Fanfiction by Molly

House Elf Harry, Chapter 1

2006-12-14T21:19:00.000-08:00

Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, stood in front of Number 4 Privet Drive as a human for only the second time in a decade. Her grey hair was pulled tightly back into a bun on top of her head, and her face was arranged in an expression much more strict and proper than friendly. With one last moment of hesitation (ostensibly to straighten the shirt of her Muggle suit), she stepped up to the door and rang the doorbell.

Or at least she pressed the button. Usually when she went to a Muggle home, she could hear the bell sound on the inside, but this time she hadn’t. She hardly had time to consider this, though, before the door opened to reveal a tiny boy in ragged clothes. She searched above his brilliant green eyes and below his messy black hair to confirm that this, indeed, was the ‘savior’ of the wizarding world, the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Hello, Harry,” she began, frowning angrily at the condition of the boy’s clothes. “I’m—“

Harry interrupted her abruptly. “Please come in, Professor McGonagall.” He looked past her worriedly, as if checking to see if anyone was nearby. “Aunt Petunia wouldn’t want anyone speaking about that on the front porch,” he explained after she had come in and he had shut the door behind her, his movements apparently practiced. “Please, Professor McGonagall, ma’am, have a seat in the sitting room. Har—I’ll call my aunt.” The stern older woman blinked at the profusion of titles (not to mention the fact that he apparently knew her name) but took a seat as requested. An instant later, she heard Harry’s voice, quiet and yet oddly not, calling, “Aunt Petunia, ma’am. In the sitting room.”

A slender woman who was not particularly attractive (and actually bore a strange resemblance to a horse) bustled into the room a moment later. “Oh! A visitor!” she exclaimed in a falsely polite tone. McGonagall stood immediately to greet her.

“I’m Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You’ll recognize the name from the letters you’ve received?” she attempted to prod the unpleasant woman’s memory.

“Petunia Dursley,” the woman replied, only hesitantly offering her hand to be shaken and looking as though touching Minerva were something she would rather have avoided. “Letters? I don’t believe we’ve received any—“

“In Har-my cupboard,” the tiny black-haired boy supplied immediately. “I didn’t want to disturb you, Aunt Petunia. I thought they’d leave it alone if I didn’t respond.”

“Leave it alone?” McGonagall echoed, raising an eyebrow disapprovingly. “Why would we ‘leave it alone’? Your name’s been down for Hogwart’s nearly since you were born!”

“But I don’t want to go to—“ He broke off as a second visitor appeared in the room, directly in front of Harry. Petunia made a choking sound and gripped the arms of the chair she was sitting in, but didn’t say anything.

“Master Harry Potter.” Despite the honorifics, McGonagall had never seen a House Elf look so imposing. The strict professor felt suddenly that this one could give her mother a run for her money. The impression was amplified by the fact that the elf only stood a few inches shorter than Harry himself, and made it look as though she was glaring down at him rather than up. “What has Dovey told Harry, sir, about saying he is not going to Hogwarts?”

The expression on Harry’s face looked like a cross between nervousness and terror. “Harry knows, Dovey,” he began quickly, and then was cut off immediately.

“And what has Dovey told Harry Potter about speaking like he is an Elf?” Harry’s little hands clenched into fists.

“But Dovey—Professor McGonagall—“

The motherly (and frankly, frightening) House Elf turned to face the older woman for the first time. She bowed respectfully and murmured, “Dovey is very sorry, Professor McGonagall, ma’am. Dovey has told Harry Potter, sir…”

“What are you doing in a Muggle house, Dovey? To whom do you belong?” Minerva began sternly, trying to regain control of the situation. Merlin, what was going on here?

The House Elf looked surprised. “Dovey is checking in on Harry Potter, sir, like Dovey has been doing since Dovey’s little Slinky has known Harry Potter, sir. Dovey belongs to the House of Bones, and as Dovey’s House is not needing her and Harry Potter is, Dovey is coming immediately.”

Harry scowled. “Har—I don’t need you. I’m not going to Hogwarts. What is the--will the House do without me?” Stubbornly the boy’s green eyes remained on Dovey rather than his future professor.

“Mr. Potter, look at me,” Minerva began sternly. His eyes snapped to her and then down to the floor as he assumed a subservient posture. “No, at me.” He dragged his eyes up to hers, but they were wide with surprise. “I don’t know what you have been told or what has been going on here, but you are *not* a House Elf, Mr. Potter. You are a Wizard, and you are expected at Hogwarts in the fall. I am here to take you shopping for school supplies.”

“And Dovey is sending Harry Potter on his way with best wishes, ma’am.” Dovey gave Harry a shove from behind toward his professor.

“Don’t we have any say in the matter?” a timid, high-pitched voice asked from the armchair. Petunia had finally found her voice, and now she had three pairs of eyes, two angry and one pleading, on her. “I mean, it’s clear that the boy would rather stay and… well, he’s been a great help around the house…”

Glaring down her spectacles at Petunia, Minerva replied, “Let me get this straight. You have been training this boy, who you knew from the day you took him in would be going to Hogwarts, as a House Elf, and now you want to keep him from his destiny so he can keep your house?”

“…If it’s what he wants?” Petunia tried one last time, apparently cowed by the pleading green eyes. Or maybe by her own laziness.

Dovey turned to McGonagall, apparently satisfied that this last was not worth a response. “Dovey has not let Harry learn how to bind himself to the House. Harry Potter is needing clothes, ma’am, and is needing to go to Hogwarts and to learn to be a Wizard, Dovey knows.”

“Thank you, Dovey,” McGonagall responded stiffly. “Professor Dumbledore may be contacting you again in the future. I am going to take Harry to buy his things now.”

“Dovey will be very honored if Headmaster Dumbledore sir wishes to be speaking with humble Dovey.” She turned to Harry. “Hairy is not Dovey’s, and Hairy is a Wizard, and a great and powerful one. Hairy is needing to go to Hogwarts and learn how to be a good Wizard,” she said with great emotion in her voice. Harry nodded reluctantly, and then waved his hand. To McGonagall’s surprise, Dovey Disapparated as silently as she had arrived, but Harry didn’t seem surprised. He waved once more at the place where Dovey had been, then turned to watch Minerva’s feet expectantly.

“Now. We’ll need to walk to the edge of the wards in order to take a Portkey to the Leaky Cauldron, which is the entrance to Diagon Alley.” She held out her hand to Harry and looked toward his aunt. “We will be back by 8pm at the latest, but I do not anticipate that we will be so long.” She was still waiting for Harry’s hand to join her own, which caused her to huff impatiently.

Harry looked up at her innocently, and said, “But Professor McGonagall, we don’t need to walk to the edge of the wards, ma’am… I can set them to allow the Portkey, ma’am.”

McGonagall blinked down at him. “You can… what?” Wards were magic that was hardly even touched on at Hogwarts—students had to study on their own or go into a Mastery after graduation in order to learn how to cast or alter them.

“Change them, ma’am,” he repeated slightly more hesitantly, as though realizing that this might not be an expected answer. “The wards are connected to H-me, and the House.”

The Deputy Headmistress shook her head sharply. What in Merlin’s name had she gotten herself into? “It will be nice to stretch your legs, don’t you think?” Then she glanced at Petunia quickly. “He *has* been out of the house, correct?”

Petunia Dursley nodded quickly, happy to be able to have the right answer for once. “Harry has been going to school like any boy his age—he gets plenty of exercise walking to and from there every day.”

McGonagall held her hand out more obviously and wiggled her fingers. “Hold my hand, Harry,” she ordered finally, and the boy’s hand quickly slipped into her own. “We shall return.” And the two of them strode out the door that Minerva could hardly believe she had entered through only an hour before.

Minerva heaved a sigh as she and Harry finally appeared in the alleyway behind the Leaky Cauldron. The eleven-year-old was still as quiet as he had been on their whole walk toward the edge of the wards, and she had yet to see his beautiful green eyes again. He had been reluctant to follow her lead in leaving the edge of the wards, but had finally acquiesced when she had ordered him. Minerva drew her wand to open the entrance to Diagon Alley, but she had hardly drawn it when she heard a snap followed by the creak of the bricks rearranging themselves.

The Deputy Headmistress glanced down sharply at the tiny boy beside her, whose hand was still in hers. “Did you do that?” she asked sternly. Harry nodded hesitantly. “How did you do it without a wand?”

“Harry doesn’t need a wand. House Elves have their own magic to enter Diagon Alley,” Harry answered evenly, but the tone of his voice indicated that he did not expect a pleasant response.

“You’re just full of surprises,” she muttered under her breath, but the jerk of his head seemed to say that Harry had heard her nonetheless. At a more normal volume, she continued, “Underage wizards are not allowed to perform magic outside of Hogwarts.”

For the first time since they had left the house, McGonagall saw those bright green eyes pointed up at her. Harry’s mouth had formed into an ‘O’ of surprise and his eyes were glittering with frustration. He seemed about to speak several times, before he finally settled on saying, “Then Harry is glad that he is a House Elf.”

Minerva pursed her lips until she knew that they were almost invisible and narrowed her eyes on those of the tiny boy. “You are not an Elf, you are a boy, and you are subject to Wizarding regulations. You will do no more magic until you reach Hogwarts, is that clear? I’ve no idea how your magic has gone unnoticed thus far.”

Harry’s eyes flashed angrily before breaking from hers and looking forward again. “The barrier closed,” he pointed out dully.

“Indeed,” she replied, staring down at the boy for a moment before deciding not to push the point at the moment. She drew her wand again and this time had the chance to tap the appropriate brick and watch with satisfaction as the barrier opened. Immediately she pulled Harry through the opening and off to the side of the road, where they walked in relative obscurity toward Gringott’s.

The moment they entered Gringott’s, Harry seemed more at ease. Minerva was surprised, as she was used to Muggleborns who were terrified at their first sight of a goblin, but then she remembered that this boy not only knew but *imitated* House Elves—why not smile at goblins?

And smile he did—and chatter incessantly at Griphook about everything he knew about Goblins (which was, surprisingly, quite a bit). It was the Deputy Headmistress’ experience that goblins usually chose to stay aloof and answered as shortly as possible; Griphook was by no means talkative, but he did show some interest in what Harry had to say, which was more than Minerva could say for every other human-Goblin interaction that she had witnessed.

Events only became stranger when they reached the vault. Professor McGonagall knew that the goblins were always curt and impatient around the vaults, and always followed the same routine. She waited for the goblin to impatiently demand the lantern, before realizing that Harry had leapt up almost before the cart had stopped and had the lantern already held out toward Griphook. The goblin actually smiled; his sharp, uneven teeth made it almost frightening, but it seemed to be intended as pleasant. He didn’t speak again until Harry had followed him out of the cart and handed him the key as well, waiting patiently while the door was unlocked.

A whole lot of green smoke poured out of the vault, the results of hundreds of security spells cast between the last time it had been opened and now. McGonagall was obscured from her place within the cart and her widened eyes went unnoticed when Griphook spoke gruffly. “Thank you, Mr. Potter. I have not had the pleasure of meeting such an understanding wizard in my many years.”

“Har—I—Har—“ The boy didn’t seem capable of deciding how to start the sentence. “Harry is not a wizard!” he exclaimed petulantly, finally.

“You were a powerful wizard at a young age, and I’ve no doubt that you will be again. Do not, however, forget your friends.”

“Harry won’t,” Potter responded firmly.

“Very well.” The goblin’s demeanor reversed itself in an instant. “Will Mr. Potter be making a withdrawal as planned?”

Minerva was almost disappointed that she was unable to see Harry’s eyes widen in shock, when she heard the gasp that he emitted at seeing the contents of his vault unobstructed. “This is—it’s all mine?” he nearly whispered.

“Your parents left you well-provided-for, Mr. Potter,” she inserted briskly. “Now take a reasonable amount and let us be going. We have many errands yet to run.” She filled the extended pause that followed with more information. “Gold are Galleons. Seventeen of the silver, Sickles, make a Galleon, and twenty-nine of the bronze, Knuts, make a Sickle.”

Before she could believe it, Harry was seated back in the cart and they were making their way back up to the surface, the ride just as wild as on the way down. Minerva narrowed her eyes. Had he used magic? And how much had he brought? With a sigh of relief at the return to the surface, she decided to be hopeful that Potter had communicated further with the goblin, and that he had sufficient funds to take care of their expedition.

“Right,” she said decisively as they exited Gringott's. “Robes, books, equipment, and a wand. Which would you like to take care of first?”

Harry scowled. “I don't need a wand or clothes.”

Minerva pursed her lips irritatedly. “You will be purchasing every item on your list while I am here. Do not argue with me, Harry; I do not want to get off to a bad start with you.”

Harry turned large, sad eyes up at her, and the stern professor couldn't see any deception in them. It seemed the boy was really disturbed by the thought of buying clothing and a wand. Minerva was accustomed to dealing with homesickness, but this was completely out of the normal range of reactions she had gotten from students. She sighed.

“Do you like to read, Harry?” Part of her was terrified that the boy had never learned to read, despite Petunia Dursley's claim that he had been to school. So when he smiled widely and nodded, she was relieved. “Then let's go to Flourish and Blotts first,” she decided.

Harry bounced on his feet slightly. “I get to go to Flourish and Blotts?” he exclaimed excitedly. “I've never been in there!”

She smiled gently, happy to see him acting more like a normal human his age. She took his hand in hers before he ran off or gestured too excitedly and drew attention from the passersby, and began to walk toward the bookshop.

Once they got inside, McGonagall pulled out her copy of the first-year list and handed it to the boy. “These are the books you need, Harry,” she said, keeping her voice down particularly low as she said his name. “You may pick one or two other books that you would like to read, but please don't take too long.” Harry was already reading the list, and when he reached the end, he looked up at her in surprise and with the widest grin she had seen so far. “We get to learn Potions?”

Minerva preferred to attempt to keep an unsurprised demeanor in spite of the situation, but Harry seemed to have a special talent for keeping her off-balance. She raised an eyebrow in surprise. “House Elves have potions?”

Harry shook his head. “No, they don't know how to read—I taught Slinky, though, and Dovey gave me Potions books to practice on!”

“Well, that is.. excellent. You will have a headstart. Speaking of starting, we need to collect your books and get on to the next store, now. Perhaps we can get your Potions ingredients next?”

Harry nodded, glanced around, and then disappeared with a soft pop. Minerva gasped in spite of herself; she should have guessed that he would know how to Apparate from the House Elves as well, but she quickly looked around, hoping that no one had seen him disappear. Fortunately, the store was nearly empty, and no one appeared to have noticed. She then began walking briskly around the store, hoping to find where he had disappeared, but to no avail. Finally, she came out from behind a bookshelf to a position where she could see the front of the store, and Harry was standing there patiently, a small brick that was likely the books shrunken and temporarily stuck together in his hands. She walked over to him quickly, and he looked up at her innocently.

“Isn't Professor McGonagall, Ma'am, going to get any books?”

Minerva sighed. She never thought that she would have to correct a student in this direction, but... “Call me Professor McGonagall, or Ma'am, Harry, but not both, please.” He looked uncertain but nodded. “And no, I am here to take you to get your own supplies. Please do not Apparate again; underage wizards are not allowed to do that and you could get in a great deal of trouble if someone from the Ministry sees you doing it.”

“Apparate..?” Harry asked, looking confused.

“The way you disappeared and reappeared somewhere else earlier... where did you go?”

Harry frowned. “You mean Popping? Why can't Ha--I do that?” He seemed to register the question, and added, “To buy Harr--my books. The Flourish and Blotts Elves are very nice, Professor McGonagall, Ma--” He cut off before finishing the second honorific. “Can we go to get Har--my Potions ingredients, now?” Harry asked excitedly, bouncing on his toes again.

“Yes, Harry, but no more Popping, alright?” Harry looked confused.

“How do we buy anything without Popping? I don't know how to get to the Stores without Popping...”

“The stores?” McGonagall asked, as they walked. “You walk in the front door, like we just walked into Flourish and Blotts.”

“But that's not where you buy anything... there aren't any House Elves there..”

“We don't need House Elves to purchase things at any of these stores, Harry.. where are there House Elves?”

“In the Stores!” He scowled. “Harry doesn't--I don't understand.”

“I don't understand either, Harry, but I'll show you the way a Wizard or Witch buys things.” Harry seemed torn between curiosity and frustration; McGonagall tried to ignore emotions crossing his face and led him into apothecary. She led him to the front and asked the storekeeper for a supply of basic potions ingredients for a first year, who bustled pulled a box from behind the counter. “Where's your bag with your money, Harry?” she asked him, and he offered the bag to her immediately. “No, I'd like you to count it out.. 10 Sickles 7 Knuts.”

Harry glanced at the shopkeeper, and Minerva saw that he had gotten distracted with another customer. Then she heard a snap and felt a weight in her hands. To her surprise, the appropriate amount had just appeared on the hand she had been holding out for him to place the money in.

Hurriedly she looked back at the shopkeeper, and to her relief he appeared to have noticed nothing. “Harry!” she scolded, then decided to wait until after they got out. She frowned at him, then turned and paid the shopkeeper. Then she took Harry's hand more firmly than before and led him out of the store quickly. She stopped in a nook, and pressed her lips together while she glared down at him for a moment before saying, “What did I say about doing magic, Mr. Potter?”

Harry flinched. “S-sorry, Professor McGonagall, Ma'am.” He seemed very contrite, and she recognized the look in his eyes as the one that House Elves tended to get right before they began to bang their heads on the nearest hard object. She was ready to lunge and stop him from 'punishing' himself, but he didn't go that far.

“Alright. No more magic, or I will have to begin giving you detentions to be served once the school year begins. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded his wide, glistening eyes, and didn't say anything. Minerva stared into his eyes for another moment to make sure that he understood that she was serious, then sighed and took his hand again. “Time for your robes, at Madam Malkin's.” She felt a shudder go through the tiny figure, and glanced down at him, but he seemed to be attempting to keep his face blank now, his lips almost as thin as she knew her own could get when she was angry. She didn't think he was angry; the shaking seemed to indicate that he was scared or upset. She hoped he would be okay, but didn't want to establish herself as a comforting figure. It was important that she been seen as strict but fair, showing no special care toward any one student, no matter the circumstances.

Just before they got to the store, McGonagall pulled them up short. “I'll need to transfigure your clothing into something more respectable. We're lucky no one who has seen us has known enough about Muggle clothing to notice how unusually ragged it is, yet.” She raised her wand. “It will only be a temporary transfiguration, of course.” She said several words and waved her wand, and Harry's clothing had no holes, fit him properly, and bright colors as though it hadn't been worn and washed until all color had been leeched from it.

Harry looked at her wand and then down at his clothes and shivered, but didn't say anything. She guided him the rest of the way into Madam Malkin's.

The store was nearly empty except a single witch looking through clothing at the far end, and Madam Malkin herself, who looked up when they entered. “Professor McGonagall, what brings you here?”

This was uncharacteristic; usually Madam Malkin immediately guessed when a child came in with Minerva that she was escorting another Muggleborn to get his supplies. “Another for Hogwarts,” McGonagall repeated the phrase she had heard from the other woman so many times, and the woman blinked.

“Is the dear hiding behind—oh!” She seemed to suddenly see Harry. “Welcome, dear! You're small, but I've no idea how I didn't see you! Just step up here and we'll get you fitted up.”

Minerva had her own ideas about why Madam Malkin hadn't seen Harry. House Elves had an ability to work and not be noticed; was it possibly a form of magic that Harry had picked up and unconsciously used? Other than Griphook, Minerva hadn't seen anyone react to Harry at all, now that she thought back. She waited impatiently for Madam Malkin to finish fitting Harry for his robes, and decided while she waited not to say anything. She didn't want to have to give him a detention before school started for using magic, especially if he didn't even consciously know he was doing it.

“Time for a wand,” she said, and began guiding him to Ollivander's. Harry didn't seem to accept this as easily as he had the clothing, though.

“I don't need a wand!” he exclaimed, stopping in place.

“Yes, Mr. Potter, you do. Now come along,” she said sternly.

Harry opened his mouth to give what appeared to be an angry response, before closing his mouth, lowering his head, and allowing her to guide him forward. They were in Ollivander's a few minutes later.

“Harry Potter,” said the man as he stepped out from between the rows of shelves. “I thought I'd be seeing you soon... you have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Excellent for charms work.”

Harry hadn't looked up yet, but Ollivander continued. “Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it; it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, you know.”

The eleven-year-old's head came up then, as McGonagall could have anticipated. “Harry is not a wizard,” he said firmly. “Harry does not want a wand, and a wand will not choose Harry.”

Minerva wasn't sure that she had ever seen Ollivander caught completely flat-footed before now. The eerie old wizard stared at Harry and didn't seem to be able to come up with anything to say. McGonagall stepped in immediately. “Well then, Harry, you won't mind waving any wand that Mr. Ollivander gives to you, will you?”

Harry looked surprised, but then shrugged. Apparently, he couldn't fight that logic.

Minerva was doubting her own logic when half an hour and dozens of boxes later, no wand had so much as shot sparks. Was it possible that Harry was somehow stifling his magic, or that he had done so much House Elf magic without a wand that a wand would no longer choose him? Harry hadn't said a word throughout the whole procedure, and Ollivander had stopped describing the new wands, giving in to Harry's obvious interest in getting through this as quickly and quietly as possible.

The uncomfortable silence of the old shop was broken, finally, by a cry of surprise from Harry. He had reached out to take and swish the next wand, but had drawn his hand back immediately after touching it. “Did you feel something?” Ollivander asked, luminous eyes wide with excitement. “Pick it up and give it a swish, Mr. Potter!”

Hesitantly Harry reached out again, and still seemed to be uncomfortable when he was holding it. He gave it a swish, and yellow and red sparks emerged from it. McGonagall let out a breath in relief. “How much will that be, Mr. Ollivander?”

“I don't want it!” Harry cried out, dropping it back into the box as though it was burning his hand. “I'm not a wizard, I don't want to be a wizard.”

“Mr. Potter,” Minerva began, but with a soft pop he had disappeared. Ollivander gaped at the spot where he had stood, then looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

“I have anti-Apparation wards all over this place, as old as my family. Not to mention Mr. Potter hasn’t even attended Hogwarts, much less reached the age to learn to Apparate, and claims to not want to be a Wizard.”

“He’s apparently befriended at least one House Elf, and wants to believe that he *is* one.”

Ollivander blinked his large eyes owlishly. “A House Elf? Intriguing. I have never heard of a Wizard who successfully performed House Elf magic.” He put the lid on the box. “Perhaps you should take this to Hogwarts for him, then. I presume he will still be attending Hogwarts..?”

McGonagall nodded, her lips still pursed. “That is the plan. I should report back to Headmaster Dumbledore, now,” she replied, taking the box from Ollivander’s outstretched hand.

“Please also notify the headmaster that the only brother wand to that of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been sold.” McGonagall only allowed her eyes to widen slightly at this information, nodded curtly, and strode quickly from the shop and out of Diagon Alley, carrying the precious wand with her.

[Meme Molly] Is that what this bite is?

2006-08-08T20:01:00.000-07:00

You scored as The Amazing Spider-Man. After being bitten by a radioactive spider, Peter Parker was transformed from a nerdy high school student into New York's greatest hero. Peter enjoys the thrill of being a super hero, but he struggles with the burdens of leading a double life. He hopes someday to win the heart of his true love Mary Jane, the woman he's loved since before he even liked girls. Right now, he just wants to make it through college and pay his bills.

The Amazing Spider-Man

83%

Neo, the "One"

83%

Batman, the Dark Knight

75%

Lara Croft

75%

James Bond, Agent 007

71%

El Zorro

67%

Maximus

63%

Indiana Jones

63%

The Terminator

58%

Captain Jack Sparrow

54%

William Wallace

54%

Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0
created with QuizFarm.com

--
Posted by Molly Morrison to Meme Molly at 8/08/2006 08:00:00 PM

[Meme Molly] Life Experiences

2006-05-14T09:18:00.000-07:00

Snurtched this one from nightwolfwriter..

I have lived through 98 of these 158 things
1. Put numbers in the boxes instead of x's (example: 1, 2, 3, 4, ...)
2. Repost as "I have lived through ___ of these 158 things.

[1] I have read a lot of books.
[] I have been on some sort of varsity team.
[2] I have run more than 2 miles without stopping.
[] I have been to Canada.
[3] I have been to Europe.
[4] I have watched cartoons for hours.
[5] I have tripped UP the stairs.
[] I have fallen down an entire flight of stairs.
[6] I have been snowboarding/skiing.
[7] I have played ping pong.
[8] I swam in the ocean.
[9] I have been on a whale watch.
[10] I have seen fireworks.
[11] I have seen a shooting star.
[12] I have seen a meteor shower.
[13] I have almost drowned.
[14] I have been so embarrassed I wanted to disappear.
[15] I have listened to one CD over and over and over again.
[] I have had stitches.
[] I have had frostbite.
[] I have licked a frozen pole and got stuck there.
[16] I have stayed up til 2 doing homework/projects.
[] I currently have a job.
[17] I have been ice skating.
[18] I have been rollerblading.
[19] I have fallen flat on my face.
[20] I have tripped over my own two feet.
[] I have been in a fist fight.
[21] I have played videogames for more than 3 hours straight.
[] I have watched the Power Rangers.
[22] I attend Church regularly.
[23] I have played truth or dare.
[24] I have already had my 16th birthday.
[25] I have already had my 18th birthday.
[26] I've called someone stupid.
[27] I've been in a verbal argument.
[28] I've cried in school.
[] I've played basketball on a team.
[] I've played baseball on a team.
[] I've played football on a team.
[29] I've played soccer on a team.
[] I've done cheerleading on a team.
[] I've played softball on a team.
[] I've played volleyball on a team.
[] I've played tennis on a team.
[] I've been in the marching band.
[30] I've been swimming more than 20 times in my life.
[] I've bungee jumped.
[31] I've climbed a rock wall.
[32] I've lost more than $20.
[33] I've called myself an idiot.
[34] I've called someone else an idiot.
[] I've cried myself to sleep.
[35] I've had (or have) pets.
[] I've owned a spice girls CD.
[] I've owned a britney spears CD.
[] I've owned an N*Sync CD.
[] I've owned a backstreet boys CD.
[] I've mooned someone.
[] I have sworn at someone of authority before.
[36] I've been in the newspaper.
[] I've been on TV.
[37] I've been to Hawaii.
[] I've eaten sushi.
[38] I've been on the other side of a waterfall.
[39] I've watched all of the Lord of the Rings movies.
[40] I've watched all the Harry Potter movies.
[] I've watched all of the Rocky movies.
[] I've watched the 3 stooges.
[] I've watched "Newlyweds" Nick & Jessica.
[41] I've watched Looney Tunes.
[] I've been stuffed into a locker/I have stuffed others into lockers.
[42] I've been called a geek.
[43] I've studied hard for a test and got a bad grade.
[44] I've not studied at all for a test and aced it.
[45] I've hugged my mom within the past 24 hrs.
[] I've hugged my dad within the past 24 hours.
[46] I've met a celebrity/music artist.
[47] I've written poetry.
[] I've been arrested.
[48] I've been attracted to someone much older than me.
[49] I've been tickled till I've cried.
[] I've tickled someone else until they cried.
[50] I've had/have siblings.
[51] I've been to a rock concert.
[52] I've listened to classical music and enjoyed it.
[53] I've been in a play.
[54] I've been picked last in gym class.
[] I've been picked first in gym class.
[55] I've been picked in that middle-range in gym class.
[56] I've cried in front of my friends.
[57] I've read a book longer than 1,000 pages (text book, tech manual and fiction!)
[] I've played Halo 2.
[] I've freaked out over a sports game.
[] I've been to Alaska.
[] I've been to China.
[] I've been to Spain.
[] I've been to Japan.
[58] I've had a fight with someone on AIM. (actually it was an equivalent, but I'm counting it!)
[59] I've had a fight with someone face-to-face.
[60] I've had serious conversations on any IM.
[61] I've forgiven someone who has done something wrong to me.
[62] I've been forgiven.
[63] I've screamed at a scary movie.
[64] I've cried at a chick flick.
[65] I've watched a lot of action movies.
[66] I've screamed at the top of my lungs.
[67] I've been to a rap concert.
[] I've been to a hip hop concert.
[68] I've lived in more than 2 houses.
[69] I've driven on the highway/been on the highway.
[70] I've driven more than 40 miles in a day/been in a car that went more than 40 miles in a day.
[71] I've been in a car accident.
[] I've done drugs.
[72] I've been homesick.
[73] I've thrown up.
[74] I've puked on someone.
[75] I've been horseback riding.
[] I've filled out more than 10 myspace surveys.
[76] I've spoken my mind in public.
[77] I've proved someone wrong.
[78] I've been proven wrong by someone.
[] I've broken a leg.
[] I've broken an arm or a finger.
[79] I've fallen off a swing.
[80] I've swung on a swing for more than 30 minutes straight
[81] I've watched Winnie the Pooh movies.
[82] I've forgotten my backpack when I've gone to school.
[] I've lost my backpack.
[83] I've come close to dying.
[] I've seen someone die.
[84] I've known someone who has died.
[85] I've wanted to be an actor/actress at some point.
[] I've done modeling.
[86] I've forgotten to brush my teeth some mornings.
[87] I've taken something/someone for granted.
[88] I've realized how good my life is.
[89] I've counted my blessings.
[] I've made fun of a classmate.
[90] I've been asked out by someone and I said no.
[] I've slapped someone in the face.
[91] I've been skateboarding.
[92] I've been backstabbed by someone I thought was a friend.
[] I've lied to someone to their face.
[93] I've told a little white lie.
[94] I've taken a day off from school just so I don't go insane.
[95] I've fainted.
[] I've had an argument with someone about whether cheerleading is a sport or not.
[96] I've pushed someone into a pool.
[97] I've been pushed into a pool.
[98] I've been/am in love.

--
Posted by Molly Morrison to Meme Molly at 5/14/2006 09:16:00 AM

[Meme Molly] Cool "States Visited" Meme

2006-03-08T20:43:00.000-08:00

create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.

Not so bad, at 24, eh? (Oh yeah, and that red path across? That's where my mom and I drove, almost three years ago. Professor Plum was there! :-D )

Snurched this one from nightwolfwriter.

--
Posted by Molly Morrison to Meme Molly at 3/08/2006 08:39:00 PM

[Meme Molly] Which superhero are you?

2005-11-23T14:24:00.000-08:00

Your results:
You are Superman

Superman		75%
Robin		70%
Spider-Man		70%
Wonder Woman		55%
Hulk		55%
Green Lantern		45%
Supergirl		45%
Batman		40%
The Flash		30%
Iron Man		30%
Catwoman		25%

You are mild-mannered, good,
strong and you love to help others.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...

I'm strong? Who knew....

--
Posted by Molly Morrison to Meme Molly at 11/23/2005 02:22:00 PM

[Meme Molly] My Turn!

2005-10-27T19:15:00.000-07:00

Yet another meme... this one I snurched from my bro, who in turn snurched it from one of his friends, who in turn snurched it from one of her friends.. a true meme.

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fourth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the "coolest" book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.

Here's what my book said:

Dimrost, the Rainy Stair, those falls were called, but after that day Nen Girith, the Shuddering Water; for Turambar and his men halted there, but as soon as Niniel came to that place she grew cold and shivered, and they could not warm her or comfort her.

--
Posted by Molly Morrison to Meme Molly at 10/27/2005 07:13:00 PM

House Elf Harry - Chapter 1

2005-10-23T19:29:00.001-07:00

This is the completed (not edited, but completed) first chapter of House Elf Harry.. I'm posting it in anticipation of having a second chapter to post relatively soon. :-)

House Elf Harry - Chapter 1

“Time for a wand,” she said, and began guiding him to Ollivander's. Harry didn't seem to accept this as easily as he had the clothing, though.

“I don't need a wand!” he exclaimed, stopping in place.

“Yes, Mr. Potter, you do. Now come along,” she said sternly.

Harry opened his mouth to give what appeared to be an angry response, before closing his mouth, lowering his head, and allowing her to guide him forward. They were in Ollivander's a few minutes later.

“Harry Potter,” said the man as he stepped out from between the rows of shelves. “I thought I'd be seeing you soon... you have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Excellent for charms work.”

Harry hadn't looked up yet, but Ollivander continued. “Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it; it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, you know.”

The eleven-year-old's head came up then, as McGonagall could have anticipated. “Harry is not a wizard,” he said firmly. “Harry does not want a wand, and a wand will not choose Harry.”

Minerva wasn't sure that she had ever seen Ollivander caught completely flat-footed before now. The eerie old wizard stared at Harry and didn't seem to be able to come up with anything to say. McGonagall stepped in immediately. “Well then, Harry, you won't mind waving any wand that Mr. Ollivander gives to you, will you?”

Harry looked surprised, but then shrugged. Apparently, he couldn't fight that logic.

Minerva was doubting her own logic when half an hour and dozens of boxes later, no wand had so much as shot sparks. Was it possible that Harry was somehow stifling his magic, or that he had done so much House Elf magic without a wand that a wand would no longer choose him? Harry hadn't said a word throughout the whole procedure, and Ollivander had stopped describing the new wands, giving in to Harry's obvious interest in getting through this as quickly and quietly as possible.

