Indifference Towards Difference || Harry Potter

19 | The Children Of St Anthony's

"Draco, to the parlour. Floo call the Headmaster and inform him Potter has had a vision." Harry had little time to recall what the hell a parlour was; his body was being lowered and he felt like he was falling—

His eyes shot open, jerking up and almost head-butting a sallow face with a hooked nose. The Potions Master however, seemed to have other worries. Insistent black eyes tried to stare into his—of course, Harry didn't meet them. His head hurt enough, thank you very much.

"A vision?" Harry nodded.

Ow.

"From the Dark Lord?" A smaller nod.

A little less ow.

Harry's head ached despite all the potions, and yet it was working to rapidly connecting the dots of everything he had seen, everything that had happened.

White roses and beige hallways and Muggle light-bulbs...

Something heavy dropped in his stomach as everything clicked into place.

"St Anthony's," The words came coarse and whispered, grating on sandpaper, but Snape needed to know, needed to try and save at least someone. "St Anthony's Orphanage. You've got to go—" A cough scorched his throat, racking his lungs. Breathing was still remarkably painful, but Snape needed to understand.

"Near the Dursleys. Voldemort's there." That seemed to do it; a calculated resolve set in Snape's eyes, dull and glimmering. The man stood, robes trailing him with a light billow.

"Can you stand?"

Now that most certainly was the question, wasn't it? Harry figured he'd do it like ripping off a Band-Aid; quickly, and without avoidance.

One, two... Harry pushed himself up and— ohhh, that had not been a good idea, not at all.

Blackness erupted from every corner of his vision, spiralling together to suck him into an endless void—

He was vaguely aware of something... someone practically holding him up... "far too many potions already," muttered in a discontent huff, before another liquid— a Wide-Eye potion, judging by the taste— was poured down his throat. All at once his nerves were shocked into wakefulness, and the darkness retreated to wait with the clamouring voice.

Harry was mortified to find himself clinging to Snape's forearms like a Bowtruckle with attachment issues— it was bloody Snape, of all people. As if the probable screaming and definite retching hadn't been enough. He tried to push away with a muttered "sorry"— if Harry did it fast enough they could put this all behind them— only to find Snape was holding him with an iron-clad grip.

"I'm sure your Gryffindor honour will suffer for this, though I imagine it shall suffer even more so with me having to carry your unconscious body."

Oh, you're definitely not doing that.

Harry reluctantly squeezed one of Snape's forearms slightly as a surrender.

With a smirk—Harry briefly contemplating punching it off with his noodle-y arms—the elder wizard then did something that made Harry wonder whether he ought to have chosen unconsciousness. Snape wound a forceful arm around his waist, essentially holding him upright, and started walking.

It was the most awkward thing Harry had ever had to do in his life. Ever. 

And that was considering this moment was running up against every single encounter between himself and Moaning Myrtle.