Down On Your Knees

Chapter 2: Hard To Stumble

"It's hard to stumble when you're down on your knees"

“Harry, what was that about?” Ron nearly shouted at Harry. “I mean, something must have been wrong, you can’t possibly be in love with Snape! I mean, there’s just no way!”

“Yeah, um, the potion was wrong. I added the wrong amount of Moorehead Sap. It didn’t alter the looks or anything, but the potion was off. I was really confused and dizzy, and I don’t know why I said that. I am not in love with Snape, don’t worry.” This seemed to calm most of the crowd. The ever-trusting Hufflepuffs looked interested, and the suspicious Ravenclaws looked sated, but the Slytherins were not going to give this up so easily.

“So, you’re telling us that your potion that looked right, and smelled right, and got by a Potions Master, but was actually incorrect? And, not only was it incorrect, but it made you make up bogus stories? Sure, Potter. You’re just covering, and everyone here knows it,” Draco Malfoy said accusingly, pinning Harry with a glance that screamed, ‘I’ve got you backed up into a corner, now don’t I.’

“Yeah, that’s the long and short of it,” quipped Harry, feeling too drained by the day’s events to get defensive. “It’s been nice chatting with you, but the counter solution has left me exhausted and I am going to bed for a nice nap before dinner. Unless, of course, you would like to throw more accusations at me?”

“I only throw accusations at the guilty, Potter. You might fool them, but not me.” And with that, Malfoy disappeared down the hallway, trailed by Crabbe and Goyle. The rest of the Slytherins followed them. The other houses also dispersed, finding no need to stand around in the halls after their curiosity had been satisfied.

Harry had disappeared almost immediately after Draco finished his speech, and was tucked into bed before anyone else could question him. He shut the curtains around him, put some complicated charms on them, and his head fell back against the pillows. Two tiny tears trickled down his cheeks. He let them sit, until they were cold on his face, then he wiped them away and poked his arm out to find a bottle in the top drawer of his night stand. He found it easily, and read the label to himself. ‘Just what I need,’ he mused, and uncorked the vial. He soundlessly swallowed the contents, and fell back on to the bed with a resounding thump.

It was Ron who pulled him from his sleep. “Merlin, Harry, what did you take? I’ve been yelling at you for five minutes, and you barely twitched.” Harry slowly sat up, and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He fumbled for his glasses and looked at Ron while pointing at the vial on the comforter.

“It’s the best sleeping potion I could find. It took me forever to learn it, and so far it’s the most useful thing I’ve ever made. I had to buy the ingredients in Knockturn Alley the last time we went shopping. It keeps well. I think it might be the only thing I can count on sometimes.”

If the statement disturbed Ron, he didn’t show it. Instead, he grabbed Harry and dragged him down to the Great Hall for dinner, which they were already late for. The minute Harry walked into the hall, every eye was on him. He scanned the room and was greatly relieved to see that Snape had chosen to skip the meal. ‘Thank gods for small miracles,’ he thought to himself, and seated himself alongside Hermione. The news had obviously spread like wildfire, and most everyone was sneaking not-so-hidden glances at him. Well, everyone except the Slytherins. Harry chose not to think about what Snape must have said to them. Whatever it was, it worked.

The meal remained uneventful. Aside from a few raised eyebrows, nothing extreme happened. Even Malfoy refrained from causing a scene, much to Harry’s surprise and pleasure. Harry calmly returned to the common room, where he quietly, but firmly, repeated the tale of the potions mistake to the Gryffindors. It worked like a charm, and everyone was pleased. Harry finished the small amount of homework he had, and then played and lost a game of wizard chess with Ron.

At a little after ten, Harry yawned loudly and made his way back to the dorms to claim the sanctuary of his bed for the second time that day. He carefully put on pajamas, and nestled himself into bed. Having used the last of his sleeping potion supply, he counted on natural sleep to work for him that evening. It came easily. Harry slipped from the world of the conscience as visions of long dark hair, obsidian eyes, and warm steady hands coaxed him into sleep. However comforting these visions were, however, they did not last long.

