CHAPTER SEVEN

Aftermath

Severus cursed vehemently under his breath.

That wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't expecting that to happen. Now, what was he to do? Inform Albus? Get Poppy? He'd done exactly that straight after he registered that the boy had indeed passed out, practically flying to the hearth with a theatric billow of his robes, uncaring of whether they'd get caught up in the flames or not. Andrew — blast the man for not imparting his last name! — had replaced Severus' previous stance, kneeling on the carpet floor next to Potter.

Poppy was the first to emerge from the flickering emerald flames, shoving past the Potions Master rather tactlessly before rushing to the side of her most recent patient. Severus didn't even bother throwing an angry remark at the flustering matron. Andrew was quick on his feet, swinging his body away just in time to avoid the charging nurse, settling himself closer to the armrest while he hovered over the boy with a frown on his lips. He looked up at Severus and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a second bout of swirling flames when Albus came through the fireplace.

Everything else had passed in a blur. Poppy levitating Potter onto a stretcher, Andrew leading them to the camp's own hospital wing, and Albus offering him a lemon drop for his thoughts. He had slapped the old man's hand harshly, not even bothering to explain himself. Albus, with his insufferable jubilance, laughed lightly at his antics.

"He'll be all right, Severus," he had said, planting a hand on Severus' shoulder. Severus restrained himself from shaking it off with a snarl. "Dear Poppy had just informed me that the possibilities of Harry going through a relapse were high, we just didn't know when it would've occurred. Quite unfortunate that it had to come about straight as the two of you arrived at the campsite."

Severus had scoffed but said nothing more.

And now, as he sat in the conjured leather armchair that Poppy had offered him from earlier, arms loosely hanging off from the sides, Severus wondered, not for the first time; of what had happened to the boy. Thank Merlin, the armchair was soft enough for him to sink into it a bit. He needed the physical comfort, as reluctant as he was to admit to it.

He looked at Potter, eyeing the laboured rise of his chest with every dry heave. His lips pursed, brows knitting together. He didn't like this, obviously, and with how vulnerable and debilitated Potter was appearing with each passing day, the thought of the child's potential death lingered heavily across his mind like a plague. Typical, he growled. Potters and their inherited magnet for trouble—

But the thought diminished before he could even finish it. He deflated with a long-suffering sigh, leaning further into the armchair's consolation. Poppy's words of "He's just a child, Severus," came flooding to the forefront of his mind intrusively. He bloody well knew that. "It certainly isn't his fault," he remembered her stating one night in the hospital wing — at Hogwarts — with her hands on her hips. Merlin, she was capable of being a down-right nuisance when she wanted to.

But, deep down, he understood what she was getting at. But those were his barriers, his walls. Composed of bitter resentment meant for a dead man already six feet under. He couldn't afford for those barriers to be broken down and stripped to their core, just by acknowledging the simple truth of it all. That Potter wasn't his father, that perhaps Severus was wrong about his presumptions. Because then, what else, exactly, did he have to uphold his indisputable prejudice and grudge against the boy? His heritage? Dear Merlin, no.

Severus found his eyes shifting down towards Potter's upper portion of his right arm, taking in the freshly applied gauze and bandages wrapped around it profoundly. And even then, with the excessive abundance of linen encased around the child's arm, it continued to gush with blood.

He winced.

Severus wasn't even certain if it even was blood. More than anything, it took on the guise of an inkier tint that was even darker than his own robes. He had questioned Poppy on it before, but all he received in response was a bite of her lip before Albus pushed himself into their conversation and steered him away with the promise of "Everything will be explained later," and then handing out the "my dear boy" card on him.

Nonetheless, it was… troubling to say the least.

He sighed. His ruminations weren't going to bring him anywhere close to a conclusion at this point in time, better to leave it for his future self to deal with tomorrow morning.

"I'm not leaving his bedside, Albus," a cranky, rather umbrageous voice pierced Harry's delicate ears. "And, quite frankly, for the record; you can't make me." Now that just sounded like something Malfoy would say, his nose in the air with a sneer plastered across his annoyingly punchable face.

There was a different one this time, sounding more elderly, weary. "That isn't what I was insinuating, Poppy," he sighed. Dumbledore, Harry realised with a small jolt. What's he doing here?

