"You were merely wishing for the end of pain...your own pain. An end to how it isolated you. It is the most human wish of all."
Patrick Ness
~~~
⚠️DISCUSSIONS OF ABUSE + SELF HARM⚠️
~~~
Distantly, Harry snuggled further into the feeling of comfort surrounding him. He could feel something warm and solid, settled on his shoulder, and everything was okay.
He was barely aware of himself dozing back to sleep.
***
Harry sat by a lake, opposite a girl cradling a half-done daisy chain.
"Let me sleep now," she said, voice wavering as the lake rippled sadly.
His heart was beating in his mouth, and the daisies meant something terrible.
A wave of pain brought him to the very edge of consciousness. Air scraped his lungs like shrapnel. Lilac and stale potions hovered in the air in a phantom-like fashion, and he felt so very alone.
Suddenly distressed, Harry made a little whimpering sound.
He heard footsteps approach, and a whispering presence by his side.
"Sleep," a voice said, low and soft, hushing him quietly.
One of his legs spasmed. The hushing came again.
"...perfectly safe. Go back to sleep..."
A hand stroked the hair back from his forehead before staying there, cool and comforting. That was good then. He still had someone left. He wasn't alone.
The darkness closed in with soft, lapping waves again, and Harry slept.
***
"...send that flaming bird again, Albus, and I'll have Minky turn Fawkes to a roast..."
Snatches of an irritated voice filtered through to his consciousness, drifting in and out of reach. Like the whispers from the Veil, the funny little ghosts, though he had enough haunting him, didn't he? Or maybe Sirius was a ghost now, but the voice didn't sound much like Sirius. And there were no ghosts here... here, where was here? Privet Drive, perhaps, but then Uncle Vernon only ever shouted at him for causing trouble. He never meant to but... ah, he must've been screaming again.
"'M sorry," Harry mumbled, as much as he could with his tongue feeling so thick and useless. His lids felt gummy and sticky; he'd managed to squint them open at least. Harry tried pushing the coverlet away, only his arms and legs felt useless— had his bones been vanished again?
"Potter?"
A hand pushed him back into the duvet, not that he'd been making much progress out of it.
"'M sorry," he repeated. "Didn' mean t' scream. Please don'—"
"You have not been screaming," the voice said, soft and almost reassuring. The owner of it, he could see, resembled a dark blob. "How do you feel?"
Harry blinked owlishly and met a pair of frowning black ones. Snape, he realised— that's who was with him now, whose hand was still lightly on his chest, as though to keep him there.
Though why he asking how Harry felt? His tongue felt weird— how was he meant to tell Snape that when it wouldn't work?
"Bleurgh," Harry decided on vocalising, as intelligently as possible. He tried waggling his tongue for emphasis.
Damn. That wasn't working either.
"Good Merlin," Snape reached over and gently prodding his mouth shut.
Harry huffed; the man just wasn't getting it.
He was more than prepared to stick his tongue out again and again until Snape understood, when long fingers began carding through his hair, and a cool hand settled on his brow. Harry closed his eyes, utterly distracted.
"Mild fever," Snape commented, hand remaining on his forehead. Harry sank deeper into his pillow, wallowing in the feel of it. It felt nice.
"A fever?" he mumbled, mind sill trying to catch up with it all before his eyes shot open in horror. "'M not allowed to get sick," Harry pled, looking despairingly at Snape. "Don' lemme get sick. They won' like it, they won'—"
"You will be fine. I promise you," and this time Snape sounded so sure and certain and Harry kind of liked that because Snape was rarely wrong about anything. Snape always knew when he'd caused trouble, though he didn't like being so troublesome. It just... happened.
"I don' mean to be trouble, " he whispered, suddenly feeling emotional and drained all at once. "But I don' wanna sign fan mail in blood n' turn Umbridge into a toad again." Not wanting to do Transfigimination —or Transmigrification, or Trans-something —sounded awfully lazy of him, so he added, "She's a really ugly toad."
There was an odd, funny sort of snort like choked laughter.
"'S true," Harry insisted. "I can't lie too— look at my hand n' my pants aren't on fire." Just to double check, he tried to sit up and look.
"Your undergarments are...perfectly fine," Snape assured him, pushing him down. He sounded like he was having trouble speaking. "And you will not have to endure the sight of Dolores Umbridge as any such amphibian." He reached for one of Harry's hands and brushed the back of it. "If it were up to myself... you would not shed another drop of blood in your lifetime. You have lost far too much already."
