Indifference Towards Difference || Harry Potter

20 | Even Heartless People Have Hearts

Bruises, rather irritatingly, required balms and salves. Something to apply onto the skin. And Harry didn't really want to raid Snape's stores, especially seeing that he was living with the bloody git.

Speaking of said git, the most colourful of his abrasions were from Snape's kindly creative duelling sessions. The man was vindictive in every way, and after a session two days ago where Harry hadn't constantly landed on his arse, the Potions Master had decided some changes were long overdue.

And by changes, Harry meant random rocks magically sprouting out of the ground for him to trip on, mysterious tree branches whacking him in the face. Then there was Snape's absolute favourite— objects appearing out of thin air to thwack him right in the small of his back, taking advantage of his blind spot with whooshing delight.

Harry slipped on a baggy, blue hoodie, biting his lip as the fabric just grazed the fresh cuts on his arm. They very much reflected the state of his scar; red and tender to the touch, but the knowledge of what it was for prompted Harry to push his concerns about the pain aside.

Scars were particularly good reminders, after all.

He'd loitered enough on drying his hair, Harry resolved; it wasn't going to get any drier, and the pathetically excuse-laden speech he'd come up with for Snape (which largely consisted of "I'm sorry"s) had been mentally rehearsed enough.

Exhaling shortly, Harry charged out of the en-suite. And fell flat on his arse at the sight that greeted him.

For standing in his room and turning towards him... was Snape.

***

Severus Snape was officially convinced Harry Potter enjoyed shaving years off his life. The moment the boy had stepped into Hogwarts, he had taunted Death with ridiculous stunts that only increased in recklessness every year. And of course, he had so foolishly, so cluelessly, vowed to protect the Boy-Who-Kept-Trying-To-Die. It was exhausting.

And yet somehow, when the Monitoring Charm around the boy's bed had gone off, he was more... not-worried about the boy than ever.

As if he would worry about Potter.

Yes, perhaps he had run up the stairs two at a time in his haste, earning him a good few scoldings from his ancestors. And yes, perhaps he had burst into Potter's chambers, and then realised the boy had gone into the en-suite. And yes, perhaps he had then decided to loiter inside the boy's room, not at all in case something happened.

But that was not worry, no it was not. That was... duty. The brat was known for getting into all sorts of trouble.

His time in Potter's room however, had given him an odd insight into the boy. Potter's trunk was a complete mess— a surface glance revealed not a single pair of matching socks, and the clothing either frayed or large or both. What Potter's exact motives were with such a crude display, Snape had yet to ascertain.

Contrarily, the boy had kept his room near spotless. Nothing truly 'touched' the room; whilst Draco had staked his claim on his quarters with Colour-Changing Charms and extra throws and pillows and mirrors, Potter's chamber looked as though it could easily be reverted back to its original, barren state, given a few minutes.

The most amount of personality in the room was in the scraps of drawn-on parchment stuck around the small window with some blue, putty-like Muggle adhesive. Easily removable, he discovered.

It was odd that Potter had shown so much care towards Snape's property, and little to none of his own.

The just about discernable creak of the washroom door was enough warning for Snape to turn, forcing his features to remain blank as Potter caught sight of him and leapt back, landing heavily on his backside.