The uncomfortable silence of the old shop was broken, finally, by a cry of surprise from Harry. He had reached out to take and swish the next wand, but had drawn his hand back immediately after touching it. “Did you feel something?” Ollivander asked, luminous eyes wide with excitement. “Pick it up and give it a swish, Mr. Potter!”

Hesitantly Harry reached out again, and still seemed to be uncomfortable when he was holding it. He gave it a swish, and yellow and red sparks emerged from it. McGonagall let out a breath in relief. “How much will that be, Mr. Ollivander?”

“I don't want it!” Harry cried out, dropping it back into the box as though it was burning his hand. “I'm not a wizard, I don't want to be a wizard.”

“Mr. Potter,” Minerva began, but with a soft pop he had disappeared. Ollivander gaped at the spot where he had stood, then looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

“I have anti-Apparation wards all over this place, as old as my family. Not to mention Mr. Potter hasn’t even attended Hogwarts, much less reached the age to learn to Apparate, and claims to not want to be a Wizard.”

“He’s apparently befriended at least one House Elf, and wants to believe that he *is* one.”

Ollivander blinked his large eyes owlishly. “A House Elf? Intriguing. I have never heard of a Wizard who successfully performed House Elf magic.” He put the lid on the box. “Perhaps you should take this to Hogwarts for him, then. I presume he will still be attending Hogwarts..?”

McGonagall nodded, her lips still pursed. “That is the plan. I should report back to Headmaster Dumbledore, now,” she replied, taking the box from Ollivander’s outstretched hand.

“Please also notify the headmaster that the only brother wand to that of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been sold.” McGonagall only allowed her eyes to widen slightly at this information, nodded curtly, and strode quickly from the shop and out of Diagon Alley, carrying the precious wand with her.

[Meme Molly] You may call me... Her Nerdiness

2005-08-21T10:37:00.000-07:00

I had a little "argument" (it wasn't angry or anything, more of a discussion really) about whether I really qualified as a nerd. In case the fact that I immediately started looking up definitions to prove my point didn't prove the point in and of itself, I also found a test and took it. My result was more amusing than I expected...

It also said: "You are definitely MIT material, apply now!!!"

The ironic part, to me, is that I didn't even exaggerate any of my answers. ;-)

*proud to be a nerd*

--
Posted by Molly Morrison to Meme Molly at 8/21/2005 10:34:00 AM

The Law of Blank Pages, and a Corollary Thereof

2005-08-11T21:04:00.000-07:00

The Law of Blank Pages (familiar to any writer):

A writer, when faced with one or more blank pages (or alternately a blank computer screen) will at best feel a sense of vague unease at destroying the blankness, and at worst will succumb to complete paralysis comparable to writer's block.

Corollary to The Law of Blank Pages:

A writer will always come up with his or her best words, phrases, characters, and events, and plots when no blank page or other suitable writing material is available. Similarly, a writer whose muse has been completely paralyzed for the entire time that the writer was sitting in front of blank pages will, as soon as said blank pages are no longer available, suddenly have a breakthrough leading to one or more *brilliant* ideas. Which, of course, cannot be written down.

Yeah. I was just thinking about how every time I close a file, I always think of what I want to happen next, down to the exact words--but if I try to open the file up again to write it down, I usually lose my train of thought before I get there. The Law of Blank Pages strikes again!

San Francisco Chronicle Article

2005-08-03T10:20:00.000-07:00

Someone linked me to this article.. I wasn't sure if the hullaballoo regarding the Mugglenet/Leaky Cauldron interview with JKR was going to make a real news source, but apparently so!

(Also note: they blithely referred to Harry/Draco and Harry/Giant Squid... Only in San Francisco.. ;-) )

HBP - Still Spoiler-Free

2005-08-02T07:54:00.000-07:00

Here's a quote from a review I just read that seemed to capture part of what I disliked about the book:

The odd glumness of this novel is partly a consequence of its loss of a satisfying plot, its lack of shape. There is, I think, a clear reason for this, evident from the amount that we have been hearing about Rowling's plans for her characters. We must not think that she is making her stories up on the hoof, even though the idea of there being seven books, one for each of Harry's years at Hogwarts, must have come to her only belatedly. She has become so fixed on the overall sequence of her novels, that the narrative shape of this one book is no longer a concern. She is working out some prophetic scheme. But it has become a hard task. It is difficult not to think that, rich and adored, JK Rowling's gusto has gone. Now she is just, like her hero, set on completing the grand scheme. Into the gloom she is determined to take all those devoted readers.

John Mullan is senior lecturer in English at University College London.

Here's exactly why I have not been updating Lies, as well. I have no interest in taking my readers with me "into the gloom." I'll get through the gloom and then write, thanks. :-P

Scary...

2005-07-30T10:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, I can't even say anything about this, really...

Except, maybe... well, no, I'll let you have your own reactions. Go see it, yourself.

Speed Translation

2005-07-29T21:54:00.000-07:00

This article came to me through a news service for linguists. Apparently, excited fans are already translating HBP into Russian for their friends, months ahead of when the "official" translation is due to come out. Websites had the first *four* chapters up by three days after the release!

In case you didn't know, translation is really time-consuming. Any shortcuts end up resulting in the kind of nonsense that you get from Babelfish. So, I would call this "speed translation"--motivated by the kind of obsession that we *know* people have about Harry Potter. ;-)

Cool stuff, nonetheless. ;-)

Umm...

2005-07-29T07:18:00.000-07:00

HISTORICALS! - Adventurous and somewhat dark, but
that's true adventure. From the heart of Olde
England, or the Caribbean isles, adventures in
the past, are a fire that burn in your soul to
be written. History books, Kathleen E.
Woodiwiss and Alexander Dumas are your
inspirations!

What Kind of Novel Should I Write?
brought to you by Quizilla

Erm. Hmm.

Well, that's just all wrong. I've never read anything by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss or Alexander Dumas, nor have I ever read a history book for fun.

I could see myself writing fantasy. Mystery. Sci-fi. Even adventure. Historical fiction???

Reviews..

2005-07-25T20:25:00.000-07:00

Hehe, so, I just wrote this *really* long review, and I thought I'd copy it here, just for posterity and because that's the kind of mood I'm in. It's from a large Stargate:SG1 series (when I say large, I mean it... well over 1 million words and counting, in various stories.. and very well written!). If you want to check out the series, you can do it here.

Meanwhile, this was the review I wrote. Kind of silly, and I don't think there are really any spoilers for the stories as a whole. If you have a really good memory, you might know something is coming in this particular story, but it's not even a major part of the story, so...

I am an evil, horrible reader.

How evil and horrible? I have been working my way through the Campers series (actually, I read one in the middle.. can't remember if I reviewed or not, and now I've started at the beginning) and I'm on Scion now and this is the first time I'm reviewing!

*slaps her own wrist* Bad, bad.

On the plus side, this means that you have done such a good job that I keep moving on to the next story before I remember to review. Believe me, that's a high compliment.

And another high compliment is that it has been hard to drag myself away from the computer to do other things. I just want to sit here and read this story. (On the other hand, this is less than ideal, since I really have a Qualifying Paper I'm supposed to be working on. D'oh!)

So, other than giving you those compliments and letting you know that I'm reading and really enjoying, I'm not sure what to say. I really want to get back to reading. The thing that finally made me realize that I should review was that I read a line in this and thought of something I wanted to say, and then realized I hadn't said ANYTHING so far. Oops.

The line was...

“It’s from Ja-“Shawn cut himself off, giving Jack a look that O’Neill couldn’t possibly interpret.

I was just thinking that it would be very helpful to know whether that was a long or a short 'a' that he started to say. Was he more likely to have been starting to say Jacob, or Jack, for example? ;-)

Hmm.. very interesting. I keep trying to figure out not only if he's from the future, but if he might also be from an alternate dimension. I don't really know all the canon of Stargate.. I've only watched maybe 15 episodes, and they were a random assortment. Lots of my knowledge of canon comes from reading various SG1 fanfics and picking up little pieces as I go. So I don't know if it's plausible that he could be from an alternate universe as well as the future. Hmm.

Hope you enjoyed this review. It got long on its own; it wasn't my intention, but it was fun.

Oh, and nice try with the "I'm not writing a sequel" thing in the first story. Famous last words. ;-) (On the other hand, I'm glad you did. Sometimes saying you *will* write a sequel can be the kiss of death, just as saying that you won't may actually cause it to happen.. the mysteries of being a writer. :-D )

*goes back to reading*

So yeah. That's my utterly random post for the day. Don't worry, Reparo is not in mothballs, and I'm working up the courage to reread Lies and hopefully get back into that. But as I said in the review, I'm supposed to be working on my Qualifying Paper.. not to mention these stories are dragging me away.. Ugh.

HP Art

2005-07-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Here is a gorgeous picture.. don't know where it came from, but someone linked me..

Dumbledore's Funeral

That makes me sad where the actual book sequence didn't.. :-/

No spoilers...

2005-07-16T23:39:00.000-07:00

... but this is what Amazon has to say about HBP:

Hello from Amazon.com.

Good news! We've just lowered the price of "Harry Potter and the
Half-Blood Prince" from $17.99 to $16.99.

You don't need to do anything to get the lower price--we are
automatically
issuing you a $1.00 refund.

That's all I have to say (for now).

Which Harry Potter Character Am I?

2005-07-16T06:15:00.000-07:00

Snurched it from Corbin.. are we surprised by the result? ;-)

You scored as Hermione Granger. You're one intelligent witch, but you have a hard time believing it and require constant reassurance. You are a very supportive friend who would do anything and everything to help her friends out.

Hermione Granger

95%

Harry Potter

90%

Remus Lupin

85%

Severus Snape

80%

Ron Weasley

75%

Ginny Weasley

65%

Draco Malfoy

65%

Albus Dumbledore

65%

Sirius Black

60%

Lord Voldemort

20%

Your Harry Potter Alter Ego Is...?
created with QuizFarm.com

[Crafty Molly] They copied my design!

2005-07-11T10:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, so maybe neither of us copied the other. However, I just found something that looks remarkably similar to the design on the rug I've been making (albeit with more/different colors) at Target.com. Although there will be some relatively large differences, in the long run. You'll see.

Speaking of seeing, I'm going to post a picture later today, probably, whenever I finish the square I'm at work on. And it shouldn't be TOO much longer after that before I finish the row. I'm making progress!

P.S. You can see previous pictures by clicking on the link at the bottom of this post to link to my subblog.

--
Posted by Molly Morrison to Crafty Molly at 7/11/2005 10:37:00 AM

I should have been...

2005-07-03T01:53:00.000-07:00

I should have been writing the past few days, but I haven't been. :-/ But at least my quiz came out right..

You're an Angst writer!

What kind of writer are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Adventures in Babysitting

2005-06-24T19:47:00.000-07:00

So, tonight I was babysitting for a four-year-old. This involved playing for a long time in his grandmother's office (she is a child psychologist, so she has TONS of toys in her office).

He pulled toys out as he went, so I didn't immediately draw the connection. First there was a castle. Okay... Then there was a person with a wand, who had pink hair but was proclaimed the prince (I went with it--he's the kid, he gets the choice). Later there was a train, and a train station. The train was the "Wonderland Express". The castle had a W on it, I realized later.

Then, the other people started coming out. First, a very large man, both much taller and much wider than the other toys. Hagrid, I thought, but then figured I must be mistaken.

Then a wizard. And a cauldron. Hmm, interesting. Then two more characters with wands. One of them had red hair. And then, brooms, too.

That's right. It was a Harry Potter knockoff. "Hogwarts" became "Wonderland" but all the pieces were there. (Okay, there was no nasty looking Potions professor. Darn, what a loss.)

The kicker though? The pink haired "prince" was Hermione (oops!) and "Harry Potter" had--get this--PURPLE hair!

Hehehe... that was my Harry Potter adventure in babysitting. :-D

The Real Malfoy

2005-06-22T21:57:00.000-07:00

A little ditty I wrote because I was feeling stuck on Lies.

Summary: Jarod (of Pretender fame) meets someone who does a different kind of "Pretending". Alternately, Tonks runs into an overly curious genius.

“I’m not who I seem to be,” the suave, blonde-haired man insisted in a female voice with a distinctively British accent.

“Well, that much is obvious,” Jarod replied with a grin and a raised eyebrow, steepling his fingers in front of him. “But that raises many questions, such as: Who are you? Why do you look like the person that we have been tracking? And what happened the real Mr. Malfoy?”

“I don’t *know* what happened to the real Malfoy. I’ve been impersonating him to try to find him, but getting captured was not in the plans. Now, if you could just give me a piece of parchment and let me write down this tellyfone number—“

There was something strangely awkward about the way she said “telephone,” as though she weren’t really accustomed to saying the word or wasn’t even certain how it *should* be said. He tilted his head and tried to get into his/her mind, figuratively speaking. S/he averted his/her eyes quickly. Interesting.

“How long are you going to keep me here?” she asked in that strident tone. He shrugged.

“Until you give us a little more information, I imagine. How do we know you’re not the real Malfoy, disguising your voice somehow? You have to admit that it’s just as likely as that you’re some strange woman who somehow has the ability to disguise herself as an exact replica and claims to be some kind of law enforcement official but won’t give her affiliation.”

Malfoy’s face scowled. “Haven’t you ever heard of secrets? It would break several international treaties for me to explain.. which is why if you’ll just give me a piece of parchment..” S/he was still refusing to meet Jarod’s eyes, however.

“It would break international treaties to tell a policeman your secret?” Jarod confirmed, a slightly ironic smile twitching at his lips. She nodded.

He leaned forward across the table and said in a low voice, “Good, because I’m not a policeman.”

Malfoy scowled. “Are those whatchamacallits.. cammeeras.. are they on right now?”

Jarod tilted his head. There, again, was that strange lack of knowledge about technology. “No…” he replied after a moment of silence.

“Good, then let’s stop beating around the bush. What do you mean when you say you’re not a policeman?”

Jarod leaned in. “Well, I’m a policeman right now, but not legally. I’m a Pretender; a genius with the ability to become anyone they want to be. Right now, I’m Pretending to be a police officer in order to track down Malfoy—whose visage you so suspiciously wear at the moment. Now it’s your turn: if you’re not Malfoy, who are you, and how do you look so much like him with out any perceptible cosmetics or disguises?”

“Fine. It’s your Obliviation.” She closed her eyes for a moment and suddenly Jarod couldn’t believe his eyes—she was blending into another person. He reached forward to feel her face immediately, ignoring any personal space issues in an urgent need to prove that what he had seen was not some trick.

“How’d you do it?” he breathed. She looked rather uncomfortable at the sudden proximity, and had scooted her chair back slightly.

“Magic. I take it you’ve never met a Metamorphmagus, before?”

He shook his head. “Can you teach me?” he pleaded almost immediately.

She snorted, looking a little more comfortable now that he wasn’t showing any signs of getting near her again. “You wish—you and many others. It’s a talent. You’re born with it or you’re not.” She paused. “What did you mean, you can ‘become’ anyone you want to be?”

“It’s nothing like what you can do, physically. It’s a mental ability—I can put myself in anyone else’s shoes, and think what they are thinking, feel what they are feeling. For instance, not only are you British, but you come from a society that is very insular—probably magical. You don’t use telephones or cameras or probably any other ‘modern’ technology; you even use unusual methods of communication, I would guess.”

“Not bad for a Muggle. It’s too bad you’re going to have to be Obliviated.”

“There’s that word again. What does it mean?”

“It means I can tell you all I want, because you’re not going to remember any of this,” she said, almost sadly.

“Not going to remember..?” he replied, looking nervous all of a sudden. He began to back away from her, the prisoner, and only realized that someone was behind him when he heard the voice say, “Obliviate.”

“So, was it Malfoy, or no?” Jarod’s colleague asked. Jarod shook his head.

“No. Just a transvestite with a strange disguise.”

“Oh. How come you get all the interesting cases?”

Yay!

2005-06-22T10:22:00.000-07:00

Just got this in my e-mail...

"We of S.C.H.A.L. are writing to let you know that your story 'Stuck on Parseltongue' has been reviewed and recommended at The Snape Chocolate Harry Addiction League. S.C.H.A.L. is a Live Journal focusing on fan fiction containing any kind of relationship between Harry Potter and Severus Snape - romantic, platonic or familial. That and chocolate, preferably both at the same time! If you have any questions or concerns please feel free to reply to this email, or leave a comment on our review of your story.

Yours,
Maryx, Nessime & Morrighan"

That made my day! :-D (Now I just need to leverage it to get some good writing done, and I'll be set!)

Another Great Day--Now Just a Few More...

2005-06-21T20:16:00.000-07:00

Three word sprints (that's ten minutes, writing as fast as I can) and I wrote 2051 words! :-D That is *not bad at all* in my opinion. Now, I am trying to do at least four word sprints a day, but I am also trying to just get over 2K, so I'll take the three for today. I got a late start because of Spades tournament (oops) and chatting with my brother over Skype for the first time.. and now I'm going to need sleep, since there was no nap in my day and this is about as late as I've been up all week. I wish I knew why I am so tired!

4,827 / 40,000
(12.0%)

I'm so proud of me! :-D

2005-06-20T19:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, am I allowed to be proud? I finished 2341 words today! :-D If I can keep on this speed, I'll be done in no time (or less than I had any right to expect, at least). :-)

I will now sleep "the sleep of the accomplished." I even learned some Hebrew and won a Spades tournament today!

2,776 / 40,000
(6.0%)

Now to see about getting a job.. :-/

Progress

2005-06-19T20:00:00.000-07:00

So.. I'm trying to finish Lies by doomsday (I mean, er, the HBP release date). Maybe crazy. Probably so, considering I seem to be sick and all I seem capable of is sleeping. Hence the depressingly low word meter below. However, I have hope that I will be able to do it. I have to have hope.

Must.. have.. hope.. *falls asleep* Zzzz...

435 / 40,000
(1.0%)

Reparo, Pt 2b: Confundo

2005-06-18T18:11:00.000-07:00

Had to break Confundo into two posts for easier reading.

Prev | Home

Reparo, Part 2b: Confundo

The wee hours of the night were always the worst when one was trying to stay awake. Not that Harry was trying to stay awake, but since he was being forced to do so, it felt similar. He stared for hours at the grounds of the castle, trying to occupy his mind so that he wouldn’t be tempted to close his eyes. Harry hated the feeling of wanting to sleep desperately and being unable to do so.

A few times he caught a tiny sign of movement—perhaps the splashing of the squid in the lake or an owl going to or fro or just taking a late night jaunt. There was never anything interesting—say a unicorn, or a Centaur, or even a Blast-Ended Skrewt! Even the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the premiere school of magic in England, were deadly boring in the dead of the night. Harry sighed.

Then he jumped as a hand rested lightly on his shoulder. Harry thought at first that it was Madam Pomfrey, woken from her ‘nap,’ but then he turned and gasped when he saw that it was actually Snape. He managed to restrain a scream, but jumped off the bed and backed away quickly. From a distance he saw that Snape had a steaming potion in his other hand.

Harry shook his head. Did Snape think he was a *complete* idiot? Of *course* he wasn’t going to take a potion from the man, after all the potions he had been given in the past—including the Wakefulness Potion.

“Sam…” Snape began slowly. “I knew you were going to be tired, so… I made a Pepper-Up Potion. It took some time to fix, but I made sure that it wouldn’t interact with the Wakefulness Potion you’ve already been given. I was… hoping it would make staying awake a little less unpleasant.” Harry continued backing up, glancing down the Hospital Wing and seeing that Madam Pomfrey was still asleep. In a panicked haze, he stared at Snape and wondered whether he should scream to try to wake the medi-witch or if he was safe as long as she was in the room, asleep or not.

Then Snape took another step forward, and Harry *did* yell. He glanced down and saw no movement from Madam Pomfrey, and his heart raced faster. What if she wasn’t just asleep? What if Snape had done something to her? Harry glared at the man, shaking from anger but also from fear.

“Calm down, Sam.. I only cast a minor sleeping spell on her when I came in, so that we didn’t have to worry about waking her and disturbing her sleep.” Harry stiffened at hearing the magic confirmed. “I just want to give you this potion, and then I’ll leave you alone. I’m not trying to hurt you; I’m trying to help.”

Harry shook his head furiously, glancing panicked at the sleeping form of the medi-witch once again. He suddenly realized how dependent he was becoming on her. He *did* trust her, at least somewhat, even if he couldn’t always act on it. She was so nice and motherly and always knew what to say and do to calm him down—and what if she was working with Snape?! But then he second-guessed even that; after all, Snape had cast a sleeping charm on her, meaning he didn’t trust her to watch. Unless Snape just wanted Harry to *think* he didn’t trust her so that Harry would trust her more. He shook his head to clear it from the mess of thoughts and saw with a flash of fear that Snape was three steps closer than he had been, and holding out the goblet full of potion.

I’m not drinking it, you—Harry cut himself off and acted instead, slapping at the potion and trying to spill it so that he could not be forced to drink it. Snape kept hold of the goblet, with some effort, but it tipped precariously. Harry blinked when the potion poured up to the edge but stopped there instead of spilling over.

He glared, and Snape smirked slightly. “I cast a No-Spill Charm on it, as you can see—and a good thing, it seems.” He paused, looking less certain of himself. “I’m not going to force you to drink it, but I think it would help. I spent rather a lot of time on it, as well…”

Harry glanced pointedly down the length of the Wing again, and Snape sighed. “Would you like me to wake her?” Harry hesitated, wrapping his arms around himself nervously, and then nodded slowly. He just hoped that Poppy wouldn’t be angry with him.

Snape sighed again, more heavily this time, and walked away from Harry, leaving him backed into the corner as he walked closer to the other end and then cast the spell to wake Madam Pomfrey. She sat up abruptly, moaning slightly at the crick in her neck, and then blinked and looked around. “Severus? Did I fall asleep?”

“Yes,” said Snape’s amused voice. “You were completely asleep when I entered, and your patient has ‘escaped.’”

Madam Pomfrey sat up and stared in horror at the empty bed. “What--?!” she started, and then her eyes swept the room and she saw Harry in the far corner. She turned to glare at Snape. “What is my patient doing in the corner?”

Snape raised up the goblet that was still in his hand. “I made a Pepper Up Potion he could actually take, Poppy,” he said more quietly, so quiet that Harry could hardly make it out. “I thought it might make it easier for him to stay awake.”

Poppy sighed. “It was a nice thought, Severus, but did you have to corner him?” She stood stiffly, paused to stretch, and then took the goblet from his hand and moved across the room toward Harry. Snape followed her halfway before stopping and just watching.

Harry watched suspiciously as Poppy approached. They were too friendly; every alarm in his head was going off. He shook his head before she even got within five feet of him. “Sam, dear, what are you doing all the way over here?” she asked gently. “You’re supposed to be resting..”

He glared at her angrily. Why was she helping Snape? Harry had just begun to think that she, of all people, might actually be on *his* side. He shivered, and pressed back into the corner a bit as she approached, eyeing the goblet in her hand.

Poppy seemed to notice his anger and suspicion—no surprise considering he was displaying it as flagrantly as he could. “Oh, Sam,” she said sadly. “Are you mad about Severus? He’s not trying to hurt you, I promise. In fact, no one asked him to make this Pepper-Up Potion—isn’t that right, Severus?” She looked back to Snape, and he looked surprised and then nodded. She turned back to Harry. “See? He was just trying to help in the way he knows best. Here—“ she had moved much closer now, and she held out the potion to Harry. Angrily he slapped at it as he had before, hearing Snape’s abortive cry too late to get Madam Pomfrey to tighten her grasp. The goblet leapt from her hand and crashed on the floor, the clattering sound of it bouncing and rolling filling the Hospital Wing.

“Sam!” Madam Pomfrey exclaimed in frustration and a bit of anger, and Harry shrank downward a bit, unable to pull back any further. She gentled her tone at seeing his response, but it was still stern. “That is no way to treat a gift. I understand that you are frightened of Severus, but he is *not* trying to hurt you.”

Harry shook his head angrily, glaring at the goblet that she had retrieved, still full of the potion due to the No-Spill charm. When she tried to hand him the goblet again, he pushed it away but didn’t force it out of her hands. “Sam, please,” she tried again. “Just take the goblet? You don’t have to drink it, but… Have you ever had a Pepper-Up Potion before?”

Harry stared at her confusedly for a moment before remembering that she didn’t know that he was Harry Potter. He remembered in particular the Pepper-Up Potion he had been given immediately after climbing out of the lake after the Second Task. This recalled to his mind the gills, and that made him think of the Gillyweed and Snape’s ‘inspired’ method of torture. He shook, suddenly gasping for breath as though he had been drowned once again, and slid further down the wall weakly.

“Sam..? Sam!” He barely noticed movement before the medi-witch was lifting him from his crouched position and carrying him across the Hospital Wing, back to his bed. He cringed in her arms when they passed Snape, his mind conjuring more nasty images that he tried to supress. Then he was being laid down on the bed again, and covered with a blanket that was already warm. His shivering slowed and his breathing began to even out at the feeling of the pleasant warmth that Snape had always denied him, and he began to focus on what Poppy was saying.

“Sam? Sam, can you hear me?” He nodded weakly. “Oh, good!” She did indeed sound relieved at his response. “What were you remembering, dear child?” she fussed worriedly. “You stopped breathing and then suddenly started gasping—I was so worried!”

Harry glanced around quickly, looking for Snape, but he couldn’t see him. Madam Pomfrey seemed to know what he was looking for, though. “He’s here—just out of sight so that you wouldn’t panic. Would you like to be able to see him?” Harry hesitated before nodding slowly. “Alright, Severus, why don’t you move over behind me, but keep your distance.” Snape did as he was told, lurking a few feet behind Madam Pomfrey and watching with an unreadable expression. Harry made eye contact and shuddered before looking back at Poppy. “How’s that?” Harry hugged himself and looked away from both of them, feeling edgy.

“I’m sorry,” Snape said finally, after a few long moments of silence. “I’ll be going now.” Before Poppy could protest, he had swept out of the room.

Harry looked back at Madam Pomfrey and saw that she looked a little upset. “Did you have to run him off? Can’t you see he’s trying to help, Sam?”

Harry glared at her. She didn’t understand—she couldn’t, as long as he wasn’t *absolutely* sure that she wasn’t somehow working with Snape, which would be a long time. Even if Snape had just convinced her that Harry was making all this up, he wouldn’t be safe because she would inform him if Harry told her anything about who had hurt him.

“Fine,” she said shortly, obviously disappointed. “If *you* won’t drink the potion, then *I* will.” Harry shrieked in protest and stretched out a hand to stop her, sure that it was something bad and not wanting her to get hurt, but she had already drunk half the goblet. She smiled sadly at him as extra color filled her face and then her ears started to steam lightly. “There. See? Nothing harmful.” She set the goblet down at his bedside. “Now *I* won’t be falling asleep again for a while. What would you like to do?”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. He didn’t like having her angry at him, but he still didn’t trust Snape. Just because it was apparently safe *this* time didn’t negate all the other times that Snape had hurt him! He sighed sadly and didn’t dare another glance at the medi-witch’s face, forcing himself to stare at the wall instead through slightly watery eyes.

“I think we’ve exhausted the entertainment value of Boris,” she began contemplatively. “And we certainly can’t do anything active, as that will only tired you out further. I could read to you, but I don’t know what you like..” He actually saw her sit up straight out of his peripheral vision as she made a little “oh!” sound. “Perhaps a little game! First I ask you a yes-no question, and then you ask me one. You don’t have to answer, but if you don’t, then that gives me a chance to refuse a future question. How does that sound?” Harry shrugged, but decided that it would at least keep him occupied, for the time being. But how would he ask questions? He looked at her questioningly, finally making eye contact, and she seemed to have overcome her disappointment except for a little lingering frustration in her eyes.

“Here, you’ll need this,” she said with a smile, and she pushed the parchment and quill toward him. “Would you like to ask the first question?” He shrugged, and she waited.

What was he going to ask? A yes-no question, only. He spun the quill between his fingers, a peculiar habit that he had picked up after entering the wizarding world, and tried to think. “Were you ever a medi-witch anywhere else before Hogwarts?” he finally wrote. She smiled at him.

“Yes.” Harry didn’t expect anything more, but she continued, “I worked at the children’s ward at St. Mungo’s before Albus asked me to come here. I’ve always loved to work with children. Even if you do get yourselves into *all* manner of trouble.” She winked. “Now, what am I going to ask *you*, Sam?”

Harry’s eyes twinkled slightly and he scrawled something on the parchment that she had handed back to him. “That’s not a yes-no question!”

“Indeed, it was not my question at all, silly boy,” she replied, reaching out to tweak his nose playfully. She was forcefully reminded that he was not just any boy, though, when he shied away from her hand instinctively with a look of terror on his face. She sighed. “I’m sorry, Sam, I keep forgetting. I’ll try to do better.” She bit her lip, then tried to distract him with a question. “Are you a wizard?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, and then nodded. She actually looked quite surprised at that, and he had to write, ‘Did you think I was a Squib or a Muggle?’

Madam Pomfrey nodded slowly, her eyes very focused suddenly. “It’s only that… Well, this will be a difficult question, I’m sure, but… Before, did you do any accidental magic?”

Harry didn’t have to ask what she meant by ‘before,’ but he didn’t want to answer that question. He looked away for a long moment, then wrote one word on the parchment. “Skip.”

Poppy sighed. “Let me explain, Sam. I’m simply a little worried, because you’ve had several severe panic attacks and shown no sign of any accidental magic. It’s very unusual for this to be the case for a wizard, unless there is a *very* powerful reason for him to suppress it.” She looked deep into his eyes until Harry looked away in pain, hugging his arms to himself as his breath briefly caught in his throat.

“I’ll ask something less painful. Let’s see… Did you go to a wizarding school?”

Harry nodded. Then he wrote his next question. ‘Are you very mad at me for not taking the potion from Snape?’ He couldn’t bring himself to actually look at her, focusing instead on the parchment as he passed it across to her.

“Sam, look at me,” she said quietly, and he looked at her. She shook her head firmly. “I’m not angry at all, Sam. I—I’m sorry about my reaction earlier. It’s only that I’ve never seen Professor Snape extend himself so much toward someone, and to see that rejected was—well, it was hard. Still, I also understand that you are genuinely frightened of Severus, and I can only hope that with time you will come to trust him.”

Harry shrugged, and played idly with the blanket, having looked away again. He was waiting for her question. “Are you—are you *done* with wizarding school?” she asked finally, the disbelief sounding in her voice. Harry nodded, then rolled his eyes impatiently at the fact that he looked *so* young.

He had so many questions. ‘Why are you helping Snape?’ ‘Why did Snape bring me here?’ ‘Why can’t anyone recognize me?’ None of these could be answered with a yes or no answer. Nor could he safely ask, ‘Will I ever be safe?’ without effectively admitting to her that he felt in danger, which was sure to get him in trouble with Snape. He sighed as he held the quill over the parchment, trying to think of something. ‘Are you helping Snape?’ and ‘Are you really Madam Pomfrey?’ were questions he could never hope to get honest answers to. Finally, he wrote a compromise to the questions echoing in his mind. ‘Am I ever going to be better?’

"Oh, Sam," she responded sadly. "I wish I could give you a simple 'yes' as an answer, but that would be dishonest. It depends on so many things--physically, you will be 'better' very soon, but emotionally.. That takes time, dear.. And you will need to feel safe in order to recover." She caught his eyes and held them once again with her sharp gaze. "Is there anything you need to tell me?"

Harry started to shake his head, and then he started to nod, and then he shook his head in confusion. He looked down, staring at the parchment for a long minute, and then leaned over it to scrawl another question, not caring that it would break the rules. ‘If you had to choose between believing me or believing Snape, who would you choose?’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Honestly?’ and underlined it.

Poppy stared at the question for much longer than was necessary for her to read it, and Harry was certain that she was going to refuse to answer—and somehow he wasn’t surprised. When she finally looked up, though, she said, “It’s not just between you and Professor Snape, Sam. When I choose to trust Severus when he says that he did not do this to you, it is not because I don’t believe you. I believe that someone who looks a lot like Professor Snape did this, and I don’t blame you at all for being frightened of him. But, Professor Dumbledore would *not* have brought Severus back here if he was any danger to you, and I know he investigated following your conversation with him.”

At first Harry was merely frustrated, but then his eyes widened in horror. How had he missed it?? Madam Pomfrey, the real one, couldn’t possibly have missed the death of Albus Dumbledore. All this time he had been trying to decide whether he could trust her, and the truth had been right in front of him—of course not!

Suddenly he realized he had to get out of here, before Snape realized that his deception was failing and took him back to the dungeons from which he would never escape. He leapt off the bed, but Harry’s expression had apparently warned Madam Pomfrey to expect something and she grabbed his arm. Panicked and no longer caring much about the imposter, he swung his other arm and heard a thud as the metal band collided with her cheek, and she cried out in pain. His arm had been released, finally, and he ran for the door.

Snape had replaced the ward, apparently, as he was immediately caught and entangled by an invisible web when he tried to run through the open doorway. He struggled to break through but was only pushed even more strongly back into the room. Then, when he had been pushed clear of the door, it slammed shut. He spun to see Madam Pomfrey with her wand out, much too far for him to attack her before she could stop him with her wand.

The medi-witch was apparently not interested in waiting until he rushed her, though, and cast a Full-Body Bind on him. “Petrificus Totalus!” He was unable to dodge the bolt in time, and fell stiffly back against the door with a thud. Immediately, though, he began to struggle with the bind, and managed to break free of it before Poppy got halfway to the door to retrieve him.

