Yesterday Was Never

Harry braved the wintry weather and walked the few blocks to the Muggle pub. Two facts were undeniable: Richard liked bars and he liked men. And Harry did not mind indulging him once in a while, so long as all he did was flirt. This night, Richard had insisted that they go to the pub. It was a Saturday night, and the place was crammed to the rafters. Harry made his way to the bar and was about to order a beer, when he noticed a bottle on one of the shelves. The label read: Scotch – Macallan Fine Oak.

Thoughts of Snape flitted through Harry's mind. Richard stepped to the foreground, and Harry could feel himself fade until he was just a pin's point of awareness in someone else's mind, in control but not in charge. Richard ordered his glass of scotch and leaned back against the bar, scanning the crowd.

It had taken Harry three years of intense treatment to unravel the tangled webs of his own psyche, and another two years had passed before Dr Elkwood declared him well enough to resume a normal life and turned his care over to a therapist in London who specialised in dissociative disorders. Life for Harry was not what the average person would consider normal...he lived with a plethora of alternates, each with their own distinct talents and insights...but it was a harmonious coexistence, ever since he had learned to communicate with those parts of himself. Some alternates he could access directly, others only through notes, and some (like Thomas, Harry's protector and the most dangerous of the alternates) had merged or disappeared altogether.

The cost had been high. His marriage was not the least of the casualties of the war that Harry had fought with himself. Of his old acquaintances, only Hermione and Ron remained in contact. The Auror program had also become a dream of the past (although Harry still believed that Thomas would have made a superb Auror). Even with Hermione's capable help, Harry's efforts to find Snape had been fruitless...the cosy house in the Muggle neighbourhood had been hastily abandoned, and Harry was certain that wherever Snape was hiding, it was unplottable and unreachable. Harry had always been on his own, even when he didn't know it...except for Snape's diligent watch over him.

Richard reached into the pants pocket and fingered the cold metal of the ring that Harry kept there.

"You still carry it with you?" Harry heard Richard whisper. Harry was never certain if Richard actually spoke aloud to him, or if their thoughts simply transferred to each other...he suspected it was the latter.

"Always," Harry answered.

"You miss him, don't you?"

"I never got to thank him properly."

"Maybe he's the one who should be thanking you, for saving his life," Richard pointed out.

"That was Thomas; it wasn't me."

As Thomas and Richard's personalities had merged in therapy, Thomas' memories of the night Lucius Malfoy was killed had been transferred to Richard, allowing Harry access to them.

Snape had been on the floor, nearly unconscious after a prolonged round of Cruciatus, Harry too weakened and in pain to do anything about it, when Thomas had taken over. With a burst of inhuman strength, he had launched himself at Lucius and wrestled the wand from the startled wizard's hand. He had cast two Avada Kedavras in quick succession (one on Lucius, the other on a house-elf that had run into the room), without ambivalence or hesitation...Harry still flinched inwardly when he thought about it. Thomas had managed to drag Snape's prone body to the fireplace, toss in a handful of Floo-powder and shout 'Snape's home' as he shoved the wizard's unconscious body into the green flames. It was only after Snape had disappeared that Thomas noticed the ring. He had donned Harry's robes and placed the ring in his pocket, intent on leaving Malfoy Manor and go into hiding, before the condition of Harry's body caught up with him, and he collapsed near the door.

"I owe him a lot," Harry concluded silently.

"Snape or Thomas?" Richard asked.

"Both."

"What would you say to Snape if you saw him again?"

Harry felt the urge to shrug his shoulders, but Richard didn't shrug, not usually. "It doesn't matter; he's gone."

There was a shift in Richard's emotions, something Harry felt inwardly but could not explain. Perhaps it was the alcohol Richard was consuming...no, there it was again...definitely not the alcohol: something else. It was difficult for Richard to keep information from Harry, since the latter allowed him freedom but not free reign.

"Richard, do you know something about where Snape is?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"I don't, but I think Ottie does."

Ottie was another alter: a seven year old child who loved biscuits, forever locked in and trying to get out from the cupboard beneath the stairs at Privet Drive. He rarely surfaced anymore.

"Ottie exists in another time...he wouldn't know anything about the present, let alone Snape," Harry argued.

