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Death and the Open Mind	By : LoupGarou1750 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 3188 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and her business associates own the world of Harry Potter. I make no money from this, nor anything else.

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JUNE

The Headmaster's office looked much the same for all it was the Headmistress's office now. Dumbledore's things were where they had always been. McGonagall had yet to make it fully hers, but then it had only been a few weeks. Harry shook his head in wonder; a year seemed more likely.

"...Spinner's End," Harry said. He mopped his face with his hands, surprised to discover he'd continued their conversation while woolgathering.

"Yes," McGonagall answered. "I don't suppose there's much left there, nothing of value, but whatever there is, I'd hate for the Ministry to get their hands on it. Severus wouldn't be half pleased, and we owe him that much at least."

Harry sighed. "I'm so tired, Professor. Couldn't this wait? I haven't had a minute to myself since–" He waved his hand vaguely, not wanting to bring up Snape's funeral day.

"I know you are, Harry," she responded, and the kindness in her voice made his eyes burn. "I could ask Neville–"

"Longbottom? Are you mad?" Rage at the idea of Neville Longbottom in Snape's house flared in Harry's chest and his jaw tensed.

McGonagall's lips pursed in irritation but otherwise she ignored his outburst. "Or perhaps Bill Weasley."

Harry relaxed again.

"But I hate to ask Bill, what with Fred and–" McGonagall's eyelashes dampened.

"No, you're right," Harry said with a sigh of resignation. "It ought to be me, I suppose, although I doubt Snape would agree. Will you tell Ginny? I hate to ask, but she's angry enough with me as it is lately. If I go traipsing off again so soon..." He let his words fall away. "Tell her I'll be back soon. Tell her...everything will be all right, that's it's just this one last thing and then it will all be over. Tell her—" Again Harry's words trailed off. He had to tell her himself; he couldn't just disappear to Spinner's End, he had to go home first. Ginny would have every right to be annoyed. They had promised each other some uninterrupted time once everybody had been laid to rest, but the truth was he'd hadn't spent much time with her lately. Harry closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of his chair.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Dumbledore's office, recognizable, nearly unchanged. Delicate instruments, solid furniture, portraits, shifting, moving, rearranging themselves. He looks wildly around, straining to identify the difference after the dancing patterns stop, but it all looks exactly as it had before. No sign of the truncated year spent trying to minimize damage while rigidly maintaining the cold façade that obviously came all to easily. Minerva's tentative imprint visible here and there, but her occupation of the office has been too short; the presence of one Severus Snape, spy, misanthrope, murderer, and yes, hero is marked only by a small silver cauldron on an otherwise empty shelf. A pathetic reminder of a too brief sojourn in this office, on this earth. He throws a hand up to shield his eyes as the dizzying frantic dance starts again.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Feeling embarrassed, Harry knuckled sleep from his eyes. He would have sworn he'd only closed them for a minute, but a glance out the window showed the sun nearly gone. Professor McGonagall's absence and a blanket tucked in around his shoulders only added to his embarrassment. His tiredness was inexplicable. It was true he hadn't been sleeping well, but he hadn't done anything all day beyond chatting with the Headmistress. Rising, he folded the blanket and draped it over the chair's high back, then looked around the office, his eyes lighting on Snape's small silver cauldron. Seeing it gave him a strange sense of melancholy. Shrugging the feeling off, he walked to the fireplace and picked up the can of Floo powder.

"Harry! My dear, dear boy. How good it is to see you!"

"Headmaster!" Harry exclaimed, looking up at Dumbledore's portrait. "You're awake! How are you, sir?"

A low chuckle came from the portrait and Dumbledore's eyes, although heavy-lidded with sleep, twinkled much as they had done in life. A painted hand pensively rubbed a painted forehead. "Sleepy, I'm afraid. Very sleepy. As you look to be."

"Yeah, well...it's been a long year," Harry answered, his lips twisting in a wry smile.

"An exceptional year for you, Harry. I am so very proud of you, you know." Dumbledore's portrait gave a contagiously jaw-cracking yawn.

"I'm glad," Harry began, before succumbing to an enormous yawn of his own, "glad it's over. At least, I was glad it was over, but now it looks as if I still have things to do." He shook his head and yawned again. "Me, in Snape's house. It's a good thing he's already dead; I think the irritation might have done him in otherwise."

