"And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
~~~
Harry's eyes creaked open, reluctant lids given an encouraging push by the sun's rays. He felt wonderfully fuzzy and woozy all over, the blur of his myopia making the world seem softer, hazier.
Everything felt that way, to be honest; the sensation of waking up like this had been lost to him. Harry yawned lazily, wallowing in the sun's warmth seeping through the small window by his desk. Having a lie-in was always a nice feeling—
A lie-in?
Harry shot up and stared at Dudley's old watch—
08:17
Reality hit him with an abrupt force— the vision, the mortification, the trickle of hope, the pools of blood, all cocooned together within the drifting seas of an eternal emotional nothingness— ultimately summarised with a roundabout "shit."
And on top of all that, he'd had a lie-in. He'd had a bloody fucking lie-in and it was a Thursday; Merlin, Snape was going to go bloody fucking ballistic— that was, if he wasn't already.
Muttering some rather unholy expletives under his breath, Harry leapt out of bed, the routine vertigo hitting him unexpectedly in his hurry. Nevertheless, he bore through it, before attempting to grab his wand and glasses from the bedside table. Attempting, being that Harry had suddenly noticed how his entire left arm was encased in some crusty brown rag— ah.
Well, that was just another one of his many problems, wasn't it? And yet his problems were his own, and he'd deal with them himself. As he'd always done.
With a roll of his eyes, the messy-haired teenager reached for his wand with his other hand, summoned some clothes— and Malfoy could stuff his colour co-ordination advice where the sun didn't shine— and stumbled into the en-suite.
***
The Dursleys had kept him in good practice with hasty morning runs to the bathroom, though today Harry stumbled out of the shower slightly later than per. On the other hand, his reasons were perfectly... well, reasonable.
Seeing his reflection had almost made Harry choke on his toothpaste. Had he not known it was him, he probably would've started hexing the mirror, caterwauling about an escaped Inferi.
He'd looked dreadful. The dark circles under his eyes had taken on a permanently bruised appearance, his scar still somewhat red and inflamed and the green of his eyes shockingly brighter now. All those features stood out in stark contrast against the ridiculous, ghostly pallor of his skin.
Harry had seen dead Flobberworms look more alive than him.
And then the rest of him— all knobbly knees and healed sunburns, slashes on his back that looked to be the work of some thin-taloned bird rather than a belt buckle, and ribs that had long since started to show, with a patchwork of half-healed green and yellow bruises painted across them, and sporadic splotches of purple and blue.
He looked like one of Dudley's nursery paintings.
Harry's session with the healing books had been maddeningly deficient. Though he'd discovered how to make the slashes on his back look less 'slash-ey', the tomes had blabbered on about his magic already working to heal him; there was only so much more of it he could channel to directly remedy his injuries. That was apparently why medi-wizards and witches existed.
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.
It would have been unbelievably easy to greet Potter with a casual rejoinder; this very moment was bubbling with potential. And yet, like how the boy had looked young in sleep last night, he seemed impossibly smaller now, with how big and bright Lil—Potter's eyes were. Hating the boy suddenly felt more of an effort, the stern tone he'd had waiting at the tip of his tongue curling away.
"Potter," Snape decided on gruffly. A truly wonderful conversation starter, he commended himself. So well thought out.
The boy scrambled to his feet. Snape noticed how he swayed a little upon standing. "Sir. Erm... good morning." The Potions Master reined back a sneer as Potter opened his mouth, then closed it again, before running his hands through his hair. The resemblence to Potter Senior was physically painful. "I—"
"As entertaining as I'm sure your ramblings would be, I fear my ears shall bleed listening to anything beyond half a syllable. Your disingenuous excuses are acknowledged and ignored."
Well, that had not been how he'd meant to start this off.
"I didn't mean to oversleep, sir," the idiot boy said after an awkward moment, and Snape had the sudden urge to whack him upside the head. Had the boy seen himself? Would the Potions Master ever lose such control over himself, he would force Draught of Living Death down the boy's throat and have him bound in a Muggle straitjacket to rest for a thousand years.
