As little as a week ago, Snape would have known exactly what to do with the free time that looms before him now that Luna Lovegood has worked her miracle and coaxed Potter into sleeping. He is never without work that needs doing, after all. There are always papers to grade, lessons to plan, private research to return to, and now that the chief source of his anxiety—namely Potter killing himself, or Snape, or both of them, while under the influence of the Draught—has been removed, he ought to be able to focus on some useful task until the boy wakes up and requires close nursing again. And yet, concentration eludes him. Every time he attempts to put quill to parchment, the blank spaces before his eyes fill with the image of two children, tangled in sleep upon his parlor sofa like nesting kittens, and he is again discomfited by the same unwelcome surge of emotion that the living tableau had produced.
Snape is fond of Luna Lovegood. He does not mind admitting this to himself, in the privacy of his own thoughts. There is no danger in liking her—no troublesome legacies attached to her face or name. She is a Ravenclaw, a pureblood, and her father is no nameable threat to the Dark Lord's cause. Snape could favor her publically if he chose, without worrying what tales Draco Malfoy might be carrying back to his father. He never will, of course—he has his reputation to consider, as a bastard if not as a Death Eater—but still, she is no threat to him. Rather the opposite, in fact; it is strangely comforting to know that she looks up to him (for she makes no secret of it), to know that, after all he has done, all the tarnish his soul has acquired, there remains within him some mote of goodness that an innocent of her quality can recognize, even value.
And she entertains him, which is no small accomplishment considering his temperament and the life he leads. She is not ordinary. True, her head has been filled with rubbish by that neglectful, no-account father of hers, but she yet possesses a clarity of perception, a forthright courage (so different from the bullheaded Gryffindor variety) that cannot but appeal to him, comparing it as he does to the generic mediocrity of most of her classmates. That she is reviled among them only heightens his regard for her—more than that, it has elevated what might have been a mere feeling of benevolence into a proprietary watchfulness that surprises him in its occasional ferocity. But he does not mind this either; after all, he knows what it is to be the target of petty juvenile vindictiveness, unchecked by a blithely self-satisfied Head of House—and she is the more vulnerable to it, not possessing the instinct or inclination to defend herself in such a way as to discourage further attack. Should she ever choose to apply that keen Ravenclaw intellect to the problem, her classmates might shortly find themselves surprised by the results; but like another aggravating child of his acquaintance, she does not seem to find her own safety cause for the effort. And so Snape keeps an eye out for her, where he can, and for his reward he finds, occasionally, that the voices of other children he has not been able to protect do not echo quite as loudly in his ears as they might. Too, he sometimes finds that the trust in her bright eyes warms him in cold hours. Luna always carries herself as though she is privy to some happy secret no one around her has guessed—sometimes Snape flatters himself that she carries his secrets with her as well, where they are redeemed for something greater than their original worth.
But now (and here is the source of his disquiet) she has allied herself with Potter—more than this, she has, by word and look and gesture, entrusted him with Potter's well-being, no less than Dumbledore had. And though Snape's feelings for the boy are still maddeningly confused, he finds that he shies from the idea of disappointing her faith in him. Had she demanded, or even asked, he might have refused—but she had simply trusted he would do right by her friend. She had not, however, troubled to explain what is entailed by right action in this context, and so Snape is left, as before, to fumble his way through this business, only now with twice the weight of expectation on his shoulders.
He fancies this is not the sort of quandary that any man should be expect to grapple competently with at four o'clock in the morning.
Still, it might be worse. It might be four o'clock in the morning with Potter awake and harrowing Snape's soul with lost and hopeless cries for a comfort he cannot give. He feels suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for Luna Lovegood, and finds himself wondering if it is too early in the school year to submit her name for an Award for Special Services to the School.
He manages at last to distract himself for an hour or so by washing up the three different dirty tea services littering his quarters and putting the dishes away, all without magic. He then makes tea for himself, along with a few pieces of buttered toast, having found that his appetite has returned to him with the unexpected peace and quiet, and settles in with a book that he finds open and face down on the table at the end of his sofa. When he had first spotted it, he had immediately begun rehearsing a lecture on the proper care and treatment of the volumes in his library, to be recited to the heedless girl at first opportunity—only to take a second look and find that the title (The Secret Garden) was not one he recognized, and that the name written in cerulean blue ink on the inside cover was not "S. Snape", but "Luna Polyhymnia Lovegood, age 8 1/2."