"He knows," Richard insisted. "He likes Snape. Always talks about how Snape fixes windows, and sometimes brags about the secret place Snape told him about."

Excitement began to build inside Harry. "Richard, do you know where the 'secret place' is?"

"No. Ottie won't tell me and says I can't make him. He says it's a 'secret.' But I think he would tell you."

Harry sensed that Richard had supplied the last bit of information only reluctantly, but was too overcome with excitement to pay much attention.

Secret, Harry thought. A secret place...Secret Keeper!

Ottie was Snape's Secret Keeper. The realisation stunned Harry. There was only one problem: Ottie never spoke directly to Harry.

"Let's go!" Harry practically shouted inside Richard's head.

"We just got here, and I haven't finished my drink," Richard protested. "Where are we going?" he added, already relinquishing control to Harry.

"We're going to get some biscuits," Harry declared as he ran out of the pub, earning the curious stares of several patrons.

The following evening, Harry Apparated in front of the address scribbled on the small piece of parchment he held. The handwriting was childlike, but legible. His stomach was still revolting against the exorbitant number of biscuits he had been forced to eat before Richard had managed to persuade Ottie to disclose Snape's location. Still, Ottie had refused to tell Richard directly, opting instead to write down the address Snape had whispered into his ear onto a piece of parchment, but only if Richard first promised not to read it...only Harry. That's what Snape had instructed him to do. "Tell only Harry, and only if he really needs my help," Ottie had informed him Snape had said.

Harry approached the house with a determined stride and knocked on the door. A moment passed, and Harry was about to knock again when the door opened a crack, and a dark eye peered suspiciously out at him.

"Snape, it's me, Harry. Let me in."

"I'm not blind yet, Potter," Snape snapped. He grabbed Harry's arm and yanked him inside.

Harry grinned. The expression on Snape's face was a mixture of surprise and consternation that made the older wizard look more like an owl than a bat.

"I see time has done nothing to tame your recklessness," Snape hissed.

Harry's face fell. He had not expected a warm reception from Snape, but he had thought that he would at least be welcomed.

"I didn't have a way to contact you before I showed up, but you wouldn't have told Ottie where to find you if you didn't want me to come," Harry said hesitantly.

"Has something happened of which I should be aware?" Snape asked.

"No. Everything is fine."

"Then you shouldn't have come," Snape spat.

It was a swift blow to Harry's already tenuous confidence...maybe Snape was right, maybe he should not have come. "I had to give you back your ring," he tried to explain.

"You should have destroyed it."

"It wasn't mine to destroy."

Harry looked around the living room and for the first time noticed the room's unusual state of disarray. Old magazines were piled on the coffee table and next to the chair; various items of clothing were strewn across the floor; in one corner, the old piano leaned on a broken leg; a chipped plate crusted with food peeked out from beneath the couch, and the air was ripe with the smell of dust and rot. On one side of the room, several shelves had collapsed under the weight of the books they had held...the shelves had not been fixed; the books lay ignored on the floor. Harry's eyes took in Snape's stained robes and greasy hair.

"I lied," Harry confessed. "I came because I wanted to see how you were."

"There's nothing to see here, Potter. Go away," Snape said softly, his glittering eyes sweeping across the room as if looking for an uncompromised place amid the wreckage on which to settle.

"He doesn't want you to go," Richard whispered inside Harry's mind.

"Richard thinks I should stay," Harry blurted.

Snape frowned, and his eyes pierced Harry with their intensity. "Ah, yes...Richard. I remember him, a very forward young man."

Harry felt his cheeks grow warm with embarrassment; it was still hard sometimes to acknowledge some of the things his alternates had said and done when Harry was not in control.

"Richard is sorry about what happened...he misunderstood."

"Did he?"

Something about the sceptical arch of Snape's eyebrow gave Harry pause...maybe Richard had not misunderstood at all.

"You seemed to enjoy his company. You know, Snape, if you wanted to spend some time with Richard, I wouldn't mind."

Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously on Harry. "What are you implying, Potter?" he asked softly.

"Nothing," Harry hastened to reply. "You just seemed to enjoy his company.

Do you have any scotch?" Harry asked suddenly.