But a thousand years was something they didn't have. Life was fleeting, moments were transient, history eternal. The history of this war would be marked in stone, scripted in parchment, undying. And at the heart of it was this idiotic, apologetic, under-trained teenager standing before him.
An idiotic, apologetic, under-trained teenager he needed to have a nice little conversation with. One that apparently couldn't be done with a cup of calming draught-laced tea in the Headmaster's office.
Snape sighed inwardly. This, the Potions Master recalled, was why he didn't like engaging in conversation with people. Especially a Gryffindor, and James Potter's spawn at that.
And yet here you are.
And yet here he was, he conceded.
"Sit, Mr Potter. I believe we are due for a word." Snape tiredly gestured to the bed— unmade, but judging by the way the duvet half lay on the floor, he could guess Potter had had to drag himself out. Besides, from what he'd heard from Minky, the boy made his bed every morning. Just another mystery to the 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle that was Harry Potter.
Damn the child.
The boy awkwardly patted the deep red coverlet down, before perching himself on the edge of the bed, knees practically tucked into his chest with his ankles crossed.
How defensive.
"I trust you are feeling better?" An innocent question, one Snape already knew the answer to. And the boy's answer at that. But needs must.
"Erm... yes, sir. Thank you."
As predicted.
He moved forwards— a single step physically forwards and one further in conversation. "The Headmaster and I have viewed your memory of the Dark Lord's foray." He pretended to ignore Potter's flinch. "I trust the vision was in some way similar to your own experience with the Dark Lord at the Ministry?"
"Yeah. In a way, I suppose." The boy's posture had loosened a little. Good.
"There were differences?"
All at once, the boy was as taut as a bowstring. Snape had been a moment away from ruining his reputation with some Hufflepuff-like statement to do with Potter's comfort levels, only the Gryffindor spoke first. "It hurt more at the Ministry. And he... spoke through my mouth. To Dumbledore."
It hurt more at the Ministry?
A flash of Potter's writhing, screaming body, made its way past his Occulemency shields. It took more effort than it should have to force it back.
"Is that Legilimency, sir? Or... something else?"
"The connection between yourself and the Dark Lord is highly unusual," Snape began slowly, carefully. "The Dark Lord's intrusion into your mind most certainly does involve the enhancement of the principle foundations of Legilimency. Though the somatic reactions were... unexpected."
Brow furrowed. Head tilted. Ah— he had gone beyond Potter's cerebral range of vocabulary.
The smirk was something Snape couldn't bring himself to suppress as he explained, "It would require an excessive amount of mental exertion to extract a physical response from a person. Hence, your own episode conceives two possible conclusions. Either the Dark Lord is exceedingly more powerful in his use of Legilimency against you alone, or there is already a dormant connection that resides between you both, which exacerbates the effects of his intrusions. Regardless of which, the immediate answer is further Occulemency training on your part."
Potter bit his lip, nodding slowly. "That makes sense," he muttered.
And then the boy did something simply inexplicable. Potter slipped off the bed—and the Potions Master swore the idiot child staggered slightly before righting himself— and made to step towards the door.
"Where exactly do you think you're going, Mr Potter?" His voice froze Potter in his tracks.
"It's almost 9, sir," the idiot said, as though that explained everything.
"That does not answer my question."
"Well... the schedule says there's training in three minutes." Potter's tone held the undercurrents of one explaining something to a particularly stupid child. "Or are we making up for the Occulemency lesson yesterday, sir?"
Snape crossed his arms authoritatively, walking towards Potter and tilting his head in a way that he knew would force the boy to strain his neck. "You truly believe you are recovered enough to endure several hours of rigorous training, without exhibiting more of a pitiful performance than per?"
"I thought I was here to train, sir," the Boy-Who-Somehow-Still-Lived answered impudently. The dull green eyes were chips of ice, disconcerting in their coldness. Lily's eyes, he recalled, had always burned a bright, phosphorescent green, whether it be in anger or in joy.
"I know very well why I have had your presence inflicted upon me this summer; I would not have allowed for it otherwise. And yet I know a lost cause when I see one, and anything beyond lazing about in bed as I am no doubt you are used to during these summer months would be a waste of both our time. And what use will the energy spent on your failures be, Potter?" He sneered sardonically. "No, you will rest today. We will recommence your tutelage tomorrow."
