Harry Potter and the Unexplained Phobia

Chapter seven: A cauldron full of sympathies

Fanart by anabimelo

Harry took a deep breath, then knocked on the door. It had been several days since he'd left the hospital wing and had so far spoken to nobody. He had been told he didn't need to attend lessons until "he'd recovered" so had been making the most of his spare time, sleeping on the bed with the horrible plastic sheet, practising household charms and vanishing any food and drink the house elves brought.

It had been the worse he'd ever felt. Yes, physically he felt somewhat better, now that he was being forced to drink a huge glass of water every morning by McGonagall under her watchful eye. But he felt so... angry. Angry at Ron for condemning him to a life out of his control. Angry at McGonagall, and Molly, and Hermione, for forcing him to drink and eat like a toddler. Angry at the situation he'd put himself in, and put others in, just so he could wake up to a dry sheet.

One fateful evening, having managed to successfully avoid McGonagall for the first time, he found himself in the one place no one would think to look for him.

"I would offer you a glass of water, but we both know that you wouldn't drink it and it is far beneath me to offer simple niceties, Potter. You may enter."

"Plus drinks are banned in the potions lab," Harry muttered. Snape nodded curtly, then stood aside to allow him to walk in. He rarely got willing visitors outside of his office hours and was unaccustomed to company, except Albus, and he preferred to test his nerves and appear out of the fireplace rather than use a door like common folk.

"Precisely. I will not make an exception for the Golden Boy, even if he does insist on turning into a raisin. I assume there is a reason you decided to grace my potions lab with your presence at this hour?"

"Yes. I wanted to ask you something. Do you think people ever fully get over phobias?"

"Why are you asking me? I can assure you, your head of house and Madame Pomferey are more than qualified to answer."

"Because I know you'd be honest and not try to make me feel better," Harry admitted. "Everyone is telling me that I will if I work on it enough, but everyone has phobias that they have for their whole life. I figured you're the last person who'd try and molly-coddle me." Snape had to smirk: finally, someone appreciated his lack of bedside manner. He took a seat behind his desk and motioned for Harry to do the same.

"Fine. Some people do, some people don't. Most learn to adapt."

"Do you have a phobia, Professor?"

"I can assure you, that if I did, I would not tell you," he snapped.

"Fair enough. Do you think I will get over mine?"

"I believe you will. Unlike most types of phobias, your body is actively working against your mind, it's not possible for someone to live without drinking. I suggest you take your medical professional's advice and that CBT and exposure therapy will be the most effective treatment. You can not expect to live as you do forever."

"What with Voldemort hanging over my shoulder, I doubt I'll get to my twenties," Harry admitted lightly. Snape seemed a little put off by this, so Harry shrugged, as though "Can you ever imagine me with grey hair?"

"I can't say I think of you in old age often," Snape replied snippily. "I believe that whoever paints your portrait will aim to flatter you."

"I'll go to my therapy if you go to yours," Harry suggested half-seriously. Not that he had ever really thought about it, but if anyone was depressed in this castle, it had to be Snape. It dawned on him that considering his reclusive habits, lack of friends and whatever was going on in his head, all the occulemency in the world wouldn't help and he likely needed some sort of therapy himself.