Shared Pain

Shared Pain

It was an abnormally pleasant start to the new term, Harry thought. He, Ron and Hermione were still best friends, Quidditch practise was going splendidly, no attempts had yet been made on his life and, most surprisingly of all, Snape had left him well alone. This in itself could be considered suspicious, but Harry really didn’t want to pry into the matter; ‘Let sleeping dragons lie’ was his new motto.

Harry’s view of Snape, however, drastically changed one Thursday morning as he headed to Transfiguration. Strolling down the corridor, a bright autumn sun combating the cold September air, Hermione and Ron were arguing playfully about Quidditch: was it purely skill, or could someone learn it using mathematics? Harry happened to agree with Ron, that playing Quidditch required natural talent, but he preferred to listen to the silly banter rather than participating in it.

He spotted Snape further along the corridor, swooping in their direction with his eyes firmly fixed on the end of the corridor. The previous year his appearance would have been cause enough for great alarm, but Snape had been seemingly avoiding Harry so far, and he didn’t mind at all. It was strangely peaceful not to have him looming over his shoulder, and he planned to enjoy the foreign sensation. Walking unconcernedly on, Harry brushed past Snape, their arms knocking together slightly as they squeezed by a cluster of first-year Hufflepuffs.

Out of nowhere a familiar pain seared across Harry’s scar like an old friend, but it didn’t stop there. The agony spread like a bush-fire over his skin, through his veins, into his bones, like a pain he’d suffered only twice before, at the hands of a very evil man. Groaning, he fell to his hands and knees, one palm slapped across his scar, trying futilely to block away the pain.

In a flash it was gone, and Harry’s vision slowly cleared, allowing him to see many pairs of feet lined around him, crowding in. He pushed himself to his knees, wiping the tears of pain from his eyes as he tried to ascertain what the flash-attack could mean. Ron grabbed his right arm to hoist him up, and another male hand clamped onto his left. Harry had only time to see that it was Snape before another wave of pain rolled on him, stronger than the last and accompanied by visions of flashing light, male screams of pain and an all too familiar cackling laugh.

Instinctively Harry wrenched his arm from Snape’s grasp, and slowly the pain faded to a dull ache in every muscle and sinew of his body. Ron yanked Harry to his feet, holding him steady when his legs threatened to give out beneath him. Harry stared at Snape with a mixture of empathy, horror and confusion. Voldemort’s maniacal laugh still echoed in his ears, and he knew it was Snape who had been screaming. He shuddered violently.

Snape reached out to steer Harry away from the building crowd, perhaps to take him to the Hospital Wing or Dumbledore’s office, but Harry stepped away from his touch, knowing it would bring him only more pain. Snape scowled, and instead barked at the gathering students to clear off to class, or he’d take five points from all of them. They cleared away slowly, all straining to see Harry, standing clammy and shaking in the middle of the corridor.

Only Draco, Crabbe and Goyle remained eventually. Malfoy swaggered up to Harry, sneering.

“Dear, dear Potter! Fits in the corridor? You might be struck from the team if that continues,” he drawled gleefully.

“Mr. Malfoy, you will please move to your next class or I will deduct ten points from Slytherin!” Snape growled at him, and he backed away immediately, shock written over his face. Harry hurt too much to be pleased, but he could see Ron trying to suppress a smirk. Snape watched Malfoy’s retreating form, but Harry stared at Snape.

“The Cruciatus curse,” he croaked, earning a surprised look from all three of them.

“What about it, Harry?” Hermione asked timidly. Harry didn’t answer her; he and Snape were locked in a look of understanding and amazement.

“How many times?” Harry asked him, his voice full of such uncommon sympathy that Ron stared at him in shock. Snape tilted his head to the side, conveying that he lost count. Harry nodded once. Ron opened his mouth to speak, but a flurry of footsteps caught their attention. Professor McGonagall came hurrying towards them, her lips extremely thin in her anger.

“When three of my students don’t turn up for class, and it’s claimed one of them had a fit in the corridor, I do tend to worry,” she exclaimed, flashing a scathing look at Snape.

“I was merely having a little chat with Mr. Potter and friends,” he replied, acting as though nothing had transpired, and he stalked off, highly affronted that McGonagall should chastise him in front of students. As soon as he was out of earshot, McGonagall turned to Harry with an almost soft expression.

“Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey or Professor Dumbledore?” she asked him. Harry shook his head, and he stood waiting for her to dismiss himself, Ron and Hermione, but she looked deeply lost in a very worrying thought. “It’s not-” she began, but seemed to think better of herself and let the question stand.

“It wasn’t Voldemort,” Harry assured her, unconsciously tracing his scar with his index finger.

“Then what was it?” Ron asked, still holding Harry’s quivering frame up. Harry shuddered as he remembered the nightmarish visions, looking empathetically in the direction Snape had gone in.

“Professor Snape and I have just found something in common. We share pain,” he said grimly, before twisting out of Ron’s grip and stumbling to his next class. McGonagall hurried after him and, after exchanging looks of confused horror, Ron and Hermione followed.

END