"Mr. Potter. Stay after class."
Potter threw Severus a look that, for the shortest of instants, was filled with pure terror. But the fear was gone before Severus had any idea of how to react, and the boy's blank mask slipped into place. "Yes, sir."
The students finished pouring - and spilling, naturally - their Fever Reducer potions into fluted vials and messily labeling them before cleaning their stations and leaving the classroom. Both Nott and Bulstrode gave Potter thinly veiled signs of encouragement, as if the Brat Who Lived to Give Anyone Named Snape Headaches were going to be punished for something.
What the hell was going on?
Severus had not wanted to keep Potter after class; he had wanted to discuss the summer with him during one of their evening chats, when both of them were relaxed, and he could perhaps get a few other questions in about the Dursleys. But the Brat hadn't let him. The last couple weeks had been very odd, and when one was the Head of Slytherin House when Harry bloody Potter was amongst their newest members, that was saying something. For the better part of three weeks, in fact, since the five-minutes-long Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, Potter had declined all of their normal, non-curricular get-togethers. He had not come to play chess or to ask questions about Lily, or to view pictures of her either. He had also not shown up for Occlumency training, and the Bloody Baron had informed him that Potter was busy, with Quidditch and homework and other issues and could not attend. But he could not be that busy, could he?
Severus had thought that the boy had somehow re-discovered the Mirror of Erised, since it had ensnared him once before. But when he mused about it aloud, once more the Bloody Baron had the answer for him. No, Harry Potter had not found the Mirror. Nor had anyone else, which was a bit of a relief, really.
Perhaps the Brat had found something else to hoard his time? Someone else. A girlfriend, perhaps?
"No," the Bloody Baron told him again. "Especially not after what happened with Gaius Avery."
Of course, Severus thought. Then again, ghosts didn't know everything. They could not be everywhere, though the Baron seemed keen to try, when it came to the Potter brat.
All the students were gone from the classroom, and Potter stood in front of him, all alone and looking it. "You wanted to see me, sir?" His hands were stiff and still beside him, and his eyes were wary, a cold green like the sea on a cloudy day.
If Severus had to, he would admit he was worried about the boy. The last two times he had shunned Severus had been because he was in trouble. The first time, when Potter had also been fearful and wary, had been because of Avery. What if some other student were hurting the boy like that again? Severus was angry just thinking about it.
"I have some news you might appreciate," Severus said lightly, hoping to light a spark of life in Potter's eyes. "I told the Headmaster that, at least until recently, you have done well at the beginning stages of Occlumency, and he has agreed to allow you to spend most of the summer holidays with me, so I may continue your lessons."
Harry's mouth dropped open and the flicker of fear reappeared for another moment before it was banked.
"You will need to only spend two weeks with those Dursleys, Harry," Severus pushed, in case the boy didn't understand that he would be free of them for most of two whole months. "And I will be with you while you're in their 'care,' to make damned sure nothing goes amiss." He was looking forward to it, truth be told. Shaking up Petunia's perfect little world by appearing with her nephew in tow, along with a writ of occupation from the Headmaster. Poking his wand into the enormous belly of that husband of hers and listening to him squeal . . .
"Do I have to?" Potter asked.
It was Severus' turn to drop open his mouth, although he was quicker to recover. "What's this? Did I hear you correctly, Potter? You want to stay with your odious relatives?"
"No, sir . . . no, of course not. I just . . ." Potter looked away. His shoulders came up as if to ward a blow, as if he thought Severus would be angry enough to hit him, as if . . .
The truth hit him like a punch to the gut. The boy's recent avoidance behavior made much more sense now. "You just do not wish to stay with me."
Still looking away, Potter gave one, sharp nod.
It took Severus a minute to overcome his suddenly dry mouth in order to speak. What had happened? Had he misjudged everything? What had gone wrong in the last month or so? Where was that sense of camaraderie they had shared around the holidays and the weeks that followed?
