Though This Be Madness

Polonius: Will you walk out of the air, my lord?
Hamlet: Into my grave?
Polonius: Indeed, that is out o' th' air. — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part IV: Denial

"Can you hear me, Mr Snape?"

Waking to absolute quiet for once is unnerving enough. Add to that the school nurse's shrill but well-meaning voice rending the silence like a knife through stiff, unyielding material and ... well, I nearly leap out of my skin.

"Of course I can hear you, Madam Pomfrey!" I snap to cover my fear. "I'm hardly deaf."

My head throbs in time with my pulse, each heartbeat sending scorching stabs of pain through my skull and inducing waves of nausea. Even the tiny bit of light that filters through my eyelids is almost too much to bear. And for some reason, I'm no longer strapped to the mattress. I wonder why. Regardless, I sit up and rub my temples, then open my eyes in an attempt to locate the nurse, to ask her for something to help with the pain.

The white blur at the foot of my bed reflects an obscene amount of excruciating light in my direction before my eyes focus on the form: the headmaster. I gasp, but despite my rather brusque retort, Professor Dumbledore beams. Since when does he take such pride in his students' berating the staff?

"How are you feeling?" he asks, and his eyes convey his concern, even if his smile doesn't diminish in the slightest.

"My head feels as though I've been browbeaten with a cauldron," I mutter. Again I squeeze my eyes shut against Madam Pomfrey's assailing voice.

"Oh!" she yelps. "I'd quite forgotten—that's a side—yes."

Her clacking footsteps quickly depart for the back of the ward. After a moment she returns and starts shovelling the remedy into my mouth—cool, minty, soothing. I recognise the clear concoction immediately and, knowing the vapours are every bit as potent as the remedy itself, I hold the gelatinous substance on my tongue and inhale deeply before I swallow. The pain dutifully subsides much sooner than it would have if I'd waited until the gel could traverse the short distance to my stomach.

I settle back onto the pillow and pull the covers tightly up under my chin. Though my head no longer pounds, I am exhausted—mentally and physically. I want nothing more than to curl into a ball and sleep forever. Why could that not have been a Draught of Living Death? Let me rest, please, I silently beg my visitors.

But no. They wish to talk. So I listen ... though I can hardly believe what I hear.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After Severus has just been so terse with Poppy, the bright smile on my face unsettles him, I am sure. If he only knew how delightful the return of his shameless impertinence is to me. He has been so very changed for so very long, and I am overjoyed to have him back to his normal, saucy self. My expression does little to reassure him, however; evidently, my grin only confuses him all the more, and he retreats under the protection of the coverlet.

If I thought allowing him to sleep right now would help, I would do it, but I know better. Postponing the moment when he has to think about all this will only make it worse when he finally knows. He needs to understand what has been happening to him. Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be true recovery.

I nod in her direction, and Poppy steps closer to the bed, drawing Severus' wrist out from under the bedclothes to take his pulse. She has only done so three times in the past fifteen minutes, but if having something to do with her hands reassures her, however inane or redundant the action might be, then Lord love her, she can count his heartbeats all night for all I care.

"You are suffering from a condition known as dementia praecox, or schizophrenia, Mr Snape," she explains.

The boy blinks and frowns, slowly processing what Madam Pomfrey has just told him. His eyes search her face then mine in turn, disbelief written all over his young features. After a long moment, he swallows hard, gathering enough courage to pose an obviously painful question.

"Are you saying I'm mad?"

"No, no, Severus," I soothe with a shake of my head, placing a hopefully reassuring hand on his arm. "You aren't mad. But you have a physical disorder that affects the way in which your mind functions."

His frown deepens. "I see no difference."

"I quite understand," I say, nodding. "But let me see if I can explain. May I?"

Again I smile, and then I gesture toward the side of the bed. For a moment he regards me with wary eyes narrowed into coal black slits, but finally he sits up and moves over so that I may have a seat. I smooth my robes over my lap as I desperately search for the right words. Alas, despite my reassuring tones and expression, the proper thing to say—whatever utterance would set his mind at ease—has evaded me thus far.

