Rating:
15
House:
The Dark Arts
Characters:
Harry Potter Sirius Black Severus Snape
Genres:
Alternate Universe Mystery
Era:
The Harry Potter at Hogwarts Years
Spoilers:
Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Half-Blood Prince Deadly Hallows (Through Ch. 36)
Stats:
Published: 06/10/2008
Updated: 04/06/2009
Words: 80,060
Chapters: 25
Hits: 25,910

Crucio

NotEvenHere

Story Summary:
When Umbridge subjects Harry to the Cruciatus, Snape intervenes, veering not only his own life off its intended course, but Harry’s and Sirius’ as well, spawning tragedy and devastation in its wake. First story in the Unforgiveables trilogy. In response to the OOTP: Crucio Challenge by royalnavigator on Potions and Snitches. Rated for violence and character deaths.

Chapter 17 - Rushing Waters

Posted:
11/13/2008
Hits:
799


Harry stared at the spidered crack in Sirius' ceiling.

His eyes lazily traced the meandering dash, trying to will himself to fall sleep, even though he hadn't yet had lunch. But if he was sleeping, at least he wouldn't have to worry about anything else. Not about Voldemort, and not about Sirius.

Harry shifted on his hip, trying to ignore the tightness in his stomach. The dreams of Sirius had been more vivid than any others he'd experienced--they'd seemed even more real than the visions that Voldemort had once tormented him with. But they couldn't be visions. Sirius was dead.

And that meant Snape was right.

Delusional...

The word stung, almost as much as his cheek had. Harry reached a finger to poke lightly at the slightly warm skin; he winced.

Bastard.

Harry glowered up at the ceiling, letting his anger at Snape fester--it helped to fill the hollow ache in his chest. He had no choice but to put up with Snape, even the professor's maltreatment. At least until he'd learned enough to face Voldemort. Snape was no worse than the Dursleys had been; he could handle himself. He wasn't afraid of Snape. Not anymore.

Harry smiled as he realized that there had been no Cruciatus rearing up to swallow him when Snape had struck him. His moment of panic had been fleeting. There'd been nothing to be afraid of--just as Sirius had said.

Tears prickled Harry's eyes. He desperately wished Sirius could be here.

Harry turned his head so that he could stare at the photo on the bedside table. Sirius was laughing out at him, his arm slung across Harry's shoulder as they stood together...a good memory.

Harry's eyes grew heavy as he continued to gaze at the photo. He smiled lazily as he drifted...

--

Harry scrubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe the sleep from them as he fumbled with the covers; he wondered how long he'd been asleep. Finally managing to sweep the heavy covers off his legs, he pushed himself up from the soft mattress, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the gloomy darkness. Feeling for the edge of the bed again, Harry took a tentative step forward. His toe caught the edge of the rug, and he stumbled forward, clumsily whacking his knee against the wooden bed frame.

He swore sharply, biting his lip against the stabbing pain, as his fingers scrabbled against the bedclothes for purchase. He pushed himself up unsteadily.

"Harry?" Harry's head turned automatically at the croaky summons. "Illustrio Mugio," the low voice commanded, and a soft glow sprung up from the surrounding walls.

Squinting in the flickering lamplight, Sirius pushed himself up on his elbows. His brow puckered as he stared at his godson.

"Sorry," Harry said, glancing down as he rubbed quickly at his kneecap. "I didn't mean to wake you. I tripped," he explained. Sirius shook his head, brushing away the apology; he sat up.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice soft with concern.

Harry hesitated; his brain felt fuzzy.

"Bad dream?" Sirius asked with a sympathetic squint; his eyes strayed to Harry's scar. Harry's fingers unconsciously stretched toward it as he shook his head.

"Not really."

Sirius pulled on the coverlet still draped over one of his legs, straightening the blankets a bit. "You should have grabbed a torch to walk through the corridors," he said with a small smile. He patted the space next to him. "Want to talk about it?" he asked when Harry continued to stare at him in confusion. Sirius frowned. "What is it?"

"I wasn't..." Harry gestured vaguely toward the door. "...I mean, I was already in here..."

"You were?" Sirius asked, his eyebrows arching in surprise.

"I tripped getting out of the bed," he explained, suddenly feeling very embarrassed about obviously needing his godfather, though he couldn't remember coming in. "I..." Harry looked away, his cheeks beginning to feel very warm.

"Harry," Sirius said gently. Harry turned back to face his godfather. Sirius was smiling at him, the lines around his mouth relaxed. "It's all right," he assured Harry. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I didn't realize you'd come in earlier, that's all. You should have woken me up."

