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
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September

Smoke billowing back across its scarlet flanks, the Hogwarts Express left platform nine and-three-quarters. The flood of wizarding humanity come to see the returning students off faded away, leaving behind a very lonely Harry Potter. He kept an arm raised in farewell until the train was little more than a speck in the distance, then morosely let it fall back to his side.

"That's it then," Harry said, leaning against the barrier, eyes still gazing down the tracks. "I feel like I'll never see her again. Stupid, eh? Feeling sorry for myself, I guess. Ginny off to school. Ron in training. Hermione back to her parents. Everyone off to school, jobs and family except me. What the hell am I going to do with myself?"

If current attitude is any indication, I suspect you're going to mope around for the rest of your life. You're well shut of the Weasley chit. I'll take any wager you care to make that she'll come home at Christmas with a new boyfriend.

"I wonder if Catholic priests can really perform exorcisms," Harry said bitterly. "I can't be shut of you fast enough."

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

I still think you should stop lying about the house and do as Granger asked. Go to St Mungo's. I promise, I'll be silent for the duration. I won't make you think, say, or do anything. It will all be you.

"Why?" Harry asked suspiciously. "Why do you keep harping on this? I'm not mad. You of all people know that I'm not, that this is real."

Do you lead a completely unexamined life, stupid boy? Ah, no, I'm the stupid one. Of course you do. If you paid any attention to anything, you'd realise your friends are worrying about you. How many times has Granger asked you if you've seen a Healer yet? A scroll saying you're fit as a fiddle won't hurt anything and it might help. And stop doing that! We are not dolls for your amusement!

Grinning sheepishly, Harry put down his wand and let the images of nine year old Snape and Lily disappear into the swirling mist of memories within Snape's Pensieve. "Sorry. I just like watching the two of you together. You're so damn cute."

Make an appointment.

Harry laughed. He was beginning to learn some things about Snape; the man simply couldn't tolerate anything that remotely resembled a compliment, no matter how vague.

"You still haven't said why you want me to. Look, even Ginny hasn't noticed anything. Believe me, if she thought I'd gone 'round the twist, she'd have said something. And I'm careful. I've learned not to blurt out everything you think. I don't talk to you in front of people. They're not worried about me."

Miss Weasley may be attempting to put on a brave front, although I suspect if the Prophet gets wind of your erratic behaviour she'll find an excuse to break it off with you. Surely you don't think she cares a whit for anything but your celebrity?

"God you're a prick! Ginny and I love each other!"

You're not as careful as you believe. Do you realise when you think no one is around or paying any attention, you argue with me? You pace, you wave your arms, you mutter. Do you really think Hermione Granger has failed to notice? Trust me, I'm not saying these things out of any concern for you! It's in my own best interest. I am trapped inside you and we must figure out why that happened and what we can do to end it. That can't be done if you're in an insane asylum!

"I'll be more careful," Harry said. "But I'm not going to St Mungo's. That's the fastest route into the Prophet's headlines and you know it."

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

Something's burning.

Harry jumped. "Shit! Don't do that! You scared me out of a year's growth, and before you say it, yes, I know I can't afford that. Couldn't you knock, or something. Ow! Not funny!" Harry exclaimed as his head started throbbing from the inside out.

What? You said knock.

"Very funny, you sadistic bastard. How did you do that anyway? Never mind. Don't do it again. Clear your throat or, or I don't know, something less invasive at any rate."

You're burning the butter.

"It's not burning. It's burr nore." Harry could feel Snape staring at him, which was a hundred times weirder than a voice in his head. In his head it could be anybody's voice; it could be his own voice. But he'd never, ever stared at himself with his arms crossed and his lip curled in a mocking grin. "It's not my fault I never learned French. Black butter, all right? Now, go away. I don't want you here tonight." Harry returned his attention to his pan. The butter very nearly had burned. He swirled it around with a practiced twist of his wrist and then turned the heat off under it. Pulling a bowl out of a cupboard, he began to mix ingredients.

You're using too much pepper.

"No, I'm not. I like pepper. And you don't even know what I'm making, so shut up."

Proper spicing requires a delicate hand.

"As difficult as it might be for you to believe, I do know what I'm doing."

You're going to overwhelm the other flavours.

"Do the words 'shut up' mean anything to you? I like it spicy, damn it!"

Spicy is one thing, but at the rate you're going, you may as well just shove a handful of peppercorns in her mouth and be done with it. It will be inedible.

"Then it's a damn good thing you don't have to eat it, isn't it? I'm not cooking for you, I'm cooking for me and Ginny. Can't you just go do whatever it is you do when you're not annoying the pants off me?"

Stop flirting. You haven't got the faintest clue how to go about it.

"What‽As if, Snape! And it's not like you'd know anything about it. You were so fucking homely I bet you had to rub a lust potion into your right hand to get it to cooperate."

There was a split second of silence and for that instant Harry thought he'd won the round. But Snape had never had been one to allow him the last word.

I can''t believe you're using annato. Too miserly to purchase saffron?

