Title: Without Armor (2/?)
Author: Vita Brevis (altariel@lycos.co.uk)
Pairing: mainly HP/SS
Rating: Pg-13 for now
Summary: Snape feels responsible for Harry, and from there, their
relationship grows. All from Snape's POV.
Archive: go ahead, but ask me first.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Again, this fic will never exist without help from Theresa Ann Wymer.
Chapter 2
I have known sorrow and learned to aid the wretched. -Virgil
A few days passed without any incident. I watched the boy closely during meals or whenever I had the chance to, while trying hard to be discreet. It became more difficult, because many of my own students were watching me closely. The most dangerous one, surprisingly, wasn't Draco Malfoy, but Blaise Zabini, whose father was the most cunning among the Death Eaters. That boy wasn't special to untrained eyes, but the staff knew that he was perceptive and dangerous beyond his age, just like his father who always worked behind the scene for Voldemort. One could hardly know what lay beneath the family's trademarked cold and composed expression; it was as if they didn't have any feelings at all. Only a handful of people knew of the Zabinis' involvement with the Dark Lord, even among the Death Eaters. If Wormtail hadn't been so careless that he didn't notice being followed by Black in his mutt form to the Zabini Manor, I would have been dead right now.
And who knew how many more unidentified enemies were still lurking in this school? This was the thing I hated most about my House: they were so unpredictable. Except Draco Malfoy, of course. He was but a spoiled child, arrogant and big mouthed, eager to boast about his family's involvement in Dark Arts.
I turned my gaze to Potter. He'd only eaten a diminutive amount of food those last few days. There were dark circles around his eyes and his cheeks looked thinner. He barely talked with his friends and seemed to withdraw to himself. His best friends tried to comfort him, but without much success. Potter never played Quidditch anymore, maybe because it reminded him of Cho. Besides, I was certain that Hooch wouldn't allow him tp fly in his distracted condition.
All the teachers, not just me, had been worried about him. But they weren't certain of how to approach the boy, let alone offer comfort and support. So they just left the boy alone though he was certainly not paying attention in classes. "His case is unique", said Sprout.
Cowards, I scowled inwardly. They just preferred to wait until someone else stepped out to help the boy. Bystander effect, they called it, the presence of other bystanders decreases the likelihood that someone will step up and help.
Not if I had any say in it.
I finished my lunch and headed back to the dungeon. Today, I was going to teach them to brew a kind of anti-depressant. Hopefully one of them, Granger no doubt, would get it right so I could test it on Potter.
**************
"Potter, you sit with Granger and *do* try not to blow up anything this once, would you? Weasley, you sit with Longbottom." I smirked at the redhead's aggravated expression.
"Today we will attempt to brew the most delicate potion ever taught at Hogwarts. At the end of the lesson, you'll test you're the results on yourselves. Hopefully it will give you enough motivation to concentrate." Their horrified expressions delighted me up more than any Cheering Potion. But Potter's expressionless face spoiled my joy entirely.
They scurried to work, chopping ingredients, boiling water, flipping the pages of their Potion books for the instruction. I walked around, frightening them every time I pointed out something that was not done correctly.
"Miss Brown, do you wish to grow green tentacles all over your face?"
"No. Professor."
"Then why do you add the ginger BEFORE the powdered unicorn horn? Ten points from Gryffindor. Throw this rubbish away and start all over again."
"Good work, Mr. Malfoy. Twenty points to Slytherin." Draco smirked smugly. I was really tempted to spank the boy.
"Mr. Longbottom, for once PAY ATTENTION TO THE INSTRUCTION! START ALL OVER AGAIN." I bellowed furiously. The idiot almost blew up the whole class by adding the ingredients at the wrong time and in the wrong amount. "And that would be twenty points from Gryffindor."
And so the routine went on. I ignored Potter completely, more because Granger made sure everything was done correctly rather than restraint from my side.
Two hours passed and I called them to stop. "Now, it's time to take a dose of your own medicine." The whole class, minus the Slytherins, looked terribly terrified. I turned to examine Granger and Potter's cauldron. It was perfect as I had predicted before. Too potent, even. I suspected Granger had dared to experiment a little.
"Potter, Granger, each of you, drink a spoonful of your potion." Granger paled slightly. Such a potent potion would made them laugh for at least an hour.
They dipped the spoons cautiously and drank. The next second, Granger laughed uncontrollably and only after I administered the counter potion could she stop laughing. Dear Merlin, the potion was even more potent than I previously suspected!
