salixbabylon | Fic: Virulentus Somnium (Harry/Severus, 7/9)

Title: Virulentus Somnium
Author:

salixbabylon
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry/Severus
Rating: NC-17 overall
Word Count: 37,100 total
Disclaimer: Characters and places in this story, which appear in the Harry Potter novels, belong to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros. and Scholastic. I don't make, or intend to make money out of them. They just wouldn't leave me alone

Summary: Two years after graduation, Harry's having nightmares at Hogwarts. Who will wake him up?

Previous Chapters

Part 7

4 AM, Day 5

Severus had had no idea what to expect. Knowing Voldemort, and that Harry's nightmares had something to do with sex, he had expected the worst. The previous night that they took the potion, it had been as if he was Harry, in Harry's dreams. Feeling what he felt and seeing what he saw. Tonight Severus found himself conscious of the fact that he was dreaming. He was in a dark room, with a large bed in the middle. He approached slowly and stood at the foot of the bed, watching Harry be skillfully aroused by Tom Riddle.

He was amazed at the deviousness of Voldemort's plan, and sickened as he watched the Dark Lord manipulate and humiliate the younger version of Harry. It was all so clear now: Harry's self-loathing, repression, sense of helplessness...

Severus awoke when Harry did, as if he'd been bodily jerked out of a Muggle cinema, mid-show. He wrapped his arms around the distraught young man next to him, smoothing his hair back from his sweaty face and murmuring calming words. He briefly drew away to grasp his wand from the bedside table and whisper the cleansing charm for the sheets and pajamas before Harry noticed. Exhausted and never fully waking, Harry fell back to sleep in the embrace of his arms. Severus remained awake.

Half of him was seething with barely controlled fury, fanned even hotter with the frustrating knowledge that there was no one to vent his anger on – the author of this horrible curse was already dead, as were his servants. There was nothing more he could do to them for revenge.

The more logical portion of his mind was busily replaying the details of the dream, until he could clearly hear Voldemort's whispered curse of Virulentus Somnius. Severus had never heard of that curse.

Poisonous dreams indeed... A curse over four years old, embedded in the subconscious while sleeping... How in Merlin's name can we counteract it?

He pulled Harry closer and gently pressed his lips to Harry's temple.

We'll find something. Neither of us ever gives up. I won't stop working on this until you're free... The more I see into your mind, the more I fall into you...

He pulled himself together a moment later, halting his sentimentality. When did I turn into such a cliche? Next thing you know, I'll be quoting love poetry. What happened to the wonderful bastard I used to be?

I had forgotten what it was like to feel this much for someone else.

Leaving off, Severus turned to the comfort of anger to escape his more confusing emotions.

What a manipulative fiend Lord Voldemort was... I suppose it could have been worse if he'd actually raped the boy in waking life. But such a dream was bad enough, and not sufficiently dissimilar for comfort. It's as if he raped Harry's mind. For all his evilness, I hadn't really thought the Dark Lord that subtle. Perhaps Lucius suggested it; take the boy apart by making him feel alone, unworthy of being loved, disgusting...

Gods. I so want to prove to him that it's not true. That he isn't like that. Not broken. Not evil. Not toxic enough to kill those he desires.

Like Draco Malfoy. Such luminous, youthful beauty...

I must be kidding myself to think Harry could ever be attracted to me.

Severus disentangled his limbs from Harry's with care. The young man seemed to be sleeping peacefully, so he made himself some tea and selected a book to read, returning to his bedroom, close enough to be nearby when Harry awoke.

He secretly enjoyed good Muggle literature; the stories were pointless and soothing and gave him something to think about while he stirred his potions. This was one of his favorites, read many times, and even if it was by an uncouth American at least it was suitably old. He liked the potions aspect of it also, of course, even if the drippy romance was off-putting. He was damned if he was going to identify with either romantic lead; he was already internally disgusted at how much his emotions had begun to resemble the sappy hero's.

Some hours later Severus realized he'd stopped reading and was just staring at the young man sleeping in his bed. He forced his attention back to the pages in front of him. His mind continued to wander a fair bit as he read, idly trying to think of possible counter-curses and ranting about the Dark Lord. He closed his eyes and let himself get lost between the layers of the familiar story and the current situation.

Toxic seductions. So evil, so long lasting... Voldemort as our very own Doctor Rappachini, whose subtle poisons persist even beyond his death...

