Though This Be Madness

Polonius: Do you know me, my lord?
Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.
Polonius: Not I, my lord.
Hamlet: Then I would you were so honest a man.
Polonius: Honest, my lord?
Hamlet: Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man / pick'd out of ten thousand. — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part VI: Dissension

Outside Professor Dumbledore's office, I open the book he gave me—Closing the Consciousness: A Beginner's Guide to Occlumency by Thalamus Forne-Hicks. After skimming only the first few paragraphs, I snap the thing shut again with a snarl. I couldn't empty my mind of all emotions right now if my life depended on it, even if I knew how to do so. Must I consistently make myself look a fool in front of the headmaster?

I've always had a problem with mirrors, but I quickly learnt to adapt. I attract enough unwanted attention through the simple act of breathing. So now I avoid mirrors completely. I never imagined a Pensieve would function in the same way when not playing a memory. And so once again I look like an idiot.

Will this never end? Why am I taking these blasted potions if they don't suppress all my symptoms? Should I see my face in all sorts of inanimate objects?

"I suppose you must look like me, as well?" I snap at the gargoyle at the foot of the stairs.

Thankfully, it doesn't reply.

Back in my room, I toss the book on the bedside table and flop onto my bed in a sulk. This is not getting any easier. If anything, it's getting worse. New symptoms seem to lurk in crawlspaces and around every corner, all simply waiting to leap out and frighten or embarrass me at the most inconvenient time. And old symptoms, whilst not completely gone, morph and hide just as well, making me feel as though I'm forever jumping from foot to foot on hot coals.

Seeing as sulking never got anyone anything, after a bit I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, then sit up, light a candle, and once again open the book. Almost immediately I am entranced. The theory behind Occlumency is fascinating, even if it isn't strictly applicable to my situation. The mind is like the ocean, this book says. Water is emotion, the fundamental unit of thought. When the water moves in a concerted manner—waves, tides, eddies, etc.—thoughts are the result. Stronger emotions are like warmer water: less dense and able to move more rapidly. Annoyance could therefore be likened to causing a whirlpool, whereas hatred might produce a tidal wave.

Knowledge, on the other hand, would be represented by the creatures that live in the ocean. Some bits of knowledge seem insignificant, such as the third letter of my given name is a V. These relatively inconsequential facts are analogous to tiny one-celled creatures that are moved about by the tides but are still dependent on the water for their survival. Though minuscule, their influence on the ocean is nevertheless not negligible. Millions of these creatures live there, after all, and they collectively affect the water's composition in a profound way. Were all those seemingly insignificant creatures to suddenly die, the ocean would be irreparably damaged. The same could be said of facts that appear unimportant at first glance. In their absence, entire thought processes would stall indefinitely.

Other things one has learnt are much larger in importance, such as every Dark Arts book I've ever read. These are like whales. Every swipe of a whale's tail displaces many gallons of water and influences the motion of the water in a noticeably direct way. But the relative importance of certain facts is very much dependent on the individual person. Facts that carry great weight in my mind may be trivial knowledge to someone else, so one man's whale is another man's krill.

Repetition of thoughts in patterns cause memories, much as low tide predictably follows high tide, or the North Atlantic Current always flows in the same general direction. Memories are made up of both knowledge and emotions—not exclusively one or the other—but not all of our memories are constantly present at the forefront of our minds. Like the currents in the ocean, memories are forever in motion, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling. Some stay with us constantly, just below the surface, because we want them to. Others drift away the very instant we sit for an exam. Still others hide in the back of our minds, all but forgotten, until they pop up one day to unexpectedly say hello.

This last phenomenon is the most crucial in terms of Occlumency. Not the memories themselves, but the mechanism that hides them away in the depths. When an event is fresh in the mind, the emotions connected to that event are the strongest, and the memory of the event therefore glides just below the surface, easily accessible to both the thinker and to anybody who would penetrate his mind.

