A/N: Many thanks to Yih for the speedy beta.
Chapter 6: Decisions in the Dark
It started all over again.
Hands, the hands, they came. Touching him, grabbing him: hard, rough, sweaty, cold. He couldn't see where the hands were coming from. He couldn't see anything.
Freak.Your worthless parents were freaks, disgusting freaks just like you are.
But there was a new voice in the darkness, a voice from Snape's pensieve: James, saying the same thing (freak, little freak), and Sirius echoing, and then the voices of the Weasleys and Dumbledore and Hermione (nobody wants you, freak); but worst of all was the scathing, biting voice of Snape himself (where are your so-called friends now, freak?)…
Pitiless flint eyes, staring. Freak. You're not my son…
He felt his mother there, calling to him, demanding that he look at her, but he turned his head away, unwilling to see the disappointment and revulsion in her eyes too…
"…get my hands on those two! It's just a dream, Mr. Potter, so wake up now… Only a dream…"
Harry felt the black claws of the nightmare slip away, and suddenly he assaulted with wracking pains all over his body as he awoke. He was wet from sweat, and the cold, tangled sheets made him shiver.
"Detrimental on the healing process, Sopio is," the voice muttered, and Harry dimly identified it as Madam Pomfrey. "But I had to cast that spell to make you stop convulsing. Awake now? Good. Now, drink this and go back to sleep."
He felt himself propped up, and he groaned at the pain that speared his body. His mind cleared, and memory came back to him.
Snape. Snape was his father. Oh God.
Something hard pressed against his lips.
"Drink up, now."
He drank, barely tasting the grainy texture of the draught. He felt numb, as numb as a dead thing, and one thought alone whirled relentlessly in his head: Snape, my father is Snape…
Freak. Disgusting freak.
"There's a good child."
He let himself get shifted back into a sleeping position like a wooden puppet. The pain from his body was forgotten, lost in the haze that consumed his mind.
"Go on, sleep now."
The sheets untangled themselves and suddenly became dry; he felt the slightly itchy results of a quick cleaning spell.
He needed a bath. He needed a bath.
But the effects of the potion had gripped him and he was asleep before he could hear the nurse mutter oath after oath, swearing pain and torment on the werewolf and potion master who had dared disturb her patient.
qpqpqp
Albus Dumbledore watched the mediwitch snarl and roare at the potions master, who was sitting sullenly in a corner.
"NO SENSE AT ALL! You know he's been horribly abused, and I told everyone NOT to touch him!"
Madam Pomfrey paused to brush some hair out of her face before resuming her tirade.
"I don't know why you had to touch him—and grab him like that—but there is NO EXCUSE. None, whatsoever!"
Snape sneered. "If I had known that the boy was such a melodramatic actor, I wouldn't have touched him at all."
"Severus," Dumbledore warned.
The mediwitch had stopped moving. For a moment, Albus Dumbledore wondered if she was finally going to hex the potions professor into next week and beyond. Instead, she lifted her right hand in the air, and said in a clear, ringing voice,
"As mediwitch and nurse of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I invoke Helga's Oath and hereby banish Severus Snape from the Hogwarts infirmary—"
"—unless in dire emergency himself," Dumbledore added sternly.
The nurse nodded, looking satisfied and rather grim. "Unless he is in dire need himself."
Severus Snape had a very dark look on his face. "Albus, you simply can't be serious—"
"I agree with Poppy's decision," the headmaster interrupted. "Harry's in a very delicate state. I do trust you, Severus, but I know that sometimes, especially when it comes to the Potters, you have some… difficulties."
If looks could kill, Dumbledore mused, I'd be dead nine times over already. The potions master was on his feet in one smooth motion and with two forceful steps was at the door—
"Severus. Stay, please."
Snape paused, tense as a bow, but turned slightly to glower at the headmaster.
Madam Pomfrey sighed. "I'm sorry, Severus, but I'll not allow Harry to come under any kind of harm if I can help it." With a final, half-apologetic, half-warning glance to the Potions Master, she left.
"Severus," said Dumbledore, sitting back in his chair, "we have a few things to discuss. Please, take a seat."
The potions master, Dumbledore noted, had managed to control his facial expression again, fixing it into a cold, sour, accusing sort of look.
"Lemon drop?"
Snape growled.
"At least you've set a record," Dumbledore remarked while enjoying the lemon drop. "You're the first professor to be Banished since Edmund Bundy, those… nine years back?"
