Though This Be Madness

I have of late ... lost all my / mirth ... and indeed, it goes so / heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth / seems to me a sterile promontory... — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part V: Defences

As pleased as I am that Severus has finally decided to confide in me, I must tread carefully here. The revelation that the boy believes a thousand-year-deceased Hogwarts founder has been speaking to him in Parseltongue unnerves me for a second. I try with all my might, however, not to let that show on my face. Since he is crying at the moment, I very much doubt he takes notice of my surprise. Severus has always been a sensitive boy, and he has been flayed for it, the name "Snivellus" being one of the more mild forms this abuse has taken over the years.

No spell can reawaken the dead, of course, but as Poppy said, the hallucinations he experienced were very real. Apparently his condition has, to some extent, brought Salazar Slytherin back. And the laborious hours I've spent reading have undoubtedly paid off. I have never been as fond of books as most people believe, or at least those who buy me gifts at Yuletide appear to be suffering from that mass delusion. Although I do not much care for reading, this time I can honestly say devouring everything I could find on Severus' ailment has come in handy.

Despite his type technically being "undifferentiated," in terms of treatment, for all intents and purposes Severus suffers from both the paranoid and catatonic types of schizophrenia, because the individual types are not mutually exclusive. Several volumes have mentioned that for paranoid schizophrenics, the delusions and auditory hallucinations often go hand in hand, forming a centralised theme.

Even so, I cannot bring myself to enquire about his delusions in so many words. It seems in very bad taste to ask, "What impossible beliefs do you hold, m'boy?" Nevertheless, I would wager that I am onto something here, although I cannot put my finger on precisely what. My mind chews away at the problem even as I work to formulate what I consider a suitably diplomatic phrasing for my next question.

"Now, why would Salazar Slytherin choose to single you out, Severus? There are many outstanding members of Slytherin House whom he might wish to address, don't you think?"

"Because I'm his heir," he states simply with a casual shrug, as if the answer should have been obvious to someone of my age and experience.

I cannot suppress a grin at that. I know who the real Heir of Slytherin is, of course, but somehow I do not think telling the boy that Tom Riddle has beaten him to the punch would do any good at the moment. I certainly do not want to put him on the defensive, especially since the nebulous theme is now beginning to solidify in my mind.

Many students care not one whit to which House the Sorting Hat appropriates them. Others elevate the concept of House pride to something bordering on an unhealthy obsession. Of the two extremes, I would tend to place Severus closer to the latter. There is no doubt in my mind, therefore, that he has studied his House founder's history tirelessly, even if he himself may not embrace Slytherin's biases regarding the purity of blood. On the other hand, he has used the entirely unflattering term "Mudblood" in reference to Lily Evans on at least three occasions to my knowledge, when the boy I met as a first year hadn't a bigoted bone in his body. The rest seems to fit, as well. I wonder...

I lean forward and retrieve a toffee from the dish on my desk, and I pop the sweet into my mouth before again reclining in my chair. "How do you feel about Muggles, Severus?" I ask as conversationally as I can around the obstruction, resting my elbows on the arms of my chair and pressing my fingertips together.

The boy flinches at my query, however, as if I have just kicked him under the desk. "What do you mean, Headmaster?"

"I should have thought the question rather self-explanatory," I reply with a slight shrug and a tilt of my head.

"I ... I don't know, sir."

"Well, why don't you think about it?"

His gaze falls to my dish of sweets, and he shrugs as well.

"Whatever your feelings, Severus, I do not imagine that you will find them hidden in amongst my toffees."

He grimaces, even as a bright flush creeps into his cheeks. And I am more than a little ashamed of myself, to tell the truth. In spite of the constant reminders that I did not wish to pressure him, at the first hint of pureblood prejudice I allow my righteous indignation to take over more swiftly than Bartemius ever has and proceed to rake the boy over the coals. Alas, every one of us is a fanatic at heart. In the midst of chastising myself, I all but miss his whispered reply.

"What was that, m'boy?" I ask as gently as I can.

"I said I don't like Muggles," he mutters, still staring into the depths of the dish.