With time and distance from the occurrence of an event, however, the emotions surrounding the memory become less intense. Thus the waters "cool," slowing down, and the memory sinks further and further into the depths. The memory still exists, but it is buried away near the mind's ocean floor—inaccessible, or nearly so. The person still has knowledge that the event occurred, just as the animals are not sucked down along with the undertow. But the memory depends on both the knowledge and the emotions to show itself in our conscious thoughts. Without the strength of associated emotions to give it buoyancy, the memory sinks to the bottom of the ocean and is only called to the forefront when something else—something apart from the associated emotions—brings it to mind.

So still waters do indeed run deep.

And this is apparently how Occlumency works. Yet instead of using time and distance to cool the emotions surrounding memories, one uses conscious relaxation techniques, of which the book includes two classes: physical and mental. The physical techniques involve concentrating on deep, rhythmic breathing whilst contracting and then relaxing all the muscles in a certain order. This makes sense, because how can one calm the mind if the body is agitated? I attempt the physical techniques first, and clearly I am successful. The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back, fully clothed, with the book lying open on my chest. The sunlight streams in through the curtains around my bed, since I forgot to close them before I drifted off last night.

The room is utterly still and deserted. I suppose everyone has gone to watch the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. I feel no need to witness this massacre myself. I know exactly how things will turn out. If Ravenclaw happens to win, they'll take the House Cup away from Slytherin. Should Gryffindor win, Ravenclaw won't have enough points to overtake us. The Gryffindor team is much stronger, so they ought to win in a fair match. My Housemates seem to think Potter will tell the Gryffindor team to throw the match in order to allow Ravenclaw to win the House Cup instead of Slytherin. But I know Potter. Quidditch is his life. He'd rather die than lose a match. That Cup is as good as ours.

Since I've no concerns about securing the House Cup, I sit up again and place Closing the Consciousness on the bed in front of my crossed legs. The first step of the mental relaxation techniques, the book says, is to concentrate on a happy memory—not unlike summoning a Patronus. This is to calm and centre the mind, as pleasant memories and feelings are easier to manipulate than not-so-pleasant ones.

So I think of Ophelia. Not blue-lipped with her head lolling eerily as in my last memory of her, but earlier—when she was first learning to say my name. "Sevwus" was as close as she ever got, but the way her eyes lit up when she called to me is by far the happiest memory I possess. After I'm feeling suitably calm and centred, I move on to the second step, which is clearing the mind of all emotions.

Now I have nowhere near as much success. This appears to be similar to what happens when somebody tells you, "Try not to think of purple Erumpents." Once the suggestion is planted in your mind, all you can think of is purple Erumpents. I am either frustrated at not being able to clear my mind, or I manage to clear my mind for a few seconds, only to find myself feeling an inordinate amount of pride at having done so. And pride, of course, is another emotion.

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

The selection of prefects is a complicated process involving the consideration of many factors. Not the least among these is a student's academic performance. If a pupil were already struggling prior to fifth year, then saddling that pupil with additional responsibilities would be inadvisable. Once a student has passed the academic qualifications, other factors taken into account include leadership skills and disciplinary record. The Head of each House makes a short list of candidates, and from that list I select the next year's prefects.

When it comes to choosing a Head Boy or Head Girl, however, I am allowed a bit more discretion. They usually come from the pool of seventh year prefects, and the reason for that is obvious. Those who have been prefects for two years prior certainly understand what is expected of them. Nothing in Hogwarts bylaws explicitly states that the Head Boy and Girl must have been prefects previously, and therefore, the occassional captain of a House Quidditch team manages to slip through. And this year I have once again decided to buck convention and choose an odd man out for Head Boy.

I am sad to say that although he was immensely well suited to being a prefect in view of both his leadership qualities and disciplinary record, Severus' academic performance left a great deal to be desired. As I now know, that was hardly the boy's own fault, as demonstrated by the "Exceeds Expectations" that he recently earned for his Transfiguration OWL. Nevertheless, I daresay the added stress involved with being a prefect would not have been good for his condition, so that Professor Slughorn failed to nominate him is probably just as well.

