myself out of this one.
💗REMINDER:💗A small thing for Suicide Prevention Month, because otherwise I'll write too much. Everything and everyone's more than skin-deep, and it wouldn't hurt for more people to realise that.