"This disorder has undoubtedly made you appear mad, Severus, but the largest difference between schizophrenia and insanity is that your condition is treatable. Professor Slughorn has kindly prepared some potions that will help with your symptoms and allow you to lead quite a normal life. And he will show you how to prepare them all yourself for when you leave school. The simple fact that we are now conversing shows that these potions are effective."

"What do you mean?" he asks, still scowling.

I turn and look at Poppy over my shoulder. Perhaps the explanation would be better coming from her. She has just gone to fetch a basket filled with the boy's potions. Once she has set them on the bedside table, she takes a deep breath, which she exhales slowly. Then she sets to briefly explaining the symptoms of his disorder and how to take his potions. Severus' expression is still warped into an intense frown, which troubles me deeply. I do wish there were something else I could do. Merely puzzling out what ails the boy does not appear to have been enough.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My head no longer aches, but it does seem to be spinning. Though the headmaster said I'm not mad, I do appear to have some sort of disorder that affects the way my mind functions. And despite his empty assurances, I fear I still see no distinction between the two.

Madam Pomfrey is now babbling about some potion or other that I am supposed to take. I know I should at least make an attempt to listen, but paying attention would somehow validate what they've said up until now. I'm not certain I'm ready for that.

"These potions are as every bit as effective as Muggle remedies—that is to say highly effective, provided you take a regular maintenance dosage—but with fewer side-effects than Muggle treatments. This one—" She hands me a flask that contains an emerald green liquid. "—sometimes induces migraines, but you already know that. As you also know, the normal headache remedy is sufficient and doesn't interfere with any of the other potions. You'll take one tablespoon of that twice daily." She then passes me a phial that holds a vivid orange potion. "This one has a tendency to stain the teeth, but thankfully you'll only need three drops nightly. And this you'll need three times a day: two teaspoons in the morning, one at noon, and one at bedtime. Naturally, I'll send written instructions with you when you leave."

The last potion looks awfully familiar—silver, resembling a flask full of mercury, though much lighter in both colour and weight—so I uncork the bottle and take a tentative sniff. Then I cannot repress a snort of disdain.

"You must be joking, Madam Pomfrey. This is nothing more than a Draught of Peace. You cannot seriously tell me that a simple fifth-year potion will suddenly make me all better?"

A pink tinge creeps into her cheeks, and she turns toward the headmaster in a silent plea for support.

"You might be surprised, Severus," Professor Dumbledore says calmly, smiling. "One of the first effective treatments Muggles found for schizophrenia was nothing more than a sedative."

Muggles. I don't want to hear about Muggles. Muggles are the reason I'm here in the first place.

"Now, Mr Snape," Madam Pomfrey continues in a shrill voice, pitched to carry over the sounds of clinking glass as she gathers up the potions and replaces them in the basket. "You cannot imbibe anything stronger than elf-made wine or butterbeer, as alcohol will only make your condition worse. And I'm going to keep you here another week to make certain the doses you are currently taking are adequate, and in case you have any adverse reactions."

I draw my legs up to my chest and wrap my forearms 'round my knees. As Professor Slughorn and even Madam Pomfrey will no doubt tell anyone, I believe in the Healing power of potions. Ever since my first year, I've prepared many a concoction for our school nurse with my Potions master's blessing—in exchange for House points for Slytherin, of course. If these potions treat whatever ails me, then I would be a fool not to take advantage of them, would I not?

But that would mean admitting that there is indeed something wrong with me. That's the difficult bit.

All this time I've been convinced that everyone else is to blame: the Muggles, my father, those damned Gryffindors who want my head on a platter, Madam Pomfrey when she couldn't understand me, Professor Slughorn when he thought my potions smelt wrong. I've been willing to accept almost any explanation apart from the problem's residing inside my own skull.

"...a Time-Turner from the Ministry so that you may attend the lessons you have missed," Professor Dumbledore says. "With that, the judicious application of a Shrinking Solution, and a little luck, no one will ever be the wiser."

I've only been half-listening, lost in my own thoughts, but the potion Professor Dumbledore mentions immediately catches my attention. A mere drop of the standard Shrinking Solution will regress a person one year in age.

"How long have I been here, Headmaster?" I ask, though I dread hearing the answer.

For the first time since I woke, his smile fades. "Just over eleven months," he announces, his voice grave.

