Speak a Different Tongue

Chapter 3

Harry stayed in the empty bedroom for hours, staring at the wall while he was consumed with guilt and frustration. This was his fault. This was all his fault. It only he’d stayed put at the Dursleys like he was supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened.

Well, that wasn’t necessarily true, a small voice whispered in Harry’s mind. There was no telling Snape wouldn’t have gotten his hands on Harry at some point. Harry had always planned to go to Godric’s Hollow eventually with Ron and Hermione, so Snape might still have caught up with him there. And then perhaps Ron and Hermione would have been captured as well.

No, while Harry knew a lot of what had happened was his fault, he also knew there were some things in life one couldn’t stop no matter what.

And Snape turned out to be a very clever, very sneaky and very evil wizard. Harry wouldn’t have stood a chance against him, no matter when he’d run into his former professor. Hell, Snape had managed to take out Tonks, Lupin, Moody and Shacklebolt, and all of them had been powerful and talented in their own rights.

The more Harry thought about it, the more he realized he was playing right into Snape’s hands by losing his fucking mind over the deaths of the people he knew and cared about. Harry could just see it. Snape watching him go completely crazy through whatever magical equivalent of security cameras Snape must have installed in this house.

This was what Snape wanted! Harry losing his sanity while he and Voldemort kept trying to kill each other.

At once Harry was filled with a new kind of resolve. No matter the pain and the grief and the guilt that consumed him, Harry refused to give Snape the pleasure of seeing Harry fall apart. Harry was going to find a way to deal with all this shit, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

He was not going to help Snape play this sick game in any way, shape or form and that was that.

Now all Harry had to do was find a way to not go slowly insane being locked up with his arch enemy, but how he was to accomplish that Harry had as of yet no idea.

Surprisingly, it was hunger that eventually drove Harry out of the bedroom. He’d been eating so irregularly these past few days that his stomach growled while his head grew light and Harry realized he needed to eat something or else he might actually pass out and hit his head and severely injure himself.

His cheek and temple throbbed where Voldemort had repeatedly hit him, but Harry ignored it.

Shuffling down the stairs, Harry kept an ear open for his homicidal companion. Sizzling could be heard from the kitchen, followed by the sound of a spatula scraping across a pan. The air filled with the enticing scent of browning meat.

Harry’s stomach rumbled again, even louder this time.

Fear coiled inside Harry’s chest until he remembered Voldemort couldn’t kill him. Even if he tried. Which he’d done. But he couldn’t injure Harry more than a few slaps to the face. Which Harry could take. Uncle Vernon had done far worse when Harry was a child. A few slaps was nothing, honestly.

Voldemort stood with his back to Harry as he entered the kitchen. Without saying a word, Harry sat down at the kitchen table. Inhaling a deep breath, Harry vowed right there and then to pretend nothing had happened. As much as Harry wanted to scream and shout, he knew acting on such impulses would get them nowhere.