"Lalala, I can't hear you." Harry flicked the radio on; the disk jockey said something about tickets for an upcoming concert. Closing his eyes for a moment, Harry felt for Snape's presence, but it seemed the man, spectre, whatever he was, had at last taken himself off to wherever it was he went when he wasn't making Harry crazy. Familiar guitar chords started up and Harry grinned. He remembered this one; Dudley had demanded Uncle Vernon buy it for him for no other reason than he'd heard Aunt Petunia exclaiming in horror over the video and then for months had played it whenever she hadn't immediately given way to one of his demands. Pivoting his hips, Harry grabbed a knife and danced over to the wooden counter. He began singing along with the radio as he cut up vegetables, his knife, hands, hips and feet moving with the music.

"♫I hear your voice, it's like an angel sighing. I have no choice, I hear your voice. Feels like flying. I close my eyes, oh god I think I'm falling, out of the sky. I close my eyes.♫"

Does the name Sigmund Freud mean anything to you?

Snape‛s sudden re-emergence caused Harry‛s hand to jerk. The knife jumped and slashed across his index finger. "For fuck‛s sake!" he yelled before sucking his bleeding finger into his mouth. It was really very annoying that he couldn‛t turn his back on the greasy, ugly, pompous, snarky, maddeningly interfering son of a bitch.

I remind you yet again that I can hear you even when you don‛t speak aloud.

"I count on it," Harry snapped. "Now go away like a good little poltergeist. I was enjoying your absence immensely." Harry turned up the radio, cranking up his determination to ignore Snape at the same time.

I've never heard such caterwauling. I'll have nightmares, no doubt. I'll be sure to inflict them upon you as well.

"♫When you call my name, it's like a little prayer, I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there.♫"

It's not undoable, you realise.

"♫In the midnight hour I can feel your power, just like a prayer you know I'll take you there.♫"

If that's what you want, all you need to do is ask. The logistics might be unusual, but certainly not insurmountable.

"Snape, shut it, please. I've already got a girlfriend. I promise, if I find myself needing another, I'll look you up. Now, go away. Ginny's going to be here in twenty minutes and I still need to shower."

Ah, wise decision. You'll be able to use the interlude to get rid of that inappropriate erection.

If Harry had been assured that doing so would finally excise Snape from his mind, he would have used his cooking knife to lobotomise himself.

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

A cool breeze fluttered the curtains and tickled the hairs at Harry's neck as he lay propped up on his elbows in front of the new French windows. They were, Harry thought, one of Snape's better ideas, even though figuring out how to create them had taken a few hours' search to find the spell and several days before he'd managed to create more than a hole in the wall. The upside was Harry had been kept occupied, the downside was Snape being unbearably smug about the whole thing. Harry smiled.

"Where do you go when you go?" he asked idly, picking up a fluffy ball of dust and sending it floating wobbily through the air with a puff of breath.

I don't go anywhere. There's nowhere I can go. I am trapped in this arid wasteland.

"Yeah, well, maybe the aridness...aridity? Whatever. Maybe it'll dry up some of the grease in your metaphysical hair. You do go somewhere. I can feel it when you come back. It's like...a breath of fresh irritation rippling down my spine."

Does the word Occlumency ring any bells? Any at all?

"That's it? You Occlude? But I thought—"

One can simply close the door entirely. In most cases it is preferable to obscure the fact that one is Occluding, but under the circumstances I find that a waste of effort.

"You know you could have told me that years ago. Easier starting place. I might have done better if we'd started at the beginning, you wanker."

Forgive me thinking you might have done some reading on your own, or at least had Miss Granger read the relevant bits to you.

Pushing up off his hands and rolling into a sitting position, Harry glared out the window. "You never told me there was a text!"

Hogwarts has a most impressive library. You should have done your own research.

"You bastard! You would have rather Voldemort invade my mind on a nightly basis than give me one small piece of information that might have helped me! Why did Dumbledore trust you again? You bastard! So Occlumency doesn't have to involve pushing other thoughts to the forefront, you can just hide everything?"

There are no limits to your idiocy, are there? How is it possible you couldn't work that out for yourself? If you don't care that the Legilimens knows you're Occluding—

"Yeah, I've worked that bit out, thank you. Do you still know what I'm thinking when you're Occluding?"

Not usually. I could monitor all your drivel, but that would hardly be soothing. Even as a purely mental entity, I need rest.

"So if I could just drop a shield you wouldn't be able to... What would happen to you if I did that? Are you part of my mind, or separate?"

Good lord! Think, boy!

With a scowl, Harry wandered to a bookcase and took down a dusty volume. "I wonder if there's a way I can create a mental black box and close you up in it."

I am under the impression that's exactly what has happened. Your entire mind is a closed box of dust and gloom...and pornography.

"Good," said Harry, smiling smugly as he slapped the book closed. "I'll take that as agreement that you'll give me a brush-up on remedial potions. I suggest, for your own benefit, you do it right this time. Shall we start now?"

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

I insist you cease pawing through my belongings!

Several boxes were open on the floor of Snape's room and Harry was digging through them in turn. It was curiosity, nothing more; he wasn't looking for anything in particular, just trying to learn more about the man inside his head. "You're dead. They're my things now."

I am not dead. And even if I were, you most certainly would not have been my legatee. Your infernal nosiness is almost enough to make me regret getting you booted from Auror training. Stop it! Put that back this instant and close that box.

A bright red T-shirt with the legend Burning Cauldron of Love! emblazoned on the front, slipped from Harry's fingers as he doubled over laughing. "I'm beginning to regret you didn't give me all your memories. You actually wore that, and more than once from the look of it. I can't even imagine a circumstance where it wouldn't be completely humiliating." Something tickled Harry's brain, and it wasn't Snape. He stopped laughing.

