Crucio

"I will teach you to kill, Potter..."

Snape's words rattled a bleak cacophony in Harry's brain as he turned to leave.

From where he was slumped in one of the sitting room chairs, Snape grunted in momentary pain as he shifted. Harry hesitated.

"Do you...need anything before I-"

"Don't ask me that again," Snape interrupted brusquely, his back to Harry.

Affronted, Harry frowned at him. "I was only trying to-"

"Help," Snape finished with a curled lip. "I know." He shifted again--this time in silence. "I don't want your help."

"Fine," Harry said tiredly. As he turned away, Snape grunted again. Harry paused, but didn't turn around again. With a sigh, he trudged up the long staircase, his clammy hand squeaking along the banister. Snape had already decided to use the sitting room as his sleeping space, and Harry had briefly debated staying in there with him again, but Snape seemed to be even grumpier than usual.

Not that there was that much difference actually.

He didn't really fancy staying upstairs alone, though not because he was scared. There were simply too many memories attached to this place. Harry had stayed carefully downstairs since he and Snape had arrived, and Harry realized that had been a very good decision as soon as he cleared the final step. The screeched insults assaulted his ears; Harry clapped his hands over his ears, but it didn't do any good. With his shoulder smushed up against the wall opposite Mrs. Black's portrait, Harry hurried quickly by, not even wanting to get close enough to yank the curtains closed.

At least Kreacher was nowhere to be found, though not even Snape had any idea where the little house elf might be. "I assume your godfather made you his heir," he had said soon after they'd arrived, his voice almost mocking in its unusually high timbre. "The elf must realize you are his new master." Harry had no idea if Sirius had made him his heir, but he was certain Snape's last comment had been an insult of some sort, though at the time, Harry had been too tired, and too distracted by thoughts of Sirius needing an heir to care very much.

Harry slowed his slightly breathless pace as he realized he was coming to a familiar door...Sirius' door. Clenching his teeth tightly together so that his lips would be still, he stopped completely, unable to continue past.

Feeling incredibly foolish and not caring in the least, Harry pressed his palm against the pitted wood. He let his forehead fall softly against his fingers. The door wasn't closed all the way; it squeaked as his forehead pushed it open. Harry slowly lifted his head, and he was staring at Sirius' bed; the covers were rumpled in a haphazard pile.

He could almost hear his godfather's voice.

Harry.

He closed his eyes as his mind traveled back to the beginning of his summer stay here. He'd been so happy to see Sirius. With his hair cut shorter than Harry had yet to see it, Sirius had grinned at him, and Harry had launched himself without thought into his godfather's arms. He hadn't wanted to let go.

Harry's feet moved of their own accord, taking him to Sirius' bed, until he was sinking into the soft mattress. His fingers wound in the bunched and faded coverlet and idly tugged until it was wrapped around his shoulders. He needed to be in here--where Sirius had been only days before.

He could feel his presence here.

With a wavering sigh, Harry rolled onto his side, and with the covers still pulled firmly around his body, he curled himself into a ball.

Kreacher, where is he?

It was Sirius' voice, but it had been Snape who had called for the elf as soon as they'd arrived. Snape had wanted the elf to make their tea, but of course, Kreacher had been nowhere to be found, and Harry had made the tea for both of them. Harry's memories were obviously playing tricks on him...

Because your master is demanding you tell me where he is.

Harry squeezed his eyes tightly together as he tried to shut out Sirius' shadowed voice. He didn't want to be Kreacher's master now. Clutching the blankets up against his ears, Harry determinedly ignored the erroneous memories demanding his attention and forced his mind to concentrate on nothing, until he began to drift.

--

"Pay attention, Potter!"

Harry's head snapped around. Snape was glaring at him from where he was half-leaning against the mantle.

"I am," Harry said through clenched teeth, though he actually had no idea what Snape had been saying.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Repeat my last instructions," he demanded.

