This is making me stronger. I won't be afraid of needles when I'm through, and if I'm not afraid, I won't unleash dark magic again. I won't turn into a dark wizard--
Harry felt sorrow then, but not his own. A yawning chasm of sadness and regret that Harry could ever think like that about himself. A conviction that it wasn't true. And guilt. Terrible guilt that he hadn't done enough as a father and a teacher to keep Harry from even worrying about something like that.
Harry struggled, trying to raise his mental barriers and shield Snape from any more contact with his mind. He didn't like hurting his father.
More memories began to whip through Harry. More thoughts, feelings, impressions. More of himself. Harry fought it for a moment, but then something inside him broke apart. Why had he come down here if not because he needed help? He could trust his father, he could, even if it meant letting him know every last ugly thing.
Harry slumped, relaxing, and let his father's waters wash all the way through him, then, extinguishing every trace of his fire. Every ember, every spark.
So what if it hurts? Harry felt himself thinking then. My training out in Devon hurt too. Plenty. But it was for my own good, and so is this. I can't let myself turn dark, I just can't . . .
"Why would you fear that, Harry?" asked Snape, his voice made of pure water, pure thought. Harry felt lost in it. Lost, but not alone. He couldn't feel alone, not when his father's arms were tight around him, just as if he realised how much reassurance Harry needed.
But perhaps he did. Because he knew Harry . . . just as he had said.
And that was enough to tip Harry's memory back to Grimmauld Place.
A phantom image of the began to form itself out of the waters, Lucius' features made of blue and green waves, his mouth open and moving. Horrid words reverberated through the ocean making up Harry's whole world. "I know very well the company you currently cling to, and the sort of nurturing they're likely to provide . . . Your so called wild magic? It's dark, all the way through . . ."
Harry flinched when he heard that again. The first time had been bad enough. This time, though, he was safe and warm and held, his father's love surrounding him and giving him strength.
The portrait kept speaking, on and on, Harry holding nothing back as he let his memories flow into the waters binding him to his father. Every last insult and sneer and innuendo, right down to the final, awful suggestion: You know, I wonder if dear Severus will actually put you down himself when you turn? I rather think he will. He's certainly got it in him. Has he ever told you about--
Blinding anger suddenly poured through the waters, a deluge that plunged Harry down and down and down. Severus' anger. But it wasn't Harry he was angry with.
The feeling was gone in little more than an instant, Severus' thoughts plunging into the depths to make room for more of Harry's.
Harry hesitated, fire flaring in the distant waves, but he didn't let it last. Severus hated Lucius. More than Harry did, perhaps. Severus would understand.
Harry saw himself running then, fleeing the library in Grimmauld Place and throwing himself atop Sirius' bed.
And then, Harry's worries took voice inside his mind, a blend of what he had thought at that moment, and all the things he'd contemplated since. Dark magic . . . and there's darkness inside me, or at least there could be if I don't do something to stop it. Even my father said I'd be a new Dark Lord if I kept thirsting after revenge . . .
"Yes, I did," said Snape inside Harry's mind, his voice now so decisive that it made the way he'd been speaking to Aran sound almost whimsical. "But that's not what you've been doing, you foolish child. You didn't hunt Lucius down to kill him! He came to you, more fool him. Self-defence isn't revenge, Harry, and satisfaction at a monster's death isn't evil. And neither are you."
Harry felt like gulping. He wanted to believe what Snape was telling him. Wanted to desperately, with his whole soul. How could he, though? "But . . . but . . ."
Snape's arms tightened around him, his voice radiating conviction so strong and bright it lit up the waters and tinted them a burnished gold. "Oh, Harry. Don't you know that your most shining trait is love itself? Think of what you told me out in Devon, about how you felt about those years of torment I put you through. And yet for all your lingering resentment, you've forgiven me. I know you have. You loved me enough to want to be my son. There's no darkness in you."
"But you said there could be--"
"There could be in anyone. For all your vast powers, you're human too, you know. But you haven't fallen into darkness. No, far from it. Voldemort loves only himself. But Harry, you're overflowing with love for all the rest of us. So much of it that you would protect us even at the cost of hurting yourself. Your needles . . . you mustn't do that again. But the fact that you resorted to them in the first place proves you are in no way dark."
The words were like a healing balm soothing his wounds, and as Harry basked in them, he felt the waters surrounding him begin to recede. As he emerged from the Occlumency, he let himself dissolve into his father's embrace instead.
Safe, that was it. He felt safe now.
Until, that is, he opened his eyes and saw Draco sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, not four feet away.
Startled, Harry yelped and flinched back, almost knocking Snape over.
"It's just your brother," Snape said wryly as he shifted back and then to the side.
Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I know." And then, a little belatedly, to Draco, "Did we wake you?"
Stupid question; of course they had. Harry expected one of Draco's usual sarcastic answers, something like, No, Potter. I come and sit on the floor out here every night of the week.
But that wasn't what Draco said at all. Because by then, Draco wasn't even looking at Harry. His silver eyes were trained on the bloody pyjama top, lying on the floor just a short distance away. Then his gaze flicked back to Harry, and he spoke in a low, cold, utterly controlled voice.
"I'm going to kill whoever did this to you, Harry."
Harry felt like his throat was clogged as he tried his best to reply. "I . . . um . . ." Just like with his father, it was easier to show him than speak the words. Harry shoved up the sleeves of the jumper he was wearing, and did his best to shrug.
Draco stared. "What the hell kind of hex does that?" His eyes narrowed. "And why aren't both your sleeves bloodied?"
Harry craned his neck to look back at his father. "I don't suppose you'd . . . er, tell him for me?"
Snape gave a tiny, imperceptible shake of his head.
"Well . . ." Harry's voice almost cracked over the words. "You know how you said you were going to kill whoever did this? You . . . uh, I have a pretty good idea that you don't want to kill me, so . . ."
It took Draco a moment to put that together. And even when he did, he came to the wrong conclusion. "You did this to yourself, Harry?" The boy furrowed his brow until his eyebrows looked like straight lines. "This is bad. I know you can break out of Imperius but this must be some new variant . . . can you at least tell us who hexed you?"
"Nobody hexed me, Draco."
"Are you sure? You might be Confunded--"
"I'm not--"
"If you were, you wouldn't know it," said Draco in a reasonable voice. "Severus, have you checked him for spell residue?"
Well, Draco's conviction that someone else was responsible did have the advantage of loosening Harry's tongue. "Draco, I did this to myself, all right? And not because I was hexed! I wanted to do this!"