Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Death and the Open Mind	By : LoupGarou1750 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 3186 -:- 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.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
AUGUST

The green light of the killing curse paints every face a sickly hue. Albus falls. Lily screams. It blazes from the Dark Lord's wand, his own wand, Nagini's eyes. Draco cowers in a corner. Albus falls. Lily screams. They circle around him, wands raised, hate-twisted faces. "Coward! Coward! Coward!" He is Albus Dumbledore falling. He is Severus Snape dying. He is Lily Potter screaming. He is a baby wailing in the sickly green light. And NO. And NO. And NO! He will not die! He cannot die! He is running, seeking, searching, falling, failing, dying.

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

Dread made Harry's feet drag as he shuffled, slump-shouldered down the long grey corridor. He knew he looked like shit: eyes sunk deep within dark circles of puffy flesh, hair sticking up in clumps, face pale and haggard. He neared the end of the corridor and the right hand turn that would lead him to the second door on the right where his interview would be held, and his feet dragged even more. He was tempted to just turn around and walk away, give up on his own before the sure disaster that awaited him forced him out.

Stopping just short of the right hand turn, Harry took a crumpled piece of parchment from a pocket in his robes and reads the results for the hundredth time. They didn't look any better than they had the first time. He'd passed the background check, but otherwise he'd nearly blown the special qualifying exams they'd set for him and Ron. The only thing he'd done well at was Potions. And wasn't that a laugh? He had no idea how he'd pulled that one out of his hat, but every time he'd been about to do the wrong thing, the right thing to do had suddenly come to him out of nowhere. The rest of the exam hadn't gone at all well — Transfigurations, Charms, even Defence, his choice of spells and his wandwork had shown all the knowledge and subtlety of a first year. He had found himself doubting things he absolutely knew for certain, and his hesitancy had come through with every move he'd made. He'd only barely scraped by.

Shoving the parchment back in his pocket, Harry slumped to the floor, huddling with his arms wrapped around his bent knees. He still had the interview to get through — it was a miracle he'd even made it that far — and if he made it through that there was still the character and aptitude tests. How was he supposed to prove he had any character at all when he was quite possibly going mad? And how would he prove he was actually quite adept at Defence when he was so tired he could barely raise his wand, let alone use it?

You might as well face it. You're not Auror material. Go home. You have money. Use it. Take a trip. Ask Minerva for a teaching job if you must. Just abandon this foolishness.

Harry yawned so widely his jaw made a popping sound. Tiredly, he dragged himself upright, then hesitated, trying to figure out if he should go forwards or turn back. He'd just decided to go through with it when he heard raised voices coming from around the corner. It sounded like...Hermione and Ron. Harry knew he shouldn't listen, that he should make some noise to announce his presence, but he hadn't seen Ron since his birthday, the most miserable night of his existence. Creeping a little closer, Harry flattened himself against the wall to listen.

"He's your best friend, Ron!"

"Not anymore, he isn't! You were there. You heard him. Nobody talks to my mum that way and gets away with it."

"Be reasonable. Your mum's forgiven him, why can't you? Oh Ron, if you'd only go see him, you'd feel differently. He looks terrible."

"He should look terrible after what he said."

There was a sound that Harry took to be Hermione stamping her foot. It made him smile a little wistfully. "Ronald Weasley! There isn't one of you who hasn't made fun of or groaned about your mother's sweaters at one time or another. Every Christmas, for example."

"But what he said about Fred!"

Hermione sighed loudly. "Fred would have laughed."

Harry heard a soft chuckle. "Yeah, he would have. But that doesn't make it right!"

"No, of course it doesn't make it right. Harry feels horrible. Truly horrible. I don't think he's slept more than a handful of hours since his birthday. He's a complete mess. I think he was telling the truth when he said there's something wrong with him. Give him a chance, Ron. If you can't be nice to him, just don't treat him like a leper in front of the interviewer. Can you at least do that much? For me, if not for Harry?"

"Yeah. All right. For you, not for him."

"Good." There was the distinct sound of a big, sloppy kiss. Harry waited a couple of heartbeats, then cleared his throat loudly before walking around the corner.

"Hi," he said, leaving it at that.

"Merlin's nuts, Harry. You look like shite!" Ron exclaimed, staring in shock.

"I know. Thanks."

"'Course you should, after what you did."

"Ron!"

"I know," Harry said again. "It won't mean much to you, I suppose, but I am sorry. I love your mum. I even love her sweaters."

Ron glared at him, but to his surprise, Harry was pretty sure he saw the corner of his friend's mouth twitch as if he wanted to smile.

The option for further testing of the waters was stopped as a sour-faced man in red Auror robes that could have used a good steam press stalked into the room and eyed Harry with distaste. "Harry James Potter? Ronald Bilius Weasley? This way." He jerked a thumb towards a door with a small plaque that read Ralph Rupert Rumplety, Associate Assistant Director.

"Good luck!" Hermione exclaimed brightly. She kissed Ron's cheek, then hugged Harry.

"Sometime today, gentlemen, if you please."