A Muggle book, he determines quickly by a look at the publisher's name, vaguely curious why a witch would have such a book in her possession at such a young age. Curiosity turns to amusement as he begins to read about a skinny, scrawny, sallow, ill-tempered orphan girl whom nobody likes, who reads vociferously and keeps to herself. He likes Mary Lennox, he decides, a bit startled to realize he has already reached the end of chapter three. She does not suffer fools—and she has an instinctual fascination for the properties of plants and herbals that reminds him of himself at the same age. It is with an unexpected pang of disappointment that he sets the books aside when a knock sounds at his door sometime later. He glances at the clock to discover it is already after six—of course, Dumbledore had said he would call in the morning. Snape answers the door to find the Headmaster standing there as expected, a grave and inquiring look on his face.
"Well, Severus," he says, stepping inside at Snape's invitation. "How are you faring?"
"Rather better than expected," Snape tells him, noting as he shuts the door how the Headmaster's eyes sweep the room for the boy. "Potter is asleep in bed."
The look of surprise on Dumbledore's face is rather gratifying. "However did you manage that?" he asks.
"I did not," Snape tells him. "It was Miss Lovegood's doing. No, I do not know how she managed it either. I left them alone for a time, and when I returned—" Snape spreads his hands and shrugs.
"You don't say." Dumbledore's eyebrows soar to his hairline. "That is indeed unexpected—and very good news.
"Was it not to such an end that you sent Miss Lovegood to me?" says Snape, voicing a suspicion he hadn't realized he was harboring.
"Not at all," says Dumbledore. "I simply knew that, of all Harry's friends, she was the one most likely to maintain her own composure in such a situation, and remain a steady and calming influence upon him. Upon you both, for that matter." He smiles faintly. "Well. Fifty points to Ravenclaw. It is always gratifying when those around us exceed our expectations."
"And, I suppose," says Snape, waving Dumbledore into a seat at the table and pouring tea for him before sitting himself, "equally less than gratifying when those expectations are disappointed." Best to get it out and over with, he thinks—when he was a child, he often used the same strategy to provoke his father's wrath before it had the chance to build up into something more violent than it would otherwise have been.
Dumbledore turns a sharp look on him, almost as though he had divined this reasoning. "If self-flagellation is your preferred means of coping with your disappointment in yourself, that is your affair, but I will not be the whip in your hand. If you have been waiting for a reprimand, you will wait awhile yet." His expression softens a bit, his voice becoming rather dry. "You can't honestly think I would accuse you of wanting to be in this position."
"True enough," Snape admits, sipping his tea to hide a flush, either of embarrassment or relief. "Very well then. Perhaps we may discuss other matters. What have you done to Vernon Dursley?"
"You do come right to the point." Dumbledore adds a thin slice of lemon to his tea, looking a bit amused. "What do you hope I have done to him?"
"Do not ask me that, Albus," Snape says warningly. "I left him to you for a reason."
"Yes, I confess myself to have been rather...touched by your letter." Dumbledore smiles faintly. "Vernon Dursley was removed from his home in Surrey at 7 o'clock yesterday evening, by Portkey. He was transported to my office, where I am afraid he was obliged to wait some little time while I attended to matters of importance elsewhere." Snape snorts into his tea cup, but Dumbledore merely smiles again. "When I joined him again, I attempted to persuade him what would happen should he attempt to make contact with Voldemort or any of his servants. I believe that in the end I made a sufficient impression that we need fear no further foolishness of the kind from him."
Snape give a single, tightly controlled nod of the head. What else had he expected? He had handed the man over to Dumbledore for a reason. He is no longer a Death Eater—he has forfeited the privilege of seeking his own revenge. If his frustration lacks an outlet, it is no more than he deserves for allowing matters to reach this crisis. He, Snape, had been charged with looking after the boy. He had failed. He deserves no relief.
"Did you see Petunia, when you returned Dursley to Surrey?" he manages to ask in a casual voice. "She may also need to be spoken to."
"Ah." Dumbledore clears his throat. "As it happens, Vernon Dursley did not return to Surrey."
"No?" Snape arches an eyebrow, not daring to say more.
"No." Dumbledore refills his tea cup. "He is in the hospital wing."