Dumbledore's eyes shone with mirth as he laughed again. "I think you underestimate our dear Severus." The light in his eyes dimmed as Harry swayed with weariness. "You should pass the night here, Harry. I'm sure Minerva wouldn't mind."

"What? Here? In her rooms?" Harry was mildly scandalised.

"No, no," Dumbledore laughed. "Minerva is a generous soul, but that perhaps would be taking things a bit too far. I am aware you never cared for Floo travel at the best of times and we do have guest rooms, you know. The keys are in Minerva's desk. Right hand drawer."

A flash of irritation made Harry's jaw tense.

'We' indeed! You're dead, old man.

It took effort not to blurt the thought out.

Tapping an age-spotted hand against his lips as he stifled a yawn, Dumbledore continued, "Now, if you'll excuse me, my dear lad, I still have difficulty remaining awake for more than a few minutes at a time, and you should get some sleep as well. I daresay things will look different in the morning."

"Maybe I will stay," Harry said, masking his irritation. He opened the desk drawer and took out a key. "Good night, Headmaster."

"One more thing, Harry, if you don't mind. In the morning, before you go, would you look in on Fawkes? Minerva says he hasn't been seen since Severus' funeral. One of the students swears she heard phoenix song coming from my tomb a few days ago. Perhaps you would be so kind as to check? If he's not at my tomb, try Severus' crypt. Fawkes was always quite fond of him."

Feeling strangely resentful and not knowing how to refuse, Harry simply nodded.

"Thank you. Then, with your kind permission, I think I'll just close my eyes for a bit. Sleep well, Harry."

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Cold. Dark. The air is foul, the stench of millennia. The taste of rot furs tongue and teeth. The chittering squeaks of mice, of bats. The wet scrape of worms, the dry rustle of insect wings, tiny skeletal feet brushing across eyelids, along cheeks, over lips and gums. Over all and through all and into all the suffocating miasma of rot and waste and death and despair.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Gasping, Harry jerked awake. He blinked in the faint light cast by a guttering candle, fumbled for his glasses and looked wildly around the room, disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings and by the sweat streaming down his face even as his body tensed against the bone-jarring coldness.

"Bloody hell, no wonder. The fire's gone out." He found his wand and directed a vehement Incendio at the hearth, but the resulting blaze didn't seem to touch the coldness locked in his bones. What was it? What had he dreamed? Garbage and crawly things. But, as all the others had done before, the disturbing dream flickered and faded, leaving behind only distress and the urgent need for a scalding, skin-stripping bath followed by a quick escape.

The water was blissfully hot — god bless magical plumbing — but no amount of soap and brutal scrubbing with the rough flannel erased the disturbing stench his dream had left in his nostrils.

Death. This is what death smells like. Be grateful your experience of it was so brief.

He was grateful and yet...part of him wished he hadn't come back. Not to this, not to these near-nightmares and never-ending obligations. Harry frowned; the bath had chased away the coldness, but he was still as exhausted as if he hadn't slept at all and was awash with dread. Wanting nothing half so much as to go home, collapse into his own bed and stay there for the next month, Harry toweled off and quickly dressed. He found the room's Floo powder on the mantel, threw a handful into the fire. The flames roared, flaring green, and Harry was just about to step through when he remembered his promise to look in on Fawkes and his pending visit to Spinner's End.

"Damn it!" Harry yelled to the room at large. "Why does it always bloody have to be me? Kill Voldemort, clean Snape's house, rescue Fawkes. I'll be cleaning chimneys for the entire wizarding world if I don't learn to say 'no' soon." He sighed. He liked Fawkes, couldn't bear the idea of Dumbledore's gorgeous familiar mouldering away in the dank, dark tomb. "Fine. Fine! Fawkes. Snape's house. And then I'm done with it! Maybe I'll go back to the Dursleys'. They won't care if I crawl into my cupboard, as long as I never crawl back out. Harry, my lad, you're due a vacation. When this is over..." He didn't complete the thought. Harry had no idea what he would do if the wizarding world finally left him to himself.

There's no reason to wait. Fawkes can take care of himself. If you give in to this, you'll give in to every request anyone ever has of you. Alive or dead, flesh or paint, Albus Dumbledore is a meddling old man. Saying no won't kill you.