Don't be absurd! Of course it won't work! I am not simply a memory of Severus Snape, I amSeverus Snape! You can't get me out of your head and into a Pensieve. Still...

For an instant there was a strange feeling of being whipped back and forth, almost as if Snape was...pacing. Weird, very weird. "Still what?"

Was there any method to your packing? Or did you simply hurl things into boxes at random?

"Well, I didn't just set the room swirling and let things land in boxes, but I never sorted through your stuff. This stuff," Harry pointed to the open boxes in front of him, "and that stack are from your bedroom. Those over there are from the sitting room. I didn't bother with Wormtail's room, nor the kitchen."

You know Pettigrew stayed with me?

Harry laughed. "Just a guess. The other bedroom had a wire wheel on the desk." There was a wave of something that rippled through Harry's body. It felt suspiciously, and impossibly, like approval.

Don't be ridiculous. I was simply surprised that you managed to work that out on your own.

"To be honest, I don't think I did work it out on my own. I think you told me. Anyway, his name just popped into my head. Wasn't that you? Or can't you remember?" Taking care to Occlude first, Harry cocked his head in thought, then, still working it out, asked slowly, "Did you know from the beginning that you were in my head? I'm guessing you entered when you died, because I think the weird dreams started that night, and you didn't start insulting me until later. You know what? I think your presence was stronger at Spinner's End. Now why would that be?"

Let's see...the summons came when I—

"You're not going to comment on my idea?"

Now, where did I leave it?

"Leave what? I can't find it if I don't know what I'm looking for."

Is it possible? Surely not. But then again...

"Why can't you answer a simple question?"

Well, it's worth a shot, certainly. Potter, I want you to unpack all my books and arrange them. I think alphabetically by author within subject matter. Yes, that's probably easiest.

"You're not going tell me what we're looking for, are you?"

I of course don't expect you to have any facility for this project, so you will do exactly as I say. Now, do you have empty shelves?

"I thought not," Harry said glumly as he pulled a box towards him and began emptying it of books.

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

The journal Harry had found in one of Snape's boxes was disappointing. Being made up of lists more than anything, it didn't reveal much about Snape at all, or at least not in any way that was useful to Harry. He apparently liked rock and roll and had spent an inordinate amount of time making lists titled things like Best Second Track, Best Concept Album, and Stupid Band Names; most of the titles and names on the lists were completely unfamiliar to Harry. The journal also revealed that Snape felt both anger and guilt about killing Dumbledore, but Harry could have guessed that from the Pensieve memories. The only other thing he'd found out was that Snape absolutely loathed Bellatrix Lestrange, but then who didn't?

Harry stuck his finger in the journal to mark his place and let his mind wander. He wondered if proximity, like absence, made the heart grow fonder. Because really, it didn‛t get more proximate than a Snape inside his head, and by all rights, Harry should have either been going mad for real, or he should hate Snape beyond endurance. And he didn't.

The whole thing was strange. It wasn‛t as if Snape was any nicer. The opposite was true, actually. With nothing else to occupy his mind or time, Snape‛s only form of intellectual stimulation, amusement, emotional release, seemed to be thinking up new and better ways to belittle Harry. He found each and every button and seemingly took great delight in pushing them all. Repeatedly. He‛d even discovered buttons Harry hadn‛t known existed.

Snape was cruel and petty and, unfortunately, since Albus Dumbledore did not share the space in Harry‛s head, he was not available to keep Snape‛s worst impulses even minimally in check. And yet, he was kind, too, in a bizarre sort of way. The man, spirit, poltergeist, whatever, kept finding projects to keep Harry occupied, which kept Harry's mind off his loneliness. Of course that may have just been self-preservation.

Some of it was Harry's own fault, he supposed. Not yet completely comfortable with Occluding, he kept forgetting to, and it was harder to throw up a mental shield when Snape was already talking. Of course when a button got pushed, Occluding became nearly impossible.

What was it with the man anyway? Like this thing about Harry being gay. He wasn't gay. He had a girlfriend and they had good sex. Regularly. Well, not so regularly as they had once done — that would be difficult with Ginny away at school, but if she were around they'd be having sex regularly. And he wasn't the one having dreams about Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius Malfoy is an insufferable, self-satisfied prick—

Harry groaned; he'd forgotten to keep Occluding.

—who also happens to be bloody fucking gorgeous. And yes, I dream about him. Often. With great pleasure. Dreams are the only way I can ever get satisfaction where that man is concerned. I also regularly dream of killing him.

Somehow Harry knew that if he could, Snape would be smiling in that creepy, sardonic way he had.

A mind, even your mind — perhaps especially your mind — is a twisty thing with labyrinthian paths, some of which are seldom walked upon. So much of what we think on ordinary days goes by unnoticed by us. Hundreds, thousands of thoughts flit through are heads and only a few stay. I have had reason these last few months to realise how much I never paid attention to. I have also had the opportunity to rummage through the storage vaults of your mind. Very entertaining I found it, too.

"Go away."

I assumed since you were no longer Occluding you were anxious for company. Now, where was I? Pay attention. You'll learn something. You, Potter, for all your protestations of rampant heterosexuality, hold in your head more sexual images of men than you apparently realise — Bill Weasley, Oliver Wood, the late Cedric Diggory, Sirius Black, Lupin, even Draco Malfoy, not to mention the numerous men who are strangers to me.

