7.
Harry spent the next hour and a half in the shower. He stayed in the shower through Transfigurations period and most of dinner, just standing under the scalding spray, turning up the temperature until his skin was bright pink and his head swam with sensation.
But he couldn't stay in the shower forever.
When he emerged, the mirror clucked at him sympathetically.
"Been a long day, has it?"
Harry shrugged, wiping the steamy lenses of his glasses on his bathrobe. He checked his reflection without interest. His skin was puffy from the heat. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen.
Shoulders slumped, he left the bathroom ("chin up, dearie!" the mirror called after him). His stomach grumbled gently, reminding him that dinner was almost over, and it was still empty. But he was exhausted, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was face dinner in the Great Hall. Maybe if he lay down for a few hours, he could sleep a little, and sneak out to the kitchens after everyone else was asleep. He crawled into bed, drew the curtain securely, and immediately fell into unconsciousness.
Harry woke in total darkness. He felt a million times better, except for his stomach, which cramped painfully. He hurried out of bed and into his invisibility cloak.
He was moving toward the door, tucking the Marauders Map into his pocket, when his foot caught on the hem of the cloak and he went sprawling into a pile of Ron's Quidditch Weekly back issues. The magazines scattered noisily and Harry pitched forward, landing on his stomach in the middle of the pile.
Someone snorted loudly. Ron shifted in his sleep and muttered something unintelligible.
After a moment everything was quiet, and Harry breathed again, absurdly grateful that Ron had not woken up. He felt guilty for avoiding his friends- -Ron and Hermione must be worried about him, especially since he hadn't shown up for dinner--but he couldn't bring himself to face them, not yet, with everything so fresh in his mind.
The time he had spent under the truth serum felt somehow separated from real life. Everything had been different, in ways he couldn't explain. He had felt...invulnerable, as if nothing in his life could touch him. Supernaturally confident, because all the answers in the world were just hanging in the air before him, waiting to be picked up. For an hour he hadn't been afraid; everything had fit together perfectly and beautifully in his mind. He remembered a wonderful feeling of peace with his father and Sirius, and strangest of all, an odd feeling of tenderness for Snape.
Snape. His mind balked at the thought of his Potions professor. There was just...too much there; too much emotion, too much history. It was a mess of strange, powerful thoughts, and he wanted to stay well away from them.
Snape was a petty and cruel. He also was a victim. And a spy, and a Death Eater, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore trusted Snape. Harry had seen Snape as a child, crying as his father terrorized his mother, as a teenager, awkward and vicious and bullied, and as an adult, ready to deliver two innocent men to the Dementors. Snape had humiliated Harry in front of the class with sadistic glee. Snape had carefully supported Harry's head while Harry drank the truth serum antidote. It was just...too much. He had to put it out of his mind.
Harry stood up silently, picked his way through the scattered magazines. He hurried down the stairs and through the common room. The Fat Lady's portrait swung closed behind him (she was snoring softly in her frame, and didn't seem to notice him passing), and he plunged his hand into his pocket for the Marauders Map.
The pocket was empty.
He checked his other pockets. Nothing. He must have lost it when he fell.
Right. Just brilliant.
Well, he certainly wasn't going to risk going back for it; in the dark, in this state, he would probably bring the entire dormitory down. Besides, with the invisibility cloak, he shouldn't need it. He would be careful. He squared his shoulders and continued toward the kitchens.
Walking through Hogwarts at night filled him with a feeling of quiet excitement. The school hummed with dormant magic. He felt a peculiar intimacy with the building itself, as if in the dim and quiet he could feel its rhythms. He crept past the sleeping portraits, down the stairs to the entrance hall, and down the corridor toward the kitchens. He glanced quickly about, and then tickled the pear in the painting, and swung it open.
Harry froze.
Severus Snape was sitting at a long wooden table, holding a steaming cup of tea with both hands. As the painting swung open, his head snapped up.
"Potter!" Snape rose, his eyes narrowing.
Harry's knees threatened to buckle, and a peculiar sensation of numbness spread through his body. He was not ready to face Snape, not now.
Snape moved slowly around the table, staring at the spot where Harry stood. He stopped in front of the painting and crossed his arms, long white fingers standing out against his black robes.
"Potter, I know you're there," Snape whispered, advancing slowly, "I can hear you breathing."
Harry closed his mouth quickly and concentrated on breathing deeply and evenly through his nose. Snape's eyes darted around impatiently, as if he thought he could strip the cloak from Harry by sheer force of will. Harry took a silent step back. And another. He told himself that he was safely hidden, that Snape could not possibly see him, but he was sure of nothing where Snape was concerned.
Suddenly Snape lunged forward, waving his arms wildly in the space where the painting opened.
Harry would have been fine, if he had kept his head and stayed where he was. Instead he scrambled backwards, tripped over his invisibility cloak again, and fell hard on his back.
A moment of disorientation. Harry's hand went instinctively to straighten his glasses, and Snape came into focus, standing over him like a great black bat. The hood of Harry's cloak must have been dislodged in the fall, because Snape was looking right at him, eyes glittering with recognition and triumph.