"I see. And do you know any Muggles, Severus?"

"Ah..." Black eyes meet mine for a fleeting instant before the boy leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "Apart from my father, you mean? No, sir."

"Then how do you know you don't like them?"

I force my eyebrows up in case he happens to look at me. Severus only shifts from side to side in his seat. I cannot be certain, of course, but he appears to be wringing his hands, as well.

"Some of them ... well, some of them ... aren't exactly nice, now are they?"

I nod, wearing a small grin. "That is very true, m'boy, but one could very well say the same thing about wizards. What have Muggles ever done to you?"

His head snaps up then, and he swallows audibly. After so many months, I can tell he is trying to avoid telling me something for fear that I will think he really is mad. And I suspect I already know what he is thinking. Considering the biases so prevalent in Slytherin House, I tell myself that unlike before, this could very well be a matter of life and death. We are in the middle of a war, after all, and I would hate to see him join Riddle's ranks because of nothing more than delusions caused by his disorder. He is at a critical juncture, and because of that, I quickly convince myself that I can no longer afford to be delicate. I shall not gamble with his future.

"Have they hurt you?" I press on. Of course I know Muggles could not possibly have hurt him if he hasn't met any, but that does not mean he cannot perceive Muggles as a threat to his safety.

"No, Headmaster," he whispers. "Not yet at least."

"Have you a reason to believe Muggles might hurt you in the future?" I ask then, again gently.

I can almost feel his inner struggle as he tries to decide how much to disclose with his response. "Not hurt, no ... but..." He sighs loudly and seems to deflate into the depths of the armchair across from me. "But I think they have been trying to control me."

And now it all makes perfect sense. One book in Madam Pomfrey's collection mentioned that in addition to believing others can hear their thoughts, paranoid schizophrenics often think extraterrestrial beings have the ability to control their minds. What Muggles with this condition would not know, however, is the presence of wizards in the world accounts for most if not all of the phenomena they ascribe to entities from outer space. As no case studies of wizarding schizophrenics are readily available for my perusal, I can only extrapolate the analogous situation. When the proverbial shoe is on the other foot, a wizard might attribute such actions to the most alien group of which he knows—namely, Muggles.

"How have Muggles been attempting to control you, Severus?" I ask, keeping my voice as even as possible.

"How should I know?" he snaps, his shoulders now working in a way that suggests he is twisting the folds of his robes in his agitation. "At least wizards have the decency to use a curse that's supposed to feel good," he adds in a churlish grumble.

Again I cannot keep a smile from growing briefly on my face, but I carefully remove it. "Fair enough," I concede, nodding. "But Professor Slughorn tells me that you are as good a scientist as any he has ever seen come through this school. I was merely wondering if you have formed a working hypothesis."

Severus looks up at me with narrowed eyes and blinks. How he manages to appear both surprised and suspicious at once amazes me to no end, but I daresay he had not expected to receive a compliment.

"I think it has something to do with electricity, Headmaster."

"How so, m'boy?" I ask, with an encouraging smile.

"Muggles have power lines that send electricity all over the country." He frowns and slumps back in his chair, running a finger over his lower lip. "Or perhaps they use radios or televisions. Supposedly their radio waves and television signals can travel many miles. Maybe that's how they do it."

He shrugs and again meets my gaze, as if asking my opinion on his theory. Well, I suppose I should have expected this. The boy is eager for approval, even for a Slytherin. Despite his ailment's having previously ravaged his logical thought processes, he has hit upon the most likely explanation ... at least under the circumstances. Alas, now I have to expose the fallacies in his reasoning, which will come as a blow, I am almost certain.

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

Everybody tells me that I'm back to normal, but I obviously don't understand what "normal" is because I've never felt more abnormal in my life. Oh, my marks are improving, no doubt. But I like to think there's more to me than just my teachers' quantitative assessment of my skills.

I no longer suffer from those troubling ellipses of thought, of course. I remember one time when I reached for a Dark Arts book on my beside table, and four hours elapsed before I managed to finally lay hold of the thing. That hasn't happened lately. Nor have I had any frightening visions, which is an improvement, as well. I suppose I should be grateful, shouldn't I? And yet I only feel wrong ... off, somehow.