Harry blinked as he scrambled to force his memory to tell him what Snape had said. Nothing came to him. "All right," he finally snapped when he could no longer stand Snape's black eyes piercing his own. "I wasn't paying attention. Happy?"

"Happy, Potter?" Snape echoed incredulously. "Oh certainly," he drawled. "I am thrilled to be stuck here, attempting to train an ungrateful brat who cannot even do me the courtesy of paying attention when I speak!" The words were spat venomously across the room, but instead of cowing Harry, they irritated him.

"I'm paying attention now, so just get on with it," he said crossly.

Snape straightened a little from his slight slouch. "I will not tolerate your disrespect-"

"Yeah, I know," Harry interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You'll hex me or beat me or starve me half to death if I so much as look at you cross-eyed. We've been through this already, remember? I get it."

Snape's mouth had snapped shut half-way through Harry's diatribe, and Harry finally realized Snape was staring at him.

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the black gaze.

When Snape spoke again, his words were uncommonly stiff. "We will try the exercise again," he instructed. "This time, you will think about the Dark Lord. And only about him--a memory associated with fear will work best."

Expelling an exaggerated sigh, Harry nodded. The cemetery would work. He closed his eyes quickly, wanting to get away from the weight of Snape's gaze.

He forced his mind to go back to the cemetery. He could hear Voldemort's scratching voice. Kill the spare.

Harry gasped as the words stabbed him.

"Concentrate on the memory, Potter," Snape's harsh voice warned as Harry's eyes twitched toward opening. Harry clenched his teeth and forced himself to allow the memory to surface.

Cedric's unseeing eyes staring up at him.

His arm outstretched outward as Wormtail advanced on him--his back pressed against the stone pyre. A flash of pain--fear blossoming as Voldemort rose from the depths of the dark potion. He'd wanted to cry, wanted to give into his fear. He'd forced himself to think of other things. Of his friends...of Sirius...

Sirius' subtle grin flashed before Harry's vision. The cemetery spun and morphed until he was in Sirius' bedroom--last night with the blankets tugged tight around him, cocooning him--keeping him safe. Yes, a much more pleasant memory...

"Harry, what are you doing up here?"

Harry pulled the blanket slowly down from where it was shielding his vision. He blinked up at the fuzzy Sirius-shaped apparition. "What'd'yamean?" he asked muzzily, realizing belatedly that he had slurred the words.

The bed dipped with a tired groan. Harry shifted himself up on his elbows as the tight, sleepy sensation drained from his eyes. Sirius was shaking his head as he gazed down at him.

"I've been looking all over the house for you," he said, sounding exasperated--and relieved.

"Sorry," Harry said through a yawn. "I didn't realize I was so tired, I guess..." He looked around the room, and realized he was in Sirius' room. "Oh." He glanced back at his godfather. "I didn't really mean to come in here...I don't think."

Sirius' eyebrows puckered in confusion. He smiled a little. "You were so tired, you couldn't tell which room you were in?"

Harry shrugged sheepishly. "I'm still catching up on my sleep I guess." He hesitated. "You don't mind, do you?"

Sirius shook his fingers absently through Harry's fringe. "Of course not," he said quietly. "You're to consider this house as your own."

Harry sat up, drawing his knees up to his chest. He was afraid his voice would betray him so he simply smiled. Sirius patted his knee a few times. Both of them looked up in surprise as, in a flurry of mournful trilling, Fawkes appeared above their heads. Sirius' eyes' widened.

"Dumbledore," he whispered. Harry, his heart skittering, watched with confusion as a large scroll was released from Fawkes' curled claw. It fell directly into Harry's lap, and then as the notes of Fawkes' song deepened with telling grief, the beautiful bird disappeared again.

Both Harry and Sirius stared at the scroll in Harry's hands.

"Dumbledore's..." Harry couldn't finish, but Sirius was already nodding. His eyes were shining with tears. Harry could feel his throat beginning to burn as his fingers clenched around the scroll. Dumbledore...dead.