"I can say 'no'," Harry said, not quite believing it. "I can't just say 'no'." Jumper in hand, Harry twitched aside the curtains to see what the weather was like and was dismayed to see black sky out a rain-streaked window. It wasn't even dawn yet. If he remembered right, the window faced east, but there wasn't even a glimmer of light on the horizon. Given the sky's current darkness, the time he'd finally collapsed in the big bed, the still burning candle, the amount of time he'd spent stripping his skin in the bath, he knew he couldn't have slept more than three hours, four at the outside. No wonder he was exhausted.

You've been operating at the whim of others for too long; it is time to do something for yourself alone.

The thought just made him sad. He'd been alone for far too much of his life already.

"Get a grip, Harry," he said to the empty room. "You're just tired. It will all look better when you get some uninterrupted sleep. Go home. There's no point in going to Dumbledore's tomb, there's no way to get inside. If Fawkes is in there, there's nothing you can do about it. Besides, it's raining."

He thought about Dumbledore suggesting he could try Snape's crypt, but Harry didn't want to. He knew himself. If he visited the crypt, he'd feel obligated to talk and he had no idea at all what he could say beyond, 'I'm sorry.' What good would that do? What good would it do to talk to Snape at all? It wasn't as if the son of a bitch had ever listened to anything he'd had to say anyway, and he was dead, damn it! Harry had the vague feeling that it was too soon, he would lose something ineffable if he went now.

It wasn't the Headmaster, just his portrait. It's not him. It's only an approximate facsimile exhibiting Albus Dumbledore's dominant character trait — habitual manipulation.

Feeling more than a little guilty and very disloyal, Harry grabbed the can of Floo powder again. "Spinner's End," he called, not realising until that moment that he wasn't going to go back to Grimmauld Place first.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Harry tumbled to his knees in a haze of ash and banged his head on the brickwork of the ridiculously small grate. "Fucking Snape! Leave it to him to have a fireplace small enough to decapitate a visitor," he snarled, rubbing an egg-sized knot on his forehead. Staggering to his feet, he peered irritably around a small, gloomy, dank and downright depressing sitting room. The vague odour of mould and a strong smell of dust made him sneeze. "What a dump! Makes my cupboard look like the Ritz. Hello? Anybody here?"

You are the definition of an idiot. Of course there's no one here.

Yawning, Harry staggered over to the dilapidated sofa and collapsed onto it. His abrupt movement caused the sofa to bang into an occasional table and the resulting vibration of the table shook a precariously perched lamp, sending a cascade of dust down the shade and onto Harry's head before the lamp crashed to the floor.

This is not your house. You're a guest and you might consider not bringing it crashing down around your ears until you've completed your task.

"Not before I get some sleep," Harry said, stretching out on the sofa. He jerked as a sprung spring attempted to punch a hole in his bum, banging the back of his head on the sofa's carved wooden arm.

Snape's house hated him. He probably should have expected it.

The house isn't sentient, fool.

"Then why is it talking to me?" Harry asked aloud, half afraid the house might answer.

He winced. Just being in Spinner's End was making him mental. He needed to get a grip; it wasn't the house. The voice in his head, the one he thought of as his inner critic, had been more vocal than usual for weeks. Guilt, he suspected. Although he wasn't really sure what he had to feel guilty about; he'd done everything he was supposed to, hadn't he? Except...his hand sought the vial in his pocket — a piece of unfinished business that could, he supposed, account for the near constant self-criticism.

"As soon as I've finished here. I'll take it back." Speaking aloud in the silence made him feel both less lonely and neurotic.

He shifted again in his uncomfortable makeshift bed before finally giving up. "Tea, that's what I need. Tea and something to keep my belly from sticking to my spine. I hope Snape was well supplied."

A thirty second prowl revealed the whole of the house's downstairs — sitting room, kitchen, cramped bath. There had to be an upstairs, unless Snape and his parents had all slept in the bathtub, but he hadn't spotted a staircase. Well, there was time enough to look after he'd had his tea. There would be beds upstairs and nobody to object if he commandeered one for the night. Harry told himself that the ripple of irritation down his spine was caused by the mere thought of sleeping in Snape's bed — "I'll bet the pillows are greasy" — not any malevolence from the house itself.

There was a battered kettle on the stove and he found tea in the first cupboard he investigated. Prying the lid off the tin, he sniffed and decided it was fresh enough. Igniting the stove taxed his minimal ability with household charms.

Ignorant Muggle. You've been spoiled.