"Lost? 'M not lost. I'm right here."
He patted the mattress contently. Snape shook his head at him, looking... not amused, exactly— bemused, perhaps? It was a funny expression all the same, and Harry burst into giggles.
There was a definite twitch of Snape's lips there, and Harry smiled happily, sinking into the bed as though it was a fluffy little marshmallow cloud. Marshmallows sounded really good right now but Harry was so sleepy... his blinks were getting longer and longer and longer...
At some point, he just closed his eyes, breathing in potions and lilac and safety. He could have marshmallows later.
"Are you still awake?"
The voice was low and pleasant, weaving itself perfectly into the soft sleepiness washing over him.
"...huh?" he slurred drowsily, and could've sworn he'd heard a muffled chuckle.
With a soft sigh, Harry slipped under a wave of exhaustion a final time.
***
Daylight played on the cobblestone walls of the manor, light reflecting off the lake and dancing on the grey stone. A snowy white owl soared above verdant grounds lazily, before suddenly tucking her wings close to her body and swooping downwards, wings opening and talons stretching forwards at the last minute.
All this Severus Snape could see as he stood by a small window with scraps of doodled-on parchment stuck surrounding it. He clutched a long scroll of parchment himself, only full with uniform lettering, and crumpled in a way that meant it had been looked at many times before. Despite his seeming inattentiveness, he was very much aware of the boy sleeping in the bed behind him.
Harry woke up slowly, squinting at a fuzzy shape by the window as he forced himself on his elbows. Oddly, it looked a bit like—
"Pr'fessor?" Harry tried to say, horrified. With how thick and useless his tongue felt however, it came out more like a long 'pfft'.
The figure turned and yes— it definitely was Snape, feature becoming more defined as he approached.
Harry made to sit up fully, only for black spots to burst and speckle his vision, and the world to turn as he pitched sideways. Snape swooped in just in time and caught him, laying him back onto his pillow, now magically propped up at an angle.
"Foolish child," the man muttered, summoning a cup of water and Harry's spectacles, and pushing them both towards him.
"Thanks." Harry quaffed down the water lest he put his foot in his mouth and embarrass himself further.
Snape vanished the glass away once he'd finished. Seated in a chair, he waved his wand at Harry. A piece of parchment and quill popped into the air.
"I trust you feel well?"
"Yes, sir." His eyes slid from the quill to out the window. It didn't look much like morning. "How long have I been asleep?"
"A day and a half," Snape answered, parchment now in hand.
Harry gaped in wonder. "A day and—bloody hell."
"Language," the professor reprimanded, none too sharply.
That's entirely Ron's fault.
"But why have I been sleeping for so long? I didn't need this much rest the last time Vol— oh. Oh."
Everything that had happened hit Harry like a great big slap in the face.
Voldemort had gotten into his head again. Voldemort had ripped through his mind, weaponized his grief, and good Merlin he'd blown up Snape's door.
And he'd destroyed the cupboard.
Harry drew into himself slightly. The cupboard hadn't been a good thing; he knew that now. But it had helped, just being able to shut it all away, even if drifting through his days so emotionlessly had felt like being trapped in his own personal limbo.
Now he was going to have to deal with feelings. All of them.
But now you've got a reason to live, a part of him reasoned. A reason for living beyond the dead.
Well, that was true, wasn't it? It hadn't just been his grief he'd locked up in the cupboard. It had been his joy as well.
"Indeed." Harry did his best not to look at Snape. "You were on the brink of a dangerous fever for some time to the point of delirium. Though it is bizarre what you come up with when not in your right mind, Mr Potter." Snape's lips were curved into a heavy smirk.
"Oh no," he groaned, not in the least amused. "What did I say?"
"Well," the professor drew out, "it was quite enlightening. Your Transfiguration curriculum may require a review, though perhaps not so urgently. And in a time of crisis, you are most desperate to check the state of your undergarments."
"You've got to be kidding." Harry could feel himself going red in the face. Then another thought occurred to him, one that sent little trickles of panic up and down his spine. "I...didn't say anything weird apart from that, did I?"
Snape eyed him crudely. "It was largely nonsensical. Your mind was and still is in a delicate state—rest assured, you will be spending more than today resting."