Again I feel as if I've been hit with a cauldron, though this time full in the chest. Suddenly there's not enough air in the room. Eleven months? I've been lying in this prison for nearly a year?

Madam Pomfrey takes hold of my wrist, but I pull my arm out of her reach. I don't need my blasted pulse taken again, though a large swallow of the Draught of Peace wouldn't go amiss. She flinches when I draw my arm back, however, as if I'm about to backhand her. And I freeze, my eyes growing wide. Have I struck her before? The reaction seems almost a reflex on her part. Dear God! Is this fully grown witch afraid of me? Is that how I've behaved for the past year? I scarcely remember anything, so that may very well be the case. No wonder I was tied to the bed.

After a moment, the headmaster breaks the awkward silence that follows. "As soon as Madam Pomfrey releases you, Severus, I would like you to come and see me."

I nod numbly before I even think to question him. "May I ask why, Professor?"

Now his smile has returned in full force. "We have bombarded you with a great deal of information today. I thought you might like to discuss things after you've had some time to digest it all."

I nod again and, after the headmaster leaves, I retreat beneath the coverlet once more. When Madam Pomfrey comes over to tuck me in, I mutter an embarrassed apology for the manner in which I must have treated her when I wasn't quite myself. She merely smiles, briefly puts her hand to my cheek, and tells me to get some rest. I suppose she's used to ill treatment from ill people.

Ill. I'm only ill. Odd ... I don't feel ill.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Coming from watching Madam Pomfrey's medicating an indisposed Severus to a meeting with his compos mentis counterpart should be a little disconcerting. It probably would be, if I had not been doing that very thing for several months now. Amazing the things to which one quickly becomes accustomed.

Counselling the boy myself was probably not the wisest choice, but I felt it was the only option available. I would prefer to stay abreast of his therapy, of course, but I also feel that a Muggle psychologist would be more than a little out of his depth when it comes to treating Severus—especially if he should have another of his violent outbursts. I doubt any Muggle, no matter how knowledgeable or experienced, would be able to subdue such a powerful and resourceful young wizard.

In addition, there are the secrecy issues. Arranging for him to see a Muggle therapist, even one with witches or wizards in the family, could prove problematic. I have never been a proponent of the casual application of Memory Charms, and I fear I am even less of one since this affair with Severus began. The mind is evidently a delicate landscape. One should not undertake renovations there lightly.

Poppy's books state that schizophrenia is present in the same percentage of the population in many different Muggles areas, regardless of climate or other varying factors. Therefore I can only assume the disorder should be present to the same degree amongst wizards. And yet, the condition is largely unknown to wizardkind. The only reason I have heard of schizophrenia is because I read Muggle newspapers in addition to the wizarding press. Limited though it may be, my knowledge likely makes me the wizarding world's foremost expert on the subject, apart from Madam Pomfrey.

I suddenly find myself wondering how many of the so-called Incurables housed at St Mungo's are merely undiagnosed schizophrenics. Of course, I shouldn't be too hard on our Healers. When I think of some of the methods Muggles have employed to treat this condition (including passing electricity through the patients' heads in order to induce seizures, or slicing up and even removing parts of their brains), the idea of imprisoning a schizophrenic in a padded cell for the remainder of his days seems almost merciful by comparison.

After studying these books, so many more things make sense to me than before. My current reading material, for instance, states that schizophrenics often have trouble with concentration and abstract thought. Little wonder Severus had so many problems in Transfiguration. The subject requires a great deal of both. I must own that I experienced a bit of an irrational sulk at his performance and subsequent decision to opt out of the class. Then again, like Minerva, I sincerely thought the boy was merely not trying.

I always hate to see a pupil give up on the subject I taught, but especially one of Severus' exceptional intelligence. I wonder if I could convince him to at least attempt his OWL again. Perhaps it was only his intense dislike of Professor McGonagall that made him finally decide to leave the class. They are both strong-willed and have a tendency to clash. I wonder if he might change his mind if I offered to tutor him. Surely he would not be so stubborn as to believe the possibility of having another OWL to his credit would be a waste of his time? The boy can certainly be inflexible when he gets an idea into his head.

