The Alchemist's Cell
by SJR0301
Chapter Thirteen
Edgar rubbed his eyes as he read over his final report on his latest case. This one had proved to be far less difficult than the Magic Murders, as Fay so aptly called them, or the gang war murders that now totalled eight deaths including those of Davey Fox and Black Jack Crowley. It had taken him two days to figure out that the dead woman had been killed by her ex-husband. The ex had claimed they had split amicably, but all of their acquaintances had told a different story. The same old one, Edgar thought. Noisy rows, money troubles, and jealousy. It had taken the beter part of a morning for Edgar and Fay to tease a confession out of him. They had played the oldest trick in the book--telling him they knew all the details. And they had known quite a few.
A bad alibi, the blood match, a witness. It had added up and the ex had ended up spilling all. He wasn't a career criminal. He was just a poor, stupid slob who had blown his temper one time too many, and one time too far. In the end, he'd get his charges reduced from murder in the first, to manslaughter. But his life was ruined and his wife was dead.
Such were the accidents of life, Edgar mused. Or the accidents of death. He could almost pity the poor killer who had lived a life of excess and killed on account of it. But he had no pity for the Murderer who killed for no reason, or for any reason, and laughed when he killed. He had no pity for the death lord who had carved up Jack Crowley as if he were a pumpkin being turned into a jack o'lantern for Halloween.
Fay came in and he paused to admire her extraordinary grace and the way the sun turned her champagne hair to gold. It was hard to remember that they had once treated each other with the wary caution and easy sarcasm of almost enemies. "Superintendent Masters wants a conference," Fay said. Her blue eyes were cool and Edgar could tell whatever the conference was about, it wasn't going to make him happy.
"That was a good job you two did on this last one," Masters said.
Edgar inclined his head and said, "Thanks," and Fay smiled enough to show her teeth. But they both knew that had been the opening friendliness before the real unpleasant news followed.
"I've been reviewing this "Special Task Force thing, and I think we can table that for the time being. It's five months since the first supposed victim was killed and we still have no solid leads and no solid evidence that actually links the deaths."
"What about those other deaths in Little Hangleton," Fay asked. "Aren't there too many all the same to discount this. There's one person behind this sir. And one method. We just don't know it yet."
"You really think that the same someone killed those people fifty years ago and then went on another spree just this year?" Masters asked.
"I don't know, Superintendent," Fay answered. "I suspect that there were others in between that were put down to natural causes. And I still think there may have been some poison involved. Something quick that decays in the bloodstream very quickly. Something virtually undetectable."
"And you, Bones?" Masters asked. "Is that your call as well?"
"Yes, sir," Edgar replied. "I'm certain it was murder. And I'm certain there was some factor that connected all those victims." He added, "I'd like more time. We've been called off this thing so many times that we really haven't had an opportunity to investigate properly. I think it's serious and this fellow is very, very dangerous."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I can't give it to you," masters answered. "I need more manpower on this gang war. The body count is escalating and it's all in our district. And unfortunately, I don't feel Graves can move this case alone."
Edgar frowned. "Graves is a fine detective and a more senior one than I or Fay. And he's got others working with him. What makes you think we can do more than he can? Especially when we haven't gotten anywhere on the related ones from the Black Jack." Fay kicked him under the table. You weren't supposed to admit to the Super that you were stumped. Not ever.
"Fact is," Masters said, "Graves has a bit of problem. Drinking. And it's gotten worse. That's how you drew the call on the Black Jack killings. He was on a bender and totally out of it. And you two have proved you can handles some tough stuff." Masters paused and laid down his winning card, "Unless you don't think you can handles it?"
"Of course, we can handles it," Fay said immediately. "We just didn't want to step on anyone's toes. Departmental courtesy, sir."
"Yes," Masters said. "Unfortuanately, as Superintendent, I'm less worried about courtesy than about stopping these killings. So I want you two on that. And if it makes you happy, I'll keep the other thing open a while longer. If you want to work it a bit in between, fine. Just get me this Lord of Death fellow. The arrogance of him. Thinks he's immune somehow, and that means he's going to make a mistake somewhere. A major one." Masters scanned them for their agreement and said, "I'm relying on you."
"We'll do our best, sir," Edgar answered.
"Did you know about Graves," Fay asked quietly when they had returned to Edgar's office.
"I had an inkling," Edgar relied.
"Why didn't you say anything, then?" Fay asked.
"It's not my business to tell on others, especially when I didn't know anything for a fact. I just wondered."
"Well, you could do with the occasional nip yourself, Edgar," Fay said.
"What makes you say that?" he asked. She shrugged and gave him a sidelong glance.
"It might help you sleep better. Get rid of your nightmares."
"How...?" Edgar stared at her.
"You talk in your sleep sometimes," she said. "Not very often. Just the night after you see the bodies. And nothing distinguishable. But it's obvious something troubles you." Fay looked at him and her blue eyes expressed nothing but concern.
"Everyone has bad dreams from time to time," Edgar answered.
"You disappoint me, Edgar," Fay said. "I wouldn't have expected the good old stiff upper lip from you. You're a bit more enlightened than that, aren't you?"