Harry began to stir, bringing Severus back to the present. He watched as the young man stretched and rubbed his eyes, yawned, and slowly opened them to squint at the world suspiciously. He was facing away from where Severus sat, looking at the empty space on the other side of the bed. His expression was mostly unreadable, but he seemed upset.

Severus cleared his throat; Harry didn't seem surprised to see him sitting there. He started to say something, but Harry held up his hand.

Avoiding eye contact, Harry mumbled, "I don't want to talk about it. Yet. Please. I need to think," as he got out of bed, picked up his dressing gown, and put on his glasses.

Severus sat, watching, until Harry reached the doorway. "Take all the time you wish. I'll be here when you need me."

Harry nodded and left Severus' rooms.

*****

5 PM, Day 5

Ten hours later, as the stars began to weakly shine through the cold winter solstice sky, Harry was seated on the floor of an abandoned room near the top of the Astronomy Tower. After the first few hours of thinking, he had wanted nothing more in the world than to stop thinking permanently. Or to kill someone. Or destroy something. But definitely no more thinking.

Unfortunately, there was no one nearby to kill. He ruefully acknowledged that he probably wouldn't be able to enjoy it even if there was. There was also nothing to destroy. But he had his wand and he wasn't a wizard for nothing.

A few old rags in the corners were easily transfigured into empty bottles. They flew across the room, smashed into the stone wall opposite with a brilliant crashing noise and spray of glass. There was a slight pause to dig out the stray shards that had bounced back and embedded themselves in his skin.

A quick flick of the wand repaired the bottles. A weak healing charm stopped the blood. Then the bottles flew and shattered again.

And again. And again. And again.

He concentrated on hitting the exact same spot on the wall, on creating as much or as little spray as possible, on removing the glass from his skin with the least amount of fuss. It was good to think about such small things.

After a while his arms hurt from the repetitive throwing motion and the inexpertly healed wounds, and he was tired and lightheaded from not eating all day. He didn't want to leave the room. He wondered if Snape would come looking for him and if he wanted to be found. He was beginning to feel trapped again, stuck in the tower. In the castle. In his life. Waiting for Snape to rescue him. Or something.

He looked at his arms and hands and felt the scratch on his face that he'd had to conjure a mirror to remove the glass from (after which he had erected a shield around his face – no need to be self-destructive, even if he was capable of fixing the damage later.)

When did I get like this? This isn't all from some fucked up curse. Some of this is me. Maybe all of it's me. Maybe it started as a curse, but now it's just me.

No. Stop thinking.

I'd better go get something to properly heal these cuts, before anyone gets suspicious.

*****

8 PM, Day 5

Harry avoided everyone at dinner, ducking into the kitchens to grab some food and return to his rooms instead. He hated his rooms. They were sterile and empty and cold. Like my soul, he thought.

Oh please. How much more melodramatic can you get?

He was debating between the Muggle bandages in his bathroom or looking up a better healing spell in one of his old textbooks when the knock he was semi-expecting sounded at his door.

He was surprised, and admittedly more than a little disappointed, when it was Madam Pomfrey stopping by to see how he was feeling and why he hadn't been at meals regularly. As he shut the door behind her half an hour and some circumlocutious explanations later, he realized that she had never paid him a house call to see how he was doing before. She had implied while healing his cuts that Snape wasn't taking care of him properly, and Harry had felt a wave of anger pass through him.

Of course Severus is taking care of me. Better than anyone ever has. He's the only one that cares about me...

I wonder what he's been doing all day and if he feels as lonely as I do, without him. Like something is missing.

I should just go see him. I can't put this off any longer.

*****

A few minutes later Harry was knocking quietly at Snape's door. He was exhausted, emotionally drained, but determined to face things and to talk about it all. Well, almost all. Snape still didn't need to know anything about his recent messed up desires.

The door opened and Snape stood looking down at him, his expression unreadable. He ushered Harry into the sitting room, which was cluttered with books of various sizes, shapes, and degrees of musty smell.

Harry turned to face him, brow quirking in curiosity. "Been busy, have you? What are you researching?"

Snape hesitated a moment, then answered, "Just following an idea. Nothing to get excited about."

Harry's eyes flitted over the titles of the books, taking in the potions manuscripts, botanical encyclopedias, Italian and Latin lexicons.

"I'm not stupid you know," he said irritably. "I know you've been working on the curse. What are you researching? What does any of this have to do with Italian flowers?" he asked, picking up one of the largest books.

Snape's face took on its characteristic sneer, but his eyes glinted with tell-tale amusement as he drawled, "Crabby again, Mr. Potter? Still not sleeping well? Long day of mentally taxing activity? Pining away in want of my company?"

