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Gone to Madness	By : everwild34 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 14548 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The characters used in this story and any recognizable places or situations belong to JK Rowling. I do not own anything from the Harry Potter universe and am making no profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
A/N: Er... I'm back. And I've got a shiny new chapter ready just for you. Hope you like it.

Chapter 8: Healing Hands

The air was thick with a tense silence, swelling throughout the room, buzzing harshly in the inhabitants’ ears. The two professors stared down at the teenager before them -- who appeared to be going into shock -- and shared an uneasy glance. Harry was sitting in his chair, still as stone with his hands clasped in a white knuckled grip in his lap, jaw tightly set, eyes glazed and unseeing.

It explained everything, they thought, the erratic and defensive behavior; the attempted alienation of the boy’s few friends; his declining performance in classes… everything.

And yet, it made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Severus Snape had done many cruel things throughout his lifetime: Throughout his years as a Death Eater, he had kidnapped, tortured, murdered -- and then again during the past few months as a spy among the ranks of the Dark Lord -- and it was part of the reason he had ended up joining the Order all those years ago, shortly before the Potter murders. He was an ambitious and clever man, and he had taken the Dark Mark in his search for power; causing needless harm in others had never been something the man particularly enjoyed.

So then, the question became: why?

Dumbledore sighed, feeling far more weary and old than he ever had before.

Before he could ask questions, before anything was to be done, Harry needed to be examined properly and most likely required medical attention. At this very moment, he must have been suffering immensely, both with physical and emotional pain coursing through him in equal measure.

“Harry?” The old wizard asked, surprised to find himself speaking in a hoarse whisper.

There was no response from Harry, not even a twitch of movement.

“Harry, it’s over.” said Dumbledore slowly, “You’re safe. Now, we need to have you brought down to Madam Pomfrey --”

Here Harry interrupted, though his eyes remained glassy and continued to stare into the same spot on the floor. “What for?” he asked quietly, voice low and bleak.

“The usual tedious examinations, my boy. We need to know that you have not been severely injured, and be able to take the necessary precautions if you have.” said Dumbledore gently.

“’M fine, sir.” Harry mumbled distractedly, eyes finally looking up to focus on the Headmaster. “Really, I don’t need -- I don’t want --”

“I am afraid,” said Dumbledore gravely, leaning forward slightly in his high-backed chair, “that this is one of those unpleasant actions that is required of us by the law. It is my duty, Harry, as your Professor, to ensure that you receive the proper care. Humor me, if you will. Then you may rest as you wish.”

Harry’s body heaved with a weighted sigh, but he sat up a little straighter, hands still clenched in tight fists, looking resigned. “What do I have to do, sir?”

“Not very much, I promise you that.” Dumbledore slowly got to his feet and walked around his desk in the direction of the wide, double doors. He glanced back to see Harry standing unsteadily by his chair, McGonagall hovering slightly behind him and watching with a wary eye, as if she expected the boy to fall over at any moment.

He gestured towards the exit with an open and frail hand, and said soberly, “Shall we, then?”

McGonagall looked up as if she was just waking from a dream. “Yes. Yes, of course. Come along, Mr. Potter.” Though her face was drawn and pale, and her hands were shaking slightly at her sides, her voice was steady and clipped as it always was, though perhaps a slight bit softer.

Harry said nothing and moved forward as if in a trance, one foot after the other in an almost mechanical rhythm.

And so the party set off through the castle in undisturbed silence but for the shuffling of feet and the soft shift of clothing. There were simply no words adequate in a situation such as this, no appropriate way of going about the everyday conversation that was usually relied upon to fill the quiet.

Behind the cold eyes, the stiff demeanor, Harry’s entire world was crumbling to ash, creating a cacophony that filled his ears and his ears only. What had he to gain from his confession? Comfort? Help? Did it even matter that he had said it? There would be kind, pitying words exchanged; he would be thoroughly examined, both physically and mentally, and treated as needs arose; Snape would be gone.