The old wizard took out another lemon drop and unwrapped it, ignoring Snape's petrifying glare. "Don't look so sour, Severus. It doesn't suit you, no matter how much you like to think otherwise. And Poppy's right, in this case. You know it too."
"Are you finished yet, headmaster?" Snape snarled. "I have quite a few things to finish…"
"No you don't, Severus." Dumbledore dropped his airy tone. "Tell me, Severus—why did you do it? Why did you grab Harry?"
Snape's face turned stony.
"Severus…"
"When I walked into the hospital wing," he snapped, "I saw Lupin hand the boy an Order pendant." He paused and looked as though he were debating whether to go on or not, but finally decided on silence.
"Interesting," the headmaster murmured. "Too bad Remus isn't here to tell us. But that does not explain why you made so drastic a physical move. An Order pendant is unusual, yes, but it couldn't have warranted such actions."
The potions master glared fixedly at a spot above the headmaster's head.
Dumbledore sighed. "Very well, Severus. I hope that, in good time, you will tell me. For now, you are excused."
Snape got up stiffly and left without another word.
qpqpqp
They are foolsss.
Yes Massster…
Foolss for failing such a simple tasssk…
May I eat them, Massster?
Not yet, my dear, but if they fail again…
Severus Snape flinched as he watched Nott gasp under the Cruciatus.
"Such a simple task, to track down three Muggles," the Dark Lord was hissing, jabbing his wand and causing Nott to twist onto his back. "But you failed. I gave you a deadline, but you did not meet it. Nott, tell me why I should let you keep your miserable life."
Snape averted his eyes from where Nott was cowering. The gibbering, desperate words that came out were the usual: begging the merciful lord to please spare them and let them prove themselves worthy next time, etc. But he hated watching the writhing victims and hearing the quivering voices because he knew that was what he looked like and sounded like whenever he was pleading his loyalty and forgiveness at the Dark Lord's feet.
But he vowed to himself that when it came to the day that he was exposed (he wasn't looking forward to it, but it would come inevitably), he wouldn't cower. He'd give the Dark Lord a piece of his mind before he was tortured by that madwoman Lestrange and eaten by that oversized reptile.
The Dark Lord flicked his wand and Nott left a bloody trail where he skidded over the floor into the ring of Death-Eaters. "You are ssspared—for now," the Dark Lord whispered. "Do not expect such mercy in the future, Nott."
Lestrange and that infernal snake both wore disappointed expressions. Snape shivered.
"Th-thank you, m-my lord… You are ev-ver m-m-merciful—"
"Severus!"
Snape felt his stomach clench in dread but he walked up smoothly to where Nott had been moments before.
"Yes, my Lord?"
"What news from that Muggle-loving fool? Have they found the Potter boy yet?"
"Dumbledore's little Order finally found him in a place called Jaeggar Prison, and he is now in Hogwarts," said Snape in a humble voice, relaying everything he and Dumbledore had agreed upon. "From what I understand, Potter was in a rather bad condition."
"Oh?"
"He was badly beaten and grievously injured. Furthermore, he is now blind, my Lord, though by how, Dumbledore does not know. The old fool suspects the boy's Muggle relatives"
"Blind. Indeed. And what does Dumbledore plan to do about it?"
"I believe the old fool plans to hire a St. Mungo's specialist to train the boy."
"Ah, I see…"
Snape swallowed. Whenever he was withheld like this, nothing good could happen. "Yes, my Lord?"
The hiss was sharp. "Why did you not tell me this earlier?"
"Earlier, my Lord? I don't quite understand…"
"Lucius… Come forth…"
One of the Death-Eaters stepped forward. Snape eyed the figure with dislike.
"My Lord," Lucius Malfoy murmured in a very oily manner. "When I passed Jaegger Prison some days ago, I was told that an imposter—impersonating me—went into the prison and rescued a boy who was barely alive. The boy was identified as Potter. The imposter remains unknown, though on that day a werewolf in Dumbledore's little Order was sighted outside the prison…"
Snape watched the Dark Lord's malicious smile with apprehension. "Care to explain why I was not informed of this at our lasst meeting, Severusss?"
"My Lord… I only found out the information today—"
"Crucio!"
Snape collapsed and a strangled scream struggled out of his throat.
"What use are you as a spy if you cannot extract such precious information? Or, perhaps you are not really a ssspy for me after all, Severuss…"
"My Lord! I—"
"Crucio!"
