SNARRY-A-THON10: FIC: Delusions of Madness Title: Delusions of Madness Author:eeyore9990 Rating: PG-13 Word count: 5,400 Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *Non-standard POV, mental health issues, Snark—the Snape Version, plot contains only a slight resemblance to the prompt. *wince** Prompt: #18 — Harry is bored and sees ‘despicable plots’ and ‘wicked machinations’ even in the most mundane of post-war wizarding world. When he tries to drag Snape – his erstwhile protector and fellow vanquisher of the dark – into his attempts to thwart them, Snape himself finds a new lease of life. Summary: If madness truly requires a slow descent, Harry Potter isn't mad. A/N: Very special thanks to r_grayjoy and leela_cat for their amazing beta skills and being there through the entire writing process.
Delusions of Madness
If madness truly requires a slow descent, Harry Potter isn't mad. After all, his first hallucination arrived mere hours after Voldemort's death. He'd woken from it convinced that he was married to Ginevra Weasley, had three children with utterly unimaginative names, and was the youngest Head Auror in the history of Britain. Which is complete rubbish, of course.
The Mind-Healers at St Mungo's were unable to find any cause for the mental break. Stress, they'd claimed, and sent him on his way with a pat on the head and a lolly for being a good boy, one presumes. Idiots, the lot of them. If they'd asked me, I could have told them he'd always been a bit touched. But then, no one ever asks me.
Because of their incompetence, the boy was released back into wizarding Britain with a wand and the unchecked power of the mentally unstable. Perhaps it was best that he was only able to assault a complement of potted plants before he was disarmed and brought back to this hell-hole, but I, for one, would have loved to have seen him blow up a bit of the Ministry while he was running loose.
And fuck my life if we aren't roommates. As if being stuck on the Janus Thickey Ward isn't sufficient punishment for my multitude of crimes, they've placed the boy with me.
The invalid and the insane. They'll write books about us.
Potter was bad enough with a whole mind, however crowded it was. Now that it's fragmented into a multitude of tiny pieces, he's barely tolerable. God help me, but my sanity may not survive Potter's incarceration.
* * * * *
"Snape!"
Oh, good. Potter's waking me up. I've always detested sleeping more than... allow me to check. Three hours. Fuck. "Dammit, Potter! What do you want?"
"Are you awake?"
"No. It is my habit to converse with mindless twits whilst enjoying the deepest parts of a dream cycle. Of course I'm awake, idiot!"
"I need your help."
My head thumps back to the pillow, and I ponder the advisability of using it — the pillow, not my head — to shut him up for good. I seem to have escaped justice for the murder of the last windbag I offed, so perhaps—
"Remus asked me to watch over Teddy for him, and I've never spent that much time with a baby. What do I do?"
If I were in possession of a heart, it would probably be twinging right now. However, as I am not... "Lupin is dead, Potter. He can't have asked anything of you. Go to sleep."
Lovely. Now I get to listen to the dulcet tones of the boy snivelling into his blankets when all I want to do is sleep. Would that I had my wand.
Rolling over, I yank my pillow from behind my head and press it firmly against my ear. I may suffocate on stale air, but at least I will get some rest.
* * * * *
Potter is standing atop his bed, a toothbrush held aloft in a pose reminiscent of classic duelling, when the Healer, Agatha Penrose, arrives with our potions the following morning. I meet her eyes over the top edge of my newspaper and twist my face into my darkest scowl, one that will surely keep her from addressing me.
"What is it this time?" Penrose asks me, worry lingering around the edges of her voice.
Wonderful. Not only is she an idiot, she's immune to the power of suggestion.
"Get down!" Potter shouts, waving his toothbrush wildly. "The Death Eaters are coming!"
Not bothering to hide my yawn, I rattle my newspaper in irritation as I turn the page. Honestly. If they aren't going to do anything about his madness, can't they at least hex him silent for the duration? Some of us enjoy our peace and quiet.
Namely, me.
Lost in my thoughts as I am, it comes as a complete surprise when Potter throws himself on me. Bodily. With a maximum of pointy elbows and knees. Had I ever wanted children — the mere thought of which makes me shudder with loathing — I would no longer be able to father them after Potter lands on me.
"Get," I wheeze, "off!"
But Potter, never able to follow simple commands, winds his scrawny arms around me and brandishes his toothbrush toward the door. "I won't let you take him, Malfoy," he hisses in a deadly-low voice.
"There's no one there, you idiot!" I shout, dumping him to the floor as I cradle my injured bits.