He'd thought the boy had enjoyed his company, and the truth was harder to accept than he could have imagined. But he could accept it; he had to. He had faced painful truths before. The truth, he was just beginning to understand, was that the boy didn't care about Severus Snape and didn't want to stay with him. He couldn't possibly. How could he? Snape should have known from the start. After all, how could Harry bloody Boy Who Lived Potter want to spend time with Severus Snape, the Great Greasy Bat of the Dungeons. He was no one the son of James Potter would want to be around, when he could be pruning hedges and being stuffed in a cupboard . . .
"Very well," he said in a flat, airless voice. "Get out."
Potter's head jerked up, looking startled and almost dismayed, as if the little wretch thought Severus would beg for the pleasure of his company. He had another think coming! "What are you waiting for, Potter?" he snarled. "A formal invitation? I SAID GET OUT!"
The boy was halfway to the door before Severus finished shouting. Severus' hand closed on something hard. Looking down, he saw he had snatched up a vial of Fever Reducer as if to throw it at the miscreant's head. At the head of that ungrateful, overindulged, annoying, spoiled rotten, horrid, hurtful . . .
With a sigh, Severus sank down on a seat. His chest had not felt so heavy in years.
-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-
The next few weeks, as spring term lumbered on through nearly endless rainy days, were like a bill board for hell. At least in Snape's opinion. He couldn't imagine the boy was having a better time of it. At least Potter was constrained by the rules to be respectful toward his elders, his professors in particular. Severus had no such compulsion laid on him.
"What do you call this . . . substance, Mr. Potter?" he drawled whilst peering into the boy's cauldron one Friday. "Stew?"
Potter glared at him. "It's a Calming Draught. Sir."
Snape glared back. "That's your opinion. Mine is that it is far too lumpy." He vanished away the perfectly decent - if slightly less smooth than absolutely necessary - draught with a flick of his wand. "Start over."
"But, sir! I haven't got enough-"
Snape broke in coldly, "Do I look like one of your mates, hmm? Someone who wants to chum about and listen to your whinging excuses? Start the potion over or you'll have a zero for the day."
Around him, the other students - Gryffindor and Slytherin alike - watched what was becoming an almost routine exchange. Yes, Severus realized he was being petty. Vengeful. Even cruel, perhaps. But he was angry, damnit. The boy had hurt him, and for no good reason! He wouldn't even say what was wrong, had barely spoken three words to Severus outside of class, and had continued to skive off from Occlumency. It was too much!
Without arguing further, Potter had begun chopping Bundimun eyes in very neat, even pieces while the oil and water base of the draught of his new potion came to a boil. Severus looked down his long nose at the boy and tried to figure him out. Again.
The following Tuesday evening, Severus was able to get Dumbledore to send Potter a note at dinner, asking the boy to come to his office afterwards. When Potter got there, Severus was waiting to march him down to his office for the bedamned Occlumency lesson. He would get to the bottom of the boy's foul behavior one way or the other.
Potter followed him into his office with that same blank mask he had been wearing in Snape's presence for weeks. Severus reminded himself (again) that this wasn't necessarily personal, and that, if nothing else, the boy's first four months in school had taught him that the blank mask meant Potter didn't want the other person to know what he was thinking, or, more likely, feeling.
Trying to keep himself from lashing out at the boy, he recalled that children such as Potter, those from neglectful homes, often learned to hide all their feelings, even from themselves, as a defense mechanism. Their feelings were mocked, ignored or used against them, and thus were better not shown or even acknowledged to exist. What it meant now, for Potter, was that he didn't trust his old bat of a professor, the man who was about to go mucking about in his head. That was bad.
So he took a shot at the boy, hoping to get him to erupt and let out what was wrong before they started. "What's got you in a snit?" he asked airily. "Lose your favorite Chocolate Frog card?"