Harry and Ron followed the man into a dingy, cluttered office. "Sit," the man barked. "I'm Ralph Rumplety." He pronounced it Rafe. "You will address me as sir, or Auror Rumplety." Harry wanted to roll his eyes — even Kingsley hadn't insisted on being called Auror Shacklebolt — but he wisely held back. "If you're lucky enough to pass the background check, the character assessment, and the Defence Aptitude Test, I'll be your lead." He pulled a file from a teetering stack on the desk, opened it, then looked from Ron to Harry then back to Ron. "Ronald Weasley?"

"Call me Ron. Please. Er, sir."

"Any relation to Arthur Weasley in Detection and Confiscation?" The man smiled roguishly. It was rather a creepy smile, revealing as it did several large gaps between crooked, brown teeth. "Stupid question. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, eh? Well, I hope you inherited more from your da than his red hair. Good man, Arthur. We need more in the Ministry like him. Dispensation from NEWTs, eh? Arthur pulled some strings. No? Here on your own merits, are you?" He flipped over some pages in Ron's file. "Exam results look good. Bright lad. I'm sure there's no need to worry about your character assessment, being Arthur's son." He stood and shook Ron's hand. "Welcome aboard, young Weasley. We'll work you hard, but I'm sure you'll be up to it. Arthur and Molly raise good stock from what I've seen of your brothers. Barring Weatherby, of course," the trainer smiled. "There's a runt in every litter and I'm glad it's not you."

Ron beamed like a four-year-old with a new crup. Turning to Harry he gave him a thumbs-up. The interviewer smiled at him, then sat down, pulled another file from the stack and frowned. "Well, well, well. What have we here? Harry James Potter." Pursing his lips in distaste he added, "Saviour of the wizarding world, is it? Think a lot of yourself, do you, Potter?"

"I didn't write—"

"Shut your gob! You'll speak when you're spoken to and not before. Your celebrity won't serve you in here, boy. I don't play favourites and if I did, well, you wouldn't be one of them. You've a cocky look about you. Got it from your father, I presume. I knew James Potter," he sneered. "We went through training together back in the day. He was insubordinate. Always going off half-cocked. Thought he was better than everyone else. And you look to be the same. As I said, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

The trainer stood and came to stand directly in front of Harry, towering over him and looking down with a malevolent smile. "I don't care if you killed You Know Who." He jabbed a finger into Harry's chest. "You're not special. Not in my corps. You're a grunt like every other grunt and you'll obey the rules or I'll bounce you out of here so fast your arse'll catch fire. I'll not stand for a prima donna, are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said sullenly. "Crystal."

"Don't take that attitude with me, Potter," he spat. "You look like shite. Up all night drinking, was it? Think your fame means you don't have to pull your weight? I've broken better men than you. Man, hah!" He looked Harry up and down with disgust written on every line of his face. "Pansy's more like it. You a poof, boy?"

"No!" Harry snapped. "No, sir. I'm not."

"Well, we'll see, won't we? I won't have you ogling the other trainees, boy, so keep your nose clean and your eyes to yourself and maybe, just maybe, I'll turn you into something that's not ashamed to look in the mirror."

Standing again, the trainer waved sheets of parchment from the file while he glared down his nose at Harry. "Your exam results were pathetic, but you killed You Know Who, or so they say. Let's see some proof of your abilities, boy. Confringo!"

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

Someone was singing. Loudly and off-key, notes rising and falling in a way that made Harry feel decidedly seasick. Opening his eyes just made it worse, so he closed them again, marvelling at how much that tiny little movement could hurt.

I'm DRUNK today and I'm rarely so-o-ber, a handsome RO-ver from to-own to town. Oh but I am SICK now and my days are nu-um-bered, so come all ye YOUNG men and lay-ay me dowwwwwwwwwn.

The realisation that the singing was inside his own head made Harry feel dizzier than ever.

How is that even possible?

"Oh Harry, you're awake. Good. I was beginning to worry just a little."

"Madam Pomfrey?" Harry shook his head in confusion and then immediately regretted it. "I'm at Hogwarts? Why am I at Hogwarts? What happened? I can't remember? Why can't I remember?"

"Shhh. It will do your head no good to become agitated. You've been injured. Which now makes seven years out of seven I've known you." The nurse smiled at him. "You were brought to Hogwarts, I believe, to avoid publicity. I'm sure you're quite sick of seeing yourself in the Prophet, although I've a suspicion that it has more to do with your trainer not wanting to explain why he cursed Harry Potter. The nerve of that man! Casting Confringo on a trainee, and without warning too!"

That sounded vaguely familiar, but the details were still muzzy. Everything was muzzy. Even with his glasses on, Madam Pomfrey looked like an Impressionist painting.

"Why am I dizzy?"

"Well, you have had a rather severe blow to the head, dear. Flying desk part, or so Ron Weasley tells me. And there's the medication I've given you to numb the pain. It does tend to make one a little loopy."

"That explains the singing, I guess."

"Singing?" The old nurse sounded worried.

"Nothing, really. Just a song stuck in my head for some reason." He wished he hadn't said that, because the same verse started up again.

I'm der-RUNK todayyyyy and I'm rarely sooooooober.

"When can I go home?" Somehow, being back in this particular childhood haunt wasn't comforting. Grimmauld Place seemed appealing by comparison.