Harry smiled to himself. At Hogwarts the house-elves provided everything, Mrs Weasley at the Burrow, Kreacher or Ginny at Grimmauld Place. He was, at least when it came to a magical kitchen, most definitely an ignorant Muggle. Although given his upbringing, spoiled seemed unnecessarily harsh. It wasn't as if he didn't know how to cook and clean.

And yet you show no signs of competence whatsoever.

Snorting at the thought, Harry dredged up the simple household charm from some dim recess of his memory, ignited the stove and set the kettle to boil. His stomach rumbled. As with the tea, he found a loaf of bread in the first place he looked; kept reasonably fresh under a charm, it offered some proof that Snape had been here not too long before his death.

"Must be why he liked the dungeons, growing up in this damp like some kind of mushroom."

He instinctively recognized the butter keeper for what it was, although he'd never seen one before that he knew of, and though the water within was tepid and oily with floating grey tendrils of whatever, the butter was fine once he'd scraped off the mouldy top layer. The same cupboard that had held the tea also had an unlabelled jar that looked like it might just be jam. He twisted the lid and sniffed it as he had done with the tea. The smell was vaguely familiar.

Gurdyroot.

Hah! Snape would be proud. Harry grinned and could almost hear the snort of disdain. Gurdyroot jam. Amazing what people came up with. Uncertain how to toast the bread, Harry decided to skip that step and slathered a slice with butter and jam until it was nearly twice its original thickness. Taking a big bite, he decided that Gurdyroot made a better potions ingredient than confection.

It would take a more sophisticated palate to appreciate its subtle flavour.

No doubt, and Harry still would have preferred strawberry.

When the kettle boiled, Harry mashed the tea, leaving it to get good and strong while he finished off his bread and prepared another slice even thicker than the first. When he had eaten the second, already feeling warmer and much revived, he poured himself a big mug and dumped in four spoonfuls of sugar. Mug in hand, feeling like an intruder and yet strangely at home, he set off to explore Snape's house.

There wouldn't be much to explore; two rooms down probably meant two up, if only he could find a staircase. Wandering back into the sitting room and seeing nothing, Harry shrugged. There were advantages to being a wizard; one could hide a staircase, and another, unable to find the hidden staircase, could Apparate to the next floor.

He was right, two rooms up, with a staircase leading down between them. Snape's was easy to identify, with books spilling off every flat surface, including several on a small table that also held a mortar and pestle. The other bedroom showed signs of past occupancy and hasty departure; the bed was unmade, a few articles of dusty clothing strewn about, a teacup and a piece of rock-hard toast on a plate. On a desk by the window there was a strange wire wheel mounted to stand upright and Harry spun it idly while he contemplated whose room this might have been. Who the hell would Snape share his house with?

Shrugging off the unanswerable, Harry stepped back into Snape's room. If he was to gather Snape's effects, it seemed the logical place to start. The clothes cupboard yielded nothing worth salvaging: an old robe in a style long out of fashion and, incongruously, a pair of tatty, mud-encrusted Muggle trousers and a grimy T-shirt. A drawer in a small desk held broken quills, a crumbling rubber, wisps of dust and nothing else. There was nothing then, except the books. Sighing, Harry cast his gaze over the packed shelves and tottering stacks.

The silence of the house, the pitifulness of Snape's room, the metallic whine of the apparently still moving weird wheel in the adjacent room made his skin crawl. He tried to shake it off by speaking out loud. "I shouldn't even bother with the books. Who would care?"

Think of the use you got from the Prince's Potions text. You wouldn't want the Ministry to get their hands on private journals.

"Heh," Harry chuckled. "I wonder if Snape kept a diary. That alone would be worth my effort." Speaking out loud did help dispel his case of nerves, but he shuddered as he imagined how livid Snape would be if he had kept a diary and Harry found it. "There could be something of use here somewhere, after all, but fuck me! Where do I start in this mess? They can't all be useful."

Depressed at the size of his task — he wouldn't get back to Grimmauld Place today — and for lack of a better idea, Harry grabbed the top volume off the closest pile and sat down on the bed, sneezing as both book and duvet sent up choking clouds of dust.

A wash of bright light glared off the pages of the book. Startled, and half-blinded, Harry looked up to see the midday sun beaming through the window. He shook himself, startled to realise a few hours had passed while he sat engrossed in his reading. Closing the book, he looked at the cover in some confusion: Prolegomena to the Esoteric Arts. Harry had no idea what that even meant, and flipping back through some of the pages he'd just read, he realised he didn't understand half the words — yet the sense of it seemed clear enough, and he had a new understanding of Dark Arts spells as evil by intent rather than design. It was a new and surprising experience for him, reading magical theory and enjoying it, but then he'd had a knack for Defense, and this sort of stuff went hand in hand with that.