Potter, however, was only giggling for a few minutes and stopped. Sweet Salazar!
"Detentions for the two of you for daring to experiment without my consent. Tonight, eight o'clock and don't be late, or it'll be fifty points."
***************************
They arrived precisely at eight o'clock. I assigned Granger to the library to summarize a very thick Potion book, due tomorrow. I had known that it was not entirely her fault that her potion became so potent. Drier ingredients made the Cheering Potion more potent, and she had collected hers long before the other students did. However, why ruin my reputation by canceling the detention? Besides, this was a good chance to speak to Potter alone.
"Potter, grind these cobra fangs finely." He nodded and began to work while I graded the first years' horrible excuse for essays.
It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes to complete the simple task I gave him. Yet, it took almost an hour before the task was done. He worked absentmindedly, sometimes he even almost ground his own fingers in result.
To my surprise, his face wasn't expressionless anymore. He didn't have enough energy to maintain his mask for a whole day. He was tired, that was apparent. He looked downcast and sad. Tragedies these last few years had taken a great toll on him. He no longer looked like a perfect imitation of James Potter; jovial and cheerful, as if the world revolved around him. Harry looked so old, so worn out, crushed by the burdens he was carrying.
He put the cleaned equipment into the shelf and looked at me. He didn't put his mask back on though; he seemed to be too tired to care. "What else must I do, Sir?" he asked, not believing that I was so kind as to assign him such a simple task.
That was your chance, Severus.
"Come with me, Potter."
I rose and headed out from the classroom. I locked the classroom carefully and heading to my chamber. He looked bewildered but didn't dare to ask a question. I whispered my password, "Dumbledore", and Salazar's painting swung open.
"Come in, Mr. Potter. And stop gaping like a fish."
He walked in warily. When I closed the door, he jumped.
"I assure you that if I wanted to have my wicked way with you, I wouldn't bring you into my private chamber to accomplish my purpose."
He blushed. I smirked.
"Do sit down."
He sat carefully on a sofa, as if there were a booby trap on the thing.
I poured a glass of butterbeer and handed it to him. I poured myself a double shot of scotch.
"Thank you, Sir." But he didn't drink.
"No matter what you and your companions think of me, Mr. Potter, your virtue is safe with me. I'd no sooner bed you than marry your mutt godfather. Besides, I don't want to suffer a fate worse than Cruciatus should Albus suspect that I have corrupted his golden boy." I smiled wryly.
He smiled a little at my sarcastic assurance and sipped his drink. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the drink spread through his body. He emptied the glass quickly.
"More?"
He nodded. I filled his glass. "Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome."
We sat in awkward silence. I didn't know how to talk to him, while he was certainly confused at my recent attitude toward him. We sipped our drinks quietly, trying hard to pretend to be occupied by our own thoughts. But we were not. The boy stole a glance at me whenever he thought I was not looking, while I stared into the fire, thinking about my duty.
I really had no idea how to get through him. If only I had been as wise as Albus. Well, better try that old man's tactic. He had coaxed me to talk, when I came to him with my guilt, by telling me about his life: his struggle when fighting against Grindelwald and his guilt the unavoidable losses. Baring my soul to Potter wasn't something I was looking forward, but I didn't know any other way.
"I was raised mainly by the house-elves. My father hated me, because my mother died when she gave birth to me. Mostly, he just ignored me, pretending that I didn't exist. But every time I did something that disappointed him, like failing my Transfiguration exam, he never forgot to tell me how exactly he felt about me, and why. I was never forgiven for staying alive while his lover was not."
"But that is not fair!" He was shocked. Either by my willingness to tell him my secrets or by the fact that such a parent existed, I couldn't tell.
I chuckled mirthlessly. "This world is hardly a fair place, Mr. Potter."
"But... He can't blame you for something you didn't do! It's not your fault that your mother passed away," he said heatedly. Ah, Gryffindor to the core who couldn't stand any thought of unfairness.
"So, if it isn't my fault that my mother died while gave birth to me, is it your fault that you survived while others didn't, Potter?" I looked at him sharply. "What did you do to deserve the guilt?"
"I. I.," he struggled for words but could not find any. He slumped against the chair, clutching his empty glass on his chest, while the implication of my statement sank in.
I finished my scotch, feeling smug (Albus, you must be proud of me) and relieved that I finally got through to Potter somehow. I knew this was not enough though. Grief was a complicated matter. Although I could make him throwing away the ridiculous notion that he was responsible for the deaths, he would need more than that to cope with his own losses and his responsibility as the Wizarding World's hero.