The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Annoy-Him refused to relent, in his uniquely irritating manner. "I don't need rest. Last time I checked—"
Snape had heard enough. The brat's voice was grating on his last nerve, and Merlin knew what he would do when that was gone.
The Potions Master forced himself into Potter's mind— perhaps a little harsher than he should have done— but he had a point to prove here. Potter's mind was so obviously exhausted; he could've rifled through and picked out the answers to every one of the questions he had about the boy. And yet instead he let them rush past, pushing away at the weak resistence. It was the worse performance he had seen from the boy since his arrival.
When he finally pulled out, he noted with grim satisfaction the way Potter's forehead was covered with a sheen of sweat, breathing much heavier than he had been a moment ago.
Snape gave Potter's bowed head a long, expressionless stare. "You will rest, Mr Potter," he repeated crisply, "or you will spent the entirety of today de-sliming slugs and disembowelling toads. The choice is yours."
Potter threw him a nasty glare—which may or may not have widened Snape's own victorious smirk— before kneeling for the duvet and setting it and himself on the bed. The Potions Master's leer faded a little however, at the sight of the protruding bones of Potter's spine, exposed despite the hooded top he was wearing.
Before he could say anything untoward and leaning towards... Merlin forbid—concern— Snape waved his wand, and a small bowl of porridge appeared on a tray atop Potter's bedside table.
Only the boy looked at him bemusedly. Truly, did Potter think he was bad enough to starve— ah. No, Potter would considering... Snape recalled the rules he had set for Potter upon his arrival. He had told the child he wouldn't eat, should he not attend meals in time.
But that had been before he'd been forced to hold the boy down and feel the unnatural sharpness of his shoulders, not to mention what he had seen just now.
Dear Merlin. The boy must think I'm going soft.
"Considering the large amount of potions you consumed yesterday, your body now requires some form of sustenance," Snape lied, the ghosts of old Potions Masters screaming in his ears for such blasphemy. He told them to bugger off.
"Thank you, sir." Potter said quietly.
Snape looked at the child strangely. It was food. Not something Potter looked ultimately used to, and yet... well, it was food.
He supposed it was now the 1001-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Boy-That-Continued-To-Baffle-Him. How... wonderful.
With a curt nod, Snape walked towards the door, as though to leave. At the last minute however, he turned and face the boy once more.
"You have had a persistently sore throat since your arrival, Potter." Said boy stiffened. Snape continued. "Though it does sound much improved at present, will we be expecting a return?"
He watched Potter fixate his gaze on his horrifyingly clashing socks. "I—yeah. Hayfever, sir."
The Potions Master nodded. He had expected nothing different.
Without a glance, Snape left. He'd achieved the full purpose of his visit. Now, he need only coil up and wait.
***
Lunch had passed quietly, albeit with some... confusion. A tray had appeared at 12, right at the end of Harry's bed. On it had been two chicken and ham sandwiches and a treacle tart. Harry had prodded the foods for a good minute—did Snape know those were his favourites or was it all just coincidental?
He'd settled on coincidental, because thinking too much about Snape's motives probably would've made his skull shatter. And so Harry had gone straight for the treacle tart, and one of the sandwiches.
He'd set the tray clearly away from him, expecting it to poof out of existence or disappear in some magical way. It hadn't.
"Erm... thanks for the lunch," Harry had spoken to his empty room, sounding like a complete idiot. "You can take it away now. Please?"
The tray had remained.
The tray had remained until Harry had found room in his stomach to eat the last sandwich half an hour later. He'd done an award-winning impression of a goldfish out of water when it had finally popped away, before circling back to his earlier conclusion— no thinking. Thinking was for Hermione. No thinking for Harry.
It was approaching two o' clock now. The view from his window showed a small hoard of grey clouds clustering together, failing to dim the blue sky. Harry had made it a good way into his griffin sketch before he heard the joyful sound of demanding hoots outside his room... and two knocks.
But who else would be knocking on his door? Owls couldn't knock, could they?
Placing his sketch aside, Harry muttered an Unlocking Charm, revealing his beautiful snowy owl, laden with mail... and Draco Malfoy. Platinum blond hair shining in all its past midday glory.
