The Master Plan

Chapter 24: The Tenth Circle of Hell; The One for Teenaged Boys, or, Oh, God, the Angst! The ANGST! Ow, Ow, Make it Stop!

It had disappeared off the face of the earth. It was the only explanation. They had been all over the castle, and Harry had missed most of his classes, ghosting through people's rooms in his invisibility cloak, scouring their belongings for his precious, ill-considered journal. He'd waited over an hour before he could get the Slytherin password and rummage through their things. Which turned out to be a traumatic experience in and of itself. Who knew Blaise Zabini had such a collection of chains and feathers and oils and pictures of Snape!? and undergarments, and that Jack, who had seemed relatively normal, had such a stash of...things...and...stuff? Or that the room Draco shared with Crabbe and Goyle, among others, was absolutely wallpapered with pictures of Draco himself? Or that one of the rooms had a little makeshift shrine to Harry, whose own picture looked distinctly embarrassed? But, no matter where he looked, there was no journal to be found.

"So that means nobody has it," Hermione announced firmly, against all logic.

"Maybe someone has it AND knows how valuable it really is AND isn't letting it out of their sight AND is handing it over to Voldemort right now?" Harry shot back. "You two didn't find a thing. I'm dead. He's dead. We're all completely dead. What a cock-up I've made of it this time." Harry fisted a handful of his hair, still castigating himself in his head.

"Stop berating yourself, Harry," Hermione told him. "I know I read a spell about how to find things you've lost. I just have to remember what book it's in. Now, I read it last Easter, so it would have been the same time I did the paper on Nagas. No, wait, I did that two years ago. So, then..."

Ron pulled Harry aside and offered his own comfort. "If we don't find it by tomorrow, we'll lock Hermione in the library and go on a cursing splurge. We'll start with Malfoy and catch him out in the prefect's bathroom and hex him three ways from Sunday. And then we'll oblivate him. And we'll go down the list until we catch whoever took it, and we'll make them pay. We'll find it, one way or another. Agreed?"

Harry nodded shakily. "Should. Should I tell Snape? I mean; I put his name down and everything. He could be in big trouble because of me. I mean, like; the kind of trouble where they tie heavy objects to your ankles and heave you into a large body of water. Why do I always have to be so pissing thick-headed?"

Ron shrugged. "'Cause you're you, I guess. One of the best things about you, in my opinion. Come on. If you were famous, and rich, and nice--all things you bloody well are--AND you were cautious and intelligent and sensitive on top of it, you'd be the most hated bloke at Hogwarts. And probably bent as a nine bob note, to boot. And I don't think you should tell Snape. Not yet, Harry," he went on in a discouraging voice when Harry tried to interrupt. "Can't you just imagine what he'll DO to you? If they merged all nine circles of hell into one really big, really nasty circle, it still wouldn't be as bad as whatever Snape came up with. Look; just leave it until tomorrow. One day, Harry, that's all I'm asking!"

Hermione heard this and interrupted. "You should tell him, Harry. This isn't just your life; it affects his, too. And I think you owe him the truth. I know it will be hard, but wouldn't it be better if he heard it from you?" Harry bit his lip and nodded, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. Tell Snape the truth? Dear God. He'd rather be boiled alive. Which, unfortunately, wasn't even an option. "Good, then," Hermione told him. "I'll run down to the library and see if I can figure out which book that spell was in. Hang in there, Harry, all right?"

After she was gone, Ron turned to him and said, "Look, tell Hermione you want to be alone when you tell Snape about the journal. Tell her you'll stay after class to do it; you do that all the time anyhow, so that won't be suspicious. And then, if you DON'T WANT TO, you don't have to tell him anything. Just tell her he said he'd take care of it, and not to...not to talk about it, right? And then you and I can take care of it on our own. I'm just giving you an out, Harry," he added desperately. "I don't want to see my best mate's large and small intestines strewn about the room like some kind of morbid Death Eater party decorations! Just keep it in mind, that's all!"