When I finally left the hospital wing and moved back into my dormitory, Avery, Wilkes, Lestrange, and Rosier said they had been especially worried about me. And they've taken it upon themselves to act as something of a guard of honour; now they flank me nearly everywhere I go. Even Lestrange's girlfriend has got in on the act. Seeing as Bellatrix Black is both Head Girl and a duelling champion, people tend to give our motley little gang a wide berth. So some good has come of the situation, I suppose.

I imagine they think those Gryffindors had something to do with my "breakdown" originally, and so they are determined to keep Potter and company as far away from me as possible at all times. Not that I mind. One day that swollen head of Potter's is likely to explode, and I wouldn't want the resulting mess on my robes.

They rarely leave me alone long enough to take my potions these days. I hate hiding so much from my friends, but it's also mildly embarrassing. I'm sure they would have assumed such self-medicating was only a temporary thing. How can I possibly tell them that Madam Pomfrey said I'll have to take these potions for the remainder of my life? I don't want my closest friends to think I really am mad. They already seem to think I'm incapable of looking after myself.

In addition to protecting me, they've mentioned more than once how nice it is to have the "old" Snape back. I'll go with them to Hogsmeade now, and they all laugh when I say something they deem witty, but I don't see why they should want to associate with me. I feel so deadly dull. Though they apparently find my company amusing, so they must know what they're talking about. I'm the one whose sense of reality is impaired ... at least according to Professor Dumbledore. Then again, perhaps they only humour me so that I won't shrug off their security.

And today, as usual, they accompany me to the headmaster's office in tight formation, only breaking ranks long enough to scowl at anyone who dares so much as a sidelong glance in my direction. In the short walk from the Great Hall, Bella has already taken twenty points from Ravenclaw House for curious eyes lingering on me a fraction of a second too long. I can't say I mind that, either, as Ravenclaw has been catching us up in the tallies lately.

As much as I despise the subject, I'm glad that the headmaster offered to tutor me privately in Transfiguration. I hate to lie to my friends, and that is a much less awkward excuse when they ask why I have to see Professor Dumbledore so often. No, of course I'm not having any sort of counselling. I'm merely revising to prepare for my OWL.

Of course, last week the headmaster mentioned another type of lesson he wants to give me, and I am more than a little curious to find out what that might be.

I bid my friends farewell outside the gargoyle that guards the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office and climb the rotating staircase. My hand has scarcely contacted the wood for a second rap when the headmaster opens wide the door, smiling broadly, as always.

"Good afternoon, m'boy," he says cheerfully, clapping a hand to my shoulder in greeting. "How are you?"

"Fine, Professor," I lie with a smile. I don't feel fine at all, but neither do I want the headmaster to think I need any more coddling. "Very well, in fact."

"Good, good. I have something I need to attend to momentarily, but I shan't be long." He gestures toward the chair in front of his desk.

After I take a seat, Professor Dumbledore closes the door behind him. Shortly I hear his footsteps retreating down the stairs, and then I notice white light dancing on the wall behind his desk. He's left his Pensieve out again. The last time I saw that stone basin, the sight was the prelude to a terrifying vision. Now I know logically that incident was merely a hallucination, and such a thing shouldn't happen again whilst I'm taking my potions ... but how can I be sure?

Once I've made certain the portraits aren't watching me, I rise from my chair and walk around the desk. The Pensieve looks harmless now, as though it would never attack anyone, but it's also the most fascinating object I've ever seen. The white-silver vapours remind me of things I saw repeatedly in some of my hallucinations, and there's a face floating there on the silvery surface: a pale boy who looks to be about my age, with dark hair and eyes and a large nose. I wonder who he could be...

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

When I return my office, Severus is not as I left him. No longer is he seated in front of the desk as he normally is for our sessions. This time, he is bent over the desk and stares into my Pensieve as if watching a scene from one of my memories. Although leaving the Pensieve out was somewhat careless of me, I do believe I drained the basin of all thoughts before I left. Therefore I can but wonder what within the silvery depths has caught his attention.

