"Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Dylan Thomas
~~~
⚠️STRONG MENTIONS OF SUICIDE + SELF-HARM⚠️
~~~
His mind was blank. Or perhaps too full of things— terrible things and beautiful things, memories like stained church glass and shards of beer bottles cutting away from within. Either way, they all found their way back into his cupboard, desperately stuffed away after being slowly, slowly eased out. Harry's head was emptier than it had been for a long time.
In the end, it had taken him half an hour to summon up the will to move. He'd buried himself in the darkness that had raised him, and let that heavy emptiness back into his heart. He'd learnt his lesson with hope again.
It had taken a Herculean effort to get himself to stand and move, blindly stumbling to his room, deaf to the murmurings of Snape's ancestors, before collapsing against the door. And by then, Harry had just wanted to curl up and not exist.
But life didn't work that way because life wasn't fair, especially to people with prophecies about living and dying and dooming the rest of the Wizarding World to the reign of a mad tyrant.
It was wonderfully cruel how bright the sun was shining through his window, radiating all that was good and golden in the world when it was a complete juxtaposition to how Harry felt inside: numb, dreary and cold. Not cold like ice, not that lethal sort of cold. Cold in the way absence felt, or like something had died. A part of him, perhaps.
Harry drew his knees up to his chest, rested his forehead against them and closed his eyes. If he counted enough sheep, perhaps he'd fall asleep.
One sheep...
Two sheep...
Three sheep...
Twenty-five sheep...
Twenty-six sheep...
Twenty-seven sheep...
A sudden pop sounded in his rooms, and Harry backed so far against the door he hit the back of his head. But it was only Minky, looking at him with big, bulbous eyes.
"Mister Master Harry Potter?" she said in a small voice.
He rubbed his head absently. "Minky?" The word came out flat and dead, with only a trace of question.
Minky nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. Mister Master Potions Master be calling Mister Master Harry Potter to be eating his late lunch."
Oh hell.
He let his head fall back to thud against the door. "I'm not hungry."
Minky shuffled her feet nervously. "Mister Master Potions Master—"
"Just tell him I'm not hungry."
Feeling the house-elf's gaze still on him, Harry moved his head to meet her stare. "Please."
Minky stuttered for some time, clearly torn between saying something or leaving. But finally she looked up, and in an impossibly smaller voice said, "Minky will tell Mister Master Potions Master."
And then she disappeared, with a pop that sounded like a pin drop.
Giving into exhaustion, Harry let himself tip sideways. He curled up and lay his head on the floor.
One sheep...
Two sheep...
Three sheep...
***
As Snape strode determinedly forwards, robes snapping behind him, only one thought circled his mind in the same fashion a hunting dog would its wounded prey.
He was going to have to apologise to Potter.
He, Severus Snape, was going to have to apologise. To Potter.
In no universe had he ever considered those words crossing his mind in association with each other, and yet it was true.
He was going to have to apologise to Potter.
Oh, how the mighty hath fallen.
More than ready to get it over and done with, Snape pushed the boy's room door, expecting it to fly open. Etiquette be damned, even he'd admit some things were better done with rash, Gryffindorian spontaneity.
Only there was a sound thud, wood against flesh and then a pained yelp.
"Potter!"
"I'm fine!" came the response, which sounded just as pain-induced as the yelp.
Muffled shuffling told him Potter was moving away from the door, and it was with a little more caution that Snape walked in. Harry was standing just a few steps by his bed, one hand rubbing his back.
"You are hurt," Snape said, starting forwards. "Let me see."
"I'm fine." Harry backed away slightly.
"Potter—"
"I'm fine," he repeated, the back of his legs now brushing against the bed.
Snape looked almost ready to pull him by his arm and look for himself, and considering Harry's back was a half-scarred, half-scabbed over mess, it wasn't an eventuality he wanted explored.
"Did you need something, sir?"
Did he— ah. He'd come to apologise and then he'd hit Potter with the door. Wasn't he doing well?
"You are sure you aren't hurt?" He stared Potter down with a critical eye, even after the boy gave a stubborn nod. "Very well then. Perhaps... I suggest you take a seat."
Potter sank slowly onto the bed, looking at Snape as though he'd gone mad. Most likely he had. The chair he'd conjured to it opposite the boy made him seem even more so.