Edgar looked away. He didn't know if he would ever be ready to talk about his past. "It's not the good old stiff upper lip," he answered. "It's more like the good old-fashioned terrors of the night. Someday I'll be ready to talk about it. Just not today, okay?" He looked down at her and said, "Don't be angry with me, Fay. I'm relying on you more than Masters is relying on us." Her face softened with surprise at his response. She nodded and picked up the file that was chunking its way out of the fax.
They began pouring over the files of the other cases Graves had been managing. There was no single method of death. The only constant was that the victims were mostly from rival gangs and it was clear that the new guy had been muscling in on gang after gang moving in a methodical line from east to west. The victim at the Swan and Fox had been shot execution style. He was a well-known middleman who distributed mostly cocaine and heroin, but occasionally branched out into the more exotic stuff. He had been shot in broad daylight and the shooters had worn black hoods and masks and none fo the witnesses were willing to suggest an identity for them. Edgar didn't blame them.
There were two who had their necks snapped, and two who'd been knifed.
Fay said, "you don't think those two were done by that Warren fellow, do you?"
Edgar frowned. "You mean the big guy and baldy? From that undercover rec we messed up dreadfully?"
"Yeah," Fay said. "The one you knocked flat when you were playing Sir Galahad and coming to my rescue."
"Could be," Edgar said thoughtfully. "But we'll have a hard time getting anyone to testify against him. The guys in the pub were a bad lot and they were terrified of him."
"I guess we'll have to go back there, won't we?" she said.
"Not without serious back-up," Edgar replied.
"But you'll never get anyone to talk that way," she said.
"They won't talk any other way either," Edgar answered. "No, I think we may have to go in and pull the lot of them in. Throw them all in interrogation rooms and question them until they're more scared of us than they are of Leather-vest and Baldy."
"It's a thought," Fay said. "You'd think Graves would have done that already, wouldn't you?" Edgar nodded. It was why Masters had reassigned the case. Graves hadn't even done the basic moves for a case like this. But he had a bad feeling about it just the same.
~~***~~
Harry hovered between sleeping and half-waking. When he came to he regretted it. His head hurt horribly. His whole body ached, and he alternated between bouts of chills and fiery heat that drenched the linens and made him want to throw all his clothing off and swim naked in the snow. If he dared to open his eyes, the light seemed to pierce through to his brain. He couldn't remember ever having been so miserable. In his few alert moments, he thought he would prefer a brief dose of the cruciatus curse to this constant distress.
Then there were the dreams. When the heat struck, he plunged into terror: he was inside the very heart of the old man's furnace and it was his blood being boiled in the crucifer, not metal; he was being tumbled in some venomous potion in Snape's cauldron, and Snape kept sneering, "I knew you had to be the missing ingredient for the Elixir, Potter"; he was in the Chamber of Secrets and Riddle had let out the Basilisk, only the basilisk had wings and breathed fire the burned his very insides, while its master laughed, a high, cold laugh that froze him and started the chills all over again.
Somebody was whispering beside him. Two somebodies. He couldn't open his eyes, and when he drew a breath to ask who it was, he started to cough uncontrollably. Now it was his chest that was on fire.
"He sounds awful, doesn't he?" asked one voice.
"Shh," said the other. "Madam Pomfrey'll hear you. Listen," the voice whispered, "hold his head up just a little so I can get him to drink this." Harry felt someone lifting his head. The very touch of anything on his skin hurt, and he groaned in distress.
"Harry," the voice whispered, "it's me, Neville. You have to drink this. It'll make you feel better." The voice, Neville, said to the other, "Help hold this to his lips, so he doesn't cough it out." Harry wanted to tell them to go away, but he was also so glad to hear and recognize someone who wasn't the old man or Snape or the dragon-basilisk that he didn't fight. The drink went down cool and funny tasting. Both bitter and sweet at the same time.
He choked a bit and Neville said, "A bit more...come on...you can do it."
He managed another sip. Whatever it was seemed to cool his insides as it went down and he managed to open his eyes. It was night and the only light was one small candelabra. It illuminated Neville's anxious round face and Ginny's solemn pale one.
"What are you doing here?" he managed to whisper.
"He's awake!" Ginny whispered.
"I brought you something to help make you better," Neville said. "It's a remedy for severe dragonpox fever. I made it with Hermione's help."
"Dragonpox?" Harry whispered.
"Yeah," Ginny answered. "That's what you have."
"What was that you just gave me?" Harry asked.
"My own rememdy," Neville answered. "Hermione looked up dragonpox and we got very worried 'cause it said that if you have a fever for more than a couple of days it's very dangerous and you could..."
"Die?" Harry aksed. The thought didn't bother him particularly. It would end his misery, after all. Neville nodded solemnly.
"So why didn't you think Madam Pomfrey's remedy wasn't good enough?"
Ginny whispered, "We were just worried because you've been in a fever for a whole week. And nobody would let us visit you. You're supposed to be quarantined because it's very contagious."
"How did you get in then," Harry asked "and won't you get it?"
"We've both had it," Neville answered. "It's no big deal when you're little. But it's really nasty if you're older, like you."
"So what was that?" Harry asked.
"It's my own rememdy. I made it with mimbulus mimletonia and some other things. It's really amazing," Neville said, "the rememdies you can make with stinksap! Hermione and I used Fred and George's fever pastille's and then we kept trying our concotion until we got the right mix."
