Manoir Acajou (1/2), for ships_harry Title: Manoir Acajou Author: serpenscript Giftee: ships_harry Word Count: 13,500ish Rating: NC-17 Pairings: Severus/Harry Warnings: DH Spoilers, established character death, some EWE, spanking, angst, D/s, sexual situations Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Summary: After the war, Harry flees to France to escape his memories. But he can't escape his dreams... Notes: I hope you don't mind that I sort of rolled all the prompts into one huge snowball. Any faceflops or mistakes are due to my own failings, and not those of my over-burdened beta. Happy Hols, ships_harry!
Manoir Acajou
I've seen the darkest things Crawling inside of me I've seen the monsters come alive I've seen the enemy A nightmare that follows me Searching the darkness for a light Back in the tragedy I've made a mess of me
Waiting for daylight to break up this room Waiting for daylight to break I've been alone in the dark I've been dreaming of the day When dreams are awake The sun hits my eyes And everything is right I've been waking up without you I've been waking up without you for too long
--Switchfoot, "Daylight to Break"
June 1998
I somehow always thought that when the war was over and Voldemort was really dead, everything would change. Everyone would be happy, it'd always be sunny, nothing could be wrong. Like turning on the bedroom light and banishing the monsters under the bed.
In retrospect, I see I was a boy fighting a man's war, utterly naive. Even after Cedric's death - even after Sirius! - I clung to that foolish idea. In truth, it was more like having a broken arm set; a short agonising time of pain as they pull everything back into alignment - and then the long healing process. But then I think of the people who will never be here again, who will never heal, and I amend that analogy. It's more like an amputation; losing an arm, a foot, an eye. We think, "We will never walk again," but somehow we manage to wake up each morning, moving on and trying to heal in our own ways.
And I tried healing in my own way. I made sure the Wizarding world knew - knew good and well! - that Sirius was no kind of murderer, and Pettigrew had lived to serve Voldemort. I set up a fund for poor Teddy, and forced the government to provide Wolfsbane for werewolves under government funding. I bullied Skeeter to write an article for Colin Creevey, calling him "a fearless photographer who helped the world see behind the scenes" - not untrue, for he'd been found with his camera intact. And the scenes they'd found when they'd developed the film -
Random acts of kindness and humanity in the midst of a ghastly war. Selfless acts of bravery and sacrifice. People taking blows for loved ones; falling for loved ones, and smiling because they'd helped. There was a picture of Percy and Fred and George, laughing - before that explosion had ended the laughter -
- there were pictures of mothers weeping for sons and husbands and daughters on the floors of the great hall, while others gently rearranged their lifeless limbs and closed sightless eyes, adjusting clothing to cover wounds wherever possible.
Even when Colin had been killed, he kept on taking pictures. Just like Professor Binns, he never even realised it but went on snapping pictures madly, capturing the war in such a way that future generations would understand.
There was one of Hermione and Ron snogging - one of Molly and Bellatrix dueling - Neville with Godric Gryffindor's sword in his hands - there was even a photograph of me in Hagrid's arms. I looked pale and lifeless, glasses horribly askew - it was easy to see why they had all believed me dead.
But the photograph that I quietly confiscated was not of any of my friends. It was a photo of Severus Snape lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood with staring upward with sightless eyes. It was so still it could have been a muggle photograph. Colin, how much did you see? How much did you learn before you died? Did you know we would win and die with confidence? You were always so certain. I can remember him cheering for me at the Quidditch games as the Slytherins taunted him. Now many of the Slytherins are dead or jailed, and Colin is gone.
And so is Snape. For some reason, that bothers me most of all. It seems completely wrong and unfair that I died with everyone believing me, facing death with my parents and friends around me - and still come back on the side of the living. And he had unwillingly bound himself to me for a ghost's wish and protected me all his life; died alone and friendless with the world calling him traitor. And like Sirius, he never came back from the other side of the veil.
July 1998
I tried to explain to them later, after the burials, celebrations, trials, and award ceremonies.
"Harry, it's not your fault," Hermione insisted. "It's war. No matter what, people die in a war -" she didn't look at Ron, whose face was white and tight-lipped, "- no matter how good a general you have, or how well trained everyone is. You can't blame yourself for Remus, or Tonks, or... or George. You just can't!"
I take a deep breath, try to count to ten and remind myself that these are my friends. They've stood beside me every step of the way. But they haven't seen the things I have. They don't know the things I know.
"What about Snape?" I said in a level, if completely flat, voice. "He spent his whole life looking out for me, and I hated him. We all hated him - and then he died alone with us all thinking he was a traitor! You can't say that's not my fault!"