"I do not think about Draco Malfoy!" Harry protested, but typically, Snape ignored him.

By contrast there are very few women whose sexual images you store, and no strangers, no celebrities, no models from the sorts of pornographic magazines endemic to boy's dormitories everywhere. Even when you think of Miss Weasley, you see her on a broom more often than not. Suggestive, don't you think? Perhaps even Freudian. I find it even more interesting that you do not number Fleur Delacour among your pashes. It's almost unheard of for a straight man to be unaffected by a Veela, or part-Veela. You may, in fact, be bisexual, but you think of the male form far more than you ever do the female. Because you believe yourself to be heterosexual — which, due to the scrutiny you have always been under, is the only viable way you can think about yourself — your mind has locked away the images of men so thoroughly that you don't even remember, in any concrete way, that you have these thoughts.

"Are you done? Because there's something I'd like to show you."

You have accused me of creating images in your mind at inopportune times. The truth is I rather enjoy excavating the attic of your mind and, at humourous moments, showing you examples of what you have stored there. Humourous to me, anyway.

"I found something you might want to see," Harry said, desperate to change the subject and willing to reveal he'd been going through Snape's private journal rather than endure any more of Snape's theories.

Yes, I'm quite aware you've been prying where you shouldn't have been. Consider yourself revenged for my attic explorations. I would like to prove my point. You can, of course, refuse, but if you really are as straight as you insist, you have nothing to lose.

Really, really wishing he'd never come back from his visit to the afterlife, Harry gave in.

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

I seem to recall you have a chair in here and a full length mirror.

"You recall? You bloody recall? When were you in my room, damn you?"

Each time I think I've plumbed the depths of your idiocy, you prove me wrong. Potter, every time you've been in your room for the last three months, I've been with you. Now, take the chair and place it in front of the mirror.

"What? No! That's...that's just...I don't even know what it is...wrong, weird! I'm not going to do it in front of the mirror. I'm not even sure I'm going to do it at all."

Please.

Although Snape no longer even had lips, Harry could tell the word had been absolutely forced over them. And he was frankly intrigued; a sardonic, "Oh, you'll do it all right," would have been more in keeping with the Snape he'd come to know and...well, know.

"Why?" Harry asked. Which was silly, he supposed. He knew damn well why. Snape wanted to humiliate him in exchange for a bit of almost human company.

When you look at something intently, when you are thoroughly focussed on something, I can, after a fashion, see. It's intriguing. And, I want to see you, not simply your misguided sense of yourself.

"I'll feel bloody stupid!"

You are bloody stupid, and then some. Humour me, Potter. We both know you are and always have been a blatant exhibitionist. You are never happier than when all eyes are upon you. Consider me one of your legion of adoring fans, if it helps.

Harry couldn't help but laugh. Snape had managed to imbue a desire to watch Harry pleasure himself with all the scathing disdain he'd ever evinced in the Potions classroom.

"Fine," Harry said, dragging the chair across the room and sitting rigidly upright on the edge of its seat, "but if I'm too embarrassed to get it up, you'll be to blame. And if you say...think anything rude or uncomplimentary, I'll cut you off forever."

While your ability to Occlude has — however reluctant I am to admit it — improved, you still can't guard your mind in your sleep. You're eighteen and as incapable of passing the night without a wet dream as you are of following simple brewing instructions. Believe me when I say I have reason to know. You couldn't cut me off if your life depended on it.

How one could think a throaty chuckle and make it seem to reverberate through a room, Harry hadn't a clue, but Snape obviously did. Smug bastard.

"Chair, check. Mirror, check. Boy hero, check. Now what?" Harry couldn't bring himself to even glance at his mirror image.

Look at yourself.

With a grimace Harry darted a glance into the mirror, then quickly averted his eyes, not needing a glass to recognise the slow flush creeping across his cheeks.

Look at yourself, or so help me God, Potter, the next time you're in Miss Weasley's presence, I'll flood your mind with images of such graphic filth you'll either sodomise her on the spot or die from an excess of shame.

"Way to set the mood, Snape. Leave Ginny out of this." Teeth clenched and jaw tight, Harry stared belligerently into the mirror. "I don't know why I agreed to this."

You're absolutely lovely when you're self-righteous and stubborn.

Harry nearly smiled with pleasure — Snape did find him attractive — but determinedly twitched it away.

You agreed because you're a horny teenager possessed of a completely inexplicable — not to mention completely inappropriate — infatuation with me.

"I'm not infatuated with you!" Harry was outraged. "This whole thing was your idea!"

You agreed because you want to have sex with me, and this is, alas, the only way to approximate the experience. Had I any longer a corporeal presence, I would heave you over the back of that chair and roger you until you were permanently bowlegged and had sworn off women forever; however, we will both have to settle for something less physical and more cerebral, taxing as I know that will be for you. Hopefully, you will not expire from a brain seizure before the act is complete and your seed anoints the silvered glass.

That was more like it. "You've got a bizarre line in bedroom patter," Harry said. "Who the hell says 'roger' instead of 'fuck'?" And who in hell gets hard at the use of the word 'roger'? Harry asked himself.

I heard that, you know.

"Of course you did, and of course you couldn't keep that fact to yourself."

Your attempts at stalling are pathetic. You're randy...

"Randy," Harry snorted. "Who are Randy and Roger and what are they doing in my wet dream anyway?"