The waves of pain thundered through him, trampling his nerves. When it finally lifted an eternity later, he thought dazedly: He's only playing on suspicions. He doesn't know, or I'd be suffering from worse than the Cruciatus… "My Lord, I c-can explain…" He let himself shiver and cower, knowing such displays made the Dark Lord more lenient. "That infernal nurse, my Lord… Pomfrey, she banned us… those in Dumbledore's Order… from the Hospital wing, saying that she was… concerned over Potter's healing."
"Tsk, tsk. Getting to Potter seems near impossible, does it? But, Severus, and I'm sure you'd agree, that nurse wouldn't deny entrance to someone truly in need, would she?"
Snape's eyes widened but they snapped shut and he shrieked a moment later when the pain returned, yipping with insane ecstasy as it consumed his mind. He had a feeling of flesh tearing and burning, and it was unbearable, unbearable…
That Muggle-loving fool.
When you take him, let me eat him.
Yess, Nagini… He thinksss he can predict my movementsss, but he forewent that chance when he let the boy go.
And now, Master, the block you created in the link is impenetrable. For the old fool, it issss too late…
Yessss, my dear… I will take what is mine. It is too late for him.
qpqpqp
Harry woke up knowing something was wrong. He frowned for a long moment before he finally remembered. Snape was his father.
The realization washed against him like acid, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly before trying to go back to sleep again.
Sleep did not come.
He realized he still had that letter in his hand, and had been stroking it. His fingers stilled, and for a moment, he wanted to rip the letter into a thousand tiny pieces and mash them under his foot. But then he remembered his mother's words and the love they held, and he suddenly couldn't bear the thought of hurting this letter, this last remnant of his mother's love. (The scar didn't count. It felt more like a reminder of Voldemort's presence than anything else.)
Sighing, he turned over, trying to get into a more comfortable position. He was rather pleased that the aches he felt all over his body were fading; besides the ones in his ribs and legs, they were almost like phantom pains.
Like hands.
Snape is your father.
He turned over restlessly and clenched hard around the letter, steering his mind away from all depressing thoughts. A bath would be nice, he mused. From the end of the hospital wing, he heard the sound of rustling skirts.
"Awake now, Mr. Potter?"
Harry opened his eyes in recognition and nodded slightly. He didn't feel much like speaking.
"Now, lay back. Let me do a checkup for you."
Harry complied, still holding the letter as the nurse waved her wand over him, muttering under her breath.
"Much better," she said at length, sounding slightly surprised. "Your injuries are almost completely cured." There was a clinking of glass. Harry felt himself shift into a sitting position, the sheets sliding over his skin. "Here, drink these. In a few days, you'll be as good as new. Well, almost. You'll have a slight limp, and you'll have to be careful about your ribs, and you'll need much more food, but we'll fatten you up…"
And I'll still be blind, Harry thought dully, but said nothing. He shivered. Judging from the noises outside and the feel of the hospital's wing, it was probably night.
"Can I take a bath, please?" Harry asked.
The request surprised the matron only for a moment. "A bath? I don't see why not. We'll use the Healing Spa again, shall we?"
Harry nodded his acquiescence. He felt himself floating up, and couldn't help but grumble under his breath, "Can't I walk?"
"You can't, actually," the nurse said conversationally as she floated Harry along. "The muscles in your legs have atrophied quite a bit, and there's still some healing to do in that leg. Don't worry, you won't be in bed for too long," the nurse assured when Harry sighed morosely. "As if I can keep you in bed anyhow… But I'll be performing a few spells to speed your recovery. You'll still be very weak, and I'd advise two more months of bed rest—"
"Two months?"
"Yes, but knowing you, nothing short of tying you the bed will keep you resting for even half a month. Here we are. I, Poppy Pomfrey, nurse and medi-witch of Hogwarts castle, request entrance to the healing spa on behalf of one Harry James Potter."
Harry heard the sound of a door opening almost eagerly before all the words had left the witch's mouth. Pomfrey chuckled. "The castle does seem to like you, Mr. Potter." Harry felt himself being lowered towards the sound of churning water and felt the warm steam condense on his face. "I'll come by to check on you in fifteen minutes, all right?"
Harry nodded and listened for the sounds of the door closing behind the nurse. He waited a few more moments before shrugging out of the hospital robes and letting himself slide with a wince and a sigh into the bubbling water.