Harry spent the next hour and a half in the shower. He stayed in the shower through Transfigurations period and most of dinner, just standing under the scalding spray, turning up the temperature until his skin was bright pink and his head swam with sensation.
But he couldn't stay in the shower forever.
When he emerged, the mirror clucked at him sympathetically.
"Been a long day, has it?"
Harry shrugged, wiping the steamy lenses of his glasses on his bathrobe. He checked his reflection without interest. His skin was puffy from the heat. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen.
Shoulders slumped, he left the bathroom ("chin up, dearie!" the mirror called after him). His stomach grumbled gently, reminding him that dinner was almost over, and it was still empty. But he was exhausted, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was face dinner in the Great Hall. Maybe if he lay down for a few hours, he could sleep a little, and sneak out to the kitchens after everyone else was asleep. He crawled into bed, drew the curtain securely, and immediately fell into unconsciousness.
Harry woke in total darkness. He felt a million times better, except for his stomach, which cramped painfully. He hurried out of bed and into his invisibility cloak.
He was moving toward the door, tucking the Marauders Map into his pocket, when his foot caught on the hem of the cloak and he went sprawling into a pile of Ron's Quidditch Weekly back issues. The magazines scattered noisily and Harry pitched forward, landing on his stomach in the middle of the pile.
Someone snorted loudly. Ron shifted in his sleep and muttered something unintelligible.
After a moment everything was quiet, and Harry breathed again, absurdly grateful that Ron had not woken up. He felt guilty for avoiding his friends- -Ron and Hermione must be worried about him, especially since he hadn't shown up for dinner--but he couldn't bring himself to face them, not yet, with everything so fresh in his mind.
The time he had spent under the truth serum felt somehow separated from real life. Everything had been different, in ways he couldn't explain. He had felt...invulnerable, as if nothing in his life could touch him. Supernaturally confident, because all the answers in the world were just hanging in the air before him, waiting to be picked up. For an hour he hadn't been afraid; everything had fit together perfectly and beautifully in his mind. He remembered a wonderful feeling of peace with his father and Sirius, and strangest of all, an odd feeling of tenderness for Snape.
Snape. His mind balked at the thought of his Potions professor. There was just...too much there; too much emotion, too much history. It was a mess of strange, powerful thoughts, and he wanted to stay well away from them.
Snape was a petty and cruel. He also was a victim. And a spy, and a Death Eater, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore trusted Snape. Harry had seen Snape as a child, crying as his father terrorized his mother, as a teenager, awkward and vicious and bullied, and as an adult, ready to deliver two innocent men to the Dementors. Snape had humiliated Harry in front of the class with sadistic glee. Snape had carefully supported Harry's head while Harry drank the truth serum antidote. It was just...too much. He had to put it out of his mind.
Harry stood up silently, picked his way through the scattered magazines. He hurried down the stairs and through the common room. The Fat Lady's portrait swung closed behind him (she was snoring softly in her frame, and didn't seem to notice him passing), and he plunged his hand into his pocket for the Marauders Map.
The pocket was empty.
He checked his other pockets. Nothing. He must have lost it when he fell.
Right. Just brilliant.
Well, he certainly wasn't going to risk going back for it; in the dark, in this state, he would probably bring the entire dormitory down. Besides, with the invisibility cloak, he shouldn't need it. He would be careful. He squared his shoulders and continued toward the kitchens.
Walking through Hogwarts at night filled him with a feeling of quiet excitement. The school hummed with dormant magic. He felt a peculiar intimacy with the building itself, as if in the dim and quiet he could feel its rhythms. He crept past the sleeping portraits, down the stairs to the entrance hall, and down the corridor toward the kitchens. He glanced quickly about, and then tickled the pear in the painting, and swung it open.
Harry froze.
Severus Snape was sitting at a long wooden table, holding a steaming cup of tea with both hands. As the painting swung open, his head snapped up.
"Potter!" Snape rose, his eyes narrowing.
Harry's knees threatened to buckle, and a peculiar sensation of numbness spread through his body. He was not ready to face Snape, not now.
Snape moved slowly around the table, staring at the spot where Harry stood. He stopped in front of the painting and crossed his arms, long white fingers standing out against his black robes.
"Potter, I know you're there," Snape whispered, advancing slowly, "I can hear you breathing."
Harry closed his mouth quickly and concentrated on breathing deeply and evenly through his nose. Snape's eyes darted around impatiently, as if he thought he could strip the cloak from Harry by sheer force of will. Harry took a silent step back. And another. He told himself that he was safely hidden, that Snape could not possibly see him, but he was sure of nothing where Snape was concerned.
Suddenly Snape lunged forward, waving his arms wildly in the space where the painting opened.
Harry would have been fine, if he had kept his head and stayed where he was. Instead he scrambled backwards, tripped over his invisibility cloak again, and fell hard on his back.
A moment of disorientation. Harry's hand went instinctively to straighten his glasses, and Snape came into focus, standing over him like a great black bat. The hood of Harry's cloak must have been dislodged in the fall, because Snape was looking right at him, eyes glittering with recognition and triumph.