A brief tightening around the eyes was all he got in return. He poked again. "Did no one praise your amazing skills at Quidditch today?"
"No, sir," the boy said carefully. "It was just practice."
Maddeningly, Potter would not be provoked. He tried one last time. "I very much dislike wasting my time, Potter," he said, stressing the boy's last name because he knew how much the boy hated being addressed like that. "I've put my time and effort and my considerable talents in magic towards your betterment, into teaching you a very important and difficult skill which could save your life, and this is what I get in thanks? Surliness? Laziness? The least you can do, if it's not beyond your capabilities, is remember to show up for the lessons!"
Potter's mouth tightened, but all he said was, "Yes, sir."
So be it. If he would not trust having Snape in his mind, it would go harder for him, certainly. Neither of them would enjoy the coming lesson, but the experience would not cause Severus actual, physical pain.
"Very well. Stand over here," he directed. When Potter obeyed, he said, "Clear your mind. I will find out, one way or another, what you are trying to hide from me." He smiled nastily as the boy's face paled. "You may attempt to block me."
Fear glimmered in Potter's green eyes for a second, reminiscent of that look of several weeks ago and their conversation about the summer. Snape was determined to find out why the boy was afraid of him - he must be, to have turned down the deal about getting away from his relatives for the summer, right? - and of having his thoughts accessed. Snape would find out, as he'd told the boy. One way or the other.
He lifted his wand and watched Potter do the same. "Legilimens."
He was immersed immediately in a tepid, slow spinning stream of thoughts and memories. Severus snatched at one randomly. In it, Harry was in the midst of a Defense Against the Dark Arts class. The room reeked of . . . garlic? Potter frowned at something Quirrell said and scratched at his forehead, his scar, his thoughts turning darker as he sensed a vampire or spirit of one such, in possession of Quirrell and staring at him, a spirit with mad, glowing red eyes, possessing him-
He was yanked from the memory, though not with any real skill or force. He latched onto another which looked better defended. Hidden behind a boiling black fog (easily penetrated; the boy was hardly trying!) was a door, partly open, which led to a bathroom stall and an arm snaking around his neck from behind and a hoarse cry of "No! Please!" before he was wrenched from that memory, too. He entered another very nearby, this time striking inward with sheer brutal force. He found dim light and the stink of sweat and Gaius Avery speaking, threatening Potter in a low, soft voice, yet at the same time, in the same tone, giving him compliments and inquiring about his skill on a broom. Severus didn't need to know exactly what was said to finally understand Potter's problem.
Of course.
What young boy, who had recently been physically and sexually assaulted by an older teen, would want to spend the summer with a man two times his size and thrice his age? No wonder Harry was afraid. Except for the first night, when he had been forced to tell Dumbledore what happened, Harry had refused to talk about Avery, even when he woke from nightmares about the older boy in the middle of the night. . . . which Severus realized he had not been called to assist with for some long time. Harry's feelings about Avery and what had happened to him must have been growing and churning inside, given no way to get out, like festering, suppurating boils.
No wonder he had been snarly . . .
"GET OUT!" Harry screamed. He pushed again, and Severus was shoved completely out of his mind.
Before Severus could offer Harry a hand up from where he was sprawled on the floor, the boy shoved himself to his feet and flung himself at the door. He was gone, down the hall, with the Bloody Baron chasing after him, before Severus could draw breath to yell his name or even spell the door closed.
Well, fuck.
-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-
During their next Potions class, on Friday, he made Potter do his potion twice again. Despite the same protests as before, Harry finished a second copy of his Deflating Draught before the end of class. Snape had known he could do it, but he was still annoyed that Potter hadn't blown up yet so he could assign detention. That's what he'd done at the start of the year to get the boy to talk to him. He'd assigned detention on top of detention until the boy had practically imploded . . .
Of course, he'd also ended up in the Hospital Wing with broken bones, and Severus had gotten a chewing out from Pomfrey . . .