"It is getting late. You must return to your room."
"Yeah." He put down his glass. "Thank you, Professor."
I nodded. "I must warn you though. Keep this conversation a secret. You know what is at stake."
He nodded, knowing that I was working for Albus as a spy.
"In times like these, one cannot be entirely certain of who the enemies are and who're not." I reminded him of Pettigrew.
"Yes, Sir."
"Good night, Harry."
He looked stunned hearing me calling his first name, but quickly composed himself. "Good night, Sir."
He had walked to the door, ready to open the door when I said, "You are most welcome here anytime. Just remember to be discreet. And as much it pains me for saying this, use that damn cloak of yours."
"Yes, Sir," he answered; his voice showed his surprise. I smirked again. I bet this was the most extraordinary night in his life: Severus Snape, the greasy bastard of Hogwarts suddenly invited Harry Potter, the bane of his existence, for a drink, giving him advice and. surprise surprise, he even invited the brat back! He must have thought I have gone mad.
He was probably right.
*****************
"I lost Pinky, the house-elf who raised me, when I was twelve. She passed away because of old age. I was at Hogwarts when it happened; I didn't find out until I returned home for the summer. I didn't even know where she was buried; you know how wizards treat the House elves. I didn't cry."
A week after our little "chat", he visited my chamber. I didn't say anything. I just let him in and poured a glass of butterbeer. He was sitting on the sofa, right on the spot he had previously engaged, across my favorite love seat, and sipping his drink in silence. After twenty minutes or so, I broke the silence by telling him another story , hoping that this time, I would get a better reaction from him.
He finished his butterbeer and I filled his glass again. I gulped down my double Scotch and pour myself another. I had started drinking again after I rejoined the Death Eaters, and this time was this habit would help me keep talking. Speaking about your deepest secret wasn't an easy thing to do, though it was hardly compared to the sacrifices I made as a spy.
"I guess that was when my heart started to become callous. I often thought that if I could endure so many hardships without shedding a tear, as a strong man is supposed to be, then people who cry and whine are weak."
"That is until I saw Albus cry."
Potter's head turned to me in surprise.
"Yes, Albus cried. I saw him cry twice. Once at your parents' funeral."
"And?"
I sighed and emptied my tumbler. "The other was when I confessed my involvement with Voldemort to him. His eyes were wet. And that, more than anything else, made me realized of how deep was his concern for me."
"Do you ever cry?"
"After Pinky's death? Yes. The most memorable is when I found Pinky's grave, shown to me by her fellow house elves. I was thirty-one by then, but I cried like a five-year old."
"Did it make you feel better?"
I looked at him in the eye. "Yes. And I regretted not doing it sooner."
"Albus told me once that contrary to popular belief, crying is not a weakness. It is an act of courage, to face the pain and your own weaknesses."
His lips trembled and I knew what would happen next. I walked to him and sat beside him. Mimicking what Albus had done to me years ago, I circled my arm around his shoulder and pulled him to my embrace, though awkwardly. His body shook with suppressed sobs; his howl of pain was muffled by his hands, which were covering his face.
"Just let it out, Harry."
My words broke his defenses. He cried onto my chest, soaking my robe and shirt entirely with his warm tears. Pinky used to rub my back when I was in distress and that was what I did to him now.
"I miss them so much," he said between his sobs.
I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say, so I just let him talk.
"I miss Mrs. Weasley. She's like a mum to me. She held me in Infirmary, when Cedric died."
I continued to rub his back, feeling my heart break little by little at the sounds of his sobbing and his admission of pain.
"I miss Hagrid. He was my first friend. He's the one who made my dreams come true: he took me away from the Dursleys."
"I miss Cho. God, how I love her!" He gripped my robe and cried harder.
A few minutes passed like eternity. Finally, his sobbing subsided. He wiped away his tears, feeling ashamed of breaking down in front of me, his hated enemy. But I guess he couldn't help it. He was overloaded.
"I guess they are happy now. Cho is with Cedric now." He gave a mirthless laugh.
I didn't respond to that. Instead, I brought him a glass of water and a phial of Calming Potion. "Here, drink these."
He complied without question. Having gulped down the water and potion, he yawned. I transfigured the sofa into a cot and a handkerchief into a blanket.
"You'll sleep here tonight. Tell your friends that you spent the night in the Infirmary. I'll straighten this out with Poppy later."
