Torment
Early November, 1996.
Phantom shadows followed him.
They had followed him from that graveyard, prosecuting him at every corner, every bend.
Their fingers would caress his consciousness every so often; they sent shivers down the man’s spine. Every time he closed his eyes, the haunting orbs of emerald would blink. It varied whether they belonged to a pale woman, her gaze as blank as parchment, or her son, whose same eyes were trapped behind a pair of round frames.
It was torment.
That wretched Halloween night continued for Severus, so it seemed.
These recent days, he could not walk the stone corridors, teach classes, grade papers, or dine in the Great Hall without the ghost of grief peering over his shoulder.
Everyone had moved on from that night. The Halloween decor had come and gone, replaced with the usual holiday tinsel, mistletoe, and wreaths — to the point of ad nauseam… And yet, Severus felt stuck. Stuck in time; stuck in a continuous, vicious cycle. Stuck in that one moment, wherein he’d stood before that headstone with her son.
Was it absurd that he could not move on, even after so many years? That that night, over fifteen years ago, continued to plague him so, to the point where it was a haunting? Was it absurd that he was still rewinding back to the ‘happy days’, when he and Lily had been friends, blissfully innocent and young?
Was it absurd that those memories were some of the few things keeping him sane, anchored to this existence?
It really was. Severus could answer that himself.
And yet, the fact did not allay the grief and remorse that continued to linger still. It was pure torment, an agonizing weight that lay on his chest, his mind, his conscience.
…How did one move on?
Things only increased for him in difficulty every time he saw Potter… Harry… the boy — the boy’s eyes. The eyes were everything. Evermore, they felt crippling to peer into. Severus was always expecting to find them narrowed at him with scorn, with judgment, with unrelenting unforgiveness, bitterness, resentment, hatred—
And then, that sound. The shattering sound of the boy’s lamentation that night. And his words — words of apology.
Over Severus’ sin. His mistake. His fault.
Why had he even brought the boy along that night? Why had he chosen to put himself through all this torment? This self-inflicted torment…
Perhaps it was penance.
And now, admittedly, he’d taken to avoiding the boy. Coward, the word rang in his mind.
Potter’s gaze, his sight, his person — in class, Harry Potter turned invisible to Severus, faded from the picture. Nothing more than a phantom. It didn’t even happen out of Severus’ own accord, more like a defensive mechanism of the mind. Still, it was easier this way, ignoring him.
It, of course, came at the cost of showing slightly less malevolence towards Potter. Severus had even passed up on two highly plausible opportunities to assign him actual detention over the last few days.
When was it even ‘Potter’, or ‘Harry’, or ‘boy’? The meanings those names carried all varied so drastically.
It had been ‘Harry’ in the graveyard. It had been Harry suffering the aftermath of his visions or nightmares. It was ‘Harry’ Severus was trying to extract that fragment from.
But it was Potter in class, the halls, in Severus’ brooding thoughts. It was Potter Sr.’s face that flickered behind those rounded spectacles at times.
‘Boy’ uncannily reminded Severus of his own unsavory childhood. He didn’t wish to draw a line of relation between that and the bo— Lily’s son… But it was the most neutral of the three variants.
Alas, as much as Severus wished to, he could not avoid Harry Potter forever. He had a task at hand. Failure was not an option.
The fragment.
There was somewhat of a breakthrough in Severus’ attempts, though it was a blurred outline on the horizon. He had been… experimenting.
Since a blood base hadn’t had any effect, Severus had scrapped the idea and started anew. A new, different approach to the extraction elixir. He’d definitely found something — an ingredient, at that: highly potent, but just as rare and difficult to acquire.
For which he would need Harry.
Some week following Halloween, Severus finally had no choice but to finally assign the Gryffindor a detention. The hardest part hadn’t been finding a reason (he had, conveniently, been having trouble performing a nonverbal disillusionment charm on Longbottom), but returning the boy’s glare — an infuriating sight that he did not wish to see again.
But anyway, whatever was new in that?
So the boy came to his office the next day. This time, they did not traverse down to the dungeons. Instead, there the Gryffindor now stood before Severus’ mahogany desk, shuffling his feet as he so-often did. Severus conjured a chair and gesticulated for him to sit.
So the boy did.
Heavy tension hung between them. They hadn’t spoken since Halloween. Not even in class.
He did not meet those green eyes.
But Severus refused to let that deter them. Without preamble, he opened a big, worn tome to the right page and pushed it towards the boy. There was an inked illustration of a small fungus, droplets of slime oozing off its knobbly cap.
“Barabaculous fungi,” Severus began in his lecture-like tone. “A particularly scarce and valuable ingredient in Potions-Making. Their properties are highly potent, and their extract is an indispensable component of elixirs.”
Potter glanced up at him. ‘Potter’, this time around.
“Can’t say I’ve heard of it, sir,” he replied. “You want to use it to brew the extraction elixir?”
Severus nodded. “Unfortunately, it is not an everyday ingredient even I carry. Neither do apothecaries. The Barabaculous fungus is a capricious thing to harvest: the predetermined consumer must be the one to pick them, under specific conditions, else its extract will be lethal.”
