Chapter 7
With one hand, he turned the slender and ornate silver knobs, polished, beyond perhaps, their former glory. He opened the pill bottle he had placed on the sink unceremoniously, shaking the bottle to place two of the tablets into his palm. Several more than he had intended shook free into his hand and he stared, mesmerized at the size-able white tablets. Feeling uncomfortable with his thoughts, he quickly placed the excess pills back into the orange capsule and closed it, shaking his head. Swallowing the pain killers, he suddenly felt a strong sense of shame. He owed his friends more than that, he reasoned. He owed his mother more than that.
He pulled himself onto the counter, bringing his knees to his chest as he watched the tub fill. Angry tears stung beneath his glasses but he shut his eyes against them and pressed his chin tighter into the cleft between his knees. He ran his hands through his hair from his temples to the nape of his neck, letting them rest there, clasped and heavy. The left was clunky and cumbersome in the cast and distracted him somewhat.
How had everything gotten so fucked up? How was it fair that he had overcome the unthinkable-escaped against all odds, only to be punished for it? Crippled. It is possible that your magic will never heal, Remus had said. What then? Could he live in the Wizarding World as Mrs. Figg or Filch did? Internally he recoiled at the idea. But what, then?
A muggle life? He'd had that for 11 years, surely he could endure it again. The more he thought about it, the less unappealing it became. To do one's own bed and lock one's own doors. To walk across a room to obtain a book. A thought occurred to him in the midst of this acceptance, though, causing him to laugh bitterly.
As if I could have any kind of life with Voldemort still at large, he realized. He didn't even consider it possible that he could win in some other way. Unfurling himself he turned the tap off-the tub had become excessively full while he was distracted with his thoughts.
Stripping fairly quickly, Harry supported himself on the wall as he lowered his legs, without grace, into the water that he had run slightly too hot. Distracted, he barely noticed the sting of his skin, the ache of his muscles, and the agony of his rear, instead relishing the chance to wash himself. He closed his eyes once more, resting his back against the tub side. He let his head hang, sloping his shoulders as he laced his fingers at his knees. He let his thoughts and his body slump against the edge, ragged and numb. It was here, at last, that something broke in him, and the strong wall he had built over the past two months was breached, finally. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
He grieved, eyes closed as tears streamed across his cheekbones, for the loss of his childhood, the loss of his magic. He grieved for the Wizarding World that continued on, even now, without the knowledge that the war was already over. They had already lost.
After a long half hour, he gathered himself. He set to washing himself with a washrag, slowly and deliberately, careful with scratches and bruises he was still finding on his skin. He wanted to scrub himself, to scrape his skin clean, but he knew it wouldn't erase what he had been through. His skin was a tapestry he couldn't wash clean. It felt bizarre to examine himself-even to touch himself for this long. He was thinner, scrawnier than he had been at the Dursley's; had it been the stress? How had he not noticed before? Little wonder; it had been two months since he had been allowed to bathe. Tergeo, a cleaning spell, was not the same as emerging from a warm bath.
He poured water on his back, hissing at the sting. Pulling the plug, he began the shower, stepping out of the rush of water and leaning forward so he could wash only his hair. Rinsing his front, he took a deep breath and turned the tap off. After patting himself dry, Harry grabbed alcohol from the counter and, sitting back into the tub with the wall for support, he poured a good portion down his back in a waterfall from one shoulder to the next. He cried out, but stifled it at the end, eyes closed against the pain.
A knock sounded at the door, followed by Hermione's voice, "Harry? Harry are you okay?"
Letting his head lull back in exasperation, Harry stepped back out of the tub and dried off the excess alcohol before responding tiredly, "Fine, Hermione. I'll be right out."
"S-Sorry, I just... I thought I heard..."
He didn't respond, just wrapped the towel around his waist, realizing he had forgotten a change of clothes. He caught a look at himself in the mirror and forgot his clothes and Hermione altogether. His hair was too long, but he had been shaved by someone-likely Mrs. Weasley-in his unconscious state. His cheekbones were more prominent from the weight-loss. He was not emaciated or sickly but gaunt-haunted. He was a different animal and it showed on his face; he was not the same person he had been in June. He tore away from his reflection, perturbed.