His eyes fluttered open gingerly, squinting tenderly before swallowing around a lump in his throat. He tried to shuffle around his body a bit, stretching his legs out underneath him while he tried to stifle — and failed — an overwhelmingly large yawn. Drowsiness kept him tethered to the bed, but as his head lolled towards his right shoulder, he hissed through his teeth before switching shoulders with a grunt.

"Potter."

Harry sniffled wetly but turned his head slackly towards the deep, baritone voice, keeping his eyes half-lidded at best. His first instinct would have been to sit up, but at the moment, he really just couldn't bring himself to be bothered right now. It wasn't like it would've made any difference.

"Yeah?" He cringed at how congested he must have sounded just then.

There was a sudden ruffle of clothes shuffling on his right, shortly followed by a scrape of a chair scratching along the floor. Next was the small weight that had settled down by his arm. He eyed the black portion of… he squinted at the object warily, cocking his head a little to the side as if changing the angle of what he was seeing would change it at all. It didn't. Instead, it only made his eyes hurt more, the blossoming headache building up behind his forehead not doing him any favours.

One chunk of it lifted up into the air, giving a subtle flourish before dropping back down. That black stuff was someone's arms, apparently. Harry didn't know, he just wanted his glasses, or, more preferably, time to sleep.

"No, Potter," an urgent hand latched onto his good shoulder, shaking him firmly enough to keep him cognizant and awake, but not uncomfortable and sore. "I need you to stay conscious," Harry lumbered his head around to look up at the person, eyelids drooping dangerously low as he forced them to stay open. He knows that voice, and he knows all too well of what might happen if he chose to oppose it. "Here." Soon, something stiff and metallic is passed into his hand — his left one, thankfully — and his fingers travel along the new article, feeling the slender temples and then the fragile, glass lenses.

His glasses. He hurriedly pushes them against his face, the temple pieces nestling behind his ears gingerly before the bridge of his glasses go running down past his nose slightly. Snape is there, fixating him with an odd look.

"Sorry, sir," Harry mutters, sheepishly adjusting his rounded glasses as his vision steadily floods back into focus.

Snape hums his quiet acquiescence but doesn't comment like Harry was expecting him to. Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey were talking — most likely arguing by the sounds of it, really — behind the white pinstripe curtains in hushed tones, but he could still just vaguely make out the whispered shrieks that were erupting out from the frantic nurse. He glances over to where his Professor was leaning against the bed, finding it oddly amusing when he finds the man wearily rubbing his forehead with his palm, one of his arms still resting across the mattress.

It was almost uncanny, in Harry's opinion, seeing Snape behaving so human.

Deciding to experiment just how much liberty he still currently sustained of his own body, Harry stretched his legs out a little, curling his toes and broadening his shoulders. He winced at the tightness in the fibres of his shoulders, muscles he didn't even know existed stretching a little too far. Snape seemed to notice this.

"Don't migrate your shoulders excessively, Potter," he shook his head to get the point across, forgoing his previously made actions of taking hold of the boy's shoulders again like before. He was inclining a little closer now, arms crossed on the side of the bed once more. Harry had half the mind to shuffle away from the man. "You'll only prove in straining your injuries even further than necessary. And, as any intelligent person would, you'll refrain from doing so if you ever wish to successfully return to society. Unless, of course, you want to stay bedridden for a more prolonged period of time with Madam Pomfrey?"

An involuntary shiver ran up Harry's spine at that. Madam Pomfrey, while demonstrating excelling dexterity in her occupation as a professional Healer, could be downright frightening and aggravating when it came around to discussing her bedside manners. There were only two options that you could pick from her; irritable mollycoddling or vehement aggression. Harry was mostly exposed to the latter, as his stubbornness determined him a nearly instant spot in that category. Or, rarely, it was a mixture of both.

"No," Harry tugged languidly at the rim of the thin blanket with his left hand, leaving the entirety of his right arm immobile. He squirmed a little before looking back at Snape, who had, at this time, managed to hold a potion vial up to his face. Harry leaned back instinctively, going nearly cross-eyed as he examined the contents within the bottled glass. Finally, he looked behind it and back at Snape. "Sir?"

"Drink it, Potter." He pressed the chilled vial into the palm of Harry's left hand, reclining back into his chair with his arms settled over each other. When Harry did nothing but stare at the glass bottle, Snape sighed exasperatedly before enlightening him. "It's a blood-replenishing potion, a topic we frequently examined in class?" The man raised a sardonic eyebrow, awaiting the boy's response with an air of indifference.