"Oh, not until tomorrow, dear. Now, sit up. It's time to take some more medicine." Madam Pomfrey raised a vial to Harry's lips.

Don't take it! It's what has your head spinning. Stupid old woman!

Half-rising, Harry dashed the vial from her hand, sending it spinning across the room to smash against a wall, leaving an oily blue streak.

"Foolish old woman! You are long past the limits of your usefulness and should retire before you accidentally kill someone!" Harry recoiled from the torrent of words spilling over his lips but couldn't seem to stop them. "You over-medicate! You have always over-medicated! Has it never once occurred to you that as long as everything is right with the mind, the body wants to heal itself and will better be able to do so if not polluted with all your ridiculous patent medicines and patently useless nostrums?"

"Harry Potter! You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"Shit!" Harry yelled, once more horrified by something he'd said without meaning to. What the hell was happening to him? A too familiar wave of sick fear assailed him. Clutching his head, he vomited over the side of the bed.

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

"I don't know what we should do, Ron."

"Nothing. We do nothing. Just keep an eye on him."

"But—"

"No, Hermione. We can't. He'll be booted from Auror training and if we take him to St Mungo's, it'll be all over the papers. And, I don't know, what if they put him in a locked ward or something? It's not as if he's dangerous."

Eavesdroppers rarely hear anything good about themselves.

Harry didn't care. He wanted to know what they were saying and as long as he didn't do something stupid, they'd never know he was hiding in the pantry. Harry shifted slightly and knocked something off a shelf. Groaning in frustration, he opened the pantry door and stepped into the kitchen.

"Harry! I thought you were in the garden."

"I was. Got hot. What're you two doing?"

"Talking about you, actually."

"Hermione!" Ron said with some heat. "Look, Harry. It's not like we think you're barking or anything, but you did get a rather nasty crack on the head. Fucking Rumplety. What the hell did he think he was doing?"

"He hates me. He fucking hates me. Did you notice? He's exactly like Snape. 'Harry Potter, our new celebrity.'"

Ron laughed. "I'd forgotten that."

"I should just quit now."

That is the single smartest idea you've ever had. In point of fact, it may be the only smart idea you've ever had.

"Rumplety's got it in for me. We've not even started training and already he's tried to kill me."

"Oh Harry," Hermione scolded. "You can't really think he's trying to kill you."

"Hermione! He cast Confringo!" Ron and Harry exclaimed in unison. "I didn't even have my wand out and he didn't give me any kind of warning," Harry continued hotly. "And it was just a preliminary interview. What the hell was he doing, throwing curses at me? He could have killed me! Oh god, this is going to be a very long three years."

"Heh. Not if he kills you before then." Ron laughed and ducked as Harry swung his fist. "Don't worry, mate. We'll get you through it. Three years will pass in no time and we'll be Aurors, just like we've wanted to be since forever."

Over my dead body.

Harry laughed hollowly.

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

Two weeks after he left the infirmary, Harry was sure that deciding to become an Auror was the biggest mistake he'd ever made in his life.

If you had half the brain of a jobberknoll, you'd have realised thatbeforeyou landed in the infirmary. Face it, you're just not cut out for the job.

He was exhausted, out of sorts, and every bone and muscle in his body ached. He really could have used Madam Pomfrey's painkilling potion now; it couldn't possibly make him feel any muzzier than he did already and maybe the potion would silence the fucking voice in his head.

If the aches, pains, sleeplessness, and the fact that AAD Auror Rumplety had it in for him, weren't bad enough, Harry himself seemed bent on a course of self-destruction and the voice in his head egged him on. With the exception of brewing poisons and antidotes, for which he apparently had a previously untapped aptitude, he couldn't do anything right. A mock battle with Harry as team leader had resulted in three 'dead' trainees. When Rumplety, with admittedly some justification, had torn him a new arsehole in front of the entire group, Harry had gone off his nut, screaming that he'd never had a worse instructor in his life. That had resulted in an official reprimand and two days' suspension.

And if that hadn't been bad enough, Harry had come home, battered, bruised and ashamed, to find Ginny waiting for him. When she'd tried to jolly him out of his bad mood, he'd gone ballistic. Their screaming match had turned into a bout of angry sex, which would have been fine, perfect even, if Harry hadn't been tormented with images of Bill and Sirius and Oliver Wood the whole time. He'd been so horny and freaked out, he'd rolled Ginny over and fucked her from behind. Frankly, it had been the best sex they'd ever had. Ginny had screamed and moaned and urged him on, but when they were through, she'd gotten angry again and stormed out. He hadn't seen her since, but his prick was raw from reliving the experience.

A heavy sigh turned into an agonized groan as Harry rolled over and looked at the clock. Yesterday had been the second day of his suspension; he had orders to report back to training at seven o'clock and it was almost half six now. Forcing himself out of bed, he yelled at Kreacher, "I need breakfast in five minutes and I've got to be able to take it with me. Can you manage?" There was, of course, no answer. Ginny wasn't the only one who wasn't speaking to him. Still, he knew Kreacher would at least hand him a boiled egg on the way out.

