Harry potter and his life of bullsh!t

Chapter 18: What in the franken fuçk was that

The suicide rate would hit a hight it never had before and Snape knows it better then anyone. Severus won't allow that to happen.

As mentioned before, the second year came to him hours earlier. His mother had beat him a lot over summer and he had resorted to the only way he knew how to cope: self harm. He couldn't bring bandages to Hogwarts because he didn't have the money to afford them without asking his mother.

He thought that it would be alright, until he accidentally reopened the wounds. He couldn't go to Madem Pomfrey, she would find out about his living situation, so he went to the person who promised to be there for all of his snakes, Snape.

After everyone (or so they thought), had gone to their individual dorms, the brunette boy went to Snape to ask for help. They were in the common room of the dorm, neither expecting anyone to walk in.

Snape was cursing himself for not making more healing potions after he ran out using them on other Slytherins that were hurt over break.

And then he walked in. Harry potter. The creepily pale, extremely thin, underfed, suspiciously empty, Harry Potter.

What would you expect a eleven year old to do when they saw the scene later out before them, blood dripping down a boys hand and robes, a teacher knelt before them, trying to comfort them? Would you expect them to be confused? curious? surprised? horrified? or would you expect them to show no sign of curiosity, to stand there emotionlessly, analytically, and look as If they understand the situation perhaps better then anyone?

I don't think you would. But Harry Potter, doesn't seem to be normal at all. Especially when he walked over, pulled bandages out of his pocket, maturely addressed the situation, and then expertly bandaged the boys arms without inquiry.

Snape's eyebrows crinkled in concern, the way the boy addressed the situation was not right, or should I say, too right. It felt wrong. Like the way he handled the situation was too adult, too practiced and mature. It made Severus's stomach turn, uneasy.

Harry's eyes, they were too empty, too hollow. The second you looked into them was the second you started to drown in toxic waste. It felt like eye contact has you in a choke hold, but you can't help but stare. Like a morbid beauty, and a sad truth sat  comfortably inside a green more toxic then poison. It made you want to drown in it, it feels like you are dying but you can't help but relax into it.

Eyes aside, the way he acted was suspicious. The way he bandaged the boys bloody arm was expertly done, practiced, with no hesitation or mistakes, so well done that he didn't even get a drop of blood on him. The way he knew to distract the boy from pain was intelligent, planned well, executed with perfect timing. The silent question on his face before he pulled up his sleeve was knowing, understanding.

And what made Snape's eyes crinkle in worry, was when he pulled up the blood soaked sleeve without hesitation or wonder. No flinch, no wince, no silent question, no pity. He looked at a freshly fruit ninja'd arm as if it was just a normal, unmarked arm. As if there wasn't more than twenty bleeding wounds, and a bunch of light scars collected on it. As if it was, may I say, a familiar sight.

And he masterfully avoided the questions when asked why he kept bandages in his pockets. The scene was too casual, too familiar to the boy.

Snape was starting to worry about his home life. Underweight, unhealthily pale, familiar with self harm wounds, maturity and possibly intelligence beyond his age, knowledge on how to take care of wounds effectively, quick assessment of the situation, he keeps bandages in his pocket, his eyes are hollow, he's not affected by the sight of blood, he moves silently, he barely eats, from the eyebags he has and underlying tired look; he barely sleeps, and he avoids physical contact.