Ron flushed. "Hey now, mate, we had every right to hate him. He was a foul git who took points from us whenever he could, and mocked us whenever possible!"
"He's right, Harry. You can't blame yourself for hating someone who tried to make you hate him! And besides," Hermione added, "He was a horrible professor! You're lucky you haven't blown yourself up yet with potions!"
It was useless trying to get them to understand. So when the chaos and funerals, award ceremonies and speeches were over... I went on a vacation.
I didn't take Hermione and Ron.
I didn't take Ginny.
All I took was a bag of clothes, my Firebolt, my wand, the old empty snitch, and my invisibility cloak. All I left was everything....and a note for the Weasleys saying I was taking a vacation and not to worry about me.
Monday, 3 August 1998
I find a Wizarding hotel in France called the Manoir Acajou. In spite of Beauxbatons being almost a sister-school to Hogwarts, they appear to be relatively untouched by the war; a simple obscuring charm over my scar, a new pair of glasses, and some highlights in my hair seem to make me into someone completely different. However, just to err on the side of caution, I sign in as "Harold Pennings" instead of giving the name Harry Potter. After all, what point is an obscuring charm if I still announce who I am?
While looking like a normal, unprepossessing building on the outside, from the inside it is vastly spacious and resembles an old-world castle, from the large open fireplaces and stone floors and walls to the heavy carved furniture. It doesn't resemble the warm red-and-gold of Gryffindor... but it does resemble the Slytherin common room. And that seems to suit me enough for now.
I rent a room in the 'dungeon' - it's a large old room with heavy iron rings and brackets on the walls where prisoners were once chained, but the bed is an enormous mahogany four-poster with drapes to pull around the bed against the chill from the bare stone walls. There's also a thick rug which cuts the chill from the floor, though when I pace across it I can still feel the uneven flagstones under the rug. There's a rough fireplace cut out of one wall, and a door to the left leads to a washroom. It's still hewn stone, but while the toilet is ancient-looking, it is thankfully fully functional, and the huge enameled claw-foot tub helps make up for the cold. There's even an old lead-glass mirror; a bit dark and uneven, but it's enough to see myself in.
Over all, it's a strange mix of primitivity and luxury. As if I can't make up my mind on whether I deserve pampering or deprivation.
In spite of knowing no French beyond 'non' and 'oui' and 'sil vous plait' and 'bon appetite,' it's easy enough to get the things I need. The hotel has its own house elves, and they have picture menus I can order from. When I tap my wand on the picture it places the order, and the meals are delivered straight to my room. It's actually better being here without knowing English; no one asks me questions once they realise I don't speak French. No one to ask what it was like to die, what it was like to stand face to face with death, to see enemies and friends dying and hoping 'all you can do' is enough. I know most people don't understand what war is really like up close, but I still resent their questions.
There's a massive plushy chair next to the bed, but I sit on the bed and eat my supper - a simple stew, but it's hot and it tastes like Hogwarts, and as soon as I finish the tray disappears. And that's fine; I'm tired. I'm so ready to leave this all behind me - if it's possible to leave with ghosts in my head.
I crawl into the bed and pull the curtains around the bed to keep out the cold and keep in the dark, and curl up under the covers. And try to avoid thinking, but I always fail at that.
I've seen too many horrible things in the war, things I don't want to remember. Even the things that, back then, didn't seem to me to be horrible in doing, but in retrospect....I wonder if the guards we Imperiused have nightmares about it, the way I do. I wonder if Hermione and Ron feel guilty about it too, or if they'd say it was justifiable. Of course, no matter what side you're on, everything seems 'justifiable' in a war... as long as you win, that is.
Only it doesn't seem that way for me. By Wizarding law, I should be in Azkaban. I used an Unforgivable on an innocent person just doing their job – not even a dark wizard! I remember when Ron told Hermione she needed to 'get her priorities straight' – but more and more I feel like it was mine that were all wrong. I Imperiused an innocent – I only attempted to disarm the world's greatest evil. And by luck and a long series of twisted fates and a prophecy, I somehow won. But it certainly wasn't skill or personal merit that got me there.
And I'm probably the only one alive who realises this. Snape might have, if he still lived – but he's dead. And being alone in that realisation is perhaps the loneliest thing of all. He should have lived. I should have died. Or rather, stayed dead. At least then we'd be dead together, with all of this behind us.
That thought brings a small bit of cold, illusory comfort, and I finally slip over into sleep – and dreams.