His Transfiguration OWL is hardly the only reason I have to be proud of the boy. I made arrangements for Severus to stay at Hogwarts this summer so that we could continue his lessons as well as his counselling, and I am glad that I did. He has been doing exceedingly well with both. We have identified one feature of his visual hallucinations that should help him to recognise them more easily in the future: the colour silver seems to figure prominently in his visions. So down the road should he experience something frightening, he will know that the appearance of anything silver makes the apparition suspect. This is definite progress.

In addition, the boy appears more calm and serene with each passing day. His posture has also improved, straightening the rounded shoulders I was concerned to see in one so young, and with the improvement in his carriage, most of the twitchiness in his walk has disappeared. Even with his newly sallow complexion (the bright orange potion in his regimen evidently stains the skin as well as the teeth with continued usage), to my mind Severus has never looked better. He appears much more confident and happier overall—so much so that part of me wishes this summer did not have to end. Most of all I am pleased to see he has had so much success with learning the relaxation techniques, although I must confess a great deal of the delight is selfish on my part. I dread his reaction when I have to tell him that I have chosen James Potter to be Head Boy.

I look on all my students as if they were my own children. Well, "grandchildren" is probably more apt these days. Each is unique, with his own talents and quirks, and I love them all equally. This somewhat paternal perspective is also why I realise my pupils will fight amongst themselves. They cannot get on well all the time. To think otherwise would be hopelessly idealistic. For all my championing of seemingly hopeless causes, even I am not that naive.

I suppose I am naive, however, in that whenever I am forced to choose one over another, I always hope the one who is not chosen will see that I do not care any less about him. Alas, that is seldom the case, but it does not stop my wishing it so—just this once. And once again, I find myself daring to hope that Severus will see that it is all for the best. At the very least, I may be able to diffuse his considerable anger before the next term begins.

Then again, perhaps I am just an old fool, after all.

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

Spending the past summer at Hogwarts has been very relaxing, though many would probably only bemoan the school's lonely state. The castle does seem to be holding its breath, awaiting the next influx of students. But I couldn't be happier to wander the cool corridors unmolested, or walk in the grounds and for once attract no one's attention, apart from the giant squid. This is surely my idyll. Or at least it would be, if I felt like myself. Hard to tell against the backdrop of grey as far as the eye can see, but my personality seems all muted, washed-out colours now, rather than the vivid hues I once knew. I feel an overcast shadow of what I was—dusk to everyone else's midday.

Before he left for the holidays, Professor Slughorn told me I could have a free rein over the student Potions stores and even certain of his private ingredients, along with access to a battered copy of Moste Potente Potions. Of course, this was on the condition that I kept a detailed list of what I've used so that he may order replacements upon his return next week. But I don't mind that. I've done many an inventory for him previously, and I shall undoubtedly do so again. Being able to brew at one's leisure is a blessing, and a tedious cataloguing of the things I've consumed is a small price to pay.

My latest concoction needs to simmer for two hours and six minutes before I may move on to the next phase. Therefore I adjust the flame under my cauldron to the lowest setting before I leave for my appointment with Professor Dumbledore. The headmaster gave me a permanent password so that I might gain access to his chambers at any time of the day or night during the summer, in case of an emergency. At first I wasn't familiar with the term, so I looked it up in the Muggle Medicine section of the library. Since the school is all but deserted now, I thankfully didn't have to worry about any of my friends looking over my shoulder.

I imagine this password is Professor Dumbledore's idea of a joke, but I must confess that I don't find it all that amusing.

"Thorazine," I mutter.

The gargoyle guarding the entrance immediately steps aside, and I hope I'm only imagining the smirk on the stone lips. The headmaster opens the door mere seconds after I've knocked and ushers me into a chair. Once he's seated himself on the front of his desk, I notice his odd smile. I've seen that expression before: his mouth may be grinning, but his eyes show concern. I frown as I realise that he has bad news.

"How have your experiments been progressing?" he asks conversationally, clasping his gnarled hands in his lap. Despite his query, he doesn't sound the least bit interested in my brewing, and I cannot help wondering what is going on.