If he got out of this sane enough, Snape was going to have a talk to Salazar later about inhaling too much varnish.
"I—" Snape paused for a moment, reconsidering. "First and foremost, I wish to apologise for my... misconduct," he said slowly, though the lack of drawling was noticeable. Harry thought the man looked quite overwhelmed, every word of his unusually hesitant.
"You don't need to—"
"No," interrupted Snape firmly. "I shall."
Harry had been about to say "you don't need to pretend to care," but Snape's response didn't quite fit. He made do with fidgeting with the coverlet instead, trying to fight the dull ringing in his head.
"You must understand my ire was not directed at you."
Harry raised a sceptical eyebrow.
"Not entirely directed at you," Snape corrected bitterly.
He ran a hand across his face; this was not how he'd expected the conversation to pan out. An apology and a command for Potter to come to his Occulemency lesson had been the plan. Only now... now he felt he owed the boy something. An explanation, some sort of verification. As if he didn't owe the Potters enough.
"You were not completely incorrect in your assumption that I do know your aunt— no, we did not date." he added, though ultimately it wasn't necessary. There was no sign of the expectant insolent glint in Potter's blank green eyes.
"I imagine you recall a certain memory of mine which you viewed under... unfavourable circumstances." Snape figured inviting the Dark Lord to sit on this conversation probably would've improved the atmosphere. "Your mother and I became shortly acquainted before our admittance into Hogwarts. And though I would not describe my encounters with Petunia Dursley as making her acquaintance, I did know her."
"How?"
Snape thought the boy sounded oddly flat considering the topic of conversation, but answered anyway. "We lived in the same neighbourhood. It wasn't uncommon for me to see them in passing, and easier still to see them of my own volition."
A bowed black head nodded slightly. "Were you friends? You and my mum?"
Were they friends?
Snape let his mind drift to the red-haired girl and her bizarre fascination with Dementors, her ardour for magic and fury against prejudice. The phantom of a child's hand wiping at a tear-stained cheek that had long since grown and dried. Jaded eyes now peering up at him behind a messy fringe and spectacles he should hate.
The best, he thought.
"It could be said as such," he ultimately said.
Harry nodded again, letting the information seep in through the grenade-like ringing in his skull. So Snape had met his mum and his aunt whilst they'd all been children and hadn't fallen in love with Petunia's charming personality. Then again, she didn't exactly have friends; Surrey's Strictly Societal Society was more of an 'I won't talk about you unless you do something remotely scandalous', in which case it was bombs away to the gossip mill.
Snape had liked his mum though. He'd hated his dad but liked his mum, only to go and call her a mudblood. That was confusing. Why hurt people you care about?
Why not write back to Ron? a voice in his head asked. And Hermione, Ginny, Luna and Neville? Why let Sirius fall through the Veil and leave Remus all alone? Why let Cedric die and leave Amos Diggory to mourn?
Well wasn't he quite the hypocrite?
"...Potter? Potter?"
Harry shook his head, the noise in his head crescendoing unbearably. Concern flashed briefly on Snape's face, and he wished he hadn't seen it at all.
"Thanks for telling me, sir."
If Snape had any less composure, he would've flinched at the cold response. He'd expected accusations, broaching this topic, letting loose something he'd vowed the boy would never find out about. The emotionless lack of interest however, was disturbing.
"You have no other questions?" Snape tried. Not that he particularly wanted the boy to start asking him more.
Harry shook his head. "None, sir."
Harry's back throbbed a bit, the beginnings of a bruise knocking against his skin. The door had hit him harder than he'd care to admit, yet there was no way in hell he was telling Snape. Not that he'd started trusting the man, but whatever mutual relationship they'd developed seemed very much a lie. Like many things.
Yeah, Snape had apologised for his 'misconduct' (if that's what they were going to call it). But it had just been ingrained in everyone really, that an 'I'm sorry' could fix everything and put the world to rights again. Only Harry had tried that with Sirius and Cedric, and they were both still dead.
Aunt Petunia liked to apologise too, only more in the way of a glass of water and some paracetmol. So what was the difference between Aunt Petunia bribing him with stuff to take the pain away and Snape apologising and telling him about his mum, if it all could and most likely would just happen again anyway?