"Wait, what?" He pushed himself back up, blinking away the dizziness. "No—I feel fine now, and I've been sleeping for over a day! And what about training, isn't that what I'm here for?"
"Lie back now," the man ordered. "Your training for the moment is postponed. It is not only trauma of a psychological nature that you are recovering from."
There was something about the way Snape said that that made dread start to creep in.
"What do you mean?"
And now there was a look, and Harry felt even more uneasy. Panic mingled with the dread, growing and growing.
"There are one of two ways we may do this, Mr Potter." Snape paused, tone heavier when he spoke again. "Though they do both require that you talk to me. Honestly."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his lips together and adamantly shook his head. This couldn't be happening. There was a chance, a very small, stupid little chance that Snape was just probing or guessing and didn't entirely know what he was talking about—
"Harry."
Any chance of Snape not knowing promptly crumbled to dust.
He'd called Harry 'Harry' before, of course, but never like this. Never with complete awareness of the word from both of them.
"Please don't," he whispered.
Snape's chair scrapped forwards, and strong fingers gripped his hands, trying to pry his fingers apart. Harry hadn't even realised he'd been clenching his hands into fists.
"You must. Or I shall."
He bowed his head, screwing his face up into an unmistakeable grimace. With the way his mind was racing, Harry knew he wouldn't be able to find a way out of this. And he'd managed to hide it for so long and now Snape was going to find out just how freakish he was, find a reason for hating him beyond being James Potter's son.
But what if he doesn't find you freakish? a voice in his head wondered. He hasn't so far, with however much he knows.
Looking at his lap, he murmured, "Alright. Where do we start?"
A longer, more crumpled piece of parchment whizzed into Snape's waiting hand, and Harry felt his stomach fall through.
***
Snape paused for a moment, taking in the boy's taut frame, disquiet tension in the hunched shoulders and restless fingers, before setting the parchment aside. He had everything memorised, in any case.
"The day I came to collect you, I wondered then as to many things." Snape's voice had lowered to a murmur, with impossibly more depth than anything else he'd said today. "You were supposed to be arrogant. You were supposed to be spoilt under the care of your relatives, lazy having thrived off privilege. I found instead, bar from your physical presence, you do not exist in your relative's home."
He halted for a moment as the boy winced, before adding, "I found a boy with a black eye who did not complain about it or any other injuries...perhaps because he is so used to doing so."
Harry pressed his lips together, and the silence dragged on long enough for him to know Snape was waiting for some sort of answer.
"I don't—what do you want me to say?" he tried weakly. "They don't like me and that's just how it is."
"And that gives them the right to abuse you?"
Harry jerked back so hard he hit the headboard, and gaped at Snape.
"I'm not abused."
Harry and Snape half-stared, half-glared at each other, the air between them increasing a mile.
"What happened when the flower opened in your hands?" Snape bit out, with a small degree of calm.
Harry's stomach churned. "What?"
Snape leaned forwards, dark hair falling around his face. "I have told you how I knew your mother and your aunt. Indeed, it was I that told her she had magic first. She was rather offended I'd called her a witch."
As much as he didn't trust the sudden turn in conversation, Harry couldn't help but huff out a laugh and ask (before he could remember how bad questions were), "How did you know? That she was a witch?"
"There was a small park between our homes, with nothing beyond some swings. Lily—" Snape cleared his throat and continued, "—her capacity for magical talent was astounding, even before Hogwarts. I had never seen anything like it. I highly doubt I shall again, and...and I am glad for that. It would be unjust, for anyone to have magic such as hers, to use it with such inexplicable proficiency as she did."
His eyes were fixed blindly at a point just above Harry's head, hazy and lost in the midst of a distant memory. "She would leap from the swings as high as they could go, then linger in the air for far too long." The professor hissed out a breath, then met his eyes.
"And she could make flowers bloom when held in her hands."
All the air was sucked out of Harry's lungs.
He shared something with his mother. Something magical. Something other than green eyes and blood wards and the memory of her death.
I'm like her. And she's like me.
"My aunt hates when I do magic like that," he admitted, mumbling.
"Petunia..." and now Snape's voice wasn't as softly reminiscent as it had been. "Petunia always was a spiteful thing.
