Memories

Harry stood next to Snape, watching the memories play themselves out in front of him like an outdated film...distant and strange. He had awoken that morning feeling agitated and more disconnected than usual, although he didn't know why. Snape had missed breakfast and scowled through lunch before he had insisted that Harry accompany him to the Pensieve afterwards. There were no dramatic revelations this time. Snape's memories of the previous day were almost tedious to watch in their triviality, which is why Harry could not explain the tears that welled up in his eyes.

Harry and Snape sat across each other in the study, a Muggle chess board between them. Snape's brow was furrowed in concentration while he absently caressed his bottom lip with one finger. The Harry in the memory took a sip of amber liquid from a tumbler and smiled over the rim. He had kicked off his shoes, and his hair fell around his face in disarray.

"What am I drinking?" Harry asked Snape, who stood silently next him.

"Single malt scotch...Macallan."

Harry wrinkled his nose.

"You don't care for scotch, Mr Potter?"

Harry shrugged. "Never had it."

Snape made his move. "Check. Are you ready to concede?"

"Excuse me. I'm a bit tired; I think it would be best if I retire." Snape rose.

The memory ended abruptly, and Harry found himself back in Snape's bedroom.

"I don't understand. Nothing happened; why did you want me to see this?"

"Did anything seem familiar, a sense of déjà vu, perhaps?"

Harry shook his head, unable to describe the feeling of watching himself go through the motions of an entire day without any recollection of having lived it.

The passage of time became subjective for Harry after that. Dates lost their meaning. One day was much the same as the one before, and with each one, he retreated further into a small, dark place inside himself. He continued to cook the meals because he had told Snape he would, but he barely ate, and even the menial task of food preparation was quickly turning into an overwhelming chore. Sitting across the table from Snape, under the wizard's close scrutiny, felt like torture...Harry much preferred the solitude of his room.

At one time, Harry had feared the gaps in his memory; now he longed for a reprise from the drudgery of his reality. He wished he could make himself disappear, become the young man who drank scotch, enjoyed chess and felt comfortable enough in Snape's house to walk around barefoot, if only for a little while.

Even if he couldn't remember being that person himself, he could at least relieve the normalcy vicariously through Snape's memories...but Snape had no new memories to share. Richard had not returned for whatever reason, and all that was left was Harry, wasting away. Even the solace of sleep was denied him. His dreams were becoming increasingly vivid and violent. It was as if Snape had removed a stopper, and every shadow in Harry's subconscious had come bubbling to the surface.

Alone in his room, Harry buried his face in the crook of his arm and cried.

The door flew open, and Snape marched into the room. "Get up, Potter!" he ordered.

Harry buried his face into the pillow. It was not time to cook dinner yet, and he wanted to be alone. "Go away, Snape," he mumbled.

Snape would not be deterred. "Do you realize you have not left this room for two days, not even to shower or eat?"

Harry blinked slowly. "Two days?"

"Two days. Thus far I have respected your wish for privacy, but I have enough to answer for already without someday having to explain the presence of your corpse in my home!"

Harry sat up on the bed. His movements were slow and unsure. He raked his fingers nervously through his dishevelled hair.

Two days. But he remembered having cooked dinner the day before. Two days. It was the thing about time and memory...the thing he could not explain.

"I'm sorry, Snape. I didn't realise."

Snape's voice cut across Harry's soft words. "I require neither an apology nor an explanation. What I want you to do is take a shower, put on clean robes, and meet me in the kitchen in twenty minutes. Do you think you can manage that, Potter?"

Harry nodded. "Wait. Did you say robes?"

"Yes, Mr Potter...robes. You are a wizard, and wizards wear robes."

Snape waited until Harry started to rise from the bed; he then turned on his heel and marched out the door.

Harry dragged himself to his feet. He retrieved a set of robes from his trunk and saw something drop to the floor: it was one of the silver rings; the other was still in the trunk where he had hidden them. He reluctantly picked up the jewellery and put it in the pocket of his robes before he made his way to the bathroom.

Harry's stomach protested at the scent of boiled beef that filled the kitchen when he entered it. Snape stood by the stove, seasoning the contents of a large kettle.

"How do you feel?" Snape asked over his shoulder.

"Awful," Harry mumbled.

If Snape heard his reply, he did not acknowledge it. "Please have a seat," he said.

Harry collapsed into the nearest chair and stared at the blue and white pattern of the tablecloth.

Snape set a bowl of thin soup in front of him. When Harry started to object, Snape scowled down at him. "You need to eat."