"It's a good thing you told me that after I took it," Harry said. He started to say something but he heard footsteps and other voices. Neville and Ginny threw something over them, his invisibility cloak, Harry thought with annoyance and amusement. His two visitors crept away as the new ones appeared.
"Someone is here?" Madam Pomfrey said angrily. Harry closed his eyes again. He'd used up all the energy he had and felt himself slipping down into a cool well of sleep. Madam Pomfrey's voice seemed to drift away, "His fever's down, thank god!"
Another voice said softly, "Thank god, indeed." Dumbledore, his sleepy mind noted, and he felt relief that the old wizard was there.
"But when can we see him?" Hermione's voice said, "He can't be contagious anymore. It's over a week since he got sick." Harry thought, am I dreaming this? Muzzily, he lifted his head and tried to make things out, but his glasses were somewhere else.
"And how do you know that?" Madam Pomfrey asked. "But never mind. No, one comes in here until he's strong enough and he's still not. You've never had dragonpox either have you?"
"No, but..."
"Then you don't see him until I think he's healed enough to leave the infirmary." Madam Pomfrey said. "And no sneaking in after hours either!"
"I had dragonpox," Ron said.
"You are not getting in either," Madam Pomfrey said. Her tone was nearly as severe as when she had asked Harry what dangerous things he'd been doing the last time he'd been in. "You had dragonpox when you were quite small, and you gave it to your brother Bill, who gave it to half the boys in his year. And you were too small to have gotten the immunity for sure. So you stay out, too." Madam Pomfrey came over and felt Harry's forehead.
"Awake, are you?" Harry nodded and watched her check his pulse. He still felt quite sleepy and turned his head away when she tried to feed him some broth.
"That won't do at all," she said severely. "You must try to eat something."
He went back to sleep and dreamed about the old man again. A voice hissed, "You have followed all the steps in your vaunted Testament old man. How is it you have not produced a new stone? Or did you deliberately leave something out?"
"The making of the Stone, young man, is a most difficult process. Most difficult. It may be that I lack the power to do it successfully, even though I followed all the steps as I recall them. Great works of power are for young men, not for those, such as I, who have outlived their appointed time and usefulness, and dally in this world only at the pleasure of God."
"There is no god," the voice hissed, "only fools credulous to believe in him and those too weak to seize the power and seek immortality as you did."
"What a pathetic fool you are," the old man answered. "And go ahead and punish me. No doubt one of these times your unforgivable curse will simply kill me and put me out of the power of your commands and your evil."
"No," the voice said coldly. "I will not punish you any more. I will treat you as tenderly as a babe until you make me a Stone. And I will start up your heart each time it ceases to beat and keep you from the death you avoided and now long for. Until you give me my desire."
"You will never have your desire," the old man answered. "If I made you the Stone and you lived five hundred years, you would never find peace and you would never have your desire. One such as you, is not capable of being happy or satisfied. There is only and ever the endless thirst for more and more and more. If I give you what you want, you will find I have given you Hell instead of Heaven, and I do not desire to be punished for providing even such a one as you with his own damnation." The voice hissed in fury and the old man crumpled.
The fire was eating him alive again, burning him up. Harry rolled off the bed in agony. His head felt as though it would split apart.There were hands lifting him up. Hands feeling his head. Their touch hurt.
"Harry?" the old man's voice said. "Are you awake?" Something burned its way down his throat and his head cleared. There was still a buzzing in his scar.
"Is the fever back?" Dumbledore's voice asked.
"He has some fever, still, yes," madam Pomfrey, replied. "But not enough to account for this."
"Professor," Harry whispered. "It was the old man. I was dreaming about him again. They want him to do something and he keeps refusing. And they keep torturing him when he doesn't." Madam Pomfrey made a sound of dismay and distress. Harry tried to sit up and failed. He had to get something out. He had to persuade Dumbledore. "You have to get him out of there," he said. "Professor Dumbledore...what they want...I think it's a weapon of some kind. Something Voldemort can use to give him more power. You have to get him out or they'll kill him."
Dumbledore laid a hand on Harry's head and said softly, "I have people looking everywhere. We haven't a whisper of this old man though. Even my best agents haven't heard of this old man."
Harry closed his eyes. "You think he's tricking me again?"
"I don't know, Harry," Dumbledore answered. "It may be so. He must know by now that you are vulnerable in just this way to deception."
"But it seems so real," Harry protested.
"I understand. Rest now," Dumbleodre said. "We'll speak of this further when you are well." The blue eyes were very grave, very worried. Almost fearful. "You must get well. Your friends are missing you."
Harry relaxed enough to give a very weak chuckle. "You'd better keep an eye on them, then. Else they'll sneak in and get themselves sick, too." He didn't fight when Madam Pomfrey gave him a few mouthfuls of broth. It occurred to him as he was falling off to sleep again that Dumbledore's fear had been for Harry himself.
It was another week before Madam Pomfrey would let Harry out of the infirmary. And when she finally did, she kept checking him over and telling him to be sure to eat his meals properly and not to stay up late or do anything dangerous so that he was late for his first class of the day. And naturally, the class would be potions, he thought.