Harry bit his lip, feeling foolish, even with Sirius' reassurances. "I don't remember coming in here."

"You don't?"

Harry shook his head, feeling even more ridiculous. If he'd been sleepwalking...well, that just seemed worse somehow.

"Come sit," Sirius invited again softly, his tone deliberately steady. He tugged on the coverlet over the vacant space to smooth it out. "You're just a bit loopy from dreaming is all."

"No," Harry muttered to himself, shaking his head weakly, though he began shuffling forward. "I don't think that's it, Sirius."

He tucked his foot underneath him as he slowly sank down onto the bed, still pondering--he felt as though he were sitting in McGonagall's class, raising his hand one moment and suddenly forgetting what he was about to say the next--frustrated, knowing that the wisp of memory was still floating somewhere in the back of his brain.

"What's this?" Sirius spoke up. All of a sudden, his godfather's face--pinched with concern--was very close to Harry's own.

"What's what?"

"Your cheek," Sirius said with emphasis, gently palming the back of Harry's head to keep him from pulling away. "You've got a bruise, Harry..." Sirius glanced up at him worriedly. "How did that happen?"

Harry's hand automatically flew to his cheek; gingerly, he pressed the area, flexing his jaw against the dull ache in his skin. "I've got a bruise?" he asked, still probing.

"Yes," Sirius said. "A fresh one..." He dabbed his thumb along Harry's cheekbone. "Does that hurt?"

"No," Harry replied honestly. "Not there."

"Only here?"

Jerking slightly, Harry sucked in a sharp breath though his teeth.

Sirius winced. "Sorry...I must have pressed too hard."

"It's all right," Harry said quickly, as he'd jolted from surprise at the sudden twinge more than actual pain.

"Harry..." Sirius breathed questioningly, sitting cross-legged, still peering at his godson in dismay as he released Harry's head. "How in the world did you get that?"

The fuzzy feeling was back--the wisp of memory that Harry couldn't seem to capture.

"I'm not sure," he mumbled, still feathering his fingertips over the tender skin. "I think I hit it..."

"When?" Sirius pressed.

Harry shrugged, glancing over at his godfather. "When I fell..."

"Just a minute ago?"

"Yeah..." Harry gnawed a portion of his lip. "I think."

"On what?" Sirius asked him, frowning in perplexity.

"On the...erm," Harry began, wrinkling his brow, "the bedpost?"

"You're not sure?" Sirius queried, looking more worried than amused at Harry's absentmindedness. "You're certain you didn't hit your head?"

The haze of a memory flashed through Harry's mind like a fleeting nightmare. Someone's hand--a stiff hand--had collided with his cheek, hard enough to make his eyes water. He remembered waking up, lying next to his godfather, with wet eyelashes and a stinging ache at the back of his head.

Not once in Harry's life could he remember being slapped in the face--not even Vernon had possessed the gall to do it, though he threatened on a daily basis, it had seemed. Had he perhaps fallen before he'd lain down? Had smacking his cheek against a piece of furniture brought him to tears? Harry scratched at his forehead now, still thinking. No; he had never cried over something as silly as a fall--this instance wouldn't have been an exception.

The swinging hand floated to the surface of his memory once again--a broken sequence of pictures in slow motion. Even if his brain had spun a bizarre dream out of a fall, the pain of a palm cracking against his cheek was vivid--much too real. Everything after that was blurry...except the glowering disgust of Snape's thin face...

"Have you gone from me?" Sirius' voice sliced through Harry's thoughts.

Glancing up at his godfather, Harry blinked several times to anchor himself in reality. "I'm here," he said.

"You need to lie down..." Sirius applied pressure to both of Harry's shoulders, attempting to push him toward the diagonally-stacked pillows. "You don't look well."

"I think I had a dream, Sirius," Harry told him, leaning on the heels of his hands to keep himself upright. "About Snape..."

Sirius paused for a brief moment, his eyes flickering over Harry's face, before resuming his efforts. "It's very normal to dream about someone after he's died," his godfather murmured, "even if you weren't close to him--"

"No." Harry shook his head, resting on both elbows now. 'I didn't dream of him in bits--his body, I mean. He was alive."

"He was your teacher, Harry," Sirius reminded him. "And you stayed with him for a while until he came for me, remember. It's only natural for him to drift about in your dreams..."

Frustration tightened Harry's chest. He shook his head again, desperately, wishing he could explain how real Snape had been. "But it doesn't make sense."

"Most dreams don't."

"You don't understand-"

"Lie down," Sirius insisted. "You'll feel better if you do. You look exhausted."

Defeated, and feeling as if he hadn't gone to sleep at all, Harry's head squashed the pillow; he lifted a hand to his face, rubbing his fingers along his eyebrows.