I step closer and place a hand on the boy's shoulder, intending to ask him just that, when he yelps and wheels about, a hand clutched to his chest. I certainly hadn't meant to frighten him, but neither had I expected him to be so absorbed in an empty Pensieve as to not notice my entrance.

"Forgive me, Severus. I did not mean to startle you."

He shrugs and attempts a smile that looks painfully forced.

"What were you looking at?" I ask, with a nod toward the basin.

Severus blinks and then opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if I have posed an immensely vexing question. "Your Pensieve, Professor."

I smile and nod. "I am aware of that, m'boy. What I meant, however, was what were you observing inside my Pensieve."

Again he appears troubled by my query. His forehead contracts into a frown, and at last he mumbles, "Silver ... and a face."

Now I must confess that I am a touch confounded myself. The silver makes perfect sense, but that Severus would refer to his likeness as "a face" rather than "my face" seems a little out of the ordinary. Not to mention the fascination with his own reflection, which is not exactly the norm, either. I have read, of course, that schizophrenics often have trouble recognising themselves in photographs or in mirrors, but I had not quite imagined that would translate to Pensieves, as well. Now I think on it, however, this makes perfect sense, too. I will admit that I was at first sceptical of such a notion, so perhaps this is something one must witness for oneself before belief can be bothered to take up residence in one's head.

"Surely you were looking at your face, were you not?"

He blinks again. "Is that me?" he asks with complete innocence, gazing into the basin once more. I can tell he means it, too: he honestly did not know, despite the fact that the image looking up at him is a perfect likeness. The boy then touches his face in various places as he continues his inspection of the silver surface. Finally he straightens and smiles. "It is me. How did I get in there?"

I thought the potions would eliminate all of Severus' symptoms. Alas, not so. Or this peculiarity may not be a psychotic effect of his malfunctioning neurotransmitters, but rather another consequence of the structure of his brain. Although I am at a loss as to how to respond to his question, I can but feel a sense of satisfaction as yet another piece of the puzzle has snapped firmly into place. I always found Severus' lack of concern about his grooming mildly unsettling, but previously I had put this down to nothing more than a deficiency of amour propre. On the other hand, were I not able to recognise my own reflection, I cannot say I would take so much care with my appearance. Instead of attempting an appropriate reply to the boy's question, I once again rely on my slightly potty reputation and promptly change the subject.

"Now, m'boy—before we get started today, is there is anything you would like to tell me?"

"No, sir," Severus answers, smiling again, even if the expression still looks a touch forced. "Everything is fine. I think ... ah ... I think I'm doing quite all right."

"Very well, then," I answer at last, nodding slowly.

I then put my Pensieve away on a shelf and retrieve a tapestry for the boy to Transfigure. His tutoring has been going exceptionally well, so today I have planned something particularly challenging. If he accomplishes this little task as well as I imagine, then I shall pronounce him more than prepared for his OWL, and we will move on to Occlumency. I unfurl a reproduction of the Lady and the Unicorn tapestry depicting the sense of hearing and lay the thing across my desk. Fitting, I think, considering auditory hallucinations were among the first Severus experienced.

The boy simply stares at the intricate picture for a long moment. "What do you want me to do with that, sir?" he asks with some little trepidation sounding in his voice.

"Whatever you like, m'boy," I answer, smiling in such a way as to hopefully convey that I have every confidence in his abilities. "I only ask that when you are done, nothing remains in its original state."

He takes a deep breath, pulls his wand, and exhales slowly. "I shall do my best, Professor."

"That is all I ask, Severus," I answer, patting his shoulder. "Your best is all I shall ever require of you."

Severus points his wand at the tapestry, and his eyes glaze over. He is unfocusing them, to better concentrate on the mental image of what he would like the tapestry to become, just as I have taught him. Then, slowly, the material begins to shimmer as the transformation commences. Whilst I watch, yellows turn to gold, whites to silver, oranges to copper, blues to sapphires, reds to rubies, greens to emeralds, and browns to topaz. After a moment, nothing remains that was once cloth, precious stones and metals having taken their place, which makes the jewel-encrusted "tapestry" lie stiffly on my desk. I am more than a little impressed: not only at his progress, but also his discriminating taste. If one only judged from the boy's wardrobe, one would never know he had such an eye for beauty.