His bookbag seemed to have gotten much heavier than it had been and he hitched it back up on his shoulder as he entered the doorway of the dungeon. Most of the students already had their cauldrons set up and simmering merrily and everyone fell suddenly silent when they saw him come in. Snape spun around and stared at him.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Harry said hastily as he handed Snape the parchment from Madam Pomfrey asking for him to be excused for arriving late. Snape didn't even look at it.
"Take your place, Mr. Potter," Snape said curtly, "and see me after class about the assignments you've missed."
"Yes, sir," Harry said. He went to the empty space between Ron and Hermione.
They both smiled brilliantly at him and Ron said quietly, "Are you okay?"
Harry nodded and grinned back. It felt wonderful to be someplace other than in bed in the hospital wing. His grin died though. Everyone was still staring at him and he began to feel uncomfortable.
"You're letting him back in class?" Malfoy said.
There was a collective gasp as the rest of the class stared from Malfoy to Harry to Snape and back to Haryr again. Harry turned around trying to figure out what the problem was. "I'm not contagious or anything," he said.
Snape turned away from the board where he had put up the instructions for the day's potion and said rather sourly, "It appears that Mr. Potter was already ill with dragonpox the last class he was here and that accounts for his behavior on that occasion."
Harry swallowed and wondered what he had done. The first days he had been sick were a complete fog. He must have been horribly rude or collapsed right in class or something. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks, but he determined to ignore Malfoy. He had barely enough energy to get through class. A fight with Draco Malfoy was not on his agenda for the day.
Snape, however, had the final word. "As I said, Mr. Potter's behavior is only excused because the Headmaster and I believe that he was in a state of delirium due to dragonpox fever and not responsible for his actions. If any of you," he added, "ever behave in that manner in my class, you will promptly be expelled. Is that clear?" Every one shut up and went furiously to work.
Harry turned to Hermioe and mouthed, "What did I do?"
"Later," she whispered back.
Harry was starting to sweat by the end of class and he wanted nothing more than to get out of the dungeon pronto. The potion they were working had an odd smell, probably related to the copious amounts of toad liver and sulfur it required. He laid his flask on Snape's desk and gathered his books to follow Hermione and Ron out.
Snape, however, called him back. "My office, Mr. Potter," Snape said.
Harry replied, "Yes, Professor," and said to Hermione, "I'll meet you at Transfiguration, okay. And tell Professor McGonagall I have to get my assignments from Snape would you. I don't want her mad at me for being late my first day back."
Hermione nodded and said, "Oh, it's good to see you back, Harry."
He smiled at her and followed Snape to the Potions Master's office. The office was extremely orderly, but its shelves were lines with things floating in jars of preservative and it always gave him the creeps. But then, that might well be because he loathed Snape and Snape hated him and everything about the subject was colored by that.
"Sit, Potter," Snape said curtly.
Harry stared at him in surprise. He was sure Snape had never before invited him to sit down in his presence. He sat with some relief, though. It was dead anoying, he thought, that he couldn't get through one class without feeling totally wrung out. And he still had Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts and Divination to go.
Harry took out a piece of parchment so he could write his make-up assignments down and looked at Snape for instructions. The Professor had a funny look on his face, odd and thoughtful, and for once, not particularly hateful.
"You don't remember what you did the day you got sick?" Snape asked abruptly.
"Erm...not really," Harry said. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks again. Was everyone looking at him oddly because the sickness caused some kind of brain damage? Would he find he had forgotten all sorts of things? "What did I do," he stammered. "Was I horribly rude or something?"
"Rude? There isn't a word for your behavior, Potter. Rude doesn't even remotely qualify to describe it," Snape answered.
"Oh," Harry said. "I guess, I have to...erm...apologize then," he said. He couldn't believe it. Here he was, having to apologize for something he'd done to Snape and having no recollection of what it was.
Snape lifted his eyebrows and said, "That would be a first. You apologizing. And you have no recollection of anything that happened that day?" Snape asked more urgently.
"No," Harry said. He tried, with growing alarm, to recall how he had gotten to the infirmary, but everything was a jumble. He remembered the fever and the dreams and the pain in his head.
"You don't remember throwing the contents of your cauldron at me?"
"What?" Harry was frankly stunned. He had, of course fantasized about such an action, but he would never have done it. Not in his right mind, anyway.
"You don't remember chanting the Dark Lord's name over and over?" Snape asked, "and suggesting that he might like to know if I were a loyal servant of his?" Harry gawped at Snape.
"You're joking, right?" He stared at the Potions master with a sinking feeling in his stomach. "You're winding me up, aren't you?" He asked again, "I did that, in front of the class?" Snape nodded and considered him thoughtfully.
"I really owe you an apology then, if I did that." He felt himself start to shake. Much as he loathed Snape, hated him if he were truthful, he knew that Snape was somehow working for the Order and that he might have put Snape in jeopardy by that comment. Snape still did not reply, but continued to look at him as if waiting for him to do something, but Harry had no clue what.
"Do you remember what happened in Professor Dumbledore's office, when I escorted you there to be disciplined, then?" Harry tried to control his trembling. He was starting to be very afraid of what had happened. He shook his head and tried to recall what had happened. Snape sighed and he seemd to have an oddly sympathetic look on his face. Harry liked that even less. He knew where he was if Snape was being nasty. Something had to be very wrong if he wasn't.