Harry flushed before stuttering out, "I know." He ripped the cork out with his teeth, inducing an imperceptible wince from Snape. "It has Valerian Roots, something Dittany, Neville— I mean, Nettle Leaves, and, um—" Risking a glance at Snape, he realises that the man's eyebrows have risen near his hairline, something foreign glistening in his dark tunnelling eyes. But it's gone before Harry was able to identify it.

"Fairy Wings, among other components," Snape dismisses it absently, running a finger along his lips thoughtfully. "So, you do take notes during class." It wasn't a question.

Harry bristled faintly, breathing deeply to assuage his nerves. He deflated with a sigh, sinking back farther into the feathery pillows beneath his head. "Yeah, always have," he snapped with as much defiance he could muster at that moment, going as far as to wave his hand in the air to corporally illustrate his frustration. "Even in my first year, first class. I wasn't just scribbling on my parchment."

Snape harrumphed and Harry could nearly hear the eye roll in his tone.

"I even remember bits of your speech," Harry started, deviating his gaze to a place on the ceiling. "I can teach you how to bewitch the mind, bottle fame, and even put a stopper in death. Something along those lines at least."

Silence.

Apprehensively, fearing that he had inexplicably said something erroneous or had somehow come off as provoking to the Potions Master, Harry drifted his gaze back towards Snape. The expression that the man had donned was startling at best; he was envisioning a sneer, perhaps even a snarl. He wasn't anticipating the scanty curve of the man's lips to be turned upwards in an almost recognizable appearance of a smirk, let alone a smile.

"It appears that there is a lingering brain cell of intellect in your mind," Snape's voice was lighter than before, Harry noticed. "We'll make a competent student out of you yet, Potter, mark my words."

Biting back the more venomous statements that were about to come gushing out of his mouth, Harry turned to look at the curtains that had abruptly been pulled apart from each other, revealing the figures of Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey.

The nurse's face was an intriguing shade of red at this time, and there were wayward strands of her greying hair standing out amongst tied-up bun. Dumbledore was comparably more composed than the woman, but the lines on his face were more pronounced than Harry had ever seen. The sparkle in his eyes was indistinct and nearly dull, and the old man was finally beginning to display his real age, seemingly ancient.

"Harry, my boy."

Harry jolted slightly but stared unwaveringly back at Dumbledore. Snape hadn't moved from his spot on the chair. The wizard cleared his throat roughly when the witch next to him nudged him angrily in the side.

"It would seem," Dumbledore started slowly, drawing out his words deliberately as he settled himself on the end of Harry's newly acquainted bed. "That we need to talk."

Eyebrows knitting together at the vague explanation, Harry blinked. "About what?"

Dumbledore looked over his shoulder for a short moment, sharing a look with Madam Pomfrey, who had sobered considerably with a frown of concern. Harry felt his stomach drop in sudden foreboding. When Dumbledore turned back to look at him, he felt an uncomfortable churning turning in his stomach.

Abruptly, the archaic wizard seemed to realize that Snape was in the room because as his eyes drifted over to the Potions Master, he made a beckoning gesture with his hand. With narrowed eyes, Snape positioned himself next to the Headmaster, sparing a glance towards the matron.

"Go, Severus," Dumbledore instructed stiffly, unusually austere in his tone of voice. Snape raised an eyebrow at the man, his eyes turning back to Harry momentarily before nodding and excusing himself through the curtains, the clicking of his boots against the floor echoing through the room.

Dumbledore looked back at Harry, eyes softening considerably.

"As of late, Madam Pomfrey found it prudent to... apprised me of some of the... peculiar markings that she's located on your body, Harry. Some of which concern us."

Eyes widening in sheer terror, Harry flicked his gaze towards the matron, betrayal and hurt evident in them. She didn't— no. She told me she wasn't going to—

"Where— how... did you get those scars on your back, my boy?"

The clicking of Snape's boots skidded to a halt. But, no one noticed.

A/N: small edit, adjusted a bit of the ending, just so snape could get out and be kinda in the dark about the things happening to harry. my laptop broke down, hence the overdue chapter. It's really rushed, I know. Unsure of when the next update will be, hopefully, it'll be out more quickly. Reviews are appreciated!