The Others

Harry awoke feeling rested for the first time in years. The events of the previous night seemed like a distant nightmare...until reality set in. He was in Snape's house, on Snape's bed. Harry was not sure how he felt about placing his trust in a man he had spent seven years hating and the next seven trying to forget. He left the bed and wandered around the room, taking in the utilitarian surroundings: a bed, a lamp, a desk and chair, a wardrobe and the cabinet that concealed the Pensieve...no photographs, no bric-a-brac, no paintings of landscapes or still-lifes on the walls, no mementos unless Harry counted the weathered books. The room could have belonged to anyone, yet it was distinctly Snape's. He ran his hand over the crinkled leather of a book and wondered what it was like to be Snape, to have no physical anchor to the past, no discernable future, to be always alone.

There was a soft knock, and the door to the bedroom opened. Snape swept in carrying a tray laden with eggs, fried potatoes, toast, jam and tea.

"I don't want to impose," Harry blurted.

Snape stopped short. "If I thought you an imposition, I would not have asked you to stay. In fact, I would have told you to leave."

Harry could not help but smile at Snape's bluntness. There had been a time in his life when he had found the wizard's abrasive disposition irritating, but after enduring a lifetime of secrets hidden behind benevolent smiles, Harry found Snape's candour refreshing, something he could learn to appreciate.

He eyed the tray of food that Snape had set on the little table next to the bed.

"You don't have to cook my meals; I can do that. And I have money; I can pay you for the food and board."

"I don't want your father's money, Potter, but you're welcome to cook if you want."

Snape turned on his heel and marched toward the door.

"Why are you helping me?" Harry asked suddenly, as if the question had just occurred to him, when in reality he had thought of little else since encountering Snape on the road behind the Dursleys' house.

Snape paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Because he used you like he used me," he said, so softly that Harry barely heard it.

Before Harry could ask what he meant, Snape was gone.

It soon became obvious to Harry why Snape had so readily agreed to let him do the cooking: the eggs were runny, the potatoes greasy and the toast burnt. Snape did not know how to cook.

The house was quiet when Harry descended the stairs a half hour later. He found Snape in the kitchen, a cup of tea in one hand, a copy of the Daily Prophet in the other.

"I brought the breakfast dishes down," Harry said, holding up the tray in his hands.

Snape grunted and waved his cup in the general direction of the sink, his eyes never straying from the newspaper.

Harry proceeded to fill the sink with sudsy water and wash the dishes by hand, the way he had always done while growing up at the Dursleys'.

"Your wand is in the guestroom, on top of your trunk," Snape offered.

Harry glanced over his shoulder; he had not been aware that Snape was watching him.

"It's all right. With Ginny and Molly always around, I never got the chance to learn any housekeeping spells anyway," he said before turning his attention back to the dishes.

He waited for a response from Snape, perhaps an offer to teach him some housekeeping spells, but the wizard said nothing, and when Harry glanced at him, he saw that Snape was once again reading the newspaper.

His task of washing the dishes completed, Harry took refuge in the guestroom – now his bedroom.

~*~

As he watched the young man quietly leave the kitchen, Snape wondered exactly what it was he had allowed himself to get dragged into this time. For the past several years his life as a Muggle had been simple if lonely. Perhaps it was that loneliness that had led him to seek out an old acquaintance after a while...the one person who knew Snape's most shameful secret and didn't judge him for it. It was during one of his visits to Lucius' home that Snape had observed Harry leaving Malfoy Manor. He knew he should have left well enough alone then, but the strangeness of the event piqued his curiosity and stirred a long-repressed sense of duty in him. Instead of entering the manor, he had followed Harry to the narrow road behind the Dursleys' home. And after what he had seen there, Snape knew he could not turn back.

Harry's declaration that he did not want to be a burden had taken him by surprise. The young man's presence in his home was more than an inconvenience...it could easily cost Snape his freedom. He had half expected the day's headline to read: HARRY POTTER MISSING, PRESUMED KIDNAPPED...MAJOR WIZARDHUNT UNDERWAY.

Not surprisingly (at least to Snape), no one seemed to be missing the Saviour of the Wizarding World these days. The papers had been brimming with stories about Harry in the months following the fall of the Dark Lord, but soon the stories had dwindled to nothing, and the gossip and innuendo began: rumours that Harry Potter had been hospitalized more than once for an unspecified malady. Snape had tried so hard to look the other way.