Was Snape even different from his aunt? Maybe. Maybe Snape did care, or at least wasn't so apathetic as he used to be, or as Aunt Petunia was. But then to think like that would be like hoping, and... no. No. He wouldn't be able to take it if he lost something else.
"Very well," Snape said suddenly, standing from his chair with fluid grace. Harry glanced up to find Snape ever so predictably staring down at him. "But you have not yet had your lunch."
"I'm fine."
"Nevertheless," and a tray plopped down just beside him, "you ought to eat something."
"I'm not hungry," he mumbled at his feet. His big toe was sticking out of a sock.
"So I've been told," Snape said, some familiar dryness creeping into his tone.
Though instead of vanishing the tray, like Harry had expected, the man just walked away and left. The door shut with a quiet click.
He looked over finally, as his nose twitched and caught onto a familiar smell.
Sitting on the tray were two chicken and ham sandwiches, a treacle tart, and a cup of cocoa. All his favourites.
The screaming in Harry's head was torture.
***
—"It opened right in my hands, Aunt Petunia, it did!" Harry exclaimed proudly; the flower was knocked out of his hands, the rose thorns clawing at his heart..."Heaven help us," a whisper said, choking on lost hope and blood; red eyes reflected in a crimson pool flashed with amusement... A girl with hair shining brighter than the summer sun stood before Harry; "I'm cold too," Daisy Williams said, tugging the daisy chain around her neck with a sad smile—
Snape was already frowning as he reluctantly pulled out, watching the boy before him cradle his head in his hands. There were many aspects of Potter that he'd always considered disturbing; his memories were one. But now it was simply everything. Particuarly that memory with the flower, and Tuney... there was something sour-tasting in his mouth, much like guilt.
"Potter, you aren't even trying."
Though the scolding was pretty Snape-light, Harry still hung his head. "Sorry."
"Do not be sorry, Potter. Simply do."
Harry nodded blankly. Snape let out a tired sigh, before simply saying, "Again. I will grant you a moment to prepare yourself."
Harry almost went and told Snape that he might as well get it over and done with. There was just no point.
"Remember you must feel." He glanced up, surprised; Snape had never done this, never spoken up to help. The man continued looking at him and talking however, as though this wasn't completely out of character. "Gather an emotion, one so sunny and sanguine it consumes you. Feel it so intensely, and then use it to force away my presence."
And that's the problem, Harry reflected bitterly. Feeling. And feeling happy was even harder.
"You have had reported success before, both against the Dark Lord himself and the Imperius Curse." For a moment, Harry thought there was a touch of respect in his voice. "It is simply an application of the same principle."
Well, unless you want to get Voldemort to kill someone in front of me for every Occulemency lesson...
The first time he'd sucessfully fought off the Imperius in Fake Moody's lesson had been more because he'd been so happy and relaxed he'd known something was wrong. He had spent that entire year on edge as the school's social pariah; it had been nothing more than luck, really.
The second time, in the graveyard... well, if he'd given into Voldemort he never would have lived. He couldn't have let Voldemort win, not after Cedric had been killed in cold blood only moments before. And he'd needed to take Cedric's body back to his parents. He would've done so even if Cedric hadn't asked.
Voldemort being in his head in the Ministry...he'd just wanted to die. That was the essence of it. That was what he'd desired as he'd watched Sirius fall, that was what he'd screamed at Dumbledore in his office, that was the thought that had consumed him, with Voldemort using his mouth like a puppeter. After all, one had to feel a lot for a person to want to die for them.
Sirius suddenly flashed so clearly in his mind's eye that Harry felt his heart physically ache. And this was why he couldn't.
If he'd looked up, he would've noticed Snape watching that one emotion briefly filter across his face. An idea had come to him, one that would most certainly fuel the rumours of his lack of heart. But needs must.
"Be ready now," Snape said, and fancied that perhaps Potter could pick up on the note of apology in his voice.
Harry simply sat up and braced himself.
"Legilimens." Snape had broken through after only a short and pitiful struggle. Only this time, something felt different. Snape's presence in his mind tended to sit back, occasionally dart about as the memories came forth. But this time... it was like Snape was burrowing into his mind, searching for something.
