Current mood:	tired
Entry tags:	frek, hp fic, snape/harry

FIC: Running, Snape/Harry, merry_smutmas
Okay, now that I've finally got my stuff all back in my room after painting it, and I've finally got my internet connected, and all the names have finally been revealed, here's my merry_smutmas contribution. I have never been so stressed in my life as the period during which I wrote this story. I think it shows.

Title: Running (Part One)
Author: captain_tulip, me.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Snape/Harry
Disclaimer: Nice stuff and essentials are JKR's. Nasty stuff and frivolous details are mine.
Warnings: Dubious consent, OFC character death, and allusions to past torture, rape and abuse.
A/N: Written for frek for merry_smutmas. More thanks than I would ever have the time to give to rexluscus, my wonderful beta. I really couldn't have done this without her - her input and support was invaluable.

* * * * *


"He's not moving, Remus."

Something is placed gently on the coffee table. "He might be sleeping. Let him rest, Hermione."

"I wasn't aware that it was possible to sleep with your eyes open."

A sigh. "If his eyes are open, it's likely he can hear us." Remus's dark eyes peer at him.

A shuffle. "Try moving," Hermione urges.

Remus scoots down the tatty old sofa, and Harry's eyes cling to the dirtied bronze of Remus's buttons.

"Did you see that? He followed you along."

A clock ticks in the background and Harry scratches the inside of his palm.

"Wonder what he's thinking," Hermione says, softly.

Remus leans back in his chair. "Probably about how rude we are for discussing him in his presence."

A shadow appears at the corner of Hermione's lip as it pinches into a smile. "You think?"

"It's possible," Remus says lightly, and the filtered sunlight catches for a second on his nails. "Pompfrey seems to think that, theoretically, his brain is in perfect working order."

The pinkness of Hermione's mouth glistens as her chin drops. "I can't believe that. I mean -- look at him." Her bracelet jangles slightly as she makes an abortive movement in Harry's direction.

"Yes. Well." Remus clears his throat and grinds his teeth slightly. "Apparently, sooner or later he's going to start noticing 'little details', and then he'll just -- wake up."

Hermione shifts, the fabric of her skirt rustling against the couch. "Even though he's not sleeping," she comments wryly.

Remus shrugs and leaves a hair behind on his jersey. It's different colours all the way down, and Harry stares as it shines black and white and gold in the sunlight. He catches sight of Hermione behind him, and stares in wonder at a face so familiar.

"Remus."

Remus's dark eyes flick towards Hermione. "What's wrong?"

"He's looking right at me," she whispers.

Remus sighs deeply and runs a hand through his thin hair. "He does that sometimes."

"No. He's looking right at me. Into my eyes."

Remus stands up shakily, resting heavily on the back of the armchair. "Well," he murmurs, "say hello, then."

A dimple in Hermione's chin quivers and she stares at him with bright, glistening eyes. "Hello, Harry," she says quietly, her eyes flicking over every inch of Harry's face with a mixture of hope and despair.

"Hello," Harry whispers back, and Remus's legs buckle beneath him.


* * * * *


Harry strokes his hand up and down the polished wooden floor. His face is pressed up against it too, and it's cold against his cheek. It's hard and it hurts, but he can't convince himself to move, because blowing in with the cold air is his name. And it's not like it used to be, when it was inside his head, a few millimeters from his air, just behind him, just beside him, just a few meters away...

No. This is people he knows. People who are his friends and his confidants and they're discussing him without his permission. They are acting on the assumption that he's tucked up in bed, but he isn't. He smiles at that thought, because he's learned skills that they said he never would.

"--something seriously wrong with him."

When Harry had slipped past the thick door on the way to the toilet and heard the voices, he'd first assumed they were talking about someone else of their acquaintance that had become seriously mentally ill during the duration of the war. They'd whispered things like "torture" and "cruelty" and Harry had felt a little sorry for this person, because he knew what those kind of things were like. That's why he wasn't sleeping like they thought he was. He'd wondered who the person was. If the same thing happened to them that had happened to him.

But then Hermione had sighed and said, "I don't think he's the same Harry anymore," in a melancholy sort of voice, and Harry had stopped dead in the hallway. Harry? Him?