Her eyes widened in surprise, one hand over her cheek and the other holding her wand tightly out in front of her. “Calm down, Sam,” she said in a warning tone. “Why don’t you go back to your bed?” she suggested. Harry glared at her before turning to focus on the door, trying to open it with his magic.

“Stupefy!” she cried, and Harry couldn’t even see the bolt to *try* to dodge it. He collapsed to the floor, paralyzed once more, but thankful that the Wakefulness Potion had not yet worn off as he attempted to push through the forced paralysis as he had with the Body Bind.

If he had been faced the right direction, Harry might have seen Madam Pomfrey throwing the floo powder into the fireplace. As it was, he heard the flare of the fire and then heard her call, “Severus Snape!” Then there was a brief period of silence (Harry had to assume that her head was in the fireplace) and he tried desperately to break free. His hand twitched, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly in an attempted grin. Just another minute…

Harry leapt to his feet just in time to see Snape unfold himself from the fireplace, and he paled dramatically. Then he turned to the door, desperately trying to unlock it and refusing to go down without a fight. Snape surely couldn’t punish him any further than he already was going to. Harry shook slightly at the thought, his skin already prickling in anticipation of the pain to come, and a roaring sound resounding in his ears at the thought of the hole, again.

He heard the click of the lock and made to open the door triumphantly when he was suddenly grabbed from behind, his arms pinned behind him and an arm dangerously tight around his neck. Harry screamed and tried to struggle, but he had no leverage in his current position. He was being moved, he realized, and tried to kick out with his legs but only managed a few glancing hits.

Then he was released, right next to his bed, and Snape hissed, “Quickly!” He looked in the direction of the movement that he saw and Poppy was there, her wand out and ready.

“Stupefy!” she cried again, and though Harry tried to dodge, Snape didn’t give him enough room to move. As he started to collapse to the floor for the second time, Snape caught him instead and picked him up, placing his body on the bed. Harry couldn’t move his limp limbs but he could feel what they were doing, and he wanted to cry out as he felt them replacing the restraints. When he finally managed to overcome the paralysis (for the third time) several minutes later, he turned his head to see Snape towering over him, his eyes sharp on Harry’s prone form.

“What were you *thinking*, you imbecile?” Snape sneered finally. “Are you so arrogant, so vain that you think you can take Madam Pomfrey’s valuable time without measure and then *attack* her when you see fit? And just what did you hope to achieve with such an attempt?”

Harry tried not to shrink back from the sneering face, and his eyes darted around frantically. He tried to see Snape’s hands from his supine position, and his breathing quickened when he couldn’t. Did he have the knife? He lifted up his head slightly to try to see where Madam Pomfrey had gone, and Snape revealed one of his hands to slam his head back down harder than was strictly necessary. Harry screamed with panic and scrambled to try to get out of the restraints.

“Calm yourself, boy.. or perhaps I should calm you?” Snape’s other hand moved into Harry’s view, wand and all. Harry froze, even his breathing stopping as he tried to control himself and keep Snape from casting whatever spell he had planned. Snape twirled his wand absently and asked, “Tell me… what were you thinking?”

Harry stared at him, eyes wide, hardly daring to breathe. He couldn’t open his mouth, because he didn’t want to risk blurting something out, so he tried to get unnoticeable breaths in through his nose, though he was feeling light-headed from lack of oxygen. Snape stared down at him, his expression getting darker all the time. “Tell me, you idiot,” he finally growled, “or I will find out for myself!”

Harry shuddered slightly and tried to focus on not struggling. He wasn’t supposed to fight—but he wasn’t supposed to speak, either, and now Snape was demanding that he speak. He didn’t understand, except to assume that Snape was just creating another excuse to torture him. His muscles tensed again, and he couldn’t force them to relax.

“Very well,” said Snape nastily. “The hard way it is. Legilimens.”

It was horror, pain, terror, death. It was black and it was small and the walls were closing in and it was the hole. Harry knew nothing before and nothing after, but only this. He heard a voice screaming, and realized that it was his own. He was screaming, and screaming, and screaming, and it would never end, and he was going to die, the walls were going to collapse on top of him or worse, he was going to be trapped in here forever until he died of dehydration.

The world snapped back into focus with a gasp, but there was still screaming—two voices, not just one. He thrashed at the restraints and continued to scream until a hand gently touched his brow, and he subsided into desperate sobs, thankful that he was no longer in the hole but not certain that he wasn’t about to be put back there. The hand was gone and the other screamer was subsiding as well now, and then he heard murmurs that he tried to make sense of.

“Severus, what did you *do*?” the female voice asked first.

“Merlin.. oh dear Merlin, he’s claustrophobic, Poppy, he’s claustrophobic, that’s all I could see, the dark and the walls closing in and—“

“Shush.. come on, you’ve got to help me here—you need to lay down but I can’t get you there on my own, and I don’t want to levitate you. Come on..!” she grunted slightly with effort and then both Snape and Madam Pomfrey came into view, the former looking pale and very weak and leaning on the medi-witch as they hobbled around to the next bed in the row.

“You cast Legilimens on him, didn’t you? You blistering idiot! What were you thinking? Casting Legilimens on a defenseless, innocent boy who had done nothing to deserve it!” Madam Pomfrey was obvious quite upset.

Snape sputtered indignantly. “Innocent? Nothing to deserve it?! He broke your cheekbone!”

“Accidentally,” she said firmly. “I grabbed him, Severus. And as you just established, extremely unethically might I add, he has been very traumatized. I don’t think he was even aware of hurting me—he was just trying to get free.”

Harry’s sobs had quieted even more as he was distracted by attempting to understand their conversation. Now Madam Pomfrey turned her attention back to him, and when he registered that hers was the hand that comforted him he tried to turn his head away. “Sam… Sam!” she repeated his name more and more firmly until he finally turned to look at her, nervously. She smiled sadly. He saw now that the large, ugly bruise on her cheekbone—and that was presumably after she’d healed the main injury. “Was it something I said?” she asked, and Harry blinked and tried to figure out what she was talking about.

When it finally registered, he shrugged uncomfortably in the restraints. It had been partially what she had said—and partially realizing what he hadn’t realized before. Now he was even more confused than before, though. Snape had seemed surprised that he was claustrophobic, and Snape *knew* that. And Madam Pomfrey had yelled at him for using Legilimens, so could she really know how Snape had hurt him and still be on his side?

“Here now, dear.. Let’s see if we can make you a little more comfortable,” she said warmly, and turned her attention to his restraints, and he lifted his head hopefully to try to see what she was doing. This time, his head was not pushed back down.

Snape, however, did not appear to be pleased. “Poppy! I am *not* dragging him back to that bed again when he runs—and if you are going to insist on excusing his behavior based on trauma, then at least be sensible and don’t give him more excuses to repeat it!”

The medi-witch turned from what she had been doing to glare at her colleague. “I’ll have you know that I am *not* completely releasing him—simply implementing a different form of restraint that will give him a *bit* more freedom of movement. How would *you* like it if I tied you to that bed?”

Harry was ecstatic to find that Poppy had undone the restraint on his left arm completely before turning her attention to the angry Potions Master. He tried to move as discretely as possible as he reached across and carefully unfastened the buckle on the other restraint by touch only.

Based on his tone of voice, Harry wouldn’t be surprised to find that the man on the next bed was rolling his eyes. “*I* am not attempting to run, nor have I *ever* broken your cheekbone. If I recall, it was the Headmaster that first suggested the restraints,” he finished, smug as though he had already won the argument.

“It was the Headmaster,” Poppy replied with her usual protective temper. “And he suggested *light* restraints, if you’ll recall. At the moment, the problem was simply with the boy tearing at those metal cuffs!”

“Yes, and then he started kicking, and then running, and now he’s begun to attack anyone who gets in his way. Can’t you see that this is only escalating?”

Harry sat up slowly behind Poppy as she spoke, hoping for just another minute or two that Snape didn’t notice his movement. “He’s testing us, Severus, in more ways than one. He may be trying to see how much he can get away with, but he is also testing to see how we will deal with him. If we choose methods too harsh, how will we ever differentiate ourselves from whoever did this to him?”

“I’m not suggesting that we *torture* him. I’m merely suggesting..” There was a barely noticeable pause, and then he continued, “.. that we not allow him to walk right out of the room while we argue over methods.” His voice was very pointed and Harry froze in the middle of unstrapping the last restraint over his ankle.

“Sam!” she cried out, and he knew the medi-witch had turned and seen him sitting up and in the process of escape. “Lay back down *now*, Sam,” she said sternly, and he rocked back slightly but didn’t lay all the way back. He glared at her, not willing to go down without a fight. “Sam,” she began again in a gentler tone, “I have an idea that I think will make both of us much more comfortable. I don’t want to constrain your movement, I just want to keep you from hurting yourself or anyone else if you panic. Do you understand?” Harry continued to glare at her, deliberately bending his free leg so he could hug his knee to himself protectively.

“Sam, that is enough!” she exclaimed. “Lay back down!” Harry made an angry noise in his throat and hugged his knee to himself more tightly. Wasn’t it enough that he couldn’t get off the bed like this? She moved forward as though to force him but Snape’s voice stopped her.

“Don’t risk it, Poppy,” Snape said smoothly. “*I’ll* take care of it,” he sneered. Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Snape slowly sat up and then moved across the divide between the beds, every step seeming to take hours as Harry desperately fought between laying back down and refusing to cooperate. Then Snape was there and pressing him back, and he couldn’t muster any resistance. They strapped his arms back down and were pulling the restraint over his ankle when he suddenly screamed in panic and refound his resistance. He pulled his leg free for an instant, but then Snape grasped his ankle tightly and pulled it back down despite his resistance.

He yanked angrily at the restraints as they muttered to each other too quietly for him to hear. He had been *so* close, and then they tied him up again. Harry sagged back against the bed, feeling hope leave him almost as quickly as it had come.

The murmuring stopped and Snape approached with his wand, causing Harry to tense once again. Snape was murmuring something in Latin and tapping his ankles, and then his wrists. To both their surprise, though, when he moved to tap the restraint on his first wrist the first of the metal cuffs popped open. Harry heard a gasp from Madam Pomfrey, and then Snape tapped the second wrist without saying anything and the other popped open as well. The Potions Master glanced back at Poppy so that Harry couldn’t see his face.

Then the medi-witch was bustling up next to him and removing the restraints on his wrists so that she could see the skin that had been under the arm cuffs. Harry tried to hug his arms to himself, not wanting her to see, but Snape held one and Madam Pomfrey held the other, ignoring his noises of protest.

Poppy gasped again when she saw the condition of his wrists. She looked to Harry and her eyes were obviously moist. “Sam, did you..?” Harry glared at her then, daring her to tell him that he had been wrong. She didn’t understand; she would never understand. He turned his head to the side, as far away from Snape as he could. He shivered as the man inspected the inside of his arm, tracing his hand over the scar that ran the length of his inner arm.

“Poppy,” Snape murmured, obviously trying to get her attention. Harry felt something appear on his arm, but it definitely wasn’t cold or heavy like the metal armband had been. There was a short pause, and then his other arm was held up (against his will) and he felt something appear there as well.

“Sam,” the medi-witch said, even as he could still feel Snape doing something with his left arm. “Sam,” she tried again to get his attention, and listlessly he looked at her. “You’ll be able to sit up in a just a minute, Sam,” she said with an attempt at an encouraging smile, though it was hardly an overwhelmingly happy expression. Harry just stared at her for another moment before looking away.

Snape released his wrist but he couldn’t move it; the man had replaced the restraint. Then he felt the hands holding his other wrist changing, and turned his head the other way so that he wouldn’t have to look at Snape. Harry only had to wait another minute before Snape spoke a quick string in Latin that he couldn’t quite catch and then stepped back.

“Sam? You can sit up now,” said Madam Pomfrey. Harry just laid there staring toward the end of the Hospital Wing, though some part of him was vaguely curious why he would suddenly be able to move. Had Snape’s incantation vanished the restraints? If so, why had they bothered to put them on in the first place?

“Stop being a bloody martyr, boy,” Snape growled, and a second later he had grasped Harry’s arms and pulled him to a sitting position before he could even squeak in protest. Snape let go of Harry’s arms immediately and Harry hugged them to himself but didn’t lay back down. Then he pulled his arms away slightly to look at them.

In place of the metal cuffs that had been on his arms, there were now flesh-colored, padded cuffs. They covered approximately the same area, including the entire length of the scars on each arm. They were also seamless, so that Harry would have no idea of how to remove them aside from vanishing them, for which he still needed a wand. He pulled and tugged at them lightly, to see if they could be rotated or moved, but it was as though they were part of his arms.

Between the cuffs and his hands were a pair of strange white bands that were clearly separate from the arm cuffs. Glancing down at his ankles, he saw the same white bands on his ankles as well. He would have assumed that they were the restraints, except that there was nothing tying them to the bed.

“Sam,” Madam Pomfrey said, but Harry stared at the bed instead of looking at her. “Sam, look at me.” He moved his eyes in her direction but didn’t lift his head to see her face. “Sam, please,” she pleaded. Harry wrapped his arms around his stomach tightly as though he had a stomachache and curled over them slightly, setting his face to be expressionless. “Sam? Are you alright?” Harry shrugged irritatedly. She hadn’t asked him that when she was tying him to the bed, he thought angrily.

Suddenly her wand appeared in front of him, and he jerked away. When he did, he realized that his legs were not restrained either. He hugged his knees to him tightly and hid his face between his arms. “Sam, please look at me,” Poppy tried again, and her voice was clearly becoming impatient. “I want to explain what I’m going to do before I do it, so you don’t panic.”

At the word ‘panic’ Harry’s head came up, and he reluctantly looked at the medi-witch, his face still blank. She sighed. “Do you feel better without those heavy metal cuffs on your arms?” she asked hopefully, and he shrugged, absently feeling the strange new cuffs that had replaced them. Then he glanced at the strange white bands again. “I’m sure you want to know what those other things are,” Poppy suggested, and he shrugged again. “They’re special restraints,” Harry tensed, and her tone gentled even further, “that I will only use if absolutely necessary. As you can tell, they will let you move around, at least on the bed, and even further if I give you permission. But if you are panicking or get violent, this will make both of our lives much easier.”

At least on the bed, her words echoed in his head. He scooted toward the edge away from Madam Pomfrey, and neither she nor Snape (who was still lurking nearby) made any move to stop him. As soon as he made to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, though, he found that he simply couldn’t. His ankles stopped at the edge of the bed and refused to move any further, no matter how hard he tried.

Harry gave a frustrated noise of protest and kicked at the air above the bed, but each time his ankles slammed to a stop right as they would pass the barrier where the bed ended. Shaking slightly, he moved his hands out slowly and found the same thing true of his wrists. He curled into a tight ball again, hugging his knees painfully tightly. He realized vaguely that he was breathing faster, dangerously close to hyperventilating. Then Harry felt a hand settle on his back.

He swung his arm instinctively, and heard a cry of surprise from Madam Pomfrey, who had moved around to this side of the bed while he was panicking. Then she said clearly, “Recindo,” and Harry screamed, full-fledged panic flaring in an instant.

The white bands on his wrists had flashed brightly at Poppy’s incantation and were now pulling him back to the center of the bed. He fought with every bit of energy that he had left, but it didn’t do any good at all—his legs were stretched away from him even as his arms were pulled back to his sides. The restraints on his arms even regulated the angle of his forearms, pulling them down so that the most upright Harry could be was to prop himself up on his elbows. Even that was difficult, and after another moment of struggle and a bit more shrieking he flopped back so that he was flat on his back, sobbing brokenly.

Madam Pomfrey was there again, her hand stroking his forehead comfortingly. He moaned and tried to turn his head away, not wanting to be comforted, but the hand followed his head and continued. “Hush.. shh.. It’s alright,” she whispered, and Harry moaned and shook his head a few times. It was *never* going to be alright, that much was obvious. “I’m sorry, Sam, I wanted to warn you, but.. Now you know what they can do, and I will use them as little as possible. In fact,” she incanted a Latin phrase that sounded similar if not the same as the one that Snape had used earlier, and Harry immediately curled up on his side with his back to her.

The medi-witch merely moved around to where she was in front of him. Harry wanted to close his eyes but he couldn’t sleep yet, even though he was so exhausted. He was about to roll over so as to get an unobstructed view of a wall to stare at, when Poppy lowered a tray with parchment and quill on it into his field of vision. “Got anything to say?” she asked in a somewhat teasing voice, and even though—or maybe because—he was so irritated, he nodded quickly and sat up.

‘Let me go!’ was his first demand. As he passed the parchment to her he looked up and saw that Snape was still lurking. How could he have forgotten? He paled and scooted back slightly, trying to see how angry the man was at having seen him write. Snape’s expression was completely implacable, though; after a momentary staring contest, he moved forward to stand just behind Madam Pomfrey and read over her shoulder.

“I have let you go, in a manner of speaking,” she replied evenly. “And once the Wakefulness Potion has worn off and you’ve had a good rest, I’ll give you free reign of the Hospital Wing, as long as you behave.” She smiled softly at him, but he just grabbed the parchment as soon as she stretched it out far enough that he could reach it.

A hundred responses went through his mind but none of them would work. What he really wanted to write was, ‘No, I mean let me GO—out of Hogwarts, away from you and Snape and that stupid imposter Dumbledore!’ ‘I hate you!’ would have done in a pinch, but both of those would like get him time in the hole or perhaps something worse, with Snape standing there reading everything. He forced himself to keep looking at the parchment instead of glancing at Snape, even though he knew that Snape would understand that he was properly cowed by his mere presence. He wanted desperately to ask Poppy *why* she was on Snape’s side, but he obviously couldn’t do that while he was here and probably not ever. Finally, he wrote ‘Fine,’ wearily, and pushed the parchment and quill toward her before laying down facing the opposite direction.

Madam Pomfrey sighed but didn’t make any move to come around to the other side of the bed. “Alright, Sam, I’ll give you some time to calm down. Just make some noise if you need or want something, alright?” Harry shrugged his shoulders barely so she would know that he had heard, and continued to stare at the wall blankly.

This was not a very effective way of distracting himself from all the negative thoughts that were spinning in his head, nor from his inability to fall asleep. Almost without thinking about it he began to tear at the wrist cuffs compulsively, getting progressively more frustrated as he made no progress on removing them.

Then a hand settled on one of his and he jerked away, across the bed, panicked. Seeing that it was Madam Pomfrey, he managed to avoid hyperventilating but curled inward on himself and continued to tear at the cuffs, more furiously than before. The medi-witch reached out again, and he curled his body around his hands so that she couldn’t reach them.

“Sam,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “Give me your hands.” Harry shook his head furiously, tears leaking from his eyes as he tried to shut them. “Give me your hands,” she said slightly more loudly, and he shook slightly just curled tighter, though he wouldn’t have thought it possible.

“Sam.” Her voice was more insistent now, and he tensed in anticipation but wasn’t sure if he could uncurl if he tried. “Very well. Recin—“

Poppy was interrupted as Harry shrieked and somehow launched himself from his curled position toward her in a desperate scrabble for freedom or release. His wrists and ankles slammed painfully to a stop at the edge of the bed, and then the medi-witch repeated the spell she had almost managed. “Recindo!”

All he knew was panic. Once again his legs and arms were dragged in different directions, and he screamed as though in pain, his vision tunneling until he could hardly see the light in the room. He continued to scream, flat on his back now, his mouth wide open as much for the gasping breaths as for the screams that they interrupted. Then suddenly a sickeningly sweet potion was being poured into his open mouth, cutting off a scream and forcing him to gag painfully. A hand massaged his throat and he swallowed instinctively, then gasped in a breath to begin screaming again.

Instead, a calm sensation flooded through him, and he sighed and relaxed back against the bed. Someone was stroking his forehead gently, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and enjoy the comforting sensation, but he couldn’t for some reason. He made a questioning noise in the back of his throat and looked around for the source of the comforting hand.

It was Madam Pomfrey. His brain moved sluggishly to fill in what had happened. She had asked for his hands, and he had attacked her when she started to activate the restraints—or tried, but the restraints had stopped him and then she had activated them and he had panicked and then… she must have given him a Calming Draught. That would explain why he could now think about all of that, even about the fact that he was restrained even now, without panicking.

“There now… that’s much better, don’t you think?” He yawned, another wave of tiredness stealing over him. If only he could close his eyes.. “I’m sorry, Sam. I seem to be going about this all wrong.. that is, if there *is* a right way. Maybe you should be at St. Mungo’s, but the headmaster is insistent for some reason that this is the place that you are most likely to recover.” She stared at him for a long moment. “Do you have any idea why that is?” She hardly paused before continuing, “Of course, you won’t answer. You don’t talk, even when you’re under a calming draught and exhausted. What was done to you, poor dear? And how did you come through it?”

Harry just stared at her, his mind not particularly interested in interpreting the words that she was saying. Various isolated words or phrases—‘St. Mungo’s’, ‘headmaster’, ‘calming draught’, ‘poor dear’—triggered trains of thought that he quickly stopped before they could go anywhere in particular. As for the meaning as a whole, he was far too exhausted and drained to even attempt to piece it together.

Another wave of fatigue hit and his eyelids began to droop. Harry himself didn’t recognize the significance of this, but the medi-witch clearly did. “Oh!” She pulled out her wand and Harry caught glimpses of movement through his half-closed eyes. “The Wakefulness Draught is wearing off—stay awake for a moment longer, Sam,” she exclaimed, and then bustled away. Harry closed his eyes, ready to surrender to the sweet bliss of unconsciousness that he had been denied so long. Not even the prospect of waking to pain could deter him.

Barely two seconds later, though, he was being shaken awake. “Sam.. Sam!” a voice exclaimed, and he wearily dragged his painfully heavy eyelids open, groaning in dismay at not being left to sleep. “Sorry, dear, but I want to make sure you sleep soundly—just open up and get ready to swallow.” Anything to sleep, Harry decided, and he opened his mouth and swallowed obediently when the disgusting potion was poured into his mouth. He didn’t even need to wait to be dragged under—his body was taking care of that all on its own.

Harry lay still and kept his eyes closed. Everything was wrong. He was flat on his back—Snape always strapped him down face first. He had woken naturally, not from pain in some part of his body. If he was even restrained at all, he couldn’t feel the restraints. And, strangest of all, he could *swear* that he could feel sunlight on his face. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he had finally snapped and somehow failed to realize it, but his mind was creating pleasant alternatives to the torture that was the only thing that Snape had to offer.

He twitched his arm muscles slightly, and was surprised to find that he could move his wrists. He twitched his legs, and found that they could move as well. He relaxed his neck muscles, and his head lolled to the side slightly, unrestrained. Harry couldn’t wait any longer; his muscles were already tensing for a chance at escape, though part of him feared the consequences if this were another trap. He almost relaxed, almost gave up the fight, but some part of him needed to try.

Even as he snapped his eyes open to the bright room, he was moving to launch himself off the bed. He didn’t get very far, though—it was as though an invisible wall that only affected his wrists and ankles had slammed him to a halt. He tried again, more slowly, but had no success. Then he took a chance to look around.

It was the Hospital Wing, at Hogwarts. Harry would know that room in a second, having spent so many hours and days in it over the years that he attended Hogwarts. What was he doing in the Hospital Wing? He dredged his mind for memories and a few trickled back in—something about waking up in the hole, and screaming, and then Snape allowing him out? And then… and then… Snape stunning him and bringing him to the Hospital Wing? And Madam Pomfrey, and… and Dumbledore?? Harry shook his head harshly, as though to clear the hallucinations from his mind, and tried again. The memories of speaking to “Dumbledore” did not vanish, though a sensation that it was wrong did trickle through.

“Ah, Sam, you are awake,” a horridly familiar voice spoke. Harry stared up at the wizened old man—the *dead* wizened old man—and paled significantly. And what had the man called him—Sam? He scooted away from the man nervously. “I assure you, there is no reason to be afraid. I have no intent to harm you, nor does anyone else here. You are safe.” Harry (Sam?) nearly snorted in disbelief. Of all the people that he might believe that from, a dead man was one of the least likely.

“You must be feeling very well-rested—you slept for quite a long time!” the ‘headmaster’ commented idly in his usual jovial tones. Harry eyed him suspiciously, wondering if there was actually someone there impersonating the old headmaster or if it was truly a hallucination. If it was the latter, perhaps it would be better not to acknowledge it? Harry wasn’t quite sure how those things worked; he’d always been quite happily sane. Well, until he had wished for insanity or death over Snape’s ministrations, but that was a recent development that he had not yet had time to adjust to or learn from.

“Madam Pomfrey asked me to keep an eye on you. She needed some rest, too, after all. She also asked me to wake her as soon as you woke, but I think that can wait, don’t you?” the old man asked with a wink. Harry forced himself to take his eyes from the apparition and focus on the worn stone floor instead. He wasn’t there, he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there.

“Albus! Somehow I knew that you wouldn’t wake me when the child finally woke. It’s a good thing I set a warning spell as well, or I’d still be asleep.” Madam Pomfrey made a vocal entrance, but Harry had to wonder if she was any more real than Dumbledore. Perhaps he was still in the dungeons, strapped down to the table—or even in the hole. He shuddered slightly at the thought. “Sam? How are you feeling?”

Harry gave a very light shrug of his shoulders, his uncertainty only growing by the second. “Sam? Look at me please, Sam,” Poppy said in a more urgent tone, and Harry turned his head without thinking. Maybe he wasn’t Harry—maybe his name was Sam. Maybe Snape was the dream and this was the reality. But then why would he be trapped on a bed in the Hospital Wing, and why would the only ‘memories’ he could recall be these horrible nightmares? “Sam? Sam! At me, in my eyes!” the medi-witch was still speaking, and Harry followed her directions even as his thoughts spun uselessly in circles.

The gray eyes that he met were warm and concerned, yet analytical at the same time. She stared into his eyes for a long moment as if reading his thoughts, and then nodded. “I expect you’re hungry?” she said, and by the way she began bustling before she had finished it was clear that it was not a question. “And well you should be,” she continued as though she had asked and he had answered, “after sleeping so long!”

He opened his mouth to ask how long it had been, then gasped in a breath at what he had been about to do. Madam Pomfrey glanced at him and frowned disappointedly. “You can speak—you won’t be punished here,” she prodded gently, but he shook his head. Even his hallucinations were trying to confuse him! “You were asleep for nearly 20 hours—well past the length of the sleeping potion that I gave you to help you sleep soundly.”

She watched for a reaction for half a second before moving away to retrieve something. Harry watched ‘Dumbledore,’ who had backed off a small distance in order to give Madam Pomfrey some room to work. The piercing blue eyes watched him closely, and he looked away, disconcerted. A moment later, the medi-witch returned, a goblet in one hand and a bowl in the other. “Nutrition potion first,” she said, and handed him the goblet. He pushed it back towards her, refusing to take it. “Sam, please—not this again.”

Again? Harry couldn’t remember taking any potions except from Snape, and those were bad. But he wasn’t allowed to fight. He wavered for a moment in indecision before taking the goblet and swallowing the potion quickly, tensing in case he could feel its effects. The worse ones were the ones whose effects weren’t obvious, and this was apparently one of those. He pulled his knees to his chest nervously, wondering what the potion was and what it would do.

“Well done, Sam,” Poppy responded with a smile, and handed him a bowl full of porridge. “Eat up.” And eat he did—he was very hungry, just as the medi-witch had expected. Had he really slept for 20 hours? Where was Snape, and why was he letting Harry sleep so long? Harry briefly entertained the idea that he had been discovered and rescued, before remembering the blurry memory of Snape bringing him to the Hospital Wing. That meant Snape knew he was here, and this was probably another test. He paused in his eating, wondering if he was failing by taking the food he was offered.

“Sam? What’s wrong? Are you feeling alright?” Harry stared at her with an uncertain expression. She kept calling him Sam—that must be the name Snape had given her for him. Why not Salazar, his nephew, as he had told McGonagall? McGonagall—opening his mouth to speak—pain, drowning, pain, pain, drowning, terror..!

Someone was rocking him gently, humming into his ear. He was curled into as tight a ball as he could manage, gasping for breath, eyes wide with terror but somehow unseeing. He could still feel the pain covering his body, and it was hard to breath as though he had just inhaled salt water. He shook violently and only the person holding him was soothing the painful twitches.

“Shhh.. hush.. it’s alright.. it’s alright..” Harry hung on to that gentle voice like a lifeline, refusing to think of Snape or the dungeons but only the soft voice and the bright Hospital Wing finally coming back into focus. “That’s right… take a deep breath.. You’re back, you’re safe, no one is going to hurt you here..”

Here? Where was here? He couldn’t ask, he couldn’t talk, no talking, oh Merlin, no talking! He shook more violently still and the rocking began again, slowly soothing him and blanking his mind to the terror.

“Albus, can you get me a Calming Draught from the storeroom, please?” the soothing voice interrupted itself to speak, though it was still in a low, calm tone. He looked around and jolted when he saw the former headmaster, standing by the bed as though he was not dead. The arms tightened around him and he tried to relax, telling himself once again that it was a hallucination.

This strategy didn’t work as well when the hallucination returned with a goblet full of another potion. He cringed back and made a brief whining sound before freezing, remembering the rules—no fighting. He remained still except for his uncontrollable shaking as the contents of the goblet were poured down his throat, and swallowed the potion so sweet that he almost instinctively rejected it. Finally, his jittery mind was covered in a blanket of calm, and his shaking slowed as the tension drained from his body.

Harry took a few deep breaths, relaxing further every time. The arms encircling him squeezed comfortingly and then moved him gently to the side. When Madam Pomfrey moved off the bed slowly, smiling at him sadly, he realized that she had been the one calming him. He curled inward on himself and simply watched as she moved a little further away and talked in hushed tones with the man who looked so much like Dumbledore.

He watched blankly as they argued over something, Poppy in particular waving her arms about and Dumbledore restraining himself to a few calming hand motions and a gesture or two in Harry’s direction. Somehow he knew that they were arguing over him, and he hoped that whatever they decided that it had nothing to do with sending him back to Snape. Not that he was panicked at the idea, strangely enough; he simply knew intellectually that it would be bad thing. The panic would come later, after whatever she had given him (a Calming Draught?) had worn off.

Finally, the two stopped arguing, and Madam Pomfrey turned back to smile at Harry warmly even as Dumbledore glanced at him one more time before turning to leave the Hospital Wing. Harry felt some of his confusion drain away as the direct evidence of his hallucination moved out of sight.

“Now, are you still hungry, Sam? You never finished what you were eating,” Poppy asked, extending the bowl toward him again. He stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out why she was asking him—Snape never did. He just handed him the bowl and told him to eat. Harry probably would have anyway, since he was always so hungry. He glanced at the bowl suspiciously, wondering if it held more than he could see, then decided that if she wanted him to eat she would make him anyway. He nodded slightly and took the bowl from her hands, finishing off the rest of its still-warm contents in short order.

“Alright, now just sit still while I check you,” the medi-witch said in a calm tone, and Harry froze in place as well as he could while she pulled out her wand and began to run it over him. After only a few seconds she sighed heavily. “Relax, Sam.. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He forced himself to relax slightly while still trying not to move. Finally, she was done. “You seem to be doing as well as expected—the sleep has done you some good, as have the nutrition potions and some more food. How would you like to get off of that bed?”

Harry shrugged. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to get off the bed. Snape usually told him what he was supposed to do. When Madam Pomfrey began walking toward the far end of the Hospital Wing, though, he hesitantly slid off of the bed, surprised that he wasn’t stopped like he had been before. His ankles easily cleared the edge of the bed, following closely by his wrists. Then he lingered at the edge of the bed, still close enough to get back on in a hurry if he wasn’t supposed to be off of it at all.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want,” Poppy threw over her shoulder casually. Harry froze in place but didn’t leap onto the bed just yet. Did that mean she wanted him to come with her, or not?

Harry watched as she moved down the aisle, and then stopped at the window, leaning on the sill and staring out at the grounds. He moved forward slightly as she didn’t seem to be looking back, curious at what she was looking at. She laughed out loud, and he moved forward next to another bed. He was about halfway down the aisle toward the windows when she turned and he froze, staring at her wide-eyed while waiting for a response.

“Oh, so you’re coming?” she said with a smile, and he nodded hesitantly and moved forward, this time without stopping. The medi-witch appeared pleased, and he relaxed slightly.

Then Harry looked out the window, and snorted quietly at the scene that met his eyes. A sopping wet Hagrid was running across the grounds after, of all things, a giant white duck! The duck had a polka-dotted umbrella firmly in its beak and seemed to be getting ready to take off. Hagrid’s mouth was wide open as though he were yelling at the duck, but it didn’t seem to be stopping or even slowing. Meanwhile, Fang was snapping at Hagrid’s heels as though this were all a game.

Madam Pomfrey laughed quietly and smiled at him. The small smile that had twitched on his lips when he had first seen what was happening hard already died, and he couldn’t resummon it even if it might have pleased her. He shrugged his shoulders nervously and moved his eyes back outside quickly, just in time to see Hagrid leap forward and ‘tackle’ the duck, with Fang leaping on top of him to come out the true victor. Still, the half-giant did come out of the heap holding his precious umbrella. Hagrid brushed himself off and then moved off toward his hut, admonishing Fang the whole way. His tone must not have been very angry, though, as Fang’s tale continued to wag the entire time. The duck hurried back to the lake before Hagrid changed his mind about letting it live.

