Word Count: 1,286
Rating: PG-13
Category: Romance, Angst
Notes: Got this idea from Jen, after having our “philosophical” conversations at our lovely café.  Thanks to Dawn, Jen, and Titti for betaing.
Summary: Severus’ outlook on a traumatised, schizophrenic, Harry.
Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Warnings: Slash
Dedications: Dedicated to Jen. One of the first person to understand me and whom I can relate to.
Completed Date: July 25, 2003

I look around, in abhorrence at the new room I have received not so long ago. I hate how the sunlight creeps through those annoying windows. The curtains, heavy and velvety, are drawn apart so the light can brighten up the room and give colour to them. I can feel the warmness from the great ball of gas and I absolutely hate it. This new atmosphere disgusts me.

I miss my cold, dark rooms down in the dungeons. I feel like a prisoner here, being punished by all this indirect cheeriness and warmth.

Alas, this isn’t for me though. This is all for my lover, Harry.

Yes, Harry Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived. The-Boy-Who-Defeated-Lord-Voldemort. The bane of my existence, other than Neville Longbottom. The person who I acted like an ass to, to cover up my position as a spy. And lastly, the person who changed me the most, and yet hasn’t changed me at all.

I glance over to my lover, whom I fell for during his seventh year. Three years has passed since then. He finally annihilated Voldemort and ever since that time a few months ago, he has changed.

Harry is sitting in front of that damnable window, his head tilted up to look at the sky, and not once moving. Not even blinking. I grab the eyedropper, with my own concocted potion and with gentle ease, I let go of three drops for each of his eyes. Instinctively, I know that I’ll have to do this again soon.

Harry, the ever once energetic brat, has been diagnosed with Paranoid and Catatonic Schizophrenia. Curse those Muggles for thinking up such strange names for their diseases. The mediwizards say that after going through so many traumatic experiences in his life, it’s not surprising that someone like Harry would acquire this.

I scowl at the thought of Albus pushing the boy too far, letting him endanger his own life repeatedly, and letting him return to those damn Muggle relatives of his. I wish I could bring Voldemort – no, Riddle, back from the dead and murder him with my own bare hands for bringing such misery and hardship into this young man’s life ever since the age of one. Those two men, each alike and different in their own ways, ruined the boy.

As much as I hate to admit, I think Black’s death was the start of all this. Then the youngest Weasley boy got himself killed, along with Hagrid in his sixth year, which added more anxiety to his already stressed mind. Other classmates of his, either on the light or dark side, have been killed as well. He thinks he’s the cause of all these deaths. No matter how many times Granger, Lupin (who took Black’s role as godfather), and I tell him otherwise. Stubborn little bugger.

The final straw happened when he defeated Riddle. The realisation of all the people he lost and the stress of it all got to him.

The first couple weeks, he became more paranoid than Moody. When eating in the Great Hall, he’d check his food and drinks for strange curses and hexes. He’d look around nervously, even while talking with Lupin and Granger. He would cringe away when others would try to touch him.

I didn’t see this as anything unusual. After my role as a spy for both leaders of each side, I tended to be paranoid myself. Considering what Harry has gone through, I didn’t think anything else was wrong with the situation.

Later on, he’d have bouts of moments when his body and mind would freeze entirely and he would not move, not even to blink. Whether he was standing up, sitting down, or laying in bed, he became immobile.

That caught my attention and made me realise that something was not right. I begrudgingly consulted Granger and she, still an insufferable know-it-all, had suspicions that Harry might be suffering from a mental illness.

After convincing him to get a check up, Granger’s hypothesis was proven correct, as usual. Harry didn’t acknowledge this fact when he was told. He simply stared with a blank expression. He still denies ever having those diseases.

But his freezing moments have become worse and his paranoia has gotten to the point where he claims he hears voices around him. He says Riddle is still alive and that Ron has never died.

That was the turning point for me. Before I hadn’t been able to accept his diagnosis. But after seeing Harry’s brilliant mind becoming torn, I decided to push the matter myself.

Sometimes I ask myself why he has to be so persevering and in denial of his ailments. There are some days when he’s easy to handle, and others where I practically force the medicine and potions down his throat. Yet, the remedies are taking forever to work. This fact frustrates me. I know that schizophrenia isn’t curable, but still seeing how much Harry has to take when it comes to medications, I sometimes ask, is it worth it?

Knowing that Harry is going through all this mental pain upsets me. I tell myself that at least he isn’t a true vegetable like Longbottom’s parents. His Gryffindor courage is keeping him from digressing further, despite his occasional denial. Whenever he comes back from his catatonic or paranoid moments, I see so many emotions in his face. I see disgust, probably at himself, frustration over not being able to control his brain, and wonderment at the fact that I am still here instead of leaving him.

Silly boy. I might not be as fiercely loyal as those brainless Hufflepuffs, but he’s my lover. I know that Harry’s ailments aren’t a trivial matter, but I am not about abandon him to Gryffindor’s care, and this gives me an excuse to research into making my own potions for schizophrenic patients.

But other than the time he’s sane, I love him the most when he comes back to me from the periods of his inner attacks. The fact that one day, he’ll get lost in himself, wholly, frightens me.

Since when did I allow him, Harry Potter, to wrap around his little finger on me? These new feelings, love being one of them, have changed me. I am still the snarky, sarcastic bastard, but inside, I feel love and hope for him. Sometimes I do want to just let everything go back the way it was. These feelings are so foreign, yet they fill me completely. Knowing that I’d do anything for the bloody, but loving, prat, puts me at ease.

And that brings me back to the subject of the rooms. I left my dungeons for Harry. He hadn’t moved in before, but we were thinking about it. I figure that if the sun is in the room and adds colour, it is a healthier environment for him. Reluctantly, I talk to Albus about the matter, and it’s settled.

I do notice the change in him. He seems more content with the sun, the heat. He did always like to go outside by himself to just stare up at the skies and feel the crisp breeze and let himself be washed away by the rays. So the rooms do have a positive effect and I tell myself that being in this room isn’t all for nothing after all.

Anything is worth seeing Harry content. Such sacrifices must be made. But I really hope I find a cure or a potion that keep his mind rational for longer periods of time. It’s not bloody likely, but for the first time in years, I feel hope. All thanks to the boy who made my life previously miserable and now is the pillar of everything.