Walk the Shadows

A/N: Thanks to all who read and review! Next chapter will be out tomorrow or Wednesday.

*Chapter 18*: Chapter 18

Walk the Shadows -- Chapter 18

By jharad17

Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Honest. She's rich, I'm not.

A/N at end.

Aug. 7

He's crazy. I mean, I thought for a while it was me, but really, he's the one who's crazy. He laughed today. It was creepy. He has really crooked teeth and when he laughs, you can see them all, and it isn't pretty. I wish I knew what the hell he expected from me in this journal, or from the stupid talks we have, when he thinks he can serve me tea and get me to spill my guts, but when I ask, he won't do any more than stare at me and lift his eyebrows, like that means something, and wait till I go crazy just like him.

This whole thing is stupid and a waste of time.

Let's see, then. The main ingredients in Draught of Living Death are asphodel, wormwood, Sopophorus bean, and valerian roots. The main ingredients in Draught of Peace are powdered moonstone and syrup of hellebore . . .

Once more Harry closed the book after twenty minutes and looked over at the Professor, expectantly. He wasn't sure what to expect, exactly, but it was sure to be . . . interesting. Snape had been in a weird mood, ever since the fall yesterday, and Harry didn't like it, at all. He liked his Professor being predictable, surly and nasty and condescending. This . . . he wasn't sure what to do with this.

Harry almost breathed a sigh of relief when Snape ignored him and continued to read. That he could handle. He was good at being ignored. But Snape merely finished the page he was on, closed his own tome and looked up into Harry's eyes.

'I imagine you'd like to go flying again today.'

'I would, sir, but . . .'

'But? Come on, Potter, spit it out. I haven't got all day to wait for thoughts to form in that head of yours.'

Ah, there was the disdain he'd come to know and respect. 'But I don't want to trouble you, sir. Not after yesterday. I . . . I know you said Madam Pomfrey told you I saved your life, but I didn't really. It was an accident. I mean . . . I was really responsible for you almost dying in the first place.'

'I see.' Snape rose and went to the kitchen.

Harry sighed. Not again! 'Do we have to talk? Can't you just . . . punish me or something?'

Snape peered at him through an almost perfect curtain of hair as he measured tea into the waiting kettle. His dark eyes were like polished cuts of onyx and about as warm. 'What kind of punishment do you feel you deserve, Potter, for your behavior yesterday?'

'You could . . .' He made himself say the words, though he desperately wished he didn't have to. 'You could take away my broom, sir.'

'And would you learn self control that way?'

'Self control?'

'Are you a parrot? Never mind.' Snape put the kettle on the hob and leaned against one of his counters, arms across his chest. 'Understand this. What drove you to be reckless yesterday was an abhorrent lack of self control. Something Gryffindors are notorious for.'

Harry set his jaw, though guilt and shame swamped him. If he'd been able to control himself, his impulses, then Sirius would be alive still, and his friends wouldn't have gotten hurt at the Ministry. He was as responsible for them as he was for everything else. He'd be lucky if they ever forgave him for almost getting them killed, if they ever even talked to him again. 'Right. Yes, sir. I want to learn self control.'

Snape laughed again. This time it was more of a chuckle, forced through a sneer, but it was directed at Harry, who bristled, even before he heard the man's cutting words. 'I'll just forget you ever said that, shall I? When we both know it isn't true.'

'It is. I . . . Like I told you the other day . . . I kill everyone who gets close to me, everyone who gets near me. My parents, Sirius—'

'Are all dead because the Dark Lord wanted them to be. Spare me the melodrama, Potter. You have no control over his actions. Only your own.'

'But if I hadn't gone to the Ministry, Bellatrix—' Sharp pain ran through him, searing into his head and gut at the very thought of the woman who had killed Sirius, and who had tortured him, who had laughed at his screams. He could still hear her laughter sometimes, when it was quiet. When he tried to sleep. In his dreams. . .

'Harry?' The word was spoken very close to him, and he instinctively shied away and put his hands up to ward whoever it was from coming closer. He shivered, freezing, lying in darkness on the stone floor in the huge hall. If he focused on the laughter, he didn't have to listen to the screams.

'Harry. Tell me what's going on, now. Where are you?'

'It's cold,' he said. 'I can't get warm.'

'It's warm here,' the voice said softly. 'Come, sit by the fire.'

Hands tried to touch him and he shoved them away, scrambling backwards until he hit a wall. He couldn't have hands on him! 'NO!'