With a sigh, he stalked away from Potter and his potion.
What really galled him was that he was normally very good at this with his Slytherins, teasing out details of the child's home life, or other abuses and traumas of their lives, so they could better cope at school. He was known for it, and the other professors sometimes sought his advice with their own troubled cases. But Potter . . . Potter was an enigma. He could not seem to reach the boy any more. He had no idea what had suddenly turned the boy from a fresh-faced, fairly happy but still troubled child, excited about his first Christmas presents, into a more surly, wary, frightened child, all inside of a month.
Though . . . McGonagall reported no change in his behavior in her class, nor did Flitwick or Sprout. Was the cause of Harry's 180 in his relationship with Severus really all the incident with Avery rearing its ugly head? Perhaps it was because Snape knew what had happened? Snape didn't know if that was the answer, and not knowing vexed him very deeply indeed.
-HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS-
"I'm worried about the Stone," Severus told Dumbledore a fortnight later. It was the first week of May, and the chill winds and rains of early spring were giving way to warmer weather and cloudless skies. Outside, the smell of lilacs, roses and peonies was at times overwhelming, especially near Sprout's greenhouses. Inside Dumbledore's office, of course, one was only ever overwhelmed by the host. "Quirrell is up to something. I think he's planning something soon."
"I don't see how," Dumbledore replied. He leaned back slightly in his chair so he could ruffle the feathers of the phoenix perched by his head. Fawkes, the overgrown chicken, seemed to appreciate his efforts and leaned into the "chin" scratches along his neck and the edges of his beak.
"Well, Albus, he would find it easy to get past the troll, for one thing. His contribution, was it not?"
Dumbledore's blue eyes narrowed briefly behind his spectacles, and his hands dropped into his lap to play with the ends of his beard. It was one of the only "nervous" tells the man had, as far as Severus could discern. "Why do you say that?"
"It's logical. He's always had . . . a way with lesser creatures, even when he was Muggle Studies professor. I would not be surprised to find that the troll which 'got in' to Hogwarts on Halloween was actually 'let in' instead."
Ignoring Severus' last comment, Dumbledore said, "Logical, yes. That's your strong suit, isn't it? Logic?" Albus' words were seemingly careless, but Severus had learned over a very long twenty years that nothing Albus had to say had anything of carelessness about it. What did he mean? Was it merely a reference to his puzzle part in the set of traps to the Mirror? Or was it something deeper. Uglier.
Or something to do with Harry?
"Slytherin's last Quidditch match is coming up," Dumbledore offered into the silence following his last statement. He took up the ever-full container of lemon drops on his desk top and offered them to Severus before taking one for himself. Severus demurred, and Albus popped the sweet in his mouth. "I expect your Seeker will perform well."
"Yes," Severus agreed, letting none of his worry about the boy show. Nor any of his exasperation at being put off about Quirrell. Or so he thought.
"When was the last time you spoke to Quirinus about his . . . possible loyalties?"
Frowning, Severus said, "A month ago? Six weeks? I've no idea. Why? Do you have more information? Has he figured out a way to get past Fluffy?" It was the only trap he knew would give everyone but Hagrid trouble, and Hagrid would have trouble with all of the others, having little magic of his own anymore, and no wand.
"Not to my knowledge, dear boy. Not to my knowledge. But . . . I imagine you were circumspect enough at that meeting. Discreet, were you not? Gave no hint to Quirinus that you might be anything but a helpful pawn in his Lord's plans to return?"
"I . . ." His frown deepened. He had played his part well. What was Dumbledore getting at? He decided to ask. Perhaps, this once, Albus would give him a straight answer. "What are you talking about, Albus? Do you suspect Quirrell knows I'm not one of His agents anymore?"
Dumbledore smiled softly. "Not at all. I merely speculate that, to the untrained eye seeking knowledge, a conversation of that sort would terribly, mistakenly illuminating."
No. Not even this once.