He stretched out on the cot and laid his head on the cushion, making himself comfortable. I let the fire burn to keep him warm. The emotional bloodletting we had done tonight was certainly exhausting. I went to bed, hoping to get some sleep.
It didn't come.
***************************
Again, this fic will never exist without help from Theresa Ann Wymer.
Chapter 2
I have known sorrow and learned to aid the wretched. -Virgil
A few days passed without any incident. I watched the boy closely during meals or whenever I had the chance to, while trying hard to be discreet. It became more difficult, because many of my own students were watching me closely. The most dangerous one, surprisingly, wasn't Draco Malfoy, but Blaise Zabini, whose father was the most cunning among the Death Eaters. That boy wasn't special to untrained eyes, but the staff knew that he was perceptive and dangerous beyond his age, just like his father who always worked behind the scene for Voldemort. One could hardly know what lay beneath the family's trademarked cold and composed expression; it was as if they didn't have any feelings at all. Only a handful of people knew of the Zabinis' involvement with the Dark Lord, even among the Death Eaters. If Wormtail hadn't been so careless that he didn't notice being followed by Black in his mutt form to the Zabini Manor, I would have been dead right now.
And who knew how many more unidentified enemies were still lurking in this school? This was the thing I hated most about my House: they were so unpredictable. Except Draco Malfoy, of course. He was but a spoiled child, arrogant and big mouthed, eager to boast about his family's involvement in Dark Arts.
I turned my gaze to Potter. He'd only eaten a diminutive amount of food those last few days. There were dark circles around his eyes and his cheeks looked thinner. He barely talked with his friends and seemed to withdraw to himself. His best friends tried to comfort him, but without much success. Potter never played Quidditch anymore, maybe because it reminded him of Cho. Besides, I was certain that Hooch wouldn't allow him tp fly in his distracted condition.
All the teachers, not just me, had been worried about him. But they weren't certain of how to approach the boy, let alone offer comfort and support. So they just left the boy alone though he was certainly not paying attention in classes. "His case is unique", said Sprout.
Cowards, I scowled inwardly. They just preferred to wait until someone else stepped out to help the boy. Bystander effect, they called it, the presence of other bystanders decreases the likelihood that someone will step up and help.
Not if I had any say in it.
I finished my lunch and headed back to the dungeon. Today, I was going to teach them to brew a kind of anti-depressant. Hopefully one of them, Granger no doubt, would get it right so I could test it on Potter.
**************
"Potter, you sit with Granger and *do* try not to blow up anything this once, would you? Weasley, you sit with Longbottom." I smirked at the redhead's aggravated expression.
"Today we will attempt to brew the most delicate potion ever taught at Hogwarts. At the end of the lesson, you'll test you're the results on yourselves. Hopefully it will give you enough motivation to concentrate." Their horrified expressions delighted me up more than any Cheering Potion. But Potter's expressionless face spoiled my joy entirely.
They scurried to work, chopping ingredients, boiling water, flipping the pages of their Potion books for the instruction. I walked around, frightening them every time I pointed out something that was not done correctly.
"Miss Brown, do you wish to grow green tentacles all over your face?"
"No. Professor."
"Then why do you add the ginger BEFORE the powdered unicorn horn? Ten points from Gryffindor. Throw this rubbish away and start all over again."
"Good work, Mr. Malfoy. Twenty points to Slytherin." Draco smirked smugly. I was really tempted to spank the boy.
"Mr. Longbottom, for once PAY ATTENTION TO THE INSTRUCTION! START ALL OVER AGAIN." I bellowed furiously. The idiot almost blew up the whole class by adding the ingredients at the wrong time and in the wrong amount. "And that would be twenty points from Gryffindor."
And so the routine went on. I ignored Potter completely, more because Granger made sure everything was done correctly rather than restraint from my side.
Two hours passed and I called them to stop. "Now, it's time to take a dose of your own medicine." The whole class, minus the Slytherins, looked terribly terrified. I turned to examine Granger and Potter's cauldron. It was perfect as I had predicted before. Too potent, even. I suspected Granger had dared to experiment a little.
"Potter, Granger, each of you, drink a spoonful of your potion." Granger paled slightly. Such a potent potion would made them laugh for at least an hour.
They dipped the spoons cautiously and drank. The next second, Granger laughed uncontrollably and only after I administered the counter potion could she stop laughing. Dear Merlin, the potion was even more potent than I previously suspected!
Potter, however, was only giggling for a few minutes and stopped. Sweet Salazar!
"Detentions for the two of you for daring to experiment without my consent. Tonight, eight o'clock and don't be late, or it'll be fifty points."