"YOU JUST TRY RUNNING, FREAK!" Vernon Dursley roared, belt in hand—
"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"—
The memories were passing him by before they could even finish, and being replaced with one much worse than the last.
Harry ran, flinging himself to roll behind the marble headstone of Tom Riddle Senior—
A shaggy black dog curling up by the foot of his bed in the hospital wing; the warm weight comforting—
Sirius—
Before Harry could realise his mistake, a whole new wave of memories came forth to drown him, an unstoppable flood of long-held pain and loss and grief.
"You're not a bad person," and Sirius' hands were on Harry's shoulders, firming his belief and his words. "You're a very good person, who bad things have happened to."
"Nice one, James!" Harry flashed a grin in response to a proud smile; he ducked to avoid a spell, stomach churning—
"Harry, take the prophecy, grab Neville, and run!" Sirius yelled; there was a faintly foreboding feeling that something terrible would happen—
"SIRIUS!" Harry screamed, hoping beyond hope; Sirius would come back, Sirius would always come back...he'd promised family—
"This is why you're not in the Order—you don't understand—there are things worth dying for!"; Harry wondered how to say he wanted someone to live for him instead—
He was going to live with my godfather, he was leaving the Dursleys; the Dementors were closing in and Harry thought of family—
Hatred rose like a red-eyed serpent within him; "CRUCIO!" and Harry prayed Bellatrix Lestrange would hurt even just a fraction of how much he was—
"We've all got light and dark inside of us," and Harry listened earnestly."What matter is the part we choose to act on."; he bowed his head, but Sirius was there, always there. "That's who we really are."
Sirius' bark of laughter had turned to the whispers of a ghost. Sirius hugging him had burned into the ashes of a funeral pyre. Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, and the memories of him had sprung to life, before disappearing right before Harry's eyes, just like Sirius himself had.
At some point, the world returned to him, cold and harsh and acutely real. Harry found himself on his knees, forehead pressed against the floor as his scar smarted terribly. He was screaming himself hoarse— desperate and raw and pleading—screaming for Sirius who would never come, could never come. Sirius was dead, and Harry very much wanted to be dead too.
With a start, he shot up, planning on backing away out of the room because he couldn't be here, he simply couldn't be here.
"Potter—"
But Harry didn't wait to hear it. He sped towards the door, only the lock clicked shut just as he reached for the door handle. Snape was standing behind him, wand outstretched.
"Let me out." His words shook with an apprehensive tremor. His vision whitened about the edges as his scar began to twinge sharply.
"No."
"Let me OUT!" Harry yelled again, voice cracking.
"No." Snape said determinedly, He barely registered how pale the man was as he spoke of discussing this further but Harry didn't want to talk—
"LET—ME—OUT!" he bellowed, and surely he was mad with renewed grief; it was as though Sirius had died all over again. He was pulling and rattling the door now, kicking at it as he screamed over and over, "LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME—"
The door suddenly exploded. A bang like a bomb echoed all about them, and Harry's yells gave pause as dust fell like charred snow. But all he cared about now was the wide gaping hole for his escape.
And he ran.
He ran and he ran and he ran, almost blindly, never mind that Snape had called "Potter!" in a tone that sounded almost worried—he didn't care. His heart was blazing and his blood was boiling and he was feeling— so viciously, so intensely that it was painful, and there was nothing more he wanted than to outrun the feeling that he was burning from within.
The room to his chambers flew open and Harry collapsed to his knees, hands over his ears and pressing on his scar, tears and blood running down his face as he begged with the universe to let it end.
You're empty, you're nothing, you are emptyemptyempty—please you're empty, he tried pleading with himself but he wasn't, he simply wasn't. He was on the brink of madness, he rode the edge of hysteria— he was a vicious, wounded thing and he was hurting.
Oh, but that wasn't entirely it, was it? He was alive— that was the problem. He was alive and hurting and able to hurt and he'd had enough, he'd lost and seen and felt enough.
Wildly, he lunged towards his pillow, throwing it aside and grabbing Sirius' mirror, the sharp edge cutting into his palm—
"Expelliarmus!"
"NO!" The broken mirror flew out of his hand, and Harry squezed his eyes shut as it clattered to the floor. He felt his heart break into a thousand shards of glass. "SIRIUS! SIRIUS!"
"Potter, that isn't—Black is dead!"