He made it to the training centre with about ten seconds to spare.

"Cutting it close, mate," Ron said as Harry slid into the seat next to him. "Rumplety's disappointed, I bet. He's been looking from his watch to the door every couple of seconds for the last ten minutes, and the way he was smiling I wouldn't have wanted to be you if you'd been late."

Other than Potions — which Harry was pleased to see was on the agenda for that morning — the only good thing about mucking up in training was that Ron was a shining star by comparison. It was like he had his own private source of Felix Felicis. Still, Harry couldn't begrudge Ron his success; he'd had a hard time living in the shadow of five older brothers and an internationally famous best friend.

"So glad you decided to join us, Potter." The way Rumplety said Potter raised Harry's hackles. The man was worse than Snape, if that was possible. "I hope your little vacation put you in a better frame of mind."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Much better, sir." Harry smiled pleasantly as if Rumplety had just enquired after his health.

Rumplety's eyes narrowed and he scowled. "One of these days you're going to go too far, boy!" he snapped. "Do me the honour of making that day today. It will give me great pleasure to take you down another peg. Of course that could do irreparable harm to your career, since you only scrape by the minimum height requirement. I knew your father was a depraved sort of fellow, but I hadn't realised he'd mated with a house-elf."

Are you going to take that?

Digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand, Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, blinked twice, and said nothing.

This is ridiculous! You don't even want to be an Auror anymore. What kind of man doesn't stand up for his mother?

"My mother was not a house-elf. She was a brave woman who died facing down Lord Voldemort, sir," Harry gritted out. He smiled when Rumplety flinched at the name. "Scared by the mere mention of Voldemort's name, sir?"

Rumplety's face turned the colour of beetroot. Someone in the class snickered. There was a moment of dead silence before Rumplety spoke again, his voice harsh but shaky. He looked away from Harry. "Today you're going to brew a poison, so pay strict attention. The Flesh Eating Philtre is a NEWT-level potion, so I expect you to be able to brew it without instruction."

Harry and Ron paled. Smiling nastily, Rumplety moved to stand in front of them. "Team up, two or three to a team. Potter and Weasley, I usually prefer to separate you two, but today, you'll work together." The trainer was obviously getting great pleasure from Harry and Ron's discomfiture. They hadn't gone through seventh year, they hadn't taken NEWT-level potions, and their equivalency exam had in truth been much less than that.

When he had made them squirm sufficiently, Rumplety returned his attention to the group at large. "Each work station has seventy-two ingredients laid out. This poison requires less than a tenth of those ingredients and you have everything you need at hand. You have fifty minutes. Begin."

Worriedly rubbing his head, Ron asked, "Do you have an idea?"

"No," Harry said shortly. He sneaked a look at the station next to them, but a massive trainee named Madwaller was standing in such a way as to block Harry's view.

"We're in trouble."

"Don't talk to me for a minute." An image of the Half-Blood Prince's Potions text had flashed through his mind. Ron started to say something else, but Harry held up a warning finger as he imagined himself flipping through the book. Harry smiled. "Keep your eye on Snape Junior." He nodded at Rumplety. "And if he looks this way, distract him."

Taking his wand from his pocket, Harry checked again to make sure the trainer was otherwise occupied. "Accio aconite!" he said softly, flicking his wand.

"Harry, don't! He said we've got everything we need in front of us."

"Half-Blood Prince," Harry mouthed and matched Ron's sudden grin with one of his own.

Truthfully, he was a little nervous. He hadn't had any problems yet when they made potions, but if his brain was playing tricks on him, he'd get Ron in trouble as well as himself. He couldn't actually remember reading the particular page he was seeing in his minds eye, but the Prince's notes were clear enough. He pushed a sheaf of hellebore at Ron and began to pluck the dried flowers off the aconite.

"Snape would be proud, don't you think?" a grinning Harry asked as he deftly began mixing ingredients. He flicked his eyes upwards to check on Rumplety, who was in the middle of a discussion across the room. "Ready?" he asked Ron, preparing to tip in the aconite flowers and getting a big smile in response.

Later, it would seem to Harry that time had slowed down. He could recall every detail: the cerulean blue of the liquid bubbling gently in their cauldron; the deep purple of the aconite blossoms; someone laughing a couple of stations over; the way Ron's wide grin turned to a look of abject horror. Their potion had begun to heave and churn as if there were something alive in its depths. And then it exploded.

In a panic, Harry shoved Ron violently to one side. He snatched his wand from the table, as thick globs of molten liquid began to rain down. Harry threw a shield up, but it wasn't enough. Ron's arms, windmilling in an effort to stay upright, flailed outside the confines of the shield. The sickening stench of burning flesh had filled the room, overpowering even the disgusting smell emanating from the smoking cauldron as Ron screamed in pain and crumpled to the ground.

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

Oh good. At long last you have decided to rejoin the living. I was getting bored.

Blinking myopically in the bright light, Harry looked around, trying to see who was talking. The room he was in was unfamiliar and empty. An open window looked out on the tops of trees and let in a breeze as hot as a blast furnace. It was only when Harry tried to stand up that he realised he was on the floor. As he tried to push up, his arms felt as useless as a newborn's.