Unbutton your shirt.

"If you can't see me," Harry began, carefully avoiding his image in the mirror, "how do you know I'm even wearing a shirt?"

Do my non-existent eyes make a sound as I roll them, I wonder? If you are not Occluding, and if I listen, I can hear your every thought. Every. Thought. And believe me when I say I do listen, being, as I am, fascinated by how something so absolutely tedious as the slow grinding of your mental apparatus can still be so vastly entertaining. Look at yourself in the mirror and unbutton your shirt. Slowly. One button at a time.

Harry looked, really looked at himself. Immediately mortified to realise his gaze had strayed to where the seam of his trousers was tightening over his cock, and doubly so by the snort he was sure hadn't come from him, Harry raised his chin defiantly and stared into the mirror. He tensed, expecting a snide comment, but Snape was silent. Aware that he'd never before actually examined his own eyes, Harry leaned forward. He was surprised to realise the green wasn't uniform, that the emerald of each iris was outlined by a perfect band of darker green, that there were flecks of lighter colour, more gold than anything near the pupil.

Your buttons.

A strange feeling rippled the hairs on the back of Harry's neck and trembled down his spine. He was looking directly into his own eyes, really seeing them for the first time, but an image flickered in his head almost as clearly and he knew Snape was focussed not on his eyes as he himself was, but on things peripheral: the tracery of blue veins beneath the pale skin of his neck, the pulse beating at his throat, the sheen of sweat in the hollow below. It was extremely arousing, and not a little creepy. He thought, more than half seriously, about the rumours he'd heard first year — that Snape was a vampire.

Your buttons, if you please, Mister Potter.

Snape sounded his usual impatient, irritable self, but underlying his tone, Harry caught the note of amusement.

I remind you again I can, effectively if not literally, hear you. How is it possible you are not aware of this after three months? I am not a vampire, you idiot.

But you do have a very, very nice neck. You're blushing. How charming. Buttons?

"It's a pity," Harry said, knowing that, especially in these circumstances, it was silly to keep speaking out loud, but speaking, actually speaking, made Snape seem a bit more real and himself just that much less crazy, "that you're not here in the flesh."

Oh, but I am.

Once again Harry's mind was filled with the image of his own throat. He watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he gulped.

It just happens to not be my flesh.

"Are you sure you're not a vampire?" Harry asked. He let his fingers stray to the buttons of his shirt.

I would appreciate it if you would stop talking and, surprised as I am to find myself saying it, stop thinking. It's difficult to create the proper atmosphere when you keep babbling.

"I'm not sure gothic horror is the right sort of atmosphere for the circumstance." Harry snorted. "Why weren't you this polite in Potions class?"

It is lucky for you that in my current state I'm incapable of throttling you. In class I yelled so I might keep from doing just that. Pity I missed my chance. Would that I still had fingers.

I realise I asked you to go slowly, but I do think you could speed up just a little.

Harry looked down at his hand still fumbling with the first button, and grinned.

Don't stop looking in the mirror.

Grin a bit wider, Harry shifted his gaze back up, then deliberately slumped in his chair, pressing his head against the back of it. Although he let his eyelids droop — in as sultry a fashion as he could manage — he did not close them, but from under his lashes watched himself undo two more buttons.

Focussed on his buttons as he was, he could still see the rest of his body splayed in the chair. He half expected Snape to throw up an image focussed on his trousers' tightening seam and was startled to realise that Snape was looking exactly where he himself was looking, only somehow seeing even more vividly Harry's hand, dark against the white of his shirt and the pale flesh of his chest, shaking slightly as he fumbled over the third button.

Do you see, Potter?

Nearly mesmerised, Harry nodded slowly.

When your shirt is unbuttoned, run your hands up and down your chest. Stroke yourself, feel the roughness of your palms against the smoothness of your chest. Do not neglect your nipples.

"OK, yeah. This just might work." Harry was beginning to find it difficult to breathe. He hurriedly undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt and tugged the tails from his trousers.

Slow down, Potter. This isn't a race.

I am a bit shocked to discover you're not far enough past puberty to have acquired chest hair.

Harry's eyes narrowed and his hands fell away from his shirt as he mentally gave Snape a two-fingered salute.

But the effect is...more than adequate, and surprisingly appealing.

Ignoring the insult of 'adequate' and warmed by the "more than", Harry placed his palm against his sternum, letting it rest there for a moment, straining to hear something from Snape, a change in breathing perhaps. He smiled wryly; Snape didn't have lungs to breathe, nor heart to pound, nor fingers to stroke and pinch. Although Harry himself certainly did; he was so aroused he thought his blood pressure was probably through the roof.

No, do not remove your shirt. Leave it open like that; it gives you quite a raffish air. Undo your flies. Do not take your trousers off, but if you need to tug them down a bit to gain free access, you may do so.

"Harry?"

Damn it!

"Christ!" Harry propped an elbow on the arm of his chair and sunk his head into his hand. A sharp image of the sparse trail of hair leading from his navel to the waistband of his jeans lingered brightly for a second, then faded altogether and Snape's presence with it.

"Harry? Are you home?"

Harry could hear Ginny's footfalls on the stairs. In a panic he jumped from his seat, shoved the chair back across the room, buttoned up his flies with difficulty over his aching cock, and was just doing up the last button on his shirt when he heard her step on the landing. Scrubbing his face furiously with his hands, he glanced in the mirror and groaned.

