Hatred is Harder to Bear

-Wujjawoo-

Standard Disclaimers Apply

A/N: Not HBP compatible. Dumbledore is alive and Snape is still at Hogwarts. Snape was not DADA teacher. Majority of story held in seventh year.

oOoOo

You may not believe until you see, but you cannot see until you believe.

What an odd thought.

"Pathetic," sneered Snape, watching impatiently as they boy hauled himself once again from the stone floor. The foolish boy wouldn't even meet his eyes now, though for what reason he could not fathom.

"Again," drawled Snape, lazily raising his wand. It was so easy trying to break into the boy's mind. There was no trying in it, honestly. For the sixth time that evening he delved into the boy's mind, rifling viciously through the memories. He sought out a particularly hurtful one and brought it to the fore, barely even flinching against the boy's useless resistance. It was obvious the boy hadn't been practicing. Every time he felt emotion he would go to pieces, and Snape grew weary of the time they spent wastefully practicing something the boy would never grasp.

He never felt bad about what he saw in the boy's mind. In fact, sometimes he even enjoyed the brat's discomfort and anger. It wasn't like he went out of his way to draw out the bad emotions, at least not all of the time. The boy needed the practice while he was under stress, even if he didn't like it. But it was not Snape's job to care, and the delightful justification of the pain the boy felt was such a better way of insulting the memory of James Potter.

Snape browsed through the memory again, taking particular delight in the precise moment that Black realised he had lost, and felt the last of the boy's will buckle before him. He withdrew from the boy's mind, sneer forming on his face.

"An absolutely pitiable attempt. Your shields are nothing more than weak, feeble walls that buckle at the slightest pressure. I should be glad I will not have to see the inside of your dismal mind until next year. Get out."

The glare sent his way was wholly unbecoming, and Snape felt a vicious stab of triumph. The boy was rude and arrogant and lazy, just like his father. Ah well, a few weeks of holidays would give him a well-deserved break in which he could re-establish the foundations of his hate for the boy so that he would again be able to put up with the trial of teaching him Occlumency.

With an irritated scowl he returned to his office, and as he sat the thought from Potter's mind briefly ran through his head.

You may not believe until you see, but you cannot see until you believe.

What in Merlin's name did that mean? He gave a snort of displeasure. The last thing he needed was to be thinking of incomprehensible riddles that came from that boy's head.

oOoOo

As Harry followed his Uncle through the front door of the house on Privet Drive, what was undeniably a Smelting's stick descended upon his shoulders with a hard crack. He winced, ducking slightly to relieve the pressure, and dropped his trunk. Uncle Vernon spun to face him, his face an ugly red.

One of these days, thought Harry, as he did every time he returned to Privet Drive, you're going to drop dead of a heart attack and I'm damned well going to be here to enjoy it.

Dudley shuffled behind his father and Harry sent him a nasty scowl.

"Get to your cupboard, boy, I don't want to see you," he hissed. "I won't have you upsetting Petunia or Marge."

Harry bent to lift is trunk and dragged it into his cupboard, hating the thought of this family. In a curious twist of fate, it had been Aunt Marge who succumbed to heart failure, and he had home at the end of fifth year to find his few meagre belongings strewn carelessly across the floor of the cupboard under the stairs and the broad mass of Aunt Marge draped across his bed in Dudley's old second bedroom. Now in residence, along with that damnable dog of hers, her presence had not made things any better.

Harry closed the door as softly as he could behind him and flicked the light switch. Nothing. He should have known better than to think that Uncle Vernon would have thought to replace the broken light bulb. He refrained from swearing and, fumbling in the darkness, pulled up the loose floorboard in the corner of the cupboard. Scrabbling through the dust that had drifted there over the months, he retrieved the torch he had used for the better part of last year and flicked it on. The light was dim and yellow, and he thought briefly about a trip to Dudley's room or Uncle Vernon's study for new batteries.

Later, though. Moving quickly, he flung the lid of his trunk open and piled anything that was remotely magical into the dirty space beneath the floor. He remembered last year when he had walked in and Aunt Marge had insisted they search his belongings for the contraband items she was sure would be there. Drugs, she had said, flinging open the lid. Pornography. Weapons.

It was simply bad luck that the first thing she had come across was his charms book.