It was easier to do as he was told than to argue, and after the first few tentative spoonfuls, Harry discovered he was hungry after all.

Snape nodded his approval and took the seat across from Harry.

"I've been thinking, Mr Potter, and I believe Richard's absence has taken a toll on your mental state, and I might be responsible for it."

Harry frowned. "Responsible how?"

"That is not important; what matters is that I must set things right."

"I just need some Dreamless Sleep. I'll be fine if I can get some rest."

"We've had this discussion before, Potter. The Dreamless Sleep potion is for occasional use only, and you have far exceeded its recommended usage in the short time you've been here."

Harry pounded his fist on the table, and hot soup splashed onto his hand. He cradled his injured limb against his chest and blinked back tears of frustration.

"Then give me something else...something that will make me forget!"

"Calm yourself, Mr Potter; you're being unreasonable. Our objective is to recover as much of your lost memories as possible, in order to give you a better understanding of your circumstances, and thus greater control: not to make you forget."

Harry had to make Snape understand why he could not remember, why it would be best to forget. He steeled himself and reached into the pocket of his robes with his uninjured hand. He felt for the small metal object there, but found the pocket empty. He became flustered. He ransacked his pockets, turned them inside out in search of the missing ring. He remembered putting the ring in his pocket, but now it was nowhere to be found. Someone had removed it, but he had no memory of who or when. It had happened again...this terrible thing that happened to time.

Harry started to stammer, and the stammering dissolved into something else...a wail.

Snape had been watching with growing apprehension as Harry became increasingly agitated. The young man had jumped to his feet and was rifling through the pockets of his robes. His eyes grew wide and dilated, and his normally pale cheeks became suffused with colour.

"Mr Potter. Mr Potter!" Snape called out.

Harry looked up, his face contorted with fear and fury. He let out a wail and clenched his fists. "People are all alike. You can't trust people. You really can't," he ranted.

He headed with rapid, spastic movements toward the window, his fist raised. Snape moved swiftly, but not swiftly enough. There was a loud crash as Harry put his fist through a windowpane.

Snape threw his arms around Harry's lithe body and dragged him away.

"Let me out," Harry screamed. "Let me out!" It was the plea of someone helpless and trapped.

"Let me see your hand," Snape insisted, grasping Harry's wrist after he had subdued him to the floor.

Harry shrank away from his touch.

"I only want to see if you cut yourself," Snape explained more gently.

Harry sat absolutely still on the floor, his eyes wide...with wonder or fear Snape could not tell.

In a plaintive, child-like voice, a voice very different from the one that had denounced all people as untrustworthy, Harry asked, "You're not mad about the window?"

Snape dismissed Harry's concern. "Of course not."

With a muttered Reparo and a wave of Snape's wand, the window was fixed.

"Anyone can fix a window," Snape said when he saw the expression of awe in Harry's face. "Now, let me have a look at your hand."

Harry seemed to relax, and when Snape again took his hand, he offered no resistance.

"No cuts. No bruises," Snape declared.

"There's blood," Harry said.

"There's no blood; you didn't cut yourself," Snape assured him.

"Blood in the cupboard," Harry explained. "I was there."

"Where is this cupboard?" Snape asked, already convinced that whomever he was talking to, it was not really Harry but an alternate.

"Under the stairs," Harry offered in the same child-like voice.

Snape tried to reign in his frustration. "Yes, but where are the stairs?"

"In the house at Privet Drive," was Harry's reply.

Privet Drive. No matter to which alternate Snape spoke, the one thing they all seemed to have in common was Privet Drive.

"You said you were there. What happened at Privet Drive? Why was there blood in the cupboard under the stairs?"

Harry's tone turned conspiratorial. "Harry was bad. Harry is always bad, but he doesn't mean to be. Sometimes it isn't even him who is bad," he whispered.

Snape inhaled sharply. He leaned forward and whispered something into Harry's ear, and Harry smiled.

There was so much more Snape wanted to know about the time Harry had spent with the Dursleys. He had always suspected there was more than what the headmaster had told him.

But Harry was already rising to his feet. He looked around in confusion at the upset table and chairs. "I did this, didn't I?" he asked.

Snape knew his opportunity had passed, and answers to his questions would have to wait.

"You had a brief episode, what is called a fugue," Snape explained. "You seemed to be looking for something in your pockets."

"The ring," Harry whispered.

Snape frowned. "What ring?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter. It's gone now," Harry responded, sounding forlorn and defeated.

"We need to talk more about this, and we'll do it after you have rested."

Against his better judgment, Snape provided Harry with a small dose of Dreamless Sleep.