A snort of laughter vented Harry's bad mood. "I suppose you could say that. All of the above."

Snape's expression softened as he asked, "And are you done thinking then? Are you ready to talk about last night's dreams?"

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "But I don't think I'll ever be ready. So here I am." He sat down on the couch and began to fiddle with the cushions. He spoke rapidly and fixed his gaze on the fireplace. "I don't know where to begin. I know it was a curse; you were right about that. But... I don't know if it's still a curse. I think it's just me, now."

Snape removed a small wine glass from a cabinet and filled it from a bottle on his coffee table, as well as the empty glass already there. "Port," he said, in answer to Harry's quizzical look. "I find it helps loosen the tongue."

Harry blushed slightly, thinking about Snape's tongue. They sat and sipped their drinks for a few minutes.

Snape broke the silence. "Perhaps it would be easier if I told you what I've been thinking about?" Harry nodded, so he continued. "It seems to me that there are a few confusing aspects to this curse: one, that it was cast in your dream itself. Perhaps your unique connection with Voldemort can explain that away, though. Two, that it was such an effective curse and has lasted so long past Lord Voldemort's death. Three, that it seems to have become worse once you killed Lucius Malfoy. Maybe that was simply because your mind was less occupied and therefore less fatigued when you went to bed. Four, that you are unable to talk about it, and that whenever you try, you become, er, emotionally distraught," he finished diplomatically.

Harry made a face. "You mean I burst into tears like a hormonal teenage girl."

"Yes. I've been thinking about that as well. Not that there is anything wrong with crying," Snape hurriedly added. "But I think it's a combination of your fragile emotional state from the sleep deprivation and the stress of confronting something more fearsome to most of us than death – shame."

Harry looked surprised at this, so Snape explained. "Shame is something irrational and deep in your psyche. It's difficult to make yourself want to confront shame long enough to overcome it. Most people, myself included, would rather sweep it under the rug rather than even admit that shame exists. It is one thing to own up to an action or an event that makes you feel ashamed, but many of us even feel ashamed of the shame itself. Especially when logic tells us that it wasn't our fault, but deep down we don't believe it."

Harry's fingers began to unravel the tassel on the pillow in his lap. "So what do you think I feel ashamed about then?"

Snape gave him an impatient look. "I think in order for you to get over it, you should be the one to answer that question. Honestly. And fully. In my experience, the only way to overcome feelings of shame is to admit them out loud and force yourself to talk about them."

Harry pouted for a minute, then got up to refill his glass, and flopped back down on the couch testily. "Fine. When I woke up this morning all I wanted to do was run away from you so I could think about it in peace. And after I'd thought about it for a little while, all I wanted to do was destroy someone or something. It makes me sick to think about. It makes me feel like I'm going to lose control. I want to hurt someone. Something. Myself."

Snape raised his eyebrows, but didn't look truly surprised at Harry's bitter admission. "What is it that makes you feel like that?"

Harry sputtered a few times before he hesitantly, angrily, confessed. "I... I wanted him. In the dream. In all of the dreams. Every even vaguely sexy dream I've ever had turns into that dream."

He took a few deep breaths before continuing, rage building as his voice wavered and became even quieter. "He touched me and I liked it and it makes me sick." He fixed his gaze on the fire, refusing to look anywhere near Snape.

"That curse made me terrified to feel anything for anyone, love or desire. Even friendship. When he killed Malfoy, it made me afraid to ever care about anyone, least something bad happen to them. I pushed away all my friends. I lost everyone. And now I'm so alone..."

"And I'm so disgusted. I could never tell anyone. I can't believe I'm telling you, but you've seen it, in the dream. I can't believe how sick I am to feel this way."

Snape started to say something but Harry cut him off, gaining momentum as the words spilled out from his lips. "I know it was a curse. That it's not my fault. But the way my body reacted... That's my fault. And I know Voldemort was manipulating me. But still; it's my fault. I should have, I don't know, pushed him away. Been more horrified by what he was doing. Anything but aroused."

Snape's voice, soft and warm, tugged him back from is self-loathing. "You were fifteen. And no one's body is ever entirely under their control. Regardless of whether you were in control or not, you didn't do anything. Lord Voldemort did." He sighed. "Harry, it's perfectly normal that you would feel that way. But it's also perfectly wrong. You must forgive yourself and let go of it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Save the platitudes. I know all that, in my head. Just not, well, deeper. There's not exactly much incentive to not wallow in it. All those dreams of being helpless... I was helpless."