"Fawkes must have been-"

"Dammit, Potter!"

Harry blinked as he tried to figure out why Sirius was glaring at him. "What?" he asked stupidly. But it wasn't Sirius. It was Snape's scarred face that was thrust so close to his own. "What?" Harry demanded again, testily this time as he pulled back from Snape's furious gaze.

"You were distracted!" Snape growled.

Harry stepped back. "I wasn't. I was just..." He glanced toward the stairs and absently scratched above his ear as he tried to think of a plausible scenario. He didn't really want to explain that he'd been caught up in the memory of the dream he'd had last night, instead of thinking about Voldemort, as Snape had ordered him to do.

"You smile every time you think of the Dark Lord, then?"

"No," Harry snapped. His lips twisted as he turned back to face Snape. Snape was sneering at him, his arms crossed over his chest.

"If you intend to continue wasting my time-"

"I'm trying!" Harry said angrily. Snape lifted an eyebrow in clear challenge. "I am!" Harry insisted furiously. "I was thinking about the cemetery, when Wormtail cut me."

Snape looked momentarily confused. "And this makes you smile?" Harry ignored the curiosity in the question.

"Of course not," he retorted. "I was thinking about Sirius as well," he blurted before he could stop himself.

Snape stared at him.

"I didn't mean to," Harry said impatiently. Snape couldn't possibly understand.

"Black wasn't in the cemetery," Snape told him unnecessarily.

"Of course he wasn't," Harry said bitingly. He wondered if Snape was being so irritating on purpose. Harry shoved his bothersome fringe out of his face. "Never mind," he said through an agitated breath. "You wouldn't understand," he muttered.

"I have no doubt," Snape drawled. But then his eyes hardened. "You need to focus, Potter. Daydreaming about your godfather will not teach you anything," he said reprovingly. Harry glared at him.

"I wasn't daydreaming."

"You were smirking like a loon," Snape informed him coldly. "How did your memory of the graveyard turn into one of Black?"

"I wasn't-"

"Answer me, Potter," Snape snarled, closer now. Harry clenched his fists, about to tell Snape to go to hell. "Unless you want to practice evading my Legilimency Spell, you will answer me."

"You-"

"Now, Potter." Snape's voice was barely a whisper, and he was fingering his wand, almost lovingly, as he gazed at Harry. He raised the wand as high as his waist.

"I was thinking about a dream I had last night," Harry ground out.

Snape lowered his wand.

"A dream." Snape grimaced in agitated disgust. "I see there is still little in attempting to teach you anything."

Harry slashed his arms through the air. "I was trying," he said again. "I can't help it if I was thinking about Sirius. I-" He took a shaky breath. "-can't stop thinking about him," he said softly, and immediately hated himself for the admission.

"Then there is no reason to continue these exercises," Snape said dispassionately, as though he hadn't even heard Harry's pain. He turned slowly back toward the fireplace.

"Because I failed one time?" Harry demanded incredulously, thrashing through his fleeting feeling of vulnerability.

"You will continue to fail, Potter," Snape told him. "You've demonstrated your unwillingness to learn over and over again." Snape didn't even turn around to address him.

Harry stared at Snape's slightly hunched back. "This is why your attempts to teach me don't work," he said with a shake of his head. "You don't know how to teach."

Snape turned slowly around; the glowing sconces on the walls made his eyes glitter. "So, it was my fault you could not learn Occlumency, was it? And my fault now, that you cannot even manage to keep your thoughts on the Dark Lord for more than two minutes?"

Harry's fists were curling in agitation at Snape's scrutiny. "How am I supposed to stop thinking about Sirius?" he asked; his voice was more plaintive than demanding.