Snape would be gone…

There was nothing anyone could do or could have done to change the fact that it had happened. He knew this (Harry felt a wrenching sensation in his lungs at this, a feeling that something invaluable had been lost). He could not simply lock this part of his life away, leave it behind or bury it. The events of the past several days had changed him and he would never forget. But perhaps future experiences, future memories and pain, could be prevented.

Harry retraced this thought process several times, reinforcing his decision as he did so. Of course it mattered; as painful as it was now, this move had the potential to change everything for him.

For the first time in what seemed to be an eternity, Harry felt a pleasant, warm fluttering in his belly: the feeling of security seemed so foreign to him now. Snape would be gone!

The group turned a corner and entered into a corridor that was slowly filling with the pale morning light, the rows of windows providing a magnificent view of the sunrise as it struggled over the mountain peaks in the distance. It was beautiful, certainly, but it was also cold and weak. A new day.

They came upon the wide oak doors that opened into the infirmary and Dumbledore pushed them wide, striding forward into the empty wing. “I do believe that Poppy should be awake by now. Harry, feel free to choose any one of the beds here. I daresay, you must be quite exhausted by now.”

Harry gave an almost imperceptible nod and sank down onto the nearest bed, wincing slightly as he perched on the edge. Despite his dazed appearance, he was simply too restless and uncomfortable to try and fall sleep at this point.

Dumbledore stepped purposefully through one of the side doors in the room and closed it behind him with a quiet snick, leaving Harry and his Head of House alone in the wide ward. He could feel her eyes on him, burning a hole in the back of his head -- as was to be expected.

“Mr. Potter,” she began, faltering for a moment before she regained her composure. “This wasn’t your fault, you know. I expect you anticipated something along those lines and have just as quickly discarded it, but there you are.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably and his eyes drifted over to the window, red and still burning. He didn’t want to hear any of this; the whole affair was just so damn humiliating

“As a teacher, it was Professor Snape’s responsibility to ensure your safety, and as a student, you have a right to expect that of him -- no matter who you are or how talented you have become in defensive magic.”

A single hot tear streaked, unseen, down his face to hang precariously at his chin. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d properly cried before this mess, not even after the events on the night of the Third Task. There was a part of him, a very small part, that was telling him to just push it all back and pull himself together, possibly the last whisperings of pride he had left. The rest of him simply didn’t have the energy to care.

“Well… There’s not much else to say on that matter, is there?” she quietly cleared her throat and went on, “If you did not return to your dorm last night, your friends must be quite worried by now. It surprises me that they’re not yet knocking down the door.”

Harry swallowed hard. Would they tell Ron and Hermione? Would he have to tell them? At the end of this nightmare, would the whole world have to know?

No, a small voice whispered in his head -- then louder and louder: No, no, no, no…

He jumped and raised his eyes as a door banged open and the old headmaster reentered the room, a nightgown-clad Madame Pomfrey following close at his heels.

“Ah, there you are!” she snapped, sweeping forward at a clipped pace. “Up you get, let me have a proper look at you.”

Harry stood slowly, hiding a wince when the movement pulled painfully at his - er - injury, as the medi-witch came to hover over him. She began what he assumed to be a general examination, pulling out her wand and running the tip along his arms, fingers, shoulders, and sternum. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, she rapped his skull rather sharply with the wand, muttering a constant stream of Latin throughout the process. She pursed her lips, obviously not happy with what she found, before kneeling down to scan his legs, at which point he paled and jerked instinctively away.

Madam Pomfrey tut-tutted softly and returned to her full height, hands at her hips. “Well? Out with it, boy, what have you managed to get yourself into this time?” she asked distractedly, pulling a stretch of parchment from the nearest bedside drawer. Harry watched silently -- her absent minded question ignored and forgotten -- as she pressed her wand tip to the parchment, the results of the scan appearing there in shiny, blazing green ink. He hardly dared to breathe.

“…”

“…This… Albus, you never mentioned…” she whispered, voice suddenly harsh and less composed than her usual bedside manner. She turned around to stare at him with a deep frown, eyebrows furrowed in sudden comprehension and what he understood to be pity. A moment later it was gone, replaced once again with her professional countenance, but he knew what he had seen there. He had expected it, yes, and in his frightened and angry defiance he had told himself that he would be able to handle it when it came, but the crushing reality and truth in that gaze inflicted a wound that he doubted he would ever get used to. He dropped his suddenly watery gaze to the floor and steeled himself.