"She was jealous of your mother, and her powers... her entirely, to be truthful. Rightly so, Lily was—" Snape broke off, forcing a blankness on his face. "She grew to hate Lily, no matter how much your mother tried to reconcile their relationship. It never was the same after Lily started at Hogwarts."
Harry did his best not to betray the bitter disappointment souring his tongue. His aunt had never been fond of him, he'd always known that. But he had wondered—hell, hoped—equally as much that there could be something. They were supposed to have some sort of love for each other, as family, weren't they?
But now he knew that all that time, there had been no chance for love at all.
"It was clear she would grow to be vile," and Snape's gaze shifted to Harry entirely, searching his face. "Though I had never imagined her becoming so vengeful. To hate you for Lily."
"You did with my dad," Harry blurted out.
Snape drew back, holding himself so stiffly he looked injured.
Damn it.
"Professor, I—"
"Do not apologise," he interrupted, hand held up. "You are not wrong in saying that."
Pausing for a moment, Snape pondered on just how to say it, to try and excuse five years of misconceptions and blind remarks.
"Family ties," he began, voice slow and deliberate and sombre, "especially in the Wizarding World, are unavoidable. With the resemblance you hold to your father, it is even more so. Despite that, my cruelty towards you was undue. And for that, I apologise."
Harry stared back, stunned, breath caught in his throat. Snape took his chance to drive one focal point home.
"But it does not make what they have done to you right."
When he could manage it, Harry swallowed hard and met Snape's eyes. The man's face was carefully guarded, but the fact that there wasn't any sign of a sneer or strange look shifted something within him.
"I tried telling once," he said, simply putting it out there. "They believed my aunt over me."
So what makes you any different?
Though the words were unsaid, Snape had clearly picked up on them, replying, "There is no danger of that here."
The professor's gaze was as firm and reassuring as the hand on his knee— simply there, simply waiting without impatience— and Harry was hit suddenly with an overwhelming feeling of tiredness. Maybe he really did need more time to recover or maybe it was just the topic of conversation but he was so damn tired of hiding and lying and hurting.
And Snape was there and ready to listen.
"I get in the way of their idea of a normal life, I think," Harry began, trying and failing at not wringing his fingers in a mad fashion. "You know they hate magic...I didn't really attract much sympathy from anyone else either, when I was younger. The Dursleys made sure I knew what I was..." he faltered, biting his tongue to not let the word 'freak' slip past. "They made sure I knew I was all they had, and exactly what they thought of me. I mean, it wasn't always so bad—"
Snape's eyes flashed dangerously.
"It wasn't," Harry rushed to insist. "I'm not trying to make excuses—they just never...well, it was easier to starve me and lock me away, and it wasn't so hard to deal with because I didn't know any different."
"What happened to change that?"
Harry flushed, eyes darting downwards. "I turned my teacher's hair blue," he admitted, a shameful undertone to his words. "She'd—I knew I'd done it but I didn't know how and I hadn't meant to, but then Dudley went to Aunt Petunia and told her all about it and he sounded so happy..."
He trailed off, which perhaps was more indicative of the aftermath than anything.
And yet Snape still prodded, "Tell me what happened."
Looking up at the professor through his fringe, Harry took a breath that felt quite constricted. He'd never opened up this much about it, not even to Ron and Hermione. To do so with Snape...
To do it with someone who's promised to be there, his mind chipped in. To someone that would protect you, has protected you, and can actually do something about it.
"She said I'd poisoned her son," he revealed reluctantly. "Called me a freak and said I should've died with my parents in the car crash because they were freaks too."
"Car crash?" Snape was staring at him incredulously.
"That's what they told me, about how my parents died. Hagrid told me the truth when he came." He couldn't help but add, "I don't think they wanted me wandering around saying my parents had been killed by an evil wizard."
Snape's face tightened, and Harry had the distinct feeling he'd said the wrong thing.
"Do not try and excuse what they've done," the professor snapped, words curt.
"I'm not—"
"What would you call what you just told me?"
"Look, it's hard not to, alright?" Harry shot back, trying to temper his tone but feeling frustrated enough to half not care. "It's not like I had anyone to tell, and I—it's confusing, when you're younger, professor, really confusing. I didn't get why they didn't care for me like they did Dudley, or any other parent with their kid. I had to keep telling myself that, otherwise..."
Otherwise I'd have started asking questions, and rule number one is to never ask questions.