Trailing his finger down the last page he'd read, Harry was tempted to crawl into bed with the book; he'd just got to a really interesting part about an ancient warrior king which would make terrific bedtime reading. Resisting temptation, he snapped the book shut. He'd never get Snape's belongings packed up at this rate. "No more lollygagging, Potter, my lad," he said to himself. "You've got to at least make a start or you'll never get to the end." His stomach took that moment to remind him that several hours had passed. Standing, Harry stretched then walked over to the window. The storm had merely abated for the moment, just long enough for the sun to briefly break through, and now the clouds were gathering again. As he stood there the sky darkened as the sun passed behind the clouds again and a fresh onslaught of rain beat against the windows. From the other room he could hear the eerie sound of the wire wheel spinning again. As before, it made his skin crawl.

Wormtail.

The idea of Snape sharing a house with Wormtail was almost as disturbing as the idea of Wormtail all by itself. Harry shook his head. Once again his imagination was running away with him. Perhaps Snape had once had a pet guinea pig. The room the wheel was in was smaller than this one, so it'd likely been Snape's when he was a boy. It didn't matter. If the wheel was spinning again, it meant that there was a draft; the window was probably ajar in that room. He'd check it on his way to find something to eat.

Deciding that Snape's room likely held the most important things to keep from the Ministry's clutches, Harry decided that after he'd eaten he'd come back up here and shrink Snape's belongings — he'd gotten quite good at it during the endless camping trip earlier that year — and then sort through them when he was back in Grimmauld Place. Tonight, he would sleep here, in Snape's bed, because there was no way he was spending the night in Wormtail's room, and start going through the downstairs in the morning.

Pleased with his plan, Harry glanced around Snape's room once more and spied a small wooden chest. He could use that to transport Snape's stuff after he'd shrunk everything. He flipped the box's lid to discover a Pensieve nestled in excelsior, and smiled. He didn't have one of his own; now he could look at the memories one more time before depositing the vial with Snape's body.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Food dry as ashes in his mouth. Spitting it out is unthinkable, swallowing unbearable and suddenly he is choking, struggling in the light of the tower's flames. He's running, still choking, a fist-sized chunk of something in his throat. The cliff looms up in front of him, casting shadows, and he is falling over the edge, but it is not him, he is only watching, watching as the someone falls, a naked man trapped between fire and stone.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

"God, I've missed you!" Ginny exclaimed as she hurled herself into Harry arms.

Harry laughed. "I wasn't even gone three full days."

"I know, but I didn't see you for two before. I'd got used to having you in my bed and out of the habit of doing without."

"My bed, I think you mean." Harry found himself uncomfortable with the idea of Ginny living here — not that she was, but that was where things seemed to be heading. He loved her, the regular sex was great, only it was too soon.

"Yes, yes, your bed. Take me to it this instant, you wretched man!" Ginny pressed the back of her hand melodramatically against her forehead and feigned a swoon. "I declare, if I don't get some soon, I might expire from longing." Grabbing Harry's arm, she dragged him up the stairs. Before he could even get his jumper off, she was naked and sprawled atop the duvet, legs spread wide, hands massaging her full breasts.

Such a slut.

Mouth twisting, Harry told himself he hadn't just thought that, but looking at her, at the way the soft flesh of hip and thigh spread on the mattress, her heavy breasts flattened on her chest, at the vee of red hair between her legs, he felt a wave of revulsion that he didn't understand. He'd always thought she was cute, even before sixth year when he'd suddenly realised he loved her. There wasn't a man in England who wouldn't want her in his bed, so what was wrong with him? Harry told himself he was just tired, that everything would be all right as soon as he touched her, but he had to look away as he slowly finished undressing.

She's pretty enough. Not a patch on her brother Bill.

Harry shook his head as if he could dislodge the disturbing and disloyal thought that way. Bill was good-looking, sure, very good-looking, but Harry hadn't thought of him that way in years, not since he'd been a kid with a bit of a secret crush on Ron's glamourous curse-breaker brother. Harry peeled his T-shirt over his head, kicking his trainers off at the same time. Even if Bill wasn't straight, Harry was.

Really? Are you sure?