When Hermione came back with a stack of books from the library, Harry prayed one of them would have a spell that would help. "Ohhh...here's one; 'How to Have a Miraculous Memory,' that might help you remember where you saw it last...oh. No, it only helps you to remember things from now on, and you'd never forget anything again."

"That'd be a right crack, wouldn't it? Too many things I'd RATHER forget," Ron put in helpfully. "What about this, 'Redderus Redigere,' spell...forces a person to give back something taken. That'd be right handy, if we knew who had it. Anybody got a bookmark?"

"I'm using all of mine," Hermione told him in a somewhat petulant voice; she only had about a hundred.

Harry sighed and rummaged around in his pockets until he found a spare piece of paper. "Here, use this. Come on, there has to be SOMETHING useful. What about this one? The Reverserum. Forces the drinker of the potion to do everything they've recently done, in reverse order. At least that way I'd know all the places I'd been." He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "But I already KNOW all the places I've been, and the book wasn't anywhere obvious, so it must have gotten moved. Or pinched."

"And it only goes back a few hours. Have you tried the Summoning Charm again?" Hermione queried. This was getting to be a sore point between the two of them. Hermione had never heard of any spell, when done properly, not working.

"Only about five hundred times today, all right?" Harry attested. "And there was NO EFFECT, none whatever. And no, I DON'T know why. Maybe you're right; maybe it is my fault. Maybe I'm not concentrating hard enough, I don't know. All I know is that it isn't working. Ugh. Nothing's working."

"Well," Hermione sighed regretfully, looking at the time. "We'd really better get going, we'll be late for...detention. I'm sorry, Harry, we've just run out of time. But...surely he'll know what to do." She gave him a weak smile, and none of them felt very convinced.

"Walls, Granger and Potter. Weasely, Occlumency. Wand out." Snape brusquely greeted them when they came in the room. Harry was struck by how hoarse and tired his voice was. Certainly Harry couldn't do this; add more to the man's already overly large burden?

He exchanged a worried look with Hermione as they went to do their walls.. Harry found the writing on the wall more than a little terrifying. Ron's was 'I WON'T COME CRYING TO PROFESSOR SNAPE,' but Hermione had 'THREE CAN KEEP A SECRET IF TWO OF THEM ARE DEAD,' which seemed ominous in the extreme, and Harry's stomach was turning to ice as he wrote and rewrote, 'SOMEDAY, PROFESSOR SNAPE WON'T BE THERE TO DO IT FOR ME.'

By the end of class he was a nervous wreck. When it came time to leave, he told his friends, "I'll be up in a bit, I need to ask the professor something," and watched as Ron gave him the thumbs-up, and Hermione patted his shoulder sympathetically. Finally, he took several deep, calming breaths and turned to face the teacher.

"Mister Potter."

"Sir. I." Harry had to cough several times, trying to force the words out of a suddenly dry throat. "I lost something. You see, I had this journal I was writing things down in, and I may have mentioned some...things about you, and these classes and...other things that I realize now I really, REALLY should never have written down and. And you can kill me if you like, because I so utterly deserve it, I can't think of a single reason for you to let me live. Oh, er. Yeah, the Voldemort thing, there is that. I might have to be the one to kill him. But anyhow. Where was I? Oh, yeah, I lost it and I'm so unbelievably sorry and I don't know what to do. Um. Other than beg for forgiveness and swear I'll change and hope like hell you have some kind of idea about how to find it, because I'm dead out." Severus walked toward him, his face wholly expressionless, and Harry collapsed to his knees, eyes shut tightly, and he whimpered, "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I really, truly am!"

"You lost your journal," Severus stated in a dead voice.

"Yes, sir. It was just a notebook; it had little--um. Little. Ah. Little....faces drawn all over it."

"I see. Rather like this, was it?" And Harry opened his eyes to find his journal, ambivalent faces and all, being held about three and a half inches from his nose.