Harry was absorbed in what he was watching that he didn’t immediately realize that Madam Pomfrey was no longer standing next to him. When he did, he turned and froze at what he saw, his mind suddenly blank.

Poppy Pomfrey was not one to admit defeat. Never, in her many years working in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, had she ever needed to request outside medical help for any of the students or others that the Headmaster asked her to heal. That record was now broken by the frail teen who now stood by the window, slightly more relaxed but still visibly tense as he watched the happenings on the Hogwarts grounds that day. Poppy was just happy that she had managed to get him distracted; he didn’t seem to notice yet that she had stepped back a few feet to discuss potions with Severus Snape in low tones.

‘Discuss’ was a rather strong term, however, as she was mostly just listening to Severus talk, her mind only half on his words. He was explaining to her his shortage of ingredients and that he would be unable to make all the potions she had requested until he was able to get out and buy more. She was still considering the child by the window. The medi-witch had been shocked when the headmaster had listened to her explain that she was unable to properly heal the mental and emotional wounds that this boy had, and then proceeded to tell her that he still insisted that the child remain at Hogwarts.

What did the old man know—or think he knew—about this child that made him so insistent? Poppy had to admit that there was something about the boy—something about the way that he was so strong and so weak at the same time. Broken, and yet still fighting nonetheless. But Poppy had no experience with dealing with this kind of massive emotional trauma, deliberately inflicted. She had proven that time after time as she unintentionally triggered new panic attacks in the poor child.

Severus was still explaining her options in terms of which potions she would get before and after he went to buy new ingredients when she saw the boy notice her absence. He stiffened and turned to see where she had gone, but his eyes fell first on the Potions Master. To her surprise he did not panic as he had in the past; instead, he fell perfectly still, and it was almost as though she could see the light disappearing from his eyes.

“Sam?” Poppy called hesitantly, but she received no response from the child. This did capture Severus’ attention, though, and he stopped speaking and turned his attention to the boy as well. His sharp eyes took in the boy’s posture and his facial expression and he tensed slightly in response. “Sam? Are you alright?”

The blank eyes flicked to her and the back to Snape, as though asking a question. Snape seemed to know what was expected of him. “Answer her,” he said gruffly, and that was about as polite an order as Poppy had ever heard from him. The child looked back to her and nodded, but there was no expression on his face. Poppy looked to Snape.

“What’s happened to him?” she asked, her voice slightly panicked despite her attempts to control it. “You know something!”

Snape’s eyes looked slightly haunted as he turned to her. “He has… withdrawn. Something he has seen—probably me—has recalled a memory or set of memories so terrifying that his only response was to withdraw to a place where he couldn’t be hurt or scared.”

“Will he—will he come back?” she gasped in a tone that even to her sounded frantic.

Snape sighed. “Yes… and possibly no. He… his ‘real’ self will emerge from time to time, but will only remain if he deems it ‘safe’ to do so. If not, he will submerge himself further and further each time until eventually he no longer comes out.”

Poppy stared at the empty shell in front of her in horror. “How.. how do we make him feel ‘safe’?” She had thought that things were bad before, when the teen had panic attacks and struck out at her and tried to run, but this was much, much worse. The boy’s eyes remained on Severus, and he was blanker even than the recent victims of Imperius that she had seen.

“’We’ will do nothing. Since I was the likely trigger, I should not be present. However, you should strive to give him as many ‘enjoyable’ things to do as possible. Your goal is to create an environment as different as possible from that that he experienced before. I would recommend creating a way to track him and then allowing him to wander, as he was clearly restrained before. And as few orders as possible.”

Poppy sighed, looking again at the boy who still stood there waiting for an order. “I cannot understand why the headmaster will not send him to St. Mungo’s. I obviously do not know how to deal with him—even you know better!”

“I have had… experience… with this sort of thing, in the past. As for the headmaster, I have long since ceased to attempt to divine his motives in anything. They are beyond fathoming, in most cases, and when they are transparently obvious is when they are most likely to be incorrect.” Snape glanced at the boy, making eye contact for a moment before sighing. “I should be going, in case he recovers quickly. It is unlikely, but… Any contact we have should not be in his presence, until he is significantly recovered. I will deal with the potions on my own.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded instinctively, her eyes still on the boy. “Thank you, Severus.”

When Snape had swept from the room, she moved closer to the boy. “What would you like to do, Sam?” No response. “You may do whatever you want, you know. You may sleep, or rest, or I can get you something to read, or we can play a game… does anything sound interesting?” She was trying to treat him ‘normally’ despite the fact that his behavior was not at all normal.

The teen still didn’t respond, and Madam Pomfrey knew that the days were going to stretch out in front of her like this.

Weeks, in fact, though she didn’t know that yet.

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Reparo, Pt 2: Confundo

2005-06-18T18:08:00.000-07:00

Here's part 2.. this should follow naturally no matter what beginning to Reparo you've read. Enjoy!

Part 1 (long, r-rated) | Part 1 (short, PG-13 rated) | Home | Next

Reparo, Part 2: Confundo

The Master pulled him from the hole in the morning. He stared up at the Master while his body was stretched out, causing various muscles to spasm and forcing kinks out of his body. He didn’t feel pain, however; he simply stared up at the Master, waiting for an order. “Potter? Potter!” the Master called, and making no sense of this he ignored it. The Master frowned. “Broken so soon? How disappointing. I had hoped that you would last a bit longer—Savior of the Wizarding World and all.” The Master stared down at him for a long moment before sighing. “No matter. You will just have to assist me in brewing the cure for dissociation. How unfortunate that I did not think to prepare it in advance—it takes several months to complete. However… there is a certain irony in you assisting me in preparing your own ‘cure’.” The Master continued to stare down at him for a moment longer with a smirk on his face before it turned to a glare.

“To the bed.” He obeyed without question, crawling because his ankles would not carry his weight. He always obeyed without question; what else would he do? “Eat this.” Long minutes passed in silence. “Follow me,” and then he was levitated onto the broomstick and it followed the Master out of the room.

Day after day after day passed in this manner. Every night the Master led him to the Hole to sleep; he no longer gave him the Wakefulness Potion. Likewise, he no longer had to be dragged into the hole, nor did he struggle or push against the walls. If he had been conscious enough to be thankful, he would have been happy that the walls did not close in on him as long as he didn’t touch them. However, the part of him that was capable of that was buried deep, deeper all the time. “Harry” had come up several times to see if it was ‘safe,’ but as he was always in the presence of the Master or in the Hole, “Harry” burrowed deeper in terror every time.
His days consisted of following directions. There was one Potion that they worked on all the time, that the Master seemed to find very important, and talked about frequently in a gleeful tone; he didn’t try to understand. He wasn’t meant to understand; he was only meant to obey. And obey he did, day after day after day.

He had no idea how much time had passed. He didn’t keep track of time. He was only here—there was no past, nor any future. There was only now, and the Master, and the Hole, and obeying. He had no doubts, nor questions; he didn’t even comprehend what those could be. “Harry” did, but “Harry” was long gone, never to return in all likelihood.

One day, in triumphant glee, Snape finally turned off the burner below The Potion, the one that he had been concerned with for so long, and ladled a small amount out into a vial. Then he retrieved another potion, already in a vial, and carried the two vials out of the room after ordering him to follow. He obeyed, and was led to the Hole. It was early, but if the Master ordered him in, he would obey.
“Drink this,” ordered the Master, and he drank. “Now drink this.” He drank. “Go in the hole.” He did as he was told, and laid down in the darkness to wait for morning.

He could not sleep this night, however. One of the potions that Snape had given him had to have been the Wakefulness Potion. That would explain why he could not even close his eyes in the darkness, except to blink. He stared into the darkness for long minutes, until suddenly he felt something jerk inside of him. “Harry” was coming, coming up to the surface, taking over, but it was not the tentative process that had taken place in the past. This was violent, forced, and “Harry” was no more pleased than he was. Then “he” was no more, and there was only Harry.
Harry woke on a cold stone floor, curled on his side. He couldn’t remember anything—where he was, why, what had happened before he had gone to sleep.. His mind was a blank. He opened his eyes and saw only darkness. It was dark—too dark. He brought his hands to eyes quickly, fearing that he was blind, but he didn’t know. He started to push himself up to a sitting position and cracked his head on the ceiling, which was disturbingly low—or was it possible that he was too high? Either way, he couldn’t sit up.

“Hello?” he said hesitantly, and was surprised to find that his throat was dry and his voice cracked, as though from disuse. His voice echoed disturbingly, as though the walls were very close. He reached out from his half-raised position and almost immediately felt the wall. He followed it with his hand, and came to a corner. He followed it again, preparing himself to have to move, but came to another corner all too soon. He felt his breath speeding up as he realized that he hardly had to move his arms away from his body to feel the walls on either side, and there was another wall closing him in. He also couldn’t turn over easily, so he began to crawl backward, hoping to get out of whatever small space he had somehow fallen asleep in.
He only made it a *very* short distance backward, though, before he impacted with another wall. This was when he really started to panic, his breath coming faster as he realized what a tiny space he was in. And he couldn’t even remember how—

Suddenly memories came back to him: waking on a bed, tied down, being whipped, being legilimized, and being stuffed into the cupboard. He remembered the potion Snape made him drink, that kept him awake, and then being Legilimized over and over until his mind was composed of only two memories, and then waking up in the hole. He pushed at the walls desperately and screamed as they closed in on him again. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move; he was going to DIE! He screamed and screamed and remembered retreating inside himself, but he couldn’t—what had been a tiny little thread, easy to snap, was now a powerful rope that had dragged him back to consciousness and was keeping him there.

The panic was too much for him to handle, though. Suddenly he lost all control of the magic that he had been holding inside of himself for so long out of fear. It burst out of him in a huge, overwhelming wave, and Harry feared that the hole might collapse on him. He hadn’t given the magic any guidance, and there was no telling *what* it would do.

He was certain he might have passed out from the exhaustion if not for the Wakefulness Potion; instead, he laid still for long minutes, too tired to even panic despite a part of him that was still very upset. The adrenaline rushed back after only a short time, no matter how long it had felt, and he moved to press against the walls that had been right up against him only to find that they were no longer. He felt around and found that the walls were back out again, further even than when he woke up, though not large enough for him to sit up. He could, however, turn over onto his back. He did so and then pressed at the walls, but they didn’t give. He screamed again, in panic, and continued to scream even though he couldn’t tell if the walls were closing in or not. It was never going to end, never, he was going to die in this awful dark hole with the walls closing in around him and his throat screaming for water as loudly as he was screaming out of panic.

Horribly long seconds passed, each one like an hour, and he continued to scream horribly, the panic filling his mind until nothing else could. He couldn’t stand it; his breath came faster and faster between screams, while he dragged them out for as long as possible between gasping for breath again. He was feeling horribly lightheaded but he couldn’t even close his eyes much less pass out. He wished for it, hoped for it, would have begged for it if he could just stop screaming, but he couldn’t.

Suddenly the rumbling of the door and the sudden influx of light snapped him out of his screaming fit. “Lumos,” he heard Snape say, and he almost ran into the man’s face as he scrambled desperately out of the hole and away from it, not caring what he would say. He was not going back in there, he wasn’t. He didn’t even try to get to his feet, just scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees until he was in the opposite corner from Snape, from which he watched him, terrified.

Snape looked into the hole, using his still lit wand, then looked back at Harry, his expression horrified. “What on earth?” he asked rhetorically. Harry eyed him nervously, wondering what kind of new game this was. Then, he decided he didn’t care. He had to get out of here, right now!
This time, he launched himself to his feet, running for the door as fast as he could (which wasn’t very fast). “Stupefy!” he heard Snape’s voice cry, and he gave a strangled cry of terror and tried to outrun the red bolt. It slammed into his back and then he was on the floor, paralyzed, in a haphazard pile of limbs.

“Mobilicorpus!” Snape incanted next, and Harry was surprised to find himself moving to an upright position and floating in front of the man. Why hadn’t Snape resorted to ropes again, like he seemed to find so amusing? What kind of game was this?

Snape had been walking back to his room through the twisted hallways of the dungeons after a long day of making potions for the Order when he heard the strange noise. He stopped, then began walking again, more slowly, following it with his keen hearing born of years of teaching sneaky brats.

He opened the door which it seemed the sound was coming from behind, and gasped as it became slightly louder and he identified it. It sounded like muffled screams, and they just kept going. He moved quickly across the room, only to find an apparently solid wall from which the screams were emanating. Holding his wand out (which he had drawn at the first bit of strangeness) he began with a simple spell. “Alohamora!” To his great surprise, a panel slid up into the wall and the screaming stopped abruptly and Snape lowered himself to his knees and then bent over to look into the small space. “Lumos,” he incanted, and then had to refrain from swearing or cursing the sudden blur that almost collided with his face as it exited the hole. He followed it with his eyes until it finally came to a stop in the opposite corner, at which point he could see what it was—a child.

It was a boy, perhaps fifteen or sixteen and clearly malnourished. He was dressed only in shorts, and had metal that looked heavy surrounding his wrists. His legs, arms and chest were all bare to reveal curving scars covering every inch of exposed skin. The boy had long black hair that hung to his shoulders but was not well cared for, and a slender face, though it was hard to tell if it was by nature or from malnourishment. Snape couldn’t see much else from across the room, but the child’s posture spoke of severe abuse and distrust. Turning back to the hole and peering in with his still lit wand, he understood why. Who would stuff a child in such a small space and leave them? Worse still, who *had* done so, and in Hogwarts no less? And where had all those scars come from?

He looked back toward the boy and spoke his only thought. “What on earth?” The boy eyed him nervously before suddenly bolting for the door. Snape reacted instinctively to the idea of a strange person running around Hogwarts, even if it was a child. “Stupefy!” Watching the stick figure crumble, he almost felt sorry. Then he reminded himself that he was the greasy git and cared about no one (except perhaps Albus Dumbledore). For now, he would take the child to the Hospital Wing, report his presence to Albus, and then wash his hands of the whole thing.
“Mobilicorpus,” he spoke, and then guided the now upright figure carefully in front of him through the corridors toward the Hospital Wing. The school was nearly empty as school had already been out for almost a week, but he heard the portraits that were awake chattering around him about who the child could be and what Snape was doing with him. He glared at several who got a little too loud or nosy, and continued on his way.

These were questions he had, as well—who was the boy, and more important, how had he gotten into Hogwarts and into that hole in the wall? Snape was almost absolutely certain that he was no student, unless he looked *very* different than he had in the past. Snape had all of them for the first five years, and at that point their faces were generally indelibly ingrained in his face. He could usually put a name to a face even years later when he encountered them in Diagon Alley (or, more rarely, Knockturn Alley).

Still, the point was that the boy should not have even been in the school, much less somehow stuffed into that hole, wearing almost nothing and covered with scars. From the way he had been screaming, Snape had to assume that he had not crawled in there of his own desire (which was sensible, for Snape could think of no reason besides extreme agoraphobia that would drive someone to enclose themselves in such a space voluntarily). And since the child had hurried out of the space as if his life depended on it, that was certainly not the case.

“Poppy!” he called out urgently. “Poppy, are you here?” He hoped the matron of the Hospital Wing hadn’t yet left for her summer holiday—he wasn’t sure he could properly diagnose the problems that the boy had, though he could easily brew potions once they had been diagnosed. “Po—“

“Yes, Severus, what is it?” Madam Pomfrey asked, bustling out of her office, though Snape knew her quarters were just on the other side. “You do realize it is the middle of the—oh!” She had seen the boy.

“Yes, oh,” Snape responded drily, directly the boy’s limp body carefully to the nearest bed and lowering him down. “I’ve no idea who he is or how he ended up in Hogwarts, so don’t ask me. I heard him screaming and tracked him down to a hidden little storage hole in one of the unused Potions labs.” He started to turn. “I will leave you to examine the boy and go to report this to Dumbledore,” he stated, and had his back to Pomfrey and was halfway to the door before she stopped him seconds later.

“Severus!” Poppy cried out as she got closer to the boy. “What have you done to him??”
Snape turned around, perplexed. “I just told you I had done nothing. I merely found him in a storage hole, screaming, and brought him up here.”

“Then why is he unable to move at the moment?” Poppy demanded. “Did he move after you took him out of the hole?”

Snape blinked. “He should be unconscious—I instinctively Stunned him when he tried to run. He got himself out of the hole, but didn’t run right away.”

“Come here, Severus,” Poppy beckoned, and he came closer. There he saw that she was indeed correct—the boy’s eyes were wide open, fixed that way by the spell. But he had cast Stupefy…
“What happens if you cast Stupefy on someone who is under the influence of a Wakefulness Potion?” he asked contemplatively. Who had given the boy a Wakefulness Potion he didn’t know, but…

“I’m not certain…” Poppy admitted. “Perhaps paralysis. Enervate!”
Snape might have stopped her from casting the spell to give him movement again so hastily, but it was too late. In an instant, the boy scrambled to a sitting position back against the wall away from them, and glanced back and forth quickly, an expression somewhere between confused and terrified taking over his face.

“What’s your name, dear?” Poppy asked gently, and then the boy’s eyes fixed on Snape and shook his head almost angrily. “What’s happened—who did this to you?” Poppy tried again, but the boy’s eyes were fixed carefully on Snape still.

Snape shifted uneasily under the intense gaze. There were too many emotions to count in the boy’s eyes, most prominent of which seemed to be terror and anger—but though these were common emotions from his students, they seemed to be much stronger in this case. “I am going to report to Albus now, Poppy,” he informed, and then he turned and strode from the room. He could practically feel the boy’s eyes following him the whole way, but he didn’t turn back to check.

Harry stared at Snape as he left the room. What kind of game was he playing *this* time? He shuddered at the thought of the potential results of this, and tried not to think about the comment in horribly poor taste that Snape had made before leaving. He thought even *Snape* wouldn’t joke about Albus being alive when he was long dead—or perhaps he was attempting to confuse Harry. Harry resolved not to be confused.

“Dear, what should I call you?” Poppy tried again. Harry self-consciously pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them, covering some of his scarred chest. The medi-witch sighed when she received no vocal response. “Will you at least lay back so I can examine you?” Harry shook his head mutely. “Those are some nasty scars you have—and what are those things on your wrists for?” she asked, still trying to get him to talk. He shook his head again, but this time pantomimed writing on his hand.

Madam Pomfrey brought him a parchment, a flat surface to rest it on, and a self-inking quill. Harry stared at the parchment for a long time, shaking slightly at the thought of the results if Snape found out he had been communicating with Madam Pomfrey. Finally, he wrote quickly, “You can’t punish me for writing!” and gave the parchment to the nurse, pulling his knees to his chest again as he watched her carefully for her reaction.

Several expressions crossed the medi-witch’s face, including confusion and worry but also anger and frustration, before she looked up at Harry earnestly. “You are not going to be punished for *anything* anymore, child. You’re safe here, I promise.” She wiped a tear from her eye quickly. “Please, will you tell me your name?”

Instead, Harry gestured wildly for her to return the parchment, and then scrawled another message. “Is Snape coming back? Can you—“ he crossed that out, then finished, “Will you keep him away, please?”

Madam Pomfrey looked at him concerned, now. “What does Professor Snape have to do with anything, child?” She handed him back the parchment, but all he did was underline the previous sentences. “I don’t know if he’s coming back,” she responded when he passed it back. “However, I cannot keep him away from the Hospital Wing permanently—he provides me with Potions, and as he was the one who found you, he has the right to follow your progress as well. He won’t hurt you, though,” she assured.

Harry wasn’t convinced. In fact, he wasn’t reassured by her answers at all—so far, she hadn’t said anything that made him feel sure that she wasn’t actually an imposter as part of another ‘game’ that would result in more drowning or time in the hole or another of Snape’s awful punishments. Making up his mind, he kicked the tray that Madam Pomfrey had brought for him to write on at the medi-witch (mentally apologizing in case she was innocent) and then ran for the door.

When he tried to run through the wide-open door, though, it was as though he had run into a giant spider-web—something invisible caught him and then slowly bounced him back into the room. He moved to try again but froze in terror at a hand on his shoulder. Harry turned slowly to see Madam Pomfrey standing behind him, and he quaked slightly at the wand in her hand and the frown on her face. “Let’s go back to the bed, alright?” she ‘suggested,’ waving her wand in the direction of the bed. Harry paled slightly further and followed the lead of her hand on his shoulder nervously.

“Just lay back and relax, dear. Relax, I said—no one is going to hurt you here,” she soothed, but Harry couldn’t relax, part of him waiting for the restraints to begin snapping closed. He shook slightly all over, and when Poppy put her hand on his leg to try to calm him, he jerked away quickly, still quivering.

“All right, stay right here, dear,” the medi-witch told him, and then she walked away. When she returned with a potion, though, Harry had had enough. He rolled off the bed onto the other side and onto his feet, and then began backing away from the woman, not caring that he was going deeper into the Hospital Wing. He couldn’t get out the door anyway, so he just wanted some distance from the woman. She was *not* going to feed him that potion, whatever it was.

“Oh, no,” Poppy responded dejectedly. “It’s just a calming draught,” she reassured, moving forward but slowing when Harry backed up all the more quickly. “It’s not going to hurt you—just help you calm down a little.” She shook her head. “Who would do this to you?”

“An excellent question,” came a familiar voice that Harry hadn’t heard in far too long. He looked to the doorway of the Hospital and to his horror he saw what looked like Dumbledore entering, followed by Snape. He shuddered—this was a truly low blow. He *knew* Dumbledore was dead; he had watched him die, even, much to his horror. Now Snape had someone impersonating him? Hadn’t he manipulated him enough?

He heard a whine and realized that it was coming from his own throat. He backed up a little further and found his back against the wall. He slid down and hugged his knees to his chest, unable to take his eyes off of the specter of the former Headmaster. The blue eyes, so accurate, stared back at him with almost no twinkle. He was striding closer all the time, with Snape trailing behind. “Who did this to you, child?” he asked in his gentlest voice, and Harry closed his eyes and shook his head before snapping them back open nervously, his eyes on Snape.

“Has he spoken a single word?” Snape asked Poppy, and Harry shook his head frantically, for once having the right answer.

The medi-witch’s answer wasn’t *exactly* right, though. “No, he hasn’t spoken, but he wrote a few sentences on a parchment for me. He told me I wasn’t allowed to punish him for writing, and then he asked me if you were coming back, Severus, and whether I would keep you away. I can’t help but feel that there’s something more to this than just you stunning him, Severus. Maybe that you were the one he saw when you found him in that hole?”

“Maybe,” Snape replied contemplatively, his eyes fixing on Harry. Harry curled tighter, praying that the others would stay and keep him safe. “He does seem to have a very bad reaction to me—or is that to anyone? Or to males?”

Harry wished they would stop talking about him as though he wasn’t there. Just because he couldn’t talk… he glanced at Dumbledore for an instant, but couldn’t bear to keep his eyes on the dead man. This was a sick, sick joke. He glared at Snape now, fear turning to anger quickly.

“Would you like some more parchment, dear?” Poppy asked. Harry moved his head to nod, before Snape interrupted her.

“He can speak—I heard him screaming and you even heard him making noise earlier. There’s no reason he shouldn’t just talk to us.”

“How do you know he’s not deaf, Severus?” Albus asked, and Harry glanced at him once again. Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat and then smiled triumphantly when Harry’s head spun to look at her.

“He’s certainly not—I’ve seen him respond to auditory stimuli several times, including just now. Not to mention he followed my directions or at least reacted to them every time I spoke earlier, and I haven’t noticed him particularly watching my lips.” The medi-witch’s tone matched her smile.

“Very well. He’s neither deaf nor mute. That means he can speak, if he chooses to. Should we give him a crutch and remove the need?” Severus pointed out sternly.

“But if he won’t tell me anything otherwise…” Poppy protested.

“Perhaps he will be more cooperative when he’s a bit calmer,” Snape suggested, indicating the vial still in her hand. “That *is* what you were planning, wasn’t it?”

She nodded. “He seems as terrified of potions as anything—he ran when I came back with the potion, he shook when I touched him and when he saw my wand, and when I asked him to lay down he ran again. Speaking of which—Severus, did you place the ward on the door after you left?” The dark man nodded. “Thank you—he almost slipped right out of here, and who knows how long it would have taken to track him down if that had happened!”

So… That spider-web like thing had been a ward. But Snape was back and so was the Dumbledore-imposter, which presumably meant that it had been removed. If he could just get past the three who stood in his way and get to the doorway—he glanced in that direction and felt his heart sink at the distance. There was no way.

Harry had missed some of the conversation, but now Snape was moving toward him, vial of potion in hand. His breath caught in his throat and he gave a little sob of fear, his eyes fixed on the approaching form.

He risked a small glance at the two others and saw only concern on their faces. He looked back quickly at Snape and saw that he was only a step away, already starting to lower himself gracefully down to Harry’s level. He waited only a second longer before leaping past the kneeling man and running for the nearest bed.

Harry had a plan for getting over the beds, and he hoped that they would provide good cover and make it a bit harder for spells to hit him. He reached the first bed and threw himself sideways, rolling over the top of it and landing on his feet sideways. He turned himself forward even as he continued his momentum, getting himself faced forward—just in time to slam into the next bed. He tried to continue even a little bit of his momentum to roll over the bed, but he was stunned from the impact and when he had rolled off the other side he ended in a crouch between the beds.

Snape appeared at the gap between the beds an instant later, and Harry backed against the wall, breath coming faster. He shook his head furiously as Snape approached, right up until the dark man held his head still and tilted it up. “Open up,” he ordered gruffly, and fearfully Harry did as he was told. A sickly sweet potion poured into his mouth, and he swallowed quickly, shaking as he waited to feel the effects.

A hazy, pleasant feeling filled his mind and he tried to remember what he had been so concerned about. Snape helped him to his feet and guided him back to his original bed, where Madam Pomfrey met him. “Thank you, Severus.” She looked at Harry and asked him to, “Just lay back, dear, and relax. Yes, that’s right..” Then she began to run her wand over him, frowning at some points and muttering at others. She tapped her wand against each of the metal armbands, but nothing happened. Snape and ‘Dumbledore’ watched quietly, not saying anything.

Then ‘Dumbledore’ moved right up next to him and took his hand, distracting his eyes from watching Madam Pomfrey’s progress. Harry’s eyes locked on those pale blue ones and he shuddered slightly even through the calming draught. ‘He’s dead!’ his mind screamed, and he opened his mouth to say it aloud before some part of him told him that he wasn’t allowed to speak.

The supposed headmaster squeezed his hand comfortingly. “It’s alright to speak, child. We’re not going to hurt you—we’re going to help you heal. Can you tell me your name?” Harry shook his head furiously. No tricks, no tricks. He pulled his hand from Dumbledore’s suddenly and wrung his hands a few times before tugging desperately at the metal cuffs, opening his already raw fingers with his efforts.

Then suddenly Dumbledore’s hand caught his wrists more firmly, and though he tried to pull them back, the Headmaster gently pulled them apart. “Poppy, I think we may need some light restraints,” he said softly.

Harry screamed and bucked at that word, trying to pull his arms free and get off the bed. He kicked out and then someone was holding his feet as well. His mind fed him vague images of pain, horrible pain, cutting and burning followed by darkness and terror.

Harry had continued to scream and struggle, and he had no idea how much time passed before he realized that no one was touching him any longer except a hand moving through his hair in a comforting manner.

“Hush, it’s alright, calm down.. yes, that’s right, you’re safe, calm down..” He tilted his head back and saw that the source of the soft feminine voice was Madam Pomfrey, her upside down face smiling sadly at him as she continued to comb her fingers through his hair. He tried to move his legs to curl up, feeling uncomfortable flat on his back as he was, and his breath caught in his throat as he realized that he couldn’t move his legs—there were straps over his calves holding them down tightly.

Harry’s body went rigid as he waited for the pain to begin. He couldn’t see Snape, and he didn’t like this game, not at all. How could he enjoy this ‘comforting’ if he knew the pain was coming? He tossed his head irritatedly to dislodge the medi-witch’s fingers from his hair, moaning slightly as they left nonetheless.

The nurse moved around so that he could see her face right-side up and smiled another half-hearted smile. “We named you Sam, so we’d have something to call you. Unless you want to tell us your real name..?” Harry shook his head. He knew the rules. No talking. “Alright, then.. Sam it is.” She paused for a long moment, before sighing and taking a seat beside his bed. “Do you know where you are, Sam?”

Harry hesitated for a long moment. He *thought* he knew where he was, but this brought up the possibility in his mind that this was all a ruse. What if he wasn’t at Hogwarts at all? But then, he had seen all the portraits after Snape had paralyzed him and they walked through the halls, and that should have been hard to fake. And he knew the Hospital Wing intimately, having been here so many times, and it looked the same as it always had. He nodded slowly.

“Do you attend Hogwarts?” she asked next, surprised at his nod. He hesitated before shaking his head. “Then how do you know where you are?” she wondered. He sighed in frustration and looked at the ceiling. He had always looked young for his age, but this was ridiculous.

“My scans say you haven’t had much to eat in the past months.” She paused again, as if contemplating whether to ask the next question. “Do you know how you got here? Professor Snape found you in a tiny storage cupboard, he said.” Harry shuddered slightly but shook his head firmly. He didn’t know how Snape had gotten him to Hogwarts, or why he had brought him out of his quarters if not to come up with an excuse to punish Harry more.

“Alright,” she sighed. “As I was saying, you have not received enough nutrition, so we’re going to need to start you slow—nutrition potions and no solid foods, to begin with. You’ll need to gain at least 25 pounds to be considered healthy.” Harry glanced at her nervously when she mentioned ‘potions’ but his stomach grumbled greedily when he heard the word ‘food’. Madam Pomfrey laughed. “Hungry, are you? Well, I have just the thing.” She turned away and when she turned back, she had a vial of potion in one hand and a bowl in the other.

Harry arched painfully against the restraints when he saw the potion, trying to get away. He shook his head frantically, and heard a pitiful whining sound emerge from his throat again. The nurse set the bowl down on the bedside table and reached back to smooth Harry’s hair back from his face. “Shhh, it’s alright,” she said, calmly running her fingers through his hair until Harry calmed slightly. “It’s good for you; I won’t hurt you, I promise.” He shook his head slightly, but not enough to dislodge her hand. Then she stopped and her hand gently lifted his head instead. “Open up, Sam.. Just drink it and then I’ve got some food all ready for you,” she coaxed. Finally, hesitantly, he opened his mouth, knowing the consequences if he refused. The sludge-like potion filled his mouth and he swallowed quickly.

Harry had hoped that Madam Pomfrey would release him from the restraints and let him feed himself like Snape did, but instead she spooned each mouthful for him. When he had finished eating the whole thing and his stomach was at least mildly satisfied, she set the bowl down and then sat down, smiling sadly at him again. “Headmaster Dumbledore will be here in a few minutes,” Harry stiffened at this news, and she paused and gave him a measuring look, “to ask you some questions about what happened to you. First, though, I thought I should tell you some of what I’ve found about your health, and what can be done.”

She took a deep breath, and then began. “Obviously, there is the malnutrition. You have become quite underweight and, as I said, I plan to help remedy the problem through nutrient potions and by working you back up to regular food. This way we won’t overwhelm your system but you can begin eating like you should have been all along.” She gave him a disapproving look, as though he had been the one responsible for his malnourishment. Then she continued, “Otherwise, you don’t appear to have any permanent injuries—my magical scan sensed injuries in both your ankles, but they appear to have healed sufficiently. As for the scars.. I’m afraid that except for the horizontal ones around your ankles, I will be unable to heal them, as they have already been healed, albeit crudely.”

“Poppy!” ‘Dumbledore’ greeted cheerfully, causing Harry to jump and tense once again. “Is your favorite patient awake?”

“Hello, Headmaster,” the medi-witch grumbled just loudly enough to be heard, and rolled her eyes at Harry over the interruption. He actually started to smile slightly, before he remembered that the fake Dumbledore was in the room, and his eyes darted toward the door, though he couldn’t see the man yet. “Now, what Headmaster Dumbledore said brings up my last point—I think what you need perhaps most of all is rest, but you appear to be under the influence of a Wakefulness Draught. Did you make it yourself?”

Harry shook his head, shuddering slightly. Poppy frowned. “That is unfortunate. Do you know who gave it to you?” Harry nodded slowly, and then caught a bit of movement and looked past the medi-witch to see Dumbledore standing behind her, simply listening to the proceedings with a contemplative expression on his face. Harry shuddered again, half-furious and half-terrified at the idea of a fake-Dumbledore.

Madam Pomfrey was waving her hand in front of his face to get his attention again. “Sam? Sam! Are you alright?” she asked finally when he turned his attention back to her. He nodded impatiently. “Okay… Can you tell me who made it? The reason I ask is that Wakefulness Draughts are tricky things—there are many variants and the antidotes are different and all difficult to make. Our Potions Master, Professor Snape, can probably make it, but we would need to know which variant it was that you took. Otherwise, you will just have to wait until it wears off to sleep.”