So that's how he's ended up on the floor. Because although the doors are too thick to listen through, there's a nice gap underneath them, just enough for Harry to catch their conversation. He saw on a muggle movie once someone slipping a knife under the door to see what was happening on the other side, but Hermione doesn't let him have knives.

"--permanent psychological damage..." Remus's voice vibrates low.

I'm not a retard, Harry thinks angrily, and scratches at the floorboards in irritation.

"..may take some time to get through mental barriers..." Remus continues on.

Harry thinks it's a bit rich to criticise his "mental barriers" after years of training to perfect them. Do they think he wants everyone's grubby fingers rifling around in there? Poking and prodding and stroking and tickling? He knows what that's like. Is it so unbelievable that he'd simply allow his shields to stay up? He goes to shake his head, and remembers that it's pressed against the cold floor, and stops.

"...severe blood loss..."

"Don't you think I know what he's been through?" Hermione sounds nearly hysterical.

"..not sure that any of us do..."

Harry grinds his teeth. If only Remus would speak a little louder then the conversation wouldn't seem so one sided.

"...be careful if I were you--"

Harry blinks. He's sure he's missed something, because surely Remus wouldn't be cautioning Hermione about him.

"You don't seriously think Harry would do--"

There is a hissing sound, and Hermione lowers her voice.

"...anything to me?"

Harry strains his neck to hear what the reply is, but it's so low that all he can here is a trembled whisper and he curses loudly. There is a sudden tension that emanates from the room and Harry's stomach lurches. He scrambles to his feet and runs quickly down the long corridor back to his bedroom. He spends the night under the bed because he isn't sure he's ready to sleep in the bed yet.


* * * * *


Harry wakes up with a raw throat and splinters in his elbows. Hermione and Remus are already eating when Harry stumbles down the hallway and into the dining room.

"--investigation is hindered by the fact that a magical signature has yet to be identified on the bodies. The Head of the Auror unit has informed us that this is most uncommon, but has refused to comment any further. If anyone has any information they believe might prove useful, they are urged to firecall or floo the Ministry of Magic..."

"Turn that off, would you?" Remus mutters. Hermione flicks her wand and the wireless dies.

"Sleep alright, Harry?" she asks as she pours milk into a glass. Remus glares at her across the table, and Harry forgets to nod.

"Could you help me in the kitchen a moment, Hermione?" Remus asks tersely.

"Uh -- alright." Hermione frowns. "Just a minute, Harry," she adds with a smile, and slips out of the chair.

Harry grits his teeth and sits down on one of the old, wooden chairs as their argument wafts through the paint-crackled door.

"...screaming all night, do you think he slept well?"

"I was just making conversation!"

"...doesn't need to be reminded of..."

"...want things to be as normal as possible--"

"--think things are ever going to be normal again?"

"I can hear you, you know," Harry says loudly.

There is a long pause and the dining room clock ticks obscenely loudly in the background. Not a whisper can be heard from the kitchen and Harry rolls his eyes. "Maybe if you're really quiet, I'll forget you ever existed!" he says into the silence, and two bowls of soggy cereal stare at him blankly. A moment later the two emerge from the kitchen, both doing their best to plaster apologetic smiles on their faces.

"We don't mean to talk about you behind your back, Harry."

Yes you do.

"We -- we just want," Remus says, glancing at Hermione, "what's best for you."

"We want you to get better," Hermione adds with a sympathetic look.

"Better." Harry raises an eyebrow.

Hermione swallows. "Yes, better," she affirms. "You're healing. It's going to be a long process. You have to rebuild all the little things that were stripped away from you, unjustly. And we want to be here for you while that happens. We want --"

But Harry doesn't find out what else they want, because as she is reaching to place a hand on his shoulder she knocks his water glass and it falls and shatters all over the wooden floor, half of it splintering into a million glittering pieces and the other half in jagged structure. Hermione gasps loudly and Harry stares at the sharp and pointy edges of the glass feeling his throat start to constrict and contort. Hermione is murmuring something placating but Harry can't pull his eyes away from the jagged edge that could so easily tear his flesh in two, that could so easily run down the length of his body and up again spilling his crimson blood as it goes, that could so easily squeeze into his eye or his tongue or his hands or his throat or --

"HARRY!"

