Potter followed him into his office with that same blank mask he had been wearing in Snape's presence for weeks. Severus reminded himself (again) that this wasn't necessarily personal, and that, if nothing else, the boy's first four months in school had taught him that the blank mask meant Potter didn't want the other person to know what he was thinking, or, more likely, feeling.
Trying to keep himself from lashing out at the boy, he recalled that children such as Potter, those from neglectful homes, often learned to hide all their feelings, even from themselves, as a defense mechanism. Their feelings were mocked, ignored or used against them, and thus were better not shown or even acknowledged to exist. What it meant now, for Potter, was that he didn't trust his old bat of a professor, the man who was about to go mucking about in his head. That was bad.
So he took a shot at the boy, hoping to get him to erupt and let out what was wrong before they started. "What's got you in a snit?" he asked airily. "Lose your favorite Chocolate Frog card?"
A brief tightening around the eyes was all he got in return. He poked again. "Did no one praise your amazing skills at Quidditch today?"
"No, sir," the boy said carefully. "It was just practice."
Maddeningly, Potter would not be provoked. He tried one last time. "I very much dislike wasting my time, Potter," he said, stressing the boy's last name because he knew how much the boy hated being addressed like that. "I've put my time and effort and my considerable talents in magic towards your betterment, into teaching you a very important and difficult skill which could save your life, and this is what I get in thanks? Surliness? Laziness? The least you can do, if it's not beyond your capabilities, is remember to show up for the lessons!"
Potter's mouth tightened, but all he said was, "Yes, sir."
So be it. If he would not trust having Snape in his mind, it would go harder for him, certainly. Neither of them would enjoy the coming lesson, but the experience would not cause Severus actual, physical pain.
"Very well. Stand over here," he directed. When Potter obeyed, he said, "Clear your mind. I will find out, one way or another, what you are trying to hide from me." He smiled nastily as the boy's face paled. "You may attempt to block me."
Fear glimmered in Potter's green eyes for a second, reminiscent of that look of several weeks ago and their conversation about the summer. Snape was determined to find out why the boy was afraid of him -- he must be, to have turned down the deal about getting away from his relatives for the summer, right? -- and of having his thoughts accessed. Snape would find out, as he'd told the boy. One way or the other.
He lifted his wand and watched Potter do the same. "Legilimens."
He was immersed immediately in a tepid, slow spinning stream of thoughts and memories. Severus snatched at one randomly. In it, Harry was in the midst of a Defense Against the Dark Arts class. The room reeked of . . . garlic? Potter frowned at something Quirrell said and scratched at his forehead, his scar, his thoughts turning darker as he sensed a vampire or spirit of one such, in possession of Quirrell and staring at him, a spirit with mad, glowing red eyes, possessing him--
He was yanked from the memory, though not with any real skill or force. He latched onto another which looked better defended. Hidden behind a boiling black fog (easily penetrated; the boy was hardly trying!) was a door, partly open, which led to a bathroom stall and an arm snaking around his neck from behind and a hoarse cry of "No! Please!" before he was wrenched from that memory, too. He entered another very nearby, this time striking inward with sheer brutal force. He found dim light and the stink of sweat and Gaius Avery speaking, threatening Potter in a low, soft voice, yet at the same time, in the same tone, giving him compliments and inquiring about his skill on a broom. Severus didn't need to know exactly what was said to finally understand Potter's problem.
Of course.
What young boy, who had recently been physically and sexually assaulted by an older teen, would want to spend the summer with a man two times his size and thrice his age? No wonder Harry was afraid. Except for the first night, when he had been forced to tell Dumbledore what happened, Harry had refused to talk about Avery, even when he woke from nightmares about the older boy in the middle of the night. . . . which Severus realized he had not been called to assist with for some long time. Harry's feelings about Avery and what had happened to him must have been growing and churning inside, given no way to get out, like festering, suppurating boils.
No wonder he had been snarly . . .
"GET OUT!" Harry screamed. He pushed again, and Severus was shoved completely out of his mind.
Before Severus could offer Harry a hand up from where he was sprawled on the floor, the boy shoved himself to his feet and flung himself at the door. He was gone, down the hall, with the Bloody Baron chasing after him, before Severus could draw breath to yell his name or even spell the door closed.
Well, fuck.
--HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS--
During their next Potions class, on Friday, he made Potter do his potion twice again. Despite the same protests as before, Harry finished a second copy of his Deflating Draught before the end of class. Snape had known he could do it, but he was still annoyed that Potter hadn't blown up yet so he could assign detention. That's what he'd done at the start of the year to get the boy to talk to him. He'd assigned detention on top of detention until the boy had practically imploded . . .
Of course, he'd also ended up in the Hospital Wing with broken bones, and Severus had gotten a chewing out from Pomfrey . . .
With a sigh, he stalked away from Potter and his potion.
What really galled him was that he was normally very good at this with his Slytherins, teasing out details of the child's home life, or other abuses and traumas of their lives, so they could better cope at school. He was known for it, and the other professors sometimes sought his advice with their own troubled cases. But Potter . . . Potter was an enigma. He could not seem to reach the boy any more. He had no idea what had suddenly turned the boy from a fresh-faced, fairly happy but still troubled child, excited about his first Christmas presents, into a more surly, wary, frightened child, all inside of a month.
Though . . . McGonagall reported no change in his behavior in her class, nor did Flitwick or Sprout. Was the cause of Harry's 180 in his relationship with Severus really all the incident with Avery rearing its ugly head? Perhaps it was because Snape knew what had happened? Snape didn't know if that was the answer, and not knowing vexed him very deeply indeed.
--HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS--
"I'm worried about the Stone," Severus told Dumbledore a fortnight later. It was the first week of May, and the chill winds and rains of early spring were giving way to warmer weather and cloudless skies. Outside, the smell of lilacs, roses and peonies was at times overwhelming, especially near Sprout's greenhouses. Inside Dumbledore's office, of course, one was only ever overwhelmed by the host. "Quirrell is up to something. I think he's planning something soon."
"I don't see how," Dumbledore replied. He leaned back slightly in his chair so he could ruffle the feathers of the phoenix perched by his head. Fawkes, the overgrown chicken, seemed to appreciate his efforts and leaned into the "chin" scratches along his neck and the edges of his beak.
"Well, Albus, he would find it easy to get past the troll, for one thing. His contribution, was it not?"
Dumbledore's blue eyes narrowed briefly behind his spectacles, and his hands dropped into his lap to play with the ends of his beard. It was one of the only "nervous" tells the man had, as far as Severus could discern. "Why do you say that?"