His memory worked to connect the disjointed images--strands of black, lanky hair, more oily than usual...skin peeling around the edges of a set of pale fingertips...a chipped bowl full of lumpy gruel...flashes of unexplained of anger and hate so intense that the air felt choked from Harry' lungs...

A dark voice...I will teach you to kill...

A silly dream, just like Sirius had said. Because Dumbledore's letter had explained everything...he'd even relayed the Prophecy--the one that Voldemort had coveted. And he'd said that Sirius would help him do what he had to do.

You're not alone, Harry. You will be taught everything you need to know. I know you will be well cared for--never to be alone again. Those were Dumbledore's exact words. Sirius would get him through the task set before him.

Not Snape. Snape was dead.

There weren't really any angry words, no cold tea...

Warm fingers were stroking Harry's forehead now, tickling his hairline; his limbs sank into the mattress like weights. Harry sighed through his nose, fighting to keep his eyelids stretched open.

"It's very late. Everything will seem clearer in the morning," Sirius said softly, from somewhere above Harry's head. "I promise."

Harry allowed his eyes to slip closed. Of course, Sirius was right...

"You can tell me about it then..."

Breathing deeply in time to the soothing strokes along his scalp, Harry felt his whole body relax; minutes later, he drifted peacefully to sleep.

--

Before Harry's eyes had even opened fully, he gasped in a harsh breath. He twisted frantically toward the other side of the bed. A rush of grief assaulted him. "No..." he whispered in anguish.

Sirius wasn't here.

Another dream. It had been too real to be a dream. But that's all it was. Sirius hadn't been lying next to him, telling him that things would be all right...

Harry stared at the empty space beside him, his eyes fixed on the pillow--on the head-shaped dent right in the middle.

He stared until tiny spots danced in front of his eyes.

For a brief instant, Harry felt the draw of madness. He wanted to grab the pillow and tear its ends until feathers fluttered through the air as he tore it to a thousand pieces. But he wasn't mad. Not yet. His hand grazed over the second indent, his fingers dipping into the pillow's curve.

Something was very wrong.

His hand went to the back of his jeans. Harry swiveled his head around to peer in his pocket. His wand wasn't there, where he was certain he'd carefully tucked it after threatening to hex Snape. Something he still didn't regret.

Pushing aside thoughts of the professor, Harry pushed himself up off the coverlet. Funny--he was sure he'd fallen asleep under the blanket. He didn't have time to dwell on it, however. He needed to find his wand. Harry knelt down, wincing a little as his tender knee brushed against the floor, and swept his fingers under the bed. Nothing but a few balls of dust floated over his fingers. For good measure, Harry ducked his head down and peered around the floor.

Nothing.

With a sudden flash of anger, Harry realized that Snape must have taken it. The greasy bastard must have Accioed it while he'd been asleep! Furious, Harry clenched his fingers into fists and stalked out of the room. He realized there was very little he could do to defend himself against Snape without a wand. But that wasn't going to stop him from giving the git a piece of his mind.

Harry wrenched open Sirius' bedroom door.

He paused before he got far. The door across the hall was wide open. Harry's eyes narrowed as his fury mounted. Snape must have been upstairs. That door had been closed--it was Regulus' room, and Sirius had always kept it pointedly closed. Wanting even more to get his wand back, Harry marched across the narrow corridor and into Regulus' room.

As soon as he stepped inside, he grabbed the knob, intending to leave the door as Sirius had meant it to be. He abruptly halted. His mouth drooping in confusion, he stared at the bed. The covers were rumpled--as though someone had just gotten out of the bed.

Harry's eyes wandered to the table beside the bed. The hairs on the back of his neck crept to attention. Next to a roll of parchment and a dog-eared book lay Harry's wand.

Eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather--lying diagonally across the tabletop.

A loud pop sounded somewhere downstairs, and Harry spun around, his heart racing along his throat. He scooped his wand from the table, holding it out protectively in front of him. Harry curled quickly around the doorframe and into the darkened corridor.

"I was burned."

Snape's flat voice floated up from below. Harry narrowed his eyes, as he strained to hear a response.

"I didn't think I'd find anyone here. Is Harry still with you?"

Harry felt his shoulders dipping down as his heartbeat began to slow. That deep and accented voice could only belong to Shacklebolt. Harry stopped at the top of the stairs and carefully lowered himself to sit on the topmost step.

"He's upstairs," Snape's cold voice returned, before given him the abbreviated version of Dodgy's demise. He sounded even more icy than usual. There was a pause.