That worked out rather better than I thought it would. I suspect you can kiss your career as the Ministry's youngest Auror good-bye after today. A result devoutly to be wished for.

With effort, Harry shifted his body until it was supported by a wall and managed to sit upright, discovering at the same time that his glasses were clenched in his fist. One lens was shattered, but he put them on anyway and looked around the room again. There still wasn't much to see — a desk covered with files, two chairs, and a bin overflowing with wads of crumpled paper — and no source for the mocking voice.

"Who's there?" Harry waited tensely for a response. He was scared and he didn't really know why. The voice hadn't said anything threatening.

Why there's no one at all, just you and the contents of your exceedingly thick skull.

It slowly dawned on Harry that he was in Rumplety's office, and with that realisation, the memory of what had happened came flooding back. "RON!" he bellowed, trying to stand once again and failing.

For what should be obvious reasons, I know no more on that score than you.

"Ah, awake at last, Potter. Stand up when I'm speaking to you, boy!"

Head still whirling at the implications of I know no more than you, Harry turned towards the source of the new voice. Rumplety, drawn up to his full, intimidating height, arms crossed over his chest, stood in the doorway, sneering down.

"Ron?" Harry asked again, his own voice little more than a panicked gasp.

Rumplety, face turning red, screamed, "GET UP! STAND AT ATTENTION WHEN YOU SPEAK TO ME!" A fine mist sprayed from his lips and Harry was glad he was across the room.

"I can't. I can't seem to make my legs work. Ron? Tell me about Ron!"

Seemingly from out of nowhere a wand appeared in Rumplety's hand and pointed threateningly at Harry. Pointlessly, Harry threw his arms up to protect his head, and once more asked, "Ron?" Light shot from the wand's tip. Harry was suddenly on his feet and completely immobilised, only the wall at his back keeping him from falling over. Before he understood quite what was happening, Rumplety's fist was tangled in Harry's shirtfront and his sneering face was inches from Harry's own. "You are a menace who shouldn't be allowed to walk free!"

I knew there was something I liked about this man.

"Mr Weasley will be fine, no thanks to you, Potter. Concussion, a few scrapes and bruises, and one exceedingly nasty burn. It seems you saw the error of your ways at the last possible moment and shielded him from the worst of the blast." Rumplety's thin lips twisted into a sneer that would have done Snape proud. "No doubt," he said, dropping his voice to a threatening murmur, "the Minister will award you some kind of medal for bravery, but that will do little for your overblown reputation once it is discovered that you are the first trainee in fifteen years to be thrown out on your ear!"

Good man! One day, hopefully sooner rather than later, I shall invite you over for tea. We can discuss the finer points of Potter-thrashing.

Filled with self-loathing, Harry blurted out the thought and then just stood there, staring at Rumplety in confusion.

"And there's all the verification that I need. You're mad, Potter. Get out of my office, and get out of my corps! I suggest you check yourself into St Mungo's, perhaps a course of electrospell therapy will cure you, but I suspect you'll spend the rest of your days in a padded room. NOW GET OUT!"

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

The late evening sun knifed through the open window, concentrating all its fading strength on boosting Harry's headache. He sat at his kitchen table, elbows on his knees, head in his hands and stomach in his throat. A cup of tea hovered in front of him, but he was more than a little afraid to drink it, not entirely sure Kreacher wouldn't have reverted to his old loyalties; he really shouldn't have yelled at the little guy, but sometimes the obsequious attention got on his nerves, and right now his nerves were too shattered to cope with one more thing.

He'd nearly killed Ron. Nearly killed him in a stupid fucking potions accident. Feeling his gorge rise again, Harry sprang from his chair, only barely making it to the sink in time to avoid splattering the floor. He stood bent over the sink for several minutes after his stomach emptied, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Turning on the tap, he watched his mess swirl down the drain, then cupped his hand under the water's flow, rinsed his mouth and spat. Groggily, stomach muscles aching, he made his way back to his chair, batting the teacup away irritably.

Oh, do stop pouting. It's beyond tedious. Weasley will be fine. A simple burn salve will take care everything. I'm sure he's already home being annoyed beyond endurance by Granger's screechy attention.

Harry's world suddenly turned on end. "Who are you?" he whispered. Asking the question scared him. Believing there was someone to address the question to scared him worse.

I rather like Rumplety. Sound teaching methods. Knows his material and clearly isn't one of your simpering sycophants.

"Who are you?" Harry repeated a little bit louder.

Oh please, Potter. Even youcan't be that dim.

And still the world wouldn't right itself. It seemed to tilt even further, because the answer simply wasn't possible and yet it was the only answer that made sense.

"I...I don't know what's worse, nearly killing my best friend, or thinking I was mad, or discovering I'm not and that you are...what are you? Possessing me? You can't be. You're dead!"

Not exactly. Not quite. At least, I don't think I'm dead. No, I'm sure I'm not. I'm merely...separated from my body.

"Snape."

Yes.

Without any inflection at all, Harry said, "This isn't happening. It isn't possible."

There was a prolonged silence. Harry stared blankly at a wall for several long minutes and then exploded. "YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Another wave of nausea forced him back to the sink.