The clearing of a throat proves me a liar, and for a brief moment, I think it is Malfoy. The man standing so nervously in the doorway of our ward has pale-blond hair so reminiscent of Lucius and his incompetent offspring that my wand hand twitches fretfully. It is not long, however, before our Healer nudges him forward and introduces him.
"A Muggle Mind-Healer?" I ask, incredulous.
"There's nothing wrong with Muggles." Potter, obviously offended, contributes his first rational statement in over a month.
"Did you learn nothing from Arthur Weasley's disastrous time in hospital after Nagini bit him? Muggle remedies do not work on wizards!"
Potter's eyes glaze over and he snarls at the Muggle Healer. "I'll see you in Azkaban for this! The Veil is too good for you, Malfoy."
What have I done in my life that was so terrible that Potter is my punishment? I sit up and notice then that in the struggle with Potter, my newspaper was ripped and wrinkled beyond repair. Snarling, I stand and stomp over to the tiny loo they've equipped our room with.
I am not giving them privacy, though. I'm simply seeking it for myself. I must see to the damage Potter caused with his shenanigans, after all.
I slam the door as the Muggle begins to speak to Potter in low, soothing tones.
* * * * *
"It's certainly reassuring to know they think Mr Potter will recover fully in time, don't you think, Severus?"
I cannot help but gape at the incompetent witch who is smoothing salve into my throat. "Have we met, Madam?"
Her high-pitched titter is like nails down a chalkboard before she pauses long enough to say, "Oh, you old devil. I know, beneath that crusty exterior, you're as good as gold. The things you did for that boy." She sighs, and the romantic lilt to that loathsome gust of air has me pushing her away and screaming at her to leave me the fuck alone.
When she's finally gone, I smooth my hands down my hospital robe and seek some semblance of inner peace and tranquillity. When I'm no longer seeing red, I look over to find Potter staring at me, pure loathing on his expressive face.
"Detention?" he spits — literally, I can see the spittle dotting his lips from across the room. "And just what have I done to deserve it this time, or need I even ask?"
I allow one eyebrow to rise slowly toward my hairline.
"All I wanted was some form of acknowledgment. And you couldn't even manage that, could you?" Potter is across the room in seconds, pushing his face into mine and punctuating every word by ramming a bony finger into my chest. "I give and give and give in this relationship, and all I get in return is a cold nod across the hall at dinner? I'm tired of this, Snape! Either we're together or we aren't." He draws back, and even in my state of utter bewilderment, I can see he's holding his breath.
"What the devil are you on about, Potter?"
The boy is mental, of that there is no doubt, but surely even he isn't delusional enough to dream up a fictitious relationship between the two of us.
Apparently, though, I'm wrong. His lips compress and there's anger and betrayal in his eyes before he draws himself up straight and says, "Fine. That's the way you want to play it? Enjoy watching as I walk away, then, because that's the last you'll ever see of my arse, Severus Snape!"
I'm so stunned I can only watch, mouth agape, as he walks stiffly from the room.
The warded room.
* * * * *
I have no idea why I've been summoned to the Muggle Mind-Healer's temporary office on the second floor, and I meet his concerned gaze with an angry one of my own. "What the devil do you want?" I finally ask, one hand automatically going to my throat to ensure I haven't opened the wound again. The skin over the bites is like wet parchment, and my health is degrading faster than I care to consider.
"It has been suggested that your relationship with Mr Potter is—"
I'm on my feet in an instant, my fists pressed into the top of the fool's desk and my lips pulled back, baring my teeth at him even as drops of fresh blood splatter against the dark-grained wood. "There is no relationship between Mr Potter and myself. The boy is utterly mad, as are you if you believe his lunatic ravings."
"Mr Snape, please have a seat while I fetch a nurse—"
"Mediwitch," I growl. If he's going to insinuate himself into this world, he'd best begin using proper terminology.
"Yes, yes, of course." He's gone for a brief moment, only to return with a hard-faced witch who glares at me all the while she re-bandages my neck. I like her immediately, mostly because she leaves within seconds. Only those whose presence I truly suffer through stay around me any length of time. Pity that.
"Now, I was under the impression," the Mind-Healer says, breaking into my thoughts, "that you've been a part of Mr Potter's life since he was eleven? You were his professor at school?"
First Potter, now this buffoon. Really, what have I done to deserve all this? "Yes," I say, agreeing because it seems the only way to bring this ludicrous conversation to a point.
"Which relationship did you think I was referencing?"
