Solanaceae Serenity

Title: Solanaceae Serenity
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry Potter/ Severus Snape
Warnings: drug use, explicit language, explicit sexual scenes with a person under 18, self-harm, slash.
Summary: Harry discovers a potion in a restricted text that helps to alleviate his troubled thoughts. Set during Harry's sixth year. AU. No HBP Spoilers.

AN: If you do not appreciate slash, meaning relations between two males, then I suggest you refrain from reading this story. Also, if you are squicked by drug abuse and self-harm, this story is not for you.


DISCLAIMER: All recognised characters are property of JK Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury publishing and anyone else I have inadvertently missed out. No profit is being made from this endeavour.




Solanaceae Serenity- Chapter Three

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Harry never did go and visit Snape, and neither did Snape ever again give him the impression that he was welcome to. In fact, Harry hardly saw him at all since they no longer had classes together. At meal times, although Harry very rarely attended, Snape never looked at him, and never spared him a second glance in the student-swarming halls.

Although no longer dependant or needful of the potion, the urge to just give in was always there; the need for a place in his mind so empty that he could hear neither himself, nor take notice of anything around him. The potion was peaceful, it was harmonious, it was... it was what Harry wanted most of all. But he couldn't have it, no, just like there were so many other things he couldn't have. The potion would be living a lie, and Harry was sick and tired of people's lies- even his own.

Nowadays, Harry rarely spoke, his voice becoming gravelly and rough. He didn't mind this much though; he quite liked it in fact. Not to mention, there wasn't a single soul in Hogwarts who seemed to notice or care whether or not Harry uttered a single syllable. Even his two best friends, Hermione and Ron, had given up- offended by Harry's apparent rudeness. Even Malfoy ignored him.

He knew he was falling into depression, but didn't have the energy to save him self. The shakes from the potion were an ever-present reminder of how desperate he'd been for peace, but the night of his overdose seemed more than only six weeks previous. In fact, half the time since, Harry had begun to think he imagined the whole experience.

Harry often of late found himself slipping into a wakeful dream, a dream where magic was a myth and he had loving parents and at least two siblings. When not at school they'd amuse themselves with each other, or by going on trips with their parents. There were fights, yes, but all were resolved peacefully with hugs and kisses and smiles and everything else Harry had been deprived of in his upbringing. Another such dream included a body woven tightly around his, warm and larger, a body that reminded him, strangely enough, of Snape.

Sometimes Harry wrote these dreams/fantasies down on parchment, but always ended up burning them in the Gryffindor fire during the early hours of the morning. But it didn't matter that they were gone, for he remembered them all flawlessly anyway- he didn't want to risk anyone reading his most deepest, private thoughts.

The Easter holidays came around very quickly, but to Harry they meant nothing at all. Slowly but surely he was deteriorating, not only emotionally but physically from his inexistent appetite.

Nothing mattered to him anymore; not his health, his school marks, people's opinions or, most curiously, death. Harry had feared death, but now the unknown -where he'd be unknown- began to harbour an appeal that it once had lacked. Again the temptation to end his life was present throughout his thoughts- for surely people would notice, but who would shed a tear? No one had ever truly known him, not even Hermione and Ron; Harry had never expressed to them that he'd been mistreated as a child, they knew nothing of him but what he'd allowed them to know. To them, Harry was a strong, brave and loyal Gryffindor who would mightily fight until the bloody end.

However, he still had a slight remaining notion of reluctance. Harry knew the source of that reluctance, even if he did forbid himself to even think of it- for who could ever truly love a damaged, misused and abused soul?

During the holidays he retreated to his brewing room, even if he didn't take the potion anymore. He'd settle himself upon his favourite windowsill or curl up in the corner with the duvet he'd had Dobby steal from the washroom. It didn't bother him if it had the Slytherin house crest on it.

It was up in the brewing room where Harry had his next encounter with Snape. The potions master had invited himself in, obviously expecting Harry to be there- he was correct in his assumptions, of course.

"How long have you been in here?" Snape asked gruffly, offering no real greeting.

Harry took a few moments to reply. "Three sunsets, and two sunrises." It was currently dark outside, Harry assuming it to be around ten at night.

"Have you eaten at all?"

Shrugging, Harry shook his head warily. He knew he was thin, more so than most, but appearances mattered not anymore. He'd had a couple of mouthfuls of water the last time he'd been to the bathroom, and it wasn't like he was starving- he'd gone longer without a proper meal at the Dursley's loads of times.

"You lied to me, Potter." Snape snapped suddenly, pulling up a dilapidated chair and sitting himself straight-backed upon it.

"I'm not on Solanaceae Serenity, if that's what you're thinking." Harry sighed.

"You said you didn't have a death wish, when clearly you do." Black, relentless eyes bored into Harry's.

"At times, honestly, I do. But nothing I'd actually act upon." Harry said dismissively, his throat slightly painful from disuse when he spoke those few words.

"That's not how it looks from this angle. You're wasting away boy, and if you're not careful you'll end up in the psychiatric/spell damage ward at St. Mungos'. The Headmaster has noticed, and is one step away from arranging an appointment." Snape informed in a bland, disinterested voice. Harry missed the slight glistening of concern swimming deep within the inscrutable depths.

"Why are you telling me this? Don't you think I need help, like everyone else thinks?" Harry muttered, a tiny flutter of anger, the first sign of real emotion in months, surging through his chest like the Hogwarts express.

"Not that kind of help, no. It wouldn't benefit you at all Potter, which you very well know." A pause. "I told you to come and see me, six weeks ago now." He glared down at Harry, who was still wrapped in his thieved duvet like a small child.

Harry looked up at Snape like he wad mad. "Are you serious? I don't know at times if that night where you helped me even happened you know. In my dreams I feel myself... there, be that with you, but still it's all just so..." He paused, frowning. "It's just so, for want of a more appropriate word- fucked up."

