CHAPTER SIX

Jellybeans

Harry tumbled out of the floo haphazardly, arms flailing around in the air uselessly as they searched for some semblance of balance. A particularly nasty parliament of soot had been inhaled through his nose when he felt the breath knocked out of his lungs while they were flooing, causing him to wheeze harshly when a hand seized his shoulder, pulling him back from his impending fall to the ground.

He didn't even bother to acknowledge the touch, preferring to rather take the time to cover his mouth with his left forearm as he let out a whooping fit of coughs. They grew harsh and husky, snatching oxygen he didn't think he even still had out from his body. By the time he was able to finally get a break from the daily hindrance, both of Snape's hands had somehow grasped his shoulders with the man kneeling on the ground in front of him.

Surprised, and meekly embarrassed, Harry gave a shaky, nervous smile, swallowing around the lump that had begun to form in the back of his throat. The man's expression was throwing him off big time; Snape donned a frown — normal enough — but the unbidden concern and emotion swirling in the depths of his eyes spoke volumes through appearance and appearance alone.

This wasn't Snape — at least, not the Snape that Harry and plenty of his other classmates had had the honour of being in the presence of. That was the greasy bat of the dungeons, the professor that hated— no, despised Harry more than any Gryffindor in the school. And Harry knew that; he was familiar with that. But this… this was different, too different. Which meant that it was wrong. The Dursleys had always hated Harry, and he knew that. They didn't change, they didn't act differently, they were always the same: mean, spiteful, neglectful, the whole shazam.

So… why?

"Potter," Snape hissed, although not unkindly. Harry clenched his jaw and swallowed again, belatedly releasing the sudden moisture running down his cheeks. "Are you in any way injured?" The man prompted, hooking a finger underneath Harry's chin to raise it to a more tolerable eye level when the boy made a move to lower it to gaze at the floor.

Teary emerald met unfaltering obsidian, and Harry could feel his eyebrows lifting slightly at the sight of his oddly baffling Potions professor. "No," he said quietly, working his way around unclasping his jaw and clamping it back down again to avoid any perceptible movements that would give away the trembling building up in his bottom lip. "Just stinging," he added as an afterthought, darting his eyes to the side in hopes of evading any further eye contact.

He should have known that he wouldn't have been able to get away that easily from Snape.

"Potter."

Harry held his breath but kept his gaze fixated on an outlandish piece of ceramic artwork that was being openly displayed on a coffee table. He could accumulate that they were at least in a relatively small cottage of some sort, as the room was mostly just reminiscent of an old hunters lodge with a gathering of brown, leather chesterfield chairs laid out in the centre of the room. Even an entire wall was just made of glass, presenting a rather spectacular view of the outlining cabins that were scattered about along the tattered and faded trail that led down to the river and branched out further into the woodlands.

"Look at me," the words came out mellow and weary.

No doubt to the professor's relief, Harry slowly looked back at him, their eyes clashing together again. "Sorry," the boy murmured, glistening eyes imploring and zealous.

Snape sighed and pinched his nose before humming his quiet acquiescence, hoisting himself up from the floor before steering Harry in front of him, keeping a steady and guarding hand over his frighteningly thin shoulder. Harry was just grateful that the man had chosen to stay with his left shoulder instead of his right one. He wasn't lying about the stinging sensation that kept shooting up his veins though — but then again; when did it ever stop?

"Come," the man instructed a tad more seriously, settling back into the guise of his role as a teacher. "Sit." Snape directed Harry onto the left side of the sofa before taking his place on the chair directly next to him, glancing curiously at the boy that began to snuggle up towards the armrest comfortably.

Snape raised an insidious eyebrow but made no comment at the odd rumblings that had started to spill out from Harry's mouth. No need to make your level of comfort known, Potter. He thought wryly, brushing off any underlying soot or lint off from his robes.

Because yes, realistically speaking, he had indeed walked through one fireplace and into another and didn't come out all new and sparkling like some vehicle from the carwash — only the most simple-minded of people would think that someone would have the ability to come out untainted (unless, of course, if someone went out of their way as to dispensed the energy it would have taken to sufficiently charm themselves from getting even the slightest brush of dust, then yes, it would have been possible. But then again, exhausting yourself over something that mundane was simply obtuse.) Fireplaces, no matter the location, are always bound to have layers upon layers of filth and soot decorating them in every nook and crevice. There was plainly no escaping them.

Supposedly, Dumbledore's acquaintance was to be meeting up with them; or, at least, that was what Snape was presuming to happen. Merlin help him if he was expected to actually go out and perambulate the camping grounds with a little boy lagging behind him like some excess baggage. Speaking of the said little boy… Snape stared unashamedly at the top of Harry's hair.

Too thin, he furrowed his brows. Dangerously thin, perhaps malnutrition. Oh, most certainly malnutrition or something similar of the sort. Diminutive structure in addition, no taller than a fresh first year, not even that.