Black magic! Aunt Marge had screamed. The little devil practicing witchcraft on my brother's family!

Aunt Petunia had led a distraught Aunt Marge away to console her and Uncle Vernon had given Harry the appropriate punishment. Harry sighed. He would make certain that wouldn't happen again, that was for sure.

He remembered the time Uncle Vernon had hit him. That was the day Aunt Marge had found out about freaks, and found out that Harry was one of them. Uncle Vernon had been so furious and afterward he'd just stood there staring down at Harry, panting like a bull, and Harry had stared up at him in stunned silence. That was the moment he'd realised that the Dursley's would never think of him with anything other than hate, and he knew he had been a fool to have hoped otherwise. He'd laid there on the floor, arms braced against the tiles, and then he'd gotten up and gone to his cupboard. He waited until he'd shut the door before his hand went to his jaw and he let the betrayal flash across his face, but that had been that.

That day had been a turning point in the Dursley household. Harry had been too ashamed to tell anyone, afraid that they would find out how he was treated, and the Dursley's had gained confidence around him. They knew, now, that he wouldn't tell anyone, even though he promised himself every time that he would.

At first Uncle Vernon had been afraid of what he'd done, fearful of retribution, but Aunt Marge's presence had been a source of strength for him. Together with Dudley, they sought to break Harry. They never did anything more than taunt him and mock him, at least until the evenings. Sometimes when the alcohol came out he would get a shove, or get thrown into his cupboard, but he tried not to let it worry him. He was angry, so angry at them for it, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that he would be gone within a few weeks.

So he saved his anger for the person who really deserved it. He saved it so he would be able to kill.

oOoOo

Harry glared up at the wide form blocking the doorway of his cupboard. Dudley grinned down at him, twirling something between his fingers. It was too dark to see much, but Harry could see the glint of teeth in his wide grin. He sneered at Harry's lack of responsiveness and straightened.

"You're so pathetic," he scoffed, looking down at Harry. Harry drew his knees up to his chest and leaned his head so that he might see Dudley better. Dudley grinned again. "Did you have a good birthday?" he asked, smirking.

"Go away, Dudley," said Harry.

"I guess not. I forgot to tell Dad to take the lock off your door. That can't have been too good, can it?" He shrugged as though he had only made a minor error and Harry felt his anger burn. His birthday had been over two weeks ago. Obviously Dudley thought it was a particularly momentous triumph that they had forgotten to celebrate it, and he kept bringing it up.

He shoved his anger down. Only a week…

He counted down the days, sitting in his dark little cupboard and plotting victorious and satisfying moments of revenge. Eventually Dudley left him alone, but he didn't forget to secure the lock. Harry felt disgust at his relatives. He had not thought they would regress to those years when they'd locked him in the cupboard and starved him.

He felt disgust at himself. He was such a coward for not telling someone.

As soon as Dudley left, Harry pulled the book he had been reading from under his mattress and switched the torch back on. Reading had been a lifeline in this silent, solitary environment, and he found he could almost enjoy it. It took the hours away like nothing else did, and he learnt things, things he would never learn at Hogwarts.

They weren't books that anyone else knew he had, and he doubted he'd be allowed to keep them if anyone found out, but he had to defeat Voldemort somehow, and he wasn't going to do it with a jelly legs jinx. So he read, and learned, and stored his emotions for a time when they would matter.

That night he laid down on the thin, lumpy mattress and pulled the skimpy blanket over himself. He closed his eyes and listened to the pounding rain outside. It was so peaceful, so tranquil, and he drifted in a sea of calm. He nearly enjoyed these times, when he could just shut everything out and pretend he was happy. He rubbed his scar and sighed, and then sat up in sudden realisation. He blinked and listened to the patter of rain above his head, and smiled. He called the sense of peace to his mind again and closed his eyes.

He couldn't be sure- wouldn't be sure until he got back to Hogwarts- but he thought that maybe, just maybe, this was what Occlumency was. It wasn't magic, he thought, wishing Snape had explained that to him. He fell asleep.

oOoOo

A/N: Short, yes, but just an intro. I don't think this story will be too long, but I've been dying to write it for ages so it should be good. And help! How many girls in Harry's year in Gryffindor? Is there only three? Please review- Wujjawoo.