Harry was beyond rationality—he could barely breathe, and tears blurred his vision and rolled down his cheeks and he had one wish, so fervent and strong he could only voice it in a scream. "THEN—LET—ME—DIE—TOO!" he bellowed, and could barely see Snape whiten like death. "I DON'T—I WANT THIS TO END, I'VE HAD ENOUGH! LET IT END! LET ME DIE! WHY WON'T YOU—"
"What in Salaz—Potter?!"
"Draco, leave!"
He had only a moment to glance up, breath coming in searing gasps. Malfoy was staring at him white-faced, Snape had his hands out placatingly. And then his vision turned entirely white as the world erupted into pain.
Harry gave a high, guttural scream—one so loud he felt as though there was a great big tear splitting his throat apart, travelling down and down to shatter his ribcage and slash his heart into two. He barely noticed the sudden cry of "POTTER!" from Snape, nor the Potions Master's hands trying to calm his writhing.
Harry was burning. Every single cell was on fire, scorching and dying in the fervent blaze of Voldemort's joy. Pure, pure ecstasy—finally, finally—Harry had done something; Voldemort was happy about something Harry had done—such ignorance, to think death is nothing—
"Potter! POTTER! Oh, damn it all—HARRY!"
Snape's voice shot through the blinding white-hot pain like a beacon of familiar darkness. Harry gulped in air, gulped in the stale potion scent and the hands gripping his arms so tight they would surely bruise.
"Happy—he's happy—" he just managed to gasp out—those Muggles had fallen like flies, just as Harry Potter would to love and death— another strangled cry escaped him. He didn't know it was possible to hurt more than he had been.
"Potter, force him out," Snape said, a great amount of urgency in his tone. "Feel—Harry, you must feel!"
Harry barely registered that Snape had called him by his name again; a low moan escaped him as he drowned in despair and pain. It would hurt and he'd hurt enough—couldn't Snape see that? If he died, if Voldemort killed him, this would all be over. He could be with Sirius again.
"H—Hurts," he cried in a whisper.
"You must feel. Th—"
He jerked a little as the pain intensified—bow to weakness, Harry, bow to death as Lord Voldemort never shall— manical laughter rang in his head and Harry choked out a sob at the thought of just giving up... how wonderfully easy it would be... his mother and father and godfather, as it should be, together again. They would hug him and love him as he'd always dreamed they would... they could be a family, in a life beyond this one. No war, no prophecy, no Voldemort—
No Ron. No Hermione.
A screech of outrage somewhere sent a bolt of pain right through him, but Harry held to the thought that felt like soft, knitted yarn.
They were his best friends. His family, really—he could chose his family and the Dursleys most certainly weren't it.
And suddenly Ron was there, clear as day in his mind's eye, awkwardly letting one of Hagrid's rock cakes thunk onto his plate, which split in half. Hermione too, biting her lip as though to withhold a laugh. Ron's face was already turning as red as his hair with caged laughter, and somewhere, Harry could feel the aching sides of his own joy.
Something deep within his chest warmed at the memory, and Voldemort's mad laughter was turning to shrieks of muffled rage, the feeling of boiling oil in Harry's veins and crushing weight on his chest. For the first time since Voldemort's attack, he could breathe.
Harry plunged deeper and deeper within himself— he wasn't half sure what he was doing— he only wanted to outrun the pain and the feeling that every single cell within him was set to spontaneously combust with how much he was hurting.
Memories, wonderful memories of those he loved hurtled out of his cupboard and sprang forth. There was Ron and Hermione again, and Ginny too... the rest of the Weasleys, who treated him as their own... Harry could feel Voldemort weakening... Sirius—
His heart lurched oddly as his godfather's once handsome face came to him... his familiar bark of laughter... the way hugging him felt like belonging... Merlin, how Harry missed him. Agony struck again like a vicious viper—yield to death, your greatest desire, your truest weakness— Harry could feel a groan grate against his sore throat. Only he could hear too... he could hear Snape, speaking in a way Harry had never heard him speak before.
"... what of Gryffindor over-sentimentality... come on, Potter..." and it was said quietly, urgently and intensely. Firm hands shook him just a little gentler, careful not to hurt. There was something in that voice that was usually sardonic and sneering; it was like caring but sadder—concern, that was it. Harry kind of liked it, because it meant maybe he mattered enough for someone to worry about him. Even to Snape, of all people.