Snape stood abruptly. "In any case, something needs to be done and it's going to be done now. Come with me, I will not tolerate no for an answer."

That was how Harry found himself curled up on Snape's couch, his warm Slytherin duvet now in the correct territory and tucked around him tightly. A bowl of thick vegetable soup and a piece of crusty, buttered bread accompanied him, begging to be consumed. Harry had been thinking about what Snape had said about it needing to be solved, but up until then he hadn't really bothered to contemplate what Snape had actually meant by it. Then a horrible thought struck Harry.

"The Prophesy!" Harry exclaimed, jumping from his seat and upending the soup all over Snape's lovely rug. "That's all you're worried about, isn't it? I should have known!" He ranted, staring angrily at Snape, two spots of colour now visible high up on his pallid cheek.

"What is this nonsense? And clean up that mess, it should be within your ability to do so..."

"No. I'm leaving, and you can shove that pathetic prophesy up your..." Harry halted his speech when Snape grabbed him roughly by the arm.

"I'll have you know, Potter, that I don't take kindly to insulting gestures within my personal space, or anywhere else for that matter. Now, if you have any consideration for those other than yourself, you'll show me the decency I deserve by explaining yourself appropriately." Snape released his arm, now bruised, and raised a brow in challenge.

Harry sighed heavily and sat down, feeling his anger dissipate and the uselessness settle in. "I meant... why else would you appear to want to help me? You must know the prophecy, and realise that at this rate... I'll be dead before Voldemort can even get his hands on me. And without me there, like destiny foretells, there will be no one to kill him. But just so you know- I'm not a saviour and I don't plan on becoming one. Just because he killed my parents doesn't mean it's me who has to kill him- screw this whole he marked me as his equal shite, he's killed loads of people- why can't someone else avenge those he's annihilated?"

"Yes, I'm aware of the prophecy, but that doesn't mean I believe it. We won't know until the day it happens who it will be that destroys he-who-has-destroyed-many. As for why I'm helping you, even I shan't ever be able to fathom it." Snape rolled his eyes drastically, before seating himself primly beside Harry.

Harry managed a small smile at that, before it too left him like his hope had done. "It's just- I know people look at me and see hope, but in essence I'm just an object that they need, and to no one am I a person, but just an idol and a machine. I don't live for life; I live for death- that's all they see me for. I'm being engineered for killing, and I don't want to be a part of that! I don't want to kill anyone, even if it is Voldemort; I know what killing does to a human soul! It darkens it beyond repair, a rift forms that is with you until you perish and beyond. My parents wouldn't have wanted it." Harry lowers his eyes, chewing ruthlessly on his lower lip. "If that makes any sense whatsoever."

"Yes, of course it makes sense. But you're a target Potter, with the Dark Lord as your archenemy. It's your destiny, as his chosen enemy, to fight until the death, prophecy or no. He was fuelled by the partial knowledge of this prophecy, and henceforth believes it, whether you do or not. He will do what he must, and that to him is to get rid of you before you get rid of him. However, must I remind you that this has nothing to do with why, as you put, I'm helping you." Snape was looking intently into Harry's eyes, either using or resisting the urge to delve into his depths, to see his every thought.

Harry nodded solemnly, before cleaning up the mess he'd created minutes earlier.

"I didn't mean to assume... " Harry started, but Snape ceased his words.

"I don't require an apology Potter." Snape grunted unbecomingly before calling for a house-elf to bring more soup for Harry, and strong tea for himself.

The first attempt at stomaching the soup had Harry retching over the toilet, clutching his stomach as wave after wave of embarrassment tore relentlessly through him. He'd been sick in Snape's private bathroom! But Snape apparently didn't mind, only stood near and offered him water and a cool cloth for his face. His cheeks still burning with humiliation, Harry again tried the soup, more slowly, until his stomach accepted it and he ate nearly the whole bowl. He had to admit that he did feel better, having something in his stomach, but it was going to take a while before he'd have his normal, if diminished, appetite back again.

"You should go and get some rest, and not in that horrid room, but in your own bed. I want you to attend breakfast in the morning, and if you don't..." Snape narrowed his eyes, while leading Harry to the door.

The weight of a hand was heavy on Harry's almost emaciated shoulder, but he appreciated the gesture nevertheless, and even returned the sentiment. He supposed they looked ridiculous standing there, a hand on each other's shoulder, so Harry decided to make it feel not so stupid. He put his free hand on Snape's other shoulder, and moved closer so he could embrace the taller man lightly.

Apparently mildly startled, Snape returned the notion, taking a moment to notice that Harry was thinner than he had been six weeks ago.

"It was real, wasn't it?" Harry whispered, his face against Snape's chest, his long hair tickling his forehead, listening to his heart beating soundly.

Snape knew what Harry was referring to, and tightened his hold affirmatively. "Yes Potter, it was. You were in a right state."

Harry chuckled weakly, and a little sadly. "I know. I remember." He laughed again, this time with a little mirth. "You know, it's really strange- here I am, a bold Gryffindor, sniffling in the arms of an evil Slytherin. Now that's got to be a first."

"Indeed." Snape murmured. "I suppose, if it were to ensure that you ate a proper breakfast, you could slumber on my couch. It would be much more comfortable than that stone floor you're accustoming yourself to."

Harry smiled for the first time in a long time. "Of course, anything. I don't like being in the Gryffindor tower, too many people." He replied almost angrily for, even though he'd pushed Ron and Hermione away, they'd barely fought for him at all.

It was safe to say that Harry had a decent, dreamless slumber, his visions not plagued by darkness and horror, like usual, but of peace and warmth and strong arms holding him tight.

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