3: The Talk

Snape had decided that the time had come to Have a Talk.

Though that probably wasn't the right term, really, since Snape was the only one doing any talking. And here he thought he had escaped the life of teaching. Apparently the forces of power in the universe had not yet finished punishing him for whatever crime it was that had earned this.

Only this time he couldn't even make fun of his solitary student. Yet another proof that life in America was actually worse than life in Britain, as hard as that was to believe.

"I feel there are a few things that need to be made clear between us," Snape began. He sat formally in the armchair, clasped hands resting on his knees, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. He knew it was a stretch—maybe he would get better at it with practice.

Harry stared back at him with those enormous green eyes, like a baby bird peering fearfully up out of its nest at the teeth of an approaching cat. He had jammed himself into a corner of the couch, hugging his knees to his chest, stockinged toes wiggling slightly on the floral-patterned cushion though the rest of his body was entirely still. The boy was obviously even more uncomfortable with this situation than Snape was, if it that were possible.

Snape cleared his throat. "Are you listening, Harry? I know that you have chosen not to talk for this time, though of course the why of this eludes me." He glared briefly, then remembered himself and made it go away. "Right. As I was saying, you needn't acknowledge me in words, if you don't wish to do so. However, I would appreciate knowing that I'm being heard. I'd like you to nod, or blink, or anything, really. Just let me know that you're listening to me."

For a long time, nothing happened. Then Harry blinked.

Snape decided to accept that as an answer. "Very well. That will do." He nodded firmly, then sat up a little straighter. "I want this to be very, very clear. Harry . . ." The man leaned forward slightly, willing the truth of this to be conveyed in the earnestness of his eyes, the sternness of his voice. It was incredibly important that the boy know and understand this fact. "I will never hurt you."

Harry blinked again.

With another nod, of satisfaction this time, Snape sat back and relaxed slightly. "Yes. That's good. I need you to know that you need never fear me. You have been abused, I am aware of this fact, and you are afraid of everyone. But you needn't be, Harry." He slapped his knee slightly in emphasis, and nearly pointed his finger as the lecturing mode came over him once again. As much as he had always loathed teaching, it seemed that some habits, once learned, would never be lost.

He shook his head to banish that, carefully lowering his hand. "You needn't be," he repeated firmly. "You need not fear me. I will never raise my hand to you in anger. I will not strike you, nor will I . . ." He had to swallow at this one. "Verbally abuse you. I know . . ."

His forehead wrinkled as he paused, pursing his lips. Merlin, this was harder to say than he had expected. "I know I have not been very kind to you in the past . . . though I'm not sure you even remember that. I have been accused of being verbally abusive by various uptight colleagues . . . but let's not get into that right now. I will simply say that, should your memories ever come back to you, I hope you will not hold my past behavior against me. I promise you now that I will not treat you so in the future."

Harry made no response, not even a blink, but his mouth dropped open slightly. It was obvious that he did not believe a word of this.

"I swear it to you, Harry. I swear . . ." Snape cast desperately around for something suitable to swear on. He didn't see a Bible or crucifix or star of David or anything, not that any of those would probably have any meaning to this remarkably messed-up child. At last he slumped in defeat, then plucked his wand from its hiding place in his sleeve with an unnecessary but well-practiced flourish. "I swear on my wand. Without this, I could not do magic." Not that I can do any magic at the moment anyway, as we're supposed to be hiding. Bloody Death Eaters and their ingenious tracking spells . . . "It's my single most important possession, Harry. I might even go so far as to call it my soul. And I swear to you, by this, my soul, that I will never harm you. Do you believe me now?"

Harry blinked several times in succession. It was really too rapid and shocked to be anything but involuntary, but Snape was in no mood to quibble.

"Excellent! I'm very happy that we understand each other."

Snape leaned back in his chair and picked up a book. What else did he need to explain? The sooner he figured it out, the better. Then they could put this all behind them and go back to being teacher and student, though without the verbal abuse, of course. He was very much looking forward to that, to being able to escape the role he was currently being forced to play.

Which was . . . what? Child minder? Guard? Therapist?