Actually, my mother was a rather mild-mannered witch. Had to be to put up with my father all those years. Now, if you had said 'son of a bastard' I might be forced to agree with you.

"YOU COULD HAVE KILLED HIM! YOU COULD HAVE MADE ME KILL HIM!" Harry spat, rinsed both his mouth and the sink again, but remained bent over, staring blindly into the drain. Never mind Snape. His friendship with Ron was over forever. Probably with Hermione and Ginny and the entire Weasley family as well. They'd never forgive him for this.

I find that idea quite cheering. Having to endure them as well as you has been endlessly provoking. Be that as it may, I'm sure it's an inaccurate assessment. Your shield saved Mr Weasley from rather more harm than the explosion would have caused without it, but even had you not produced the shield — and loathe as I am to do so, I commend you on your quick reaction — he would not have been killed. He could have swallowed pints of the stuff and suffered no worse than a very bad stomach ache. Of course the potion for internal burns is rather disgusting to force down, but that's neither here nor there.

Staggering back to the table, Harry collapsed into his seat and returned his head to his hands. "Why?" he asked finally, his voice cracking. "Why are you doing this to me? To hell with me! Why did you make me hurt Ron?"

Weasley was incidental. Merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Typical of him, I must say.

"INCIDENTAL? I NEARLY KILLED HIM BECAUSE OF YOU AND YOU SAY IT WAS INCIDENTAL?"

You do realise there is no need for you to speak aloud, let alone shout, don't you? It only slows down the process and makes me endure every piece of drivel twice.

That didn't even bear thinking about as far as Harry was concerned. Not just yet, anyway.

You'll have to think about it sooner or later.

"Don't do that!"

Do what?

"Read my mind! It's...it's...god, I don't even know what it is!"

I am not reading your mind.

"But you know what I'm thinking."

Unfortunately, yes.

"How is that not reading my mind? FUCK! Don't change the subject! Why have you been sabotaging me? Because it has been you, hasn't it? Putting answers into my head, making me doubt the things I know. I didn't remember that page in the Prince's book. You put it into my head. Why, damn you?"

The chances of an Auror being killed are quite high, doubly so if the Auror is the reckless Harry Potter. It's in my best interests that you remain alive until I can figure out how to escape from your rabbit warren of a mind and return to myself, or barring that, die as I should have done.

"Yeah, you should have done. You really bloody well should have done! To think that I felt guilty! To think I was pissed off at Ron and Ginny because they wouldn't go to your funeral. You fucking arsehole! Why am I even talking to you? Go away!"

Believe me, Potter, if I had any idea how to do so, I would be gone already. Your cranial cavity is not what I'd call a stimulating environment.

"No, I don't believe you. I don't believe this. I can't hear you all the time, therefore you aren't always here, therefore you can go away! KREACHER!"

The house-elf appeared at his elbow, muttering something that included, "Master thinks nothing of yelling at poor Kreacher. Oh no. Kreacher is only dirt under Master's heels."

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," said Harry, not really meaning it. "I'm having a very bad day. Please make the teacup stop following me about. I won't drink it. I can't keep anything down anyway. I'm going to bed. If Hermione or any of the Weasleys try to contact me, you have to wake me up. OK? I really am sorry I yelled. You're a great house-elf and I appreciate everything you do. Truly."

The teacup was no longer dogging his footsteps, but Kreacher was still muttering as Harry started to walk out of the kitchen.

It's a wonder he doesn't stab you in your sleep.

"Shut up, can't you? Oh fuck. Not you, Kreacher! You," Harry whispered as he hastily left the kitchen, "go wherever it is you go when you go someplace. I want to be alone."

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

The room itself is odd, impossible. Each of the four walls is shorter than the two walls it abuts, the ceiling doesn't seem to join any of them although there are no other visible supports and pubic hair so blond and so fine it looks like he doesn't have any. He might shave, it's not unheard of, and the walls are obviously transparent although nothing, nothing at all, can be seen through them: no colour, no absence of colour, no trees or grass or even other walls can match the bloody annoying beauty of that proud pureblood cock. A withered, blackened hand holds a wand made for a giant, a wand large enough to vault the tower, a wand large enough to stop the little death, the look of ecstasy on his haughty face as he ejaculates the killing curse in a fountain of green.

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

Thrashing wildly, Harry fought to kick the sweat-damp covers off the bed then bolted for the bathroom three storeys down. He had nothing left to vomit, but he hung over the toilet bowl, gut cramping, trying desperately to rid himself of his own stomach.

Trust you to screw up a wet dream.

"What?" Harry gasped. "Was that you? Was that your dream? What kind of sick, twisted fuck are you?"

I believe the sick and twisted portion of that was your doing. I was simply indulging in a somewhat pleasant memory.

"Lucius Malfoy. It was you! Ginny laughed at me! All those fucking dreams, they were all you! God, if you weren't dead already, I'd fucking KILL you!"

If my dreams were unpleasant, then I consider myself partially revenged for the trauma of inhabiting the desolate wasteland that is your mind. And I'm not dead.