I can only scowl at him. He's obviously trying to humiliate me; even this fool will have heard of Potter's tantrum. "I don't wish to discuss it. What do you want with me?"
He stares at me for a long time, but his Muggle mind-tricks are no match for my skill with Occlumency. Feeling somewhat reckless, I attempt to turn the tables with a strong outward push of Legilimency, but without a wand, all I can see are fuzzy images of myself. My face twists with horror at the vision. Near-dead is not a good look for me.
"I was hoping," he finally says after my facial shenanigans have forced him to break eye contact, "that you would be willing to help me with Mr Potter. You see, I don't know when he's being rational and when he isn't at this point. You won't be the only person, and I may not need to call on you at all, but as you are here all day, I thought—"
"You did not think. No amount of thought was put into this idiotic scheme. Me, help Potter? And they say the boy is mental." Scoffing hurts my throat, but it's an automatic reaction.
"He's obviously attached to you. I don't understand why—"
"I've done enough for that imbecile! I refuse to pander to his need for coddling."
"Mr Potter's brain has suffered a trauma. When his... possession... ended, his mind was basically ripped in half and his memory scrambled. He is healing, but the process is a slow one while his brain works out new pathways for the relay of information. He may have episodes of rationality followed by periods of extreme dissociative behaviour. His hallucinations are, to him, reality. At the moment. But not always. He needs to feel safe. For whatever reason, he feels safe with you." The Muggle folds his hands atop the desk. "And that is why I was hoping you'd be willing to help."
"Allow me to crush your hopes, then. I will not help Potter." Feeling petulant, I add, "And you can't make me."
* * * * *
Apparently, I was wrong. He could make me, which is why I am currently in the most ridiculous situation I've ever had the misfortune to experience.
Dun, dun, dat-dat...
Potter is singing some wordless tune as we move through the night-darkened halls of St Mungo's, holding plastic spoons he pilfered from our supper trays before us as we creep along.
Dun, dun, dut-dut...
I physically cannot resist rolling my eyes when Potter stops, stands up straight, and sings out, "Neneneeee! Neneneeee! Neneneeee! Ne-ne!" before crouching again.
"You realise," I whisper, and then want to kick myself for playing into his delusions, "that real reconnaissance work requires silence, yes?"
Potter whips around to me, placing his finger against my lips as he murmurs in my ear, "Hush! If we're discovered, the secretary will disavow all knowledge of our existence!" There is a brief flicker of confused sanity in his eyes and he has time to ask, "Snape?" before they glaze over and I'm once more accompanied by the half-wit to whom I've grown accustomed.
"What exactly are we doing here, Potter?"
"The mission!"
"And our mission is....?"
Potter shuffle-steps to the end of a hallway and peeks around before giving me an all-clear hand gesture and motioning me toward him. "We have to get St Mungo's codpiece."
My jaw drops to my chest, and I nearly choke on my tongue in surprise. "What?"
"The codpiece of the founder of St Mungo's. It's a Horcrux. We have to find it and destroy it!"
I lean against the wall, banging my head on it for good measure. "Dear God. Potter. The war is over. Every single Horcrux has been destroyed—" I hear a sound down the adjoining hall and turn to see that Potter is gone. Cursing fluently — in several languages, both current and ancient — I hurry after him.
Dun, dun, dat-dat!
He's stopped in front of a statue of St Mungo, his hands on the statue's hips. There is a brief flicker, a glow really, and the statue moves. I find myself disbelieving my own sanity for a moment as I know for a fact that all patients are heavily warded with magic-dampening spells. And then it strikes me that perhaps his condition allows him to bypass such wards. His brain simply does not heed them.
An alcove appears behind the statue where, if I'm not mistaken, the earthly remains of St Mungo are interred. Right here. Where we're standing. I take a moment to feel humbled at this experience.
Before I can stop him, Potter reaches into the depression in the stone wall and rips a piece of fabric from the rather bleached-looking skeleton, disturbing the bones and scattering them across the pristine floor.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Potter turns to me, triumphant. "The codpiece! I have it!" He holds up his trophy, and the combination of the fragility of the fabric and his rough handling cause the ancient codpiece to disintegrate in his hands.
As I stand, able only to gape at him in stunned disbelief, Potter sighs mournfully. "This message will self-destruct in five seconds."
* * * * *
Apparently Potter cannot stomach the thought of allowing me a full eight hours of recuperative sleep, because the clock on the wall reads 3:23 am when his next round of shouting wakes everyone in ward 49. So... just me, then.