Guilt and dread slowed his hands as he removed his trousers and pants. He banished all thoughts of Bill, took a deep breath and willed his expression into one of happiness and desire, yet when he turned back to Ginny, he was still soft.

As Harry stretched out a hand to gently brush her hair from her face, he was suddenly assaulted — and there really was no other word for it, so suddenly did it come on — by an image of Bill as he had seen him one lucky time, naked, fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel around his slim hips. In his mind's eye it was Bill's long hair he was about too touch, Bill's high cheekbone his fingers would brush, Bill's broad, muscular shoulders and tapered waist. Harry felt a surge of lust that seemed almost foreign. He jerked his hand back. Sure, he had occasionally populated his fantasies with boys and men, yes, even Bill, but never before in Ginny's presence. It was the timing and the clarity of the vision that was so disconcerting, not the image itself. It was also the realisation that his sudden erection was for Bill, not Ginny.

"Harry?" Ginny asked, searching his eyes, a peevish expression on her face. "What just happened?"

"Nothing," Harry replied quickly, forcing the image of Bill from his mind. He lifted the covers and slid into bed just as quickly, hoping that she hadn't seen his hard-on.

"There's something you're not telling me. You're going off again, aren't you?" Her voice was rising in anger. "Some other task that no one can handle but you? Or you, my brother and his girlfriend?"

"No! Nothing like that. I'm not going anywhere! I don't even know where you got that! I'm just tired, I think. I'm still not sleeping well, still having those strange dreams, and being at Snape's was really weird, you know? Sometimes it almost seemed like he haunted the place. Ginny, I swear, there's nothing I'm not telling you. I'm not leaving again. I promised we'd have time together this summer, just the two of us, and I meant it, but...would you mind if we...you know...a bit later? You've got every right to be angry 'cause I took off without saying good-bye, and I want to make it up to you, I do, but I think I'll fall over if I don't get at least a nap soon."

Leaning over him, Ginny looked at Harry with such an expression of mingled suspicion and disappointment, it made him want to laugh. Wisely, he didn't, but instead nestled against her, his back to her front, still trying to hide his erection, and asked in a plaintive voice, "Would you mind just holding me for a bit? I'm so tired, but I really missed you, missed your arms around me."

And that seemed to be the right note to strike. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the high flush of anger had faded completely from Ginny's freckled face, replaced by a warm smile. She curled an arm under his head for a pillow and wrapped her other around his chest.

If I live to be a thousand, I'll never understand women. What happened to 'if I don't get some soon'? Her brother would fuck you through the mattress.

Mindful lest the hand resting on his chest should stray lower, Harry clasped it in his. He brushed his lips across her knuckles and, resolutely banishing all thoughts of Bill, went to sleep.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Lucius. Gorgeous, desirable, unmitigated prick. Snape's house is filthy, I should probably dust before I go. School robes sliding up, revealing perfect, pale white thighs, two inches more, just two inches. Snowing in King's Cross station, clouds dumping bucketfuls, naked, face down, crawling, crawling, crawling. Long, perfectly manicured finger tracing circles round a perfectly formed kneecap. Insufferable tease. He knows I'm hard, knows I'm aching for him. Choices, Harry. No, don't touch! It's crying. Stop its crying. Bloodred tears reflected in mirrored bloodred glass pouring bloodred river tumbling drowning man. Severussss. Silly boy, did you think? With you? A clump of bloody snow, with a muffled thump, falls in the child's mouth, silencing it. I know you want me.

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

Rolling over, Harry threw an arm across Ginny and pulled her to him.

"Harry? What's the matter?" Ginny asked sleepily. She turned and snuggled closer. Her eyes flew open and she looked at him with concern. "You're shaking!" Ginny rubbed her hands briskly up and down Harry's arms, trying to warm him. "What's wrong?"

"'M'not cold. Fucking dreams! I think I may need to see someone, Gin. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Does St Mungo's even have psychiatrists?" He buried his face in the space between her neck and shoulder, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of her.

"Maybe Madam Pomfrey would give you some Dreamless Sleep. If you go to St Mungo's, it'll be in the Prophet next day, you know it will."

Trembling fear was replaced with shaking rage. "Is that all you care about? Don't want the Boy Who Lived's image tarnished because it will reflect badly on you? For fuck's sake, Gin!"

Groaning, Harry clutched at Ginny's hand. He didn't know where the thought had come from, or why he'd spewed it out without thinking. "I'm sorry! I know that's not what you meant! I don't know why I said that. God! These fucking dreams are twisting me inside out!"