Ironically, after all the horrible things I've seen, my nightmares always take me back to a graveyard where I watched Voldemort be reborn and watched Cedric die for being a 'spare'. I used to think that was the moment I grew up and understood the war, but truthfully? That was only when I understood that war was serious. I didn't grow up until the moment I was willing to give my life for a cause. The moment I whispered to the snitch, "I am about to die", the moment I faced Voldemort and saw my death in his eyes – that's when I stopped being a kid and grew up. The fact that I'm still alive is a bonus, I guess.
But perhaps it was even before that, when I watched a man I thought I hated die. When I saw his memories and saw a life dedicated to mine and spent atoning when he had every reason to hate...when I forgave him. They say it's the mark of a true man, to forgive your enemy.
I just wish he'd been alive still, so I could ask his forgiveness. I could have saved him; if I hadn't stood there staring like a useless lump of coal while he bled out – as if I had never seen blood or incipient death before – I could have done something!
So this time I'm in the Graveyard, but... something is different. Everything is transparent, as if the world is the ghost and I'm the only thing tangible here. I can see through the grass, through the tombs and ghastly bones interred in them, through the faint lines of tombstones and crumbling monuments. Next to this, I feel almost garish and out of place. But... something else is different. There's no Cedric, no Voldemort, though the enormous cauldron he rose out of is still there... but there is someone waiting.
So I round the corner. He's pinned up against the same tombstone I was held against, the scythe of stone death pressed up against the neck of...
Snape. A pale, bloodless, ghostly Snape. His hair is silvery instead of true black, and when he lifts his head to look at me, his eyes are cold mercury. He lifts one hand to me.
Snape is looking at me and when I meet his gaze, he beckons me with that unmarked hand. I step closer, because what else I could do? Dream apparition or ghost, I owe him. We all owe him. I step closer until I can reach out my hand and touch his fingers.
I expect my hand to slide though him, to feel a chill of cold air, but instead it's like touching glass. Cold and unforgiving, but solid. His fingers curl and in perfect synchronization his lips curl into that unforgettable trademark Slytherin sneer. He steps back into the stone as if it weren't there, which perhaps it isn't, since the only real things here are me and Snape. Or me and... this dream, as real as a dream can be.
I let Snape lead me into the stone, and as it becomes opaque and less ghostly, Snape grows more and more transparent, until he's gone... and I'm now walking along a long stone corridor lit by faint intermittent torches. It feels like I'm walking into the bowels of a dungeon, and I wonder if dream-Snape has condemned me. It doesn't really matter. I deserve his condemnation, even if the rest of the world hails me as a hero. So I continue walking down this path into... a prison.
This passage spews me out next to a cell. It's a bald, cold cell of hewn out rock – magic, I assume idly – and is bare but for a toilet and sink in one corner and a fold-down plank bed with a lumpy pallet and gray, thin pillow and blanket. There are bars separating the empty cell from the passageway, but nothing for privacy, not even a curtain around the toilet. Even as a ghost in my own dream, I can feel the cold seeping up from the cold flagstones and into my feet.
That’s when I realise the cell isn't empty. There's someone on the bed. When I take another step forward to look, with a whoosh I'm drawn forward through the bars. Of course, I'm the ghost now; I can see the floor through my feet, but when I step backwards I can feel the cold iron of the bars against my back.
Then the figure on the lumpy pallet; they roll over and sit up, and I suck in my breath in a sharp hiss that has the person looking up at me.
It's Snape. I'm dreaming about seeing Snape in the afterlife. I can't understand why he's in a prison, though; didn't he pay enough? Wasn't spending his life atoning enough? He even died atoning, keeping a promise to a ghost. But I can't do anything except stare at him mutely until he looks me up and down and I suddenly realise I'm... naked. And very cold. I hastily cover myself, but it doesn't make much difference when my hands are as transparent as the rest of me.
But his face seems a little different here. As if, in death, he can finally show what he feels. He looks tired and he can't stop staring at me, until he realises he's staring at a naked ghost-boy and looks away and sneers. "And now I'm to be haunted by ghosts. Didn't I do enough for you, Potter?"
I can understand how he feels – I can understand his despair. I feel it, too. But I feel inexplicably angry, too. I never asked for his protection, and neither did Lily! He got himself into the whole mess! "Who asked for your sodding help anyway," I hurl at him, clenching my fists and trying to ignore the fact that I'm dreaming I'm a ghost, naked, in a cell with Snape, who should be more a ghost than me.