"...well, it was the only thing that made sense," he finished instead.
Snape didn't say anything for a long minute, watching Harry fidget and squirm with an indecipherable gaze. Honestly, it was almost annoying how hard it was to read Snape— the man was inconveniently well-composed.
"Then I must ask," the professor finally said, "what did they do to you, to change the dynamic of their abuse?"
Humiliation burned within him, reddening his cheeks. He gave himself credit for not flinching at least, but the urge to hide from the world was worse than the Imperius.
"They made me stand in front of Dudley and said I was a freak," he said softly, "and if anything like that happened again then it was because of me being so freaky and unnatural. I had to say it over and over and over again, and then they tried to make me say it about my parents and I wouldn't— "
Harry had been quite young then— five or six, give or take. Ten years later and he still found himself shaking his head adamantly, just like he had back then.
"—I wouldn't," Harry repeated, and for the life of him he couldn't bring himself to speak any louder. It was good that Snape had such bat-like hearing. "And Uncle Vernon got so angry... he just kept shouting and shouting even when I still wouldn't until his big fat face was all red and purple and spitting everywhere and Aunt Petunia and Dudley, they were just letting him get madder and madder and..."
His voice faltered, fading to nothing. There was a gentle tap on his knee, and though he wouldn't dare look at Snape, the touch on his knee was, in some odd way, bolstering.
"He punched me," Harry finally admitted. "Hard enough to give me a nosebleed, and I had a massive bruise on my face for days. Not that it mattered...they didn't let me leave the house until it was all healed over and I'd never been so hungry. I think they figured if I couldn't eat, I wouldn't have the energy to be freakish. It didn't work anyway...I just kept on doing more magic and it just got worse and worse, and then it didn't even matter what I did—as long as I existed..."
The memory of the petunia flower opening in his hand came to the fore, and then some vague, imagined illusion of his mother doing the same.
"She slapped me," he whispered, hating himself for the way his eyes burned, "when I tried to give her the flower. I just wanted..."
...to be loved. For her to love me.
Something.
One of Snape's hand captured both of his, and Harry's hands fell suddenly limp. He'd been scratching at the back of his left hand without even realising it. The lettered scars flashed brighter against the redness.
"I know," Snape said quietly, and paused. The boy's hands were small and soft in his, and it reminded him again that Harry Potter was just a boy. One who only wanted the simplest of things, and denied all. One dealt a raw deal by the world, and yet doing a really very good job of handling it.
He squeezed Potter's hands to gain his attention. "The abuse you have suffered—you must know it was not your fault. There is nothing wrong with you, only with those of us blinded by ignorance and hatred. And with what you have endured, it doesn't make you any less of yourself."
Snape blew out a breath, so strongly that it made a stray lock of his hair waft upwards, before continuing. "As much as you have been forced through all this alone, I wish to...that is to say..." he hesitated, slowing his words with deadly solemnity. "I will be here, whenever you need. There will not be many moments of ease to come, but I will be there, to help you manage them in a manner less destructive to your current."
Harry had gone through such a wide range of emotions he felt as though his heart had been chucked into a tumble dryer, and then wrung dry. Whatever words he felt he could say to everything were lodged firmly in his throat, and his chest ached with how fast his heart was beating.
It stopped entirely however, as he watched Snape tilt his left wrist slightly, and quietly utter, "Transpicio."
His sleeve faded to transparency, revealing his neatly bandaged forearm. Instinctively, Harry tried jerking it away, only Snape's grip on him was firm and unrelenting, and he was left awkwardly darting his eyes between his arm, the professor, and then away.
It seemed Snape knew about everything.
"I'm sorry," Harry muttered, not quite sure why he was apologising but what else could he do? "I don't—"
"You are not the first, nor will be the last to resort to hurting yourself," Snape said—clearly he had no problem with calling it what it was. Harry, meanwhile, was left wincing and calling it...well, it. "It troubles me more that your response to moments when you believe you have committed a wrong are to inflict pain on yourself. Quite similar to how your relatives have abused you, no?"
Troubles you?
"So you're saying I'm doing this because of the Dursleys?" Harry asked, disgusted with himself. "They messed me up enough to get me to do this?" He tried tugging his arm away to no avail, but the implication was enough.