Harry blinks. "What?" he asks, startled.

"You -- you started shaking. You were saying -- well, that doesn't matter. Are you ok? Is something wrong?" Harry only realises that he's on the floor when Hermione drops down and places a cool palm on his forehead. "Do you feel sick? Is it just that you're tired? You're not hearing voices, are you? Look, I think I should call Healer Hoskins--"

Would you just SHUT UP.

There is a pregnant pause, and Harry feels the strange feeling on his tongue like he's just said something he shouldn't have.

"She's only trying to help you, Harry," Remus says, and Harry feels like he's itchy under his skin.

"I know," he say, grinding his teeth at the back of his mouth. He suddenly feels the urge to get up, get away, and as he jumps up he hits the table, and the milk from the cereal spills all over the baby blue tablecloth. He clenches his fists in and out and his eyelid spasms as he tries to look calm.

"What's the matter?" Hermione asks urgently. "If anyone's telling you to do anything, Harry, you tell them no--"

"No one's telling me to do anything," Harry snaps. Hermione looks hurt and Harry suddenly feels sick with guilt but he can't stop the alien feeling of fury pumping through his veins. He doesn't know where it's coming from, or why he's suddenly so fucking angry. He tries to take a deep breath but all that does is make his heart clench and his head throb. "I'm sorry," he bites out, trying not to lose his cool and rip the tablecloth from the table. "I'm suddenly very, very angry, so I need to go and deal with it somewhere privately."

The other two stare at him in shock, before finally Hermione shakes her head vigorously. "Yes, good, thank you, Harry. You're excused--"

She hasn't even finished her sentence as Harry slams the door behind him. He storms through the house but doesn't quite make it to his room before his arm swings and his fist shoots out in front of him and goes straight through the wall. A roar rips from his mouth, grating against his tender throat, and his other fist follows his first one. He loses all sense of time as he continues to pummel the wood and plaster, tears starting to slide down his face as his knuckles turn bruised and bloody. Old portraits stare at him in shock and horror as his fists slam into the wall again and again and again, until finally one goes completely through and he loses his balance, collapsing to the floor.

What are you doing?

"I don't know," Harry whispers miserably, staring at his hands. "I don't know."


* * * * *


"We think it'd be good for you to get out of the house a bit, Harry."

Harry wonders vaguely when they became "we", and how they seem to know each other's thoughts so well. He wonders if it's "them" against "Harry" now. Once upon a time it was Harry's Side. It wasn't the side of the light or the Order or any of that -- you were either for Harry Potter, or against him. Harry didn't like that pivotal roll then, but this slippery slide into insignificance is making his head reel. After he'd destroyed the wall into his bedroom he'd tiptoed back into the kitchen to see Hermione crying on Remus's shoulder. Remus was stroking her head saying, "I know, I know," in a voice that Harry didn't like at all. It's the sort of voice you use when all hope is lost, the sort of voice Harry used when Ron asked him if he was going to die and Harry replied, "Of course not."

Harry sighs and stretches his new skin experimentally. It shifts perfectly on his fingers, like it's been there all his life. No signs of bleeding or bruised knuckles anywhere. He supposes he's lucky to have someone like Hermione around. "Do you," he says.

"We don't want you feeling like you're cooped up in here, like you can't escape. There's not much for you to do around here, really. Remus and I don't like leaving you at home by yourself for such long periods of time, but we really can't get any more time off work."

"We thought if you had a job of your own, you'd feel more..."

Harry doesn't look up. He doesn't want to see the glance. He's so sick of the glances.

"So we've got you a job."

Harry snaps his head up.

"Just a little one," Hermione hastens to add. "At the Leaky Cauldron. Cleaning tables and things like that. You'll see people you know and you can earn money; it's safe and -- well, the truth is, there aren't many other jobs you can get. If you'd finished your NEWTs like I said you should--" Hermione breaks off with a stern look from Remus.

"They're fine with your admittedly dodgy history--"

"--and there's plenty of security there. We've been looking into this for a long time, and they seem to be the only place that are willing to take you in your state--"

"What state?"

Remus coughs. "Possibility of mental instability is--"

"I'm not mentally unstable."