"What do you mean you're not dead? Of course you're dead. I was there when you died. I watched you die and I was at your funeral. And Lucius fucking Malfoy? God, I need a bath. I feel like I'll never be clean again!"

Oh please. Pot. Kettle. As if you didn't spend the entirety of your sixth year wanting to get under Draco's robes.

"I did not! Just because you're...gay, doesn't mean everyone is!"

Keep telling yourself that, Potter. I knowbetter.

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

"I'm going to talk to Kingsley. Maybe he'll be willing to pull some strings." Fuck Snape. Harry was going to become an Auror.

"Harry, maybe you should think about whether you really want to be an Auror. You know Defense. That kind of mistake makes no sense unless you're subconsciously trying to fail. I've read about things like this."

"Of course I want to be an Auror!" Harry exclaimed indignantly. "It's all I've ever wanted to be. Hermione, don't you see? I didn't make a mistake. Or I did, because...damn. It's not me that's doing all these things. Well, I mean, yes, I'm the one doing them, but it's not my fault."

"Oh Harry. There's no shame in admitting it. Everybody knows you wouldn't deliberately hurt Ron. And you don't have to be an Auror just because that's what you thought you wanted to do when you were fifteen, or just because Ron still wants to be one. There are other things you could do."

Harry snorted. "Like what? Kill Dark Lords for a living? Never mind. It doesn't matter what else I can do, because what I want to do is become an Auror. Hermione, you have to listen to me. I know it's going to sound fantastic, but I'm not making this up and I'm not going mental! You remember what happened at the Burrow? What I said to Mrs Weasley and my fight with Ron? I got every detail right on the potions portion of the exam. You know I'm not capable of that, not without the Prince's book in my hand, and that's gone forever." Running his hand through his hair distractedly, Harry rose and started to pace. "The dreams. The aconite in the potion. Doing things I would never do. Saying things I would never say. Don't you see?"

Positively radiating concern, Hermione patted Harry's arm. "No, I don't see. I'm sorry, but I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Of course I remember the night at the Burrow, but you've been under tremendous stress for the last year. You died and came back; you defeated Voldemort; you've lost good friends, people who were very important to you, Lupin, Tonks, Fred, even Snape—"

"Snape! That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you! Hermione, that bastard isn't dead! At least I don't think he's dead; he says he isn't anyway. I'm not really sure about the metaphysical implications of this. I mean, if your body's dead, how can you be alive, but if your brain is alive, how can you be dead? But then you start to think about portraits and ghosts and resurrection stones and—"

I think the more interesting question is how can the body continue to function when the brain has so obviously atrophied?

"Shut up, can't you? This is hard enough without you butting in!"

"Harry?" Hermione's hand found Harry's arm again but he shrugged it off, then let his own hand rampage through his hair again until he it stood completely on end.

"Hermione, no! I wasn't telling you to shut up! Why would I? You hadn't said anything." Said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You do realise you sound more insane by the moment.

"Shut up! You are not helping!"

"Harry, I am trying to help. You're obviously overwrought. The accident, being kicked out of training..."

Of course that probably would have happened eventually anyway, even without my assistance.

"GOD DAMN IT! SHUT UP!"

Hermione looked more scared than hurt or angry, and inched nervously towards the door. Groaning, Harry held his hands up in a placating manner. "Again, not you. I do realise what this sounds like. I'm sure at this moment you're convinced I've gone completely off my nut, but I haven't. You have to believe me."

Why would she believe you? Are you even listening to yourself? I am intimately familiar with the situation and even I am beginning to doubt your sanity. Perhaps if you bang your head against the wall you'll split it open—

"Sh–" Harry began, then bit the word off with a sharp click of his teeth. He would not rise to the lure this time. Snape, of course, continued as if Harry hadn't even tried to speak.

—perhaps simultaneously freeing my consciousness from the tight confines of your skull and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that you have indeed gone off your nut. It's a pity I can't sit back and relax with a nice smoke. This does look like it's going to be a rather good show.

"Hermione, do you mind if we go outside?"

She looked at him as if that was the craziest thing she'd heard so far. "It's raining cats and dogs out there, Harry, and it's freezing!"

"I know! I just thought maybe I wouldn't be able to hear him over the wind! And NO! I am not insane! Fine." It was Harry's turn to put a hand on Hermione's arm. "Look, you sit there. Please. Just sit. I'm going to put on some music. And no, I am not insane. I'll explain it in a minute. Music first. Room to pace. And then, I'll explain everything."

He turned the knob on the wireless and soon crashing guitars signalled the beginning of the Weird Sisters' cover of It's Not the Wizard, It's the Wand.

Erecgh! I didn't even like the original of this song when I was twelve with admittedly poor taste in music.

Harry raised the volume. Turning to Hermione he said, "Can you hear me all right?" He took several paces across the room and asked, "How about now? Good." He paced back to Hermione and immediately turned again.

"All those things I mentioned before...OK, no, I'll start at the beginning." Pacing faster, Harry tried to think; he wasn't even sure where the beginning lay.

I'm beginning to see the advantages of having neither a stomach nor a gag reflex. Would you settle down? I'm sloshing around in here like a rubber duck in the bath.

"You had a rubber ducky?"

"Harry?"