“You mean… I have to harvest it?”
Severus pressed his lips together for a moment. “Yes.” He then slid a long finger along a strip of text in the book. “The Barbaculous fungus is native to Northern England, to temperate deciduous forestation… In other words, the Forbidden Forest. It must be picked at Witching Hour.”
“That’s three AM, isn’t it… So, you’re saying I’ll have to—”
“We, Potter,” Sverus corrected, stressing the word with a pointed look. “Yes, you and I shall have to go into the Forbidden Forest and search for the fungus. I do not think it should be too jarring an experience for you, with your… history,” he drawled, adding a raised eyebrow. “To both of our dismay, there is no other alternative. A work-around for this ingredient could cost months.”
“...And this fungus is supposed to help remove Vol… the fragment out of me?”
Severus couldn’t help but avert his gaze even more so from Harry when he answered, rubbing his concealed hands in his lap. “There is no guarantee of anything. In theory, yes. It is merely a crucial ingredient in any complex elixir such as this one.”
“So, guesswork?” Potter said, a twinge of disappointment lining his tone. “That’s what Dumbledore said… About You-Know-Who. Seems that everything is…”
Severus offered no reply. He had none. He already knew that guesswork was all he had to offer and that it might not be enough. He didn’t need a reminder, nor the heavy sediment that had settled on the seabed of his chest with it.
A beat passed. This time, it was ‘Harry’ who was nodding his head slowly.
“Well, let’s give it a go, sir,” he decided at last.
Severus’ eyes snapped back to him and considered him for a moment. He could tell the boy was desperate to rid himself of the fragment, having complied with such ease… Severus knew the feeling. He could relate. For years, he’d tried to erase the filth upon his forearm — even with the Barbaculous fungus —, but to no avail.
Only, for the boy sitting in front of him, the circumstances were far more dire, the consequences proportionately severe in failure’s event.
“...Very well,” he slowly said. “The next full moon just so happens to be tomorrow. No one can know, Potter. Speak to no one about this. We must not be seen… You will slip out at midnight with that Cloak, Map, and wand of yours, and we shall meet near the Greenhouses.”
Potter shook his head. “What if my friends won’t be asleep yet?”
“Then you will make something up,” Severus growled. “Use the imagination you were so blessed with. It should not prove to be that difficult. The difficulty will be in harvesting the fungus, as it can be… rather dangerous.”
“Dangerous, how?” Potter asked mistrustfully.
Severus deftly slid the book back to himself, turning it around and casting a perfunctory gaze over it. He pressed his lips together, still looking down at the ancient pages. “This specific fungus is part of the Cyniclistic fungal family, meaning it is highly adept at protecting itself against potential harm…” Severus paused here, giving a moment’s thought. He tapped a finger against the desk. “It is a broad subject. In essence, timing is crucial, else the consequences be… unsavory.”
Potter leaned back in his chair, hands in his lap, a somewhat blank expression on his face that Severus wasn’t quite sure how to interpret. For a minute, it appeared as if there was an impotent question trapped behind his lips, but something was holding it back.
“Something on your mind?” Severus prompted. The boy startled slightly, but shook his head.
“Uh, no, sir. I’ve got to get going…”
He was hiding something. Something was troubling him.
But who was Severus to press?
“Tomorrow night, ten, greenhouses. Do not be late. Dismissed… Potter—”
The boy paused at the threshold and turned around.
“Dress warmly. We will be limiting using magic, so do not rely on heating charms.”
~***~
Early November, 1996.
If Harry had been hoping for a sense of normalcy following Halloween… Well, the thought seemed laughable now.
None of his friends were the wiser of his and Snape’s excursion — as it should be. His absence and late arrival to Gryffindor Tower had definitely been questioned, most of all by a miffed McGonagall, but Harry had easily lied that he’d simply dozed off in the Astronomy Tower. Gryffindor ended up losing ten points, but Harry thought it was a minuscule price to pay.
It felt strange when everything had seemed to resume as usual the very next morning. Classes had resumed. So had Quidditch practice, which was progressing well. The Halloween decor had started to come down. Peeves had flooded a boys bathroom, claiming to be continuing the Weasley twins’ legacy…
And Harry had fully appreciated this perception of normalcy, following that night in the graveyard.
Until his first Defense lesson with Snape.
All feelings of normalcy had flown out the window then and there when Harry had realized that Snape was blatantly ignoring him. Initially Harry hadn’t thought anything of it — the professor never once meeting his gaze in the hallways or even indulging in any interaction with him, even antagonistically. Not even a scathing rebuke of some sort.
It hadn’t bothered Harry at first.
Until that first Defense lesson since Halloween had come upon him.
Snape hadn’t even so much as looked Harry’s way once during that lesson.
And so it continued. Be it during class or corridors. It was complete avoidance, complete ignorance, as if Harry didn’t exist.
And that made Harry think.
Ruminate.
For longer than he was proud to admit.
Was Snape really ignoring him?
Why?
Was Snape angry with him?
Or was it all just part of his act?
Maybe the man regretted taking Harry to Godric’s Hollow…
Or did he simply… hate Harry again?
