Indifference Towards Difference || Harry Potter

17 | The Bastard Child Of Fear And Its Puppy

"I thought I told you to occlude, Potter," Snape drawled.

Don't be obvious and look at Malfoy, you idiot, his brain warned him. Harry was offended his own brain thought he was that stupid.

"I did," Harry started, on what technically wasn't a lie; he had managed to occlude until his little... agreement-that-didn't-involve-voodoo-blood-magic with Malfoy. "It's just... a bit harder to maintain when I'm sleeping."

"I imagine that is perhaps something we may be able to rectify today." Snape sounded dangerously delighted. Harry's brain wisely went "oh no". A happy Snape often meant a very miserable Harry Potter. "I do believe we ought to recompense for our missed Occulemency lesson this morning."

Occulemency in the morning? Oh, but that would be horrid. And he had Theory after lunch and—hold on. He had Occulemency in the afternoon as well...

Harry groaned in his head. A whole day of Occulemency. A whole fucking day of Occulemency. He should've let the basilisk off him whilst he had the chance.

A glance at Snape told him the man knew exactly what he'd done.

Greasy git.

Only... was it really right calling the man that anymore though? Well, he was still greasy, and a git, but after yesterday... Harry knew how much the Cruciatus hurt. Once had been bad enough for him, twice had been torture. He also knew exactly how many times Snape had suffered under it this past month.

The man was cold and cruel, but if Snape really was a double agent for the Order, then he definitely went through a lot to help the fight against Voldemort. And in that sense, perhaps Snape wasn't as bad as Harry thought he was. Perhaps the man had morals, something beyond the icy facade Harry was always on the recieving end of.

But there Snape was, looking quite smug at his victorious ploy, and the argument presented itself once more.

He decided the bacon he'd been picking at was shredded enough. With a defeated sigh, Harry left the dining room. He wondered how many pages of 'Mind Magick For Morons'—the Occulemency book Snape had bought especially for him—he could skim-read in an hour.

Well, he was about to go for the world record anyhow. 

***

Severus Snape was not, in any way, concerned about Potter. If anyone had dared to tell him he looked so, they would've found themselves sentenced to an interminable stay in St Mungo's remedial ward for long-term magical convalescents.

Be that as it may, something had clenched at his chest the moment he'd caught sight of the boy at breakfast. True, Potter did often return to Hogwarts every summer looking a little worse for wear— skinner, messier. But at this point Snape would find himself wheeling in a corpse.

The boy had... well, for lack of better word, withered.

Potter was thin. That was definitely the first place to start, and yet it was barely scratching the surface. There were olms that ate more than the boy. Potter had gone beyond teenage scrawniness to outright emaciation. He looked far too breakable.

Potter also now spoke in such soft, hoarse tones Snape had half a mind to apply a permanent sonorous to the boy. He may be rumoured to have hearing like a bat, but even he had to strain to hear the rusty words through the air. And he said rusty, mind, because Potter's throat sounded more sore than anything else. Sore from what however, Snape could only have unfound suspicions of.