He splashed some water onto his face, washing it gently out of his eyes and over his forehead and nose…
His hands froze. His nose. It was much bigger. And no wonder. It was Snape's nose.
He was seized by a sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. All those years of called Snape a big-nosed, oily git, and he was one too…
His mind went to Sirius's sneer of Snivellus, and Harry was suddenly glad Sirius wasn't here to see him like this. He imagined the hateful words and searing contempt being directed to him, and his heart clenched at the terrible thought.
Sirius, wouldn't, would he?
His mind went to the memory of that clear night at the end of his third year, of Sirius telling him in a voice hoarse with wonder and pride that he was truly his father's son…
But I'm not, Harry thought, feeling an indescribable anguish as well as that strange urge to laugh. Images of a smiling man with messy hair and an arm around his red-haired wife floated inexorably to his mind—I'm not James Potter's son, He thought bitterly. I never was. There never was a Harry Potter, there never was a Boy-Who-Lived: there was only me—Snivellus Jr.…
He felt a terrible rage smoldering inside him, burning to ashes the layers of numbness he had wrapped around himself. He was upset, mad, furious at everything and everyone, especially Dumbledore and his Order and Vernon and Snape—all of whom had made him endure eleven years of neglect and coldness and then left him to be beaten, blinded—and now, on top of it all, it turned out that the man he held in utter contempt, whom he hated above (almost) everything else—was his father.
Why? he wanted to scream, but he held it inside, and it changed into a wave of self-loathing. He was weak, beaten, blind, sniveling, a disgusting, slimy, greasy bastard, so easily beaten, so easily tricked, so revoltingly weak that he couldn't even stand being touched—
His hands clenched around one of the handles on the rim of the spa, and with a crack! he felt it break under his hands. His head cleared a bit as the crashing waves of wretchedly angry magic receded. He down the handle and tried to calm himself. He wasn't going to throw a tantrum or weep or wail or drown in self-pity and let himself be more of a weak, sniveling, pathetic little freak than he already was.
And Snape being your father hardly changes things, he told himself, getting a towel and scrubbing himself until he was bright red. The Prophecy remains unchanged. It's still you who has to kill Voldemort. It's still you. He sighed. Who your father was hardly matters. It's not as though you remember having a father, do you? He stoically ignored the memory of the photos of a joyously beaming man with warm brown eyes and his wife, a smiling woman with red hair. This is so stupid! Nothing matters. You're still Harry, you're still the wizarding world's Boy-Who-Lived, you're still the one in that bloody Prophecy, you're still blind, and that's that. And maybe… maybe people will hate you now, and less people will die because of you.
The anger was gone, replaced by an icy coldness. The knot in his throat stayed.
He hefted himself out of the water, suddenly exhausted. A towel had appeared next to him (where there really house-elves everywhere?) and he wrapped himself in it. He sat there, hunched over, and felt the steam slowly dissipate…
Minutes later and wincing a bit, he got himself into a new set of hospital robes and reached over to where he had safely put his mother's letter. He found it and frowned thoughtfully. I have to keep it safe and secret. I'll probably show it to Dumbledore in the end, but I can't let anyone else—especially someone with connections to Voldemort or the Daily Prophet—find out. He briefly considered letting Snape read the letter (sometimes in the far future), but decided against it: the letter was too precious to risk Snape touching it, and ripping it, and snarling at it, and gnashing his teeth at.
So he'd have to hide it. The question was where. He didn't have a trunk anymore; he didn't even have any pockets. Carrying it around all the time was going to be conspicuous and inconvenient. His thoughts ran to possible hiding places in the castle. Though there were obviously plenty of places to hide it, but he was blind, and could barely stand…
Strange. Madam Pomfrey usually came earlier than this. Perhaps she's got an emergency, Harry thought, standing up on wobbly feet, the envelope clutched in one hand. Pomfrey has a point, he realized with a sigh. He could barely walk. He reached out a hand hesitantly and found a wall. Gritting his teeth, he moved towards where he knew the door was, keeping his hand on the tiled wall and his feet inching forward slowly. His leg hurt, and after a while, he was beginning to breath heavily from his exertions…
Ah. He felt the wall end in a corner. Finally. As much as hated to admit it, the nurse was right: already he was dead tired, but he took another step forward and traced his hand in front of him until he reached an indentation… His fingers touched something wooden that was charmed dry. He leaned forward tiredly and the door swung open smoothly.