In a voice he barely recognized as his own, low and angry, he looked the headmaster straight in the eye and said, “There. That’s all you needed, isn’t it? Can I go now?”

Dumbledore took the test results in one withered old hand and quickly skimmed through the information there. For only a few seconds, he closed his eyes and allowed a look of pained acceptance to reign across his features, and then he was looking at his student, once again the calm headmaster who had everything under control.

“I rather thought you would have preferred to have your injuries healed before returning to --”

“I don’t need anything!” he interrupted harshly. “I’m fine!”

“Mr. Potter,” said Madame Pomfrey, “I’m afraid that this cannot be left unattended. Aside from the pain, there’s the risk of infection to be considered.”

“Can’t you just -- just give me something for it then? That I can take with me so I don’t have to…” He gestured helplessly towards the beds, backing a single step away towards the doors.

Madame Pomfrey gave a long suffering sigh and bustled over towards her office. “A good standard healing potion will do I suppose, but if the pain hasn’t faded by the end of the hour you’re to come straight back here. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,”

“Now then,” she said, coming to stand before him with a small bottle in hand, “Apply this directly to the wound, gently of course, and leave it alone for two minutes at the least. It might still smart a bit for a while, but after that you should be fine. You’ll come to see me, regardless of whether or not it’s still hurting, tomorrow after you’ve finished all your classes.”

Harry winced. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down, apparently searching for signs of deceit, before letting out a small “hmph!” and roughly depositing the bottle in Harry’s hand. “Good. Off you get, then, if you’re so eager to be gone!”

Harry glanced around at Professor Dumbledore and McGonagall, as if to make sure he really was permitted to leave, before turning on his heel and positively fleeing from the sunny hospital wing.

00000

The boys’ bathroom was completely empty when he pushed the door open so many minutes later and stepped onto the grimy tiled floor. He only hoped that it would remain that way until he was completely finished with his task.

He quickly peeled off his clothes and entered into the largest shower stall, the potion clutched tightly in his hand as he pulled the curtain shut. He turned the knob for warm water as high as it would go and stepped under the stream, placing the little bottle on the soap shelf, fully intending to scrub himself raw before he went anywhere near it.

After spending thirty minutes under the hot water, Harry was forced to concede that his entire body was simply going to continue to tremble, teeth chattering and all, unable to relax as he had hoped. It was ridiculous. He finally admitted defeat and shut the shower off, still standing in the center of the no-longer-white tiles, body shivering and damp.

There were several minutes of stillness and complete silence except for the dripping of the water, then Harry turned and sent a weak glare in the direction of his healing potion, a concoction that had most likely been made down in the dungeons by Professor Snape. He wasn’t an idiot: he knew that it most likely wasn’t poison -- he’s never been hurt by the hospital wing’s stock of potions before -- but just the thought that Snape’s greasy hands had touched the ingredients and the glass phial that they were held in…

He gingerly dried himself off with one of the fluffy towels and stood in front of a grimy sink, little glass bottle held loosely in his hand. Harry closed his eyes, yanked the cork out, and poured it all down the drain.

0000

Harry considered going into the Great Hall to join Ron and Hermione for breakfast, but the second he was able to hear the sheer volume and number of voices from within, he found that he just couldn’t face it. After everything that had happened, he felt a world apart from his friends and classmates -- alienated, a freak. And so he returned to the now quiet dormitory instead, he supposed so that he could grab his books before the morning classes begun.

His hands were shaking as he unlocked and opened the clasps of his trunk, a cursory glance revealing a mess that he was not in the mood to sort through now or at any other time. Straining, Harry’s eyes wandered over towards the immaculately made bed, soft cover smooth and feather pillows fluffed and waiting. After so many hours and days of difficult choices, he found it to be the simplest decision he had ever made to crawl beneath the heavy blankets and shut the world away.
- 7
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Gone to Madness