"Has Albus been in contact with you?" Shacklebolt sounded nervous, more than curious. Harry leaned forward, though he kept his wand in his fisted hand.

"Is he awake?" Snape's voice betrayed surprise--and something else. As if the professor was unsettled about something. "I have not spoken to him since before Harry fell ill."

There was a heavy sigh--from Shacklebolt, Harry assumed. "We have so far found no explanation for it," Shacklebolt said wearily, "but Albus, along with many others...they're missing."

As if an icy finger had trailed itself across Harry's nape, the tiny hairs crested upward once more.

"Missing?" Snape demanded sharply, his voice rising on the last syllable.

"And there seems to be no pattern to it. Witches and wizards have simply gone without a trace. Several key members of the ministry have disappeared as well."

"The Dark Lord-"

"There has been no hint of activities that could have been traced back to him," Shacklebolt interrupted. "There was a fire on Privet Drive, which marked the beginning of a round of vicious attacks on Muggleborns." Harry's breath caught in his throat upon hearing about the Dursleys' house on Privet Drive and the comment on Muggleborns--his mind raced toward Hermione.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. "Harry's house-"

"Yes," Snape interrupted this time, absolutely without a trace of emotion. "I was there. The Dark Lord was there as well."

There was a short silence, during which Harry wondered why Snape hadn't told him about the particulars of the fire.

And then Shacklebolt's deep voice again. "I'd like to speak with Harry."

Harry stood uneasily, finally crossing over the shadows from the corridor, and stepped heavily down the stairs. "I'm here," he said, not meaning for the words to come punching out of his lips. Both Shacklebolt and Snape looked up.

"What happened?" Shacklebolt asked, his dark eyes zeroing in on Harry's left cheek.

"There were a lot of flying objects when Dodgy exploded," Harry said with a shrug. It was true enough. Harry felt Snape's sudden gaze at the lie; he ignored it to focus on Shacklebolt.

Shacklebolt, looking deeply exhausted, nodded. "Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall both said that the Headmaster left instructions for you to remain with Professor Snape."

Harry nodded sharply. Shacklebolt looked between them. "The house on Privet Drive-"

"I already knew about my relatives' house," Harry told him with a business-like nod. He didn't care about that. "What happened to Dumbledore...and the others?"

"I don't know." He turned back to Snape. "Those of us left, are ready to carry on with Albus' plans, Severus."

"What plans?" Harry asked suspiciously. Shacklebolt shook his head, and Harry scowled. "For me to kill Voldemort, you mean?"

Shacklebolt looked surprised. "How did you-"

"He had to be told," Snape interrupted, sounding neither regretful nor self-righteous.

Shacklebolt's surprise intensified as his gaze flicked to Snape. He studied Snape before he continued. "I assume you are still with us?"

Snape's stiffened, though the motion was barely detectable. "My loyalties have not changed," he said through his pressed lips.

Shacklebolt nodded. "Albus trusted you." Not giving Snape a chance to respond, Shacklebolt turned again to Harry. "I am sorry to hear about your relatives and Sirius," he offered, his voice and face filled with regret. Harry could only nod jerkily as tears stung his eyes. He didn't allow them to fall. He wanted to say something about Tonks--and Moody, and whoever else was gone now, but he couldn't.

"Have you had any pain in your scar, Harry?" Shacklebolt asked, his tone turning slightly more professional.

"Not since..." Harry swallowed, "...we came here."

Shacklebolt sighed. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. Harry wondered how dark the circles were under his own eyes. "If you do, let Professor Snape know, would you, Harry?" At Harry's nod, Shacklebolt said to Snape. "We will be waiting for word of any changes," he said quietly. "And I will contact you, should we receive news of Albus."

Snape nodded curtly. With a short goodbye to both of them, the tall Auror spun on his heel and Snape and Harry were left alone in the sitting room.

Too many thoughts were spinning around in Harry's brain, but he didn't want to have to speak--to start sorting through them. His cheek no longer prickled, though he wouldn't be surprised at all if the area was sporting a bruise. That was probably why Snape was staring at him. Harry guessed that Snape wished that he'd split his lip instead.

"You don't know anything about Dumbledore, do you?" Harry demanded suspiciously.

"No."

Harry wasn't particularly inclined to believe him, but neither could he find a plausible reason for Snape to withhold information about Dumbledore. Snape, unlike the Headmaster, didn't seem the secretive type.

Harry wasn't surprised to hear that Voldemort had been quiet over the past few days--his scar hadn't prickled even once since Dodgy had exploded. And why the hell was Snape still staring? How much could he actually regret not doing even more damage to him? Or perhaps he was angry that Harry had retrieved his wand. Harry's nostrils flared as he remembered how furious he'd been upstairs.