He swallowed and took a painful step out. It was startling how different the air felt: drier, clearer, colder, and for a moment he felt panic boiling within him at this sudden, new environment. But the moment passed and he reached for the wall…
Instead, he touched smooth stone. Rounded, sculpted… a statue.
Harry paused, an idea forming in his head. Hiding it in plain sight might work, he thought, tracing the contours of the statue with trembling fingers. He paused, and a smile curled open like a tender, unsure leaf on his face: just his luck that the statue had a roll of bandages in the crook of its elbow. Harry held up his mother's letter and carefully tucked it inside.
He stepped back and suddenly felt melancholy and lost, as though he'd lost the string that faithfully pulled him towards the light, and he wanted desperately for a moment to snatch it back—this last memento of his mother, no longer by his side, haphazardly hidden away—but instead he turned and felt a bit freer now that he could use both hands to feel the walls.
He was still wondering which direction the hospital wing was when he heard a gasp and the swift rustling of skirts.
"Mr. Potter! How—you're—" He felt a brisk brush of magic, and then he was floating horizontally. He sighed inwardly and let the frantic nurse's words wash over him. "The thought of you! Traipsing about the halls when you are clearly unwell! You should be in bed! You shouldn't even be thinking of walking!"
She sounds slightly nervous, for some reason, Harry noted, and wondered if walking a few steps had really been that detrimental. Before he could ask, however, he had been floated swiftly to his cot and had the covers tucked soundly under his chin.
"It's past midnight, Mr. Potter," she groused as she flicked her wand and dried his hair completely. "I can't give you another dose of dreamless sleep potion or you might develop an addiction, but for Merlin's sake, go to sleep!"
With that, she was off.
Sleep, hah, fat chance, Harry thought gloomily as he listened to the quiet noises of the hospital at night. From one of the open windows he could hear the soft whisper of the breeze, the symphony of cicadas… Birdsong and owl's hoots, quiet and contemplative… Somewhere down the hall, a torch sparked and guttered… To his left, there was a strange, erratic, rustling noise… Quite close and familiar, and yet…
He tensed as he identified the noise: breathing. Someone else was in the wing.
He stayed very still and listened closely. The breathing was increasingly erratic, and he heard the rustle of sheets, and then he heard an almost inaudible groan…
It's another patient, he realized, and relaxed a moment before the mystery patient moaned aloud, a pained, desperate sound.
And he's not a student, Harry noted, listening to the sounds become more and more turbulent. But who? A staff member? Why isn't Pomfrey here, he sounds like he's in pain… Briefly he wondered if this was what he sounded like in his nightmares—the tossing and turning, the incoherent moans…
"I… sorry… I had… to…"
Harry froze as he identified the voice. Minus the sneer, minus the biting cold and bitter sarcasm, it was still unquestionably Snape.
"I… don't want…"
How did he get hurt all of a sudden? Harry felt a twinge of tension and nervousness at merely being in Snape's vicinity, but Snape was speaking again, in that same tortured tone, and Harry couldn't help but listen with sudden curiosity.
"Please…"
It was strange—frightening, almost—how vulnerable Snape sounded. There was nothing of the fearsome potions master in this mere man, twisting and tossing in the throes of a nightmare…
"For… forgive me… I had to… for Al—bus, and… forgive me…"
Forgive him? Forgive him of what? And Albus—Professor Dumbledore? He listened avidly, shivering a bit at the pain in the hoarse voice, but he could hardly make head or tails of it. Yet the pain and the strangled whimpers were unmistakable.
The tone changed slightly. There was fear, raw fear in it now.
"Adeline… No… I don't know her, not at all… I tell you, I don't know her!"
Harry tensed at the sudden burst of volume at the end.
"She… I…" Silence. Harry held his breath. "So she's the one with the lovely eyes." Harry shivered: the voice sounded so dead. "Black eyes… Black… Then yes… I killed her. It was… quick. I had to. Avada Kedavra."
Harry froze. Killed. Avada Kedavra. Snape had killed. Killed… A thousand questions of why, how, when, who filled his mind, and dimly, he processed the thought: his father was a murderer…
"No… I… I didn't laugh when she died, I—" A choking sound. "I didn't touch her! I killed her before Lucius could make it worse for her, the bastard… I h-had to, I—it's not true, I… spy… for Albus…"
Harry felt himself getting lost in the strange monologue, but there was something in those words and in that wrenching voice he felt was clear as day, something that he could understand—
"I don't serve… him! I don't… not V-Vo-Voldem-mort… I… hate him, I… I spy for Albus, I—ask him, ask him! It's the truth! Why don't you Aurors believe me? I'm telling the truth!"