Hermione sighs. "We're not saying you are, Harry, it's just that most places aren't willing to accept a worker with a history such as yours. You're 'damaged goods' to them Harry, and not even your status can change the fact that there's still that possibility of you -- going off the rails. You've been hurt and that's fine, no one is blaming you for that. But the Leaky are one of the few establishments set up to be able to cope with all ranges of people, as customers and as workers, so if you did have an -- an attack, a panic attack, or some sort of relapse or episode then nothing would be wrong. You wouldn't get fired. Wouldn't that be good?"

"But if I'm..." Harry taps his hand on the table. "If I'm -- like you say I am, then how come I wasn't treated?"

Hermione stares at him, before shaking her head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean how come I wasn't treated? I mean," Harry shakes his head, "if I'm as damaged as you seem to think I am then why didn't they put me into St Mungo's? In the psyche ward? Why wasn't I monitored and spelled and pumped full of potions? Is it just because I'm Harry Potter? Can't have a national hero in the loony bin, is that it? Even if he needs it? What kind of--"

"Harry, you were in the hospital."

"I--"

Harry blinks. He licks his lips and tries to take a moment to breathe and process Hermione's words. He forces his lungs in and out, in and out, letting the soft air dry his wet lips.

"Don't you remember?"

Harry grasps the table with both hands, clenching his teeth tightly. He rifles through his mind, trying to force out a memory of being at St Mungo's. He can recall visiting Lockhart and his glinting smile and loopy letters, and he can remember Mr Weasley and the stitches in his body trying desperately to keep the blood in. He can remember frantically running towards the building as the fifth floor was engulfed in flames, and the putrid stench of burning flesh. He can remember a myriad of things, up to a point.

"I don't remember ever being treated there."

"It doesn't matter, Harry." Remus's voice is soft and comforting. "You were in a sort of semi-coma. We don't expect you to remember."

Hermione takes a deep breath and smiles brightly. "Anyway. About this job. We've got you an interview on Tuesday, how about that, then?"


* * * * *


The first week, he is so nervous he smashes fifty glasses. He still finds it hard to explain how he did it, because they had been spelled unbreakable, but few questions are asked. Harry doesn't know if Hermione tipped them off about that, but either way he's glad. The patrons don't seem to mind; all too busy reading the latest news in the Daily Prophet with a maudlin air. Harry hasn't read the paper for a long time.

The second week isn't much better. Sometimes he looks over at the bar and thinks, I could do that, but gets a glare from the barkeep and hastily keeps the brooms sweeping.

On the third day of the third week he has a nervous breakdown in the toilets, which in hindsight wasn't such a good idea because now he has to clean them up. It's not as bad as cleaning things up without magic, like he used to have to before Hogwarts, but it still requires exertion and Harry is exhausted once he's finished. He can see Rosy loitering by the bar, and she gives him a smile when he meets her eye. He looks away shyly, still unsure how to reply, and picks up the mop. At first Harry thought she was a regular, but he started to notice that she didn't ever order anything. Every now and again she slips upstairs into one of the empty rooms and a man from the bar always seems to know to follow her, and she always seems to end up having more money at the end of the evening than when she started. Harry isn't completely stupid, and he knows that the barkeep isn't either, but it's the best-kept non-secret that Harry's ever seen, so he doesn't mention it. Harry sometimes wonders why they let her do it; why she doesn't get told to piss off and work her business elsewhere, until he realises that some of the men who sit down and stare longingly at her get a firewhiskey to distract themselves until an appropriate hour.

It makes more sense to Harry then.

The first time Harry catches Rosy's eye across the bar, she raises her eyebrows in a question. Harry waits a second before nodding slightly and continues on with his work. Rosy seems to have, Harry thinks with a smile as he shoves the mop into the bucket, taken that as an oath of eternal friendship.


* * * * *


"I met someone," Rosy whispers in Harry's ear on a cold Thursday afternoon. Harry pulls back from his sweeping to stare at her, her smile wrapping across her face. She grabs onto his arm and her eyes gleam.

"A -- someone someone?" Harry asks, and flinches as Rosy pretends to smack him on the head.