"You don't remember attacking the Headmaster, then?" Harry shook his head. He understood what the phrase "struck dumb" meant. He had always thought that was a silly exaggeration. Apparently not.
"You used Legilimency to attack the Headmaster, Potter." Snape said softly.
"No!" Harry said, "I would never! I couldn't! If I tried, I'm not strong enough. That can't be..." He looked at Snape's face. It was neutral: neither hateful not friendly. Harry thought hard.
He tried to remember. Slowly, he said, "It wasn't really me, then, if it was successful at all. It was Voldemort, wasn't it? He was possessing me, wasn't he?" He swallowed down the bile that threatened to come up. That's why he couldn't remember what he'd done, he thought. Ginny had told him that was what it was like. You didn't remember it, what you did, if he actually possessed you.
"It would appear that way," Snape answered. "Professor Dumbledore believes that the onset of the fever broke down your defenses and gave You Know Who the opening. He attacked the Headmaster through you. Fortunately, the Headmaster was able to repel him and to counter-attack." Snape looked at Harry. His black eyes seemed to bore into him, and Harry felt himself shaking as he tore his eyes away.
He felt dirty, violated. Images floated back to the surface now. He remembered something. Feeling the snake rearing up, and striking at Dumbledore.
"Potter? You do remember, don't you?" Snape asked.
Harry shivered. "I...he...didn't get very far with Dumbledore, did he? He...Dumbledore, he attacked back, and Voldemort was forced to recall things."
"Tell me," Sanpe said very softly.
"There was this house and he was a kid, a teenager. And his father told him he had no son. And he killed them...his father and his grandparents. And then he...remembered...he remembered killing my Mum. She was in his way.He remembered when the spell backfired on him, the curse, he..." Harry shook his head trying to clear the memories out again. He couldn't stop shaking now.
Vaguely, he was aware of Snape doing something, saying something, but he couldn't focus on it. The image of his mother's death was flashing in his mind, over and over. He kept seeing it, her frantic pleas, and the green flash, and her falling body. A voice said behind him, "You told him? What did you do?"
"Nothing! Nothing!" Snape's voice answered. But it barely registered, because the loop kept playing, his Mum falling over and over.
"He remembered what You Know Who saw when you attacked him back," Snape said. A hand took his arm, turned him. Blue eyes looked at him. Harry tore his eyes away in a panic. It would happen again. He mustn't let it happen again.
He tried to pull away. It was important, he thought, to keep his eyes closed. It didn't matter that there were tears leaking down his face, he had to keep his eyes closed.
"Let me," a voice said. Another hand caught him and the voice, Snape's voice, said harshly, "Drink this!" His teeth chattered against the glass and he choked on the liquid. Something hot and fiery, like Moody had given him, or was it Crouch, after the Triwizard Tournament.
"What is that stuff?" he started to ask.
"If you please, sir," Hermione's voice said, "Professor McGonagall wants to know..." Her voice stopped. Harry turned away; he couldn't look at anyone now.
"What have you done to him?" Hermione said fiercely. "What have you done?"
"It wasn't him," Harry managed to get out. "It was me. I remembered something. Voldemort, he possessed me, while I was in the fever. He attacked Professor Dumbledore." Harry looked away again. He wanted to crawl away somewhere and hide.
"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, "if you would be so kind as to wait outside."
"No," Hermione said. Harry looked up then to stare at her. Nobody defied Dumbledore directly like that. Hermione went to Harry and wrapped an arm around him.
"Come one," she said. Harry wanted nothing more than to just leave, but he knew he could not.
"It's all right, Hermione," he said. "Professor Snape had to tell me something, because it's better if Professor Dumbledore doesn't. In case." He waited for them to speak. The moment dragged on, painfully.
"What Professor Snape was going to tell you, Harry," Dumbledore said heavily, "is that he will be continuing your Occlumency lessons. And they are even more important now than before."
"You're not expelling me?" Harry asked in astonishment. He forgot himself so far as to look at Dumbledore. The old wizard smiled at Harry and made no attempt to avoid his eyes.
"No," Dumbledore said, "you have done nothing wrong."
"But I'm a danger to you, and everyone," Harry said. "If he...if Voldemort possesses me again, he might do something even worse next time. I should leave. I should..."
"If you leave now, Potter," Snape said harshly, "you will never master the skills you need to keep the Dark Lord out. And then he will take you. Is that what you want? Or are you just afraid to work that hard?" Hermione made a sound and whipped out her wand. Harry pushed it down.
"Of course, I'm afraid," Harry said scathingly. "Anybody in his right mind would be afraid if they knew they might be possessed at any time and become Voldemort's tool."
"That is enough!" Dumbledore said. They all shut up and looked at him.
"Harry, you will not leave. You will return to classes and you will continue your Occlumency lessons. And I will expect both you and Professor Snape to put aside your personal feelings and do the job. Lord Voldemort delights in exploiting these differences. It is up to you to thwart him, by putting them aside and doing what you must, no matter how hard it may be."
The blue eyes were full of fire and they held Harry's and Snape's in turn. Harry turned to look at Snape. The black eyes were now calm and emotionless and Harry strove to make his equally as unrevealing. He lifted his chin a fraction and said determinedly, "I will be as respectful as I am able and we will both forget for the time being that my father acted like a stupid, arrogant prat whenever he was around you. At least, during Occlumency lessons, anyway."