"I told you, Potter, your godfather is dead, and there is nothing to be gained from dwelling-"

"How am I supposed to just forget that he's dead?" Harry cried. His palms pressed into his stomach as he stared at Snape, without really seeing him. "I keep dreaming about him. Every time I close my eyes," Harry rasped out. "He's there in my head. And it's like he's really there. I can hear him sometimes, even when I know I can't. I was dreaming...I was sure I was, but he was sitting right next to me. I know it. And I heard him..."

"What the hell are you talking about, Potter?"

"I-" Harry abruptly stopped speaking. He squinted, confused by his own babbling. What was he talking about? "I...I could see it," he explained, wincing at the words as they emerged, but he didn't seem to be able to still his mouth.

"You could see what?" Snape demanded in exasperation.

"The mattress was indented, just like it always is when someone sits on it..."

A tense silence engulfed the space.

But Harry had no time to regret speaking.

Snape shook his head slowly. "You are delusional."

"I'm not!" Harry exploded, incensed beyond reason at the observation. He wasn't! "I saw it there and my fingers...he was holding my fingers the first time I dreamed about him. And you'd died but somehow he didn't even have your wand anymore, and Kreacher was here. I heard Sirius calling for him. And Fawkes came because Dumbledore died. It was different than a dream..."

Harry's face screwed up in a snarl as he realized Snape was staring at him as if he really had gone mad.

"But you don't even want to believe me, so of course you'll say I'm delusional. I bet you'd love that, wouldn't you? The great Harry Potter," he mocked, "as barmy as the papers claimed. And then you'd have an excuse for why you can't manage to do your job!"

"Still your tongue," Snape said quietly, his voice and eyes now filled with rage, but Harry barely heard him.

"You'll need some sort of excuse, won't you?" he spat. "So that Dumbledore won't be completely disappointed in you, since you've lost your other role as an arse-licking puppet-"

Fire ignited across Harry's cheek, ending his rant; the sharp crack of Snape's palm echoed through the room. Harry's fingers flew to his face. He winced as they made contact.

"Fuck," he breathed, stumbling back a bit.

Wild panic rose up through Harry's chest as his brain made sense of what had just happened.

He squashed the familiar fear that immediately churned through him. There was nothing to fear. Snape could only cause him pain; he wasn't afraid of pain. But his slick fingers clutched around his wand anyway. He stared at Snape, willing himself to ignore the hurt he wasn't willing to feel.

Hatred flared in his chest again. He would focus on that.

Hot tears stung Harry's eyes. He blinked ferociously, his cheek stinging and warm. He pulled his wand up, level to Snape's hateful face.

"Don't come near me again," he said shakily; he couldn't help the tremor in his voice. "I might not be able to kill you, but you won't like what I am willing to do to you." His voice sounded hollow.

Snape's features remained still as porcelain. He said nothing, not even to warn Harry not to threaten him.

As his wand began to tremble in his clenched fingers, Harry pivoted, almost losing his balance as he stumbled toward the stairs.

--

Snape sat slumped in one of the Black family's worn chairs. He was staring absently at the ceiling, the fingers of his right hand curling and uncurling slowly from where they were hanging off the arm of the chair. The lunch hour had come and gone as he sat there. And yet, his blistered palm still ached.

He had no idea what had done it--what had sent him over the edge.

In the past, he'd come close to hitting the horrible brat on several occasions, but Albus' blue eyes in the forefront of his mind had always stopped him. Except after Potter had entered his Pensieve. Potter had moved too swiftly for the jar to make contact, and Snape had been relieved once his anger had subsided.

The Headmaster would have had his head.

Potter's cheek would have ceased smarting nearly a half-hour ago, yet Severus' palm continued to burn, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. One of the tenderly healed blisters had broken open; it stung each time Severus' flexed his fingers. Jars of salve still remained in the cob-webbed cupboard; his blisters could be repaired in minutes.

Severus clenched and released his fist once more, staring at a frayed gash in the arm of his chair, shutting out the sound of a slamming door. The furious gleam that instantly flooded the green eyes...

Weakly, Severus snarled to himself.

Potter was nothing more than a child. A stupid, delusional child.