I expect him to sneer at me, to snarl about my ingratitude; instead he rises quickly to his feet and towers over me. Too bad I haven't learned how to float, like a true ghost. "Haven't I had enough of ghosts all my life? Haven't I lived for a ghost?" he snarls, and the word ghost is like an epithet on his thin lips. And hearing that, my anger suddenly cools. I have realised something: the person Snape hates most is himself. And with a re-awakening of my guilt, I remember why I followed ghost-Snape to his cell. Restitution.
He deserves his pound of flesh back; it's my place to give it and oddly, I find myself relieved to do it. So I goad him. It's frighteningly easy. "So do something about it," I say insolently, leaning against the bars and folding my arms. "It's not like you can kill me," I sneer in my best Snape-imitation.
It works better than I expected, maybe because this is a dream and this is what I want. Maybe because he's a ghost and so am I, and the normal teacher-student boundaries are erased. Maybe both. But he pulls back and swings and instead of passing through me he's startlingly real, I'm startlingly real, and it hits me in the jaw, knocking my head into the bars. I'm thankful it doesn't make any noise; Though I wonder if there even are guards in this dream-prison, and if they would help a prisoner against a ghost. Or maybe they don't care what a prisoner does in their own cell, or maybe there are no guards. It doesn't really matter, because this isn't about me really. It's my restitution; it's his pound of flesh. And it's not over yet.
So I pretend it doesn't hurt and glare at him. It's not like I haven't had some of the best teachers in ignoring pain, from Voldemort and Bellatrix to Umbridge and Draco. Pain's no stranger, and it's part of the price of guilt. "Is that all you can do? Sucker-punch me? It's not like I have the Marauders here to help," I taunt, and I know as I say it that it will drive him into becoming irrational--the Marauders have always made him lose control, and it does no less for him now that he's dead. Bygones are not bygones; they're still festering under the skin – for both of us. I'll be the lance, and perhaps one of us will be able to move on.
His face contorts into a rictus of rage. I should be scared, except this is a dream and I want this, I deserve this, and I let it happen. I make it happen.
He hits me again, this time in the stomach. The air whooshes out of my lungs and I double over. I don't want to resist, but I can't help trying to protect my stomach as I attempt to breathe. I don't need to breathe, I tell myself, it’s just a dream and you didn't really get hit. But Merlin, I do want the pain. I wonder if Sirius or even my dad ever hit him like this – but then Snape grabs my shoulders and throws me into the wall, and then all there is to think about is the agony in my shoulder. My shoulder is on fire--for a ghost he's strong. Of course he is. This is your dream; he's as strong as he needs to be, as strong as I want him to be. So I struggle to breathe normally and ignore the pain in my shoulder, which feels pretty darn real for a dream.
I look up when I hear his foot steps approaching; oddly, it looks as if his rage has tapered off into a cold hate. "Why are you here, Potter?" he says, bitterly, lips twisting off the words. I pull myself to my feet and look him in the eyes. I can't bring myself to hate anymore; hate is what created Voldemort. I'm done with that now.
"Restitution," I say. "This is restitution." I don't even have time to blink before his fist hits me, and I black out.
Tuesday, 4 August 1998
When I wake up, it's with a throbbing shoulder and a pounding headache. My dream is a vague memory. I'm in a tangled knot of limbs and blankets on the floor, which would explain the nagging pain. It also doesn't help that it takes me several minutes and a good bit of creative swearing to get untangled I manage to bark my shins on the bed frame and fall on my bad shoulder again before I'm free of the blankets.
After that ignominious start (as well as a hot shower and a hearty breakfast), I spend the day obsessed with death: I visit the site of the Bastille and discover Wizarding France has an impressive recreation of the prison. I'm surprised to learn it's much smaller than I had thought; it has a holding capacity of fifty, like the original muggle Bastille.
I also visit Basilique Saint-Denis, where the French monarchs are buried. There is a lot to learn and my guide book has all the grisly detailson those interred here. The tombs, surprisingly, are well lit. They seem more a memorial to life than to death.
For supper I try pot-au-feu. It's hot, and good - but it's not Hogwarts.
I'm exhausted by nightfall, between my wanderings and jet lag. When I crawl into the huge four-poster and pull the curtains tight against the chill, I'm quick to fall into the misty fog of dreams. And as all my dreams for the past few years, I'm in the grave yard again. I hate it, but I've come to accept the graveyard as a type of consequence. I wasn't just born to be the Boy Who Lived - I had to also be the Boy Who Killed. I suppose in that light, a graveyard was a normal thing to dream about.