"You are not, Mr Potter," he interjected curtly, narrowing his eyes. "I'll say this only once more: there is nothing wrong with you. Yes, perhaps your relatives have so efficiently ingrained in you that any wrongdoing ought to follow with pain as punishment. But that is their fault, not yours. They are the ones that are 'messed up', as you so aptly put it."
Harry bit his lip, and nodded. That made sense, but still...
"I've charmed the sharpest of your possessions to be incapable of inflicting harm," the professor continued, breaking Harry out from any further thought. "Admittedly, certain items have been removed but—"
"Sirius' mirror?" Harry blurted out.
Snape sent him a questioning, slightly peeved look, and Harry continued. "I...Sirius gave it to me, before...before he died—" that was the first time Harry had been able to actually say it— "and I took it after—"
"That is the object you have been using to hurt yourself." He'd found traces of blood on the shard. Old blood.
Harry swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."
He looked down at his lap; there was no chance of getting it back now.
"I will see if it can be returned," Snape suddenly said, and Harry glanced up, something ridiculously like hope shooting through him. "On one condition."
His heart promptly sank.
"First of all," he began, "should you ever feel any such compulsion again, you must come to me. If I am...attending to other duties, then I daresay Salazar will be able to keep you company long enough."
Attending to other duties...so, things for the Order. Or Voldemort. But why's he bothering this much with me?
As Harry's downcast expression turned to one of surprise, Snape frowned and said, "I said before I will be there, whenever you need. Even if it is not necessarily my presence you require— "
"No, it's not that," Harry interrupted, before falling silent. He was vaguely aware that this was what adults were supposed to do, or at least what the Dursleys should've been doing for him. It was just weird because...
"...No one's really done this before," he finished the thought off aloud. Not the Dursleys, certainly not Dumbledore, and Sirius...Harry loved Sirius, but even he'd known his godfather had never always been there. That more often than not he'd seen Harry as James rather than himself, just because they looked like.
Snape met his eyes steadily. "Then it is about time someone did."
Harry nodded, with no other response in mind.
"A further condition is an explanation for this," and the professor, whose grip had loosened on Harry's left arm at some point, tightened slightly to turn it back over, before smoothing his other hand over the flashing scars. He directed his glance at Harry, waiting for him to start.
"I didn't do that," Harry rushed to explain, in case Snape thought he was twice as mad for doing it on his hands and wrists. "It was Umbridge— "
"I know," Snape muttered. "A Blood Quill, yes?"
Harry nodded, lips pressed tightly.
"Why these particular words?"
Harry wasn't sure whether to appreciate this spontaneous exercise in talking and opening up. On the other hand, between talking about this or the Dursleys...well, the winner was clear in his mind.
"She thought I was lying about Voldemort coming back. Or at least that's how it started anyway. I think she called me in a couple times just for the fun of it."
Snape's jaw clenched, eyes glittering dangerously, and Harry was reminded strongly of the Snape that had thrown a jar of cockroaches at him. "There will not be much opportunity for reprisal," he said darkly, "though no doubt when one presents itself, you may take full advantage."
Harry's lips momentarily twitched into a frown, but he only said, "Alright."
"Very well." The professor stood—Harry was fairly sure he heard one of the man's knees pop, and wondered just how long they'd been sitting and talking, or just how long Snape had been here with him. A true look at Snape's face revealed just how tired he must be; his dark hair was lanker than usual, and the shadows under his eyes were considerably darker under his sallow skin.
Guilt gnawed away inside him.
"There is more to discuss, but rest will aid more in your recovery for now." Snape set his hand down carefully, and searched Harry's face.
"Is there anything you need for now? Dreamless Sleep?"
Harry pressed his lips together. "Does Dumbledore know? About this?"
Snape's face remained impassive as he said slowly, "It is a matter the headmaster ought to know about," and paused, enough to witness a flicker of panic across the boy's wane face. "However...you are old enough to choose in whom you wish to confide with. As long as you are aware that you have my utter confidence in anything you tell me. I believe you have learnt your lesson from supressing your emotions?"
Harry nodded quickly, something warm blooming in his chest as the expression on Snape's face softened.
"Rest well then," Snape said a little awkwardly, as he made for the door.
To think he'd started his holiday with the mere motivation of mentoring the boy, and then leaving him in Albus' hands come the school term. And now, he was—what? The boy's confidante? Willingly so, at that.