"Shut up, Potter!" I growl, not even considering that it will do any good. To my delighted surprise, the room goes silent. For a moment.
"...Professor Snape? Is that you?" The boy sounds half-frightened, which causes me to sit up and stare across the dimly-lit room at him. "Where am I?"
I find myself unable to answer for a time, as for once he seems to have recovered what miniscule amount of wit he ever claimed. "Potter."
I'm trying to formulate a response to his question — it seems ridiculous to merely tell him that we are residents of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries — when he draws his knees to his chest. His voice is small and somewhat broken when he asks, "Am I dead?"
A snort escapes me before I'm able to call it back — don't judge me; I haven't had my tea yet — and I can only respond with a callous, "No more than I am."
"I am, then. I watched you die. I'm sorry." Potter's face seizes once, he blinks, and then he looks at me and says, "Mr Caterpillar, smoking is bad for you."
I have to admit, I'm surprised at the level of disappointment his relapse into madness causes me. I shouldn't care one way or the other. This is Potter, after all. He's always been an imbecile.
* * * * *
I'm playing chess against myself when Potter goes silent in the middle of a grandiose speech he'd been making to the wall. The lack of nattering draws my attention away from my black knight decapitating one of my hapless white pawns and I see Potter in the corner, curled into a ball, shivering as if the room had suddenly dropped thirty degrees.
I wave my hand over the pieces to pause the game and watch Potter for a moment. If it looks as if he's going to hurt himself, I'll call the mediwitch. Otherwise it's simply one more episode in a long line of them — even if said episodes are decreasing in frequency and the line appears to be nearing an end.
Potter's shuddering slows and becomes rather rhythmic, and I can see from where I sit that his lips are moving, but I can't hear what he's saying.
As I have nothing better to do, I slide off my bed and walk toward him. When I'm still halfway across the room, he throws his arms over his head and cringes.
"Hmph, if I was going to beat you, I'd have done it years ago, Potter."
He peers at me through his protectively held arms and whispers in a child-like voice, "Shhh. We're not supposed to make any noise. And Dudley will hear us and tell. He's right there, above us, right now. Shaking the spiders loose."
I grit my teeth, but the Muggle Mind-Healer's instructions were clear. Talk Potter through his madness and help him find the path to sanity. Not that I particularly believe in sanity. Everyone is mad in some manner.
"What spiders?"
"You can't see them right now, because the door is shut. You can only see them when Aunt Petunia opens the door."
My gut-deep reaction to that name is nearly physical. Petunia. I have no desire to discuss that magnificently putrid cunt. "So they're imaginary spiders?"
"No. Of course not. Can't you feel them on your skin?" He hunkers down again, making himself smaller as he starts to whimper.
"Why can't you see them, then?" Logic. Kill the insanity with logic.
"The light. I can't reach the string."
String? "Perhaps you should use the wall-switch?"
Potter sighs and lowers his arms, wiping at every inch of his skin that he can reach, though he doesn't stop crouching. "Silly. There's no wall-switch in my cupboard. Just the string."
When the implications of Potter's off-hand comment hit me, it is all I can do to remain standing. "Let me see if I understand. You live in a cupboard?"
Potter peers at me quizzically and shrugs. "Of course. Where else would I live?"
"You live in a cupboard in Petunia's house."
He doesn't answer me then, which isn't surprising. It wasn't a question, after all. Not really.
"And what about your magic?"
Potter goes frantic once more, scrambling to me and pulling me down until he can place one hand over my mouth. "Shhhh!" He shakes his head wildly while his eyes dart around the room. "We can't talk about things that aren't real. Uncle Vernon will be very sore with us if he finds out."
"Not real? What isn't real?"
Instead of answering me, Potter pats along my body until he finds my arm and then he pulls my hand onto his lap. With a shaking finger, he traces m-a-j-e-k onto my palm.
"Potter?"
"Hmm?"
"How old are you?"
"Six. And a half." He smiles at me proudly then, and my anger at the world grows tenfold.
Then again, the rest of the world will have to wait. Remind me when I've been released to find Petunia and torture her. Slowly.
* * * * *
Why do I not merit a private room? Why, why, why, why, why?! The fucking Weasleys are here. All of them.
Twitch.
Twitch.
Fucking twitch.
It's surely a bad sign that my hand hasn't stopped making a fist since Arthur walked through the door, especially as I have no particular quarrel with the man. Other than, of course, the fact that he's a complete moron. But then, so are most people and they don't inspire this level of antipathy in me.
