Seeking the Star

WARNING: this chapter contains graphic descriptions of self-mutilation (read: cutting). if this squicks you, read with caution.

ch.14. title and explainatioded,ded, as well.

Ch.15.

Severus fell to his knees as the Cruciatus curse ripped through his limbs. \"You,\" a high, cold voice sneered, \"are late.\" Voldemort ended the curse, leaving Severus lying prone on the ground, panting. \"Why?\"

\"I was detained with a student, my Lord.\" Severus struggled not to flinch as Voldemort rudely invaded his mind, searching for the lie that was not there. He had another momentary struggle not to show surprise as a memory of Potter scrubbing out cauldrons flitted into his minhe she surprise was soothed out of his mind by what could only have been Harry. Severus quelled all thoughts of Potter. He had to face the Dark Lord. There was no room for the distractions that could invade at Hogwarts.

Voldemort stared down at the prone Severus Snape intently. This particular subject caused him grief with his excuses of \'students\' and \'Dumbledore\' and \'appearances\'. Nonetheless, having a teacher in Hogwarts was advantageous. He gestured, and Snape got to his feet as quickly as he could, taking his place in the line of Death Eaters.

Severus was becoming more and more sure that Voldemort was either losing his touch or losing his mind. It did not take a genius evil overlord to realize that repeatedly inflicting the Unforgivable Curses on one\'s closest minions for no apparent reason would negatively impact both their loyalty and their mental functioning. By the time they were all allowed to depart, his entire body ached with the effects of the Cruciatus, and he was quite sure that the clarity of his mind was somehow due to Harry, although he had no idea what the boy could have possibly done for him. He reported immediately to Dumbledore\'s office, to relate what little valuable information he\'d garnered. Albus didn\'t even bother to offer him tea.

\"He told you absolutely nothing of value?\" Albus asked. Snape put his head in his hands, causing his hair to fall forward in ragged curtains.

\"Not thatemememember, Albus. There were mentions of future plans, and a rant about how his triumph over Potter would come.\" Severus sighed. \"I\'m starting to think that the Unicorn blood that Quirrel consumed is somehow affecting his mental processes.\" His hands tightened in his hair. \"He has become pointlessly brutal, even to the faithful.\" The last word came out on a patented Snape sneer, full of venom and bitterness.

Albus sighed. \"Very well, Severus. Get along to bed. I believe you will find a very worried Gryffindor waiting for you where you left him.\" Each man gave the other a fairly inscrutable look before Severus pulled himself tiredly out of his chair and left the office, his walk lacking its usual sweep.

Harry looked to Severus as though he was asleep on the couch, curled toward the fire, but as soon as he heard the door he was up and at the Potions Master\'s side. He took Severus\' arm and invited the taller man to lean his weight. Touching Harry seemed to lessen his agony, if only minutely.

\"Why aren\'t you in bed, Harry?\" Severus attempted to summon a biting voice, but failed. Harry simply took more of his weight, and began to walk him to the bedroom.

\"I had to wait for you.\" Apparently, the boy thought it was a sufficient answer, and Severus was too tired to question him further. Harry helped him take off his robes and outer coat before pulling back the duvet and sheets and pushing Severus to sit on the bed. He then removed the older wizard’s shoes, placing them neatly by the side of the bed, and motioned for him to get into bed. He then removed his own robe, jumper, and shoes, and climbed in the other side of the bed. A flick of his long fingers quelled the candles, leaving the room in darkness.

\"What do you think you\'re doing, Potter?\" Severus\' maliceless voice cut through the blackness. He felt Harry\'s spine settle next to his arm.

\"Not leaving you alone and in pain.\" Harry wiggled around, getting comfortable in the strange bed.

\"You\'ll be missed.\" Severus rolled on his side so that his spine slid into place just above Harry\'s.

\"No. I sleep in my rooms often enough. They don\'t expect me in the Tower anymore.\" Harry yawned. \"I\'m not leaving, Sev. You\'ll recover better if I stay.\" Harry\'s back pushed into Severus\' with every breath. It was strangely comforting. \"Goodnight, Sev.\"

\"Goodnight.\" Exhausted, they both slept.

Severus woke with a scream in his throat to the sight of Harry Potter\'s tousled head on the adjacent pillow. The sheer horror of his nightmare weighed heavily on his chest and Harry\'s back pressed into his stomach. Before he realized what he was doing, he clutched the boy desperately to him.