Hedwig swooped down onto his bed, relieving herself of her burden before nipping at his sleeve. Obediently, Harry started scratching her head, as she ruffled her feathers happily.
"Missed you, girl," Harry whispered. And it really was true; he had missed Hedwig. His constant summer companion, his first birthday present that wasn't something demeaning and humiliating. The last several days had been hectic, between the visions and training and talking and general breathing.
Perhaps Snape's 'stay-in-bed-on-pain-of-death' threat hadn't been such a bad idea.
Not that Harry would ever let the git hear him admit it.
Green eyes looked up to find pale eyes already locked onto his.
"Malfoy."
"Potter."
Well this isn't awkward at all...
"Did you come in for anything or...?" Malfoy was doing the staring thing again. But the blond couldn't even see his socks... perhaps Malfoy was a little mad after all. Missing his millionth trip to Paris must have hit him oh so very hard!
Harry dropped his eyes down to the coverlet; he'd heard that eye contact was important during conversations, and he figured this sort of gesture was more polite than a "please fuck off."
Only Malfoy was still here.
Sod it.
Harry stared steadfastly back at the blond. "You know you really—"
"I thought you said it wouldn't hurt," Malfoy finally blurted out.
Harry blinked.
Has Malfoy gone completely off his rocker?
He pushed his glasses up with a bemused frown. "Erm... come again?"
Now Malfoy was looking at Harry like he was the idiot. "When you did what you did... on Monday. When Severus went away and you said you could watch. You said it wouldn't hurt, Potter."
Do Slytherins undergo some sort of... personality transplant during summer?
"I did it because you asked, Malfoy," Harry answered carefully. "And because I could."
"You shouldn't have done it if it was going to hurt, Potter!" The Slytherin exploded. His stance was rigid, thrumming with something more than anger, though Harry couldn't quite place it. "Did you put a Silencing Charm up whilst you were screaming your head off then as well?"
Harry's mouth turned dry as a desert. "How—"
"Take a guess," Malfoy snarled. "Severus had to hold you down whilst I had to try and pour a Calming Draught down your throat. You almost choked on it." The viciousness in the blond's voice had died down into something else... softer, almost. Pain, worn round the edges by time. Barely worn.
He wondered, not for the first time, why the heir to one of the most foremost pureblood families was here. In a lonely, large manor in the middle of nowhere.
Harry noted how Malfoy's pale eyes were staring off at some middle distance. He could end the conversation here, and let Malfoy try to seek the horizon past the stone walls. But there had been far too much left unsaid between him and Malfoy since Sunday, far too much swept under the rug.
"I'm sorry," Harry said after a moment. "For... lying, if that's what you thought it was." Malfoy gave a snort, as though that was exactly what he thought it was. "You asked me to check up on Snape and I did. And yeah, I didn't entirely tell the truth about... the whole thing of it. But I did it anyway, and it's not like anything bad happened."
Apparently the last bit was a mistake. Harry swore Malfoy's eyes almost glowed, the now silvery orbs fixed upon him unrelentingly. "Nothing bad— Potter, have you not considered how rare it is for Severus to give anyone a day of bed-rest like this? Especially you? Do I really need to tell you that some of Longbottom's deceased cauldrons look better than you do right now?"
"Don't insult my friends!" Harry retorted, only that seemed even more so the wrong thing to say. Hedwig voiced her agreement with a hoot.
"This isn't about your friends! Merlin, you're stick thin but thicker than a bloody troll..." Harry crossed his arms defensively as Malfoy ran a hand through his gleaming hair.
The Slytherin then decided to walk all the way to the foot of his bed, forcing Harry to raise his neck a little. Harry wished he was standing also, though standing on the bed would've looked a bit stupid.
"Malfoys don't favour being in other people's debts, Potter—"
"You're not in my debt," Harry interrupted him quickly; a debt shared with Pettigrew was bad enough, thank you very much.