Snape blinks at the Headmaster, and it is only with the utmost effort he prevents his jaw from dropping. Dumbledore stirs his tea, a perfectly neutral expression on his face, but Snape can just catch a glimpse of something fierce in his eyes.
Well, if Dursley had provoked Dumbledore sufficiently to land himself in the hospital wing, there is only one logical question to ask. "Is he still alive?"
Dumbledore gives a snort of laughter at this. "Quite. And largely unharmed, I hasten to add." He glances up, meeting Snape's eyes, and whatever he sees there prompts him to continue in his explanation. "He was as resistant to reason as I'm sure you can imagine him to have been. After more than an hour of fruitless, cyclical argument, I decided an illustration of the point was in order."
"I don't dare hope it was the sort of illustration that leaps immediately to mind," Snape says dryly. Dumbledore would not wield the Unforgivables against a Muggle, whatever the provocation.
"A few carefully selected memories of mine, arrayed in a Pensieve, demonstrating a sampling of precisely what Voldemort is capable of." Dumbledore smiles. "Madam Pomfrey put him to bed with a Calming Draught afterwards. A bit harsh, perhaps, but I assure you it was a last resort."
Snape stares at the Headmaster, who looks back at him quite blandly. "I forget what you are, on occasion," Snape tells him after a moment. "I shall do so less often, in future."
Dumbledore chuckles. "Well, we all like to be appreciated for our abilities." He sobers. "It occurs to me that you did not answer my question earlier."
"Did I not?"
"Not to my satisfaction. How are you faring?"
Snape does miss the emphasis in the Headmaster's words. Nor does he know precisely how to make an answer—he cannot claim to be untroubled, not to a Legilimens of Dumbledore's caliber.
"You—truly—did not know what sort of life the boy led outside of school?" Snape feels himself to be stuttering, as though the tongue in his mouth is too dry to form words with tripping. "You hadn't any idea what his family was subjecting him to?"
He tries not to make the question sound like an accusation, but judging from the look on the Headmaster's face, it has been interpreted—and accepted—as such.
"Petunia Dursley loved her sister," says Dumbledore in a quiet voice, and Snape sees that his hand trembles slightly on the handle of his tea cup. "At least, she did once. I believe you know she once wrote to me as a child. She seemed a kind, bright girl—she hated the thought of being parted from Lily. I truly believed that as she grew to know her sister's child, she would remember that love. But there were...indications over the years that all was not as I hoped, and I admit to you, Severus—because you of all people have the best right to know, and judge me—I did not allow myself to inquire too closely. I did not want to be tempted to remove him."
Snape does not reply, simply continues to watch the other man intently. "I might have raised him myself; you must know that I considered it. I daresay that he would have been as safe with me as within the enclosure of the wards at his aunt's house. But—for reasons I cannot explain to you, I felt that I had to place him, as far as possible, beyond the reach of my own influence. Because I knew the fate he was born to, I did not trust myself to have any hand in his upbringing. Even when I realized that he was growing up unhappily, still I knew that he was growing up to be himself—not the inheritor of a destiny, not a weapon in my hand." Dumbledore shuts his eyes briefly, then opens them again. "So much depended on him—I feared my own ambition. I had to let him go, had to trust in his mother's blood—not merely to keep safe, but to gift him with the same great power by which Lily saved his life. You, I think, must have seen—now that you are no longer deceived by appearances—how much he is his mother's son. I was so afraid of destroying him—because I would have loved him, and would the more easily have deceived myself into believing I could best protect him by molding him in my own image."
Snape is beginning to regret that he had ever opened this line of questioning. He has seen much that is terrible in his life, and yet even he finds himself flinching at the pain in Dumbledore's voice, and the stark inevitability of the picture he paints.
The next words that come from Snape's mouth do so without prompting, without his conscious consent.
"You might have given him to me," Snape whispers.
"I might," Dumbledore agrees, shocking Snape into silence. "And you would have done well by him. I believe that, Severus. But you were too close to me—you would have trusted me, more than you should—" Dumbledore breaks off, lifting a hand to his forehead. "You cannot know how much I wish there had been another way. That I had drawn him out more over the years, after he came to school. There was never any means to prevent him suffering, but he need not have suffered so much as he did."