"O' course not," she snaps. "Don't be so bloody stupid." The frown remains for moment longer before dissolving once again into a smirk. "He's coming in tomorrow night. He said," she began, making sure that she had Harry's interest, "that he'd pay me," she emphasizes with two palms to her full breasts, "eight hundred galleons for just one night!" She cackles triumphantly and ignores Harry's blushing. He still doesn't know how to deal with these conversations that have just started cropping up. "Oh, I dunno what kind o' person pays that t'get his cock sucked but believe you me, Harry, I don't give a damn if it's gonna get me that kind o' money!"

Harry continues to sweep the little flecks of dust out from the corner, his ears starting to burn too, before twisting his face up in confusion. "What if he isn't telling you the truth?"

The question earns him another mock smack around the head. "D'you think I was born yesterday? I saw the money, laid out in front o' me. He's got it, alright, and he's certainly taken with me, that's for sure." She drapes herself across the wall with a giggle. "I mean, who wouldn't be? I'm the perfect catch," she adds, and Harry nods distractedly as he tries to sweep around her feet.


* * * * *


When Harry starts putting up the chairs of the unused tables in the evening, a man comes in and sits at the bar. He has a long scar running the length of his eye and halfway down his face, and dark hair. His face gives Harry shivers down his spine when he glances at him, but he doesn't know why. He's never seen the man before in his life, and as he watches him order a drink and proceed to steadily ignore it, he wonders why the room suddenly feels thick with tension. Harry tries to force down the bile in his throat and wrenches his head away, trying not to stare.

Harry's hand freezes when he sees the man pick up his glass out of the corner of his eye. He's barely looked at it for the whole time he's been sitting there, which has almost been an hour. The man brings the glass to his mouth but the liquid barely touches his lips, and not a drop must have gone down his throat. Harry doesn't know what the point of buying a drink and not drinking it is -- maybe he's meeting someone. It's late, though, and there is no movement outside.

Harry notices Rosy out of the corner of his eye, slinking around the edges of the room. The man turns around in his chair and stares at her, a look on his face that Harry feels like he hasn't seen in a long time, and Rosy struts over to him. She starts talking to him, looking strangely breathless and giggly. She flicks her hair around her finger and smiles seductively, and Harry tries to avert his eyes but he suddenly feels like every movement of the two is vitally important. He feels an odd pulling sensation in his stomach as he watches the two, like everything in him is focused on the murmur of their lips and the smooth back and forth of their body language. For a brief moment their murmurs become harsher, but then Rosy smiles again and murmurs what looks like, "Whatever you want."

The man takes one final pretend sip of his drink and stands up, walking over to the stairs and disappearing into the darkness as he climbs out of sight. Rosy gives Harry a quick glance, her eyes a little nervous as a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "It's him," she whispers, looking to Harry for approval. Harry looks over at the stairs at where the man had just disappeared, and had to force down the urge to shout "Don't!" across the bar. Instead he smiles at Rosy, and she beams back, hurrying to follow her eight hundred galleons.

It's the last time Harry sees his new friend alive.


* * * * *


Harry can't hear anything but the ringing of a thousand screams in his ears. He doesn't know if they're his or someone else's and he tries to scratch them away but they won't leave. They won't go. He hammers on the sides of his head and his throat feels raw as he cries out, trying not to open his eyes for fear they'll spurt all over the ground all of the blood he's seen. His clothes are sticking to his skin with a mixture of vomit and excrement but he doesn't care, he just wants the screaming to stop.

"It's the same, alright. Look at her. Like the others. She's been completely--"

"I don't want to. Wait until the special unit comes in -- I'm not paid enough to deal with this shit."

"Who's this guy?"

"Dunno."

"Get him out of here, will you?"

"I think he's her friend."

A pause that Harry thinks he'll remember for the rest of his life.

"Not anymore."


* * * * *


"These past few weeks haven't been his best." A pause. "No."

Harry presses his ear harder against the door.

"Well, the murders -- you've heard about the murders, yes? They were in the paper. -- No, Mum, the paper I sent you the other day -- yes. The ones - yes, those ones. On the front page. Well, one of the latest ones -- no, they don't know yet. One of his friends from work was killed -- No. I know. I know. I couldn't -- I know! Exactly."