"Thank you, sir," Harry blurted out quietly, before he could lose his nerve. "For believing me about the Dursleys...and, um, everything else."
He held his breath as Snape halted in front of the door.
"You are welcome, Mr Potter."
The words came so quietly, if it wasn't for the pin-drop silence in the room, Harry would've thought he'd misheard.
As soon as the professor left, Harry sagged back against the pillow, opting to shift it back so he could lie down. He hadn't felt tired enough to sleep initially, but all of what must've been adrenaline-fuelled energy was draining out of him. He found himself blearily blinking around his room, eyes landing on a newspaper on his desk, much thicker than the Daily Prophet.
Before he could bring himself to think anymore of it however, sleep consumed him, and Harry went with the darkness gladly.
On the other side of the door, Snape stood, breathing quietly and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Look at what your son has done to me, Lily, he thought, though there was nothing too bitter in it.
The little bitterness there was stemmed from another aspect entirely; Albus Dumbledore had been proven right. Oh, how that barmy old coot's eyes would twinkle.
Snape was more than prepared to gouge them out if he needed to.
***
Harry had only been awake for a brief while before he heard complaining from a familiar, snooty voice. Grinning slightly, he shoved the bundle of papers he'd been reading under his pillow. The funeral for the orphans that had died at St Anthony's had been the day before. Dudley had sent him the newspaper, along with another letter.
It wasn't particularly something he wanted Malfoy to see.
And speak of the devil...
"You utter git, Potter," Malfoy said upon entering, a whiff of spaghetti coming with him. "We've talked about me not being your personal owl. I'm not taking on the role of a house elf either."
Harry raised his eyebrows wearily. "You're happy to see me."
"Delirious, Scarhead," the blond scoffed, setting the tray down on his bedside drawer. "I hope you choke on your dinner."
"Well, thanks for giving me the choice not to."
Malfoy huffed and rolled his eyes, decisively plopping down on the edge of Harry's bed to linger. There had once been such a hostile air between them, and now... Harry wasn't sure what to call it, but it was as though they'd both accepted the fact that the other existed, and wanted to survive, and were more or less on the same side. Or at least not on Voldemort's.
"Snape knows," Harry finally said.
Save for a twitch of an arching eyebrow, Malfoy nodded.
"You're better now then?"
"Yeah," he replied, and added, "Thanks, though. For not telling."
Malfoy stood and backed away considerably. "You might still be running a fever, Potter, and I'd rather not contract anything. If you could perhaps keep your Gryffindor sentimentalities away from me—"
"Oh, I suppose I am feeling a bit faint," Harry said, dramatically holding the back of his hand to his forehead. "I mean you could fetch me some water—"
"Oh, for Morgana's sake—"
"—and some treacle tart—"
"In your dreams, Potter—"
"—and fan me with those great, big palm things—"
"A frond, sweet Salazar—"
"Oh, Malfoy, a big head for your big brain, it all makes sense now—"
"Shut it, Potter." Harry grinned as the blond glared at him half-heartedly, before stalking towards the door and leaving the room.
He let a light snicker escape then. It faded into a soft smile that remained for quite a long while after.
Draco, after indulging himself in a few private moments of melodrama in his room, allowed his lips to twitch upwards, as a feeling of ease overcame him.
Things were, in some respect, getting better. He could only hope that it would last.
***
"You can't hold on forever." The girl before him gestured to the crumpled daisy chain in his hands.
She looked sad, Harry thought. Though why he didn't know. It was so beautiful here. So alive.
"But if I let go I'll lose it," he said petulantly.
She stared at him blankly, blue eyes unseeing. "It's already lost."
The sun grew brighter and brighter, before exploding, and swallowing Daisy Williams whole.
***
A/N: the dream at the beginning and end might be confusing, but it'll make sense later.
There seems to be a misconception in Chapter 4, where Harry's run INTO with the car. He's not run OVER. The car basically knocks into him. The hydrangeas are near the porch (mentioned in OOTP), so Vernon's not going full speed that close to the house. I hope that makes more sense.
I'm adding a "next chapter" feature so you know a chapter's always coming.
NEXT CHAPTER: There's a lot Harry still needs to get over, including one strange, reoccurring dream. But now that he's out of bed, and has a new relationship with Snape, how will that change him handling everything? And how is Salazar these days?