"In that respect," Snape says quietly, "I too have failed him."
They sit in silence together for a moment, and when the Headmaster speaks again there is a surety in his voice, as though he has recovered himself.
"Does that mean," he says, "that you intend to rectify the matter, so far as you can?"
"What else have I been doing these last three days?" Snape says, startled by the harshness of his own voice. Dumbledore merely looks at him, and Snape's hand clenches on the table.
"In truth, I hardly know how," Snape amends, feeling suddenly as exhausted as he had before Luna had chivvied him off to bed. "Yet I wish—" He shakes his head. "Had I known three years ago, even two, I might have done something for him. But now, I am so deeply embroiled—Albus, you must know how little chance I have of surviving this infernal dance between you and the Dark Lord much longer. I have walked a tightrope too long, I must fall soon. And..." Snape finds himself whispering, as though he would rather not hear what he is forcing himself to say. "I would not add to Harry's grief."
There is, he thinks, no power on earth that could force him to meet Dumbledore's eyes after the words escape his lips. But Dumbledore does not attempt to catch his gaze.
"Do you wish now, after all your years of suffering, that you had never met Lily Evans?" Dumbledore says quietly.
Snape keeps his gaze trained upon the table. "At times."
A long moment of silence falls between them. "Truly?" says Dumbledore, sounding faintly scornful.
Snape closes his eyes. "No."
"Then you know what you must do." Snape looks back up at him; there is a sadness to Dumbledore's smile. "In any case, Severus, after all you have done for Harry—or rather, I should say, after all he now knows you have done for him, I rather think the damage is irreversible." Dumbledore's voice grows rather wistful. "He loves so easily..."
Snape thinks of his letters, carefully refolded and soft with much handling, tucked into the middle of the boy's book. "I know."
There is no telling what excesses of maudlin reflection Snape would have been tempted into, had the door to his bedroom not opened at that moment. Dumbledore looks up, and at the flash in his eye Snape turns around in his chair.
Potter is standing in the doorway at the end of the corridor, looking tousled and bleary as he approaches the kitchen—even from a distance, through the open doorway, Snape can see that his eyes are clearer than they have been in some time.
"Professor," he says, coming to stand just inside the kitchen. He blinks. "Headmaster?"
"Harry." Dumbledore rises to his feet, and Snape follows automatically, as one does in the Headmaster's presence. "How are you?"
"I'm not sure," says the boy. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Has it been three days already? I'd have thought I'd smell worse by now."
Snape casts a look over his shoulder, and Dumbledore meets his eyes. Snape looks back to the boy, who has watched this silent exchange with a tentative expression.
"Where are you now?" Snape asks him sharply. "What do you see?"
"Er," Potter looks at him, confused. "In your quarters, Professor. In the—kitchen, I guess? You brought me here because I was covered in that Waking Dreams potion—I just woke up in bed, so I reckoned it was the third day and I'd finished sleeping it off, like you said I would." He arches an eyebrow inquiringly, as though waiting to be corrected.
Snape erodes the distance between them in two long strides, withdrawing his wand and extending his hand. "Give me your arm."
Potter looks at him, warily, but he obeys. He does not even glance towards Dumbledore for confirmation first, and Snape knows that this is the surest testament that something indefinable has altered between them.
Snape wraps his fingers around the boy's thin wrist and finds his pulse even and steady. He releases him then, and runs a diagnostic scan with his wand—nothing as thorough as Pomfrey could manage, but competent enough for practical purposes.
"Well, Potter," he says when he has finished, a little relieved to find his voice firm, not hoarse. "You seem to have emerged more or less intact. Congratulations."
"Right," says Potter, pushing his sleeve back down his arm. "Thanks, Professor." He does glance at Dumbledore then, and then back to Snape. "So...I guess I should go back to my dorm now? Or is dinner still being served? I'm starving."
"You cannot return to your dormitory yet, Harry," Dumbledore tells him, even as Snape has opened his mouth to issue the boy a curt explanation of the matter. Dumbledore places a hand on Potters shoulder. "Come back to bed, and then your questions will be answered."
Still looking between them uncertainly, Potter allows himself to be guided back down the corridor toward the bedroom. Snape follows, already wondering how is going to explain the boy's recovery when he does not understand it himself. Once inside the room, Potter walks to the bed and angles a hip onto the mattress, then glances down at himself dubiously.