This time I feel nothing but old, and I turn and walk away, staring blankly at nothing. But presently I feel I am not alone; when I turn my head Fred Weasley is floating next to me, keeping pace without effort and apparently at ease with ghost-hood. I feel a sharp, raw pang of grief that displaces the older, duller ache of Cedric's replayed death.
"Hullo, Harry! Hear you're living it up in Par-ee style these days since you finished saving the world!" His voice and face are as ebullient as they were in life. "Just don't stay away too long, y’know? They need you." Normally it would bother me to have my hero status made into a joke, but the Weasley twins have always made everything in life into a joke - even suffering.
Even death.
I feel a sullen spark of anger at surviving, at being a hero, at Fred for not being there to help pick up the pieces and carry on the joke shop with George. "Yea, well, what about you? Isn't it hard to leave George behind, especially since he's down an ear?" I regret the words instantly; I know I'm being a git. But it's my dream, isn't it?
I walk on for several steps before I realise that Fred's no longer keeping pace. I stop and turn.
"Harry, I haven't left George behind. I could never do that." His voice is so earnest that I feel shaken by the strength of that conviction.
"Are you saying that you're a ghost now? You're going to haunt George?" Somehow this seems even more wrong. I shudder, but I want to laugh, too.
It stifles my laughter to see Fred so deathly serious.. "I'm not haunting him because I'm not a ghost. Forge and I, we lived up every minute, so there's no 'unfinished business' holding me back. 'Sides, George would never forgive me if I got myself stuck in eternity as a ghost. I don't really have any regrets."
"But?" I prompt, because there has to be more. And there is. He's staring at his transparent hands.
"But we're still connected. I think it's what mum would call a heartstring." He holds up his right hand and now I can see a faint, luminous thread trailing from his hand off into the mist. "I can't go back, but neither can I go on, until he's with me. We go on together. Until then -"
I've never seen eyes so haunted. "Until then, all I can do is wait here on the other side for him. And be his other ear, hear the things he doesn't, complete his sentences, and hope he'll be ok."
It's hard to breathe; my throat hurts from the knot lodged there. "Can I tell George this? It might make it....easier." But it would never be easy.
Fred's brilliant smile catches me off guard. "He already knows, Harry. Not even death can separate us that much."
Once Fred has left, I continue walking, and I can't say I'm surprised when the dry grass of the graveyard gives way to the cold stone of the long corridor to Snape's cell. It's just as long and cold as the previous night, but this time, at least, I'm relieved to say I'm wearing clothes.
It's just as easy to slip through the bars this time as it was last time, though once in the bars and walls feel solid and real beneath my hands. Snape is sitting on the fold-out, head propped in his hands, hair hiding his face like liquid shadow. Absurdly I want him to lift his head and look at me, to banish the shadows in his eyes and my own. Instead I go and sit on the floor near him, and wait for him to start the show.
I have a feeling he's aware of my presence long before he acknowledges it. Unchanging, selfish bastard - somehow the fact that he's unchanged is a relief. Too much has changed. There's a comforting stability in his ability to remain unchanged.
"Here for more restitution, Potter? So desperate to succumb to martyrdom? Wasn't dying a hero enough?" The sarcasm in that dark voice could cut iron. To me, it's the anchor I need.
It's surprisingly easy to keep my voice level. In the classroom, the man had been a terror. Here in my dreams, he is a catharsis. "You're the first to list all my faults. Wouldn't you know when the restitution is enough?"
That sparks the fire in his eyes and he growls, twisting the words into his trademark "Why would I want to waste my time catering to the masochistic wishes of an arrogant, immature, fame-struck boy?"
I feel a small tendril of excitement unfurl in my chest. "It's not just me you hate, is it?" I ask, and when his eyes snap to mine and lock, I almost shiver at the tension crackling between us. "Who else do you hate? Dumbledore, for manipulating you? Or is it - Lily?"
Score. He's frozen, like a statue, but his hands have clenched on the edge of his lumpy pallet so tightly the knuckles have turned white. Dare I be the lance to the wound? I lace my voice with derision, scorn, a touch of disdain. "You say you love her, that you were friends, but what did she do? Dumped you for calling her a mudblood! Sure, it was a bloody stupid thing to say, but it was true, wasn't it? And then she went and married the worst person of all. Don't you hate that, Snape? Don't you hate knowing her betrayal and your enemy's blood made me who I am?"