By all that was holy, he hoped it wasn't the last one. Severus Snape would undoubtedly be the worst therapist on the face of the planet, and likely in the entire galaxy as well, if there was intelligent life somewhere out there. Even now something was niggling at the back of his mind . . . he'd forgotten . . . what had he forgotten?

At last he glanced up, half in irritation and half in doubt, and saw Harry still staring at him nervously. "Oh." Snape lowered his book and spread one hand. "You may go, if you wish. That was all I wanted to discuss at this time. But we'll be having more talks in the future, I'm sure."

Harry popped out of his fetal position and practically ran into his room, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Snape stared after him for a moment, a bit disconcerted. Had he frightened the boy? In an attempt to prevent him from being frightened?

The world was insane. It had to be.

He turned back to his reading, but could not concentrate. The words were too long and too specific, and nothing was helpful. After reading the same page three or four times, he admitted defeat and tossed the book aside with a fretful grunt. Nothing was working the way it was supposed to. His attempt at reassurance had obviously backfired, and he had no energy to try again.

For a while he stared at the wall, watching the shape of the light coming in the window angle across the surface, shifting gently as the afternoon wore on. The leaves of the tree outside the window were painted in shifting shadows across the cream surface, and the sight was somewhat soothing. Snape could feel himself being hypnotized . . . at last he shook his head and uncrossed his eyes, then looked back down the hall again, frowning lightly.

The door to Harry's room was still open.

Well, it certainly couldn't hurt. Snape couldn't see how anything he did could possibly worsen the situation. With a decisive nod at that impeccable logic, he rose to his feet and carefully made his way to the door, then peeped inside.

The small single bed was a wild disarray of covers and sheets, the pillow missing, and if Harry were himself Snape would no doubt scold him for his untidiness. But everything else in the room seemed completely untouched, as if no one had stepped inside for the past two weeks at all. The bookcase against the far wall stood straight and tall, full of children's picture books and classic novels—all Muggle though, tragically. The nightstand and dresser were also meticulously kept, and the open door of the closet revealed Harry's sparse wardrobe hanging calmly and perfectly on hangers.

And there was Harry, sitting in a corner of the closet with his knees drawn up, clutching the missing pillow to his chest with whitened fingers. His eyes were wide and distant, his face blank. He rocked slightly, almost imperceptibly, a constant motion that would make Snape dizzy if he watched for more than a moment.

And here, at last, Snape caught a glimpse of something he could not name, the thing that had torn away the brash, arrogant, vociferous Harry Potter he knew and replaced him with this frightened, silent child. It was dark and cold and empty and lost, and it resonated in the Potions Master's spirit with a familiarity that terrified him.

It shocked him back a step, and he stood there, blinking, his breath inexplicably accelerated. He tried to shake it off, but could not. "Harry? Harry, what are you doing?"

The green eyes flashed upward, wide and alarmed, and Harry lunged forward, grabbed the bottom of the closet door, and pulled it shut with a resounding smash. Snape started at the sound, so loud that it seemed it could not possibly have been produced by this habitually quiet boy.

For a split second he considered forcing his way in and demanding an explanation for this incomprehensible behavior, but he immediately decided against that. The boy apparently felt safe in there, for whatever reason, and it would not do to take away the only sense of security he had found, however pathetic and unsettling it was.

Shaking his head slightly as if to dispel the strange thoughts and feelings that were suddenly tugging at him, Snape turned on his heel and walked back toward the living room. He sat in the armchair and stared at the wall, trying to find a name for what he had seen in Harry, the thing that resonated so familiarly with him.

The light from the window was almost vanished by the time he figured it out, at least partly, and what light remained was tinged red with the death of the sun. He knew it wasn't the entire truth, but there was a word that worked, and he was just a tiny bit pleased with himself for reasoning it out. The sense of the pleasure was completely dwarfed, though, by the other sensations roused by this realization, this small bit he had worked out of the mess of tangled thoughts, pulling it like snarled and knotted thread from an unruly pile of yarn. What he had seen Harry, seen in himself.

Loneliness.