Harry was instantly awake. He began murmuring comforting nonsense while nimbly twisting around in Severus\' arms so that he could see the other man\'s face. Harry wrapped his arms around Severus, holding the larger man tightly to him, and stroking his hair. Severus\' fingers dug into Harry\'s back.

\"Sev, it\'s okay. You\'re not alone. No one\'s hurting you. You\'re not alone.\" Harry pulled Severus\' head gently onto his shoulder, still gently stroking his hair. \"I\'m not leaving, Sev, you\'re not alone. Nothing here can hurt you.\" Slowly, the shaking subsided, and the grip of fingers on Harry\'s back lessened. Some time in betweHarrHarry realized that the words he was repeating softly into Severus\' ear were the same ones that the older Wizard had often spoken to him. Harry released Severus when the hands on his back loosened and withdrew. Severus abruptly turned and practically leapt out of bed.

\"I apologize for my behavior, Mr. Potter. I acted inappropriately.\" He made to go to his wardrobe.

\"Oh no you don\'t, Severus Snape.\" The words stopped him in his tracks. \"You will not, and did not.\" Harry\'s voice was shockingly fierce.

\"I most certainly did, Mr. Potter. Now if you will excuse me.\" He started for the wardrobe again.

\"I will not.\" Severus turned, torn between shock and fury. Harry sat in his bed, looking incredibly fierce for someone he knew couldn\'t see him clearly. \"You were subjected to the Cruciatus Curse five times last night. Your nightmare was nothing if not an entirely normal reaction to such strain. I should know.\" Harry skittered across the bed and stood in front of Severus. He didn\'t even reach Severus\' shoulder. His hand reached up, fingers barely brushed Severus\' chin.

\"You are my bonded. For now, forever, it doesn\'t matter. I feel you. And as long as I can feel that I can be here, for you, I will. I have to.\" Harry looked down, staring at his bare feet, which had turned blue-white against the cold stone of the floor. \"It\'s a Gryffindor thing,\" he said, so softly that Severus barely heard him. \"We don\'t give up on anyone. Even stubborn self-sacrificing Potions Masters.\"

\"That is quite enough, Harry.\" Snape\'s voice snapped, but Harry saw the amusement in the obsidian eyes. Besides, Severus had referred to him as Harry, which meant he had understood Harry\'s joke for what it was. \"Now, you had best get ready. Breakfast will be served shortly.\" Harry nodded, and then stopped and looked around the room. There were no windows, yet the room brightened just as his own bedroom would.

\"Neat trick, this sunrise without windows.\" He stooped to slip his shoes on, and pulled his jumper over his head, throwing his robe on top. Harry left the room before Severus could conjure up a suitable rejoinder. The boy was far too cheeky for his own good.

Harry headed for his rooms. He had a fair idea what time it was despite his lack of a timepiece. \'Come on,\' he thought. \'I want a shower and a change before breakfast, you know.\' The thought seemed to be sufficient. He turned up the next corridor, and found himself near his door. He gave a little hop of glee as his doorkeepers greeted him. \'The castle listens to me!\' The thought was so absurd, and yet so undeniably true that Harry wanted to do a little jig of happiness right up to the library to research sentient castles. Once he was safely ensconced in his room, he gave himself a wry smile. \'The castle seems to listen to me and my first thought is to head for the library. I\'m turning into Hermione.\' Something within him rejoiced at that thought, too. His smile only broadened at the sarcastic snort of Severus that flitted into his mind. His pleasure must have traveled to the Potions Master. Thoughts of Severus quickly sobered Harry. The situation and condition of his bonded gnawed at the back of his mind, shadowing his simple pleasures with deadly seriousness. He rang for Dobby, requested his books from Gryffindor Tower and a set of clean robes, then stripped quickly and plunged himself into a hot shower, trying to work a tension out of his body that was not wholly his own.

At the end of the day, Harry trudged back to his rooms exhausted and frustrated. His Schemata lesson with Severus had not gone well. They had bickered back and forth about the fact that the Potions Master was still in pain and refused Harry\'s aid, or to go see Madam Pomfrey. Severus had been in a foul temper all day, and Harry\'s attunement to him caused the degeneration of the younger Wizard\'s mood as well. It seemed that Severus\' pain levels directly corresponded to Harry\'s proximity, and the hours they spent away from each other left the younger Wizard in pain and the older in agony. Harry had berated Severus for his stubbornness, and Severus had yelled at Harry for his cheek. It had bloomed into a loud argument. Harry had broken first, and apologized, but he left the lesson feeling as though he had betrayed Severus in a way he could not put to words. He should be able to do more, even out of close proximity. Severus shouldn\'t even have to do what he was doing. Harry should have been able to better protect him. Severus had been subjected to Cruciatus because Harry had made him late. Harry had contributed to Severus\' pain, and made it worse by not being more understanding of his bonded. He was near despondant by the time he took leave of the Potions Master.