"Fine," I say, trying to repress a sigh, as I've no wish to sound as impatient as I feel. But if he does have bad news to deliver, I do wish he'd get on with it.

Professor Dumbledore nods and takes a deep breath. "As you will soon learn once the new term commences anyway, Severus, I wanted to tell you first: I've decided to make James Potter Head Boy."

I blink. He cannot have just said what I think he's just said. "Excuse me?"

"I have decided to make James Potter Head Boy."

"Why?"

He looks away. "A number of reasons. One is he has excellent marks. Another is many of the students look up to him."

I snort and roll my eyes.

"And lastly, James did save your life, Severus." Now he finally meets my gaze, those blue eyes piercing into my very soul. "Seeing as he is not overly fond of you, I think that action says a great deal about his character. It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. Surely you see that his decision to save your life made James the best candidate?"

I gape for a long moment, unable—or at least unwilling—to process this. When I finally find my voice, the words spill out in an uncontrollable, envenomed hiss.

"Potter was saving Lupin, Black, and himself, not me. But being in on that joke in the first place certainly speaks volumes with regards to his character."

"James did not know what Sirius had plan—"

"Of course that's what he would have told you, Professor! Anything to avoid being expelled."

I notice my hands are beginning to ache because of how hard I'm gripping the chair's arms. The world feels as though it's spinning too fast, and if I let go, I might be in danger of falling off.

"I am certain he was telling the truth, Severus."

"Truth is the exclusive realm of Gryffindors now, is it?"

"I did not say that, nor will you ever hear me say it." His voice is quiet, but amazingly I still hear him loud and clear.

"I thought you were on my side!" I shout before I can help myself, jumping to my feet and knocking the chair to the floor in the process.

His blasted calmness infuriates me more than anything else. The room still rings from my outburst and the sound of the chair's crashing down when Professor Dumbledore straightens and takes a deep breath. He looks very tired suddenly, and older than I've ever seen him.

"I am, Severus," he pronounces slowly, as if he doesn't want me to miss a single syllable. "I fully believe your account of what happened that night—"

"And so you've made Potter Head Boy—"

"—but I also believe James' story, which only contradicts yours on certain subjective points."

"—when he and his friends tried to kill me?"

"Severus, calm down! This is not good for your condition. You need to—"

"Clear my mind of all emotion. Yes Headmaster, I know all this rubbish is supposed to help me, but it's not helping!" Before I'm even aware of having moved, I've levelled my wand at him.

"You don't want to do that, Severus," he says, still quietly, but the old face is lined with the first real reaction I've seen so far, and his blue eyes flash fire. "I know you do not honestly wish to curse me."

The air between us suddenly crackles to life, and I can tell he's trying to will me to calm down. But I want to own this anger, every molten drop now surging through my veins. The fine hairs on my neck rise, thousands of tiny snakes all wanting to strike him, to wound him as he has wounded me. Every fibre of my being trembles, except my perfectly steady wand arm. And then a terrible, invisible weight settles on my wrist, as blue-flame eyes attempt to melt the obsidian of mine.

I fight to keep my wand aloft, when it hits me with the full force of a Stunner to the chest: Dumbledore, the champion of those wretched electricity-mongers, is trying to control me, but that hardly began with his forcing my wand down just now.

He's told me the Muggles aren't trying to get inside my head. Radio waves and television signals don't work that way, he said, but I know better. I see what he's trying to do. I'm a threat to his cause, and so he's trying to quell me by numbing my mind and my senses. Indeed I think that's why he wanted to keep me here this summer, right under his crooked nose. He couldn't risk my taking a jaunt outside the castle, where I might once again begin to think for myself.