And, of course, his obstinacy again makes me think of Occlumency. For some reason, every thought I have on this matter eventually leads me back to Occlumency. Therein lies the answer that I am sure has been eluding me for so very long. Perhaps I am merely not using my new Pensieve enough.

The idea that Occlumency is somehow related to this situation is an additional reason I wish to counsel Severus myself. I have a feeling a Muggle therapist would not have the remotest chance of understanding the concept. Few enough wizards are acquainted with the discipline. And although it may sound callous, I've a theory that I wish to test.

From these books of Poppy's, I have discovered that the actual structure of a schizophrenic's brain differs from that of a "normal" person's. I imagine this difference explains the barrier I encountered inside Severus' mind. If I am correct, Severus' natural predisposition toward Occlumency may not only be a consequence of his schizophrenia, but it may also prove invaluable to helping him control the condition.

But first things first. This afternoon I'll see if I can get him to talk more about his symptoms. That will likely be more than enough for today's session. He has been slowly opening up to me over the past few months, and although I have no wish to press him, I feel that we are on the verge of a breakthrough. We have discussed his symptoms in the abstract, of course, even if he has so far been reluctant to mention how the general symptoms may or may not relate to him specifically.

Except last week Severus asked me if Remus really is a werewolf, or if he had only imagined the encounter that awakened his more distressing symptoms. I was seriously tempted to tell him the lycanthropy was indeed a figment of his imagination, for his sake as well as Remus'. I could not, however, bring myself to do so in good conscience. Not to mention if he ever discovered that I had been less than truthful, it would certainly shatter the fragile trust we have developed.

At the very least, he is beginning to accept his hallucinations for what they are. That, in itself, is notable progress.

The clock on my mantel chimes the quarter hour, and I realise Severus is late, so I send Fawkes to locate the boy. When he returns, he reports that Severus is in the hospital wing. I start to shake my head and tell Fawkes to look for the other Severus, but for some reason I hesitate. And then I go to the hospital wing. As it happens, it was I who was in error, not my long-suffering phoenix.

Once I made the mistake of assuming the boy was quite alone in the world. Yet Severus appears to have someone he can lean on at any time, someone whose fortitude should not be discounted: he has himself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Professor Dumbledore explained the provisions of the applicable laws to me, certainly, and I know I shouldn't be here. But these feet have brought me here, all the same. Some things are more important than abiding by the Ministry's mandates—my peace of mind being quite high on the list.

He's lying there on the bed, terrified, turning his head rapidly from side to side. I remember this, if vaguely. A heart was beating in my pillow, and I could not escape the dreaded sound. After a quick examination of the corridor to make certain no one is watching, I step inside the ward and approach the bed. Then I take his hand, and immediately mine is clasped in an urgent death grip.

It's strange how with all the things I've seen, heard, or felt over the past few months, holding my own hand is the oddest sensation of all. And yet, it still seems the most natural thing in the world to do. I remember how alone he—or rather I—felt then, how I wished so desperately for the slightest touch of anybody's hand ... to confirm that I was still human and not some dirty secret of a freak, locked away from prying eyes. I felt as though I were losing myself. And so I hold my own hand and stroke the back with the knuckles of my other hand as I lean down to whisper in his upturned ear.

"You'll be all right, Severus. Eventually Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey will work it all out, and you'll get better."

The version of myself lying on the bed looks a fright, and I wish I could do something else to ease his suffering. Before I have a chance, however, the clearing of a throat catches my attention. As I release my hand and turn toward the doorway, my heart plummets to somewhere around the vicinity of my ankles. Of all the people to catch me breaking the laws which govern the use of the Time-Turner, it would have to be the headmaster.

Professor Dumbledore beckons to me, and I fall in step beside him in the corridor, my gaze dropping automatically to the floor. Not only have I broken wizarding law, but I've just realised that I am also late for our appointment. I daresay I couldn't feel worse if I tried.

We walk in silence for a long, exceedingly uncomfortable moment. I know our destination, but my only real indication of the journey's progress comes from watching the toes of my boots jut out from under my robes with each successive step I take. I open my mouth several times to explain myself, but I cannot find the words. How does one explain the unexplainable? Finally I manage a murmured apology, though I'm not certain if Professor Dumbledore hears me, since he picks that precise moment to speak as well.

"I imagine this is an eventuality the Wizengamot never considered when they authored that particular law."