Harry shook his head once, shortly, and then looked away, down the Hospital Wing so that he wouldn’t have to see either Poppy or the imposter of the former Headmaster. He heard rustling, and then the all-too-familiar sound of Dumbledore clearing his throat. “Did you like the name I gave you, Sam? Poppy seemed to prefer Jonathan, but I convinced her that Sam was much simpler.” Harry shrugged uncomfortably, refusing to look at the man.

Dumbledore sighed. “Sam, please look at me. I have a few questions that I must ask you.” His tone was slightly harder, and Harry finally looked back at him, albeit reluctantly.

“I must ask about your injuries first,” he began grimly. “I know this will be an uncomfortable subject, so I will restrict myself to necessary questions. First of all, are any of these scars from self-inflicted wounds?”

Harry hesitated and then shook his head. That was mostly true—they couldn’t see the scars underneath the metal arm bands, and it wasn’t as though he had intentionally scarred his wrists or ankles.

Dumbledore sighed. “That is both fortunate and unfortunate. Do you know who inflicted these wounds?” Harry nodded shortly but looked toward the ceiling for a long minute to compose himself before looking back. “Can you tell me—or perhaps write their name?” Harry shivered and shook his head quickly. *That* would be the ultimate in stupidity. Let Snape try to punish him for protecting him instead of giving him up as Harry was sure he expected.

Dumbledore stared down his nose through his spectacles at Harry, his expression still deadly serious and the twinkle completely lacking in his eyes. “Do you justifiably fear that you are still in danger from this person while you remain in Hogwarts?” Harry hesitated for a long moment, and before he could make a decision the supposed Headmaster ordered, “The truth, please, Sam.” At that, Harry found himself nodding timidly. That tone was one he was conditioned to take seriously, even if this wasn’t the true source.

That thought made him tear his eyes from the captivating blue ones staring down at him, and return his gaze to the ceiling. The headmaster’s voice was even harder when he asked the next question. “Is this person currently at Hogwarts?” Harry shrugged quickly, before the Headmaster could see his hesitation. After all, there was a chance that Snape was not present, and he had probably already communicated too much. He shivered violently at the thought. What was he doing answering this imposter’s questions when he *knew* that the man had to be in league with Snape?? He set his mouth in a firm line and resolved to ignore him instead.

“I told you I would restrict myself to necessary questions,” Dumbledore said sternly, “and in doing so, I expected that you would cooperate. I do not sense that you are being cooperative. Do you think this person is currently at Hogwarts?” The tone became more and more firm as the elderly man continued, and Harry almost shuddered before controlling himself. He was ignoring the imposter, he reminded himself. Ignoring.

“Mr.—Sam.” Harry thought this was one of the first times that he’d ever heard Dumbledore stutter, and felt that it only confirmed his feeling that this was an imposter. “Are you listening to me?” Harry saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and then with a gasp his head was rotated around to face Dumbledore once again. He stared into cold blue eyes and gave a little sob. Dumbledore sighed and released the spell, and Harry turned his head all the way in the opposite direction. “Sam… I can’t help you if you don’t answer my questions. From your reactions, you seem to fear that you are in danger. I only want to help assure that you are not, so that you can recover in peace.”

Harry struggled against the restraints, angry that he was trapped here listening to this imposter plead with him just so that Snape could have his ‘fun’. He shuddered, then turned his head back to glare at Dumbledore. He jerked at the restraints again, then gave him a pointed look.

Dumbledore seemed to actually consider the idea. “Poppy said you wrote to her,” he responded slowly. “If I release you from the restraints and give you some parchment and a quill, will you write to me?”

Harry hesitated for a long moment before shrugging. At least that would allow him to express his feelings, and he would get a bit of freedom, too. Just laying here with the few restraints on made him feel constrained, and he kept waiting for the sharp bite of a blade to pierce his flesh again. Dumbledore in turn hesitated for a moment before standing. “Very well. Accio Parchment, Accio Self-Inking Quill,” he called out, and the requested items sprang into the air from a surface Harry couldn’t see and practically leapt into the imposter’s hands. Dumbledore set them on the bedside table, then moved closer and carefully removed the restraints.

Harry sat up immediately and scooted back toward the wall, away from the man. He stopped himself from running, though—he was sure they had warded the doorway again and there was no point in running when he had the chance to share his thoughts. He took the parchment and quill eagerly from the elder man, though he took care not to touch him. Then he began to scrawl a message before Dumbledore even asked a question.

‘I know you’re not Dumbledore. You’re working with Snape.’ Then Harry angrily passed the parchment to the other man, and kept the quill. He clenched it tightly, but not tightly enough to break it, as he watched the older man’s blue eyes run over the message and then look up at him in surprise.

“I assure you that I am Headmaster Dumbledore; Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, to be exact. And I do indeed work with Professor Snape, as his colleague and his employer. However, I sense that there is something more to your… accusation. Would you care to clarify?” Harry’s glare only darkened as the old man insisted that he was someone who was dead. He snatched the outstretched parchment and wrote beneath his previous scrawl.

‘I’m not stupid. Albus Dumbledore is dead; I saw him die. Snape can’t punish me for talking.’ Then he held the parchment out, slightly calmer after writing all that out, and waited for a reaction.

Dumbledore looked at the parchment, then looked up at Harry. Then he looked down at the parchment again, before looking up with a sigh. “If you did see Albus Dumbledore die, then something most unusual is occurring, for I am he. As for the latter..” The man’s expression suddenly darkened. “Are you implying that Snape was in part responsible for your current condition? That this was some sort of ‘punishment’?”

Emboldened by the fact that he wasn’t yet being punished, Harry rocked forward and snatched the parchment from Dumbledore’s hand before leaning back to write another message. ‘I’m not implying anything. I’m not going to be punished.’ He contemplated crumpling the parchment and throwing it at the older wizard, before thinking better of that plan. No need to anger the man. He slid the parchment across the bed instead.

If Dumbledore’s face was any indication, his darkening mood would have spawned a severe storm if it could have. He stood up suddenly, causing Harry to jerk back. “I will be back,” he said curtly, and then he strode suddenly from the room, an aura of power surrounding him. Harry hugged his knees, watching the door worriedly. Was he going to get Snape? Had Harry somehow made a mistake despite all his care?

Dumbledore had left and Madam Pomfrey was still in her office, leaving Harry alone in the Hospital Wing, unable to go to sleep because of the Wakefulness Draught. He rocked back and forth nervously, and began to tug and pull and scratch at the metal arm bands, not evening noticing that his fingers were raw and bleeding. Time passed interminably slowly, and his nervousness only increased with each passing minute. He didn’t even realize that his attempts to remove the arm bands were becoming frantic until gentle but firm hands closed over his hands and pulled them apart. When he recognized the hands, he shrieked in panic and kicked out violently at the slender figure now standing next to the bed.

Snape had evidently not expected this reaction and released Harry’s hands after the first two blows from Harry’s panicked form. Harry scooted back and off the bed, backing up against the next bed and staring wide-eyed at Snape, breathing hard and fast. Only after he had escaped from Snape did he realize how bad his panicked response had been. Snape always told him not to fight; he had finally made the mistake that Snape had been waiting for. He gave a choking sob and inched out toward the open aisle, looking for an escape.

Snape’s expression started out shocked and slightly pained; then it moved to angry; now it seemed to rest on determined. Snape gracefully moved around the bed and made his way toward Harry, who had made it to the aisle and was now backing away as fast as Snape approached.

“Sam,” Snape spoke with an expression of distaste, which he wiped from his face a moment later. “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t know who did, but I’m only here to help.” Harry shook his head, not willing to be convinced. This was a trick to get him to cooperate until they had him in the dungeons; then he would have to pay the price. “Didn’t I rescue you from that storage cupboard?” Snape’s voice sounded a bit more desperate now.

You *put* me in that hole!! Harry’s mental voice screamed back, and he continued to back away from Snape’s still advancing figure—right into the back wall. He nearly screamed in panic before he turned his body and began moving along the wall toward the corner, still facing Snape. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man, or who knew what he would do? Harry found it somewhat miraculous that he hadn’t been strung up to the ceiling yet, before he remembered that Snape was trying to get him to cooperate for some reason. He shook his head again, and then stiffened in pure terror and he hit another wall and realized that he was backed entirely into the corner, Snape only feet away from him.

Where was Dumbledore?! Harry’s eyes frantically sought out the old man, who sat watching from the other side of the room, before he remembered that that was *not* Albus Dumbledore and that there was no one to save him. No one to save him… He slid down the wall, shaking violently, unable to look at Snape, waiting for the first flash of pain.

Snape was kneeling down; Harry tried not to see but he couldn’t close his eyes. He was grasping Harry’s hands, and Harry half-heartedly tried to pull them back, his eyes glazed over in panic. He was staring at his own hands, now, watching them be pulled away from his body. When he saw the wand, though, he began to struggle frantically. One of his hands pulled free, and he held it protectively to his chest, curling over slightly to protect it. Snape’s hand only tightened further on the remaining hand, and Harry shrieked in anticipated pain as the wand was waved.

No pain came, and Harry blinked and stopped shrieking. Snape released his hand with a sigh, and Harry hugged it back to himself. The pain isn’t always obvious at first, his mind reminded him, and he struggled viciously against Snape as he pulled Harry’s other hand away from his chest and cast a spell on it as well. He screamed again as the wand waved and then he clenched both hands together, hugging them tightly to himself and rocking slightly, staring at the point where Snape’s knees had been. Had been, because he had stood to his feet and he was backing away, slowly. He left even Harry’s peripheral vision and Harry heard murmuring from halfway across the Hospital Wing, but didn’t bother to look up. He was waiting, terrified, for the pain to come, for Snape’s plan to come clear. What had he done to Harry’s hands?!

A smaller figure was approaching, Harry saw through vision clouded by wet eyes. When the figure moved close to him, he cowered back into the corner with a whimper, even though he knew it wasn’t Snape. They had let Snape come back, had given him more time with Harry, even after Harry had begged and pleaded as much as he could without exposing himself. Why, why would they do this to him??

A hand ran through his hair in a calming motion, and he shivered and fought the impulse to relax. He had to stay alert; Snape was going to hurt him! The feeling was so comforting, though, and he was so tired, and there was no pain yet. A soft voice was speaking to him, a continuous string of syllables that his mind wasn’t able to comprehend yet but that wrapped him in warmth nonetheless. He relaxed slightly, and then slightly more, a little of the panic-induced haze clearing from his mind.

“Shh, hush… That’s a dear, just relax… That’s right, you’re doing it! Just calm down… take a deep breath.. now let it out.. And another.. That’s it! Slow, deep breaths.. There’s nothing to worry about; you’re safe here..” Harry followed the directions, and the haze cleared even further. “Sam? Sam? Can you look at me? Look at my face,” the voice said next, and he realized that he was Sam. He looked up slowly from the point he had been staring at on the floor, and into Madam Pomfrey’s concerned eyes. A smile sprang onto her lips as he finally met her gaze. “There you are!” she exclaimed, relieved. “We thought we’d lost you, for a moment there.”

Harry wrinkled his brow, opening his mouth for a moment to ask what she meant before closing it in realization. No talking. She looked slightly disappointed, but wiped it from her face quickly. “You panicked quite spectacularly, Sam. And, Sam.. I want to show you something. Do you remember what you did to your hands?”

What he did to his hands? *Harry* hadn’t done anything to his hands; *Snape* had done something to his hands. But then, grasping for memory, he remembered pain in his fingers, getting worse as he tore more and more at the unforgiving metal of the arm bands. Some very deeply buried part of him had known that he was tearing them open, that his hands would be bloody, but he hadn’t cared. The arm bands had to come off, because beneath them laid his only escape—the only one that might ever work. Snape had proven that he would follow him even up here.

“Sam.. Sam!” Harry blinked and refocused on Madam Pomfrey’s face, which looked worried. “Sam, do you remember?” He nodded slowly. Gently, she reached forward and grasped Harry’s hands, pulling a whimper from him, and peeled them apart with care. “Look at them now, Sam.” He blinked and then looked down at his hands. They were intact, perfectly intact. The ‘S’-shaped scars were still there on his palms, and he curled his hands reflexively to hide them and the remembered pain from himself. The important thing, though, was that his fingertips were not broken or bloody at all. He stared in disbelief, unable to believe that Snape had cornered him just to heal him.

Gently the medi-witch turned Harry’s hands over so they were palms down, and began to massage them gently. Quietly, she said, “Professor Snape wanted to show you that not only was he not the one to hurt you, but he is sorry you were hurt and wants to help.” Harry tensed at the proclamation of Snape’s innocence. “Alright, alright,” Madam Pomfrey said quickly when she sensed the tension. “You don’t have to believe it right away, just… give him a chance? I’ll be right here; he won’t hurt you.”

It came down to how much he trusted the medi-witch, he knew. Snape *hadn’t* hurt him yet while she was present. Did that mean that her presence was restraining him, or only that he was restraining himself? Was he biding his time in a deliberate attempt to get Harry to trust Poppy and eventually him? Harry shivered, not liking to think about it. He *wanted* to trust her; he really did. He looked up from his hands, which she was still gently massaging, and into her warm grey eyes. He stared as deeply as he could, and saw no sign of the malice that showed so clearly in Snape’s eyes whenever he was plotting Harry’s pain. Still, Harry couldn’t make the decision to trust.

Sensing his indecision, she switched from massaging his hands to squeezing them reassuringly. Then she began to stand slowly, drawing him up with her. For a brief moment Harry hesitated, refusing to follow her lead, but then he let himself be drawn up out of his crouched position, until he was standing shakily. “Let’s get you back to your bed,” Madam Pomfrey said warmly, encouragingly. She clucked her tongue and shook her head in mild disapproval. “You’ve exhausted yourself.. You’re not supposed to exert yourself, when you’ve taken a Wakefulness Draught, for just this reason,” she lectured in a tone that Harry was well-used to. He was too tired to protest as he allowed himself to be guided back to his bed. All he wanted to do was rest; as soon as he was on the bed he curled up on his side, and Madam Pomfrey pulled a blanket over him, making no mention of restraints.

Harry tried to close his eyes, but the potion wouldn’t let him do more than blink. He gave a frustrated little sob, moving his hands from under the blanket in order to rub irritatedly at his moist eyes. When he took his hands away, he suddenly saw a black robe right in front of him. He followed it upward and stiffened when his eyes reached Snape’s face, even if it was impassive and not angry or malicious looking at the moment.

He scooted back toward the other side of the bed, contemplating running again, until he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Jumping, he jerked his head around to find Madam Pomfrey behind him. She smiled comfortingly. “It’s okay, Sam.. I’m right here. Professor Snape just has something he wants to say to you.”

“Sam,” Snape began, his normally smooth tone unnaturally stiff. “I want you to know that I will never harm you or ‘punish’ you, for anything.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you understand?”

Harry stared at him, eyes wide. Someone must have a lot of control over him, to force him to say that. Harry knew he would never make a promise like that, even if he also knew that just because he had said such a thing didn’t mean that he wouldn’t immediately turn back on it if he ever got Harry in the dungeons again. He shrugged in response to the question, unsure how else to answer.

“’Sam,’” he began again uncomfortably, “would you.. would you tell me your real name? Out loud?” Harry stared at him for another long moment, his eyes still wide, and then shook his head quickly, almost frantically. He scooted back a little further, against Madam Pomfrey’s hand on his shoulder. He was safe, he tried to tell himself, but with Snape right in front of him trying to trick him into speaking aloud, it was hard to believe. He shook his head again. He was *not* being tricked.

Snape sighed as though in disappointment, and looked over Harry’s head. “I tried,” he said in a defeated tone. Then after another moment of silent communication between the two, Snape turned on his heels and stalked from the room.

Harry was surprised to find that the shaking started after Snape had left, this time. It was as though he could feel the salt water in his lungs, could feel his skin being peeled open, as though the walls—he tried to focus on the hand on the shoulder, the only thing anchoring him to now. As if in response, Poppy’s hand tightened reassuringly on his shoulder, making it even easier for him to separate himself from the nightmarish feelings rising up in him.

The medi-witch sighed, and Harry rolled slowly so that he could see her face. She looked almost as drained as he felt. He pointed to her and then pantomimed sleeping before pointing to her again. She shook her head, a small, fond smile on her face. “No sir, Sam. If you’re staying up all night, then I am. And since we still don’t know how to brew the antidote, I’m afraid you are going to be up all night.” Her eyes were sad as she said this.

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. He *did* want to sleep, but he couldn’t. In comparison to the memories of pain and terror that he had, though, this was positively boring. Harry rolled onto his back languidly to stare at the ceiling.

“Oh!” Madam Pomfrey exclaimed, and he looked over to see her with a mischievous grin on her face. “Let’s play Boris the Muggle’s Suitcase! I have a copy in the back room for when children visit.” She bustled away, apparently not noticing Harry’s perplexed expression.

She noticed it when she came back, though. “Oh… are you Muggle-born, dear?” Harry frowned and half-shrugged, shaking his head. He couldn’t explain his entire situation to the woman, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Part of him enjoyed being Sam, completely unknown, just as he had enjoyed being a Muggle after defeating Voldemort. It wasn’t that he hated magic, he just hated the attention that the Magical world always gave him.

“But.. surely you’ve played Boris before, if you’re not Muggle-born! Or… maybe your parents were half- and half-?” Harry nodded hesitantly, deciding that was the best explanation. “Well, then, I’ll just have to teach you!”

Boris the Muggle’s Suitcase was the most bizarre game that Harry had ever seen. Each of them had a suitcase that had four legs and trotted around the board on command. They would spin a spinner and it would land on a number, and then the suitcase would trot along the path before having items added or subtracted based on the space that it stopped on. Sometimes Harry even got to choose which direction to go. The goal was to make sure that Boris had everything he needed when he got wherever he was going, but many of the items were bizarre, at least for a Muggle—things like parchment and quills and ink, or even a Portkey! Harry snorted at the idea of a Muggle actually finding these things in his suitcase, and the medi-witch beamed.

After they finished the game, Madam Pomfrey began to talk to Harry about random things. She told him about her niece and nephew and their exploits at a Wizarding primary school. As she told story after story, her pauses between new stories became longer and longer, until Harry looked away from the ceiling to smile at her form lying asleep in the chair where she had been sitting. He wished he could rearrange her, as her neck was going to be sore from the position, but he was happy that *someone* could sleep.

Even though he knew that Poppy wanted him to stay in bed, he couldn’t stand to stare at the ceiling or laying on his side staring at nothing when he knew he would never sleep. Finally, he climbed out of bed and silently tiptoed to the large windows at the end of the ward, where he sat on another bed and stared out into the darkness, looking for any movement.

Snape had hurried down to the dungeons as soon as he could, seeing that the boy was *not* having a positive reaction to him. He and Dumbledore had exchanged glances after he had gone into a full-blown attack at the mention of restraints, and once he had been secured so that he would not harm himself or Poppy, they had silently agreed to give her a chance to calm him down, as he didn’t seem happy with either of them.

Thus, he was in the middle of brewing another nutrition potion (which was complicated but not overly time-consuming) when the Headmaster suddenly burst into his lab, in one of the highest towering furies that Severus had ever seen. He immediately vanished the potion, realizing it as a lost cause, and stared wide-eyed at the approaching old man, who was no less dangerous for his age.

“Severus, please tell me that you have had *nothing* to do with the condition in which Sam finds himself,” the Headmaster half-ordered and half-pleaded. Snape’s eyes widened further and he shook his head quickly.

“No, Albus, never,” he said quickly, shaking his head. Why would Dumbledore doubt him now, after so many years of trusting him implicitly since he voluntarily turned against Voldemort? Dumbledore looked deep into his eyes, and he stared back nervously, not blinking, allowing the old man to dig deep into his mind to assure himself that the truth was being told. Finally the headmaster relaxed, the anger draining out of him quickly.

“Thank goodness. He said some things…” Dumbledore began wearily before trailing off.

“He spoke?!” Snape questioned, surprised. The boy seemed to be terrified at the idea of talking aloud; or maybe that was only in his presence?

But the headmaster was shaking his head slowly. “No, alas, he still refuses to speak aloud. However, he will at times answer by nodding or shaking his head, and he consented to write several things with a quill and parchment when I insisted that he answer.” Dumbledore frowned. “The boy is extremely confused. He claimed several times that I was not myself, that I was in fact dead, and also insisted that I was in league with you. His statements regarding you were.. disturbing, at the least.” His hand tightened on a piece of parchment, wrinkling it slightly.

“May I see?” Snape asked tentatively. The headmaster nodded after an instant of hesitation, and passed him a parchment with three messages messily scrawled across it.

‘I know you’re not Dumbledore. You’re working with Snape.’
‘I’m not stupid. Albus Dumbledore is dead; I saw him die. Snape can’t punish me for talking.’
‘I’m not implying anything. I’m not going to be punished.’

Snape stared at the strange text for a long moment before looking, perplexed. “What did you ask him?”

Dumbledore sighed. “He wrote the first message without prodding as soon as I gave him parchment and quill, but I had been pressing him to answer a question of whether or not he feared that the person who had harmed him was within Hogwarts. He never answered the question straightforwardly, but as you can see, he appears to have been convinced that he will be ‘punished’ if he tells the truth—or indeed talks, for that matter.”

“And that you are dead, for that matter,” Snape added slowly. He was used to brainstorming sessions with the headmaster in which he spoke his thoughts in order to help Albus organize his own. “What are you going to do?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I don’t know, Severus. That is a very damaged boy that we have up there.” He paused for a long moment and then searched Snape’s eyes again, not Legilimizing him this time but merely looking. “I know you did not have anything to do with his condition, Severus, but… you never *would* do anything like this, right?” Snape had never heard Dumbledore plead for reassurance this way; he was always the solid rock that everyone else could look to for assurance. “Not even, say, with Harry?”

Having seen the mess that was the boy in the Hospital Wing, Snape’s lips actually parted in a small gasp before he recovered himself. “No, Albus,” he breathed, desperate to know that the headmaster believed him. “No, I could never… I *left* Voldemort, Albus, you of all people know that..”

“I do, Severus,” the older man replied softly. “I know you left him.. and yet, I cannot help but admit that there is a part of you that enjoys seeing people who you think deserve suffering get what they deserve. Can you honestly say that you would *never* deliberately hurt anyone, even someone who you hated and felt fully deserved it? Like, for instance, Harry?” Though Albus was clearly telegraphing his sorrow at even feeling the need to bring this issue up, his words cut deep into Snape. Nonetheless, part of him was furious at the second mention of Potter in such a short period; Albus’ obsession with the boy inevitably evoked this feeling of furious jealousy in him.

“You see..” Albus insisted, pressing further before he could even open his mouth to speak. “Imagine if I were gone, and Harry were an adult—if you were able to take full control over him, for some reason, would you be capable of ‘breaking’ him in order to alleviate this anger and jealousy that you feel?”

Severus wanted to scream an immediate denial—he could never carve a child’s skin apart, starve him, stuff him in a storage cupboard, or do any of the other things that had doubtless been done to assure that the boy might never speak aloud again. Why would Albus ask him such a thing?! He forced himself to pause, though, like he knew the headmaster expected, and was horrified to feel a tiny, almost entirely buried feeling of satisfaction at the idea of ‘breaking’ Potter so that he knew who was the better of the two. A much larger part of himself, though, screamed in pain at the look in the Headmaster’s eyes. “No, Albus, no,” he gasped. “What can I do to prove it to you? How can I show you?” He wanted to show the headmaster, but he also wanted to prove to himself that he could never—that he *would* never—deliberately cause someone to suffer in that way.

Albus smiled sadly, but his eyes shown with relief at that. “You have, partly, my child.. I can hear the pain in your voice at the idea. But…”

“But what?” Snape replied hesitantly, unsure what Dumbledore had in mind but sure that there was something.

The older man sighed. “There is a very injured boy up there in the Hospital Wing, Severus, who is terrified of you,” he began sadly. “If you really want to show me—to show both of us—that you are not the man who would do that, you could give him a great deal of help in recovering.” Albus stared into his eyes searchingly.

Severus cringed. He didn’t want to care; he wanted nothing more than to prepare the potions that Poppy needed to heal him as best he could be, and then wash his hands of the matter. “I—“ he started, and then stopped again, hanging his head as he struggled internally.

“You needn’t tell *me* your answer, Severus,” Albus replied softly. “If you decide to help, you can tell it to Sam, who cannot even tell us his name for fear of being punished. You can tell him that he’s not going to be punished, not by you, and help Poppy to help him in more ways than just with Potions..”

Snape nodded slowly, still struggling with the idea. “I’m going to go back up to the Hospital Wing to check on young Sam,” Dumbledore said finally. “I’m afraid I left in quite an abrupt manner, and I’m worried about the reaction he might have had.” Sighing, Snape nodded again and followed, gaining him a happier smile from the headmaster. He could hardly appreciate it, though, as his mind was trapped on thinking what *he* could do for that boy.

When they entered the Hospital Wing, he heard Albus gasp and glanced up quickly. The boy was sitting on the bed back against the wall, curled up tightly and rocking slightly. What was horrifying, though, was that he was tearing at the metal cuffs around his wrists that they had so far been unable to remove—and the only things he was tearing were his already bloodied fingers.

Snape glanced at the older man, but he was just watching, not *doing* anything. Almost without thinking about it, Snape stepped forward and gently but firmly grasped the boy’s hands and pulled them apart, preventing him from doing further harm to himself. His first goal had just been to stop the boy from causing more damage, but now he wanted to heal him. Maybe that could be a way he could help him like Albus had said?

Almost as soon as he took the boy’s hands, though, he heard a shriek and then he was being kicked, surprisingly strongly considering the child’s small, undernourished frame. He let go of the hands instinctively and the boy was off the other side of the bed and already backed against the next bed.

Snape stared at him. The child was breathing hard and staring at him wide-eyed, his expression horrified. For an instant Snape felt anger flash through him; the boy *should* be horrified, for attacking him when he was only trying to help. Then he remembered that that was what he was here for—to help. And that meant even if the child was terrified of him at first. He moved quickly around the side of the bed and began to move toward the boy, who had given a panicked sob and moved out into the aisle as well.

“Sam,” he started, and then realized that his distaste for the false name was evident in his voice and paused to remodulate, “I’m not going to hurt you.” He didn’t know what else he should say; he wasn’t usually required to comfort children. “I don’t know who did, but I’m only here to help,” he tried. The boy shook his head, obviously not convinced. “Didn’t I rescue you from the cupboard?” He winced inwardly at how much it sounded like he was pleading with the boy.

This didn’t seem to help. In fact, Snape could have sworn that he saw a flash of anger cross the boy’s face before it was replaced once again with terror. He continued to follow the boy, slowly trying to approach him even as the child backed away—right into the wall. Then he began to back away along the wall, moving toward the corner. The boy stiffened noticeably when he bumped into the other wall and presumably realized that he was trapped.

For the first time, the boy’s eyes left his own. He followed his glance and saw Albus standing on the other side of the Hospital Wing, looking worried but encouraging nonetheless. Then Snape turned his attention back to the boy, who was sliding down the wall, pale as a ghost and shaking violently. Snape moved as slowly and unthreateningly as he could as he approached and knelt down in front of the child. The boy’s eyes were flitting around but staring generally at the floor, insistent on not looking at him.

Reaching forward, Severus took the boy’s hands in one of his own. The boy feebly attempted to pull his hands back, to disallow him from pulling them away from his body, but it was a simple matter to keep his hold on them.

Severus removed his wand from his holster, and suddenly the boy’s feeble efforts trebled into something worth contending with. He actually pulled one hand free, but Snape tightened his hold on the other firmly, realizing that this was actually better. When he waved his wand to heal the raw wounds, he had to concentrate carefully to not be distracted by the boy’s sudden shriek.

Snape kept his hold on the hand for another instant, examining it to be sure he had done no harm. The spell was not intended to hurt, and the boy’s shrieking had subsided, even if it had sounded like he was in agony when Snape had first begun to wave the wand. He released the healed hand and watched as it was pulled quickly to the boy’s chest. Then he reached out and firmly pulled the other, still bloody hand away from his chest, against the furious struggling of the child. Surely he could see that his hand had not had any harm done to it? Snape sighed and waved his wand again to heal the remaining wounds, wincing as the boy shrieked again.

Obviously his presence was not helping at the moment. The boy was clenching his hands to his chest and rocking, much paler than he had been before on the bed. Snape stood quickly to his feet and backed away, hoping to see the boy recover once he was not within sight. To his dismay, the child still seemed frantic.

“That was a fine first effort, Severus,” Albus told him quietly as they watched Madam Pomfrey move past them, bustling toward the disturbed boy in her most maternal mode. Snape would normally have straightened at the proud tone in his mentor’s voice, but all he could feel was defeat.

Snape sighed heavily. “I didn’t help, Albus; I only terrified him further.”

“Perhaps, but… watch, for a few more minutes,” the headmaster replied cryptically.

They could not hear what the medi-witch said to her patient, but it was clear that he was calming slightly under her ministrations. Snape raised an eyebrow when she managed to get the boy to relinquish his hands to her with minimal protest. The child stared blankly for a long minute before seemed to suddenly *see* his hands and realize what had happened, and he stared in disbelief. Snape suppressed a snort; the boy hadn’t even realized until he’d been told what had been done.

Severus was nonetheless impressed when she managed to keep her hold on his hands without panicking him by massaging his hands. This seemed to have a mild calming effect on the boy, though whatever they were discussing quietly was creating tension as well. Finally, she squeezed his hands and pulled him to his feet. Snape stepped to the side where the boy’s flitting eyes were less likely to see him, and then followed quietly as he could, watching the woman fuss over the child, bundling him toward the bed and then covering him up with care when she had. Snape advanced to the foot of the bed, where Sam couldn’t see him but he could see the boy and Poppy.

Poppy made eye contact with Snape and he nodded to the tired form. She looked hesitant for a moment, before she nodded. Having permission to talk to the child, Snape moved around in front of him and found the boy rubbing his eyes with his now-healthy hands. The tiny curled up form looked like nothing more than a very large five-year-old when he did that. Then the child took his hands away from his eyes and stiffened when he saw Snape.

Sam scooted back across the bed, his eyes fixed on Severus, but Snape was thankful to see him stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder from Poppy, who was still behind him in an act of astounding foresight. She smiled at Snape briefly and then said, “It’s okay, Sam.. I’m right here. Professor Snape just has something he wants to say to you.” The boy’s head turned back around to look right at him, and Severus took a deep breath.

“Sam,” he started, despite the fact that the name still sounded odd in his mouth, especially when he knew that it was not the boy’s true name. “I want you to know that I will never harm you or ‘punish’ you, for anything.” He waited, but the boy just stared at him. “Do you understand?” Another long stare, this time punctuated by a very small shrug. The boy seemed to be trying to decide what response would be okay to make.

Snape stared down at him, wondering how he could get the point across to the boy. Then he thought of something. “’Sam’,” he asked, “would you.. would you tell me your real name?” He cringed inwardly at his stutter, and then realized he needed to add something, “Out loud?”

The child stared at him, and Severus hoped that he was actually considering the request. The boy’s response, though, was to shake his head back and forth vehemently, and then to scoot back further toward Madam Pomfrey and away from himself. The boy then shook his head *again*, as though unsure whether his first response had gotten across.

Snape sighed and glanced over the boy’s prone form to Madam Pomfrey. “I tried,” he said disappointedly, and though she smiled sadly and tilted her head in commendation to his efforts, he swept from the room cursing himself for a fool for even trying.

Part 1 (long, r-rated) | Part 1 (short, PG-13 rated) | Home | Next

Reparo, Pt 1 (PG-13 version)

2005-06-18T17:58:00.000-07:00

Here is the toned-down version of the beginning of Reparo (which some of you may know as Broken). I will warn you that torture is still dealt with in this, and it could be seriously disturbing. Judge for yourself whether you're willing to read it.

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Reparo, Pt 1: Broken

Hunger... pain... terror...

These three things had ruled Harry Potter's life for nearly three weeks before he finally broke, finally snapped and retreated deep within his own mind.

Harry had been living a happy--no, content was a better word. Harry Potter had been living a content life as a Muggle. His education at Hogwarts had been completed. Voldemort had been defeated. Hermione had disappeared, Dumbledore was dead, and Ron was as good as. Nothing had remained to tie him to the Wizarding World; nothing, until he had suddenly woken up into a nightmare.

Waking up without remembering having gone to sleep was not a regular occurrence for Harry Potter. Nor was waking up with such a headache, unable to figure out where he was. The only other time he could recall was when his Muggle friends had convinced him to join a drinking contest, and he had vowed never to do so again.

The situation became even more odd when Harry realized that he was lying face down; he never slept on his stomach. Ever. He moved to lift his head to see what was going on, and discovered to his surprise that he couldn’t. Nor could he move his arms or legs—there seemed to be something tying him to the bed in the position he was currently in.

“Awake already, Mr. Potter?” a snide voice spoke from above him, and Harry could never forget that voice. “Professor” Snape, Dumbledore’s “trusted” spy to Voldemort. They had never resolved their issues; Harry had chosen not to take Potions and avoided the man as much as he could. But he thought he had left him long behind when he had fled to the Muggle world after defeating Voldemort, so what was Snape doing here?

“Mmph,” was the only response he seemed to be able to make, as his face fit down into the table so that he could breath but not so that he could move his jaw. He tried to lift his head again, and once again met with complete failure.

“Most impressive. Albus was not incorrect—you have a very high tolerance for magic and are able to dissipate it quite quickly. That will make this… more interesting.”