I can see through you, old man, and I won't allow you to deliver me to my enemies like some placid lamb to the slaughter. I may have been your ward for a time, but you do not own me, and I shall not allow you to control me. With your pablum of potions and your "counselling," you've tried to convince me that I'm mad, that the Muggles don't want me dead. I may threaten their comfortable, ordered little world by my very existence, but I am not mad. Genius is often mistaken for insanity. And I am the One. I shall not let you keep me safely quiet, complacent, and out of your way whilst they run roughshod over the wizarding world. Not you or anyone else can keep me from my destiny. Through me, Slytherin shall prevail.

I do not yet possess enough power to battle him directly, though Slytherin has finally been kind enough to show me the truth. And he will undoubtedly show me how to defeat this old fool in the end. Perhaps Dumbledore cannot get inside my mind without considerable effort, or perhaps he was merely lying before. Either way, I am a true Occlumens now, and he shall never invade my thoughts again.

I take a deep breath and easily clear my mind of all emotion, putting my wand away with a nonchalant shrug. "No, of course not, Headmaster. I merely got carried away. I'm sorry." Then I force an apologetic smile.

Dumbledore shakes his head and grasps my upper arm, his own benign grin firmly back in place. "Quite understandable, m'boy. I imagined you would take the news badly, but I had hoped—rather foolishly, it seems—that it would not distress you unduly. An old man's mistake."

His eyes turn a bit sad at the last bit, but I'm certain it is all an act. Well, two can play at that game. Oh yes, I can play your games for another year—merely one short year. I can act the part of the perfect student, taking my potions dutifully, like a good little boy. In fact, I think you'll be surprised at just how very good I can be.

In the months that follow, I am every bit as good as my silent vow. I take my potions, go to my lessons, do my homework, prepare for my NEWTs, and never cause a single problem. I even control the considerable urge to talk back to my teachers, and I watch Potter and Evans' ridiculous mating dance unfold with all the quiescence my ever-growing skill at Occlumency can provide.

But most of all, I bide my time.

My counselling sessions continue without interruption. I couldn't avoid them without arousing the headmaster's suspicions, so week after week, regular as clockwork, I sit through his meddling attempts to manipulate the course of my life. All the while I bleat my meaningless answers to this aspirant shepherd's pointless questions and feign progress. I can no longer stand to look upon that old man's faithless features, but I hide my disgust as well as I am able—which is to say, exceptionally well.

One thing for which I will always be grateful to Professor Dumbledore, of course, is teaching me about Occlumency. When he first suggested that I learn this obscure branch of magic to help with my imaginary "condition," I don't think he realised what a formidable weapon he was handing me. Another old man's mistake, but a much more vital one.

If I have had any real counselling this past year, it has come from Lucius Malfoy during Hogsmeade weekends. Since he and Narcissa Black announced their engagement, he visits the village regularly, and I must admit to being glad of the company, as many of my friends have since moved on. Avery and Wilkes left after the end of sixth year, deciding that attempting NEWTs wasn't worth their time—especially since each of them already has a job in his father's firm. Bellatrix Black left then, as well, though she also comes back to visit Lestrange. I believe they will be announcing their engagement any day now, as well, though the fact that they would be getting married has been well known to everyone in Slytherin House for at least a year.

Why Malfoy wished to talk to me nearly as much as his own fiancée puzzled me at first, I must admit. He barely noticed me when I was a first and second year, but things change. And his reason became clear soon enough. Apparently he hates the headmaster every bit as much as I do. He's listened patiently to all my ranting, though I've conveniently refrained from saying anything that borders on a mention of mental illness. Thankfully I have more than enough material without having to call my stability into question.

If I am indeed unstable, that is. I don't think I am. I don't think I ever was. Amazing what a powerful man like Dumbledore can accomplish with a concerted effort involving his staff and a few choice potions. They fooled me for the better part of a year, not counting the time they imprisoned me in an attempt to break my will. If I was even in the hospital wing for just a year. I could have been there much longer. I may never know.

One thing I do know, however, is that my NEWTs are now less than two months away. After that, I shall be free of the suffocating walls of Dumbledore's stone prison forever. And with that happy thought, I clink my glass of Ogden's against Malfoy's and grin. I can endure anyone for two months. Of that I'm certain.