"Hullo. Didn't you hear me call? Harry? What's wrong?" She crossed the room quickly and took one of his hands in hers. "Harry?"

"Nothing," Harry said frantically, then, "everything. I think I'm going mad."

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

"I think I'm going to ask Ginny to marry me," Harry said. There was complete silence from Snape. "Well? Say something."

There's something horrifically wrong with taking a redheaded woman as your wife. Could you be more obvious?

"What is that supposed to mean? Are you saying I'm trying to marry my mother, because that's just—"

My point exactly. That's just—

"You're being disgusting."

I'm not the one who wants to marry my mother. Not the one who has been sleeping with my mother's doppelganger, for that matter.

"Stop!" Harry could feel a blush blazing across his face and was glad Snape couldn't see him. "It's not as if you haven't been enjoying the sex!"

Why wouldn't I? My mother wasn't a redhead. And I was always curious what it might have been like to have sex with—

"NO! I don't want to hear your perverse fantasies about my mother!"

I was going to say: to have sex with a woman. You're the one obsessed with sleeping with your mother.

"One more word out of you today and we're going to be listening to the Spice Girls twenty-four seven for the next two weeks."

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

You never told me what you said to Miss Weasley, nor what she said in return.

"Don't try to change the fucking subject!" Harry yelled, waving Snape's journal in the air. "You were helping Voldemort with Horcruxes?" Harry knew he was screeching like a fishwife, but he couldn't help it. Almost a whole fucking year spent trying to track them down, not to mention discovering he himself was one, and Snape was helping Voldemort make more?

Always ready to believe the worst of me, even now. NO! I WAS NOT! I had a role to play and you bloody well already know that! If the Dark Lord told me to do something, I did it, but I did not meekly hand over information that was detrimental to our side. Our side, you ass. Yours and mine. You fucking little monster. How dare you doubt me? How dare you?

Snape's outrage was making the blood pound in Harry's head, making it hard to think or to speak. It came as some surprise that it apparently had the same effect on Snape.

Brilliant! I can't even get properly fucking angry. What a weak constitution you have, you pathetic brat.

"Keep it up, arsehole. Right now I'm so angry I'm cheerfully considering suicide, just for the sake of fucking you up."

To Harry's complete shock, Snape laughed. Eventually Harry joined him.

Tit for tat, brat. Tell me what you said to Miss Weasley and I'll tell you what I remember about my research for the Dark Lord.

"You're such a fucking baby. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort. He's dead. You can say his fucking name."

Tell me what you said to Miss Weasley.

"I told her she shouldn't be skiving off school just to visit me."

Security at Hogwarts must be shockingly lax these days. I know you didn't ask her to marry you, because even you are not that stupid. What did you say to her about me?

"God, I love it when I remember to Occlude and you're stuck with your own sour self for amusement. I told Ginny nothing. Or rather, I told her I was hearing voices, but I didn't tell her I knew whose voice I was hearing. And then we shagged like rabbits, and I didn't think of Bill, or you, once," Harry finished in a chipper voice.

You lied to her. Interesting.

Harry wished he had Snape's talent for not being baited. Couldn't the man show a little bit of pique? Or better yet, jealousy? "I didn't lie to her. I just didn't tell her the whole truth."

Why?

Occluding, because it was easier to think without Snape's running commentary, Harry considered why he hadn't told Ginny the truth. It took him a long time, and while Snape was either silent or Occluding himself, Harry was pleased to feel the man's irritability mounting. Finally, he spoke. "If you're really alive, like you think you are, then I... We don't know why you're inside me and if... Look, what if you really can be cast out, cast adrift? I'd rather Ginny think me mad than possessed, because if I'm mad I can be cured, but if I'm possessed the only way to fix me is to cast you out, and then what happens to you? She won't let it go, you know. She'll be on me and on Hermione, constantly, relentlessly, demanding we find a way to exorcise you. She'll bring her family in on it. Do you want that?"

Harry stopped Occluding. He wanted Snape to know what he was thinking, how much the idea of Snape being exorcised bothered him. For a while, they just stayed silent — a silence that was oddly companionable.

Voldemort wanted a contingency plan.

It was hard not to laugh. In some ways, Snape was very predictable. He was not a man to get mushy over finding out Harry actually cared.

Yes, thank you. I'm thrilled beyond words that you care. He wasn't content to rely on his Horcruxes. For several months, before I was made Headmaster, I spent most of my time at Spinner's End, researching other ways he might live forever. Once I returned to Hogwarts, I took advantage of the library there, when my duties allowed, to do further research.

"This says—" Harry waved the journal. "—'the mind can be temporarily hosted by another' and then there's the word 'prolegomena'." Harry ignored Snape's correction of his pronunciation. "And nothing else. There was a book in your bedroom that had that word in the title, but if it's here — and it should be — it hasn't been unpacked yet."

Yes, I remember. It's essentially an introduction to Dark Arts theory. There was something...what was it you said? The mind can temporarily be hosted by another? But there was no...

Waiting for Snape to finish thinking was always frustrating for Harry, especially knowing that when he had finished, he might still not let Harry in on his thought process. After awhile, unable to stand it any longer, Harry spoke. "No matter what you think, I'm not stupid. I know that you must've found something, else how did you end up in my mind?"