This? What was this? “Mmmph?”

“Ah. Yes. We are in Hogwarts. We will be remaining in Hogwarts. You will *not* be running away. You *will* be taking this potion. Shall we do this the easy way, or the hard way?” The man seemed to be taking some kind of sadistic pleasure in whatever was going on, but Harry was not interested in giving him what he wanted. He remained stonily silent, unable to respond coherently. “I will be releasing the restraints now, and you will move slowly.” Harry counted as the straps were removed—one over the back of his head, one over his neck, three over each of his arms, one across his lower back, one across his upper thighs, and two each across his lower legs. The man was paranoid!

Harry wearily pushed himself up out of the depression in the bed, moving slowly as requested, until he was sitting up with his legs hanging off the edge. There he glared at Snape before quickly glancing around the room. It was small and dank, clearly in the dungeons, and seemed to only consist of the bed and a single door. Larger than his cupboard, but smaller than Dudley’s second bedroom. Finally he looked back to Snape.

The Potions Master was standing nonchalantly between him and the door, holding a steaming vial of some potion that Harry couldn’t identify. He watched Harry looking around, an evil smile playing at the corners of his mouth; the mirth was apparent in his eyes, all at Harry’s expense. When Harry’s eyes settled back on him, he held the potion vial out to Harry.

Harry took the potions vial, and sniffed it cautiously. The odor was foul, as was the source. He was certainly *not* taking any potion from this man, especially not after being tied down and without being told what the potion was intended to do. He began to move as though he was going to drink it, before throwing it with as much force as he could muster at the ground. The glass vial shattered and the potion hissed on the stones as he smirked triumphantly at Snape.

“Ah,” Snape replied, apparently not at all put out. In fact, he looked rather… delighted? “The hard way, I take it. Very well.” His wand appeared in hand and Harry instinctively reached for his before realizing that he had been disarmed—as well as being undressed down to his shorts. Bare feet and no shirt wouldn’t get him far in the dungeons, much less outside in the dead of winter in Scotland. Harry just had time to take this in before his wrists suddenly snapped together and a rope appeared around them and yanked them upward, until he was hanging suspended from the rope by only his wrists.

It only took a few seconds for the pain to sink in—the ropes were digging into his wrists and cutting off circulation to his hands. He yelled in outrage and tried to find the floor with his feet, but he was too high up. “You—you—“

Snape chuckled darkly in amusement. “I did give you a choice, Potter. Now, I think that will keep you quite occupied while I rebrew the potion, don’t you? But I’d rather keep an eye on you as well. Come along.” He twitched his wand and Harry “followed” him, still suspended from above. Harry kicked around several times more furiously, but the rope wouldn’t let him get any swinging momentum, and the movement only caused the rope to tear into his wrists more deeply.

“You can’t do this, Snape! Let me down, now!”

Snape chuckled as Harry stopped moving in the corner of his lab, just far enough away that he couldn’t reach the walls. “I can’t? And why, pray tell, can I not?”

“Because—I haven’t done anything wrong! And this kind of punishment is not allowed! And—Merlin—you’re going to take my hands off!”

Snape sighed and rolled his eyes. “Very well.” He moved his wand slightly and Harry was lowered so that the balls of his feet were just barely touching the ground. Relieved, he immediately put the weight on the balls of his feet, though it took some effort to balance so that he was not putting any weight on his wrists.

While he did that, Snape had already collected ingredients and was brewing the potion. “Fortunately for you,” he commented idly, “this potion only takes fifty minutes to make.”

Harry groaned at that. Already his calves were beginning to burn from having to hold his weight and his balance on the balls of his feet. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded, trying to distract himself from the pain in his wrists and his legs alike. “Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?”

“Albus,” Snape replied shortly, adding another ingredient. “Made me promise to bring you back here after you had defeated Him.”

“Why?” he asked again, but now there was a slight bit of hurt in his voice. Why would Dumbledore tell Snape to drag him back here?

“That is for me to know,” Snape answered snidely. “Now shut up, or I will make this even *less* pleasant for you.”

Harry repeated to himself over and over that all he had to do was make it through this torture, a little longer, a little longer still, and take whatever the idiotic potion was, and then he could *leave*. It was harder and harder to remind himself, though, as his wrists were rubbed raw and his calves began to cramp from the effort of taking the weight in their turn.

Without even a word of warning, Snape swished his wand and the rope holding Harry up disappeared. He collapsed in a heap, his legs cramping too badly to hold him up. A moment later, Snape dragged his head up with a fistful of his hair and ordered, “Open.” Harry saw red for a moment before he realized the consequences of his *last* rash action and opened his mouth as requested. He gulped the disgusting potion as quickly as he could.

“What..?” he finally gasped out when it was all down and Snape had released his hair as though it were as greasy as his own.

“Just a little precaution,” Snape replied with a smirk, “in case someone happens to see you down here.”

“What?!” he exclaimed, trying to get his legs under him but stopping when they began cramping painfully. “You—I’m *not* staying here! I have a *life*!”

“I said it before, and I will say it again. You can make this easy, or you can make it hard, but you are staying here.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed again, and this time he made an even stronger effort to get to his feet. He collapsed to the floor shaking, though, when the cramps began in his center and expanded to encompass his whole body. He lasted perhaps thirty seconds before passing out from the pain.

Snape had given Harry three rules to follow: 1) No fighting 2) No magic 3) No speaking

Any violation of these rules was brutally punished. Snape seemed to take a maniacal sort of glee in any opportunity to 'punish' Harry, and he found many such opportunities.

The first time Harry had fought against Snape's instructions, he had been whipped across the backs of his knees. This was far from pleasant, but Harry would soon come to wish that he had continued to be punished that way. Especially considering Snape was a master Legilimens.

After hardly a moment of hesitation, Snape ordered, “On the bed!” When Harry moved slowly climbing to his feet, Snape sneered, “Or would you rather ten more lashes first?” Despite the pain that it caused, that got Harry moving.

When he was flat on his back and feeling incredibly vulnerable once again, Snape began to go about putting the restraints over him, maliciously slowly. Harry flinched badly as the first one snapped closed over his ankle, but managed not to struggle. One, two, three on his leg, and then each was tightened so that he couldn’t move it even an inch. One, two, three on the other leg; the tightness stopped his leg from shaking but he couldn’t relax it. One across his hips, almost painfully tight. One across each of his upper arms, and one across each of his elbows. When Snape pulled the straps tight over his wrists, he nearly screamed with the pain of it, his breath catching in his throat. Then Snape pulled a strap tight over his forehead, and then one over his throat, tight enough that Harry began taking quicker, shallow breaths in panic that he would be unable to get enough air.

“Ahh… There you are, all snug,” Snape smirked. “Tell me, Potter, what is your worst fear? And be honest, now… I’ll find out if you’ve lied.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what Snape meant by “finding out” and snapped his eyes closed before managing an answer. “Dementors,” he gritted out, praying that Snape didn’t have any handy.

“Oh?” Snape replied, his voice a calm mockery of curiosity. “Are you quite certain?”

“Yes,” he answered with as much certainty as he could muster in his nervous voice.

“Then you will not mind opening your eyes so I can be sure.” Harry felt the bed begin to move so that he was more upright than supine. “Open your eyes!” Snape demanded harshly, and Harry snapped them open in obedience. Snape incanted something and suddenly Harry could no longer blink. His eyes immediately began watering painfully, and he turned his eyes as far away from Snape as possible. He would *not* make this any easier.

“Ah. I almost forgot.” Harry refused to look back even as he saw movement out of the corner of his eyes, but a moment later he saw something close to his face and smelt something foul. “Open.” Suddenly refinding his defiance after the last potions disaster (of which he still didn’t know the result), Harry clenched his mouth shut. Snape growled. “I do NOT have time for this.” A sharp blow to his stomach knocked all the breath from Harry’s lungs painfully, and he instinctively opened his mouth wide to gasp for breath. Instead, he got a mouthful of a chunky, disgusting potion, and then his mouth was sealed shut magically. He was going to *suffocate*! He swallowed frantically and tried to get air through his nose, before Snape finally cancelled the spell holding his mouth closed and he gasped for breath, his eyes still held wide open and watering all the more painfully. He coughed as much as he could from his restrained position, trying to get the bit of the potion that he had apparently aspirated away from his lungs.

He waited for pain to follow the potion, or at least something, but felt no effects. Snape gave him two minutes of silence, then ordered in a dangerously soft voice, “Look at me, Potter.” Harry’s eye muscles were getting sore from looking anywhere but directly in front of him, but he refused to look the man in the eyes. “Twenty lashes when we are finished here, and five more for every second that you hesitate!” Snape roared, and after trying to resist for a few more seconds the promise of certain pain made Harry look at Snape.

“Legilimens.”

Darkness. Harry tried to empty his mind but everything was spinning. Memories began to flash past, faster than he could comprehend, of his Muggle life after escaping the wizarding world. Then it was memories of his time in the Wizarding World, with Snape lingering cruelly on those that Harry had forced himself to forget, they were so painful. The worst, however, was the last memory that Snape found, buried deep in his childhood--so deep, in fact, that he did not remember it at all.

It was dark, and cold. He had been locked in the cupboard for almost a week now, and his stomach screamed for food. He hadn’t even been given water in the last day and a half, the Dursleys were gone, the house was deathly silent, and Harry knew suddenly that he was going to die, die in this wretched cupboard, and the walls were closing in on him and he was screaming, clawing at the door, at the walls, desperate to get out, but no one came, and the panic just continued on and on and on...

The memory replayed, again and again and again, until Harry honestly thought he was there and dying, and the suddenly return of the dimly lit dungeon room and the restraints cutting into his tense body were completely foreign to him. He was gasping desperately for air, struggling to no avail, completely panicked.

Snape slapped him across the face and with a gasp he realized that there were no walls to close in on him. His former professor was *grinning* in front of him, darkly, sadisticly, idly rolling his wand back and forth in his hands. “Dementors, you say?” he smirked. “I’ve never seen Dementors do *that* to you. How do you suppose I should punish you for lying to me?”

Harry stared in wide-eyed horror at the man, his breath coming faster just at the thought of being locked in another dark, closed space, left to die. His mind was still spinning, memories and emotions replaying themselves in the back of his mind as he tried desperately to focus, to muster a response.

That memory had spawned Snape's new favorite punishment: the hole. It had probably been a storage cupboard, but Snape had magically adjusted it so that it was not only too small for Harry to either stretch his legs or sit up, but when Harry pressed against the walls in an attempt to escape, they would close in on him until eventually he could no longer move. Snape used this punishment consistently but sparingly, though; there was no point in leaving Harry in there for more than an hour, as he would pass out from terror long before the hour was up.

Snape was trying to break Harry; there was no doubt of it. He fed him one meal a day, and continued to create new, more painful punishments that he could gleefully administer to Harry. Another favorite (of his, not of Harry's) was submerging him repeatedly in tanks of extremely hot and freezing cold water. He would leave Harry under the water until his lungs forced him to inhale the water, then lift him out and perform a spell that would painfully contract his lungs and force all the water out of them. He would repeat this until Harry was voluntarily inhaling the water in hopes that it would get him out faster.

Nor did Snape's 'creativity' stop there...

“I must make an appearance in my main lab today, and you will be coming with me. Therefore…” he waved his wand and Harry flinched instinctively, but his shorts (the only thing he had on him when he woke here) had been painlessly transformed into robes. “This is a temporary transfiguration,” Snape commented, “and it will last eight hours at the longest.” Harry felt any buried hopes of running away deflate inside of him.

“Follow me,” he ordered, and Harry did, down long corridors until he was thoroughly lost. Walking was a painful proposition also, as the salt water from the night before had left the wounds on the backs of his knees more painful than ever.

Harry followed orders closely and carefully in preparing ingredients for many hours before he realized why they were there.

“Severus!” a familiar voice called out from the doorway. He turned and saw Professor McGonagall, now Headmistress of Hogwarts. “Oh, and who are you?”

Harry stared at her in surprise. Didn’t she recognize him? Wasn’t she going to save him? He cringed as Snape’s hand fell on his shoulder, and tensed when the man spoke. “I’m sure you remember me mentioning my cousin, Salazar.”

“Oh yes,” McGonagall replied. “Well, it’s nice to see you, Salazar.. I’m very glad you’re feeling better.”

Harry opened his mouth to plead desperately for her help, but Snape’s hand tightened painfully on his shoulder, reminding him how much of a mistake talking could be. “He’s mute,” Snape said, “he can’t talk. And he’s not very comfortable around new people, as I’m sure you can see.” Indeed, Harry was shaking in fear now, terrified because he knew that Snape knew that he had been ready to speak.

“Very well, Severus. I’m glad you haven’t managed to kill yourself in a Potions accident.” She looked at Harry, and he pleaded with his eyes, but didn’t dare try anything more. She merely smiled sadly and said, “Take care, Salazar.” Then she turned and left the room, and Harry sagged slightly in disappointment.

Snape’s voice suddenly appeared right next to his ear; the man must have leaned down to put his head there. “Let me explain something to you, Potter. You are *mine*. No one will recognize you. No one knows where Harry Potter is, thanks to you. No one will miss you. And you are incapable of escaping. The sooner you accept this, the better it will be for you.”

Harry stepped away from him, shaking now in anger rather than fear. “I am *not* yours, Snape! Someone will miss me, someone will realize that you are mistreating me, or I will escape! You can’t keep me here!” he asserted in a hoarse voice that he could hardly believe belonged to him.

Snape shook his head in a terrible mockery of sadness, delight gleaming in his eyes. “Oh? Perhaps you need a bit more ‘education’ tonight. A few more ‘games.’” Harry backed away a little further, shaking his head. “Get back here, Potter,” Snape suddenly ordered angrily. “You still have ingredients to prepare!”

Harry clenched his fists and tried to make a decision. Part of him wanted desperately to run, but the intelligent part of him knew he had no chance right now, while Snape was around, and he would do better to show himself as submissive so he might be given a chance to escape at some point. He didn’t want to find out what kind of ‘games’ Snape had in mind, but he was going to find out either way. Slowly, he stepped forward to the desk and followed Snape’s barked directions, just as he had done before.

His legs were tired and his stomach was grumbling when Snape finally called an end to the day. He guided Harry back toward the room, and Harry’s breath caught with fear when they entered the room and he caught sight of the wall that held the hole. Snape, however, guided him past that room and into the next room. “On the bed. Face down,” Snape ordered curtly. Harry did as he was told, but wondered what was going on. Surely Snape wasn’t letting him sleep already?

The potions master took his usual deliberate care closing and tightening each strap. Then he did something to the bed and it split, pulling Harry’s arms and legs out so that it was as though he lay spread-eagled on the bed. If he thought he had felt vulnerable before, he felt even more so now.

Snape whispered in Harry’s ear again, “Have you ever cut yourself with a knife, Potter?” Harry felt his stomach drop precipitously. “I think I’ll give you a few permanent reminders of who you belong to—how does that sound?” Then slowly, painfully, he began to cut Harry’s flesh, starting on his neck.

The pain lasted for what seemed hours, though Harry had no idea how long it took. Methodically Snape covered every piece of Harry’s skin with markings, always dragging the knife through Harry’s skin slowly and sometimes stopping to pull the cuts open further, causing Harry nearly to cry out. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached and still gasped in pain several times when Snape cut a particularly sensitive area, like the inside of his thigh or the bottom of his foot.

When Snape had finally finished with his ‘artwork’ he paused for a long moment, then began to take the straps off. Harry didn’t know what Snape had planned, but he hoped desperately that he considered this agony punishment enough.

“Turn over, Potter.” Harry had to bring his legs and arms in to be able to turn, and he hesitated before returning them to their places away from his body. He nearly screamed at the pain when his tender open skin contacted the bed, but confined himself to a pained moan. Then, to his terror, Snape began to close the straps around him again, still holding the bloody knife in his hand. Harry felt his breathing come faster.

“Do you not like this Potter? I thought you wanted to ‘play’ some more—why else were you so defiant?” Harry refused to look at Snape anymore, focusing on the ceiling and trying to think of anything other than the pain as his injuries were pressed into the bed by the tightening straps. Then Snape moved up to right next to him. “You don’t want to watch, Potter?” Then he strapped Harry’s head tightly to the bed before casting a spell that locked his eyes open. “It would be rather hard, wouldn’t it? But I can help.” He cast a reflecting spell on the ceiling, and suddenly Harry had a perfect view of his body, laying out as if captured in the middle of a snow angel. It was as though it was a bizarre mockery of the famous picture by Michelangelo—Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by a flash of the knife.

Snape was wielding it and nearing Harry’s body, and Harry sucked in air in fear. He braced his body for the pain, but wasn’t ready for Snape’s slow movements as he carved an ‘S’ into Harry’s tender skin. Then he moved slightly over and carved another, and then another. Harry couldn’t believe the man’s sadism, and he gritted his teeth at the pain and refused to cry out. Snape stopped after carving an ‘S’ on the inside of Harry’s elbow and stretched it carefully, causing Harry to hiss. Then he continued down Harry’s arm, ending with a relatively deep cut on Harry’s palm which hurt more than any of the others so far.

The potions master continued his ‘work’ in a clockwise fashion around Harry’s body, leaving no area untouched. Harry’s eyes watered both in pain and from being locked open for so long, and through the swimming tears he could see his skin becoming more red than white. He wanted to clench his fists to help to deal with the pain, but Snape had placed one strap over his fingers to hold his hand open. Not that clenching his fists would help when Snape had carved them deeper than anywhere else. Finally, after too long for Harry to comprehend, Snape had covered every area on Harry’s front with the bloody ‘S’s. He began to undo the straps once again.

“Oh dear, you *are* a mess, aren’t you? Well, we’ll just have to clean you off, don’t you think?” Snape smirked, and conjured chains that snapped around Harry’s wrists and lifted him off the bed to follow Snape. Harry had a terrifying sinking feeling that he knew *exactly* what Snape had planned.

Harry had known what Snape had planned--more time in the water tanks, with salt water that burned painfully into the fresh wounds in his skin. Just remembering it caused his breath to catch in his throat as if he were choking on water at the very moment. He didn't have to 'remember' it, however, since Snape made sure to remind him several more times.

Some of the 'punishments' had been more specific to the 'crime.' When Harry had attempted to run when Snape had left him alone in the lab one day, Snape had retaliated by methodically spraining his ankles and forcing Harry to sit all day on a broomstick: a broomstick without a cushioning charm, and one which Harry could not control at all.

As days wore on in this way, Harry became demoralized, but he was not broken. He refused to give in to Snape, even though he could see no way to escape. Finally, one day three weeks in, Harry saw his chance.

He spent every day, all day, in the Potions lab, but now he was sitting on the broomstick with no cushioning charm and was quite sore by the end of the day. His ankles, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be improving at all. He had a the feeling that having them hanging down below the rest of his body was not a good thing, but Snape didn’t seem particularly worried about him healing—if he had, Harry was sure that he would have offered a potion to reduce the noticeable swelling. Instead, he just added a step to their nightly ritual—rotating Harry’s ankles around painfully as Harry’s screams were muffled by the bed.

His mood became lower and lower. Harry was beginning to feel that Snape was correct—he was never going to escape, not at this rate, and no one knew about him or cared. If someone finally *did* think to look for him, why would they think to look at Snape’s cousin Salazar in the dungeons of Hogwarts?

These thoughts, combined with the continued torture each morning and more importantly each evening (each time he was stuffed into the hole, it felt smaller and more terrifying), left him in a perpetual state of wishing that he was dead. Thus it was no surprise that when he was given the task to chop Hellebore and Snape left the room temporarily, he took his chance. He ingested the Hellebore, knowing that it was highly poisonous, then carefully but effectively slit his wrists, taking bizarre pleasure in the fact that he had to cross two of Snape’s ‘designs’ on each arm in order to do so. Soon blood was flowing quickly out of his arms, though, and he was feeling more lightheaded all the time. He was hardly still upright on the broom when Snape re-entered the room and saw what he had done.

The next hour was blurry at best to Harry. Snape immediately closed the wounds on his wrists, then secured him to the lab table when he tried to claw the slits back open. Then he forced him to drink a potion which resulted in him ejecting every content of his stomach (which fortunately only included bile and the Hellebore). Once Harry was done vomiting, he was forced to drink another potion, which finally brought the world back into focus, much to his dismay.

“What did I tell you about fighting, Potter? Didn’t I warn you that you belong to me, and there will be no escape?” Snape ranted. Harry glared murderously in his general direction from his position still stuck to the lab table. Snape’s voice lowered dangerously. “So, you thought you would take away my fun and attempt to obliterate any signs of my ownership at the same time, did you? Well, that can be remedied.”

Only this evil Snape could possibly call his response a 'remedy.' Snape had carefully recarved each of the 'S'-shaped wounds, and each time he immediately poured a potion that burned deep into the wound. When he turned Harry over to continue, he also informed him that the potion would heal the wounds but leave a permanent scar--one that could not even be removed by magic.

But that was not the worst of it. Snape knew somehow how to find the very center of Harry's being and break him from the inside out.

Finally Snape completed his sickening task, and Harry stared in horror as Snape stepped back and he saw only his body, covered with bright red “S” shapes that were already scarring with a burning pain. Then Snape raised the bed up and stared into Harry’s eyes, which were still locked open. “Legilimens,” he spoke, and then the memories were spinning through his mind.

Harry fought the intrusion with all that he had, but Snape hammered painfully through every defense, aiming straight for one memory—his ‘favorite’ memory. When he reached it, he played it over and over, and Harry was back in the cupboard, trapped and terrified, his claustrophobia overwhelming him. Then, after more iterations than Harry could count, he realized that he was no longer being forced to relive the memory. Snape was swimming in front of his teary eyes, and speaking again. “Legilimens.” Once again Snape had to start at the most recent memories and batter through until he reached the one he wanted, and began to repeat it again, and again, and again, until that was all Harry knew. And then Snape was out of his mind, and then he was battering back in, and again, and again, until the only thing that Harry could do was bring the memory to the front of his mind, offering it to the man so that he would not have to suffer the agony of having his mind torn apart anymore.

Then, though, the Legilimens was battering through, searching for another memory, a memory of complete panic in the hole, of it closing on him until he could no longer move and all he could do was scream. He repeated the process, over and over, until all Harry could see was the dark hole, and then he began to alternate rapidly—he was reliving the cupboard, and then the hole, and then the cupboard, and then the hole, and then the cupboard, the hole, the cupboard, the hole, the hole, the hole—he snapped out of the memories only to see pitch blackness. He felt out with his hands and realized to his terror that he was *in* the hole. He tried to fight back against the Legilimency, but there was no one else in his head, and this was real, too real. He pushed desperately at the walls, clawed at them, screamed desperately in panic, and wished for oblivion. He closed his eyes, willing himself to pass out in panic as he always had before, but it unconsciousness was not coming.

As the walls closed in on him tighter and tighter and his breath came faster, Harry suddenly realized that this was it—his life, hunger, pain, and terror, forever. He was never going to escape; Snape was never going to stop. Harry felt something inside him stretching thinner and thinner with the panic, until finally, it snapped—the tenuous thread that had been holding him to his sanity was gone.

Harry Potter was broken.

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Reparo, Pt 1 (R-rated version)

2005-06-18T17:44:00.000-07:00

Note: I'm going to be testing something here. But, here is the R-rated beginning of Reparo--all 32 pages of it! For those of you who may be reading this for the first time, this is a torture heavy beginning to the story. While the actual events that occurred do not change between the two versions, the torture is less explicitly described in the second version.

As for a little summary: Harry has graduated Hogwarts, and defeated Voldemort. He is living life as a Muggle, until the beginning of the story. Someone (guess who) decides that Harry needs to be back at Hogwarts. Will Harry ever be able to leave again?

Read on if you're interested..

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Reparo, Part 1: Pain

Waking up without remembering having gone to sleep was not a regular occurrence for Harry Potter. Nor was waking up with such a headache, unable to figure out where he was. The only other time he could recall was when his Muggle friends had convinced him to join a drinking contest, and he had vowed never to do so again.

The situation became even more odd when Harry realized that he was lying face down; he never slept on his stomach. Ever. He moved to lift his head to see what was going on, and discovered to his surprise that he couldn’t. Nor could he move his arms or legs—there seemed to be something tying him to the bed in the position he was currently in.

“Awake already, Mr. Potter?” a snide voice spoke from above him, and Harry could never forget that voice. “Professor” Snape, Dumbledore’s “trusted” spy to Voldemort. They had never resolved their issues; Harry had chosen not to take Potions and avoided the man as much as he could. But he thought he had left him long behind when he had fled to the Muggle world after defeating Voldemort, so what was Snape doing here?

“Mmph,” was the only response he seemed to be able to make, as his face fit down into the table so that he could breath but not so that he could move his jaw. He tried to lift his head again, and once again met with complete failure.

“Most impressive. Albus was not incorrect—you have a very high tolerance for magic and are able to dissipate it quite quickly. That will make this… more interesting.”

This? What was this? “Mmmph?”

“Ah. Yes. We are in Hogwarts. We will be remaining in Hogwarts. You will *not* be running away. You *will* be taking this potion. Shall we do this the easy way, or the hard way?” The man seemed to be taking some kind of sadistic pleasure in whatever was going on, but Harry was not interested in giving him what he wanted. He remained stonily silent, unable to respond coherently. “I will be releasing the restraints now, and you will move slowly.” Harry counted as the straps were removed—one over the back of his head, one over his neck, three over each of his arms, one across his lower back, one across his upper thighs, and two each across his lower legs. The man was paranoid!

Harry wearily pushed himself up out of the depression in the bed, moving slowly as requested, until he was sitting up with his legs hanging off the edge. There he glared at Snape before quickly glancing around the room. It was small and dank, clearly in the dungeons, and seemed to only consist of the bed and a single door. Larger than his cupboard, but smaller than Dudley’s second bedroom. Finally he looked back to Snape.

The Potions Master was standing nonchalantly between him and the door, holding a steaming vial of some potion that Harry couldn’t identify. He watched Harry looking around, an evil smile playing at the corners of his mouth; the mirth was apparent in his eyes, all at Harry’s expense. When Harry’s eyes settled back on him, he held the potion vial out to Harry.

Harry took the potions vial, and sniffed it cautiously. The odor was foul, as was the source. He was certainly *not* taking any potion from this man, especially not after being tied down and without being told what the potion was intended to do. He began to move as though he was going to drink it, before throwing it with as much force as he could muster at the ground. The glass vial shattered and the potion hissed on the stones as he smirked triumphantly at Snape.

“Ah,” Snape replied, apparently not at all put out. In fact, he looked rather… delighted? “The hard way, I take it. Very well.” His wand appeared in hand and Harry instinctively reached for his before realizing that he had been disarmed—as well as being undressed down to his shorts. Bare feet and no shirt wouldn’t get him far in the dungeons, much less outside in the dead of winter in Scotland. Harry just had time to take this in before his wrists suddenly snapped together and a rope appeared around them and yanked them upward, until he was hanging suspended from the rope by only his wrists.

It only took a few seconds for the pain to sink in—the ropes were digging into his wrists and cutting off circulation to his hands. He yelled in outrage and tried to find the floor with his feet, but he was too high up. “You—you—“

Snape chuckled darkly in amusement. “I did give you a choice, Potter. Now, I think that will keep you quite occupied while I rebrew the potion, don’t you? But I’d rather keep an eye on you as well. Come along.” He twitched his wand and Harry “followed” him, still suspended from above. Harry kicked around several times more furiously, but the rope wouldn’t let him get any swinging momentum, and the movement only caused the rope to tear into his wrists more deeply.

“You can’t do this, Snape! Let me down, now!”

Snape chuckled as Harry stopped moving in the corner of his lab, just far enough away that he couldn’t reach the walls. “I can’t? And why, pray tell, can I not?”

“Because—I haven’t done anything wrong! And this kind of punishment is not allowed! And—Merlin—you’re going to take my hands off!”

Snape sighed and rolled his eyes. “Very well.” He moved his wand slightly and Harry was lowered so that the balls of his feet were just barely touching the ground. Relieved, he immediately put the weight on the balls of his feet, though it took some effort to balance so that he was not putting any weight on his wrists.

While he did that, Snape had already collected ingredients and was brewing the potion. “Fortunately for you,” he commented idly, “This potion only takes fifty minutes to make.”

Harry groaned at that. Already his calves were beginning to burn from having to hold his weight and his balance on the balls of his feet. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded, trying to distract himself from the pain in his wrists and his legs alike. “Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?”

“Albus,” Snape replied shortly, adding another ingredient. “Made me promise to bring you back here after you had defeated Him.”

“Why?” he asked again, but now there was a slight bit of hurt in his voice. Why would Dumbledore tell Snape to drag him back here?

“That is for me to know,” Snape answered snidely. “Now shut up, or I will make this even *less* pleasant for you.”

Harry repeated to himself over and over that all he had to do was make it through this torture, a little longer, a little longer still, and take whatever the idiotic potion was, and then he could *leave*. It was harder and harder to remind himself, though, as his wrists were rubbed raw and his calves began to cramp from the effort of taking the weight in their turn.

Without even a word of warning, Snape swished his wand and the rope holding Harry up disappeared. He collapsed in a heap, his legs cramping too badly to hold him up. A moment later, Snape dragged his head up with a fistful of his hair and ordered, “Open.” Harry saw red for a moment before he realized the consequences of his *last* rash action and opened his mouth as requested. He gulped the disgusting potion as quickly as he could.

“What..?” he finally gasped out when it was all down and Snape had released his hair as though it were as greasy as his own.

“Just a little precaution,” Snape replied with a smirk, “in case someone happens to see you down here.”

“What?!” he exclaimed, trying to get his legs under him but stopping when they began cramping painfully. “You—I’m *not* staying here! I have a *life*!”

“I said it before, and I will say it again. You can make this easy, or you can make it hard, but you are staying here.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed again, and this time he made an even stronger effort to get to his feet. He collapsed to the floor shaking, though, when the cramps began in his center and expanded to encompass his whole body. He lasted maybe thirty seconds before passing out from the pain.

For the second time in as many days, Harry woke up face down, tied down to the table. This time, though, he realized his surroundings more clearly. That didn’t stop the thrill of panic, though, when he struggled with all his might to push away the restraints and didn’t move an inch. He was *completely* helpless with Snape, who was proving to be quite sadistic. He needed to get out of here.

“First rule,” came the silky sneer from so close that he would have jumped if he could have, “is that fighting will only cause you pain.” As he said the last word, Harry felt something hard and thin snap painfully against the backs of his knees. It was all the more painful because he could not cringe or pull away, and he made a small sound of pain before he managed to control himself. “So just relax—you’re going to be there as long as I so desire it.”

Harry tried to focus on the pain instead of the panic, but he couldn’t relax no matter how much Snape demanded it. The stinging pain came suddenly in irregular intervals, so that he was tensed for it even though he could not cringe away. He knew that the thin skin on the backs of his knees had long since been torn open when Snape finally tired of his “game”.

“Pain never has been a sufficient motivator for you, has it, Potter?” the professor sneered. “Well, no matter. I have *other* ways of dealing with you.” Finally, the straps were removed, one by one. Harry hesitated until he knew that the last one had been removed, and then ignored the screaming pain in his knees as he leapt from the table in the direction of the door.

To his dismay, he had actually moved *away* from the door. Snape must have rotated the table during the night, or else this was another room, he realized. He spun around and found Snape between him and the door, scowling but with a maniacally pleased glint in his eyes.

“That is most certainly fighting. I *did* warn you what would happen…” He swished his wand and Harry screamed as the ropes reappeared around his already raw wrists and all his weight was dragged up toward the ceiling. It didn’t stop there either—Snape bounced his wand idly and the pain repeated with each bounce of the ropes. “I *could* simply break—or even remove—your legs. Or perhaps blind you. But Albus made me promise not to do any permanent damage. Pity.” Finally he stopped bouncing Harry and left him simply hanging, and Harry gasped desperately for breath through the haze of pain. “But it *does* seem that even you could learn from this.” He swished his wand and Harry dropped painfully to the floor, not making any effort to get to his feet but holding his wrists close to his body protectively.

“Back on the bed, Potter. On your back, this time.” Harry looked up with a glare on his face but obeyed grudgingly, sure that Snape would happily suspend him from the ceiling once again if he refused. Blood was already streaming down his arms from his freshly irritated wrists; he didn’t need it any worse. Gingerly he got onto the bed, and reluctantly he laid back, the back of his head fitting into the same depression as his face had before.

Snape moved slowly, the malicious grin on his face making it clear he was savoring the moment, as he moved to begin restraining Harry, beginning with his legs. “No!” Harry reflexively jerked away, before stuttering out an excuse, “You can’t—don’t—I’ll stay here!”

“I can see that,” Snape replied dryly, glancing pointedly at the leg that had not returned to its proper position. Shaking slightly, Harry began to move his leg back, fighting the urge to run. Before Snape could place the restraint over his leg, though, he couldn’t take it and leapt from the bed, this time in the actual direction of the door.

Snape let him make it to the door, which was solid stone and had no visible handle. Harry heard a quick swish and then an incredible pain blossomed on the back of his knees, toppling him to the ground in an instant. He didn’t make an effort to get to his feet, this time, just waited for the pain to continue.