"Ah," Dumbledore says, as though he has understood something the boy has not said. "Shall I Transfigure your clothing into pyjamas? Perhaps with a freshening charm?"
Blushing a little, Potter nods, and Dumbledore taps his shoulders with his wand. The wrinkled remnants of the boy's uniform becomes a set of white and blue striped pyjamas, with sharp creases down the legs and arms, as though they have been recently laundered and pressed.
With another wave of the Headmaster's wand, the covers rise up and tuck themselves around the boy's body to the waist—he is sitting up against the pillows, a growing expression of consternation on his face.
"Sir," he says to Dumbledore, "is anything wrong? Only you and Professor Snape are both acting like there's something you don't want to tell me."
"No, Harry," says Dumbledore immediately. "Nothing is wrong. Quite the contrary. I shall, however, allow Professor Snape to explain, as there is a small matter which urgently needs my attention in the hospital wing." Dumbledore catches Snape's eye, and Snape nods his understanding. Yes, now the boy is awake and lucid, best to have Vernon Dursley out of the castle doors at the first opportunity.
"I shall come to call and see how you are later, Harry," Dumbledore says. "I am extremely pleased to see you so well recovered. Severus, I shall speak with you later."
And then he is gone, the sound of his robes trailing along the floor following him down the corridor. Snape stands at the foot of the bed, feeling suddenly rather awkward, as Potter turns a questioning look on him.
"Sir—" he begins, but Snape cuts him off.
"You are hungry, I believe you said?" Potter nods. "I shall bring you something. You will eat before we talk. Wait here."
Snape heads, not for the kitchen, but for the parlor; he doesn't feel up to cooking, and at any rate the house elves will begin serving breakfast any moment. He throws a handful of powder into the floo, and orders a tray—the one he gets in return has enough food for three people. Or one sixteen year old boy, he supposes.
He floats the tray down the hall before him and directs it to settle across Potter's lap. The boy's eyes light up at the sight of the food, but he glances questioningly at Snape before reaching for it—as though he is used to asking permission before he eats.
"Eat as much of it as you can," he says. "You have been fasting awhile."
Potter reaches for a fork, then pauses. "Sir," he says, "this is breakfast stuff. What time is it? I thought..."
"It is six thirty in the morning, Potter," Snape tells him. And then, because he knows it will lead into a long conversation, he draws the armchair up to the side of the bed and has a seat in it. "Saturday morning."
Potter stops in the act of buttering his toast. "Saturday, Professor?" His brow furrows. "But—wasn't it Friday when—didn't you say—"
"It was, and I did." Snape's mouth twists in a smile. "You ought to have been under the influence of the Draught for seventy-two hours, all told. And yet, here you are, less than twenty-four hours later, miraculously recovered. I suppose there is occasionally something to be said for your utter disregard for rules."
Potter merely blinks at him. "I don't understand," he says. "Was it—did you find an antidote, sir?"
"I did nothing, Potter," Snape informs him curtly. "I do not have a satisfactory explanation for your recovery. You fell asleep a mere twelve hours after your exposure, and I believe that is responsible for your present lucidity. Entering a state of natural sleep enabled the Draught to run its course at an advanced pace—that is the normal effect of the potion, save that you should not have reached the sleep stage until forty-eight hours had passed." Snape pauses, considering, then adds, "I believe you have Miss Lovegood to thank for that."
"Luna?" says Potter. "What did she—wait." He looks thoughtful. "Luna...she was...no, maybe not, I just—"
"She was here," Snape nods. "Yesterday evening. I left you alone with her for a time. When I rejoined you, you had fallen asleep. Apparently during my absence she managed to contravene the laws of nature. I have not yet had the chance her to ask what she did." Snape eyes him narrowly. "I don't suppose you recall?"
Potter stares down at his breakfast tray for a long moment. "All I remember is being scared," he says in a quiet voice that does an odd thing to Snape's throat. "Just...scared and alone, and then...safe." He looks up. "I felt safe. I don't know what happened."
Again, Snape remembers how Potter and Luna had looked, nestled together on the sofa before the fire. Considering how the boy had spent the first few hours under the Draught, he can well believe he had felt safe there by comparison.