"You were a child! Fighting the most evil wizard of our time. Of course you were helpless, you twit! But you did well. You always thought of something. You survived. And eventually you did defeat him. You're quite resourceful."

Harry looked at the other man for the first time since they'd started talking. "You really mean that, don't you? You don't say things like that just to make people feel better." His thoughts meandered a bit, trying to take in the surprising compliment before deflecting it.

"Anyhow. It's still disgusting. Wrong. I feel so... Contaminated. Filthy. And people can sense it; I don't really have any friends. No one's ever liked me. I've never even kissed anyone, never touched anyone. No one wants me and never will."

"You are quite wrong. Someone will," Snape rebutted. "How could they not?" he added as if to himself.

Harry took a deep breath. "Do you? Want me?"

Snape was silent for several long minutes before his deep, velvety voice answered. "Harry... Yes. I do. But I know you don't want me. It's all right; someone more your age would be better for you."

"No!" Harry blurted before he had time to get nervous or think about where their conversation was headed. All that mattered to him was proving Snape wrong. "I do. And you're wrong. I'm older than everyone my age; I've already filled my life's destiny." He paused a moment to consider what he'd just said. "Just like you, Severus. We're finished. And we have to make something new out of our lives, or go on feeling hollow and empty... Or die."

Snape abruptly realized that their discussion had veered into dangerous ground; it was too much, too soon, and not at all what they needed to be talking about at the moment.

He refilled his glass and cleared his throat, avoiding Harry's intent gaze. In a voice without a trace of emotion, he said, “Well. Have you talked enough about the things causing you to feel ashamed or is there more?"

Harry's disappointment at Snape's change of topic mutated into indignation by the time the other man had finished speaking. How dare he act like he can ignore what I just said! he thought, rage flooding through his body. He picked up the bottle from the table and poured the last of the contents into his glass, answering in a hard voice, "No, I suppose my petty little problems have been covered enough for tonight."

Snape scowled at him, but before he said a single word his expression made something snap in Harry. Before they knew it, the bottle in Harry's hand was flying toward the fireplace and shattering to pieces.

"Oh fuck!" Harry gasped, stunned at his loss of control. He cringed. "Um, sorry?"

Snape blinked at him in shock for a second.

Harry drew out his wand and with a well-practiced flick the mess was gone.

"That was... Abrupt," Snape said finally. "And a quite well practiced clean-up," he added, quirking an eyebrow.

Harry gave him a sheepish look. "That's what I did today. I've been a bit, well, frustrated. I wanted to break something. So I did. Several things. Repeatedly."

Snape laughed. "Wine bottles? That's creative, anyhow. Didn't any of the glass hit you?"

"Well, yes. So then I practiced my healing spells," Harry shrugged. "Anyway, I'm sorry. I guess I'm still a bit on edge. So, um. What did you do today?" he asked, picking up a nearby book.

Snape rose and took the text away from him. "There will be plenty of time to talk about it tomorrow. Don't get your hopes up; it may come to nothing. A subconscious thought simply became conscious, and I decided to see where it would lead if I let it be my guide."

Harry yawned and stood up. "All right then."

He let his eyes purposefully travel from Snape's waist, up his chest, shoulders, neck, and tilted his head back a little to linger on Snape's lips before meeting his eyes. He took a deep breath. "So whose bed do we sleep in tonight?"

"Harry..." Snape started, but he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Are you sure? Don't play with me. We don't have an excuse to share a bed tonight. "Do you want to take any sleeping potions?" he asked instead.

"No. I just want to sleep. With you," Harry answered boldly, but averted his eyes. "You can wake me up if I have a bad dream. Please?"

Snape couldn't find any part of himself that wanted to refuse as he followed Harry into the bedroom.

Still refusing to meet the other man's eyes, Harry pulled off his robes and dropped them to the floor. This time they were also followed by his jeans and t-shirt, and Harry climbed into bed wearing only his boxers. He was too embarrassed to look up to see what Snape's reaction was, if he was even watching.

After a moment, the lights went out and Harry felt Severus get into bed, staying on his side, not touching. His heartbeat thudded in his ears.

Maybe getting undressed wasn't enough of an invitation. I want to go further, but I don't know how to start. I have to do something. Anything...

But the long day and draining conversations took their toll and Harry fell asleep in just a few minutes, despite his underlying feelings of frustration and arousal.

Part 8