"What?" Harry finally demanded.

Silently, Snape picked up a wide-mouthed flask sitting on the table next to him. He held it out. "Bruise Salve," he said shortly.

Was he offering an exchange? Harry glared at him.

"You shouldn't have gone into Regulus' room," Harry said sullenly, ignoring the offer. "I need my wand. It wasn't a very good hiding place for it anyway."

Snape's fingers tautened around the body of the flask. He narrowed his eyes. "What are you babbling about?"

Harry held out his wand, sideway, for emphasis. "My wand," he reminded the obviously doddering professor. "You stole it and put it in Regulus' room."

Snape opened his mouth, his eyes sharp as knife points. But then his mouth snapped shut. He lifted his chin a little. And when he spoke, his words were measured and slow. "I do not know where Regulus' room is. Nor would I steal your wand. You need it to protect yourself. Perhaps," Snape continued, his words now exaggeratingly annunciated, "you were sleepwalking."

Snape extended the salve toward Harry; it was obvious now that he was attempting to placate Harry as if he were some sort of rabid animal.

Harry slashed his wand through the air and stuffed it into his pocket with wrenching force. "I didn't sleepwalk, and I'm not delusional!" he growled. "So stop speaking to me like I've gone round the bend. And I don't want your stupid salve."

Snape's face immediately darkened. The flask of salve crashed down onto the little table. "I have not touched your wand," he spat. "Nor am I as idiotic as you seem to believe. If I wanted your wand, I wouldn't hide it in Regulus' room," Snape finished scathingly. "Accio Harry Potter's wand!" Harry's wand whizzed itself out of Harry's pocket and into Snape's outstretched hand.

"Hey!" Harry protested as his arms flailed in a futile attempt to recapture his wand.

"Do you see, Potter?" Snape sneered. "If I truly wanted your wand, I would simply take it. There is no reason to be devious about it."

Harry fists quivered by his sides. "Give it back to me!" he demanded furiously, feeling like he was facing Dudley's gang again.

Snape hesitated, and Harry thought he would refuse.

"Give it back." The words shook a little, though Harry told himself it was from anger. Snape's jaw clenched, and then with a disgusted flick of his wrist, he released his flaccid hold on Harry's wand. It dropped with a soft clatter on the floor near Harry's feet. Harry bent down hastily to retrieve it.

Suddenly, a strange jolt rocked his knees forward. Harry stumbled, just managing to catch himself with his palms before his face planted against the wood.

He lifted his head. A dizzying rush of colors and sounds assaulted his senses. Red and yellows swirling into greens so quickly he couldn't keep up. There were soft creaks and doors slamming...the scents of coffee, bruise salve and aftershave mingling together in his nostrils.

Floating...he was floating...

He could see the top of Snape's head as Snape bent down, offering a hand to a boy with messy black hair.

Dreaming... Harry thought dazedly. I'm dreaming again...

"Don't touch me," Harry blurted. He jerked himself away from Snape. Harry snatched up his wand from the carpet. Harry swayed as he stood up.

"Harry, what are you doing down here?"

Harry's head swung around.

Sirius, his hair disheveled from sleep, was standing in the doorway; he looked tiny from this distance.

"Sirius?" Harry demanded as the color drained from his face.

"Black?"

Sirius spun sharply toward the sputtering query. "Snape?"

Cold, rushing wind swept through the room, and Harry dropped from his floating perch to collide with the mirror-image of himself below. His skin tingled all over--alternating between hot and cold.

This couldn't be right.

Snape and Sirius didn't belong together. He only dreamed of each man separately. One of them was always dead. But there they stood, each man staring in wide-eyed shock at the other.

Harry stared between them. Back and forth, his eyes roamed. Sirius...Snape, together--gawking at one another in the sitting room as if each was seeing a ghost.

It couldn't be. He was dead.

But which one?

For some reason, Harry couldn't remember. Had he been dreaming of Regulus' room, or had he really seen it?

The room revolved in slow motion around him, his temples pounding.

With a hiss of pain, Snape suddenly grasped his left forearm.

Harry cried out as blinding pain exploded in his forehead; his ears buzzed.

Sirius turned toward him. Harry could see Sirius' lips forming his name, but the only sound he could hear was the roaring in his head. He was going to be sick.

His knees buckled. Harry felt himself caught under the armpits as he slumped forward.

Pain seared leisurely through his scar.

Harry stared up in confusion at his godfather's blurry face. He shouldn't be able to feel pain--not in a dream. "My scar," he moaned before he began expelling his breakfast--all over Sirius' shirt.

Sirius tightened his hold, lifting Harry up.