Harry sat down on the floor of his room, Phecda tangled in his hair and Dubhe draped across his shoulders. The snakes did not speak to him, realizing that he needed their silent presence more than he needed to talk. He was boiling so badly that his hands trembled, fisting and stretching seemingly without his knowledge or control. He was a tightly wound coil, and it worried the two snakes. They had become very attuned to Harry, and really rather liked the powerful young Wizard. Thus, both sensed his anger and frustration, and then the sudden resolution when it came to him. It swept like fire through him, burning out his anger, focusing it, making it pure.

\"Accio scalpel.\" The blade from his Potions toolkit flew across the room and into his waiting fingers. He had been fiddling in his small laboratory on and off, and tended to leave his tools open on a worktable. The scalpel fit comfortably in his hand and the blade was the sharpest he owned. His decision, once made, seemed so simple. He had to protect Severus and Albus. They were bonded to him, they needed each other. He needed them. He had failed Severus once, and Albus was undoubtedly the most important and necessary Wizard standing against Voldemort. He had no illusion that he was more powerful than his Headmaster, but he knew that his power could only add to his safety. This was what he was good for.

Hermione was certainly his friend, and he loved her, but Hermione had a beloved. She had Ron. Ron who hated him, Ron who had done so much to make him unhappy, Ron who had practically forced him from his own dormitory. Harry was the crux of the Prophesy, and Severus and Albus were the only ones who could keep him alive until he could fulfill his role. He couldn\'t, and wouldn\'t, allow either of them to come to harm.

Albus had told him about the power of pain, about the raw and natural magic that the body contained. Pain purified, pain distracted, pain focused. If one could learn to use pain, it was a terribly powerful tool. Somewhere, in all his lessons, Harry had learned how to use his own pain.

Harry looked down at his left hand. He clenched and stretched it, watching the scars lighten and darken. They made fine raised lines all over his hands; the two most prominent were across the back, where Bellatrix had severed his tendons. One line stretched just below his knuckles, the other was about a half inch down, closer to his wrist. His right hand looked identical, except that under the two lines was the faint lettering I must not tell lies, that Umbridge had forced him to etch into his own skin. He had not healed the scar, though he supposed he could have. It was one of the things he needed to remember his resolve, and the dangers of zealotry. But the space, between Bellatrix\'s lines. It was perfect.

Over the summer, Albus had encouraged Harry to study Latin, as it was the root of all the spells they commonly used. He had also begun to learn Gaelic and Sanskrit, although his progress in those had been minimal. Latin, however, he had picked up well, having had a bit in grammar school and using it on a daily basis. Learning the language, Dumbledore maintained, would enable him to create spells for his own use. The words were just a focus point; the real magic was in intention.

But Harry knew that there was magic, at least for them, in Latin that simply wasn\'t there in English. Perhaps it was just their paradigm. In that moment, he didn\'t really care. He mulled for a moment, gathering the words he wanted, and then preparing. He summoned a towel, placing his hand over it, preparing his canvas.

The bite of the scalpel into the flesh of his left hand didn\'t sting. The blade bit, snagging slightly in flesh. It was straight, true, bloodless. He frowned at it, then balled his hand into a fist. Skin split along the line, capillaries opened. The line welled red, and with blood came pain. It was a little bite, a flash of ice. He opened and closed his hand, squeezing half-moons into his palm, until ice became fire and the line broke, leaking down his hand like a tear. He smiled at the pain. The world suddenly seemed to focus. This was for Albus.

The next cut began at the upper tip of the first. He pressed the scalpel until metal parted flesh, carefully ending the second cut so that it was level with the bottom of the first. The pain was immediate this time, and hot. A short third line, parallel to Bellatrix\'s scars, completed the first letter. He pressed the towel down on it, clearing the spilled blood enough that it wouldn\'t interfere.

Each cut became easier and harder. Pain grew, swelled to brilliant proportions. The bite of the blade became a kiss, became a memory of Albus. The kindly smile. Twinkling blue eyes. Bones breaking. Hexes uttered in the same voice that offered sweets. The duel with Voldemort. A tender embrace. A grandfatherly look of pride. A stare of blank displeasure. The realization of being a pawn. A comforting hand in his hair. Pain, pain, pain. Love and pain. Blood, bones, sinews, pain, love, comfort. Absolution. Penance. Atonement.