In an instant he is off the bunk and towering over me, eyes wide and crazed, arm raised to strike me. I tense in anticipation of the blow… but it never comes. For a long moment we're both so still we could be a muggle photograph, and so quiet the only sounds are the thunderous pounding of my blood in my ears and Snape's hoarse, laboured breathing.
And then he lowers his hand slowly; it's shaking, and as he slowly uncurls his clenched fingers, I can see the white crescent moons his fingernails have cut into his palm. And that, perhaps, shocks me back into sense like a cold shower.
I'm going about this the wrong way. I don't want to hurt him. I just want him to hurt me.
When his shaking hands point me to the corner of the cell farthest from his bunk (a whole seven paces), I meekly go and kneel quietly, hoping he understands I know I pushed too far.
"You will write, over and over, until I tell you to stop, 'I am an arrogant, spoiled, and ignorant brat.’ And do not speak to me! " He sits back on his bunk then and drops his head back into his hands, spilling shadow down to cover his face so I can't see what he might be feeling.
But I've seen enough tonight.
There's nothing but dust packed into the rough hewn stone and certainly no parchment and no quills, but it's the humbling, mindless aspect of the assignment that counts, not the actual product. So I write in the dust, on the floor, tracing the same words over and over.
And over. And over. I write until my fingertip goes numb, then begins to feel raw, and my back and shoulders feel like slow fire from hunching over in place. But I keep writing...
...because this is restitution.
Wednesday, 5 August 1998
Wednesday finds me wandering in Wizarding Paris' clothiers. The cost is exorbitant, the materials luxurious - I am told by one clothier that "One of our dressrobes costs as much as a year's tuition at Beauxbatons!" I feel guilty to spend so lavishly on myself - granted, I've never really owned anything nice that I bought on my own, so a little splurging shouldn't hurt my conscience, but to go from rags to riches seems too much like a fairytale.
I'm not living a fairytale. Fairy tales don't end up with the good guys dead. Fairy tales don't hurt so damn much. But I place the order - for not one, but three dress robes. Silk, satin, brocade - though I can't explain to the proprietress why I flinch when my fingertips slide over the more heavily textured fabrics.
I wander Paris, and indulge in the cuisine. It doesn't taste much like Hogwarts, unless you count the time the Beauxbatons students visited and the Hogwarts menu was altered to make them feel more at home. I wonder if Beauxbatons felt the war - thought becomes deed, and I find myself at the school’s gates. It's easy to see the differences; the gate is polished sterling and amethyst and sapphire, and sparkles like a fairy tale. They must all think themselves royalty when they enter this once-upon-a-time.
I don't risk lifting the glamour that conceals my scar, but I do mention Fleur and Gabrielle's name. Fleur is long since gone, but Gabrielle is still here. She's confused when I introduce myself as "Harold" from Hogwarts, until I prompt her with a sidewise glance at Madame Maxime, who is as big as ever, "I pulled you out of the lake when you....fell in, and Fleur couldn't reach you."
She's a clever girl and though I see the name Harry form on her lips, she follows my cue and says instead, "'Arold! Eet 'as been too long," with unfeigned warmth, hugging me and placing a kiss on my cheek as her sister once had. "May I speak weeth 'Arold, Madame Maxine? I haf much to catch up wit' heem!"
Maxime is giving me an intense look, and belatedly I remember that Maxime was there when I rescued Ron and Gabrielle, too, along with Karkaroff and Dumbledore. Oddly, she's the only one of the three still alive, a thought which pains me sharply. I force myself to smile at Olympe, taking her hand and bowing over it (well, to it really, she's nearly that much taller) like the French wizards I've seen greeting each other in the shops. I feel ridiculous but it seems to amuse her, and the suspicion falls away. I doubt she believes in 'Arold', but she must believe in the Harry underneath.
So I find myself walking along side Gabrielle through Beauxbatons, feeling overwhelmed by the floral extravagance and wondering how the guys here put up with the decor. Then again, most things here in Wizarding Paris are flamboyant and extravagant, as if to say, "We are more than wizards; we are master artisans of cuisine, accoutrements, and fine magical paraphernalia!"
Gabrielle is chattering away in a mixture of French and English that I only half-follow when we pass a frighteningly familiar tableau: two students tormenting a third.
What bothers me most is that the third student is wearing patched, shabby robes; the other two students' robes look new. I'm suddenly struggling to ignore a memory superimposing itself over them: Snape being tormented by James and Sirius - and before I'm aware of what I'm doing, I've sent jelly-leg hexes at the two aggressors, giving their victim time to flee.
Gabrielle gives me a strange look and I feel forced to explain. "I once knew someone in a similar situation. It's hard not to act when I see other people treated the same way."
