Chapter 5
|Cozy |
Rooming with Snape was not as bad as Harry had originally thought it would be. They stayed out of one another's way: Harry showered in the morning and Snape showered in the evening; Harry picked up all his belongings without having to be told and Snape generally kept his slimy things in jars out of the bedroom and in the storage closet. There were sometimes awkward moments like he and Snape going to use the toilet at the same moment, or Harry seeing his professor undress for bed, but mostly it was casual living.
It was a quiet place, Snape's dungeons, when the creaks and groans of the old castle were not sounding. There were creatures: Harry heard bats and mice, but never saw any, and he encountered his share of spiders even on the first day. But that was all right. He had become used to those during the days he lived in his cupboard.
The morning after Harry moved in he woke up to an empty room, save himself. He was happy that Snape had brought his things—not just his school things—in the trunk. He was allowed to change his clothes for the first time in two days.
He found Snape working silently at his desk in the main room, a stack of papers and a couple vials at his side as he wrote fussily on a long roll of parchment. Walking past, Harry took the liberty of assuming the stack of toast and plate of eggs at the little table in the kitchenette was for him, and he dug in most hungrily. Snape spared him a glance and a snort.
Snape's long hair covered most of his face. He probably wore it that way for that very reason. Even staying in Snape's chambers, he hadn't been able to find out much about the man. No pictures sat on the mantle or the walls. No trinkets were on any shelves. Even in the bedroom were the most ordinary of objects.
After a few minutes, Harry became restless and spoke. "I've never seen you eat, Professor."
Snape lifted an eyebrow, but did not look up from his work.
"Don't you?" Harry asked.
"Naturally."
Harry sighed. Uncle Vernon didn't like to be bothered with Harry when he was doing paperwork (or ever, really). He thought maybe Snape and he should chat over drinks sometime. Harry snickered, imagining such an event.
Snape looked up with a scowl and Harry ducked his head. Did he expect Harry to be silent for the summer?
By the time Harry had finished breakfast, the room was not so quiet to his relief. Snape was muttering to himself, reading the complicated words on the page, none of which Harry could fully make out. It might have been in another language. Whatever it was, Harry became bored of it quickly. Snape appeared tranquil, however; his eyes moved across the page casually, despite the quickness of this mouth.
Harry made himself comfortable on the sofa once more with the same book he had left in the room last night.
"The dungeons are always so cold," he whispered to himself, gathering the blankets he had left behind also and cocooning his body tightly. Now I know why Snape always wears those heavy black robes. He was comfortable now, though, with the thick blankets and Snape's voice in the background. It was almost like a snug little cottage. If only Snape would light the fireplace someday.
He began reading, but after a while he found himself doing this aloud, quietly as Snape. "Margaret holds my hand and she is not afraid to touch my scales like the others. She holds me firmly like she means to and inside I feel warmth which is not just the normal fire inside every dragon—"
"Potter," Snape said from across the room. Harry saw that he was not as tranquil as before. "What is that trash you're reading?"
"A book, sir." Harry held up the object, which was wrapped with a green and brown cover. Snape leaned forward, squinting in the dim light. Harry saw his lips moving with the syllables of the book's title. Light of My Life.
He sneered. "And what would a fifteen year old boy want with that pitiable excuse for literature?"
"I don't know. What would a grown man want with it?—I found it on your shelf."
Snape growled as he rose from behind his desk. His footsteps clacked on the floor, becoming louder until he finally stood in front of Harry, who remained calm on the sofa, and wrenched the book from his hands. "You lie," Snape spat. He turned the book over in his hands, perhaps looking for something by which to identify it.
"I'm not lying. It was right over there." Harry pointed. Snape paid him no mind.
He opened the front cover in the book, and then something changed in his eyes. They darkened very slightly, a feat for someone with such black eyes, flitting to Harry and back to the book again, where Snape's finger's clenched and clasped and dug into the book. Harry leaned back into the sofa when Snape suddenly pulled his wand from his robes; he thought the man would turn it to him, but he only pointed to the inside cover of the book, muttered something under his breath, and then snapped the book shut.
Harry was surprised that Snape made to move away, taking the book with him, so he threw the blankets off his legs and trotted after Snape. He was already across the room.
"Professor, you said I could read what I wanted!"
Snape turned to him. "You have no use for this," he said, holding the book out of Harry's reach.
Harry grabbed his sturdy arm, tugging gently, as though to plead no, mine, mine, mine. "I like it," he told Snape, whose face was screwed up in uneasiness. Snape gazed down at his upturned face for several seconds, holding the same expression, and at last relented.
"No more reading aloud," he said, before thrusting the book back at Harry.
Snape left him to his own devices once more, but Harry found himself confused. When he opened the book the front cover was blank—he had never checked if anything was written there before: an autograph, a date, a note? He didn't dare ask Snape. He just cursed his own lack of scrutiny.
Snape was behind his desk again, staring at Harry in the way that made his stomach turn over. Harry tried his best to ignore him.
Later, Harry was laying down, staring into the empty fireplace. It was cold-looking. As always. He was surprised there were no icicles in it, but that was a silly thought. Normally, he would be able to hear the wind from the outside swirling around in an empty fireplace. He supposed they were so far down into the castle that that was impossible.
He felt like a lump. Just laying while Snape worked.
There was nothing to do in these chambers, aside from reading. He had just finished the book, faster than he had ever finished one for pleasure. It was lovely. He was still clutching it to his chest, reliving all the best parts. He couldn't wait to read it again, but for now his eyes were tired and all he could do was relax to the soothing sound of Snape's scratching quill and his quiet breath.
Harry closed his eyes. He was hearing something, but he didn't know it was true. It rung and vibrated in his ears. He clutched the blankets tighter around him, listening harder. It was true. Snape was humming.
He couldn't make out a tune. Snape wasn't very musical, yet it was comforting—the sharps, the flats, and the odd twangs here and there, the low rumble of the man's throat, so much deeper than Harry could ever imagine his own voice to be. It reminded him of something. Something good-sounding and good-smelling, warm and frosty at the same time, like Christmastime. Yes, Christmastime.
Snape summed up lots of warm things in those notes that Harry had never thought such a man could have inside him: pies, thick stew, presents, stockings, friends, family, all those warm things. Harry remembered the happiness of last Christmas. Sirius had walked around singing carols very loudly, and though this was not a carol Snape hummed, it was so similar. How could it be so? How could Snape make him so happy and so miserable at the same time?
Harry had only ever known the man to do the latter.
Harry did not acknowledge that Snape's sofa had a warm spot of water under his head, or that he was sniffling. He wondered if Snape heard him but tried not to acknowledge that either. He simply closed his eyes and got lost in the song, in Sirius' presence, filling him. In Snape's horrible cold chambers.
It wasn't even dinnertime but he was ready for bed. Ready to get away from here again and go back to his dreams. He wished he could have a single day without remembering what it was like to have a family for just that short while.
Posted November 16, 2003