Harry\'s pain tangled with his memories, crept into the slits in his skin. It did not leak out with his blood, which ran freely between his fingers and down toward his wrist, covering his h The The towel soaked it up greedily, turning so much brighter than the black ruby that welled from within him. The letters were perfect and straight between the two long scars.

Adsum ut Meum Carum Ignem Defendeam

When he had finished, he blotted away his blood to examine his handiwork. It flamed as he flexed his fingers, and he smiled in satisfaction. All lessons hurt, all powers had price; his small pain would be a great measure of protection for them. And he deserved the pain for failing them.

This hand was for Albus. The other would be for Severus. He inhaled slowly, drawing power into himself, preparing to lay the threads across his own flesh. His body was the vessel of his power; his vessel should be marked for its contents and purposes. He closed his eyes, and then opened them again, fixing on his still-bleeding hand. The fingers of his right hand reached dexterously into the Schemata, pulling for the threads that he needed and weaving them together. The process was painstaking, and he had no idea how long it took before almost everything was in place. He then reached into himself, drawing out parts of his own Schema, weaving his bond to Albus into the complex spell. He ran his fingers over the whole thing, which looked like a complex and colorful braid, sealing the spell and setting it specifically to this scar, to his blood, to his essence. As he watched, it seemed to sink into his hand, clinging to the wound. Satisfied, he laid his right hand over his left, healing the open wounds, careful to leave the scar. He carefully checked the healing; making sure that it was just as he had wanted it.

And it was. It was perfect. Adsum ut meum carum ignem defendeam. I am here to protect my precious beloved. Or, I am here to protect my hard won beacons. My precious fire. Mine. I am here to protect what is mine. It appealed to him on many levels of significance. Better yet, the bond was strong. He inspected it again, and saw that there was a complicated offshoot of threads that he hadn\'t seen before. They did that, sometimes. Some threads were only visible once they were part of the one who was looking at them. There was much that still wasn\'t understood about how Wizards visualized Schema and Schemata. He traced the threads, spending long moments puzzling over them before he reached a tentative cusiousion that deeply startled him.

The strange group of threads seemed to indicate Hogwarts. The castle, by all appearances, was bound to Albus, and Harry had inadvertedly, or perhaps unconsciously, woven those threads into his protection. His spell now, in some way, extended to the castle itself. It was an interesting side effect that he had not considered, but it seemed fitting regardless. Hogwarts was the only real home he knew, and it kept those who were important to him safe. It added a new dimension of satisfaction to his work.

He turned to his right hand, taking the scalpel carefully in the newly healed left. This would be more difficult; he was not ambidextrous. He was, however, very careful. The pain was somehow more intense. It bloomed like a flower within him, focusing his consciousness until he was just a hand and a blade.

The memories of Severus were harder, stronger, heavier. The glare of the hated Potions Master. The cutting insults. The gentle arms cradling his body. The look of sick horror at his broken body. The fury of a wand pressed into his Godfather\'s chest. The empty anger of the man who bared his Dark Mark to the Minister. The pain of Cruciatus. The terror in black eyes. The protection. The resentment. The quick kiss of relief on his forehead. Blood. Pain. Insanity. Comfort. Penance. Forgiveness. Absolution. Atonement.

The The cutting took a long time, but when he finished it looked just as careful and perfect as the other. He wiped the blood from his hand and cradled it on the reddened towel. He didn\'t want to stain his pants or the floor, wanted all his blood carefully caught. It was no harder to lay the spell with his left hand than it was with his right. Albus had made sure that he was equally capable with both hands. Many Wizards were helpless without their wand hand, and he had ensured that Harry had no such weakness. It had taken a great deal of effort and practice, but he had achieved Schematic ambidexterity. He often wished that it extended beyond the realm of the Schematic. Weaving the protection spell for Severus was actually easier, as their bond was much closer.

He held both his trembling hands in front of his face, inspecting his work. The inscriptions showed more lightly than the scars he had received from Bellatrix, though they too were raised. When he made fists, all his scars glowed whitely against his skin. He was most satisfied. He had failed them, but he had made his own punishment part of the proof that he would not fail again.

He threw the bloody towel into the fire. There was barely enough strength in him to stand, but he managed to change his clothes, and collapse into bed. He slept peacefully, unworried by dreams.


a/n-
princess of swords-the spiritual warrior; victory following an inner conflict of the soul; repose after struggle. basking in the warmth of the sun. procesing the lessons of the sword, realizing its duality as a tool or a weapon.