Harry feels something on the back of his neck and he shudders and flicks it off. A spider scuttles down the hall and he watches it for a second before pulling himself back to the conversation again.

"--Yes, absolutely disgusting. I know. She'd been completely mutilated -- you are? Well, yes, I suppose if he'd raped her afterwards then it would have been worse--" A long pause. "I know. Harry vomited and then passed out. What a thing for him to see. Especially with the way he is -- I know! Exactly. I feel sick just thinking about it, but for him to -- No. He's left, now. I don't think it's safe for him to be there, anyway, he might be targeted -- yes. No. He can't handle much at the moment. His nightmares are getting worse, he can't possibly be sleeping at all -- we have to heal his throat every morning."

Harry rubs his hand up against his neck.

"Sometimes he knows. Sometimes he talks about it. Sometimes he completely refuses to acknowledge it, like that whole time of his life just didn't happen. That's normal, though, I've heard, in situations like these."

Situations like these.

"Me? I'm fine. I'm--" A long pause. "Well, I'm not sure how well you'd be coping either--" Hermione clears her throat. "I'd love to but I can't leave Remus alone with--"

Harry can almost hear the frown in Hermione's voice.

"Well, I can't leave Harry by himself, Merlin knows what he'd do!"

Harry blinks.

"Yes, he's that bad. Has these sorts of relapses where he thinks he's back with -- Yeah. I know. It's hard to stand sometimes, he looks like he's suffering so much. I mean, you save someone and you think they're healing but -- What? Oh. I'm not sure. I don't think he's getting worse. He doesn't seem to be getting any better."

A very long pause this time.

"I couldn't. Really. I know it seems like the most sensible thing to do but he just doesn't have anyone, you know? -- I have a life. I do. At the moment it's looking after -- look, I can make my own decisions now. Half the time Harry doesn't know what's going on and the other half he's probably hallucinating, so -- well, I think love and care can help him."

Harry smiles a little to himself.

"What do you mean, my failing? What, you want me to chuck him into a padded cell and throw away the key? He's not completely mental! He was tortured, Mum, where's your bloody sympathy? Yes, yes -- sorry. Besides, they think he might have seen the guy who -- yes. Well, Harry was there that night. He must have seen whoever it was. They think he knows something, they don't want him drugged up, do they? -- What do you mean, who's "they"? The Aurors, Mum. The Aurors who are investigating the -- yes, they're like police. Police for wizards. I -- what?! No, they don't think Harry did it!" Hermione's voice is so loud Harry doesn't even need to press his ear against the door. "What? No! Because I trust him. Harry wouldn't do something like that! He's traumatised, he's not a fucking psychopath --"

Traumatised. Harry chews at his fingernails. Traumatised.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to swear. Yes, yes, I'm sorry. But really. Harry wouldn't hurt a fly. Well, except himself but -- what? Oh. Yes, he was for a while. They don't think he'll try to hurt himself properly again, hopefully he's too enthralled with being back with the world again that --" Hermione laughs weakly. "No. I guess not -- what? Well. He, er, knocked a wall down. I don't know. He was angry. He gets like that sometimes. But I suppose everyone does -- oh, well, I do have Remus here. He's a lot stronger than Harry is, I think -- he's not that old! He's old enough to protect me, Mum. From whatever mood takes Harry."

Harry hears Hermione sit down, slowly, on one of the old armchairs.

"I don't know," she says, and her voice has suddenly gone soft. "I honestly don't know, Mum. I don't think he's looking for -- even if he were he wouldn't be interested in me -- well, just because. It's -- you don't know what it's like here. We're all fucked up together, really." A bitter laugh. "Yes, I won't. No. Look, I should go -- just, well, because. I'll talk to you later, all right? Love you, Mum. Bye."

Harry hears the snap close of the two-way mirror and, after a brief moment of pause, the inevitable sound of muffled crying. He stands up slowly and walks down the hall, swaying slightly as he goes. He makes his way into his room and climbs into bed, praying for one night of sleep.


* * * * *


Harry wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of his own screaming. He struggles to free himself of the sheets confining him to his bed, begging and pleading and moaning. Just let me go, please, let me go.... His heart thunders at a million miles an hour and his body aches with pain and memory, and he can feel hot tears streaming down his face. He can still feel it -- the curses, the whispered words, the hands on his body and in his mind, the pain and the guilt and the sickness...