His first instinct was a vast sense of relief. Voldemort didn't have it. Malfoy didn't have it. The forces of evil could not use it against him, and wouldn't know about--Severus. Who DID have it. The ambivalent faces seemed to come into greater focus at this thought, and Harry shut his eyes again, hoping they would go away. Now relief was thrown into the background, and embarrassment was vying with shame for being the more devastating emotion. Oh, good Lord. Harry slowly got to his feet, and felt his entire body begin trembling, as he watched Severus march back to his desk. "Um. Wh--where did you find it?" Harry asked him in a high-pitched voice, laden with adolescent apprehension.

Severus paused, and turned to give him an extremely sour look. "In my bed. Mister Potter. I crawled in and felt my foot brush against something beneath the sheets. I can assure you, this is an unhappy occurrence for us both. Do you have any idea what you have done? How many years of toil and sacrifice would have been wasted, rendered useless, had this fallen into the wrong hands? Not to mention the peril that it placed you, me, your friends, and everything you claim to hold so dear in?"

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered. He felt a tear pooling against the bottom frame of his glasses, before gathering enough substance go around, leaving a trail for its impending followers. "I am so sorry. It WAS stupid. It was. I never." He looked at the ground, feeling acutely dizzy, and as though a great stone had lodged somewhere between his stomach and heart. Nothing Snape had ever done or said before had had this kind of impact on him. Never had the man managed to make him feel so guilty.

"Once I realized what this was, I put wards on it--as many as I could think of. You didn't even think to do that. I felt you calling for it, you know. 'Accio' doesn't work when there are several Obsture Spells placed on an object. I am going to destroy this, and I am ordering you to never so much as consider starting another. Is that perfectly clear?"

"Yes, sir. As crystal, sir. It will never happen again as long as I live.. Oh, God, I'm so sorry," Harry added vehemently. He watched silently as Severus took the wards off the book, one by one.

When this was finished, the man turned to the fireplace. "Exterpato Conflagrarus!" he said, tossing the unfortunate journal into the flames. A small mushroom cloud rose up and out the chimney. Then Snape sighed, and stood for a long time without facing Harry. His shoulders were bent, as though he were filled with disgrace. Harry gulped a few times, wishing there was something he could say. He hadn't meant for this to happen. For anything to happen, really.

Finally, Snape squared his shoulders and turned to the youth, his dark eyes flat. "As usual, you managed to make the wrong choice in this situation, every time one was offered you. I. Will not hold you solely responsible. This was something that could have been prevented much earlier, had I but the will or the sense to do so. It has been apparent for some time now that you've harboured some...infatuation for me, which I should not have excused.. I overlooked your behaviour, as it seemed to...motivate your studies to a certain extent. I am well aware that I am not blameless in this, and that even to let you continue to hold romantic delusions was not...the correct thing to do. And that, if the Dark Lord discovered your preoccupation, it would surely mean death for me, and vulnerability for you. I had hoped, I suppose, that you would have realized this, and used it as an impetus in your Occlumency training. I had also hoped you realized, on some level, the impossibility of your desires. Also that, even could they be granted you, it could mean, for me, condemnation and censure from Dumbledore and the Ministry, and the rest of the Wizarding world, and death and torture from the Dark Lord. Evidently, it was overmuch to give you the responsibility of knowing how to treat the situation with the caution, discretion, and the maturity it merited.

"I feel I must tell you, for the sake of avoiding any future misunderstandings, that your feelings are entirely one-sided. I apologize, for I've no doubt it must hurt you, but I feel this fantasy is most unhealthy for a boy your age. I will not be trite, and tell you to find someone your own age, but I will warn you that any advances toward me will not be welcome."