She nods in understanding. "Zat ees Brigitte, she haf no mere or pere," she explains. "She ees a charity student."
An hour later, I depart from Beauxbatons for the Clothier's with Brigitte's measurements in my pockets, to cancel my order - and place a new one.
Late that night, when darkness again herds me back to the hotel and my dungeon-like room, I lay for a long time staring at the draperies overhead, running my raw fingertips over the duvet and thinking. But even my jumbled thoughts can't keep sleep away, and the twisting streets of Wizarding Paris give way to the misty colorless graveyard.
There's an odd bump with long floppy ears perched on one of the taller gravestones, a fuzzy silhouette shrouded in mist that resolves into the shape of a lumpy house elf as I walk closer. Even before I am close enough to see, I know who it is, and I feel a tight knot forming in my throat. Because no other house elf tries to wear eighteen hats, eight pairs of socks and four additional pairs doubling as mittens.
Dobby hops down when he sees me and runs over, face a study in delight. He reminds me, for all the world, of a brightly coloured snowman knitted of yarn leftovers. It's so right - and so wrong.
"Master Harry! Dobby is glad to see you safe and sound!" he tells me earnestly, wringing my hand. I try to smile back and not wonder if, underneath the Weasley-long scarf wrapped around his chest and waist like a toga, is a permanent wound from the thrown blade that had killed him. "Dobby is very happy knowing Harry Potter won!"
"Yea, I might've won, but I reckon I let you down." My mind is filled with images I'd refused to remember, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Didn't I make you promise to never save my life again?"
I regret the words almost instantly when the house elf begins wringing and stretching his ears in remorse. "Dobby knows he promised, and Dobby is sorry, but Dobby was keeping a bigger promise. Dobby promised to do everything he could to rid of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry Potter was needed to stop him, and Dobby kept that promise." His eyes are mournful as he adds, "If Dobby could have, he would have kept both promises. Dobby did his best, but it wasn't enough."
The house elf could guilt a lolly from a bloody child without even trying. "No, Dobby, it isn't that! I mean, you didn't fail. Voldemort is dead, right? But what about you? You hardly had any time to be happy yourself. You didn't even get to see what life without Voldemort was like."
Dobby is shaking his head before I even finish. "Dobby died a free elf protecting Harry Potter! Dobby is happy!" he says earnestly, pulling his ears almost to his knees.
I'm trying to understand, I really am. "You're happy now? Here? With this?" I gesture to the misty graveyard around me. "Alone in a graveyard?"
Dobby shakes his head until his large ears flap around his face. "Dobby is never alone, sir! Dobby is with other house elves that have died! Dobby and the other elves have a big house to keep clean and to cook in, and Dobby has many, many hats and socks and mittens and other things that Miss Granger made us! Dobby is very happy!" he declares vehemently, and it hits me how much Dobby really liked Hermione's misshapen attempts at knitting.
And it hits me, too, that I've never given Dobby anything. Not really, at least. It was really all Hermione. Freeing Dobby - well, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. And all he gained was a......sock. A smelly, bloody, grimy sock.
I tug the shirt from my back - my flannel pajama top - and then pull off my trousers, my pants, my socks. I'm going barmy, offering all my clothes to a house elf, but he's not just a house elf. He's Dobby, and he died saving me. Somehow I desperately want to show him how much it meant to me.
And I think Dobby knows, for when I hand him the pile of my clothes, he doesn't comment on my nudity. He accepts them and beams ear to ear. "Dobby will treasure clothes from Harry Potter forever, sir! Harry Potter freed Dobby and Dobby will never forget!"
"I'll never forget you either, Dobby," I say, and it's suddenly ridiculously easy to say. "Thanks - for saving my life." Dobby's eyes fill with tears, but they're the good kind of tears, I think. The kind girls get at weddings and babies and badly written love poems.
The last time I see Dobby, he's wringing his ears and hugging my pile of clothes and disappearing into the mist - and I'm standing starkers in a graveyard.
I must be going barmy - certainly my dreams already are.
I'm expecting it when the mist resolves, later, into a corridor. I'm not sure why, but my feet take me eagerly to my restitution - to the ghost of a bitter, cold man who gave up too soon and not soon enough. I don't even blink this time, stepping through the cold metal bars of the cell, nor do I try to hide my nakedness. I guess I don't see the point; I always assumed in death there would no longer be any secrets, nothing left to hide. Why I think that I am not sure - when I died before, my questions on life weren't all answered. So maybe revelation, even in death, is a gradual thing.