***************************
They arrived precisely at eight o'clock. I assigned Granger to the library to summarize a very thick Potion book, due tomorrow. I had known that it was not entirely her fault that her potion became so potent. Drier ingredients made the Cheering Potion more potent, and she had collected hers long before the other students did. However, why ruin my reputation by canceling the detention? Besides, this was a good chance to speak to Potter alone.
"Potter, grind these cobra fangs finely." He nodded and began to work while I graded the first years' horrible excuse for essays.
It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes to complete the simple task I gave him. Yet, it took almost an hour before the task was done. He worked absentmindedly, sometimes he even almost ground his own fingers in result.
To my surprise, his face wasn't expressionless anymore. He didn't have enough energy to maintain his mask for a whole day. He was tired, that was apparent. He looked downcast and sad. Tragedies these last few years had taken a great toll on him. He no longer looked like a perfect imitation of James Potter; jovial and cheerful, as if the world revolved around him. Harry looked so old, so worn out, crushed by the burdens he was carrying.
He put the cleaned equipment into the shelf and looked at me. He didn't put his mask back on though; he seemed to be too tired to care. "What else must I do, Sir?" he asked, not believing that I was so kind as to assign him such a simple task.
That was your chance, Severus.
"Come with me, Potter."
I rose and headed out from the classroom. I locked the classroom carefully and heading to my chamber. He looked bewildered but didn't dare to ask a question. I whispered my password, "Dumbledore", and Salazar's painting swung open.
"Come in, Mr. Potter. And stop gaping like a fish."
He walked in warily. When I closed the door, he jumped.
"I assure you that if I wanted to have my wicked way with you, I wouldn't bring you into my private chamber to accomplish my purpose."
He blushed. I smirked.
"Do sit down."
He sat carefully on a sofa, as if there were a booby trap on the thing.
I poured a glass of butterbeer and handed it to him. I poured myself a double shot of scotch.
"Thank you, Sir." But he didn't drink.
"No matter what you and your companions think of me, Mr. Potter, your virtue is safe with me. I'd no sooner bed you than marry your mutt godfather. Besides, I don't want to suffer a fate worse than Cruciatus should Albus suspect that I have corrupted his golden boy." I smiled wryly.
He smiled a little at my sarcastic assurance and sipped his drink. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the drink spread through his body. He emptied the glass quickly.
"More?"
He nodded. I filled his glass. "Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome."
We sat in awkward silence. I didn't know how to talk to him, while he was certainly confused at my recent attitude toward him. We sipped our drinks quietly, trying hard to pretend to be occupied by our own thoughts. But we were not. The boy stole a glance at me whenever he thought I was not looking, while I stared into the fire, thinking about my duty.
I really had no idea how to get through him. If only I had been as wise as Albus. Well, better try that old man's tactic. He had coaxed me to talk, when I came to him with my guilt, by telling me about his life: his struggle when fighting against Grindelwald and his guilt the unavoidable losses. Baring my soul to Potter wasn't something I was looking forward, but I didn't know any other way.
"I was raised mainly by the house-elves. My father hated me, because my mother died when she gave birth to me. Mostly, he just ignored me, pretending that I didn't exist. But every time I did something that disappointed him, like failing my Transfiguration exam, he never forgot to tell me how exactly he felt about me, and why. I was never forgiven for staying alive while his lover was not."
"But that is not fair!" He was shocked. Either by my willingness to tell him my secrets or by the fact that such a parent existed, I couldn't tell.
I chuckled mirthlessly. "This world is hardly a fair place, Mr. Potter."
"But... He can't blame you for something you didn't do! It's not your fault that your mother passed away," he said heatedly. Ah, Gryffindor to the core who couldn't stand any thought of unfairness.
"So, if it isn't my fault that my mother died while gave birth to me, is it your fault that you survived while others didn't, Potter?" I looked at him sharply. "What did you do to deserve the guilt?"
"I. I.," he struggled for words but could not find any. He slumped against the chair, clutching his empty glass on his chest, while the implication of my statement sank in.
I finished my scotch, feeling smug (Albus, you must be proud of me) and relieved that I finally got through to Potter somehow. I knew this was not enough though. Grief was a complicated matter. Although I could make him throwing away the ridiculous notion that he was responsible for the deaths, he would need more than that to cope with his own losses and his responsibility as the Wizarding World's hero.
"It is getting late. You must return to your room."
"Yeah." He put down his glass. "Thank you, Professor."