"That's not something you get to decide! Even if you don't consider me so— "
"Why are you making such a big deal out of this, Malfoy?" Harry demanded. He'd thought girls were complicated, but Draco Malfoy was something else. And their little chat was just going around in circles. "I checked up on Snape because I could, and because you asked. And now you're being a massive drama queen about it, and you won't even explain—"
"BECAUSE YOU WERE ALREADY HURT!" The blond finally yelled, throwing his hands in the air. The silence that fell between them was heavy, suffocating.
For all his infarctions and invectives, Malfoy had always had some sort of equanamity. Never truly letting his tongue run as it pleased, never truly letting go. He'd been able to knock at the right stops to rile them all up without ever losing it himself.
He'd lost it now. They both knew it.
Malfoy set his shoulders back and took a breath. "Do you think I've forgotten about Sunday, Potter? I assure you, doing so is easier said than done. And despite the books you took from Severus' library, I highly doubt you found your way around Seacole's theory on iatric magic. "
Harry flushed. How Malfoy had noticed he'd taken books out on medi-wizardry... they was definitely something being taught exclusively to Slytherins. And Harry hadn't thought Malfoy had forgotten exactly... he'd just figured the Slytherin hadn't cared. Or perhaps Harry hadn't been thinking at all. Perhaps he'd been hoping.
You idiot, the voice in his head chided him. Hope's dangerous, don't you know?
"I'm fine," Harry gritted out. "You don't need to—"
"Does that stupid scar of yours actually go all the way to the back of your head, Potter?" Malfoy seethed. "Or are you just completely blind even with those useless glasses?"
"Is your head so inflated it's completely full of air, Malfoy?" Harry snapped back. "That would explain a lot."
Malfoy threw his hands up, and Harry watched as he stormed towards the door. Never mind whatever he'd said about not sweeping stuff under the rug; it could all get nice and comfy under there. Set up a home, start a family, get a pension—
But Malfoy halted at the last second, facing his room door.
Leave, leave, leave, Harry chanted mentally; there must be a branch of magic to do with sheer force of will—
Malfoy whipped around, face hardened into a stony expression.
Not too late to still leave, not too late to still—
"I told you I'd tell you why I was here, if you checked up on Severus."
Oh no.
"Which you did," Malfoy continued, in that low, blank tone that was somehow creepier than the stupid staring.
"Malfoy, you really—"
"The Dark Lord wasn't pleased with my father's failure," Malfoy began lightly. "Of course, with my father unavaliable, he turned to my mother instead." Harry swallowed, squeezing his hands together until his knuckles whitened. "For two weeks, he would drag her out whenever he wished, and let his Death Eaters have their fun with her. Not too much fun, mind," Malfoy added, as Harry's eyes shot up. "But enough to the extent where I was forced to escape from my own home, and drag her to Hogwarts."
Harry closed his eyes. His head felt loud and crowded with memories— both recent and ones from the very beginning of the summer, which he had struggled to place back then. He'd scoured the Daily Prophet and the local Surrey newspaper for the first three weeks of the holiday (an extra week out of sheer desperation) wondering who it had been... well, it all made sense now.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, because that was all he had to offer.
But the glacial gleam in those pale eyes told him how fruitless that endeavour had been. It was odd how the urge to stick his feet out and waggle his mismatching socks at Malfoy was, if only to get the Slytherin to look at him with different eyes. Eyes that weren't cool and dull and fractured.
Eyes that didn't look like his.
The click of Malfoy's boots as he walked away felt like the ticks of a vice pressing harder and harder against his chest, compressing his ribcage, crushing his heart.
"Enjoy your fanmail, Potter. You've got one from your uncle there, by the way." With a frosty sneer, Malfoy left, leaving the door wide open.
Harry pressed the heel of his right palm against his throbbing cuts. Hard.
***
A/N: Mary Seacole was a mixed-race nurse, especially skilled in herbal and traditional medicines. She cared for British soldiers during the Crimean War (1853-1856).
I have returned from the dead! Or something like that anyway. Just... exams. Many, many exams. Whatever you do, I recommend you drop out of school ASAP.
I could use the 'post a message' thing on here to announce when a chapter's coming, if you'd like?
One of my brother's university professors is called... Professor Snape! You read right. Anyway, I'm now banned from his room for coincidentally bursting in on all his lectures.