Snape frowned. "I might have a bottle or two in the pantry." Snape looked around the room as if at a loss for what to do next. "I suppose you could stay for a while. I don't get much company..."

Snape began to move some of the clutter around on the couch, all the while avoiding Harry's gaze. Harry approached him slowly and proceeded to help. His hand brushed against Snape's, and Snape flinched. Harry wondered exactly how long it had been since someone had visited Snape...most likely years if the wizard had been hiding the entire time; it was probably longer since someone had actually touched him.

Damn, Harry thought. He had always had trouble knowing what to say when others were distraught...Richard was much better at it.

"You go get the scotch, Snape; I'll pick these up," he said softly.

Snape's eyes darted to him suspiciously, but after a moment he relinquished the task to Harry and left the room.

When Snape returned with two glasses of scotch, Harry had cleared a space for the two of them on the couch, kicked off his shoes and was sitting with his long legs stretched out onto the coffee table.

"What do you do here all day, Snape?" Harry asked as he took the glass that Snape offered him.

Snape sat down stiffly. "I read my books. I do some occasional brewing. I watch the telly," Snape added, pointing at the dusty television that sat crookedly on a stack of books.

"You should leave this place for a while, Snape. Come to London," the young man suggested

Snape scowled. "To Grimmauld Place?"

"No. I gave that to Ginny...we are no longer together, you know. I have a flat now."

"I like my privacy. I require solitude for my studies..."

"Bloody hell, Snape! I'm not asking you to move in, just to come visit once in a while."

Snape's expression became hard once again, and Harry immediately regretted his outburst...this was not how he had expected his reunion with Snape to go. A long silence ensued during which Harry sipped his drink and Snape stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace.

"How did you get it...the ring?" Snape asked unexpectedly.

"I took it from Malfoy Manor, after I killed Lucius," Harry stated with a calmness he did not feel; his hands shook slightly, and his throat felt parched as he took the ring out of his pocket and offered it to Snape, who snatched it away as if afraid it would burn Harry's fingers.

Snape looked just as shaken. "I don't remember what happened that night. I awoke inside the fireplace in my home. The next day, when I read in the Prophet that Lucius was dead, I assumed I had..."

"So did I, until I regained some of my memories in therapy."

Harry knew the fear of not knowing, and the even worse fear of knowing. He related to Snape how Thomas had saved them both that night; he then sat back and sipped his drink while he waited for Snape to grasp the significance of the facts.

He did not have long to wait.

"How much does the Ministry know?" Snape asked, some of the old cunning back in his voice.

"Nothing, except that Malfoy kidnapped me and tortured me nearly to death. That's all I remembered when they questioned me, anyway...after that, I don't think they tried very hard to solve the case."

A sliver of excitement slipped into Snape's tone when he asked, "And the Horcrux?"

"Only Hermione and I know about that. She found it in my robes after I was taken unconscious to St. Mungo's. It's all right, Snape. I know Hermione; she will never tell. What you do with it is up to you."

Harry set down his glass and rose to leave.

"I never intended to..." Snape muttered absently.

"It doesn't matter. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened. You're free, Snape."

Snape remained seated on the couch, his eyes fixed on the embers dying in the fireplace, his glass of scotch ignored.

"Will you come to London?" Harry asked with his hand poised on the doorknob. His heartbeat drummed in his ears, one...two...three times.

"Do I have a choice?" Snape asked with a grimace that curiously resembled a sneer.

Harry shrugged. "Probably not, unless you fancy spending the rest of your life running from two tenacious Gryffindors. If you're lucky, I'll find you before Hermione does."

Snape's grimace was genuine this time. "Then you'll see me before the end of the week."

Harry felt Richard's jolt of excitement at Snape's words and winced...it was going to be a long week.

The End

Additional Author's Notes: This story is heavily influenced by two books: Sybil by Flora Rheta Schreiber (an account about a woman suffering from MPD and the therapist who diagnosed and treated her), and First Person Plural: My Life as a Multiple by Cameron West, Ph. D. (a true, first person account from a man afflicted with MPD). I also used numerous websites to research diagnostic criteria and current treatment methods for MPD, too many to list individually.