He doesn't sound angry or even disappointed—merely thoughtful. I exhale loudly, my shoulders slumping, and attempt my apology again. Try as I might, I do not succeed in giving the words any more volume this time.

"And I for one cannot blame you," Professor Dumbledore says then, once more drowning out my attempt at expressing remorse. "I will hardly turn you over to the Ministry for wishing to comfort yourself, m'boy."

I finally dare to look at him and, as always, he's smiling. "You won't?" That, of course, I say much louder, and incidentally quite high in pitch, despite my voice's having changed nearly two years earlier.

"Of course not, Severus. I requested the Time-Turner so that you could learn, after all, and I think you have learnt an invaluable lesson today. Just don't make a habit of it."

I nod and then I find myself smiling, too. "Yes, sir."

A short while later, we're both seated in his office. He conjures some refreshments, and I munch my biscuits silently for a moment.

"Now, what shall we talk about today, Severus?"

"Whatever you want to talk about, Professor," I finally manage to mutter, watching the recently stirred milk swirling in my teacup.

When I look up, he smiles and bites into a biscuit himself. Bits and pieces of shortbread tumble down onto his beard, and I find myself smiling again. Crumbs on his beard are vastly preferable to what I've seen located there before.

"There is nothing specific that you would like to discuss?"

Now I shrug, sloshing some of the contents of my cup onto my knee. "Not really, Headmaster."

"Are you sure?" He's smiling still. "We can talk about whatever you would like: lessons, Quidditch, young ladies..."

My eyes widen, as does his smile.

"I may be a bit of an old codger, Severus, but I like to think I remember how I felt when I was your age. We can talk about anything you'd like, and I promise nothing you say will ever leave the confines of this office."

I nod and take a sip of tea. Professor Dumbledore may recall how he felt when he was my age, but I don't. Remember how I'm supposed to feel, that is. I can't even remember the last time I felt as if I own the skin I'm wearing.

"I don't feel like myself," I whisper at last, surprised that those words came out of my mouth. Strangely, my tea doesn't taste as if it contains Veritaserum. Yet I appear to have actually said that instead of merely thinking it, because Professor Dumbledore obviously heard me.

"Now you are taking these potions, you mean?" he asks, leaning back and folding his hands in his lap.

"Yes. And I feel ... alone."

The headmaster smiles warmly. "You are not alone, Severus. You will never be alone. Not if I can help it."

I nod again, afraid to give voice to what's really troubling me. I've never told anyone. I could tell him, I suppose, but he wouldn't understand. He'd think I'm insane. My face draws into a frown when I realise that he already thinks I'm insane.

"That's not what I mean, Professor."

He leans forward slowly, retrieves his cup from off the desk, and takes a sip. "Then what do you mean, my boy?"

"Slytherin," I whisper. "He's deserted me."

Professor Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows rise. "Salazar Slytherin?"

My throat is too tight to speak, so I simply nod. I was thrilled my first year when I was sorted into Slytherin. I thought that would finally make my father proud of me. It didn't. Then Slytherin himself began to speak to me, telling me that I was his heir and showing me all sorts of fascinating curses. What father wouldn't be overjoyed to hear that? But I never had the chance to deliver that happy news to my father, since the dunderhead got himself killed—in an attempt to fight off the Ministry officials who had come for my mother. Idiot Muggle. His sacrifice was in vain, as a dementor took her soul scarcely a week later.

I look up when the headmaster speaks again, his voice soft and gentle. "How long has Slytherin been speaking to you, Severus?"

I was wrong. He does understand. And he said he wouldn't report me to the Ministry. Perhaps I can confide in him, this man who has shown me such kindness, despite everything. Though I daresay spilling my innermost secrets to a white blur—as he's now become due to my rapidly filling eyes—seems fairly amusing. I clear my throat, but my voice is little more than a croak when I speak.

"Since my second year."

The white blur nods. "And you miss him, don't you?"

"Yes."

He pauses for a long moment. "How is it that you could hear him when no one else could?"

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve before answering. "Parseltongue." That comes out in another croak, so I clear my throat and try again. "He spoke to me in Parseltongue. No one else could hear him or, if they could, I daresay they wouldn't understand."