That last possibility felt like an additional, heavy tome added to his school bag. Harry didn’t want Snape to hate him again. The concept was strange to him still — the fact that he cared at all what Snape thought of him…
But after everything, he did.
Unfortunately, Harry could not just walk up to and confront him — the thought alone was laughable. So he’d just taken to experimenting throughout the next three Defense periods that week. At one point, Harry had even tried to see if Snape would assign him detention. But no matter what he’d tried, his efforts had been ignored.
And this unsettled Harry.
Deeply.
But then— Finally—
Snape had assigned him detention.
‘Detention’
“Barabaculous fungus,” Severus had begun, his tone unreadable and business-like. Void of any emotion. “A particularly scarce and valuable ingredient in Potions-Making. Their properties are highly potent, and their extract is an indispensable component of elixirs...”
And now, the next evening, Harry was lying in his bed, awaiting midnight’s stroke.
The thought of falling asleep didn’t scare him — he knew all of his thoughts wouldn’t let him.
He and Snape were going into the Forbidden Forest to look for some strange mushrooms… Harry didn’t know how to feel about that. Not fearful — he’d gone in and out of the forest plenty of times before, and moreover was the fact that he’d be accompanied by Snape, of all people. A literal Death Eater.
It was only the thought of Snape’s recent strange behavior that made Harry’s stomach clench uncomfortably.
Memories of the Dursleys suddenly surfaced. They made him slightly sick. Memories of when the Dursleys would act nicely to him, would put on those acts of care and so-called kindness… only to then take it all away, out of spite. No reason, no explanation, just tactics. Then would come the complete ignorance of him. As if he hadn’t existed.
Then Harry would try to somehow make it up to them, without even knowing what he’d done to cause this. He would do more chores, put in more effort, and behave himself better — but nothing had ever worked.
The ignorance had always been even worse than acting as if they cared. Ignoration meant hatred. Hatred on another level. It had meant that Harry wasn’t even worthy of acknowledgement, that he was an utter waste of time, energy, and resources… It had always stung, burned away at him as a child…
And it was making a full circle back to him.
Only with Snape ignoring him, in the very depths of his mind — in the smallest voice. Harry could admit that it was somehow tenfold worse.
And the wait felt like impending doom.
Would Snape continue to ignore him? Did he really hate Harry again? What had he done wrong?
Harry turned over on his side.
His thoughts transported him back into his Fourth Year, when Ron had been ignoring him.
Then when he’d thought his friends had been ignoring his letters last summer.
Then when Remus hadn’t been replying to his owls, and later when the man had visited the Burrow. Despite his warm tone, Harry had easily picked up on the coldness, the distance in it.
Except with Remus, it was obvious as to why.
Sirius.
Harry briefly closed his eyes at the jolting reminder of his late godfather.
Snape ignoring him wasn’t his only concern.
It was needless to say that the following couple of nights after Halloween had been trying for Harry. The nightmares persisted, but that was nothing new, of course. They had been worse, certainly, but even still, peaceful rest came seldom.
But something about his nightmares, his dreams, his memories felt… off. Different.
Blurrier.
Perhaps Harry was slowly going insane — he wouldn’t be too surprised if that really were the case. Since Halloween, Harry had been having trouble remembering his godfather’s benevolent face. But it had been more than a full week since then, when this seemed to have started, and it seemed the harder Harry tried to cling to those precious memories of his godfather, the blurrier the images became.
But that was ridiculous — he was probably just tired…
But that thought didn’t work to allay his mind for long.
What unnerved him most was the fact that when he tried to picture his parents, he could see them clearly. Same with other people: the Dursleys, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Snape, Remus…
It was as if… as if Sirius was fading from his memory.
It terrified Harry. Consequently, it was the only thing he ever thought about these days.
Could it be a side effect of the Dreamless Sleep potion he’d overdosed on earlier?
Out of anything, that seemed most likely to be the case.
What if the effects were irreversible?
Harry was lying in his bed, ruminating all of this, tossing and turning in his tangle of blankets as usual. His thoughts were running amok as he waited for midnight to leave. He wasn’t afraid of dozing off. Nothing was giving him peace. His mind was a beehive.
He turned to lie on his right side.
Sirius… What did Sirius look like? Harry tried remembering the joyous moment he’d been reunited with his godfather at Grimmauld Place last summer…
A blur. Warmth, but a blur.
He turned to lie on his back now.
Halloween. The graveyard. Snape.
On his left side again.
Should he ask Snape?
This was a problem concerning his thoughts, his memories. Mental stuff. Whom better to ask than Snape?
“...I am no therapist…”
Those words bobbed heavily at the forefront of his mind even still.
Harry turned to his other side again.
But hadn’t things changed between them? Even if only a little?
“...I am no therapist…”
Harry closed his eyes. They burned. He couldn’t tell whether it was from exhaustion or the tightness in his chest.
Because how could he approach Snape with a problem relating to Sirius? The man would, no doubt, just sneer him away.
No. He would figure it out by himself — he always did.
… But didn’t his memories of Sirius outweigh taking a chance with Snape?
…
His wand, lying on his bedside table, suddenly buzzed. Midnight, thankfully, had finally struck.