"No matter," Snape says, waving his hand. "The details are a matter for the researchers, not the patient. There is nothing more for you to do but lie there and recover from the physical impact of the explosion. Curtailed though your ordeal with the Draught may have been, even twelve hours of throwing yourself about and running to and fro did your injuries no good. Are you in any pain?"
A mulish look and a quick denial answer his question. "Not really."
Snape resists rolling his eyes with an effort. "Of course. You'll be up doing calisthenics in an hour, no doubt." He pulls his wand from his sleeve and waves it once—then, after a moment's thought, twice. A long, thin vial of amber potion sails through the open door towards his outstretched hand, followed by Potter's wand.
"Your wand," he says, handing it back to the boy, who receives it gratefully, "and a potion, for relief of pain." He does not break the seal over the stopper, but places it on the bed within Potter's reach. "You'll realize you want it sooner or later. No more than half the vial in a three hour time period."
"Thanks, Professor," says Potter, studying the vial on the bed without reaching for it. "For everything, I mean, staying with me and—everything." There is a slightly miserable look on his face, and privately Snape wonders just how much of the previous twenty four hours he does remember.
"I distinctly recall having had this conversation once already," he tells him, making no effort to conceal his impatience. "I am not enjoying it any more the second time."
Potter flushes. Snape ignores this, getting to his feet and tugging his robes into place. "Your school bag is still on the floor by the bed, where you left it Friday. Go back to sleep if you can—the pain reliever will help with that, if you can choke back enough of your pride to pour it down your throat. Otherwise, I suppose you can spend the morning studying. Whatever you choose, you are to stay in bed. I am going to my office to work. If you have need of me, summon a house elf and tell them."
And with that, Snape turns his back on the boy, telling himself that he is glad to do so, that ridding himself of the sight of Potter, pale and prone and sad looking, will be nothing but a relief to him. He strides from the room, down the corridor, and out through his chamber door, where he turns for his office and begins the process of attempting to convince himself.
Harry sits upright in the bed and stares down at the breakfast tray in front of him until the tea is cold and the butter on his toast is a pool of greasy liquid.
He lasts about five minutes, all told, before he finally gives in and reaches for the vial of potion on the bed beside him. He finds he cannot break the seal with his fingers, so he takes his wand in hand and points it at the vial.
"Diffindo," he says, and before his eyes the entire vial cracks into hundreds of tiny pieces, covering his hand in amber liquid.
Harry is suddenly extremely glad that Snape has left his chambers, because he feels, rather horribly, like bursting into tears. He doesn't, though; he is able, after a few moments, to open his eyes without feeling as though they are about to start leaking, and his voice, after a few breaths, is steady enough to say "Damn" without cracking.
He had been telling the truth when he had told Snape that he didn't remember much of what had happened over the last twelve hours. He can't get pictures of any of it in his mind, just feelings. What he hadn't told Snape, however, was just how intense those feelings had been—still are, really, because remembering them is the same thing as living them again. He dimly recalls that Snape had warned him to expect mood swings and intense emotions after he woke up, and if it had been just that, or just the fact that he feels like one giant bruise from hip to shoulder, he figures he could probably have kept himself together better than he's doing. But both things at once—and now losing the pain relief potion on top of it—makes him feel as though he's about to crack right down the middle and spill his guts onto Snape's embroidered counterpane.
Harry bunches the covers in his hands and grits his teeth until the moment of weakness passes; then he forces himself to take a few deep breaths and consider the situation like someone who's about to come of age in a year, and not like some stupid brat who can't see past the end of his own dripping nose. He has a problem—namely, lots of horrible pain—and he needs to solve it. Put like that, he realizes, the solution is perfectly obvious—all he needs to do is get another pain relieving potion.
The only problem is that Harry is not Hermione, and he doesn't think he could nerve himself up to stealing a potion from Snape's supplies even if he actually was dying, not just in so much pain that he wishes he were. Knowing Snape, there are probably wards over his personal stores that will turn him into an orangutang if he so much as thinks of trying to break them. Of course, he could call for Snape and ask him for another potion—but that would involve, first, admitting he needs it, and second, disturbing Snape less than ten minutes after he'd left the room in the first place—and Harry finds he isn't willing to do either of these things. He remembers exactly enough of what had happened while he was under the influence of the Draught to know Snape has probably already had as much of a miserable, needy Harry Potter as he can stand for a lifetime, and if Harry has his way he won't be asking him for so much as a scrap of parchment for the remainder of his Hogwarts career.
