A Man Cannot Control His Dreams

A/N: thank you for the 50th review - you all rock.

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Severus attended breakfast Saturday morning with no expectation whatsoever of seeing Potter there. And, just as he’d predicted, the Gryffindor was nowhere to be found. He was, no doubt, still unconscious in his bed, and would be for at least two more hours. Perhaps then he would ferret himself away, burying himself in denial. Severus nearly sneered at the idea.

Foolish Gryffindors, always so unable to believe they’ve done something even the slightest bit immoral. Always trying to make it right, always martyring themselves.

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Later, when Harry had picked himself up and brushed his mouth clean, he was again powerfully compelled to scrub himself. For, despite Snape’s “scourgify” and his earlier shower, he still felt immeasurably dirty. This time, however, he turned the hot all the way up, and washed himself thoroughly and exhaustively, but gently, mindful of the morning’s soreness. It seemed as though every time he moved, something else hurt, and every time he looked, he found another shadow of bruising. However, the wounds on his back were mostly gone, and Harry considered how likely it was that Snape had specifically chosen a healing potion that would bypass bruises entirely. Of course he did. Wouldn’t want to waste such an obvious, humiliating mark. Harry grimaced. How was he supposed to cover it? Make it go away? He couldn’t exactly go to the infirmary and ask for something, could he? No, he’d have to ask Snape who would, no doubt, taunt and then deny him. Harry ran his fingers lightly over the bruise. Bloody wonderful.

****

For Harry, the weekend went by in a whirlwind of lies.

Why was he limping? Why did he sit like that? Why was he so jumpy? Why did he keep rubbing his neck?

By Sunday, He was seriously considering provoking Malfoy’s henchmen, if only to gain a legitimate reason for limping. However, as it stood: He’d slept wrong; he pulled something in Quidditch practice; he didn’t know. They were weak, easily spotted lies, and he felt worse with each one. But there was no way he could tell a soul the truth, not when he could hardly believe it himself – when it was so very unlikely a story. He felt worse, too, every time his skin flushed at the glimpse of a black cloak or the sound of a fluid reprimand in the distance. This was not healthy – not by any stretch of the imagination. And, Harry thought horribly, he was letting it happen, letting every bit of logical reasoning slip through his fingers like water.

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By Monday’s Potion’s class, Harry had worked himself into quite a state. And he was running out of ways to cover up the mark Snape had given him, which was giving no signs of fading whatsoever.

Harry sat rigid as a post on his stool throughout the class, determined not to let the Potions Master see him shudder or bite his lip. Any such sign of weakness was inexcusable in Harry’s mind. But, God, it was harder than he could have imagined. And Snape was watching like a vulture for just such a slip, stalking back and forth among the desks, but always keeping one dark eye on Harry, who could feel it like a weight.

Somehow, determined as he was, Harry managed to passably complete the day’s assigned potion. However, it took an incredible amount of willpower, willpower that Harry was using up like kindling. For, though he managed to bring his potion to the front of the class with steady hands and head held high, Harry couldn’t help but feel it was a sorry imitation of real indifference.

After a silent eternity, the class was dismissed and began to file out with their usual teenage energy. Harry lagged as he cleaned up his station, steeling himself before approaching the Professor, while Snape simply watched him pack up his things.

“A word, if you would, Mr. Potter,” he said, just as the clank and shuffle of cauldrons and parchment petered out. Harry rubbed his neck reflexively. “I believe we need to reschedule your remedial potions.”

Oh. Right. There had been something about that after…well…after what had happened. Harry, shoulders consciously relaxed, approached the front of the class, but dared not go within easing touching distance. Of course, Snape simply took the necessary steps himself, robes sweeping out impressively behind him. Harry cleared his throat.

“Professor,” he started, unable to make eye contact, but reluctant to look to the floor. “Do you think you could give me a healing draught that works on bruises?” He called up as much daring as he could, funneling irritation and sarcasm into his voice. Severus tilted his head to the side, totally ignoring the trumped-up tone.

“Mmmm...” he mused, voice somehow lower and more penetrating than it had been only moments before. “I shouldn’t think so, Potter.” He eyed Harry’s buttoned-up collar, and Harry covered the spot with his hand, false confidence faltering. “I could give you something for pain, if you truly find that you can’t handle it.” There was a glimmer of amusement across Severus’ eyes as the word ‘pain’ crossed his lips.
Harry straightened himself. He could handle it fine. He wasn’t a child.

“No thank you, Sir,” he said, and dropped his hand to his side. Severus quirked an eyebrow at this behavior. Either the Gryffindor had, in fact, not reacted as expected to his own actions, or he was trying very, very hard to hide it. Snape strongly suspected the latter, and couldn’t help but test his theory.

“Must you be so stubborn?” he mused, and trailed one long finger down Harry’s red and gold tie. Harry’s breath caught in his throat, and he shifted back from the touch, but faltered mid motion, torn. Should he pull away, or stand his ground?

“Don’t,” he said, voice soft and almost tortured. “Don’t.” And that was all it took – one touch – and his carefully constructed resolve crumbled to nothing.

Nothing had ever affected Severus like that delicate shift into total submission. He felt his lust for the boy boil to the surface, and even reached out to pull the robe from Harry’s shoulders, forgetting for a moment that he hardly had the time. He could practically hear the next class of hellions congregating just outside the door…

“Yet again you catch me at the most inappropriate moment,” he hissed against Harry’s ear, not sure himself when he’d pulled them together. Harry gathered a bit of his usual self as he was pushed away.

“Is there such a thing as an appropriate time for this?” He asked, just as the room began to refill with students.

“Yes,” came the smooth, ever cruel reply. “Later.”

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tbc