Tossing, turning, a gasp; Harry wished he were far away and couldn't hear this, but at the same twisted moment, he felt drawn to it like a stranger to a mirror.
"Caius Cinna, what do you want of me? I—I am a spy, I spy for Albus… I—please, stop, not the—don't—please don't—anything, I—aggh!"
Harry jumped and froze when he heard the sudden sounds of hurried footsteps.
"Oh Merlin, I forgot, how could I forget?" It's only Madam Pomfrey, Harry murmured to himself as he identified the frenetic voice. He relaxed minutely. "Oh Merlin, I can't believe I forgot about your nightmares, Severus! I'm so sorry, I'm—shh, hush now. You get them after every meeting with that monster, I remember." She was now muttering things in a soothing voice. "No wonder you insist on your own chambers, Severus… Go on, drink it, all of it now, and I'm…"
A lapse that Harry figured was a yawn from the tired nurse.
"Severus, I am so—I am so incredibly sorry—I shouldn't have Banished you, if I hadn't, he wouldn't have done this to you …"
A pause. Harry kept his face blank and breathing slow, even though his head was spinning with questions. He heard Madam Pomfrey give a sigh.
"Good night, Severus. I am sorry. You'll be fine in the morning." Another silence stretched, broken only by the soft breathing of three people. When Harry was certain Madam Pomfrey had fallen asleep, he heard a gentle rustle (not of the stiff skirts, but of a dressing gown), shuffling footsteps, and silence reigned over the ward once again.
Harry swallowed and relaxed as he listened to Snape's deep, even breathing. His mind was a mess as it went over the words again and again. The meaning became clearer each time around. Snape, he knew, was a spy for the Order, and apparently had been hurt at a meeting that night, perhaps due to something the nurse had done. Briefly, Harry noted that his scar hadn't even twinged, but his mind returned to Snape's words, and he remembered that, as part of posing convincingly as a Death-Eater, Snape would have had to kill…
Harry shuddered at the thought. He hadn't intentially killed Sirius or Cedric, he still felt their merciless gazes burning him in his nightmares. But to say the actual words, to actually shed the steaming blood…
He's begging for forgiveness, Harry thought. He hates himself for what he must do, but he still does it… His mind went to the other words Snape had uttered, about Aurors… After Karkaroff gave him away the first time Voldemort was around, Snape was probably taken, and questioned… Scenes—more of the sounds than their vague images—from Dumbledore's pensieve floated to the surface of his mind. The grim voices of the aurors, the screams from those being accused, questioned…
Snape's gasps and tortured voice washed over his soul once more, and he suddenly felt a peculiar and strangely new empathy. Snape was, in his own way, facing and battling Voldemort at each and every Death-Eater meeting he went to. It was different from how Harry had faced the Dark Lord, but they each had their way of fighting, and both were embroiled in a war where they had little choice, both had lost just as much as they had gained, and both had been hurt, grievously hurt…
And he's my father, Harry thought, and suddenly the unpalatable thought was not so terrible. In fact, in a strange way, he was almost… comforted. Comforted that someone else understood pain of this kind, that someone else was forced to face monsters, both outside and within, every day, every night… That he wasn't alone.
He's still a prejudiced, biased, mean old git, Harry thought quickly, beating away the new and rather ridiculous sentiments. I hate him, and he hates me. But the thought felt ridiculously petty the instant it formed. Their enmity, based on grudges that should have died years ago, seemed so insignificant when compared to everything else…
His mind, on its own accord, went back to Dumbledore's proposition, of Snape teaching him the ways of the blind. Quite suddenly, with Gryffindor finality and not without sense of dread, he knew what he had to do.
qpqpqp
There is a hole that nobody remembers in the side of Hogwarts castle near the lake. It hides behind a grove of grass, and nothing comes out of it besides a thin trickle of water.
As the sun was rising, a translucent form darted over the lake, skimming the surface like a bird, but moving with the undulating motions of a lazy whip. It dove into the grove of grass and slithered into the hole.
Minutes later, it emerged in a dark, dank chamber. Water dripped from the ceiling, streaking the walls with sickly colors. Puddles that had not but disturbed in years littered the floor. The only light was a faint glow coming from a painting that was fixed to one of the walls.