This leaves him one option, and it's not a pretty one. Delaying the inevitable, however, will only make it worse in the end—and so, Harry levitates the mostly untouched breakfast tray to the end of the bed, ends the Transfiguration on his pyjamas to turn them back to school clothes, and gathers his things back into his school bag—his Transfigurations text is lying on the floor apart from the others, and he wonders vaguely what it is doing so far away from his bag. He very nearly turns to make up the bed when he realizes that after everything that's happened, Snape will probably want clean sheets on it before he sleeps in it again, and that furthermore Hogwarts has house elves for that sort of thing. He sets his bag on top of the rumpled covers and sits down at the desk along the wall by Snape's bed, wondering, as he draws a sheet of parchment from the loose stack in the corner, and dips the nib of the eagle feather quill lying to the side of it into a bottle of ink, if this is where Snape had sat to write the letters he had sent Harry last week, and whether he will ever write to him again after everything Harry has put him through.
Dear Professor Snape, he writes
I broke the vial of pain relief potion you left for me—it was an accident, I'm sorry—so I've gone to the infirmary to ask Madam Pomfrey for another one. I figure once I'm there I might as well stay—it's not like you've got a guest room and I don't want to keep you from your bed or your bathroom. Thank you again for looking after me all through the weekend, I really appreciate it a lot. See you on Monday.
Sincerely, Harry Potter
Harry doesn't both folding the letter—he simply carries it with him into the kitchen and places it there on the dining table, where Snape will see it as soon as he walks back through the door of his quarters. The last thing he needs is for Snape to think he's gone missing and raise a furor because the note's slipped down behind a cushion or under the bed or something.
He hoists his school bag, which feels a lot heavier to carry now that every muscle and sinew in his back and shoulders is screaming in protest, and slips noiselessly through the door of Snape's quarters, only realizing once he is on the other side that he has never been in this part of the dungeons before and doesn't know precisely where he is. He does, however, have the Marauder's Map, folded into a back pocket of his bag; after a quick consult he is oriented again, and quickly locates the nearest staircase to put him on the path to the hospital wing. He forces himself to walk slowly, despite how much he wants to get there and lie down again; he doesn't imagine that falling down halfway there will improve the situation any.
It takes him fully twenty minutes to finally reach the corridor leading up to the hospital wing; fortunately the hour is still so early that he doesn't pass anybody on the way there. He doesn't fancy the idea of trying to explain himself to one of the teachers, who must surely all know by know what had happened on Friday. He's just passed the statue of Hippolyta the Healer when he hears someone say his name from somewhere behind him—and for just a moment, he is convinced that he must be having a relapse, or else that he has been dreaming everything, from waking up and talking to Snape and Dumbledore, to making his way here, because the voice is one he recognizes, and it isn't one that he ought to be hearing here, of all places.
The fact that he can hear it makes Harry hope that he's only having a nightmare.
"Potter!" it shouts. Then: "Boy!"
Harry freezes. Then he turns, slowly, to find Uncle Vernon, purple-faced with rage, bearing down on him like the Hogwarts Express under full steam.
Harry hasn't got time to do more than take two steps backwards before Vernon has caught up to him, wrapped two meaty hands around his throat, and driven him backwards hard against the nearest stone wall. Already gasping for air around the choking hold on his neck, Harry tries and fails to gasp as the impact electrifies the already dull ache in his bones into pulsing agony.
He is dimly aware that Vernon is saying something—he catches words and phrases such as "psycho" and "murdered in our beds"—but the longer Vernon holds onto him, the more roughly he shakes him, the louder the roaring noise in Harry's ears seems to become, and the more clouded his vision grows. He knows he should be reaching for his wand, but he doesn't dare stop trying to pry Vernon's hands from his neck, because he can't breathe and any second now he's going to pass out, and then it'll be his neck joining the collection of bones Vernon has already broken over the last few months, and he has the idea that however good wizards are at mending things, a neck might just be beyond them...