I beam at him, clapping softly. "Oh, well done, m'boy! Well done!"

Severus smiles again, this time genuinely. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"Now, I need to look for something, so that will give you a moment to change it back."

I turn and search my bookshelves for that book on Occlumency I meant to locate earlier and would have, if not for that pressing owl from the Minister of Magic. Once I return, again I have a tapestry on my desk, and I also have a pupil who looks immensely pleased with himself. When I hand over the book, Severus starts to put his wand away to better examine the volume. Before he has the chance, however, I grasp the tip and look at him very seriously over the top of my spectacles.

"Severus, I want you to swear to me that, if you ever even think of suicide, you will come and talk to me first."

The black eyes go wide and then blink a few times before narrowing as he frowns. "Why would you think I'd want to kill myself, Professor?"

I smile and place my other hand on his shoulder. "I don't, my boy, but I do care about you. And Madam Pomfrey tells me that suicide is unfortunately all too common amongst young men with your condition." I take a deep breath and exhale in a sigh. "I worry about you, Severus. Call me an old fool if you like, but I do. So please ... promise me you will come and see me before you do anything rash."

After a moment, he smiles softly. "Certainly, Headmaster. I promise."

"Thank you, Severus," I say, and I cannot help grinning as I give his wand an affectionate little shake before I release the tip.

Of course, he probably does not realise the significance of the oath he has just made, or rather the fact that I was holding onto his wand as he did so. This vow is not Unbreakable in the usual sense, as that would rather defeat the purpose. Should he contemplate suicide and then fail to come see me, he would still end up dead, which is exactly what I am trying to prevent. Instead I have employed an ancient magic that will ensure the wizard in him will keep his oath, even if he is in no fit mental state to consciously comply. At times like these, I understand all too well why the Sorting Hat considered putting me in Slytherin, yet I do sincerely believe the end justifies the means in this case.

"I think that should be all for today, m'boy, but I want you to read that book before our next session."

He nods, now putting his wand away, and then examines the book's title more closely. "What is Occlumency, Headmaster?"

"Occlumency is an obscure branch of magic concerned with protecting the mind from external penetra—"

"But I thought you said Muggles weren't controlling my mind, sir?"

I frown slightly, as I had not imagined he would get that impression. That assumption follows quite naturally from the general definition of Occlumency, I suppose, and such a conclusion shows his mind is as sharp as it ever was prior to developing symptoms. Of course, I had not meant to inadvertently confuse him by bringing to mind one of the delusions he has put so much work into giving up.

"Sorry, Professor," Severus mutters, apparently taking my frown as a reproach for the interruption.

"Oh no, Severus," I soothe, smiling again so that he will hopefully relax. "Muggles are not controlling your mind. But I have discovered throughout the course of your treatment that you happen to be something of a natural Occlumens."

He blinks again. "But how, Headmaster? How can I be proficient in a form of magic I've never heard of before today?"

"Well, m'boy, I can only give you my suspicions. You see, because of your condition, the structure of your brain differs from that of most people's. Even when you are taking your potions, which manage the symptoms, the structural differences remain. It is my belief that the altered structure of your brain accounts for your predisposition toward Occlumency.

"The other aspect of the discipline, however, is the one that especially interests me where your condition is concerned. Most people who attempt Occlumency have to approach protecting their minds by learning to deactivate certain memories and emotions. If you can learn to do that as well, you should be able to lessen any negative emotions that vex you and might threaten a relapse."

And he blinks yet again. Our little talks seem to make him do that a great deal. "All right, Professor. If you say so."

"I do," I say, grinning broadly. "Now, read that book, and we shall talk more about this next week."

He nods, already starting toward the door, but he stops with his hand on the knob. "Should I bring this back if I finish before our next appointment?"

"Oh no, m'boy, you may keep it," I answer with a dismissive wave and a shake of my head. "I have seven copies of that particular book."