The Master Plan

Chapter Four: How Self Abuse Can Lead to Answers

Harry lay in his four-poster bed, staring up into darkness. Soft snores were coming from Neville's bed, but the rest of the room lay under a thick blanket of muffled sleep. Ron still had not returned from detention with Filch, and Harry felt a twinge of regret at that. Still, that could be fixed. That could be his next goal, right? Getting Snape to change their punishment. He was sure it could be done. How to outdo Snape again?...

He grinned and laced his hands behind his head, reliving the night. He'd had a fantastic time, if he was going to be honest about it. Which he probably was not, come to think of it, not even with Ron and Hermione. Because to tell the truth, and here his smile slipped a little, he was pretty sure mentioning he'd enjoyed himself--no, even *having had* enjoyed himself, alone with Snape, and the two of them insulting and trying to one-up each other...and finding each other even the least bit amusing, well. Well, there had to be something wrong with it, didn't there? That's what Ron and Hermione would think. He could picture the disbelief on their faces when he told them. They'd ask about how horrible it was, and what had happened.

And he'd shrug casually and say, "Oh, it was actually quite a lark, hanging out with Snape. I didn't really have to do much of anything punishment-wise, and he let me sit there and be all arrogant and rude and mess him about a bit, and then we just had this sort of man-to-man talk. And then he made a joke, and I laughed, and. And we shared this odd kind of surprisingly magical moment, the kind where you sort of feel butterflies inside, and happy and nervous and confused, all at the same time? And it strung its way out, until it was almost humming; I swear you could almost hear it, like a thrum from a string on a guitar. Oh, and then it went and snapped, for no reason at all, and then things were normal, but they weren't, and I don't think they'll ever be normal again.

"Of course, I don't know what it all meant, but maybe I do and I just don't want to admit it, not even to myself. And then I went and did one better than Snape in witty remarks, and walked away feeling like I could fly, and I think it was just about the best bloody moment of my life. And he let me go early, too, because I think, on the whole, he might actually be rather fond of me, in a way I'd rather not think about just now. And that was pretty much it. Kind of dull, huh? And how was your punishment, by the way?"

Oh, but oh, yes. That would be a conversation worth having. Their faces would move from disbelief to confusion to disgust to horror, all in just a few minutes. And he did *not* actually just think any of that. He muffled a groan by rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. God, what was *wrong* with him? And of course, there had to *be* something wrong, if he was thinking thoughts like that. Was it because he was under so much stress? Yes, that might be it. People do odd things when they're under a lot of pressure, and he was almost always under a lot of pressure. Mmmh. That *could* be it. He felt his nose scrunch up as he thought about it. Didn't think about it. He wouldn't think about it. That was all. *Just turn your brain off, Harry. Just turn your brain off and stop thinking. Snape would say you're GOOD at that. Oh, damn! Not supposed to be thinking about Snape, supposed to be thinking about. Girls. And Quidditch. And Voldemort killing you, catching you and torturing you and killing you any number of interesting ways. Any one of which would be less upsetting than the thoughts you are thinking RIGHT NOW.*

Finally, Harry gave up and slid out of bed. This was worse than Sirius dying. At least other people really could empathize about that, even if he didn't want to see it. Developing some sort of sick obsession with Snape, *that* was something that had probably never been done by *anyone* before. Had it? Had he ever been less than incredibly awful to somebody, to the point where they actually *liked* the man? Harry snorted. Not bloody likely. But. It *could* have happened, at some point. You never really knew, did you? It suddenly struck Harry how very little he knew about the man. Who he hung about with, what he did for fun, why he wanted the Defense position so badly. Did Death Eaters have tea parties? He supposed they must have done. Well, not tea parties, *per se,* but something to amuse themselves, aside from torturing muggles and plotting the Dark Lord's ascendancy. But maybe they did do things like that for amusement, he could picture it really. 'And then, the *funniest* thing happened, oh, you won't believe it! The *man's head fell off!* Yes, that's just what I said, too! I laughed so hard I dropped all the thumbscrews! And what did you and Lucius do Friday? Oh, yes. Well, breaking and entering is all very well, but if you're not pillaging and raping, you're just not living!'

Harry sighed. He really hoped Snape didn't do things like that, when he was off spying for the Order. But if they asked him to, he'd almost have to, wouldn't he? Or they'd know. They'd guess. He felt his stomach give a lurch. This wasn't helping *anything.* And he probably didn't have any real friends. Spies didn't have friends, they couldn't afford the risk. And he wasn't well liked in his school days, so there probably wasn't anyone then, either. Was there? And suddenly, it occurred to Harry; he couldn't answer most of the questions plaguing him tonight, but this question...he knew someone that might just be able to answer it.

Feeling slightly more cheerful, he slipped his invisibility cloak on. Creeping out of the room, he slipped down through the vacant common room, and carefully made his way past the fat lady. The halls were silent and empty. That was all right with Harry. He might actually have to wake someone up tonight, but that only bothered him a little, as well. Maybe he was just as self-centered as Snape accused him of being. But no, just talking would do them both a world of good, he was absolutely sure of it. And somewhere out there, Filch was scowling and being menacing, and Ron and Hermione were having to do some awful, boring task. And maybe Snape was still awake, swishing back and forth across his own chambers, dark robes fluttering imperially behind him. Harry gave another wide grin, and tiptoed down the hall, feeling dangerous and daring and utterly, utterly at home again. Finally at home, at Hogwarts and with himself. This was the way things were supposed to be; Snape provoking him, and him, in response, doing something without ever thinking it through completely. And he crept easily through the night, cross the shadowed corridors and down echoing staircases, toward where he knew a certain visiting werewolf was lodging.