He swallows, repeatedly, trying to force the bile down as he tries to wrench the thick duvets away from his sweating limbs. He can't stand it. He can't stand it any longer. He can't stand the memories, the hurt, the pain, all of this that they said was everything he needed --

Something catches Harry gaze out of the corner of his eye, and with a start he snaps his head to the fluttering curtains.

There is a face. A face at the window.

Harry screams as a bolt of terror flashes through his body, but the face still stays there, staring at him unblinkingly. He clutches at his heart and falls to the floor, edging away with shaking limbs. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The face shakes its head slowly and Harry's heart pumps blood faster than it ever has, urging him to go, go, go!

But Harry can't leave. He is frozen to the spot, because as his eyes clear from the tears and focus on the bedraggled face at the window, he notices two things: one, that this is the man from the bar weeks ago.

And two, that this man is Severus Snape.


* * * * *


The room is dark. Harry stands by the door.

He remembers waking up. Screaming. And running, his bare feet being ripped open by the unrelenting ground beneath them. Chasing a man in a dark coat.

He remembers a hand coming out of nowhere to grab him, that sick pull in his stomach, and he remembers falling.

He remembers a thick door clanging behind him, sending tremours of fear down his spine.

He doesn't know where he is. What he is doing here. Why he is here. He stares at the man on the other side of the room, who has ignored Harry since he entered. There is a small basin attached to the wall and the man strides over to it, drops of crimson liquid falling from his hands as he goes. Harry expects to hear the slight drip drip as it splatters against the ground, or at least the clipping of hie heels as he walks across the floor -- but there is nothing. Harry lets out a hitched breath and the sound disappears almost as soon as it comes.

Run, Harry.

And he does.


* * * * *


After that, it happens again, time after time. Always the same. At first it is only at night, but then it starts happening during the day. He'll be sitting on the couch, or pouring himself a glass of water, and suddenly the man will be there, at the window. Harry tells himself every time that he's not going to run, that he's going to stay put. But then the face appears and suddenly Harry is out the door and on the road, crying out as glass and gravel tear at the thick soles of his feet, unable to stop the constant pounding of his legs or the tears flowing down his cheeks. The hand appears out of nowhere and grabs the front of his shirt, he feels sick, he falls...

And he is in the room again. The man's hands drip blood onto the ground, and Harry only has a few seconds to stare at the hooked nose, the greasy hair, the sallow skin he knows so well before the man walks silently across the room to wash his hands, and the feeling of terror overtakes Harry and he's gone. Within minutes he is back at the house again, crying into his pillow and staining the sheets.

He tries wearing shoes constantly, even to bed. He tries tying himself up, which gets him a stern visit from Healer Hoskins. He tries telling Hermione and Remus, but they're too busy bandaging his feet and murmuring softly to him to listen. He can't get the words out, anyway; they stick in his throat like daggers.

He tries spending a whole day with Hermione. He doesn't leave her side, and tells her to grab him if he starts to run. It works and Harry is giddy with excitement until Hermione needs to use the toilet and refuses to allow Harry in with her. As soon as the door slams in front of his face he snaps his head to the skylight and whimpers with terror at the flashing eyes and maniacal grin.

Running. Screaming. Bleeding. Grabbing. Falling. Clanging.

The blood drips. Harry looks around for an escape, but there are no windows in the dark room. There are benches and shelves and pots and pans and a closet door swinging wide open, but Harry can't see any sign of the door that has just slammed behind him. The air is thick with the stench of blood and decay.

"I--" Harry croaks but it is too late. Snape walks across the room to wash his hands, and at the sight of the blood swirling down the drain, Harry lurches and starts to sprint. He doesn't know how he gets from inside the dank room with no door to outside in the day, but he doesn't care. All he cares about is getting back, back, back.

The door opens and Hermione stares down at him, crumpled at her feet. The carpet is already matted with crimson stains from his feet, and he clutches them helplessly.

"Oh Harry, not again," Hermione whispers, and Harry starts to cry.


* * * * *

Continue to Part Two.