The only one of the lot I can stomach with even the smallest degree of non-loathing is the twin. The one who avoided having a wall dropped on his fool head. No, I have no idea which one it is, though I'm certain to find out soon enou— Ah. That would be George, then, if his screaming harpy of a mother has discovered the wit to distinguish him from his deceased sibling.
Potter is mere days from being free of this place. Since the night he woke me screaming at his sudden return of memory, his brain has apparently reknit itself and given him back control. Well, a smidgen anyway. He's still an imbecile.
Point of fact, the way he's clenching his hands in his bedsheets instead of telling the great band of buffoons currently invading our quiet sanctuary that they're overwhelming him and he needs his space. Of course, one would think they'd have picked up on his not-so-subtle non-verbal cues, but... Well, perception is the province of the mentally able, and I sincerely doubt any of them — with the possible exception of the one-eared George — are truly capable of mental feats more advanced than tying their own shoes without aid. And occasionally I have my doubts about that.
"Mum, perhaps some of us should wait in the lobby." I do enjoy being an astute judge of character. Allow me a moment to be smug as George has a quiet little argument with Molly over Potter's ability to handle such a deluge of ginger.
Not that she's heeding one single word of his advice. Apparently it is time for me to step in.
"Get. Out."
"Oh! Severus, how good to see you looking so well!" Fuck me twice and call me Sally, I've drawn Molly's peculiar brand of coddling. If she attempts to pat me, I may just lose control of the vein throbbing in my temple, and that'll truly be the end of me, snakebite or no snakebite.
"How can I possibly be well with you lot of rapacious orangutans screeching and squalling loud enough to wake the dead? Have you no sense of decency? Look at Potter! He's only just reclaimed possession of his mind, and with this level of overstimulation, I wouldn't be surprised to find him drooling and wrecked and completely broken tomorrow morning. Off with you. Give the boy the peace and quiet he requires. If you do not," I say, narrowing my eyes meaningfully, "I shall summon the Healer. And she," I waggle one eye-brow for emphasis, "will likely summon the mediwitch for this ward."
Three of the faces go sheet-white under their covering of freckles. They're the ones who have met our mediwitch. She's a right bitch. I like her.
"Yeah, ah, Mum. I think it's time we let Harry get some rest—" Cue Molly cooing noisily over Potter and tucking his blankets tight around him.
"Please, Mum, let's just go. Harry, mate, it was good to see you. Owl as soon as you know when you're getting out; we'll get Kreacher to air out Grimmauld Place for you."
It is Ginevra who takes her mother's arm in a fierce grip and drags her from the room. Arthur turns to me after the rest of his brood have left and frowns sadly. "I do apologise, Severus. Harry. We're just so happy to have you back, you see."
"I'll keep Molly away. Somehow. You rest. Get better. Ron and Hermione are at loose ends without you. They aren't even fighting any more, if you can imagine."
Potter chuckles awkwardly, and Arthur leaves without another word. A most welcome silence descends, and isn't broken for a good two minutes and thirteen seconds. But who's counting?
"Thank you, sir. I don't know why... I am happy to see them, really I am—"
"Oh, shut up, Potter. Do you really think I got rid of them for you?" I don't need a healed throat to sneer properly. "One more word out of that woman's mouth, and I'd have ripped off my bandages and gouged myself in the throat 'til I bled out. It was merely self-preservation."
He stares at me for a long moment before smiling. I have the last laugh, though, when I summon the mediwitch and tell her he's having an episode.
* * * * *
Oh frabjous day. Potter's leaving these hallowed halls. Allow me to chortle in my glee.
Chortle, chortle.
I, however, am stuck here. I have begun to feel a trickle of doubt that I'll ever leave. And don't think it hasn't occurred to me that my Healers may actually be responsible for my condition; I cannot help but compare the length of my stay to that of Arthur Weasley post-Nagini. I have easily been a prisoner here five times longer than he was. Oh, Healer Penrose says it's because of the cocktail of potions I was taking, as well as the influence of the dark magic that was contained in my Mark — which, I'm happy to report, is gone; cut from my skin to aid in my recovery — but I have my doubts. Certainly basic healing potions won't work, but something should have by now.
But I digress. He's leaving. Good riddance. I shall not miss him or the spells of insanity that still occasionally manifest within him.
Even if they did keep me from going blind with boredom.
Potter, of course, is sitting on the side of his hospital bed, wearing real clothing for the first time in months, and pouting. He, you see, does not want to go home. I despair of this new generation of young adults, I truly do.
