Just Another Day in Azkaban

Snape eyed his "pupil" and made sure to stay on the other side of the desk. Potter had been unpredictable before. But now...

Potter had destroyed Voldemort. But in the process, Potter had destroyed himself. Any sense of restraint; all his sanity.

The Daily Prophet - Snape had personally seen it - declared that Potter was taking a break "for recuperative purposes" but was "alive and well." Not one of the rag's articles had ever held the truth, and this one was no exception. Potter was not in some rest-home in a bed. He was locked away, mad, and completely in control.

And in Snape's cell, a.k.a. Potions class.

The Ministry, in all its Scrimgeour-inspired wisdom, had decided that the best thing to do with a public hero suffering from homicidal urges was to lock him up with those of a similar mind-set. It was also deemed necessary to lock Potter up with "helpers" (known in blunter circles as "victims") who would not be missed. They had explained it away to both Potter and the public as "necessary for health purposes," which was true in a way. But everyone in the prison knew the truth. Potter was their charge, overlord, and crazier than a queen in heat.

Why Snape was in Azkaban was a long, complicated political tale, of which he knew almost nothing. Snape knew was that he had a ten-year sentence, with the possibility of merely eight with good behavior. Which he translated as "Make sure Potter doesn't complain about you," and so counted on a good fifteen or so years in a cell.

What no one had counted on was Potter's insistence on being "normal". When he was informed that he would be kept in a facility "until he recovered," he had immediately demanded that he continue his classes. That was certainly easy enough. Dark Arts specialists abounded in the prisons, and someone could be found who had at least passed a N.E.W.T. in every subject that Potter demanded he be allowed to take. Even Divinations. It seemed that that class had been shared with the late, lamented, youngest Mr. Weasley and so was a joy not to be missed. Snape had at one point wondered if the rumors about Potter's tendency to insist that "Ron be given homework too" were accurate. Now, he didn't care.

He was leaving in a month.

But he was here now, with a workstation (a few, actually. Potter refused to be "singled out") and two bubbling, boiling cauldrons. And a desk. A very large, solid desk, that he made sure to keep between him and Potter after the incident last week. The Divinations teacher had tried to explain that "Ron isn't alive any more, dearie." The man's feet were shredded - it was doubtful whether he would ever be able to walk again.

As though his thoughts made it necessary, Snape looked up and saw Potter. Saw Potter's eyes. And his fear and anger and terror-hate-loathing burned up and through his defenses. Through anything that had ever been in Potter's way. Snape stiffened and tried to hide it, just as Potter straightened from his cauldron like a cat rising to pounce.

Potter just looked at him with those large green eyes, drowning all his thoughts in them. And even though Snape tried to keep the desk between them Potter somehow ended up right in front of it, right on top of it, backing Snape right into the corner that he had been sure was to his left instead of right behind him. Potter's voice rang eerily through the room. "You were afraid." Snape could barely manage a whimper. "You were afraid. But you tried to hide it." The eyes were swallowing him, covering his sight. Potter leaned close, towards Snape, balancing on the edge of the desk. So close that Snape saw nothing other than the bright green glow of poisons and Potter hissing into his mouth, "Don't lie to me." The eyes receded but not enough, not nearly enough, and Snape knew...he blocked it out.

Potter chuckled at the look of pure terror that Snape knew he presented. "That's right. Don't lie to me. Don't ever lie to me." The eyes receded until Snape could see some of Potter's face. But Potter was already dropping down, onto his knees, in front of Snape. "This won't hurt - you've been a good pet." And then Snape's robes were torn and his leggings were torn and there was no way that this wasn't going to hurt because it already did...

A guard drawn by the screaming peered in through the window. He noted that a Healer and a clean-up crew would be needed in 3B in an hour, and whistled on his way.

The screams continued to echo off the rafters.

Just another day in Azkaban.