But, old habits die hard, they say, and Snape had spent the best part of seven years of his life watching over Harry (more if he counted his secret visits to Privet Drive while Harry was growing up, and the numerous arguments he'd had with Dumbledore about the wisdom of allowing Harry to remain in the care of such loathsome Muggles as the Dursleys).

Snape had worked half the night to modify the spells and charms on his house that had been originally designed to repel intruders and the curious, not to physically keep someone in. It was past midnight when he had finally lain down on the couch downstairs and gone to sleep, too weary to make his way to the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs. There had been a time in his life when Snape could go without sleep for days at a time, brew the most complex potions without so much as breaking a sweat and still be alert enough to engage an adversary on command, but he was no longer a young man. His forty-sixth birthday was quickly approaching, and after a night spent sleeping on the lumpy couch, Snape felt every bit his age, which made Lucius' notion that Snape's interest in Harry was anything other than platonic all the more ridiculous.

Finding no magical cause for Harry's condition had been a greater disappointment than he had let on, but he had also been prepared for the eventuality. Two days earlier, Snape had left the Muggle library with an armload of books he had gathered with the aid of a skilled if somewhat nervous-looking librarian on the topic of Dissociative Disorders. Since then, he had narrowed the possibilities down to one condition in particular that seemed to fit Harry's symptoms and background...Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Snape was at a loss on how to treat Harry's condition...his first attempt at amateur Muggle psychotherapy seemed to have left the young wizard an even worse wreck...but neither was he prepared to concede defeat. With a determined swipe of his wand, Snape Vanished the copy of the Daily Prophet and sent his empty cup to the sink before retreating to his study.

~*~

Rain came down in sheets outside the kitchen's window. Harry gave the stew one final stir and set the spoon down on the counter. He had not seen Snape all day. He had knocked on the door of the study once, to ask if Snape would like some tea and sandwiches for lunch. His inquiry had been answered by a terse, "Not now, Potter!" from the other side of the door.

Had Harry been fond of reading, he would have found plenty to do at Snape's home. As it were, there was little or nothing for him to do. He was still uncomfortable in Snape's presence...every time he thought of the wizard, the scene with Lucius flashed into his mind, and the fact that Snape knew was beyond mortifying.

Snape swept into the room as if Summoned by Harry's reluctance; he cradled a large book in one arm.

"I need to become more familiar with Richard," Snape announced.

"Who?" Harry asked, feeling warmth rush to his cheeks.

"Richard...your alternate personality state."

Snape set the book down on the table and turned to look at Harry, who quickly turned his attention back to the stew.

"My what?" Harry asked into the simmering pot.

"Your alter ego, if you will. Several of the books I've read suggest that you suffer from a malady of the mind known as Dissociative Identity Disorder; some of the earlier tomes refer to it as Multiple Personality Disorder. If what I've learned about this condition is correct, increasing the amount of information you...Harry...have about Richard, will increase the amount of control you have over him when you change from one personality state to the other. You will in essence be able to communicate with him and eventually be able to exert your will over his actions. It is my intent to facilitate this exchange of information at the start, thus my need to acquaint myself with him."

Snape's explanation stopped making sense to Harry immediately after the word 'control.'

"Can't you just make it go away?" he said, sounding a little more desperate than he intended.

"Unfortunately, no. Some of the older literature suggests something called 'reintegration,' which involves bringing all the aspects into just one identity state, figuratively 'killing off' the other personalities, but that option appears to have fallen into disuse and for some good reasons. A peaceful coexistence of each part seems to be a more humane alternative. He is, after all, a part of you."

"I don't know, Snape. I mean, what you're saying sounds good, but what if it doesn't work?" Harry reluctantly glanced over his shoulder at the other wizard and was taken aback by what he saw.

Snape was staring at him: face pale, his mouth grim, right hand poised over his wand. Harry recognised an angry Snape when he saw him.

"I mean, if you think it will work...if it's that important to you...I can...I suppose..." An uneasy feeling overcame Harry. "Snape, what just happened?" he asked, not certain if anything had happened at all.

"Follow me," Snape ordered and turned on his heel so quickly that Harry had to scamper to keep up.

They went back to Snape's bedroom, where Snape repeated the ritual of withdrawing the Pensieve from its cabinet and depositing a string of his memory into it. By the time he completed the process, Harry's heart was threatening to beat out of his chest.

"Can't you just tell me?" he asked.

"I'd rather you see for yourself," Snape answered softly, some of the anger gone from his features.

Harry nodded and plunged into the Pensive. He watched himself at the stove, practically grinding the stew into mush with the spoon. Snape stood by the table, talking.