~*(Nightmares had plagued Harry for as long as he could remember, so he wasn’t really surprised when visions of a battlefield played out in his head that night. He flinched as he saw the bodies strewn about on the ground. Years of experience told hi was was better not to look at those lost in the war. But one body did get his attention. It was Voldemort’s. He must have been dead, because a stunning spell, even from a powerful wizard, wouldn’t do much damage on him since the ritual he had performed. At least, not for long. Someone must have done something big to get him down on the ground. His heart gave a little cheer, but then it occurred to him that this wasn’t some insignificant battle, like the ones he had dreamed about before. Another investigative look around told him this wasn’t on a random English field either. The Quidditch pitch could be seen in the distance from where he stood. This was on Hogwarts grounds. And a closer look at Voldemort’s body showed him that Voldemort didn’t lay by himself. Someone Harry recognized was next to him. Harry looked down to see his own corpse laying head-to-foot with the Dark Lord. Harry mused to himself in his sleep, ‘I look very good dead, I suppose.’ )*~

Green eyes jumped awake. His scar ached, almost like Voldemort was standing right at the foot of the bed. He pulled his glasses on, and reached for his wand. He quickly scanned his dorm to make sure everyone was still alive. Dean’s bed was empty, but that wasn’t uncommon as he usually bunked with Seamus. Ron also left a cold bed, but his girlfriend did have her own room, so Harry worried very little. Harry climbed out of bed and threw on a sweater and jeans. He cautiously walked down the steps and out of the common room. He didn’t bother with the invisibility cloak, he just needed some fresh air. Let Filch find him.

But Harry’s luck wasn’t with him that evening. No one as merciful as Filch happened to catch his late-night wanderings. In fact, it happened that he came across the one person he didn’t want to have to deal with. And by the look on Snape’s face, he felt the same.

“Potter,” he hissed. “One would think that you would be smart enough by now to include that confounded cloak of your father’s when you decided to break the school rules set up to keep your miserable person alive.”

Harry was caught in one of those not-so-rare moments of being stuck on the borderline of sleep and total alertness. So, instead of creating some artificial response and ducking away, he let his tongue run away with him.

“Well, in a few weeks it won’t matter anymore anyway,” Harry replied flippantly, looking Snape in the eyes, and smirking slightly. Snape just cocked his eyebrow.

“Sleep deprivation has shattered your sense of time if you think you’ll be rid of this place in a matter of weeks. You have at least...” Snape never got to finish his sentence, as Harry had walked away.

“MR. POTTER, I know you think you are the savior of the wizarding world, but that doesn’t give you the right to walk away from your teachers. I don’t know who you think you are but...”

“Professor Snape, I know exactly who I am. I am Harry Potter, and I WILL be the savior of the wizarding world, and I will also be dead before my eighteenth birthday, so your authority has little meaning right now.”

“Ha... Potter, speaking in code only works for the intelligent. Please be more clear. What makes you think that you’re going to die between now and this summer?”

“I had a vision tonight. I saw the final battle. Voldemort and I lay dead. It was right here on the Hogwarts grounds. That’s how I know.”

“Potter, that was a dream. Even you should know that dreams don’t predict the future. Trelawney should have taught you that, if nothing else.”

“No, Professor Snape, that’s the thing. I dream about Voldemort constantly. All day, every day, all night, every night. The faces of the dead do nothing but haunt me. This wasn’t a dream. My scar hurt horribly upon waking up. That means it was a vision. You’ll be happy to know I didn’t see your corpse on the battlefield, although I will admit that I was intentionally not looking.” And with that, Harry turned on his heels, and walked down the long corridor.

He almost made it to the end, when he heard Snape’s voice call to him, “Stop, Harry. If this is what you say it is, then we can still prevent it. Visions show what can be, not what will be. If you’re so sure, then I will do two things to help you, and only two things. First, I won’t tell anyone about this. I am sure you don’t want people walking around acting like you’re already dead. Secondly, and you must never tell anyone I am doing this, I will give you an unlimited pass to the Restricted section in the library. Mind you, that if word gets out that I did this for you, you need not worry about Voldemort’s wrath; I’ll kill you myself.”

“Professor, this isn’t like you. Why are you doing this?” Harry asked the Professor with confusion and a little amusement in his eyes.

“Consider it my penance for the incident in potions today,” Snape replied, and turned to leave. But before he got too far, he turned around to face Harry once again.

“Oh, and Potter, catch!” he almost whispered, tossing him two vials, one right after another. With that, he turned once again and walked calmly down the hallway, back toward the dungeons.

Harry examined the bottles in his hand. The first was a midnight blue liquid, about a pint, with a pewter stopper. Written on it’s side in Snape’s neat slanted writing were the words ‘Dreamless Sleep’. The other bottle was much smaller, with a normal cork stopper. It held no label. Harry uncorked the vial, and inhaled the scent of the amber liquid. ‘Brandy’ Harry mused, and he replaced the cork where it had been. ‘One thing’s for certain,’ Harry thought, ‘This next month will certainly be interesting.’

~*~

But the next few weeks weren’t interesting at all. Snape kept his promise and told no one about Harry’s vision. After a few days, everyone forgot about his confession of love. Everyone except Harry, that is. Every time he saw Snape, the memory ran through his already fragile mind. Snape seemed fine, however. The following weeks showed no change in the Professor, as far as Harry could see. Although, Harry really wasn’t looking very close. Harry wasn’t looking at all, if he could help it.