“Hold your hands up over your head,” ordered Snape, and Harry could hear that he was suddenly right behind him even if he hadn’t heard his footsteps. Shaking violently in anticipation of what was to come, Harry reluctantly obeyed. “Hmm,” Snape made a noise in his throat, as if he were simply considering how the wrists could have become so bloody. “Hmm,” he repeated, wrapping his hand around one of Harry’s wrists, causing him to cringe at the pain. “You’ll understand, I cannot let these attempts go on,” Snape said finally, releasing his wrist. “Stand up.”

Harry began to lower his wrists to help push himself to his feet, but suddenly ropes appeared around them—not pulling him upward, but not allowing him to lower his arms down either. With effort he managed to get shakily to his feet without the help of his arms, and the ropes forced him to continue raising his arms with the rest of the body so that they continued to be over his head. He tried not to think about what Snape might be planning this time.

“Stand four feet from the wall.” Harry shuffled to a position that he thought was about four feet from the wall, and Snape must have been satisfied as he did not yell at him. “Arms straight in front of you.” The ropes lowered to allow him to do as he was told, nervously. “Hands on the wall,” was the next order.

Harry glanced back at Snape incredulously at this, and almost shuddered at the knowing smirk on the man’s face. Harry’s hands, even stretched out in front of him, were still over a foot from the wall. “You’ll need to lean forward—but don’t lower your arms,” Snape offered viciously. Turning back to the wall, Harry suddenly had a sinking sensation that he knew what Snape was doing. He leaned forward and ‘fell’ into the wall, feeling the already raw flesh on the backs of his knees stretch tight.

This time he knew the swish was coming even before the backs of his knees exploded in pain. He screamed at the pain and bent his knees slightly but managed not to fall, miraculously. “Straighten your legs!” Snape demanded, and Harry did. Another swish and his knees bent even further this time. “Straight!” repeated Snape angrily, and Harry did. Swish! With the third blow Harry’s knees collapsed under him. He would have collapsed directly to the floor, but the ropes remained around his wrists, holding them at the same height, and he screamed again as the ropes dug in and he swung against the wall.

“Get back up, you weakling!” The ropes lifted him painfully up so he was standing again four feet from the wall, then lowered just far enough for him to stretch out and reach the wall again. He was nearly weeping from the pain just from the injured flesh stretching, and then another swish sounded and he screamed painfully and collapsed again.

Again and again Snape forced him back to his feet and back to “the position” in order to be whipped again. Despite his best efforts Harry was sobbing and screamed with every lash, and this only seemed to spur Snape on. Finally the ropes disappeared instead of dragging him to his feet again, and he lay painfully on the floor, never wanting to move again. Both his knees and his wrists were streaming blood.

After hardly a moment of hesitation, Snape ordered, “On the bed!” When Harry moved slowly climbing to his feet, Snape sneered, “Or would you rather ten more lashes first?” Despite the pain that it caused, that got Harry moving.

When he was flat on his back and feeling incredibly vulnerable once again, Snape began to go about putting the restraints over him, maliciously slowly. Harry flinched badly as the first one snapped closed over his ankle, but managed not to struggle. One, two, three on his leg, and then each was tightened so that he couldn’t move it even an inch. One, two, three on the other leg; the tightness stopped his leg from shaking but he couldn’t relax it. One across his hips, almost painfully tight. One across each of his upper arms, and one across each of his elbows. When Snape pulled the straps tight over his wrists, he nearly screamed with the pain of it, his breath catching in his throat. Then Snape pulled a strap tight over his forehead, and then one over his throat, tight enough that Harry began taking quicker, shallow breaths in panic that he would be unable to get enough air.

“Ahh… There you are, all snug,” Snape smirked. “Tell me, Potter, what is your worst fear? And be honest, now… I’ll find out if you’ve lied.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what Snape meant by “finding out” and snapped his eyes closed before managing an answer. “Dementors,” he gritted out, praying that Snape didn’t have any handy.

“Oh?” Snape replied, his voice a calm mockery of curiosity. “Are you quite certain?”

“Yes,” he answered with as much certainty as he could muster in his nervous voice.

“Then you will not mind opening your eyes so I can be sure.” Harry felt the bed begin to move so that he was more upright than supine. “Open your eyes!” Snape demanded harshly, and Harry snapped them open in obedience. Snape incanted something and suddenly Harry could no longer blink. His eyes immediately began watering painfully, and he turned his eyes as far away from Snape as possible. He would *not* make this any easier.

“Ah. I almost forgot.” Harry refused to look back even as he saw movement out of the corner of his eyes, but a moment later he saw something close to his face and smelt something foul. “Open.” Suddenly refinding his defiance after the last potions disaster (of which he still didn’t know the result), Harry clenched his mouth shut. Snape growled. “I do NOT have time for this.” A sharp blow to his stomach knocked all the breath from Harry’s lungs painfully, and he instinctively opened his mouth wide to gasp for breath. Instead, he got a mouthful of a chunky, disgusting potion, and then his mouth was sealed shut magically. He was going to *suffocate*! He swallowed frantically and tried to get air through his nose, before Snape finally cancelled the spell holding his mouth closed and he gasped for breath, his eyes still held wide open and watering all the more painfully. He coughed as much as he could from his restrained position, trying to get the bit of the potion that he had apparently aspirated away from his lungs.

He waited for pain to follow the potion, or at least something, but felt no effects. Snape gave him two minutes of silence, then ordered in a dangerously soft voice, “Look at me, Potter.” Harry’s eye muscles were getting sore from looking anywhere but directly in front of him, but he refused to look the man in the eyes. “Twenty lashes when we are finished here, and five more for every second that you hesitate!” Snape roared, and after trying to resist for a few more seconds the promise of certain pain made Harry look at Snape.

“Legilimens.”

Darkness. Harry tried to empty his mind but everything was spinning. Memories began to flash past, faster than he could comprehend, of his Muggle life after escaping the wizarding world. Then suddenly they stopped, lingered in a memory, one so painful that Harry had thought he had blocked it out of his mind.

Ron was screaming, screaming so loudly, there was nothing Harry could do. His scar was exploding with pain and he was frozen in place by a spell and held tightly by several Death Eaters besides. Voldemort’s cackling in sadistic pleasure was getting louder even as Ron’s voice could no longer sustain the scream. His mouth was open in a silent scream as he continued to writhe in horrible agony, until even that slowed and finally stopped. Suddenly, Harry was released, and he could hardly hear the horrible laughter as he rushed to his friend’s side, shuddering at the glazed look in his motionless eyes. Harry shook him, screamed at him to wake up, say something, move, but he was gone. Gone, in the most horrible way.

The memory cut off and then began again, the same emotions flooding Harry almost to overwhelming, and he felt that he wanted nothing more to die. Then the flashing of memories began again, before stopping on another.

Sirius and Bellatrix were still battling, and Sirius was laughing. “Come on, you can do better than that!” he yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.

The second jet of light hit him squarely on the chest.

The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock.

It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall. His body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backward through the ragged veil hanging from the arch…

And Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise on his godfather’s wasted, once-handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as though in a high wind and then fell back into place.

For a moment, Harry felt the restraints as he sagged against them. Before he had even a second to try to empty his mind, though, the memories were rushing through his mind—being banned from Quidditch, hours upon hours of carving lines into his hand, watching Voldemort rise, seeing his dead parents but not being able to enjoy it, watching Cedric die, seeing Ron turn away from when thinking he had submitted himself to the Tournament without telling him… realizing he would not live with Sirius after all, knowing Buckbeak was going to die, dying from the venom of the Basilisk, realizing that Tom Riddle was Voldemort, seeing Ginny lying as though dead, hearing Ginny had been kidnapped… standing by the side of the petrified Hermione, being certain he would never return to Hogwarts, seeing Vernon fit bars to his window, watching as the Queen destroyed Ron’s horseman in the fated chess game, staring at the three-headed dog, leaving his parents in the Mirror of Erised…

And then the memories from the Dursleys began, and rushed by almost too fast for him to see. Until they stopped on one, the most horrible one of all, the one he had actually forgotten.

It was dark, and cold. He had been locked in the cupboard for almost a week now, and his stomach screamed for food. He hadn’t even been given water in the last day and a half, the Dursleys were gone, the house was deathly silent, and Harry knew suddenly that he was going to die, die in this wretched cupboard, and the walls were closing in on him and he was screaming, clawing at the door, at the walls, desperate to get out, but no one came, and the panic just continued on and on and on…

The memory replayed, again and again and again, until Harry honestly thought he was there and dying, and the suddenly return of the dimly lit dungeon room and the restraints cutting into his tense body were completely foreign to him. He was gasping desperately for air, struggling to no avail, completely panicked.

Snape slapped him across the face and with a gasp he realized that there were no walls to close in on him. His former professor was *grinning* in front of him, darkly, sadisticly, idly rolling his wand back and forth in his hands. “Dementors, you say?” he smirked. “I’ve never seen Dementors do *that* to you. How do you suppose I should punish you for lying to me?”

Harry stared in wide-eyed horror at the man, his breath coming faster just at the thought of being locked in another dark, closed space, left to die. His mind was still spinning, memories and emotions replaying themselves in the back of his mind as he tried desperately to focus, to muster a response.

“Speaking of punishments, I do believe we have one to deal with regarding your earlier insolence,” Snape reminded. He didn’t bother to lower the bed back down from its upright position; instead he began by removing the restraints on Harry’s arms and then cast the spell once again to pull his arms over his head painfully. He then proceeded to wave his wand and the rest of the restraints were removed all at once. Another wave and the bed jerked back suddenly, leaving Harry hanging with a sudden gasp of pain. “It does hurt, doesn’t it?” Snape commented calmly. “And you hardly weigh anything.” He muttered another spell and suddenly the weight on Harry’s wrists doubled, and he screamed in pain. After a few seconds, the extra weight disappeared and his wrists merely felt numb in comparison.

“We might as well get this over with, don’t you think?” Harry was deposited once again four feet from the wall, and the ropes lowered slowly. He lowered his arms with them, but they stopped before his arms could get down to where they were completely parallel with the ground. He hesitated. “Hands on the wall,” Snape ordered sharply, and Harry forced himself to lean forward despite the feeling that he would not be able to catch himself. His hands were now more even with the level of his head than his shoulders, and he realized immediately that he would not be able to bend his knees at all without falling, as precariously balanced as he was.

The silence felt as though it was lasting forever, and Harry actually began to turn his head to see what was taking Snape, when suddenly pain exploded on his legs with no warning swish. He gave a choked gasp of pain as his legs immediately bent and all his weight fell on his wrists even as he swung against the wall. “Eyes on the wall at all times!” Snape snapped. “Get back away from the wall!” he continued when Harry stood but remained leaning against the wall for a second too long. Suddenly the wall was hot, so hot that it burned his shoulder that had been touching it. He jumped away from the wall immediately and the ropes dragged him back to the point four feet away.

“Perhaps you need some… encouragement.. to remain standing. Five more lashes for each time you fall.” Harry was shaking but tried to still himself as the ropes began to allow him to lower his arms and he obeyed, albeit reluctantly. “Or… perhaps I have a better idea,” Snape continued after a moment, and Harry knew that he would not enjoy this ‘idea’. Snape spoke one spell, then another, and the second seemed to result in a heavy weight suddenly pushing Harry forward. He would have stumbled forward but suddenly his feet were stuck in place. Fortunately, he caught the wall with his hands as before, though it suddenly took more effort to hold himself even as upright as he was, since the weight did not leave.

Snape must have somehow silenced the switch, because Harry no longer heard it coming, only the horrible pain that exploded in the back of his knees. They gave slightly but his knees couldn’t bend very far, and his feet did not leave the floor. “Straight!” Snape ordered, and even as the skin was stretching the pain came again, startling a cry of pain out of Harry. “Straight!” Pain blossomed again, and again, until Harry’s whole world seemed to be consumed in the pain in his knees. Then one time, the pain didn’t come immediately after he had straightened his legs. He waited and waited, his arms shaking with the effort of holding the weight on his shoulders as well as his own body weight.

The pain, when it came again, seemed worse even than before. “Straight!” Again. And again. And again. Harry almost wished that he had been counting, but then he was glad he hadn’t. His arms burned but he hardly noticed with the continuing pain in his legs. Finally, with the last lash, the spell that was holding his feet to the floor vanished and he collapsed once again, arms still held over his head by the ropes for a moment before those too vanished. He was left quivering on the floor, muscles too exhausted to move him.

“Second rule—no magic, whatsoever. You will not be pleased with the consequences if you disobey me,” Snape said, then he swept from the room, the knobless door slamming closed behind him.

Harry lay for long hours on the floor, not moving. The lights did not dim, as he checked several times by flickering his eyes slightly open, nor did they brighten. He had no idea how much time was passing by, but his stomach was beginning to truly demand food. Finally he realized that he had been left alone and should be trying to escape, as his efforts with Snape present had shown less than full success.

He nearly cried out in pain when he tried to stretch his legs out. The blood had dried on them while he had been laying curled up, and straightening them seemed as though it was going to tear them open all over again. He had to do it, though. He had to get out of here, and now. He therefore forced himself to continue straightening them slowly despite the immense pain that seemed to flood through him as he did so, until finally he had his legs straight.

He then attempted to push himself up and found that his arms were shaking with exertion. It had taken slightly different muscles to hold himself up against the wall, though, so he managed. He then began to crawl toward the door, which was only about eight feet away. This took him at least ten minutes, and he felt as though he was going to collapse when he reached it.

He then began to reach deep inside of him for his magic. Harry had learned, over the years, to consciously utilize his wandless magic on occasion. It never worked for anything very complicated and it couldn’t be done in a hurry, but for something like unlocking the door it would work. He closed his eyes and focused on drawing his magic out of his center and toward his hand, which he placed on the door. Then he began to will it to unlock, not bothering with any spells or hand movements.

The door clicked and then opened. Harry’s eyes burst open triumphantly. He moved as quickly as he could to get to the other side of the door, then slowed and groaned as he saw where he had gotten himself.

It was another room in the same style, only with doors on either side instead of on one side only. The door behind him slammed shut, which didn’t bother Harry particularly since he wasn’t interested in going back the way he had come. He wanted out of here. Struggling to his feet, he toddled across the room and placed his hand on the new door.

He willed with everything in his being for the door to unlock, but to no avail. Finally he collapsed wearily next to the door and put his head in his hands. He was never going to get out of here.

A long while later, the door opened. Harry immediately tried to roll through it, but Snape seemed to be expecting it and kicked him back harshly, knocking all the breath out of Harry and leaving him flat on his back gasping.

“Wandless magic too,” Snape commented with a gleeful note in his voice. “Didn’t I tell you that there was to be no magic?”

Harry was finally regaining his breath and he glared up at Snape. “What did you expect, that I wasn’t going to try to get out of here? You have no right to lock me up!!”

“Oh, I had every expectation that you would attempt to escape. And it is most fortunate, because I can now justifiably test my new method of ‘motivation’ on you. Not that I need justification, mind you, but it is ever so much more interesting when you give it to me. Now, come along.” With a swish of his hand, Harry was lifted from the ground and carried to one side, where a hole opened up in the wall. He was then let down on the ground directly next to the hole. “See, I’ve prepared a room just for you, Potter,” Snape sneered. “Now get in.”

Harry stared at him in disbelief. Surely the man wasn’t idiotic enough to think that he was going to enter a dark hole with no idea what awaited him inside? “Inside now Potter,” Snape ordered again, menacingly. He shook his head, glaring at the man.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Must you make *everything* difficult, Potter?” He conjured a rope again, but this time it fastened itself around Harry’s neck and pulled him forward and into the hole. He tried to hold on to the edge but the rope began to choke him and he was forced to let go.

With a resounding thud the hole closed up, leaving Harry in pitch black. He couldn’t hear anything from outside. He was still on his hands and knees, and he had only to sway from side to side to feel the walls. He began to crawl forward but immediately met a wall. Feeling around with his hands carefully he quickly discovered the size of the hole, and his breathing began to come faster. The hole was barely wider than he was and there wasn’t room for him to stretch out. He started to sit up and cracked his head against the ceiling painfully. There wasn’t even room for him to sit up against the wall.

Snape couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave him in here long. He couldn’t. Harry kicked out at where the ‘door’ had been, and found it to be as solid as any of the walls. Harry felt another surge of panic as he realized that if he wasn’t careful, he could forget where the exit was supposed to be. With some effort he managed to get himself turned around so that he was facing toward the door, and placed his hands on it. He willed it to open, but got no response. He willed it to lift up (thinking that perhaps it was entirely physical) but that had no response either.

“Let me out,” he whispered desperately, and his whisper echoed around the tiny hole. He pounded on the door, ignoring the pain in his hands. Suddenly he felt stone against his feet, which was odd because he hadn’t moved his legs at all. Panicking, he pushed out and found his feet flat against the wall. He started to try to turn around, and discovered to his dismay that the ceiling seemed to have lowered as well. He could lift up slightly, but he could not stretch his legs out at all from their partially bent position, and he could not sit up enough to pass his legs underneath him either.

Panicking, he pushed against the walls, and felt them move in closer, bending his knees closer to his body, until his knees came in contact with the side wall. His breath coming faster still, he rolled onto his back with his knees above him and pushed harder. An instant later the ceiling was low enough that his knees once again impacted with stone, and he could no longer turn back onto his side. The walls kept moving for a moment so that his head was all the way up against the door and he was forced to lift it before he was pushed back into the door again.

Harry began to scream in terror and continued to push at the walls until he could no longer move in any direction. Then he just screamed, until even his voice was gone and his mouth stayed open in a silent scream between gasps for breath. His wide eyes took in the pitch black and he finally passed out from pure terror.

Harry woke up with a crick in his neck from sleeping in a strange position, and wondered where he was. He never slept on his back with his knees jammed up next to him and why would he sleep with his head up against something so hard and craggy..?

His eyes snapped open and took in the nothing that he could see and the deathly silence in the room. Then he registered that his knees were ‘jammed’ up against him, solid against a wall of stone, as were his feet, his tailbone, his back, his sides, and his neck and head. He tried to push against the walls and felt them close in on him slightly more even as his muscles cramped painfully from being stuck in a strange position for so long.

He tried to scream and managed a partial yell before his voice cracked and went silent again. He was going to die—he had been left alone, Snape had forgotten him, he had no food and no water and his throat was so dry and painful and his lips were swollen and his muscles were still cramping excruciatingly.

Suddenly, he heard a rumbling sound and the ‘door’ scraped his head and neck as it lifted up. Then his neck, which was not up to the task of holding his head after being kept in such an odd position and cramping, let his head drop with a crack to the floor. He saw stars as well as light and whimpered (as much as he could). He tried to push with his legs to get himself out but they cramped painfully and he remained tantalizingly close to freedom but unable to get there.

“Well? Aren’t you coming out, boy?” Snape’s voice filtered in snidely, and even though it was unpleasant and Harry hated the man his voice sounded heavenly as the first sound Harry had heard in who knows how long that wasn’t from himself. “Or shall I just close you in again for another hour?”

An hour? That had only been an hour?? “No!” he whispered urgently. “Can’t..!”

“Did you say something?” Snape responded mirthfully, obviously having heard Harry. “I couldn’t hear you.. was that a yes?”

Harry gave a little sob. “No, please, no, no more,” he begged, not caring anymore. “Just let me out of here, please!”

“Yes, I do believe you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?” Ropes appeared around Harry’s wrists and he nearly screamed as his cramped arms were forced to quickly straighten. After they were straight, though, he was pulled out of the hole, and he couldn’t even force himself to care about the fact that his entire back had been scraped up by the rough stone floor.

“Straighten your legs,” Snape ordered, and Harry realized that they were still curled up close to his body. He tried to obey, he really did, but his legs only cramped painfully and refused to cooperate. Harry looked up at Snape, terrified, but the man only conjured ropes and stretched his legs out as painfully as he had his arms.

“Alright, on the bed,” Snape then told him almost wearily. “I suppose I shall have to feed you.” Harry was almost grateful that Snape found it necessary, though really he should have been angry that the man had considered not feeding him. Surely starving him to death could be constrewn as “permanent damage”?

Then again, he thought being traumatized by being stuffed into a tiny stone hole and left there to suffer was permanent damage. He shuddered and pushed himself to his feet shakily, barely controlling his cramping legs. He toddled as quickly as he could to the bed, where he quickly took a seat and then laid down and waited for the restraints to be put on.

“Sit up, you imbecile. I am not going to feed you—you will feed yourself. Surely you are capable of such a simple task?” Snape sneered, and Harry sat up again quickly—or as quickly as he could.

“Sorry, sir,” he replied quickly.

“That’s right,” Snape gloated. “You understand your position now, don’t you?” He handed Harry a bowl of what looked like some kind of porridge or something of a similar consistency. “Eat. Yes, Potter, I think you truly comprehend your place, now. All it took was a little instruction. Now, I will explain the rules.”

Snape turned and paced for a moment just as in class, before continuing. “If you disobey any simple instructions I give you, you will be given at least five minutes in the hole at the end of the day. As for disobeying any of the rules, which will be threefold after this discussion, those will result in much longer periods of time in the hole.” Harry shuddered slightly, and his tone become a bit more harsh. “No, you aren’t interested in disobeying, are you? Now, I will remind you of the rules. Rule one is no fighting me. If I believe you have disobeyed a simple instruction intentionally, I will consider it an infraction of this rule and deal with it accordingly. Rule two is no using magic under any circumstances. That includes shielding yourself from magic that I cast on you. And rule three, which I am enstating now, is no speaking. A nod or shake of your head should be sufficient for anything I care to know from you. Understood?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer aloud, and then shook slightly and closed his mouth, nodding quickly. He carefully did not turn his head in the direction of the small door in the wall, not wanting to think about the hole. He quickly tried to finish the porridge, despite the fact that it had no taste and a rather disgusting texture. He didn’t know when Snape was going to take it from him.

“Very well,” Snape said finally, when he had finished eating. “Follow me.” Harry hesitantly got off the bed and tried to keep up with Snape, who was walking at his normal fast pace. Harry, on the other hand, still had sore and cramping legs and could barely stay upright. His walking at the moment was more like a controlled fall from leg to leg, and as much as he sped it up, he couldn’t keep up with Snape. Finally, Snape entered another door from the long hallway, and Harry kept his eyes on the door to make sure that he would follow Snape in. He knew he had no chance of escaping from Snape in this condition and he didn’t want to earn more time in the hole.

“You will be helping me to prepare ingredients—hopefully with more care than you showed while you were a student.” Harry nodded and moved toward the desk that was indicated to him. “Chop these, first,” Snape ordered, and Harry did as he was told, trying to ignore the fact that his legs were shaking and did not seem apt to hold him much longer. He made cuts as precise as he could, but his arms were shaking as well.

“You call this *care*, Potter? That’s five minutes in the hole tonight, and more if you don’t shape up!”

Harry opened his mouth to request a chair, then realized he wasn’t supposed to speak and lowered his head toward the desk again. He moved even more slowly now, trying to make sure that each cut was precise. Slowly his muscles seemed to get used to being once again stretched out and didn’t shake quite so much, to his great relief. He was already dreading the five minutes he had in the hole, though.

“Powder this,” Snape ordered. Then, “Pickle these.” “Prepare an infusion of this.” And so on, the orders came and Harry followed them, until Snape said, “It is time for bed. But first, you will follow me.” And, shaking, Harry *did* follow. After all, if he tried to run, he would only get a longer time. “In the hole,” Snape ordered, and only then did Harry balk, backing away instead of moving forward. He *couldn’t* enter that nightmare voluntarily; he just couldn’t.

“Potter! That’s thirty minutes more! Get in there *now* or I will make it an hour!” Harry shook his head, unable to do as he was told. Thirty-five minutes. He couldn’t make it. He just couldn’t. His breath was coming faster as he turned and sprinted toward the door, banging his fists on it futilely when it refused to open for him. “Potter. You are fighting. Two hours. Or would you prefer the entire night?” Harry shook his head frantically but couldn’t bring himself to move back toward the hole.

“You seem to need some other type of motivation, Potter. Shame, I thought this would be enough. Don’t worry, we’ll save your thirty-five minutes, but first, you will come with me.” He smiled evilly. “If you’re not ready to go to bed, then we’ll simply have to have some more fun.” He waved his wand and Harry was, again, hanging from the ceiling, this time from chains that cut all the more deeply into his already damaged wrists. He was transported from one room to another, where two large tanks of water sat. Snape moved Harry up and over one of them. “Let this be *another* lesson to you, Potter. Fighting will *not* be tolerated.” Suddenly the chains opened up and Harry was dropped into the water.

The first thing he realized was that it was cold. Less than a second later, his wounds warned him that it was not just water—the pain was incredible. He had submerged completely after dropping and let out much of his air in pain and surprise. He kicked to get back to the surface, trying to ignore the pain.

Something was pushing him down, down, away from the surface. He struggled, tried to kick upwards, but he was only moving down, down toward the bottom of the tank, and he needed to breathe, so badly. He couldn’t, though; Snape wouldn’t let him drown in here. His sadistic ex-Professor was enjoying watching Harry in pain and torment far too much to kill him, he was sure. Holding on to this thought, Harry desperately held on to the little bit of air still in his lungs and waited to be let up.

Whatever was pushing him downward slammed him into the bottom of the tank, pushing the rest of the air from his lungs. Without thinking about it he gasped instinctively, and the salt water burned all the way down his throat and into his lungs. He was drowning, dying! He thrashed painfully, his lungs still begging for *oxygen*, and then suddenly the chains reappeared around his wrists and jerked him up and out of the water.

Harry couldn’t breathe because his lungs were full of water. Then, he felt the most horrible sensation; he was vaguely aware that Snape’s wand was pointed at him as he felt his lungs suddenly contract, expelling the water forcefully and painfully. It felt as though his lungs had suddenly been crumpled like a piece of parchment in Hagrid’s hand. Jerking on the chains in agony, Harry then proceeded to gasp desperately for breath as soon as his lungs had re-expanded.

He didn’t even feel himself moving before he was suddenly plunged into hot water—so hot!! His whole body burned, his wounds even more so. The chains were gone but he was being pushed down again. He struggled weakly, but hadn’t even recovered before he was submerged again. Time seemed to pass like an eternity while he held his breath and stayed still and waiting for the chains to reappear, his skin burning from the heat and his wounds burning doubly from the salt. Finally, his lungs screaming for air, he did as he expected Snape was waiting for and breathed in water as his brain was demanding that he do. It was every bit as painful as the first time, and his lungs burned all the more the second time they were filled with the salt water.

This time, to Harry’s surprise, the chains appeared around his legs and pulled him out upside down. His lungs were crumpled once again and water came spewing out of his mouth painfully just as he cleared the water. He jerked and coughed, gasping for air, before he was once again submerged.

SO COLD! It was ice, burning his skin with cold and causing him to shake already. He thrashed in the water, but this time the chains had not disappeared and he was suspended upside down in the water. He tried to bend himself upward but he was too weak from lack of air. Relaxing back, he gave in and sucked in water, his body jerking again at the agony of it. He waited to feel the movement upward, and waited, and there was nothing. He gasped in a bit more water, to no avail, and felt the edges of his consciousness becoming fuzzy. So *this* was what it was like to die, he thought, and then his lungs compressed even as he was lifted out of the water.

The pain of having his lungs (which were increasingly tender) compressed for the third time woke him partially, but the haze persisted even as he coughed and gasped. Then chains jerked and lowered slightly, submerging only his head—hot hot HOT! He contracted his muscles reflexively and got his head out of the water, only to be lowered a little further. He held his face up out of the water for long moments, every muscle shaking. Then, suddenly, he dropped in completely, and his next gasp for air was actually one of water.

It hurt—Harry’s whole world was pain and terror. He was going to die, with his skin burning off his body, his wounds being eaten by the salt and his tender lungs being seared from the inside out by the foreign substance. As he hung underwater in a half-conscious haze, his brain screaming at him, Harry felt the thread holding him to sanity getting thinner and thinner. All he had to do was give up, to snap that thread, and his suffering would be over. Snape could do nothing more to him.

His lungs contracted for a fourth time and he would have screamed in agony if he could have. Instead, he was weakly trying to fill his lungs with a bit of air, precious air, and waiting for his body to once again be submerged. Instead, he was suddenly lowered until his head was on the ground and then dropped the rest of the way so that his body flopped painfully on the floor. Then, without a hesitation, he was jerked upwards again, this time upright by his wrists. It was hard, so hard to get a full breath of air while hanging this way, and he coughed and gasped through his haze before he was dropped on the floor again.

“Enough,” Snape said drily. “In.” Harry blearily realized where he was—in front of the hole. “Thirty five minutes start whenever you’re inside.” Harry gave a little sob but wasn’t sure he could move if he wanted to. Snape gave a wave of his wand and Harry slid across the rough stone floor and into the hole, and cringed when the door slammed shut, locking him once again inside.

For perhaps five minutes he was exhausted and in pain enough to not think about where he was as long as Snape was not tormenting him. A part of his mind knew, though, and the panic and adrenaline was slowly building. His breathing came faster, not because he couldn’t get air but because he could almost *feel* the walls closing in on him. Already he could feel the side walls from his position on his side, and his feet were almost touching the door. He stretched them out slightly and shuddered as he discovered that he was right. But he wouldn’t feel the fourth wall, or the ceiling. He wouldn’t.

He kicked at the door in fury and panic, despite the fact that moving his legs was like torture, and the fourth wall suddenly touched his head. His stomach contracted almost as painfully as his lungs had earlier. “No, no no no no no no,” he began to chant, trying to focus on the sound of his voice rather than the fact that he could feel all the walls and it felt as though they were closing in on him. His throat was so sore and raw from the night’s events, though, that he was soon reduced to whispering painfully. “No no no no no no,” he continued, and then he began to claw at the wall in terror. “Let me out, please, let me out, no no no no no!”

The panic seemed to feed itself. It wasn’t long before Harry was tearing and pushing at the walls, and then they began to close in on him in earnest. He sobbed desperately and bloodied his fingers from scratching and pushing at the rough stone walls, wishing desperately for release, until finally the door opened. He could hardly move but he squirmed his way out nonetheless, still gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face. “No, please, no, no more, no,” he whispered desperately, not daring to look at Snape’s face.

“I thought I told you ‘no talking,’” Snape said dangerously, and Harry felt his breath catch his throat. He wanted to beg and plead and apologize, but he had suddenly swallowed his tongue. Instead he nodded painfully and mentally begged the man not to punish him.

To no avail. “That will be thirty minutes tomorrow night. For now, I would like some rest, so I’ll have no more ‘games’ from you tonight.” There was a short pause. “Well? Follow me, Potter, unless you’d rather spend the night in there?” Harry shook his head quickly, violently. “Very well, come along.”

He led Harry back into the inner room, Harry limping slightly from weariness, where Snape indicated for Harry to lay down on the bed. “No, Potter, face down,” he corrected when Harry began to lay down on his back. When Harry had laid down and his face was down in the hole, Snape began to snap closed the straps and tighten them. Harry shook slightly as he did so, at least until the restraints stopped even that. The restraints across the backs of his knees, which were freshly raw from the salt water, made him whimper in pain, as did the tightening of the restraints over his wrists, which he could feel bleeding even still.

Finally, though, Snape had secured him tightly, and he spoke again. “Remember, no fighting, Potter, and no magic. I’ll be back in the morning.” Harry wished he wouldn’t be. He waited until he heard Snape leave before letting out a soft sob. He had been close, so close, to just letting go. He understood, suddenly, why the Longbottoms were as they were—there came a point where that thread, the thread tying someone to consciousness, to awareness and understanding and fear and pain and *life*, was severed. He had wanted so desperately to do it, to severe it and end his suffering, but some part of him clung to consciousness, despite the continued pain and terror it seemed to promise.

It took quite a while, but finally despite his vulnerable restrained position Harry felt exhaustion and oblivion rising up to overtake him. He welcomed them and buried himself deep in his sleep, wishing never to wake to another day.

Harry’s wish was not fulfilled. Instead, he awakened to a whip across his back. He tried to jerk in pain but he was still strapped down. He swallowed a groan of pain and wondered what that was for.

“That was just a wake-up call,” Snape answered his question with a sneer. “All other pain for the day will be well-deserved, I am certain.” Harry would have shuddered, but he couldn’t move. That in itself was enough to make him feel supremely uncomfortable if not scared. Not terrified like he was in the hole, but certainly not a position he wanted to be in longer than necessary. Even when Snape had removed the straps, though, Harry forced himself to continue laying still until he received an order from Snape. He would not give Snape any excuses to torture him, not today. His whole body still ached from the day before, especially his still raw wounds.

“Good,” Snape grunted, though he didn’t sound very happy. Take that, Harry thought. “Sit up.” He did as he was told and was handed a bowl of porridge. He ate quickly, ignoring the extreme stiffness in his wrists; his stomach was screaming for food, now.

“I must make an appearance in my main lab today, and you will be coming with me. Therefore…” he waved his wand and Harry flinched instinctively, but his shorts (the only thing he had on him when he woke here) had been painlessly transformed into robes. “This is a temporary transfiguration,” Snape commented, “and it will last eight hours at the longest.” Harry felt any buried hopes of running away deflate inside of him.

“Follow me,” he ordered, and Harry did, down long corridors until he was thoroughly lost. Walking was a painful proposition also, as the salt water from the night before had left the wounds on the backs of his knees more painful than ever.