Snape stared at Harry and Harry could have sworn that the Potions Master's lip curled up just a bit as he inclined his head and said, "Very well."
"Good," Dumbledore said softly. "Very good, indeed." He turned to Harry and said, "I think it would be best if you went down to lunch and got some rest this afternoon. Miss Granger can give you the work that you have missed, and you may resume your schedule tomorrow." Harry nodded and turned to go.
Snape said, "A moment, Mr. Potter. I will see you Wenesday evening, and we will increase your lessons to three days a week. Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturday mornings."
Harry merely nodded and said, "I'll be there." Hermione followed him out and nearly ran into him when he stopped abruptly in a corridor out of sight of Snape's office. He leaned on the wall and covered his face with his hands and tried to stop the trembling that had seized him again.
Hermione put an arm around him and said, "Are you all right? Do you need to go back to the infirmary?"
He turned around to face her and said, "I'll be happy if I never see the infirmary again in my life." He stared at her anxious face and couldn't think of a word to say how he felt.
She reached up and brushed off the lingering wetness from his cheeks and said briskly, "Let's get some lunch, then. You've lost a terrible amount of weight again and Mrs. Weasley will follow you around trying to feed you every five minutes at Christmas if you don't put some weight back on before then."
"Mrs. Weasley? Am I going to get to go to the Burrow for the holidays?" Hermione nodded.
"That's great!" Harry said. "What about you? Are your parents taking you skiing again or something?"
"I think they'd like to," Hermione said. "But Ron asked me to come along, too." She glanced sideways at him and added, "I think he thinks you need guarding or something. As If Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Fred and George wouldn't be guards enough."
Harry felt just a small smile creeping at the corners of his lips. "I'm sure that's what he told you."
"And what does that mean?" Hermione huffed.
"It means he just wanted an excuse to invite you that would be good enough to get you out of going home to your parents," Harry replied.
"Oh, come on, Harry," Hermione said.
"Hermione," Harry said with some exasperation, "you know he likes you."
"Of course, he likes me," Hermione said, "I'm his friend." It was Harry's turn to glance sideways at her.
"Hermione," he repeated, "you know perfectly well that Ron likes you as more than a friend. And you know perfectly well that he's not really going to admit it, is he?"
She was, unaccountably, blushing. "Or has he?"
Hemione blushed deeper, but she didn't reply. They had reached the Great Hall and Ron had come zooming over. "Where were you all that time?" he asked. "Professor McGonagall was practically having kittens when you didn't show up. She even started muttering about a certain Slytherin needing to be put in his place!"
Harry gave Ron a look and said loudly, "I just got my assignments and he had to lecture me for my rude and boorish behavior." For the benefit of anyone listening, he added, "He almost worked himself up into giving me a detention even." Harry plunked down his bookbag with a loud thunk.
The noise made for a further distraction as he leaned over and whispered quietly to Ron, "I've got to take Occlumency lessons with Snape again. I'll tell you the rest later." Ron gawked at him and started to say something, so he interrupted and said, "And thanks for the invite to stay for Christmas. It'll be great."
That last thought made him happy all over again and he managed a perfectly real smile as he clapped Ron on the shoulder and started to fill a plate with roasted potatoes and chicken and vegetables. He took a sip of hot sweet tea and felt his jangled nerves calm down.
"Hermione told you?" Ron asked. Harry nodded and took a bite of potatoes.
"You should have seen her," Ron said. "She came up here 'cause Dumbledore wrote to tell her you were sick and she yelled like you wouldn't believe. She wouldn't take no for an answer and she got really mad that Dumbledore wouldn't let her take you home to recover while you were sick."
"Really?" Harry said. "I thought she was mad at me anyway for upsetting everyone last summer."
"She wasn't really mad, Harry," Ron answered. "That's just how she gets when she's worried, you know."
Harry said a bit enviously, "Your Mum is the best, you know."
"Yeah, I know," Ron said.
Harry stumped through the next several days in a haze of exhaustion. The lesson with Snape coming up on Wednesday hovered in the back of Harry's mind as if he had his own personal cumulo-nimbus cloud following him about to darken the day and dampen his spirits. Dean had continued to avoid him, too. Harry felt quite badly about it. He'd always liked Dean and Dean had been one of those who had supported him last year when even Seamus had half-believed the reports in the Daily Prophet that Harry was an attention-seeking liar.
But Harry couldn't help feeling aggravated as well. He didn't think he should apologize to Dean for Dean's unfounded jealousy and he definitely didn't want to embarrass Ginny and make Ron mad if he hurt her feelings. And she had said nothing to anyone to make them think that she and Harry were not going out. Harry had quite frankly chickened out and he had avoided talking about why Dumbledore wanted him to study with Snape now instead. He was sure that Hermione had told Ron what she knew, but it was just too difficult. He shrank from the very thought of it even though he knew that Ron was now watching him carefully whenever he thought Harry wasn't looking.