Ron and Hermione were in love, and it was obvious that Harry wasn’t as welcome as he used to be. Gryffindor values held true, none the less, and they made a point to try to include Harry as often as they could stand. But Gryffindors or not, they preferred to be alone, and Harry was most obliging. The travesties of war had left images they couldn’t fathom on his mind, and his heavy heart was a challenge they weren’t ready to tackle. He didn’t mind the solitude.

War had left it’s mark on Severus Snape as well. Once Voldemort has risen again, he bought his way into the circle with information about the Hogwarts wards. The information had been given to him by Dumbledore, and Snape considered it a heavy price to pay just to spy on their inner workings. Especially when he already knew that nine times out of ten, they were given less than an hour’s notice as to what crimes they were to commit on Voldemort’s behalf. What made the whole situation more taxing was the toll it took on Snape himself. He was already suffering from the wrath of his conscience before he joined the circle as a spy, and the added weight of his new endeavors made sleep a coveted treasure. The faces of the ones he’d killed and tortured to prove himself loyal haunted his dreams, and left him irritable and sick.

He had barely made it out of the circle alive for the second time. They finally decided he was not to be trusted, and plans were made to kill him. Voldemort would have succeeded, had Harry not overheard the information from Draco while trying to steal back something from the Slytherin common room. Dumbledore refused to let Snape leave the grounds for weeks, and ever since then the Dark mark burned constantly, reminding him again and again of what he had done. He wished that Draco would have done a better job of keeping his mouth shut.

‘It all comes down to Harry, doesn’t it?’ Snape thought to himself. Harry’s revelation had shocked him a lot more than he had let on. Snape understood the bags under Harry’s eyes better than the rest of the faculty, who were always wondering what was keeping Harry from his sleep. Snape knew, and he kept it to himself. Some of the best minds in the world taught at Hogwarts, but few knew anything of war. That is why Harry’s “vision” had startled him so much. To think that all the peace Harry had deprived himself of, simply to remind him of his cause, was in vain made Snape sick to his stomach. He used to tease Harry of his fame, but the phrase “The boy who lived” now made him want to scream, “Yes, but the boy who lived for WHAT?”

Maybe that’s why he gave Harry the pass to the Restricted section. The thought of it all being in vain. He cringed whenever he saw those brilliant green eyes and he made a decision to make his greatest contribution (or his worst, as he wasn’t sure), to the war effort. He’d give Harry Dark Magic.

It had been brought up at staff meetings before, but the staff had opposed it venomously, saying it would take away his innocence. Snape agreed at first, knowing better than most what a horrible thing it really was. But the more he watched Harry, the clearer it became that his innocence was already gone. The least he could do was give Harry a chance to be on even footing. Of course, it was up to Harry to find what he needed, but the minute Snape had told Harry what he was going to do, the look in Harry’s eyes let Snape know that Harry received his intentions loud and clear. He didn’t look unhappy about them either.

To his knowledge none of the students had noticed Harry’s new found freedom, but it was rare that a student spent enough time in the library to notice such a thing. The staff members were a different story. Within the week the entire faculty had noticed, and Dumbledore had raised the issue at the next week’s staff meeting. Every eye was on him, wondering what could have possibly prompted Snape to do such a thing, hoping for an academic reason to quell their fears. Instead Snape just answered calmly, “I dealt with what the rest of you were too scared to face.” Everyone was much to nervous to press the issue, worried about finding out more than they wanted to. It was generally acknowledged that the issue was dropped. ‘Ignorance really is bliss,’ Snape mused, rather pleased with himself.

But even with the pass to library, Snape was uneasy. As much as Snape loathed Divination, and reminded himself that it was spotty and unpredictable, Harry’s visions always worried him. He seemed to have the uncanny knack for foreseeing things that were coming whenever Voldemort was involved. Snape didn’t think he could handle it if Harry was right. Even the death of Voldemort wouldn’t lessen the sting of the loss of Harry Potter.

And to add insult to injury the little martyr had announced he was in love with Snape. As though they both didn’t have enough to deal with that they had to throw a misguided infatuation in there. It added more weight to Snape's ever-tired soul, and pushed sleep just a little farther out of reach. It didn’t help that Harry was beautiful either, and obviously gay and hiding it.

No, it didn’t help that Harry was beautiful. But Snape tried to deny those thoughts, not needing any more degenerate behavior on his conscience. The one calming thought was that Harry had probably screwed up the potion. That must have been it. He never was very good at potions, and that day must have been no different. He told the part of his brain that reminded him that the potion looked right and smelled right toawayaway, and fed himself the ‘wrong potion story’ again before sleep. He fed himself that story until he almost believed it. Almost.