Harry followed orders closely and carefully in preparing ingredients for many hours before he realized why they were there.

“Severus!” a familiar voice called out from the doorway. He turned and saw Professor McGonagall, now Headmistress of Hogwarts. “Oh, and who are you?”

Harry stared at her in surprise. Didn’t she recognize him? Wasn’t she going to save him? He cringed as Snape’s hand fell on his shoulder, and tensed when the man spoke. “I’m sure you remember me mentioning my cousin, Salazar.”

“Oh yes,” McGonagall replied. “Well, it’s nice to see you, Salazar.. I’m very glad you’re feeling better.”

Harry opened his mouth to plead desperately for her help, but Snape’s hand tightened painfully on his shoulder, reminding him how much of a mistake talking could be. “He’s mute,” Snape said, “he can’t talk. And he’s not very comfortable around new people, as I’m sure you can see.” Indeed, Harry was shaking in fear now, terrified because he knew that Snape knew that he had been ready to speak.

“Very well, Severus. I’m glad you haven’t managed to kill yourself in a Potions accident.” She looked at Harry, and he pleaded with his eyes, but didn’t dare try anything more. She merely smiled sadly and said, “Take care, Salazar.” Then she turned and left the room, and Harry sagged slightly in disappointment.

Snape’s voice suddenly appeared right next to his ear; the man must have leaned down to put his head there. “Let me explain something to you, Potter. You are *mine*. No one will recognize you. No one knows where Harry Potter is, thanks to you. No one will miss you. And you are incapable of escaping. The sooner you accept this, the better it will be for you.”

Harry stepped away from him, shaking now in anger rather than fear. “I am *not* yours, Snape! Someone will miss me, someone will realize that you are mistreating me, or I will escape! You can’t keep me here!” he asserted in a hoarse voice that he could hardly believe belonged to him.

Snape shook his head in a terrible mockery of sadness, delight gleaming in his eyes. “Oh? Perhaps you need a bit more ‘education’ tonight. A few more ‘games.’” Harry backed away a little further, shaking his head. “Get back here, Potter,” Snape suddenly ordered angrily. “You still have ingredients to prepare!”

Harry clenched his fists and tried to make a decision. Part of him wanted desperately to run, but the intelligent part of him knew he had no chance right now, while Snape was around, and he would do better to show himself as submissive so he might be given a chance to escape at some point. He didn’t want to find out what kind of ‘games’ Snape had in mind, but he was going to find out either way. Slowly, he stepped forward to the desk and followed Snape’s barked directions, just as he had done before.

His legs were tired and his stomach was grumbling when Snape finally called an end to the day. He guided Harry back toward the room, and Harry’s breath caught with fear when they entered the room and he caught sight of the wall that held the hole. Snape, however, guided him past that room and into the next room. “On the bed. Face down,” Snape ordered curtly. Harry did as he was told, but wondered what was going on. Surely Snape wasn’t letting him sleep already?

The potions master took his usual deliberate care closing and tightening each strap. Then he did something to the bed and it split, pulling Harry’s arms and legs out so that it was as though he lay spread-eagled on the bed. If he thought he had felt vulnerable before, he felt even more so now.

Snape whispered in Harry’s ear again, “Have you ever cut yourself with a knife, Potter?” Harry felt his stomach drop precipitously. “I think I’ll give you a few permanent reminders of who you belong to—how does that sound?” Then slowly, painfully, he began to cut Harry’s flesh, starting on his neck.

The pain lasted for what seemed hours, though Harry had no idea how long it took. Methodically Snape covered every piece of Harry’s skin with markings, always dragging the knife through Harry’s skin slowly and sometimes stopping to pull the cuts open further, causing Harry nearly to cry out. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached and still gasped in pain several times when Snape cut a particularly sensitive area, like the inside of his thigh or the bottom of his foot.

When Snape had finally finished with his ‘artwork’ he paused for a long moment, then began to take the straps off. Harry didn’t know what Snape had planned, but he hoped desperately that he considered this agony punishment enough.

“Turn over, Potter.” Harry had to bring his legs and arms in to be able to turn, and he hesitated before returning them to their places away from his body. He nearly screamed at the pain when his tender open skin contacted the bed, but confined himself to a pained moan. Then, to his terror, Snape began to close the straps around him again, still holding the bloody knife in his hand. Harry felt his breathing come faster.

“Do you not like this Potter? I thought you wanted to ‘play’ some more—why else were you so defiant?” Harry refused to look at Snape anymore, focusing on the ceiling and trying to think of anything other than the pain as his injuries were pressed into the bed by the tightening straps. Then Snape moved up to right next to him. “You don’t want to watch, Potter?” Then he strapped Harry’s head tightly to the bed before casting a spell that locked his eyes open. “It would be rather hard, wouldn’t it? But I can help.” He cast a reflecting spell on the ceiling, and suddenly Harry had a perfect view of his body, laying out as if captured in the middle of a snow angel. It was as though it was a bizarre mockery of the famous picture by Michelangelo—Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by a flash of the knife.

Snape was wielding it and nearing Harry’s body, and Harry sucked in air in fear. He braced his body for the pain, but wasn’t ready for Snape’s slow movements as he carved an ‘S’ into Harry’s tender flesh. Then he moved slightly over and carved another, and then another. Harry couldn’t believe the man’s sadism, and he gritted his teeth at the pain and refused to cry out. Snape stopped after carving an ‘S’ on the inside of Harry’s elbow and stretched it carefully, causing Harry to hiss. Then he continued down Harry’s arm, ending with a relatively deep cut on Harry’s palm which hurt more than any of the others so far.

The potions master continued his ‘work’ in a clockwise fashion around Harry’s body, leaving no area untouched. Harry’s eyes watered both in pain and from being locked open for so long, and through the swimming tears he could see his skin becoming more red than white. He wanted to clench his fists to help to deal with the pain, but Snape had placed one strap over his fingers to hold his hand open. Not that clenching his fists would help when Snape had carved them deeper than anywhere else. Finally, after too long for Harry to comprehend, Snape had covered every area on Harry’s front with the bloody ‘S’s. He began to undo the straps once again.

“Oh dear, you *are* a mess, aren’t you? Well, we’ll just have to clean you off, don’t you think?” Snape smirked, and conjured chains that snapped around Harry’s wrists and lifted him off the bed to follow Snape. Harry had a terrifying sinking feeling that he knew *exactly* what Snape had planned.

When they entered the room with the tanks, he gasped, his suspicions confirmed. However, Snape brought him to a stop *next* to the tanks, rather than over one of them. He waited nervously, still hanging from the ceiling, while Snape moved to a cupboard and returned with a small vial. He waved it in front of Harry’s eyes. “Remember this, Potter?”

Harry blinked blearily at the vial, seeing some kind of strange plant matter in it but nothing more. His eyes were still blurry from tears, a result of the spell to hold his eyes open that persisted even now that Snape had canceled it. He shook his head tentatively, feeling that that was the wrong answer.

“No? You stole some from me, in your fourth year. This time, though, I’m giving it to you voluntarily.” Snape opened the vial and removed a wad of it. “Open your mouth, Potter,” Snape ordered, and Harry did despite his fear that this was going to be painful. Snape stuffed it in his mouth. “Close and chew,” he ordered, and Harry did. Now he remembered the strange taste and texture—this was Gillyweed.

But—that meant—he began to struggle slightly on the chains as his brain made connections. He was going to need to be in the water, and *soon*. Then he felt the flattening sensation and the pain his throat and struggled slightly more, trying to gasp for breath but already failing as the gills grew in. Snape finally moved his wand to raise Harry over one of the tanks, and then began to lower him slowly… ever so slowly.

He was strangling slowly, he couldn’t breathe, which was ironic because there was plenty of air around him. He jerked his body around on the chain in agony, his body screaming for oxygen. Then the pain started, exploding from his feet and then working up his body as Snape lowered him into the ice cold water. The salt flowed into the newly formed wounds (and even the old) and he tried to scream in pain but couldn’t. He couldn’t, because there was no air in his lungs, and he couldn’t draw any in. He felt the world going dark, when suddenly his neck and head were submerged and he drew water in mercifully through his gills.

He gasped for air, or rather for oxygen, even as the salt water continued to tear at what felt like every inch of his skin. This was pain, pure pain, torture, and it hurt, it hurt so badly that Harry didn’t think he’d ever felt anything so bad or that he would ever feel anything so bad again. Then, suddenly, he was raised out of the water so that he could no longer breathe, the chains still around his wrists to hold his arms above his body. Then he was suddenly lowered into water, almost his entire body, and it was SO HOT! He tried to draw water in through his gills before realizing that his neck was just above the water. He struggled furiously, trying to get his head and neck down toward the water, but the struggling only tore his wrists open and began to tear at the muscles in his shoulders as well. When he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, his head was suddenly submerged.

He got fewer than five seconds to gasp water in through his gills before he was out again, choking on air, desperate for more oxygen. He was swinging, and then plunging into water, ice cold, his whole body tingling along with the horrible pain from the salt water. But he could breathe, could suck in water, until he couldn’t. He thrashed desperately, just out of reach of the water, and felt a pop and threw back his head wanting to scream with the pain when his shoulder came out of joint. He was lopsided hanging out of the chains now, though, and he got his gills into the water on one side, pulling in as much water as he could before Snape raised him up slightly again. His shoulder screamed with pain, so much so that he hardly noticed the other pain, the world becoming fuzzy around the edges. His body weight was pulling it out of joint further and further, and he had never felt such agony.

Then his other shoulder popped out of joint at the added pressure and he opened his mouth in another silent scream, begging, pleading with anyone who could hear (which was no one) for the pain to stop. Finally Snape put him under the water and he was able to get enough oxygen for his vision to somewhat clear, though the pain still felt blinding.

When he felt the upward jerk he sucked in as much water as he could, preparing for more torture. He was lowered quickly into the hot water, though, which seared his skin painfully. The cuts almost felt numb with pain, but his shoulders continued to throb and stab and ache. He felt almost tired, despite all the pain, and let himself float somewhat separate from himself and the pain and terror.

This went on for a long time, until it felt to Harry as though he had been choking on oxygen and breathing water forever, and that pain was his constant companion. He couldn’t remember what it felt like to have his shoulders not throb rapidly and stab with pain with every movement, and it seemed that he no longer had any skin to speak of from all the pain and burning.

Then Snape was lifting him out of the water but bringing him down to ground level and through the hallways, his body still dripping. He twitched slightly but couldn’t jerk any longer despite the fact that he could not get any air into his body. He needed water, and he needed it NOW! Suddenly the chains were gone and then he was being shoved into the hole. The door was slamming closed behind him, and he still couldn’t breathe. Did Snape not realize that he still had gills? He felt a deep-seated panic as he contemplated the idea that Snape had made a mistake, and he was going to die, was going to strangle to death on air. Then he gave into the feeling, welcoming death as a relief from this experience, right before ice cold water began spurting onto his back and then pooling around him. His back burned again, but he lowered himself all the way down to the ground, submerging his gills as soon as he could. He gasped water in and lowered his entire head as soon as the water was deep enough.

Then, suddenly, he took a deep breath of water and there was pain! He realized that his gills were gone and came up above the water still filling the hole, coughing desperately to try to get the salty water from his lungs. Finally he gasped in several breaths before realizing that the water was still rising and he had less and less space in which to breathe. He screamed aloud for the first time since the gillyweed and tried to keep his head above the water. It was even harder because his arms didn’t want to move very well, his shoulders still out of their joints and painfully so.

Finally the water stopped flowing in, leaving Harry in a horribly uncomfortable position with his nose scraping on the ceiling in order for him to breathe. He gave several choking sobs, not sure how much more he could take. He wanted to push against the walls, to try to get out, but he couldn’t move his arms practically at all.

The door to the cell opened and he gasped in relief as the water flowed out. Instead of letting him out, though, Snape cast some spell and then the door slammed shut again.

It was cold, very cold. Harry felt as if he was in a refridgerator, and the water moving around his still wet body didn’t help. His teeth began to chatter almost immediately. He kicked out at the door in anger, and the walls moved in a bit closer in response. It was *so cold*!

When Snape finally opened the door to the cell, Harry was too exhausted to move. The warm air flooding in felt wonderful, though, and he closed his eyes to try to enjoy it. Then ropes appeared around his ankles and dragged him out of the hole and into Snape’s possession once again.

“Still defiant, Potter?” Harry gave a little sob and shook his head. He was cold, tired, and in horrible pain. He just wanted to sleep. He closed his eyes for a few seconds until Snape kicked him. “Stand up!” Wearily he sat up, and then did his best to stand to his feet without his arms, though it was unsteady at best. The pain in his cut feet certainly didn’t help. He hobbled after Snape, sure that the man would not take his own cuts as an excuse for ‘lagging’. “Sit,” Snape said, indicating the bed. Gingerly Harry did as he was told. Snape took hold of his arm.

“Your struggling has damaged your shoulders quite badly. Fortunately for you, I know how the remedy the problem.” Suddenly, Snape began to rotate his arm around, and Harry screamed in pain. Snape stopped and he breathed heavily. “Shut up, Potter, or I will shut you up myself,” Snape spat, glaring at Harry. Then he began to rotate the arm once again, and Harry gasped and gritted his teeth but tried desperately not to scream. “No no no no stop!” he finally screamed, but the arm continued to rotate slowly, until with a pop and a blinding pain that caused Harry to gasp and pale dramatically as it slipped back into place.

“That will be more time in the hole tomorrow night, for speaking.” Harry was still gasping from the pain, hardly registering what the man was saying. “But I will make it easier for you.” He conjured a large sock, and then stuffed the middle in Harry’s mouth and tied it around his head, gagging him. Harry choked and gagged for a long moment, trying to breath around the sock, before gasping when Snape took hold of his other arm and began to rotate it slowly as he had the other.

He screamed into the gag, but it muffled the scream as it was intended to do. What felt like hours but was probably only seconds passed before the arm popped back into the joint with a jarring pop and another burst of intense pain. He paled again, shaking from the pain and the weariness. It had been a *very* long night. Surely Snape was done now?

“Stay Potter. Do not tempt me to continue,” Snape said, and then he strode from the room. Harry sat up slightly straighter as he saw the man leave, then slumped again as he realized that he had no chance in his current state. He felt as though he would likely pass out if he stood; there was no chance he could outrun Snape, much less his curses.

After a long minute in which Harry felt as though he could fall asleep sitting up, Snape returned. “Tilt your head back and open your mouth.” Shaking slightly, Harry obeyed. “Swallow,” Snape then ordered as he poured a potion into Harry’s mouth, but he needn’t have. The potion tasted so awful that he only wanted it out of his mouth, and he knew better than to spit one out with Snape sitting right here. When he had swallowed the whole thing, Snape began pouring another into his mouth. He choked slightly, having been hoping for a chance to gasp out a breath, but he swallowed quickly and then gasped for air again. “You may lower your head,” Snape said, and Harry hung his head in weariness.

“Lay down—face down,” Snape ordered, his voice sounding strangely weary. Harry glanced up at him fearfully but didn’t see any sadistic humor in his face. Shaking rather violently he laid down as ordered, spreading his legs and arms as necessary. Snape moved even slower this time, pulling open several of the cuts after securing the appropriate limb so that Harry could not jerk it away. Harry gasped slightly several times after he pulled particularly hard or poked at an open wound, but managed to refrain from screaming again. Finally Snape had secured every point on his body.

“Sleep,” he ordered, and then all was dark and Harry was left alone with his pain and exhaustion.

Snape took sadistic pleasure in waking Harry by pulling one or more of his ‘markings’ open, and several (including the one on his inner elbow and one on his thigh and one on his shoulder) he ‘recarved’ each morning. Then he would feed Harry a bowl of porridge (his only food for the day) before guiding him to the lab. Harry hobbled, especially since Snape took great care to reopen one if not both of the wound’s on Harry’s feet before taking off the restraints. Harry knew he couldn’t complain, though, or Snape would only find worse ways to hurt him. Therefore he stood on his painful feet all day, until that pain hardly mattered to him anymore.

Every night Snape found an excuse to stuff Harry into the hole for at least half an hour, but thankfully never longer than an hour. Still, Harry found himself beginning to breathe faster before they even reached the room each night, and no matter how well he tried to ‘behave’ Snape always found an excuse. Harry could feel that he was becoming worn down, and knew he needed to escape soon.

Finally, after three days of this ‘status quo,’ Snape left into another room for a short time, admonishing Harry to “stay, or else.” This was probably his best chance, especially since he’d had three days to heal, and he had no idea what Snape might do next to break his body. His barefeet aided him in slipping from the room quickly but silently, and he ran down the halls ignoring the pain in his body and the lightheadness from insufficient nutrition and loss of blood.

The dungeons were a maze and Harry had no idea how to get out. Finally, though, he saw someone—a stranger, but it was someone other than Snape. He ran to the tall man and pleaded desperately, “Please, you’ve got to help me, it’s Snape, he’s got me locked up and he’s torturing and I have to get out of here!” The stranger suddenly grasped him and pulled him close, and then leaned over and whispered into his ear.

“What have I told you about running away, Potter? And about speaking?” It was Snape’s voice, and Harry shuddered and struggled briefly before going limp in Snape’s arms. “Just because you have stopped struggling does not mean I will be able to lighten your punishment, Potter,” he added aloud. “You must learn from your mistakes. Come with me.” Snape motioned for Harry to walk in front of him, and told him when to turn. They came to a stop when they were back in the inner room, at the ‘bed’. “Face first,” was all Snape had to say, and Harry laid down as ordered. He was strapped in, and then Snape painstakingly opened each and *every* one of his wounds wide before unstrapping him. “On your back.” Harry’s limbs were shaking from being tensed and from the pain, but he did as he was ordered. Pain flared again in all the wounds as they contacted the bed, and he tensed with it.

Snape proceeded to do the same thing on his front, and then retrieved the knife to deepen some of the cuts, following a pattern that Harry could not understand. All he could understand was the pain, especially as Snape pulled the skin around the new, deeper cuts tight to make them as wide as possible. He gave a choking little sob as he realized that Snape probably had something similar to the other night planned.

“Yes, Potter,” Snape confirmed with an evil grin. “You should not have tried to run. I will be forced to make certain that you do not consider it again.” Harry would have shuddered slightly at this, but he still couldn’t move. Finally Snape finished and unstrapped him. “Follow,” he ordered, and Harry did—right up until they reached the door to the room with the water tanks. Then he moved to sprint past Snape, who merely stuck a foot out and tripped Harry, who fell hard onto the floor, scraping his already tender skin. “Another mistake. More time under the water, I should think.” He waved his wand and ropes suspended Harry upside down by his ankles and carried him inside.

There was no Gillyweed this time, only pain seemingly without measure and salt water filling his lungs time after time. Sometimes Snape would hang him so only his head was under the water, forcing him to use his exhausted muscles to pull himself out of the water to get air, but he quickly tired of that. Most of the time he would submerge him completely, getting the maximal pain value from the change in water temperature (which felt worse each time he went from cold to hot or hot to cold) and allowing the most salt water to enter his carefully opened wounds. Every time Harry aspirated water, he would use the same spell to crumple his lungs, which hurt more each time. And once, he even performed it while Harry was still underwater. When the spell released, his lungs forcibly reinflated, dragging even more salt water into them. Harry wanted to die more than ever, but knew that Snape wouldn’t let him. After having his lungs pumped *at least* ten times (Harry lost track before long), he was hanging limply from the chains, even when his mouth was only just below the water. Finally, Snape gave up his ‘game’ and lowered Harry to floor, where he coughed and gasped for air, hardly even aware of the evil man towering over him.

“Enough,” Snape said. “Up!”

Harry tried to obey, he really did, but he hardly even had the energy to get to his hands and knees. Finally Snape sighed in exasperation and conjured the ropes once again, guiding Harry in front of him to the hole where he dropped him again. “Inside.” Harry couldn’t drag himself inside that hole voluntarily, even now, so he pretended to try and then collapsed again. Snape responded by dragging his injured body across the floor slowly before the door slammed shut.

At first Harry curled up into as tight a ball as possible, closed his eyes, and tried not to think about where he was. He was sure that he could feel the walls closing in on him, though, until he couldn’t help but snap his eyes open (for all the good it did him) and claw at the walls. He pushed desperately against the door and the back wall, and then he felt the walls pressing in. The harder he pushed, the faster they closed, and he screamed in terror. Soon he was on his back, the walls close to his sides and the ceiling pressing his knees down into his chest, and the wall behind him lifting his head up until his chin almost touched his chest. He stayed in this position, hyperventilating, until Snape finally opened the door again and cast a spell that slid him out.

Snape stared down at him for a long minute, and then sneered, “You, Potter, are pathetic. Would you like to take your last chance to walk for quite some time, or shall I drag you like the object you are?”

Harry *really* didn’t like the sound of that. He tried to scramble to his feet, hoping that Snape would change his mind about whatever else he had in mind, but he couldn’t keep his balance or muster enough energy to climb to his feet. Finally he collapsed back down into a sitting position. Snape shook his head, clucked his tongue disapprovingly, and a rope appeared around Harry’s ankle. It didn’t lift him off the floor, just jerked him onto his back and then dragged him into the next room, and Harry was sure his back was entirely scraped open. He just hoped that Snape didn’t take it as an excuse to carve the designs deeper.

Once in the next room, the rope lifted Harry up and deposited him in a heap on the center of the bed. “Face down,” Snape ordered for the second time that night, and Harry managed to get himself mostly into position before Snape angrily tugged his limbs the rest of the way.

To Harry’s surprise, Snape didn’t put straps over his feet, ankles, or calves—instead he started with Harry’s thighs and then proceeded to secure the rest of his body as normal. Then he returned to Harry’s legs and strapped one of them before bending the other up so that his knee was bent at a right angle.

Harry tensed himself for some new game with the knife, but instead he felt one hand wrap itself firmly around his leg just above the ankle and the other grasp his foot. Then the hand on the foot began to bend it slowly but firmly to one side, further and further, until Harry gasped in pain—his ankle was not supposed to bend that way! He tried to jerk his leg away, but Snape held it fast and tightened his grip painfully before continuing to bend the ankle further and further, until Harry screamed into the bed as he felt muscles tear with a pop. All he could feel was his ankle, screaming in pain along with him. It was as though his ankle was throbbing, but in one long throb that never ended. He wasn’t conscious of anything else until he felt the other ankle begin to bend, and he screamed again and tried to kick the leg out of Snape’s grasp, but Snape held tight and said something that he couldn’t comprehend through the haze. His ankle bent and bent and bent and then popped, and suddenly his pain was twofold, overwhelming him until he was the pain and he screamed on and on until his voice gave out.

“Are you quite finished, Potter?” Snape asked snidely when Harry had finally calmed, though the pain was still a large part of his consciousness. Another large part was the realization that Snape had been right—he was not going to have a chance to walk for at least several weeks. “Sleep.” Harry thought for sure that he would never fall asleep with the pain in his ankles, but he finally slipped into a restless and nightmare-filled sleep.

Harry woke to throbbing pain in his ankles. He then realized that part of the reason was that they were being prodded by someone, and gave a muffled moan to alert Snape that he had been successful in waking him—and in increasing the pain. He clenched his teeth at the intense pain that emanated from both of his ankles.

“I’m afraid that even if you’re in pain, I can’t stop our morning rituals,” Snape said, not sounding upset in the least. That was the only warning Harry got before Snape began to pull his wounds open again, destroying scabs before beginning to carve deeper in his chosen locations. Harry tried not to think about the pain but his breathing sped up nonetheless.

“There. Much better,” Snape finally finished, sounding pleased with himself. He then began undoing the straps holding Harry to the bed. “Sit up.” He handed Harry his bowl of porridge for the day, which Harry ate quickly as always. His stomach always begged for more, but he knew that the only other thing he was likely to “ingest” was salt water, and that would all be going to his lungs. He shuddered slightly at the thought.

“I’m sure you’re aware that you will no longer be capable of walking, for quite some time. If I feel that you are likely to attempt to run again, I reserve the right to resprain your ankles as many times as necessary. In the meantime, I have come up with a form of “transportation” that should work ideally. Accio broomstick,” he called, and a broomstick sped into the room and hovered next to the bed.

Harry stared at it for a long moment. It was a very basic broomstick, which almost looked like it was merely meant to be used to sweep the floor. It couldn’t have many charms. Worse still, it didn’t even have stirrups. He looked at Snape questioningly, and he answered, “Oh, the stirrups. I wouldn’t want you injuring yourself—I’ve removed them just for you.” He smiled darkly and Harry worried about what that smile meant.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” Snape said, and levitated Harry onto the broom. When he released the spell Harry winced immediately. There was no cushioning charm on this broom. “You’ll be sitting on that all day, Potter, so you’d better get going. Then he walked out of the room, the broomstick following him and Harry almost losing his balance at the unexpected movement. It appeared that he had no control whatsoever over this broom—somehow he was less than surprised.

He spent every day, all day, in the Potions lab, but now he was sitting on the broomstick with no cushioning charm and was quite sore by the end of the day. His ankles, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be improving at all. He had a the feeling that having them hanging down below the rest of his body was not a good thing, but Snape didn’t seem particularly worried about him healing—if he had, Harry was sure that he would have offered a potion to reduce the noticeable swelling. Instead, he just added a step to their nightly ritual—rotating Harry’s ankles around painfully as Harry’s screams were muffled by the bed.

His mood became lower and lower. Harry was beginning to feel that Snape was correct—he was never going to escape, not at this rate, and no one knew about him or cared. If someone finally *did* think to look for him, why would they think to look at Snape’s cousin Salazar in the dungeons of Hogwarts?

These thoughts, combined with the continued torture each morning and more importantly each evening (each time he was stuffed into the hole, it felt smaller and more terrifying), left him in a perpetual state of wishing that he was dead. Thus it was no surprise that when he was given the task to chop Hellebore and Snape left the room temporarily, he took his chance. He ingested the Hellebore, knowing that it was highly poisonous, then carefully but effectively slit his wrists, taking bizarre pleasure in the fact that he had to cross two of Snape’s ‘designs’ on each arm in order to do so. Soon blood was flowing quickly out of his arms, though, and he was feeling more lightheaded all the time. He was hardly still upright on the broom when Snape re-entered the room and saw what he had done.

The next hour was blurry at best to Harry. Snape immediately closed the wounds on his wrists, then secured him to the lab table when he tried to claw the slits back open. Then he forced him to drink a potion which resulted in him ejecting every content of his stomach (which fortunately only included bile and the Hellebore). Once Harry was done vomiting, he was forced to drink another potion, which finally brought the world back into focus, much to his dismay.

“What did I tell you about fighting, Potter? Didn’t I warn you that you belong to me, and there will be no escape?” Snape ranted. Harry glared murderously in his general direction from his position still stuck to the lab table. Snape’s voice lowered dangerously. “So, you thought you would take away my fun and attempt to obliterate any signs of my ownership at the same time, did you? Well, that can be remedied.”

Snape waved his wand and heavy metal enclosed Harry’s wrists and much of his lower arms. Then Harry was released from the table, only to be deposited on the broomstick painfully. He held tightly to keep from falling as Snape strode quickly ahead of the broomstick, in past the hole to the inner room. There Harry was deposited haphazardly on the bed. “Face down—now!” Snape exclaimed when Harry hesitated. It was a bit of a trick for Harry to as he was told without putting weight on his ankles, but he managed.

Snape started with his head and neck this time, strapping him down tightly all the way down to his thighs before painfully rotating Harry’s ankles as he did every night. Then he strapped Harry’s legs down too and long minutes passed in silence before Harry felt the knife begin recutting the designs. He gasped at the sudden pain, but actually screamed when Snape immediately poured a potion that burned deep into the wound onto the first design before moving on to the next. The burning didn’t stop right away, and Harry’s brain was split between two things—the incessant burning in previous designs and the pain of the knife cutting already inflamed flesh.

Snape continued to spread the pain around Harry’s back systematically, lavishly pouring the liquid potion over each and every cut, sometimes taking time to spread them wider so that the potion burned even deeper into Harry’s skin. After the first scream in surprise, Harry held out for quite a long time—all the way until Snape began to carve his hand open, in fact. Then he screamed again, but managed to cut the sound off when Snape only increased the pressure on the knife in response.

Harry imagined that the process of reopening each wound (which Harry now had memorized) took hours and more, and he was already exhausted from his earlier injuries. Soon, he slipped into the state of half-consciousness that was becoming more familiar. He couldn’t fall asleep for the pain, but he sunk deeper and deeper into a hazy world where he hardly knew where he was and the pain was distant and manageable.

Finally, Snape finished his ministrations on Harry’s back (all the way down to the bottoms of his feet, one which he carved a second ‘S’ on the arch that caused Harry’s body to stiffen painfully even before the potion was poured over it), and unstrapped him. He ordered him to turn over, but Harry was too close to unconsciousness to comprehend the order. Snape instead turned Harry over (less than gently) with a spell, and then poured a potion down Harry’s unsuspecting throat. Harry nearly choked but managed to swallow, and sprang back to full awareness almost instantly.

Snape once again fixed it so that Harry was forced to watch as he repeated the process on his front. Harry tried to find that netherworld where the pain was not so extreme, but he couldn’t seem to manage anything less than full awareness. Thus he cringed each time the knife neared him, and Snape nastily took advantage of the moment at times to hesitate painfully close before stabbing through Harry’s flesh, the pain enough that Harry’s body tried to arch up against the restraints in protest. Blood would well up from the new cut, but Snape would immediately pour the purplish-black potion over the wound. Harry quickly saw that the bleeding stopped with the potion and, though the burning continued, a scar formed almost immediately where the cut had been. The potion was apparently seeping deep into the cut to painfully heal it, and Harry wondered why Snape bothered.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that scars remain,” Snape said absentmindedly even as he cut into the inside of Harry’s elbow. “This is a powerful healing potion that will heal even the deepest cuts, but the scars that remain are permanent—even magic cannot remove them. So you see, you will now have so many reminders of how precious you are to me,” Snape finished explaining with a dark smirk on his face. Harry’s stomach sank; the word ‘permanent’ echoed in his brain along with the continued pain and burning. Then Snape reopened the deep wound on his palm that still hadn’t finished healing and poured even more of the potion into it—Harry screamed in agony and thoughts of permanence were eaten up in the experience of pain, pain, and more pain.

Finally Snape completed his sickening task, and Harry stared in horror as Snape stepped back and he saw only his body, covered with bright red “S” shapes that were already scarring with a burning pain. Then Snape raised the bed up and stared into Harry’s eyes, which were still locked open. “Legilimens,” he spoke, and then the memories were spinning through his mind.

Harry fought the intrusion with all that he had, but Snape hammered painfully through every defense, aiming straight for one memory—his ‘favorite’ memory. When he reached it, he played it over and over, and Harry was back in the cupboard, trapped and terrified, his claustrophobia overwhelming him. Then, after more iterations than Harry could count, he realized that he was no longer being forced to relive the memory. Snape was swimming in front of his teary eyes, and speaking again. “Legilimens.” Once again Snape had to start at the most recent memories and batter through until he reached the one he wanted, and began to repeat it again, and again, and again, until that was all Harry knew. And then Snape was out of his mind, and then he was battering back in, and again, and again, until the only thing that Harry could do was bring the memory to the front of his mind, offering it to the man so that he would not have to suffer the agony of having his mind torn apart anymore.

Then, though, the Legilimens was battering through, searching for another memory, a memory of complete panic in the hole, of it closing on him until he could no longer move and all he could do was scream. He repeated the process, over and over, until all Harry could see was the dark hole, and then he began to alternate rapidly—he was reliving the cupboard, and then the hole, and then the cupboard, and then the hole, and then the cupboard, the hole, the cupboard, the hole, the hole, the hole—he snapped out of the memories only to see pitch blackness. He felt out with his hands and realized to his terror that he was *in* the hole. He tried to fight back against the Legilimency, but there was no one else in his head, and this was real, too real. He pushed desperately at the walls, clawed at them, screamed desperately in panic, and wished for oblivion. He closed his eyes, willing himself to pass out in panic as he always had before, but unconsciousness was not coming.

As the walls closed in on him tighter and tighter and his breath came faster, Harry suddenly realized that this was it—his life, pain and torture and Snape, forever. He was never going to escape; Snape was never going to stop. Harry felt something inside him stretching thinner and thinner with the panic, until finally, it snapped—the tenuous thread that had been holding him to his sanity was gone. “Harry” retreated to a point deep inside his mind, a place that was calm and painless and wide open and not frightening in the least. What was left at the surface was an emotionless shell, one that did not care that he had been left unexpectedly in much too small a space, unable to sleep despite his exhaustion (now that the hysteria and adrenaline had evaporated). He no longer screamed, cried, or pushed; he just waited. He had no memory of the past, and no hope for the future. As far as he was concerned, he had always been here. Always, always, always.

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Apologies...

2005-06-13T14:17:00.000-07:00

...for forcing anyone who was reading my LiveJournal blog to move. I know that LiveJournal allows you to "friend" people and see other people's friends' work, but there are some features that Blogger has that I haven't found anywhere else, so here I am. I may start copying some friends, like NightWolfWriter who posts his writing progress in the number of words, or Corbin Slate who posts portions of stories.. and I've already done that on my Live Journal.

So, look back for more links to favorite writers and stories, and for more info on my progress. Hope that people won't hate me too much for forcing them to follow me in my switch!