"... figuratively 'killing off' the other personality, but that option appears to have fallen into disuse and for some good reasons. A peaceful coexistence of each part seems to be a more humane goal. He is, after all, a part of you."

Harry watched himself glance over his shoulder; a vicious smirk twisted his features almost beyond recognition.

"That's too bad, Snape...you're good at killing off people," Harry sneered.

"I don't know, Snape. I mean, what you're saying sounds good, but what if it doesn't work?" Harry said in a hesitant but much more affable tone.

The memory was brief but jarring.

"Snape...I don't know what to say. I didn't mean it..." Harry was embarrassed...and frightened, not of Snape who seemed to have calmed down considerably, but of himself. If there was a part of him that dared goad a wizard like Snape and then casually turn his back on him...

Snape's eyebrow shot up. "And you don't remember saying it?"

Harry shook his head.

"I suspected as much."

"But you said there's a way for me to control this other personality, right?"

"Yes. However, this new development does present some complications."

Harry's hopes sank. "What do you mean?"

"I can't be certain, but when I met Richard, he seemed gentle and polite, almost shy. What I just witnessed in the kitchen was anything but."

Harry didn't grasp the significance of Snape's words. "What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means is possible that my work just got a lot more dangerous," Snape whispered.

Snape insisted that Harry eat some of the stew he had made, even though Harry's stomach felt like it had been tied into a knot, and he found it difficult to swallow. When Harry produced from his pocket a bottle of the pills the Muggle doctor had prescribed, Snape snatched it from his hand.

"They are just for anxiety...they help," Harry explained.

Snape turned the bottle over in his hand, sniffed its contents, scraped his fingernail over one of the small, yellow pills and tasted it. He returned the bottle to Harry without a word. Harry swallowed one of the pills and returned the rest to his pocket.

"What did you mean when you said your work is now more dangerous?" Harry asked after Snape had consumed his second helping of stew while Harry's first grew cold in its bowl.

"It's possible that Richard is not your only alternate personality state. This other one seems much more assertive...and aggressive. It also seemed to recognise me, while Richard didn't. While I have an idea of how to trigger the switch, I have no control over which personality state I'll be bringing forward or how that part of you will react to my meddling."

Harry weighed Snape's words carefully. He wanted to protest that he would never attack Snape without provocation, but Harry knew he would be fooling himself if he thought he had any say in what these other personalities did...if he'd had any choice at all, the one thing he would have chosen would have been not to have sex with Lucius Malfoy.

Harry shuddered at the thought, and Snape must have misread the gesture because he said, "It is a risk, but not an intractable one. Now that I'm aware of it, I shall be prepared."

"How are you going to do it?"

Snape was silent for a moment, and Harry felt his hands begin to shake. Harry hated this weakness in him and he hid his hands under the table, hoping that Snape had not noticed.

"Legilimency," Snape said suddenly.

Harry jumped to his feet, and his chair skidded across the floor. "No!"

Snape remained in his seat, unperturbed by Harry's reaction. "There is a Muggle method of unearthing buried memories. I could learn it, but from what I've read it's only marginally less invasive than Legilimency and far less reliable."

"I don't care!" Harry yelled. "I don't want you to see!"

Snape leaned slightly forward. "See what, Mr Potter?"

"I don't know! That's the problem; I don't know what I've done, or with who, or where I've been. Maybe...maybe there's a reason why I don't remember. Maybe I just don't want to!"

Snape rose to his feet and circled the table to stand next to Harry, so near that Harry could feel the wizard's breath on his damp cheek, and Harry realised he had been crying.

"We all have secrets we would rather not remember much less share. Trouble is, Mr Potter, you can't control that of which you're not aware. In this case, what you don't know can and will most definitely hurt you," Snape reasoned.

"I just don't want you to see," Harry sobbed, clutching the table as if it were a piece of drifting wood, floating in the middle of a dark sea that was threatening to swallow him.

"Maybe there's another way, and I shall try to find it," Snape conceded after a moment, and Harry felt his anxiety ebb slightly.

"Try to get some rest, Mr Potter. Do you need me to assist you to your room?"

Harry shook his head vigorously. "No...no. I'm fine," he lied. He felt disoriented and detached from his surroundings. He stumbled out of the kitchen and up the stairs until he found the door to his bedroom. His legs would no longer support him, and Harry collapsed on the bed, where he lay staring through the bedroom window at the rain that continued to come down.