On Wednesday evening, Harry gloomily poked at his dinner and tried to think up an excuse for not going to Snape's office. If he hadn't been so sick of the infirmary, he might have borrowed a Fainting Fancy and pretended to be ill. But he had promised to cooperate, so he made his way to Snape's office hoping he could come out of the lesson with something less than a splitting headache and the feeling of utter humiliation. He knocked and entered when the office door swung open, but he was greatly startled to find Draco Malfoy leaving as he was entering.
"Remedial lessons again, Potter?" Malfoy sneered.
"Yes," Harry said briefly. "I've two weeks of lessons to make up." He looked Malfoy in the eye and said, "So what's your excuse? You can't possibly need remedial lessons in anything, can you?"
Malfoy flushed, but Snape interrupted and said, "Do shut up, Potter. As you will recall, I am head of House for Slytherin and Draco had a follow up question for his career advice."
Harry raised his eyebrows. He couldn't resist. "I see. I gather being a Death Eater isn't a paying career. But then Draco doesn't need the money anyway, does he?"
Draco had whipped out his wand, but a gesture from Snape stopped him. "I assure you, Draco, that Mr. Potter will be learning the meaning of respect before this evening is out. You may go."
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but the look on Snape's face shut him up. The neutral expression of the other day had been supplanted by the usual glinting malice. He was surprised to feel relieved. He had no clue how to behave when Snape was anything but horrible. Snape waited until Malfoy had left altogether.
"You are a remarkably foolish and arrogant boy, Potter." Snape said. "I suggest you make it your business now to apply yourself and do try not to egg Draco on to what you think is the inevitable road. He is quite likely to volunteer for the role between trying to one-up you and please his father. And if he does, it will make my life that much more difficult. Do you understand me?"
Harry opened his mouth and shut it several times. He felt quite like a stupid fish and he resorted to saying bluntly, "I loathe him quite as much as you ever loathed my dad. You don't really think I'm going to be nice to him, do you? He'd as soon hand me over to Voldemort as anybody, if he had the means and the opportunity."
"Do not say the Dark Lord's name," Snape said. He was, however, so irritated that he quite forgot to tell Harry to call him sir or Professor. Not a good omen at all.
"You know what to expect," Snape said and without further warning, the Potions Master struck and Harry was down on his knees.
The policeman had slammed him up against the wall and was pulling out his wand. They were turning his room upside down going through all his things and he was sure he was going to be expelled for Dudley's crimes. "It's him," Dudley said. "It's all his fault," and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had convicted him even though the policeman told them he'd done nothing. He had nowhere to go. He was sleeping on a bench and he had nowhere to go because they would not let him in. The angry man in the Black Jack was pointing a gun at him as the others beat him. No, it wasn't a gun, it was a wand made of yew, and the green light was coming out of the wand and his Mum was falling. He screamed a great "no" that echoed and echoed and echoed and never stopped. His head was splitting open at his scar. He tried to lift it. Finally, he managed to crack an eye open. He was on his hands and knees in Snape's office, but where was Snape?
He sat down on the floor and cradled his aching head in his hands. The world stopped spinning and he looked up expecting Snape to admonish him for his weakness and failure. Snape wasn't at the seat behind his desk. He wasn't standing over Harry wand drawn. Harry got to his feet unsteadily and saw with shock that Snape was down on the floor, too. He stumbled over to where the Professor lay. The shelf above him had collapsed and a number of jars had smashed leaving odd disgusting things squashed on the floor in a puddle of preservative. Harry touched Snape's face and was both relieved and terrified when the Potions Master moved. Snape sat up holding his head in hands and Harry backed away quickly.
He swallowed and said, "Professor? Are you hurt?" Snape's black eyes traveled to him and re-focused.
"It appears," he said testily, "that you have learned something. But you still have not learned to block out the attack in the first place." Harry put out his hand to help Snape up, but the Professor ignored him and steadied himself on the back of his chair. Harry backed away and sat down in the other chair without asking.
"I haven't learned anything at all," he said. "Not a single thing." He looked at Snape and added, "I don't understand how you do it. How do you clear your mind and stop thinking, stop feeling. I can't do it. I just don't see how you can."
Snape stared at him and asked, "Did you mean to do a stunning spell?"
Harry sighed and said, "No, sir." He eyed Snape apprehensively. Would the Potions Master decide he had used to opportunity to get back at him on purpose?
"You did a Stunning Spell without even intending to?" Snape repeated incredulously.
"Erm...I guess so," Harry said dubiously. "If that's what you say I did. Professor Snape. Sir."
"How is it that you can even make the word, Sir, sound disrespectful?" Snape asked grumpily. Harry decided that tact was the better part of valor on this occasion. A smart remark would be bound to make the next session worse.
"Erm...Professor Snape," Harry said, "You didn't answer my question before. How do you block things out? Clear your mind, I mean. Sir?" Snape stared at him from narrowed eyes.
"It requires effort and practice and discipline, none of which you seem to have."
"Yes, sir. But practice at what? It's just so vague. Do you focus on something else, or do you...I don't know...empty your mind like a kind of vacuum?"
"A vacuum?" Sanpe asked. Harry rolled his eyes. The things wizads sometimes didn't know.
"Yeah," he said, "a vacuum. Like a vacuum cleaner. It's a machine Muggles use to suck up dust and dirt. My aunt's constantly vacuuming. She's a bit obsessive about it, if you want to know." Seeing Snape still looked puzzled he added, "A vacuum. It's a comlete emptiness, like what's in space or something." Snape raised an eyebrow.