Wrenching the door open, he found Hermione, hand raised to knock again. She was surprised by his abrupt motion and she said nothing for a moment, stepping back to allow him into the hallway.
Self-conscious in only his towel, he nodded at her. "Let me get changed, and then you can, er, tell me...about your summer." Gathering herself, she started down the hallway before turning to add, "We'll be in Ron's room."
Harry glanced around his bedroom, realizing for the first time that he had no idea if he had any belongings here at all. Looking into his quarters in the daylight, he became aware of a small mahogany chest of drawers he had failed to notice before at the far end. He opened it to find a very small collection of garments approximately his size. Choosing a pair of sweats and some boxers, he drew both on stiffly before sweeping back into the hallway. His back still stung from the disinfectant and he couldn't imagine pulling on a shirt. Harry used the wall to support himself as he slid into Ron's bedroom.
Hermione sat on the four-poster while Ron leaned against it from the floor. He was reading a magazine that had the beaters from the Chudley Cannons racing across the front, his freckled face engrossed by the article he was skimming. Hermione was the first to look up from her tome, but Ron reacted fairly soon after. The ginger greeted him, uncertain.
" 'Ey, Mate."
They both eyed him cautiously, as though afraid he would turn around and return to his room if they made any sharp movements. Harry closed the door behind him before stepping onto the bed sluggishly, painfully aware of how much effort it took to settle himself at the headboard.
Breaking the silence, the Golden boy offered lamely, "What have you lot been up to since June?"
They glanced at each other, clearly unsure of what to say. Hermione, after a long pause, replied, "We've been here for most of it. Just, well, just cleaning and helping the Order." Harry spoke before thinking, blurting, "Here? Why not the Burrow?" They both stared at him, blankly, unsure of what to say. Finally, Ron corrected, "Well, er, we were. And 'Mione was visiting her folks for the first couple of weeks."
She nodded before adding, "Mostly we've been catching up on homework. Our Charm's essay is ridiculous, have you even looked at it yet-?" As soon as she finished the sentence, her eyes widened and she brought her hand to her lips. A profound look of remorse spread across her features. Everyone was silent, an awful awkwardness settling deep into small space between them.
Ignoring her question for a moment, Harry let his eyes wander around the room. A year ago, in this room he had been cross with his friends for leaving him out of the loop. He winced inwardly at the memory of his violent outburst. He realized humorlessly that this time it was he with all of the secrets, unable to clue them in for most of the summer. What terrible irony.
"You've been here, with the Order, searching for me."
Hermione regarded him for a moment before answering.
"Well, yes. Mr. Weasley came to tell me and I insisted that I come back with him. We were commuting from the Burrow for the first week, but it became so obvious... Dumbledore asked that we stay here; Sirius was pleased to have the company, of course."
She trailed off, her eyes tracing down from his face to the scars across this chest-the mark still healing around his exposed wrist where he had been bound. Ron, to his credit, had only glanced up at his recovered friend occasionally. Throwing the magazine aside, though, he turned to face the bed, elbows on his knees. His focus on Harry, he intoned firmly, "Listen, mate. I understand if you don't want to talk about it, but it's been hard, you know? We've been worried sick. We just heard the gist, that's all Mum and the Order would give us."
"They told us that you wandered beyond the wards at the end of the street, and that you'd been kidnapped. We were sure you'd... There was no way he'd keep you alive. All this time we've been looking for a body."
Hermione's voice broke, and she turned her head away. Harry's words sounded husky and strained, "I can't... I'm not..." Ron nodded and interrupted, "We're not pushing." Feeling as though he owed them some explanation, however, he continued.
"M-Malfoy Manor. I was... That's where they took me. And after I apparated, I-"
Hermione, unable to help herself, interjected,"-We don't take Apparition courses until next year!"
Harry blinked at them for a moment and exhaled a soft laugh. "I dunno, it just sort of happened. Adrenaline, panic. I knew... Where I didn't want to be-and I just..."
His friends stayed silent for a long moment, sure that he was done speaking before inquiring further.
"He was ready to kill you, Harry. How did you survive, all this time?"