My apologies. The book mentioned a spell, an ancient one. It only gave a fragment of it and used it illustratively rather than instructively. I have no recollection of finding any other reference to it. But yes, it seems improbably coincidental that I refer to such a spell and then end up outside my own body and in yours. Why can't I remember? It's not part of the memories I fed you, is it?

"No," Harry replied. "Not unless you can see something in your memories that I can't. Is that possible?

I don't believe so, damn it. Potter, I need you to find that book.

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

"No more for me, thanks, Headmistress," Harry said politely, nudging the much diminished plate of cakes to the side.

I was beginning to wonder if there was a bottom to that pit. Gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins, you know.

"Shut it!" Harry whispered furiously in the direction of his chest. It didn't make any sense, he knew Snape was in his head, but as with speaking aloud, it helped him to have a place he could see to focus on.

"Harry?" Professor McGonagall pursed her lips in disapproval, but her eyes radiated concern.

Sighing, Harry looked up and smiled halfheartedly. "Sorry, Headmistress. I'm sure you've figured out by now that I didn't just drop by to chat."

Being that she's not one of the three stupidest people in Britain — all three of them being you — of course she's realised it. Get to the point, you idiot. I'd like this resolved before—

"Will you shut up?" Harry snarled.

"Mister Potter!"

"Sorry! That wasn't directed at you! I know it looks weird, but I'm not insane! Really I'm not! And if you say one more word I'm going to Occlude! See how you like being cut out completely. This..." Harry made a vague swirling gesture around his head. "...is why I'm here."

"I feel a little out of my depth here, Harry. Perhaps I should ask Poppy to join us."

It took Harry a moment to figure out who Poppy was. "No! I don't need Madam Pomfrey." He smiled wryly. "She'd probably hex me into next summer, considering the things I said to her last time we met. I know what it looks like, Professor. I do! But I swear to you, I'm not mad. Please just hear me out. If you want to call Madam Pomfrey or send me to St Mungo's when I'm finished, then I won't argue, but please, please just hear me out!"

I suspect you're going to get very tired having this same conversation over and over again.

Harry nodded in agreement; eventually he was going to have to tell Ron and Ginny and who knew who else?

Professor McGonagall heaved a great sigh. "I have a suspicion I'm going to need something more fortifying than tea. Would you like a whisky, Mr Potter?"

"Er, no. No, thanks. I think I'm going to need a clear head for this." He ignored Snape's derisive snort with difficulty.

Professor McGonagall drained her glass in one go and refilled it. "You were saying, Harry?"

"Right. Wow. I'm not sure how to explain this without convincing you of the exact opposite thing I'm trying to convince you of." He gave McGonagall an apologetic smile.

"It's typical to start at the beginning."

"I'm not sure what the beginning is and honestly, I think I'd better just go with the end result and get it out of the way." Taking a deep breath, Harry plunged. "Severus Snape is in my head. He's alive and he talks to me. And I know what you're thinking, but I really haven't gone round the twist, no matter what it looks like."

Stop nattering! You could try the patience of a stone. Tell her about the spell.

"You're not helping. No, don't say anything just yet, Headmistress. Let me get it out and then you can say whatever you like." Standing, Harry began to pace the room. "I'm not sure when it started. Not exactly. Sometime around...no, that's not right, it was before that."

Tiny insects are gnawing at my corpse as you witter on. Let me tell it.

"What? How?"

Just repeat what I say, verbatim. Minerva, as improbable as it seems, and easy as it is to believe Mr Potter is mad as a March hare, he's telling the truth.

"Um, Snape says to tell you that I'm telling the truth."

"Snape says? Oh dear. I believe I'll have another little nip." She held up the bottle. "Are you sure you won't join me?"

Do as I say, Potter! Repeat my words exactly. Minerva, as improbable as it seems, and as easy as it is—

"All right! I've got it. Bastard! I'm just going to let Snape tell it." Harry took another deep breath. "Minerva, as improbable as it seems, and easy as it is to believe Mr Potter is mad as a March hare, he's telling the truth."

Professor McGonagall's eyes widened. It suddenly seemed possible to Harry that Snape's idea just might work. He cocked his head as he listened to Snape's next bit.

"Your History of the British Empire in Five Volumes is a fake. Between its covers resides not the dry, dusty voice of an historian, but, last I saw anyway, two bottles of crème de menthe, a bottle of 1650 vintage Imperial Tokay — which will hardly be drinkable any longer, although I'm sure your palate will not know the difference — and a no doubt three-quarters-empty bottle of Lagavulin, plus whatever else you've squirrelled away since last you offered me a drink. You own an abominable tartan peignoir which should shame Clan McGonagall. You infuriated your father when you went into teaching rather than marry the rich cretin of his choice, and you have a birthmark in the shape of Finland on the inside of your right thigh."

"Oh good lord!" Professor McGonagall's face turned the colour of curdled milk. She collapsed into her chair and buried her head in her hands.

"Is all that true?"

Oh yes.

Casting a surreptitious glance at the Headmistress, Harry saw she was now staring vacantly in his direction, her hand clutching her glass so hard it was sure to shatter any second. He returned his gaze to his chest. "Do I want to know how you know about the birthmark?"

Get your mind out of the gutter, boy. In vino veritas. She told me.

"Whew!" Harry exclaimed, forgetting to whisper. "Professor? Headmistress? Are you all right?"