The thin, translucent snake gazed at the painting for a moment before rearing up and slipping into the painting, becoming part of the scene of a beautiful mother serpent guarding a seemingly infinite amount of pale, white eggs. The snake winded around one of the eggs before fading away.
After a long moment of silence, a splat! and a faint splash resounded about the chamber as a snake's egg fell out of the painting and into a puddle.
qpqpqp
Harry nervously rubbed his fingers over the sheets as he sat stiffly on his hospital cot, listening to the approaching set of footsteps. Snape, out of the infirmary the morning after Harry had heard him talk in his sleep, had seemingly completely recovered and was current roaring at the nurse.
"I will teach the boy as I see fit!" the potions master shouted as the door at the end of the wing flung open.
Harry cringed, sharply reminded of Vernon. Snape sounded murderous.
"Harry is in a very delicate condition, Severus," the nurse pleaded, not sounding quite so commanding after forgetting to give the potions master some dreamless sleep potion two nights earlier. Apparently she hadn't forgiven herself yet. "Please, don't hurt him anymore than he already is!"
"I cannot teach the brat with you as a distraction!" Snape snarled furiously.
The nurse seemed to be getting some of her ire back. "Very well then," she snapped. "But if you hurt him again in the slightest, I'll take this up with the headmaster myself." With an indignant rustle of skirts, she was leaving. "Merlin knows why Albus chose you to teach the poor boy," she grumbled before the door slammed close.
Actually, he didn't, Harry thought resignedly, sitting very still as Snape's sharp footsteps resounded again. I did.
The morning after he'd heard Snape talk in his sleep, he had let Dumbledore know of his decision. He was glad the headmaster didn't ask why. The nurse had been quite miffed at the idea, but had relented at the headmaster's insistence. Harry found it rather amusing that the mediwitch continually grumbled about Albus's poor judgment when he himself had made the choice…
The poor judgment part is probably true, Harry thought, a bit grimly. He still didn't know why, exactly, he had chosen Snape to teach him the ways of the blind. In fact, he tried not to think of it—or anything at all. Life was much easier when it revolved around carefully walking around in circles after ingesting potions, falling into bed exhausted, and repeating the process over again.
"Well, well, well, what have we here?" Snape murmured in a malicious voice that reminded Harry of a cat eyeing a mouse in a cage. The voice changed into a bark and Harry flinched. "Get up, boy! I want to see how pathetic the Boy-Who-Lived can pretend to be."
Poor judgment indeed, Harry thought with surprising bitterness. Already he was feeling the burning flames of irritation and resentment. Biting back any retort, he straightened himself coldly and got to his feet.
"Well?" Harry heard a sharp rapping sound from somewhere ahead of him. "Follow the sound, you dolt!"
I should have chosen the St. Mungo's specialist, Harry thought acidly as he inched forward stiffly, hands spread in front of him and hunched forward…
A whoosh of robes and a single, sharp tap. "Over here, boy." Harry gritted his teeth. "Pitiful." The voice took on a mocking edge. "Is that the best our glorious savior can do? A measly first year would have no trouble pushing you over and trampling you, much less those Death-Eaters you insist on haring after…"
Harry swiveled angrily and changed directions, nearly stumbling as he stalked forward and hit a bed—
Tap-tap. "This way, Potter." The mocking edge sharpened. "Pathetic. Is it really that hard?"
Shut up! Harry snarled in his head, but he didn't make a sound, he couldn't, he was all too used to holding the screams inside… Stumbling, he changed directions again, biting his lip and struggling to keep his face blank and cold, dimly aware that he was trembling…
The swift sound of rustling cloths. A ringing tap! "This way, you idiot! If I am to be lassoed with you, an incompetent, foolhardy Gryffindor, I expect you to at least exert some modicum of effort!"
Shut up, shut up…
Tap! The voice was now a taunting sneer. "Or is all effort simply beneath you?"
Damn it, SHUT UP! Harry stumbled and nearly fell as his toe stubbed something in front of him. Why did I choose Snape? why, why…
Tap-tap-tap! "This way, Potter," Snape drawled. He snorted when Harry stubbed his other toe. "I didn't think even a blockheaded, incompetent, hotheaded and self-centered teenager like you could be that clumsy."