Harry was drowning. He was dying. Snape wasn't penalizing him, and he wasn't ridiculing him, he was outright rejecting him, and, worse, he was trying to be nice about it. Calm, rational. Dear God, the man was trying to be reasonable about it. Harry opened and shut his mouth, wanting to find some way around the words, but it was as though the man had spoken an impenetrable wall between them. And what could Harry say? The man wasn't wrong about anything. Harry found himself unable to speak a single word, either in his favor or his defense.

"It would be best if you no longer visited my chambers, or stayed after class. And I feel you ought to consider...you...would benefit from making an attempt to find someone younger, who returns your feelings." Snape actually looked--er. Well. Harry couldn't exactly say. Tired, he supposed. That's all it was. Snape looked tired, and who wouldn't be, after fighting off the advances of a not-quite-seventeen year old? "It surprises me to say it, but I expected better of you, Mister Potter. I did not think you felt your friends and your safety worth so little as a fleeting, schoolboy crush."

Finally, something Harry could deny. "It isn't fleeting," he responded hotly. "And how DARE you act as though I haven't a right to my own feelings and desires! I don't give a damn how you feel about me; I don't have any control over that. But don't you try to tell me how I should feel about you! You think I haven't realized how much trouble I could get us all in? You think I haven't realized how completely inappropriate my feelings for you are?" His voice broke, and became thick with tears. "You think I wanted to fall in love with you? That this has been some kind of joy ride for me? I'm not stupid. I knew perfectly well that it was something that could get you killed, and I quashed it as hard as I could! I couldn't help it, damn it! I'm SORRY! I just. Can't. Stop fucking feeling this way! The only thing that helped was writing it down! I tried to be careful. I kept it with me. I tried not to name names too often, or anything like that. I'm sorry." Harry was really shaking now, with rage and fear and helpless despair. "I knew perfectly well that you could never love me. I would have been happy to never tell anyone about it, least of all you! I'm sorry. I know you're putting your life on the line, and I'm jeopardizing you even further. I'll stop, if I can. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for loving you." Harry turned and ran blindly from the classroom, feeling the choking sobs well up, leaving him nearly breathless.

When he reached the foot of Gryffindor Tower, he sat by the wall and wrapped his arms around his legs, and let his sorrow carry him into wracking convulsions. He waited until dawn, but the Potions Master did not come after him. He did not get up to leave until Peeves began mocking him and yanking his hair. Then, he avoided the tower completely, and went straight on to breakfast.

Ron and Hermione dragged him away from the table first thing. "What happened? Was he awfully mad? Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry! We should have stayed and told him with you! The whole thing was my idea!" Hermione wailed, remorseful at Harry's pale face and red-rimmed eyes.

"What did he do to you?" Ron demanded in the meanwhile, hand squeezing Harry's shoulder. "That bastard! Did he poison you? I don't care what it was; he's not getting away with it this time! Come on, Harry, I owled Fred and George, they're on standby. Just waiting for your word and there'll be one less lousy Death Eater about the place. I don't care if he's loyal to Dumbledore or not, I'm not going to let him do! Whatever he did! To you! The right bastard!"

He was completely taken aback when Harry threw his arms around him and burst into tears, burying his head in Ron's shoulder. Ron's face was terrified, as he looked at Hermione over Harry's head, completely at a loss. He could see she was mouthing something at him, and pointing to Harry. 'LIKE A GIRL!' she mouthed. 'TREAT HIM LIKE A GIRL! JUST PRETEND HE'S A GIRL!' He wasn't sure if this was at all helpful; he didn't have much more experience with girls' hysterics than he did with boys'. "Erm. All right, mate, all right," he said, in what he hoped was a soothing, 'I'm not at all about to faint from shock' sort of voice. He put one arm gingerly around Harry's thin frame, and patted his back. With the other, he tried to smooth down his friend's hair, which was, as usual, all over the place, and doing its best to get into Ron's nose. "We'll just go and kill the nasty old brute, eh, mate? You and me and Fred and George, and he'll be dead, and then he'll be sorry! Eh? And then everything can just go back to bloody normal...."