At this, Harry scoffed. Fidgeting for a moment, he clenched his fists and looked away, unable to look at them both. He answered numbly, "After they... once I wasn't a threat, Voldemort decided that the blood magic would hold better if... They wanted to hold me, to-" he swallowed around a knot that appeared suddenly in his throat before continuing, embarrassed, "-to break me-until my next birthday. He said..." Harry cleared his throat. Ron held up a hand, "Harry, you don't have to-" At this, the brunette shook his head and looked down at his hands before raising his head and looking at them both.
"He wanted to wait until I was a man. It was about redemption as much as it was about magic. He said-well, he went on a lot about it. But mainly he said that when he killed me it would be the day I turned 17."
"Why take that risk?"
It was Ron that answered, however, "He didn't consider it a risk that he was taking. It was pride, but also a rite of power. He must have viewed it as a more potent way to overcome the prophesy."
"That would have been next July."
They took another moment to reflect on the eleven and a half months he would have had to endure. It would have been unthinkable. Harry closed his eyes against the thought, opening them to find that both Ron and Hermione were watching him. Some part of him still wished that Voldemort had killed him that first day he had opened his eyes and found himself in Malfoy manor.
Wordlessly, Hermione crossed the bed and lay her head on his chest, her arm across him. Though he flinched at her initial touch, he did not recoil. Ron, simultaneously clasped the inside of his good wrist, to which Harry responded by closing his fingers around Ron's forearm. They shared a knowing look.
The three sat there, Hermione recounting how the Order had searched, the long nights they had spent pouring over all the options. Ron told him how Mrs. Weasley had been inconsolable that first week, how Sirius had returned early July to find the entire house in mourning. How they had kept looking because they all had to know-had to find closure. He recounted the trip to the hospital where they had stitched him up and treated his internal wounds, how it had been Arthur who had suggested the muggle procedures when Dumbledore had brought him through the floo lines to Grimmauld Place.
Harry told them what Sirius had explained only an hour before, confessing to them that he may never recover. He did not divulge the consequences he foresaw in this, but he knew Hermione would realize them all the same. He described the events with Snape, last night, leaving out the nightmares, and Mrs. Weasley's rage this morning.
"How can you defend him? What a git! I can't believe he did that to you, Harry. That's below even Umbridge."
"I'm not defending him-he's an ass, for sure. All I said was that I goaded him."
"All this time he's been going to those meetings! He should have known where they were keeping you! What if he was-"
"-Ron."
Hermione, who had not spoken for a long moment during this exchange peered up at Harry, watching his face with a perceptive look of her own. The brunette shook his head and swallowed before correcting his friend, "I heard a lot of stuff, you know. I didn't see all of the Death Eaters. Not all of them knew about me, I think. I was a prize..." His voice was rough and quiet at this last word. Harry cleared his throat and tried again, "Snape asked, alright? Voldemort got really angry-really suspicious. I had a vision, where he tried to convince Riddle to let him... take part."
He swallowed, uncomfortable now. "And he, er-well, he said no. Voldemort doesn't trust him."
He found himself unable to say any more and he grew quiet, tense. He suddenly felt as though this admission had been too much. The vision had left a bad taste in his mouth. Such intense distrust from Voldemort meant that the Potions Master was as much in danger as he was. Potter wasn't sure if the request had been a genuine inquiry to join in the games, or to save Harry from captivity.
He couldn't find the words to describe it to his friends. He had regarded Snape as malicious and cold-a scapegoat to mistrust and villainize. But now? Harry was not sure if he should compare him to the feelings of torturous fear and repulsion with which he regarded Lucius Malfoy or Voldemort. Now that he knew what true monsters were capable of.
And what, exactly, was Snape capable of?
He lost himself in this inner conflict, gazing at the far wall absent-mindedly. None of them spoke for a long while. Hermione's head still resting on Harry's shoulder, an anchor, for now, to the overwhelming tide of what he had yet to bear. He, who had before been unable to stomach the idea of being coddled, found a quiet comfort in the resting silence that they shared, gently. They enjoyed it until Molly called for an early lunch, asking that they leave this simple mercy and return, once again, to the painful world of open spaces, awkward condolences and the reality of his impotency.