Snape is pacing his cell; he brushes right past me without noticing at first that I'm there. I wait, silently; he seems at war with himself. Then again, that makes sense - he's always been caught up in a war. And not just caught up in a war, but running between two masters, teaching witless wonders and brewing potions for school mediwitches and stray werewolves. In truth, I should be amazed that the stress didn't kill him earlier!
I want him to notice me. I want his anger in all its snarky, hate-filled bitterness to come bearing down on me. And then he does...
His eyes are smouldering coals of anger and hate and they become a conflagration when he sees me. Like sunlight filtered through a magnifying lens, I filter the rage and accept it. It burns away my fear, but not my guilt.
He rakes his eyes over me, assessing my naked state; I shiver and the bars of the cell are cold and solid against my back. I'm here for the duration of this dream.
"Back for more restitution, Potter?" The words are gravel and ice, spoken with a twisted, bitter sneer. It sounds wonderful.
"Are you still angry?" I counter, leaning against the bars casually and folding my arms over my chest.
Snape whirls and resumes his pacing, fists clench. It doesn't have quite the same effect without his black robes. He also looks more human without them.
"Very well, Mister Potter," he sneers the words like an epithet, "today for restitution you can make my bed."
I blink and stare at him; make the bed? Merlin, I grew up making beds. Hospital corners or just neatly made, it's a matter of moments -
"With nothing but your teeth, Potter," he sneers, smirking when I blink in surprise. "Keeping your wrists crossed behind your back at all times." It's his turn now to lean against the bars and fold his arms. "If there are any wrinkles in the blankets when you are done, I'm sure I can find adequate... discipline to compensate the lack of skill." His dark eyes have an evil gleam as I swallow and edge towards the bed.
I quickly discover it's an awkward task. Using my teeth is hard enough; keeping my hands behind my back makes it a nightmare. Several times I overbalance and tumble on to the bed - nose smashed to the scratchy grey blankets and arse in the air. It makes me feel vulnerable, until I remember Snape's worst memory and imagine the vulnerability that he must have felt, and I keep going.
My neck throbs and my jaws are aching from being clenched before the bed is made - but nothing could have made the blankets lie flat over the lumpy uneven pallet underneath, nor remove the almost permanent creases from the blanket. I'm sure Snape will find it unsatisfactory, too.
And of course, he does. "And here I thought growing up around muggles might have taught you a facsimile of domesticity," he sneered, running a thin-fingered hand over the worn blankets, blankets I had discovered smelled like Snape: potions, stale sweat and fear. I tense in anticipation of my 'punishment' - a fist to the jaw, a blow to the stomach, any kind of violence.
But Snape sits on the edge of the bed and stares at me, impassively. "Lay yourself over my knees, Potter." His voice is amazingly even-toned, but he's almost vibrating with suppressed tension. He expects me to disobey - and that's the only reason why I don't. I'm tired of living up to expectations, so I clumsily arrange my body over his knees.
This is vulnerability in a whole new extreme; this is more than making a bed with my teeth with my arse in the air, feeling his eyes burning holes into my skin as he watches. And I am entirely unprepared when his hand comes down and slaps my arse-cheeks - hard.
I can't suppress the yelp of shock and the involuntary jerk that accompanied it; when I twist around to see Snape's face, he is impassive before he pushes me back down over his knees. He leans his weight onto his left arm, pinning my shoulders, and with his right hand, begins raining blows on my arse and thighs until I'm trembling. I don't know how long it is or how many times his hand lifted and fell, but somewhere along the way I stopped jerking away from the blows… and started arching into them. The pain starts feeling good, and I can't stop the occassional whimpering moan that escapes me.
When he finally lowers his hand and frees me, my arse and the backs of my thighs are afire with pain; I'm sure I'm a livid, glowing red from waist to knee. I'm sweating and trembling, my heart is racing, I'm panting - and I'm turned on. I'm more than turned on; I'm hard as a rock. And there's no way Snape can miss it.
It strikes me that I am turned on by a bloody spanking from Snape, that I was humping his knees - I'm horrified to see a bloody damp spot on his trousers! My ears and face are suddenly as red as my arse. I frantically scramble away from him, folding my frame into the furthest corner, bending my knees to my chest and pillowing my head on my knees. The cold rough stone of the floor and walls scrape painfully against my flaming, sensitised skin, but I can't look at him. I don't want to know what he's thinking. Certainly I've never felt so humiliated in my life.
Snape doesn't speak to me again that night, and eventually I pass from the dream into dreamless sleep.