The realisation came over him in a rush of warmth— absently, he noted it had Voldemort shrieking, almost retreating— Snape actually cared about him, to some degree. Snape was here, just as he had been before— after the nightmare, after he'd collapsed on the library floor, after the vision of the orphanage...
And Sirius wasn't. Snape was here and Sirius wasn't, and though Sirius had always loved him— just as Harry would—he was gone, and no matter how loud he screamed or how much he stopped feeling, Sirius would not come back.
The throbbing in his scar was wavering; peaking and waning all at once as Voldemort still tried to force his way through with the last vestiges of his anger— YIELD— and Harry couldn't let him win. He'd won last time against Voldemort because he'd simply loved the dead too much, wanted to die more than live. Now that was being used against him; Voldemort was telling him to yield and to die because he thought he could count on Harry to do that. Because Harry had wanted to do so enough last time.
It was easy to love the dead, to wallow in grieve and mourn for 'could-have-been's. But it was harder, and yet infinitely more important, to treasure what he had, and the 'can-be's that came with it.
It was easy to die, and harder to live—truly live beyond surviving—but that was what Harry needed to do.
The lonely little cupboard in his head stood before him in the darkness, locked and bolted, fit for a lonely little boy.
Which he no longer was.
With that in mind, Harry gathered every last fibre of strength and will and love he had in his head and heart, and let the cupboard door creak open.
It was as though the world had exploded all over again, only to be consumed instantly by a whirlpool that was the very essence of him. Memories rushed past in a way that almost overwhelmed Harry completely—somewhere he could feel himself bucking and writhing, Snape shouting— Harry pushed blindly forwards with all his might, stirring up such an intensity of emotion, pouring every ounce of love he had in him he could feel choking sobs wracking his body, tears pouring out of his eyes as though they'd never stop.
Much like his love for his friends—boundless—the DA, united against Voldemort and Umbridge ...the Weasleys as his pseudo-family, coming for him during the tournament... Moony and Padfoot and Prongs, with him whenever he was up to no good... Snape, with him now, soothing his injuries with potions, holding him up and helping him walk...
He was winning. Harry could feel he was winning—hell, he was feeling now—and he pushed and pushed and felt for all those he had and would always love, for those he would live for, who were keeping him living, until Voldemort gave one last ungodly shriek, and tore from his mind in horror and rage and confusion.
He'd done it. He was free, and he was feeling.
Harry would've laughed for all the world to hear, but everything about him crumbled suddenly, and instead he fell back into a sweet, sweet darkness.
***
Potter's flailing stopped so suddenly that for an irrational moment Snape feared the worst. But then there was a heartbeat against his ear, pounding and racing and roaring with life, telling him Harry was anything but dead.
"Alive," Snape whispered quietly to the silence, the boy's heartbeat now thrumming against his fingertips. Then he turned his attention to everything else.
The boy was practically bathed in sweat. The only colour on his pale face was from the bruise-like shadows under his eyes, the sweat-mingled blood from a small cut on his cheek (most likely from an errant wood splinter), and the pinkish-red scar, brightly inflamed. His left palm would need treatment; half-dried blood covered a cut that Snape suspected went at least from the underside of his pinkie finger to the heal of his palm by his thumb.
There was a pang of regret somewhere, that he'd been responsible for that with the force of his spell, but there was no use fretting over what was already done.
A basic diagnostic charm would be best, he decided, wandlessly summoning his wand from the floor, one hand still on Harry's chest. A quick levitation charm moved the boy into a more dignified (albeit disturbingly corpse-like) position on his bed. Only there were greater matters at hand here, and Potter's heart was beating steadily against his palm.
Following a wave of his wand, a piece of parchment promptly popped into existence. As a silvery-gold light seemed to run right through the boy, scanning him in a sense, the parchment grew longer and longer.
HARRY JAMES POTTER (16yrs 1mth)
Medical Overview- Magical:
Mild magical exhaustion// recovering (CAUSE: exertion of magical core)
Low-grade fever // stabilising (CAUSE: exertion of magical core; physical exertion)
Medical Overview- Physical:
Mild inflammation to temple curse scar // inflamed (CAUSE: dark magic)
Superficial laceration to right cheek // clotting (CAUSE: N/A)
Superficial incised wound to left palm // clotting (CAUSE: N/A)
Indeterminable number of incised wounds on left forearm // microbial proliferation // healing (CAUSE: N/A)
What?