And then, suddenly, Harry remembers that he is dreaming—he must be dreaming—because a long, bony white hand emerges from the darkness gathering like a halo around Uncle Vernon's head to close tightly on his shoulder—and then Uncle Vernon is reeling backwards, and Harry's neck is free of his hands, not because they have released him but because they have been wrenched away, the bruising fingers digging in with fingernails until the last inch of skin has slipped through their grasp. Harry sucks in several gasping breaths, and his vision begins to clear just in time to see Snape shoving Uncle Vernon against a stone column a few feet away from where Harry is standing, pinning the shorter man in place with his wand, which is aimed level with his neck.
There is a look on Snape's face that Harry has never seen before—which is saying something, considering that over the years Harry has fairly become an expert in Snape's angriest looks. Snape, Harry realizes, is somewhere quite beyond anger at the moment—there is something wild and furious and absolutely deadly in his stance, as he towers over Uncle Vernon with trembling shoulders and a snarl that shows every last one of his crooked teeth. His eyes are bright and glittering with rage and the hand that isn't holding his wand is clenched into a tight fist at his side. For just a moment, watching the knuckles of that fist grow whiter and more bloodless, looking from Snape's livid expression to the abject terror in his uncle's face, Harry is quite convinced that Snape might kill Vernon—that he means to do so, and to enjoy doing it.
All these thoughts cross his mind in the space of three seconds or less—and then the pain catches up to him, and all coherent thought is driven entirely from his mind. Still trying to catch his breath, he finds it almost impossible around the sob that is building in his throat, as his knees give way and he sinks down the wall with a noise he doesn't recognize as anything that could possibly have come out of his own mouth. He does not take his eyes from Snape and Uncle Vernon, convinced as he is that murder is about to be done at any moment—but even as he cries out, Snape's head jerks to look over his shoulder at Harry, and there is a look in his eyes that Harry has definitely never seen before—especially not directed at him.
Snape turns back to look at Uncle Vernon, who is wheezing for breath himself by now, and a spasm of loathing twists his mouth even further. Then his lips compress in a hard line, and the set of his shoulders relaxes by a fraction. He draws back his wand and cries "Stupefy!" and in the next second Uncle Vernon's unconscious body has dropped to the floor with a groaning noise like a collapsing building.
For a moment afterwards, Harry can hear no sound in the corridor save that of his own ragged breathing, And then, with a faint stab of self-disgust, he realizes that he is crying, and that his much-abused throat is producing high pitched, almost whimpering noises with every inhalation.
Whether Snape hears it or not, Harry cannot tell. Snape stands, staring down on Vernon for a long moment, as though there is something more he would like to do to him. But then he turns, slowly, back in Harry's direction, and for a moment their eyes meet—and then Harry hides his face in his hands, because the last bloody thing on earth he needs is to make eye contact with a bloody Legilimens while he's feeling the way he feels right now.
He sits there like this for awhile, hunched in on himself, trying to look small as possible—it is the most practical available alternative to what he really wants to do, which is throw himself into a deep hole in the ground and never face daylight again. Eventually he becomes aware of movement quite close to him—the whisper of a trailing robe, the brush of a hand sliding down the wall over his head. Someone is sitting on the floor beside him—suddenly, irrationally worried that Vernon has woken up again, Harry lifts his eyes and finds Snape is sitting with his knees up, his head leaning back against the wall. There is an expression of infinite exhaustion around his eyes and mouth, as though half the life has been drained out of him.
Harry is horribly aware of his wet face, of the tears still streaming from his eyes, and how these things must look to Snape, but this time he cannot look away.
"I thought you were going to kill him," Harry whispers hoarsely.
Snape exhales violently. "For a moment," he says, sounding quite as tired as he looks, "so did I."
And then Harry has to look down again, because a fresh wave of pain is crashing over him. He ducks his head and knots his hand in his hair and tries to bite down on a sob by gritting his teeth. But then a wiry arm circles his shoulders, fingers knotting in the sleeve of his shirt; he is being pulled down against a surface that is soft but solid, and hands are working gently but inexorably to disentangle Harry's fingers from his hair. Harry finds his breath quickening in something that is almost but not quite like panic—unfamiliarity, perhaps, since he can't remember the last time he cried, let alone the last time anyone held him while he cried—and then he hears Snape's voice, not soothing, not even gentle, but firm, and maybe even kind, telling him to breathe, to calm himself and simply breathe.
Harry's hands close in the folds of the black robes filling his vision on all sides like the walls of a dark cupboard, and does his best to obey.