"That would be what you are trying to achieve. At first, But what you really want is to have a kind of a wall that separates you surface thoughts from your deepest, inner thoughts. So you are aware in your center that you are telling the truth or lying, for instance, but another legilimens is not. More important for you, is to have sufficient control of your emotions that they do not completely occupy every path in your mind. You must control them. In other words," Snape snarled, "GROW UP!"
"You are saying that to me?" Harry asked. "When you are so far from having really grown up that you've been treating me as if I were my father from the first day of school. As if I were him and not myself. When you are so biased against me you flunk my papers and break my flasks and grade me down when my work is no worse than half the other students in the class. It's not great, I know that. But you've never graded me fairly in six years. You call that grown up?"
"I see," Snape said calmly. "That's your excuse for poor work? I don't like you? Well, Potter, if you want an excuse not to work, the Dark Lord doesn't like you either. Does that mean you've got an excuse not to practice Occlumency? Is that your reason for feeling hard put upon and sorry for yourself? Keep your excuses, and get back to work!" Snape lifted his wand, but Harry was ready this time before him. Instead of waiting to be attacked and trying to defend himself, he attacked first.
He was sixteen years old and he loathed Black and Potter and Lupin. They had nearly killed him last night and someday, oh someday, he wanted so badly to get back at them all. Black had let slip the way to find out Lupin's secret. But he had done it on purpose, to get him killed or worse. Because good boy, prefect, Remus Lupin was a werewolf. And Black had let things slip so he would go to Lupin's hiding place when the moon was full. So he would be bitten or killed. He had known, all this time, Black had known. And he had done it on purpose. And Potter had changed his mind at the last minute, getting him away. But so what. He'd been in on it, too, the arrogant bas tard. Lording it over everyone because he was rich and a pure blood and smart and his family went back forever. Rage simmered. And satisfaction, because Avery had found a way for him to get back.
He could join a secret society. Just for those who were smarter and stronger than all the rest. The Master who was its head would teach them things that the Ministry didn't want anyone to be taught. Because the Ministry wanted its wizards to be like little sheep. The Ministry wanted wizards to be restricted in what they could learn. But the Master would teach the select few the secrets of the universe. He would learn things that not even Potter or Black with their vaunted lineages knew. And someday he could best them. He would get them.
They were meeting for the first time with the Master. They assembled in the secret place. He had to use a portkey because he hadn't learned to apparate yet. The man in the black robe turned and he was struck with awe and terror. Was he human? His eyes were red and the pupils had slits like a snake's or a cat's. He looked deep inside of you. He could see through you. He had more power than any wizard ever. The Master laughed. A strange, high, cold laugh that raised the hair on the back of his neck.
"So you want to know the secrets of the universe, do you?" The red eyes locked on his. "Bow before your Master, and you shall receive my mark of approval. You shall be one of the select." Terror shook him, and he knelt, felt the Master's wand burning his arm, marking him forever. It came to him, then. I am his slave. He'll teach us nothing. We are merely his slaves. But he bowed and said "Thank you, Master," just like the others. They would accept him. He was one of them. marked out. Special.
Harry withdrew from Snape's mind. He was shaking. He wanted nothing more than to find a bathroom and vomit. "I guess you got them good, didn't you?" Harry said. "You...you sold your soul to Voldemort, for that! To get my Dad and Sirius! And you did, too. Because they're both dead, aren't they? And I bet you're glad of it deep down, aren't you?" He raised his wand and pointed it at Snape, but Snape did nothing. He didn't raise his wand or try to defend himself. The pallid face was empty of all color and the black eyes were tired, looking back on nightmares.
"I forgot to use the Pensieve before our lesson. You came too soon after Malfoy. That was a thing you ought not to have seen." Snape said. But he still made no apology.
"You make me sick," Harry said. "You make me sick. How do I know you weren't there even, with him. When he went to kill my Dad. Maybe you were there. Maybe you saw it all. Maybe you laughed with him, when he killed them, my Dad and my Mum! How do I know?" He raised his wand. He could do the spell again. He could find out.
Snape stood and said, "I was sixteen, when I joined them. Your age. And I was just as stupid and emotional and immature as you are. And I have no defense for that. But I suppose it's useless for me to say that I was not there and that I had no hand in their deaths because you will not believe me. Do you think I would have bothered to save your life if I were still truly HIS servant? But go ahead and look, you've seen this much." Snape stood there still and calm, and his wand was down, not at the ready. Harry lifted his wand. He wanted to kill, to hurt, to do damage beyond repair.
The moment stretched out. Righteous anger isn't enough. The thought echoed in his mind. You have to want to do real harm. You have to lose your conscience, he thought, and be glad of it. He shook his head violently and said, "No." He added, "I don't want that. To become like you. I'm not my Dad. And I won't be you. I don't want to be nothing but a living grudge. Voldmeort might kill me, but at least I won't be that."
He spun on his heel and ran out of the office. He felt an icy wind at his back, as if ghosts pursued him. He ran all the way to the common room and up the stairs to his dormitory, where he flung himself into his bed and huddled under the covers shaking with cold.
