Walk the Shadows

'All right. It's all right, Harry. Here's some tea, right by your hand. Take the cup now.'

He fumbled for the cup, and brought it to his mouth, unseeing. Everything was dark, like midnight on the night of a new moon. But the tea was hot and warmed him a little, though not enough. It was never enough.

'Take another sip.'

He obeyed; it was easiest to do so. But the cup shook in his grip and he spilled some of the hot liquid on his lap. He barely felt it, though he brushed at it with his other hand, trembling like a stupid, scared child. Tears formed in his eyes, he could feel them, hot and stinging with salt, but he dared not let them fall. The laughter would worsen, and he didn't think he could take it. He squeezed his eyes shut instead.

'Talk to me, Harry,' the other said, the one who's magic stood like a stalwart beside him. Then the other pressed a small towel into his hand, so he could dab at the mess on his trousers. 'Tell me what's going on.'

'Hurts,' Harry whispered and took a shuddering breath, twisting the towel in his hands and pressing back against the wall. If he could just stop the screaming, everything would be fine.

'What hurts? Harry?'

'Everything.' He couldn't hold back anymore, not even to curtail the awful, screeching laughter he knew would follow. The tears fell and he couldn't make them stop. His throat ached and his head hurt, and everything . . . he just wanted everything to stop. He squashed himself into as tight a ball as he could manage, to get away, to stop the pain. 'Oh, god, it hurts; he's hurting me.'

'Who is? Harry, who's hurting you?' A hand came down on him.

The touch burned and ripped him open from one end to the other, bones melting into hot shards of glass, and he screamed. Screamed through every drop of his blood spilled and every bone broken. Screamed through the sickening laughter and the high cold voice that crowed delight, 'Let's see how he does with Crucio at the same time, Lucius. Does his agony make it sweeter for you?'

Then the breathless whisper against his ear that made him vomit, 'Oh, yes, my Lord. Please.'

'NO!' Harry shrieked. 'Please, please stop, I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry! I'll be good, I promise! Please, don't hurt me anymore. . . .'

And now the hand was gone, and the soothing voice that was there to trick him into staying and listening, and all that remained was cold stone, laughter, and pain.

XOXOXOXXOXOXOXXOXO

Severus sat back on his heels in front of the silently weeping Boy Who Lived, and swore. He'd thought they were making progress. Aside from the debacle of yesterday's flight, there had been no tears and nothing broken for almost 48 hours, and he'd considered it a decent step forward. But now Harry had gone two giant steps back, at first withdrawing into himself and pleading for all the hurting to stop, and now rocking back and forth, arms wrapped tight around his middle, and not responding at all. The bloody hope of the bloody Wizarding world.

Flashback, he knew, from some of his own experiences, and the best thing would be to ground Harry in the here and now. But he wasn't sure if Harry could even hear him anymore, and he certainly wasn't going to try and touch the boy again. He didn't need that scream replayed, thank you very much.

Instead he returned to muttering the inane words he hoped would somehow get through this newest wall. 'You're in the sitting room, Harry, in my quarters. We're at Hogwarts. You're on the wool rug, can you feel it? It's warm here, in front of the fire. Harry, open your eyes and see where you are. It's my sitting room at Hogwarts. . . .'

After little less than half an hour, the boy blinked and looked at him. 'Professor?'

'I'm right here,' Severus replied, although that was obvious. 'Would you like to get off the floor now?'

Potter peered around, his big green eyes still blinking owlishly behind his glasses. 'Where are . . . we're at Hogwarts?'

Severus nodded, and even let pass the perfect opportunity he had to cut the boy's mental capacity down to size. He must be getting senile in his old age . . . or terminally sentimental. 'In my quarters. Now, the floor, while a sensible place to put one's feet, is hardly suitable for sitting upon. So, if you would . . .?'

'Yes, sir. Sorry.' Potter pushed himself to his feet, making no move to take the hand that Severus offered to help him. Severus wasn't even sure the boy noticed it. He swayed a little, once standing, and Severus managed – just – not to grab his arm to steady him. 'I'll . . . I'm kind of tired, Professor. Can I lie down awhile?'

'You know the rules, Potter.' Best to keep them on track.

'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.' Potter swiped a hand across his eyes, then held it up, as if surprised he could see it. 'Sorry I . . . I kind of lost it. I dunno what happened.'

'Go wash up, Potter. Your face is a mess. I'll make tea.'

A bleak smile of acknowledgement greeted his words, which was all Severus could really hope for at the moment. He busied himself in the kitchen while the boy washed his face and changed his clothes, presumably, and when Harry returned, he had the table laid out. He pushed a phial of translucent green liquid across the table. 'Drink. It's a calming draught.'

'Yes, sir,' Harry mumbled, and did as he was told, then pulled one of the cups of tea towards himself and added his customary cream and sugar before taking a biscuit and nibbling the corners off.

Severus waited a good few minutes, until he was sure the calming draught had taken effect, and that the boy had drunk some of his tea, before speaking again. 'Your nightmares,' he started, conversationally.

Harry's shoulders tensed, and his fingers gripped the tea cup, despite the potion. 'Yes, sir?'

'They are not abating.'