you raise me up || harry potter

chapter 33

He had done it all his life, after all. How else could he have endured the things that Vernon and Petunia said to him? After about age seven, he started finding Dudley's sheer stupidity amusing and worth a comeback, but Vernon's shouting rages and Petunia's shrill lectures were agonizing to withstand, even past his toddler ages. Maybe that's why he never seemed to learn, never seemed to retain what his aunt and uncle wanted from him; he simply let their words fade away, until the next time he would have to endure their verbal beatings.

What would a Muggle call that? Repression?

Whatever it was, it was useful. Sometimes it felt like he was letting those parts of him free, flinging them out of his head so he would never have to think about them again. Liberated. 

Other times, he felt weighed down and crushed. As though he hadn't actually flung them out of his head but had pushed them down, down, down, into the crevices of his soul. And you could only shove so many things in there before it would start to take on a very tangible, dense burden.

Most days, Harry ignored it. He also ignored the fact that Dudley was in a coma, and he couldn't do anything about it, though that was somehow significantly harder.

It worked fine, for a while. Snape stopped looking at him out of the corner of his eye or above his morning newspaper or over his coffee cup whenever he thought Harry wasn't looking. Harry didn't think Snape was capable or human enough to "walk on eggshells," as they say, but in his own strange way, that was exactly what he did for a couple of days. After that awkward phase, Snape seemed to come to terms with the idea that maybe Harry really didn't have any questions. That he was fine with not knowing.

Remember that Lily loved you... but you returned that love with hate. I won't make that same mistake.

Harry definitely didn't want to think about that sentence.

But something had shifted between them. Harry wasn't sure what it was, but it was something. 

"Potter, come here," Snape called from down the hall.

Harry rose to his feet in trepidation, cutting off his hissed conversation with Sage. It was only one o'clock in the afternoon—he couldn't possibly have done something already to annoy Snape. But what he found was the door next to Snape's lab, slightly ajar instead of firmly shut as it usually was. Harry's last terrible experience of walking in on Snape during first year was still very fresh in his mind, so he lingered for a bit before Snape called him again, this time sounding impatient. 

"Professor?" Harry said, cautiously peeking into the room. He fought a gasp.

It was a glass room, a greenhouse. It was large, perhaps even as large as the house itself—Snape must have manipulated the space with magic. It was filled with exotic looking plants that could rival even Professor Sprouts' at Hogwarts. The air smelled fresh and earthy, nothing like the old vanilla smell of ancient books that clung to Harry's clothes these days.

"Stop gawking and come here," Snape said. "Did you go over the moly plant in your Herbology curriculum, yet?"

Harry shook his head.

"Hm." Snape pressed his lips together slightly, then shook his head. "Four hands are better than two. I'd use magic, but they require delicate, human handling. It's tedious work."

Harry hesitated, but walked inside. Low-lying plants brushed against his ankles.

The moly was a pretty, white flowering plant with black stems. They were used to counteract enchantments, Snape explained, and used in potions like the Wiggenweld, which he had to make on a time constraint.