There was a sudden creak of a door opening in the other corner of the room, and Snape, vigilant as always, drew his wand out from under the sleeves of his robes but stayed seated. The chances of an authentic threat being present at that moment were low, but one could never be too careful. After all, jumping to his feet seemed a little too taxing at that moment. Not to mention particularly Gryffindor.

Ugh.

Harry's head jerked up at the noise, and he took a second to spare a solicitous look at Snape for having his wand out before he turned to the doorway that his professor was targeting. A man, dressed in a maroon flannel shirt and a simple pair of jeans stood there, hands surrendered up in the air as a placating gesture. The first thing that had caught Harry's eyes was the amicable gentleness in the man's face, a benign smile that was soft across his lips in a way familiar to Dumbledore's own. He apparelled his hair in a way that was almost imitating Harry's, the only difference in comparison being that it was more of an organised and well-tamed style. A light stubble littered the bottom of his chin, outlining and further enhancing his chiselled cheekbones.

"Vos noscere," the words rolled off of the stranger's tongue in practised ease, a flippant smile with dimples stretching along his face. Harry tilted his head to the side, still processing the new combination of words that had just been introduced to his ears. Was that English? He looked over his shoulder quickly for confirmation and saw a frown marring Snape's countenance. At least he wasn't the only one not able to translate the man's words.

A clearing of the throat made Harry look back at the unperturbed man. "Better translated as "Nice to meet you" in Latin, if you didn't know," he elucidated buoyantly, sending a searching look at the two of them. His vivacious caramel eyes fell short on Snape then, sparkling dangerously with the telltale signs of mischief ingrained in them. Already, Snape could feel himself instinctively scorning the man with a burning passion.

"You can call me Andrew," he chirped, taking his first steps inside and settling himself on the other end of the couch's armrest with his legs crossed over each other, his hands clasped together in front of him. He adamantly overlooked the fact that Snape still had his wand out, pointing it blatantly in his direction. "I'm trusting that Albus has sent you two through our floo network?"

Snape snorted derisively. "Questioning the obvious now, are we? Honestly, are you truly that dense as to inquire that now of all times?" Maybe it was his annoyance at having been dragged into this mess without a word of consent from his part, but his tirade only fulfilled in its offering of adding fuel to his fire and tirade. "No wonder you're considered as a confidant to that senile old fool. What? Do you go around handing out pathetic lemon drops to everyone you meet, too?"

More than willing to indulge upon the man, Andrew reached into the pockets of his jeans, jostling a small plastic packet out of them. "Actually, I prefer to give out jellybeans—" Snape gave a strangled groan while he sheathed his wand and ran a hand over his face. "—the muggle sort, of course. I find them much more favourable rather than the typical Bertie and Botts every flavour beans. Oh, that vomit flavoured bean leaves the worst aftertaste one could ever imagine. Toilet water, really."

Harry looked over his shoulder at Snape again, the only hint of his amusement being the small grin that had managed to snake across his mouth. Turning back, he tried to heave himself into a proper seating position, only to hiss through his teeth sharply when he realised — rather belatedly — that he laid too much pressure on his right arm. The wound itself had reopened slightly, inadvertently causing an ominous, black substance to slip through the sutures. The gauze that Madam Pomfrey had just recently applied around his upper arm earlier in the morning hours had dampened considerably, the liquidated substance slipping through the material as if it were tissue.

This time, Snape had leapt to his feet — something he'll never admit to — and was kneeling by Harry's side with his hands holding his shoulders. "Lay down, Potter," was his demand. Though his voice lacked it's usual vindictiveness and snark, the authority in it was still there, more pronounced and, strangely, desperate. "Don't move." Harry steadily settled himself back onto the armrest he was already leaning against, taking care to not jostle his right arm any more than he already had.

Andrew was standing behind the couch by the time Harry had finally managed to make himself comfortable, Snape having retreated his hands from his shoulders, but continuing to stay in his place.

"Is he all right?" Andrew's voice was faint and distant, Harry noticed dazedly. He brought his left arm out from underneath and tenderly grazed the upper portion of his right one. When he pulled his fingers up to his face, he felt himself freeze. Snape was talking, but his voice went lost in a sea of buzzing static in the background.

Blood.

But it wasn't the regular colour of crimson that he had come to associate it with his blood.

It was black. Black blood.

It was smeared across his fingertips, staining his nails, and the smell was utterly putrid. Forget vomit flavoured jelly beans, this was disgusting. If he were to have even an inkling of knowledge of what human entrails smelt like, this was it. And it was on his fingers.

At that moment, he just wanted it gone, off of his body. He didn't want anything to do with it.

At that moment, he felt the same pair of hands shake his shoulders frantically, albeit gently.

At that moment, he felt his world become enveloped in a familiar darkness that sunk his consciousness into the deepest recesses of his mind.

A/N: Apologies for the short chapters and impromptu writing. Reviews are appreciated (yes, even keyboard smashing ones) and believe it or not, bring along strong bouts of motivation for me to keep stories updated and continued! Also, a quick reminder to all of you to stay safe and healthy! 3