He could see Ginny's fight to keep her composure, to not retaliate in kind. He wanted to hit himself for hurting her, hug her for not hating him.

"What did you dream?" she asked after a moment.

Closing his eyes, Harry blessed her for keeping her temper. "God, I don't even know. I...I was back in King's Cross. Um...there was snow and Lucius Malfoy was doing a striptease and something about Snape. It sounds so stupid!" Harry's face was hot and he found, to his horror, he had to keep his hips away from Ginny's.

"Lucius Malfoy doing a striptease?" Ginny's laugh sounded a little forced, but at least she was laughing. "I thought you were having a nightmare, not a wet-dream. Lucius Malfoy! Well, it does have a sort of disturbing appeal, I suppose."

"It's not funny! It was a nightmare!" Harry protested. "It was...I don't know what it was."

"So is that—" She pulled Harry's hips to hers. "—for me, Lucius, or is it just a random morning stiffy?" Licking his ear, she whispered, "I don't really care, as long as I reap the benefit."

Pushing her away, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, shoulders slumped in misery, jaw and neck tight with anger. "Damn it! Leave off, can't you? Why the devil is it always about you? I'm freaking out here!"

"Don't be such a bear, Harry," she said, curling herself around his hips and sneaking a hand over his thigh. "You were gone for days. I missed you. We didn't last night. You're hard. I'm horny. Why shouldn't we? Let me help you chase the dream away."

Harry stood abruptly. "Don't you have to get home before you mother finds out you didn't sleep in your bed?"

Flopping onto her back, Ginny laughed again. It still sounded forced. "Mum thinks I'm at Hermione's. I don't have to go. I'll send her an owl in a bit — it's too early yet — and tell her I'm going to spend the day with you."

"Fine, suit yourself," Harry said grumpily. "Kreacher! Breakfast in fifteen minutes!" He turned back to Ginny. "I'm going to take a shower. Alone."

"You're being impossible!" Rolling out of bed, Ginny grabbed her clothes and began to hurriedly put them on. "Maybe I will go home. There doesn't seem much point in staying here! Enjoy your shower."

"I intend to!" Harry shouted, banging the bedroom door behind him as he stomped off to the bathroom.

Mind filled with ideas he had no business having, Harry pulled off in the shower, forcing himself to say Ginny's name as he came, although she had barely figured into his fantasies. For a moment he felt unbelievably sick and dirty. Out of nowhere he thought of fifth year Occlumency lessons. He could do that now, clear his mind, make it blank, empty himself of all emotion. The water ran cold before he managed it, but he felt better afterwards, better than he had in weeks.

The good feeling lasted through getting dressed and eating breakfast. Ginny was nowhere to be seen and he was relieved. He wasn't mad at her, not really. His upset had more to do with embarrassment than anything, embarrassment brought about by not getting hard when she was lying naked on her bed, and then springing instant wood when he imagined her brother. He really did need to get a grip. His life had been weird enough without suddenly turning queer.

There was a loud crack and Kreacher suddenly appeared. "Master," he said, bowing low, his snout-like nose almost touching his knees.

"God damn it!" Harry yelled. "Can't you ever knock?"

"Ohhh," Kreacher wailed, his tiny hands tugging hard on his bat-like ears. "Kreacher is a bad elf!"

"Stop it! I order you not to hurt yourself!" Harry waited until the little elf had let go of his ears. "You just surprised me. You're not bad. Just don't... You just startled me, OK? You didn't do anything wrong. Now, what did you want?"

"The blood-traitor girl—" Kreacher suddenly dropped to the ground and began banging his head on the floor. "Kreacher should not have said that! Kreacher has been told!"

Harry sighed. "Stop! No hurting yourself. I absolutely forbid it! Won't you ever learn? Get up! Now, what about Ginny?"

"Master said no one was to go in that room, Master Regulus's room, but the girl—"

He could hear Kreacher calling after him, but Harry didn't listen as he pounded up the stairs to the top floor. His earlier good mood had vanished completely, overcome by a blood-boiling rage.

"How dare you?" he screamed as he burst through the door to Regulus's room. "What the fuck gives you the right?"

"It's just—" Ginny began, staring at Harry in shock.

"It's just nothing! You have no business in here! Get out! Get the fuck out! Out of this room and out of my house! You had no right!"

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Death and the Open Mind