A Man Cannot Control His Dreams

A/N: Holy crap, 20,000 hits
*
*
*
*
Shortly after being expelled from Snape’s office, Harry began to see that perhaps the fates had dealt him a positive hand by letting Hermione in on a piece of his secret. She, with as limited involvement as possible, could teach him to vanish, heal, or at least hide his marks. That was what Snape had meant by resources, wasn’t it? He felt like a moron having to ask at all - but suddenly it seemed very important to fix the situation himself. And Hermione might even be a little placated if he asked for her help so soon after promising to do so. It was worth a shot, anyway.

****

The weekend of Christmas, Severus was called three days in a row. Each time, it was to torture a confession of disloyalty out of a different member of the Dark Lord’s ranks. None of them (two men and one woman) had anything of import to admit. The first, Usov Jugson, had lasted through an hour and a half of almost non-stop Cruciatus, only to cry out bloodily that he had stolen the rings from a muggle woman in custody, when they should have been left to the Dark Lord.

For this offense, he was given another bout of Cruciatus, though only a short one. Severus knew all this, down to the pitch of the man’s screams, for not only was he among the ring of Deatheaters circling the spectacle, he had been wielding the wand at the Dark Lord’s right hand. Never what one would call an “easy” job, but one Severus had gotten used to over the years.

Christmas Morning, it was Alecto Carrow suffering the attention of Voldemort’s suspicions. She lasted a great deal less time than Jugson, most likely due to the nature of her particular interrogation. She had been set alight, and healed repeatedly, until the healing bit stopped working so well. The smell of her burning flesh had permeated his robes so fully that he’d had to replace them, much to his annoyance. But, the interrogation had been quite short- within 30 minutes she’d clutched the crisped remains of her hair and wailed her offenses: just as mundane as Jugson’s.

However, instead of being placated by his subject’s mundane crimes, The Dark Lord seemed angrier than before. He wanted to find a real heretic – that was clear. As Voldemort had sent the wailing, blistered woman away, Severus couldn’t help but think of Potter doubling over in pain. The Gryffindor must have been opening his gifts about then, his scar splitting open without warning as, miles away, Voldemort raged. However, the boy had been showing some minor improvement in the field of mental defenses, so perhaps it had been little more than an uncomfortable tingle or mild headache.

In actual fact, Harry had dropped a bag of chocolate frogs, scattering them all across the floor, when his scar twinged. It wasn’t the pain that sent his Christmas confections scrambling under his bed, though. It was the thought of its cause – of whether or not Professor Snape was there to see it. Or suffer its consequence. For Voldemort was angry that morning, there was no question in Harry’s mind.

****

The final of the trio, put on the stand the evening after Christmas day, had been none other than Peter Pettigrew himself. An unsettling sight: the worthless rat of a man clutching his silver hand to his chest as the convulsions took him. Not because of its brutality, oh no, that was hardly disquieting. It was the familiarity of Pettigrew to The Dark Lord that bothered Severus. A pattern was forming – one that Severus did not wish to see. Voldemort was moving through his followers; bottom to top, and Severus could see his own interrogation looming. It seemed inevitable, even as he leveled his wand at the corpulent, whimpering mass that had doomed the Potters, and declared it again:

“Crucio.”

Over and over, and Pettigrew writhed like an earthworm at his will. The rat had nothing to confess, though; the Dark Lord knew that just as Severus did; and so the unforgivable was lifted not long after Severus had begun.

****

His instinct upon returning to the castle that night, tired but entirely un-bloodied, was to report immediately to the Headmaster. It was perhaps half-past nine when he approached the gargoyle-guarded entrance, unusually early for such reports. He was stopped halfway through his sullen pronouncement of “peppermint humbug,” however, by the muffled voices from within. If he wasn’t much mistaken, it was the young Potter being entertained. Normally, he would have waited for the meeting to conclude, but in this instance he thought perhaps it would be best to interrupt. Lord knew what the boy could give away with a word or two.

“Peppermint humbug,” he muttered, but the gargoyle just stared balefully at him. “Peppermint. Humbug.” He repeated, enunciating purposefully with a glare. Damn the old man’s security. Finally, after a moment of stony consideration, it jumped aside, revealing the well-worn staircase. Dumbledore sounded concerned, though Severus could pick up distinct notes of suspicion in the voice as he ascended the stair, catching the tale-end of a very Albus-like sentence.

“…ever need anything, you can come to me. Professor McGonagall has been very worried for you. She tells me your schoolwork has been slipping.” Just as Harry opened his mouth to reply, Severus cleared his throat from the shadowed entrance. Potter jumped, head snapping up to look at him. Severus was mildly pleased as Harry schooled his expression into dislike and grudging attention. It looked passably genuine. Severus raised an eyebrow, half expecting the boy’s face to collapse into submissive.

“Severus!” Dumbledore sounded exceptionally genial. “Harry and I were just discussing his schoolwork.” Harry slumped into his chair.

“I shouldn’t think any depth of academic lethargy would be terribly surprising, Albus,” Severus replied, and gave Harry a cursory glance. The Gryffindor sank further.

“Now, Severus. You remember what being in school is like.” Severus cleared his throat with a meaningful look in response. The best way to defeat the Headmaster’s endless banter was simply to ignore it. “Yes, well, Harry. I believe Professor Snape and I have a meeting to begin. Remember, my boy, you have a support system here. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

Gratefully, Harry took his cue to leave, and stood.

“Thanks, Professor Dumbledore. I’ll remember that.”

“And Harry, go to bed, won’t you? You look like you could use it.” Harry blinked, and Severus could tell it was to cover up the impulse to look at him.

“Sure,” Harry replied as he turned to go. “That sounds good, actually.”

****

Severus didn’t for a moment delude himself into thinking that Potter wouldn’t be listening at the door. Sweeping his robes out behind himself, he sat in the Gryffindor’s vacated chair, and began, not waiting for Albus to ask.

“I’ve been called three days consecutively, Albus. Each time to participate or lead an interrogation against one of the Dark Lord’s own. First, it was Usov Jugson, followed Christmas morning by Alecto Carrow. This evening it was the infamous Peter Pettigrew.”

“And what does it mean?” Dumbledore folded his hands calmly on the desk. Severus smoothed his hands over his legs.

“I believe… that he is getting closer.”

“To you, you mean.”

“Yes.” There was a pause, and then the question Severus had been expecting – the question that proved Albus Dumbledore to be less of a kind-hearted old man than he would have himself thought.

“Do you feel you will hold up under interrogation?”

That was what mattered, of course: whether Severus could handle the torture.

“I do.” A simple discussion on the surface, but in reality, one far more layered than it let on. Unspoken was Dumbledore’s decision, for example, to resign Severus to his death should his mental barriers break. There was only so much a mind, even Snape’s mind, could take, and they both knew it. Unspoken, too, was Severus’ agreement to such terms: their collaboration was, at heart, a suicide pact, and always had been.

Harry Potter was what mattered, at least until it was the boy’s turn to die, and it was Severus’ responsibility to take certain truths with him to the grave. Perhaps a few more than Dumbledore himself knew.

The headmaster’s eyes were soft and sky blue, but their affected concern made Severus feel ill. It was all so duplicitous – even on the side of good.

There was a moment then, when the silence fell heavily, but it passed, as such things always did when there was work to be done.
*
*
*
*
TBC