"You can slosh around? Doesn't that sort of imply some—" Harry waved his hands vaguely. "—sort of...I don't know, physical state of being?"

"Harry!"

Harry's head snapped around.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Snape," Harry said simply. "I'm talking to Severus I'm-In-Here-Sucking-Your-Brain Snape. I know it sounds crazy. I do. I know it. But Hermione, so help me god, or whatever the wizarding equivalent is, I'm not... You've just got to listen to me. No! Don't say anything until I'm done. When I'm done I promise I'll make plans to go to St Mungo's and get checked."

Harry's fingers curled and his hand trembled in front of his lips as he desperately tried to find the words. He stared into the distance somewhere over Hermione's right shoulder. "I started having dreams, right after the battle, the very first night and pretty regularly since then. I can't remember them when I wake up, or no more than snatches of them. It's always dark and sometimes there's pain and almost always loneliness and they're like nightmares but not really. I think...I think they're Snape's dreams."

As soon as he said the words, Harry knew he hadn't gotten it quite right, but he wasn't far off the mark, either. "Then I started having these thoughts." He rolled his eyes. "Usually really rude thoughts. They just flitted through my head, almost always accompanied by this feeling of intense irritability. At first, they were just directed at me. Insulting me. I thought it was just my inner critic. You know those thoughts you get that tell you you're worthless, that you can't possibly succeed? Or am I the only one who has these thoughts?"

You may not be the only one, but you're surely the most deserving.

Ignoring Snape was getting marginally easier. Hermione's nod of understanding also helped. "Good. So then the thoughts became directed out, towards other people. That feeling of anger at everything just kept getting bigger and when these thoughts popped into my head, they'd spew out of my mouth. I couldn't believe that I was thinking those things, let alone saying them out loud. I'm surprised Ron and his brothers didn't kill me when I said that to Mrs Weasley. Mrs Weasley of all people. I don't feel that way about her! She the closest thing I have to a mother!"

"Let me see if I've got this. You're exhausted, you've had a very trying year, you're having nightmares, saying rude things, you nearly blew up your oldest friend and therefore you think you're possessed by the ghost of Severus Snape?"

Absolutely unthinkable.

A grin flickered around the edges of Harry's lips. "When you put it that way... Let me finish, OK? When I sat the Auror Training exam, the first thing up was Potions. I looked at the instructions and knew I was doomed, but then suddenly it was all clear. There was a voice, or a thought, I don't know how to describe it, but I had the thought 'this is second year stuff' and then I could sort of hear explanations and instructions in my head and I did everything exactly right! I thought I was just pulling this stuff out of the dim recesses—"

Exceedingly dim.

Harry mentally thrust two fingers at Snape. "—of my mind. Maybe I had learned something from the Prince after all. I'm almost done, I swear. The rest of the exams went differently. Every time I was even a little doubtful about something, I would start arguing with myself internally; it seemed like part of me thought one thing and part of me thought another, and the part of me that thought another won out more times than it should have. I nearly failed the Transfiguration portion. And just scraped by on Charms as well. I did better at Defence, but even there...I almost used a dark spell, Hermione! I only barely caught myself in time!"

Pulling a chair in front of Hermione, Harry sat, arms resting on his thighs, staring intently, willing her to understand and accept. "In my first days of training, when the instructor was such an arsehole to me and I went off on him, that was all me. The bastard treated me exactly like Snape treated me first year."

As I said previously, I myself thought he seemed an excellent instructor. First time in years I've approved of any of the Ministry's hires.

"It made me furious. And that anger felt so normal that I realised all those other times, yelling at Mrs Weasley, hadn't felt normal. The anger hadn't felt like my anger. And then came the partner exercise...don't look at your watch! I'm almost done. If that had been a real situation instead of an exercise, Withers, Walpole and Merkin would have been killed. And then the voice said, 'You don't want to be an Auror anyway.' And that's when I first had an inkling the voice in my head wasn't mine, because I do want to be an Auror. I had never doubted that before."

The silence in the room seemed like a physical presence as Harry stared at Hermione, and Hermione stared at the floor. She did seem somewhat calmer; Harry hoped it was a good sign. Tired of waiting for her to say something, he opened his mouth, then closed it as she spoke at last.

"I don't know what to think, Harry. I've always thought spirit possession was ridiculous, but then I didn't believe in ghosts before I went to Hogwarts." She smiled weakly. "I do think you need to see someone at St Mungo's. No, don't get angry. I'm not saying you're mad, I'm just saying...maybe you should definitely rule out the possibility? Or there could be a physical reason for your symptoms. I've heard inner ear problems sometimes... And maybe...maybe if they say there's nothing wrong with you, I could do some research on possession, find out if it's real."

"Yeah, great! Absolutely, I'll go to St Mungo's," Harry lied, having absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. "But don't wait to you see what you can find out. Start now, yeah? I'd give every thing I own to get this prick out of my head." Shut up, Harry thought at Snape. Don't say a damn thing. I'll give you your chance when she's gone. "You're a brick, Hermione. Um, listen. Could you not say anything to anybody else. Not just yet. Not even Ron. Please?"

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §
- 3
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Death and the Open Mind