I nodded. "I must warn you though. Keep this conversation a secret. You know what is at stake."
He nodded, knowing that I was working for Albus as a spy.
"In times like these, one cannot be entirely certain of who the enemies are and who're not." I reminded him of Pettigrew.
"Yes, Sir."
"Good night, Harry."
He looked stunned hearing me calling his first name, but quickly composed himself. "Good night, Sir."
He had walked to the door, ready to open the door when I said, "You are most welcome here anytime. Just remember to be discreet. And as much it pains me for saying this, use that damn cloak of yours."
"Yes, Sir," he answered; his voice showed his surprise. I smirked again. I bet this was the most extraordinary night in his life: Severus Snape, the greasy bastard of Hogwarts suddenly invited Harry Potter, the bane of his existence, for a drink, giving him advice and. surprise surprise, he even invited the brat back! He must have thought I have gone mad.
He was probably right.
*****************
"I lost Pinky, the house-elf who raised me, when I was twelve. She passed away because of old age. I was at Hogwarts when it happened; I didn't find out until I returned home for the summer. I didn't even know where she was buried; you know how wizards treat the House elves. I didn't cry."
A week after our little "chat", he visited my chamber. I didn't say anything. I just let him in and poured a glass of butterbeer. He was sitting on the sofa, right on the spot he had previously engaged, across my favorite love seat, and sipping his drink in silence. After twenty minutes or so, I broke the silence by telling him another story , hoping that this time, I would get a better reaction from him.
He finished his butterbeer and I filled his glass again. I gulped down my double Scotch and pour myself another. I had started drinking again after I rejoined the Death Eaters, and this time was this habit would help me keep talking. Speaking about your deepest secret wasn't an easy thing to do, though it was hardly compared to the sacrifices I made as a spy.
"I guess that was when my heart started to become callous. I often thought that if I could endure so many hardships without shedding a tear, as a strong man is supposed to be, then people who cry and whine are weak."
"That is until I saw Albus cry."
Potter's head turned to me in surprise.
"Yes, Albus cried. I saw him cry twice. Once at your parents' funeral."
"And?"
I sighed and emptied my tumbler. "The other was when I confessed my involvement with Voldemort to him. His eyes were wet. And that, more than anything else, made me realized of how deep was his concern for me."
"Do you ever cry?"
"After Pinky's death? Yes. The most memorable is when I found Pinky's grave, shown to me by her fellow house elves. I was thirty-one by then, but I cried like a five-year old."
"Did it make you feel better?"
I looked at him in the eye. "Yes. And I regretted not doing it sooner."
"Albus told me once that contrary to popular belief, crying is not a weakness. It is an act of courage, to face the pain and your own weaknesses."
His lips trembled and I knew what would happen next. I walked to him and sat beside him. Mimicking what Albus had done to me years ago, I circled my arm around his shoulder and pulled him to my embrace, though awkwardly. His body shook with suppressed sobs; his howl of pain was muffled by his hands, which were covering his face.
"Just let it out, Harry."
My words broke his defenses. He cried onto my chest, soaking my robe and shirt entirely with his warm tears. Pinky used to rub my back when I was in distress and that was what I did to him now.
"I miss them so much," he said between his sobs.
I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say, so I just let him talk.
"I miss Mrs. Weasley. She's like a mum to me. She held me in Infirmary, when Cedric died."
I continued to rub his back, feeling my heart break little by little at the sounds of his sobbing and his admission of pain.
"I miss Hagrid. He was my first friend. He's the one who made my dreams come true: he took me away from the Dursleys."
"I miss Cho. God, how I love her!" He gripped my robe and cried harder.
A few minutes passed like eternity. Finally, his sobbing subsided. He wiped away his tears, feeling ashamed of breaking down in front of me, his hated enemy. But I guess he couldn't help it. He was overloaded.
"I guess they are happy now. Cho is with Cedric now." He gave a mirthless laugh.
I didn't respond to that. Instead, I brought him a glass of water and a phial of Calming Potion. "Here, drink these."
He complied without question. Having gulped down the water and potion, he yawned. I transfigured the sofa into a cot and a handkerchief into a blanket.
"You'll sleep here tonight. Tell your friends that you spent the night in the Infirmary. I'll straighten this out with Poppy later."
He stretched out on the cot and laid his head on the cushion, making himself comfortable. I let the fire burn to keep him warm. The emotional bloodletting we had done tonight was certainly exhausting. I went to bed, hoping to get some sleep.
It didn't come.
***************************