"Severus Snape!" McGonagall snapped, rising to her feet and striding from behind her desk to tower over Harry in his chair. "How dare you!"

Instinctively, Harry raised his hands protectively over his head. "Don't hit me! He's the one who said it!"

"Those were confidences!"

Laugh!

"What?"

Do as I tell you! Laugh!

Utterly confused, Harry did as he was told. "Ha ha ha!"

He winced as Snape did that little trick of thumping him inside his skull. "You'd better hope you never get your body back, you malevolent bastard!"

Oh, big words from such a small, small boy, and you don't have to whisper any longer, you addlepated ninnyhammer, she knows I'm in here.

"Fuck you!"

Professor McGonagall seemed to loom even larger. "Mister Potter! Believe you me, young man, I know precisely how irritating Severus Snape can be, but there's absolutely no excuse for that kind of language! Now, if you two children are done acting out, I would like an explanation."

Priggish old cow.

"Harry, I do hope you will forgive me, but as Severus probably has the most information, it would perhaps be best if you let him speak."

"Fine," retorted Harry, irritated at being relegated to nothing more than Snape's mouthpiece. "You'll be sorry, Headmistress. He just called you a priggish old cow."

With all the considerable venom the two of them could manage, and with Harry faithfully reporting every rude thing Snape said, they filled the Headmistress in on as much of the details as they knew. When at last Harry said, "I think that's everything," Minerva collapsed back in her chair and closed her eyes, looking far older than she should have done.

"Let me see if I have this straight," McGonagall said finally. "And forgive me for repeating it all back, but I do want to make sure my understanding isn't faulty.

"During your tenure as Headmaster, Severus, you used Hogwarts resources, as well as Albus' private library, to do research on behalf of the Dark Lord." She radiated disapproval.

Remind the old bat that I could hardly have disobeyed a direct order and still have maintained my cover.

"He says I'm to remind the old bat — sorry, Headmistress, but they're his words — that he couldn't disobey a direct order. You shit on me, Snape, and I'll shit right back. I did warn you!"

"Isn't it possible, Harry, for you to speak to Severus without actually speaking? If you can hear his thoughts, can he not hear yours?" The Headmistress looked as if she would soon be taking points.

"Sorry. Yes, it's possible, but it's really difficult. When I do that it's like arguing with myself instead of with him and I lose track of what's his voice and what's my own, if you know what I mean. For the longest time I thought he was just an internal voice, a really judgmental one."

"I see. That is most unfortunate. I'm deeply distressed to discover your Hogwarts education apparently encompassed a course on obscene language. Albus always did have curious ideas about what constituted an appropriate curriculum." Her mouth twitched in a way Harry was sure meant she was trying not to smile.

"Sorry," Harry said again. "He's just so infuriating."

"Yes, I do remember. Please try to keep the oaths to a minimum, whatever the provocation — and I know it can be extreme."

I'll show you extreme provocation, Minnie McGonagall!

"He says—"

"Never mind, Harry. You don't need to... Perhaps this would be a good opportunity for a smidgen of revenge?" McGonagall was no longer trying to hide her amusement. "You needn't repeat anything he says unless you think it's pertinent."

Oh for fuck's sake! How is that fair? Or useful?

Harry laughed.

"Yes, I thought that would please you, and it gives me no small pleasure of my own to have him silenced. You have no idea what I put up with over the years.

"So, in the course of his research, Severus happened upon an old legend about warrior kings in the mist of the past. He also discovered a fragment of a spell that released the consciousness of a possibly fatally wounded leader and placed it into the mind of one of his barons."

"That's about the size of it," Harry said. He laughed again. "And with all the foresight of a Muggle-born first year, Snape cast it without knowing if it worked, how it worked, how to reverse it, or even that he cast it. And he calls me an idiot."

I was dying! You should try it some time and see how well you do!

"I did, and then I killed Voldemort. Sticks in your craw doesn't it?"

"Harry?"

"Sorry, he was whinging like a big baby." Harry laughed and scaled his voice up. "I was dying. I did the best I could," he said in the taunting sing-song voice known to children everywhere.

Professor McGonagall coughed into her hand before giving up all pretense and laughing heartily. Silence poured off Snape in furious waves, which did not bode well for Harry having a pleasant evening, but Harry thought it was worth it, just to be one up for a change.

Her laughter at last subsiding, Minerva dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and said, "It is truly wonderful to hear him getting some of his own back after all these years. I think the two of you are remarkably well matched, Harry. No doubt Severus would disagree with me at the moment, but if the spell works as I suspect it must, his consciousness could only be placed in someone with whom he was emotionally, if not intellectually, compatible."

Harry wasn't sure if he should be pleased or insulted. Snape had no such doubts. Yes, she just called you stupid.

Minerva, apparently noticing Harry's wounded expression, said, "And by that I do not mean you are his intellectual inferior. Possibly I should have said, 'emotionally and/or intellectually compatible'. Indeed, the more I think on it, the more it seems there must be a similarity of mind or you would not be able to communicate at all." She waved her hand vaguely. "It's all conjecture at this point. Oh dear!" Minerva looked suddenly stricken.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Well, if the idea was that the king's consciousness be made available while his body healed...oh dear."

"What?" Harry very nearly yelled.

They haven't been attempting to heal my body.

"Oh god. I think I'm going to be sick." Harry bent over and thrust his head between his knees.

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Death and the Open Mind