"What in the name of Lucifer's left buttock is your problem, Potter?"
He starts, gaze flying around the room before landing on mine. "Nothing."
"Which would explain your abysmal attitude at finding yourself finally free of this... asylum."
"I just... I'm afraid, all right? I'm afraid that the minute I get out of here, I'll find out I'm really not well, and I'll start having delusions again, and—"
"Kiss a random stranger? Buck up, Potter, at least you'll be getting some action."
He shoots me the look of narrow-eyed disgust that only a scornful teenager can properly deliver. "Thanks, Snape. Real comforting you are."
"You really have been deluding yourself if you believe I've ever been comforting."
"Yeah, apparently." He begins to mope again, the silence that descends broken only by his mournful sighs.
"Oh for fuck's sake. Buck up, boy! You're gaining your freedom! Were I in your shoes, there'd be naught but dust lingering in the air from the speed of my departure."
"Easy for you to say! You don't have to worry about losing your mind."
"No, just my life."
He clicks his teeth and looks away. "The Healers said today that this latest potion should cure you. You'll be out of here soon as well."
"And you believe them? Put down those bags, Potter. You definitely need further mind-healing." I glare at my blanket-covered feet and say, "Besides which, even if I leave, I'll still be subjected to this place at least once per day. Someone will need to ensure the potions aren't compromising me, and that my bandages are changed frequently for at least a month. Maybe even longer."
"Maybe..."
I look up and am taken aback by the open expression of need on Potter's face. "What?"
"Maybe I could watch out for you. And you could, you know... keep an eye on me and hex me when I go batshit insane?"
"I could hex you now. That is the most insane idea I've ever heard. We'd kill each other, Potter."
He jumps off his bed and sidles over to mine. I prevent him from perching on the foot of my bed with a look that could freeze fire.
"Just think about it. We know each other; we know when to get out of each other's way. I mean, I can tolerate you—" something about the way he avoids my gaze when he says that makes me believe he's overstating the case, "and you know when I'm feeling overwhelmed. It's the perfect arrangement."
"Ludicrous. I refuse to reside at Grimmauld Place, and you are certainly not coming to Spinner's End."
"That's okay! I already asked Hermione to look around for another place for me to live. I mean, Grimmauld is... better now, but certainly not someplace I want to stay indefinitely. And I'll cut off my feet before I go back to Privet Drive. So, I'll get a small house, or a flat, or—"
I snort. "Do I look the sort who'd be satisfied living in a flat?"
"You lived in professor's rooms at Hogwarts. How is a flat different?"
"Walls of stone with centuries-old imperturbable charms built in."
He nods slowly and says, "So a house, then. Two bedrooms, on opposite ends. A large outbuilding for potions work..."
I can't believe I'm contemplating this, but I am. His madness must be catching.
"And while I'm brewing potions in this outbuilding, what will you be doing?"
"A place in the country, with lots of space so I can fly when I want—"
"You're going to while away your days on your broom? When you could take leave of your senses at any moment? Are you really that determined to live a meaningless existence?"
He shrugs. "What else can I do?"
Really? Really? "Oh, I don't know. You could revise. Shocking, I know. You could sit your NEWTs." I throw in a gasp for effect. "You could even, and this is a stretch, find a job."
He grins, and I know he knows that he's won. Fuck.
"I could help you brew."
I cannot hide a shudder of pure terror at the mere thought. "You will not step one foot in my outbuilding, on pain of death, even if you think something has happened to place me in mortal danger. You are a menace with a cauldron, boy!"
"That's settled, then."
Something bubbles up in my chest — not hope, or happiness, or any of those other dratted 'h' words that Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors like to bandy about — and I know he's correct. It's settled.
I can't believe I'm going to willingly live with Harry fucking Potter.
* * * * *
God help us all, it's been six months since Harry Potter was released from St Mungo's. Five months and twenty eight days since I was released. Five months and twenty eight days since I first entered Harry Potter's new home in wizarding Cambridge with the intent to stay only until I could find my own accommodations (and a willing visiting mediwitch) of my own.
Can you believe there were no mediwitches willing to see to my needs? Bastards, the lot of them.
But even more unbelievable, even more bone-chilling if you truly think about it, is the fact that it has been three months and sixteen days since the first time Harry Potter threw himself at me and bloodied my nose with his awkward attempt at kissing me. Being a Slytherin, I took full advantage, and now sleep in his large, comfortable bed every evening.
No, Harry Potter's descent into madness wasn't slow at all. And I'm enjoying every minute of it.