The list only continued.
Indeterminable number of contusions // healing (CAUSE: trauma)
Several lacerations on back // treatment given // half-healed (CAUSE: N/A)...
"Finite," he snapped. The parchment stopped recording mid-scrawl—there are more?— before dropping into his hands. And the list was already long. Too long, considering Snape hadn't been aware of any injuries beyond the first three. Though there was a simple way to determine the truth.
Carefully, as though almost afraid to wake the boy—not that that was a risk in light of his magical exhaustion— Snape rolled the boy's left sleeve up. And there they were, the—how had the charm so crudely put it? Ah, the "indeterminable number of incised wounds". Perhaps that was one way to describe the mass of scars and scabs, layered upon the boy's skin thicker than armour. How the arm seemed to have been almost attacked, glimpses of a more methodical approach buried under viciousness borne from what Snape knew well to be self-hatred and disgust and pain—pain so great adding to it seemed the only way out, the only way to express it.
He'd wondered, of course, why the boy had insisted on long sleeves during summer. But then the manor did have temperature charms, and it wasn't as though neither he nor Draco had been gallivanting about in common summer-style clothes. He'd simply assumed, that was what he'd done. Assumed many things, assumed Potter was fine and perfectly healthy and truthful and always had a bedraggled look about him.
Some of the reported contusions made an appearence as well, in sickly yellow-green tones, and— Snape's eyes widened as he snatched up the boy's hand.
Faint white scars flashed at him suddenly from the boy's hand. Puzzlement turned to homicidal horror as he read the words: 'I must not tell lies,' in the messy penmanship of the Muggle-raised wizard before him.
Umbridge. That loathsome, banshee-like, falsetto-voice hag—Snape was more than ready to dangle cats before the Ministry to lure one disgustingly pink hairball out, and see just how many curses he'd accumulated over his ongoing Death Eater days.
There had been rumours of something amongst the students, but the same offenders tended to describe extracting Flobberworm puss as some torturous activity. It had been easier for him, dismissing the hearsay, considering he'd heard so little of it from his own house.
But a Blood Quill... that was medieval. Quite literally tip-toeing the border to Dark Magic, and that was only because the Ministry sanctioned the use of them rarely, but often enough to not be entirely Dark.
Snape stared down at the still body before him. The boy was only sixteen. A child, still. And yet he had suffered all this.
After a moment's hesitation, Snape waved his wand in the complex movement of a more in-depth diagnostic charm.
The golden light seemed to sink into the boy, seeping through his skin to trace the history only his skin and bones knew. A parchment appeared and gradually grew and grew, telling a story that could not be pinned to an accidentally-prone nature, from the smallest cut from a penknife to the hairline fracture on his right arm at age 9, and the concerningly high number of bruised ribs.
Snape stood and read, long after the scroll had dropped into his waiting hands.
"Minky," he finally said quietly, and his house-elf popped in just so. Snape flicked his wand, and soon there was the sound of a quill scratching on parchment. "You will tell Draco, who is no doubt awake, that Potter is well and resting, and that you have my permission to cast a Morpheus charm on him should he not go to sleep immediately. Then—" he snatched the written-on scrap of parchment from where it had started hovering before him— "obtain these potions from my stores, if you will."
"Yes, Mister Master Potions Master!" she whispered in a squeak, before popping away. She would return soon, no doubt about that. But until then...
Letting a hand skim gently over the atrocious black fringe, Snape conjured a chair and sat, ready to keep vigil over the steady rise and fall of Harry's chest until Minky returned, and then into the night.
***
A/N: That's one of the biggest chapters out of the way! Not in terms of size, but more drama. I'll give no spoilers, but the drama doesn't end here.
I've flipped a little between the films and the books, but it's nothing overly dramatic.
If there's anything confusing in this chapter, most likely it'll be cleared up in the next one. Especially the reason why Voldemort attacked, though I'm hoping I've made that at least a little clear.
'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' is probably one of the most beautiful poems in existence, by Dylan Thomas.