Harry grasped a handful of sheets from the bed he had stumbled into. He wanted to smash Snape's ugly nose, but another part of him was too scared—too scarred by memories of the merciless belt and hands that Snape's malicious voice brought back. That same part wanted nothing more than to curl in a ball and escape into the numbness and darkness while clutching his mother's letter, which felt so far away…
"Even the spectacularly abysmal Longbottom has more grace than you, Potter!"
I'm such a fool for thinking anything but this would happen, he thought coldly, straightening himself. Why am I letting him get under my skin? I hate him. I hate him…
"…would it really be too much to apply yourself? Go ahead, Potter. It's fine with me if you deem yourself above making an attempt. After all, I didn't lose my precious godfather because I was simply too good to exert any effort…"
"LEAVE SIRIUS OUT OF THIS!" Harry shouted, turning blindly to face Snape. He recoiled immediately afterwards, shivering and half expecting the fall of the belt, almost hearing it slashing through the air… He swallowed and let himself relax minutely when the stinging pain didn't come…
Instead, a hateful, spiteful, infuriatingly soft voice cut through his mind. "Hit a nerve, haven't I, Potter?"
He flinched: belt or not, Snape's words never felt anything less than a white-hot brand, or a glittering icicle. He felt his nails digging into his palm. His voice was shaking. "What do you want of me, Snape?"
"Insolence, Potter! It's Professor Snape, boy, and you can be assured that your wretched House will lose points once the term—"
"What are you trying to do?" he demanded and then swallowed hard, desperately curbing back some of his anger, trying to drive away all phantom memories of the belt, the hands. "What do you want?"
"I'm trying to teach you mobility, Potter," Snape drawled, sounding drolly amused. "I thought that even you would be able to understand that—"
"So you're saying that running around the room doing nothing but insult me is going to help?"
Snape growled. "I will not tolerate such insolence, Potter!"
Harry flinched but quickly recovered and batted away the memory of the belt. "I am not trying to make things difficult!" he snapped. "I'm trying to follow Professor Dumbledore's advice and set aside our differences and be productive—I'm not trying to antagonize you!"
"Touching sentiments, Potter," Snape sneered. "Now—"
"I know you don't like this," Harry continued doggedly, having gotten his temper in check at last, "and I know Professor Dumbledore didn't give you much of a choice—"
"Don't like?" Snape gave a bark of laughter. Harry flinched at the sound. "Don't like? Not much of a choice?" Snape laughed again, and Harry resumed gritting his teeth. "I assure you, Potter—as much as you 'don't like' this, and as much as you feel you had no choice—"
"Actually, professor," Harry interrupted, suddenly feeling quite calm, "I did have a choice, a choice between a St. Mungo's specialist and you. And no, Professor Dumbledore didn't influence my decision at all. It was my own."
A long silence ensued. Harry felt a trickling of dread. "And so… you chose me." The voice was quivering with fury. "A worthy prank indeed, Potter, a worthy prank—"
"Prank? I—prank?" Harry sputtered. "This is no prank! This—" Harry laughed suddenly, a hoarse, despairing sound, and realized dimly that it sounded like the laugh Snape had uttered only moments ago. "Professor, I have never played a prank before, and I'm not about to start playing one when I'm choosing whom to trust my future with! I'm—I'm blind. I wouldn't prank about this." He paused, fatigue and a shadow of fear overcoming him. "Nobody would prank about this…"
The same bored, unaffected tone. "Very entertaining, Potter… Now—"
Entertain— Harry wanted to tear his hair out in frustration. Dimly he wondered why he was getting so frustrated over this stupid, stubborn, hateful old bastard, but he was furious and hurt and frustrated all the same, and he wasn't going to let it go, not now, no. The memories of belt and hands leered at the edge of his mind, but a strange need to get through to this infuriating man kept them firmly at bay.
"What do you want? What do you want from me?" He forced himself to continue, noting that his voice was strangled and shaking. "I'm sick and tired of fighting. If you want an apology, have it then, I apologize for—for whatever you think I should be apologizing for. Living, maybe, but I never had a choice there." He paused for a brief moment, but went on. "If you must know, I never told anyone what I saw in your Pensieve—I know this is probably worth nothing to you, but I'm sorry. I shouldn't have invaded your privacy—and I'd never have laughed—I know, I know how it feels, how it feels to be—be bullied like that, and it should make you happy to know that I had a fallout with Sirius because of it." You're just giving him more ammunition, Potter, he told himself wearily, bitterly, and he let his shoulders drop and his head fall forward. He sighed. "Just… forget it then." He swallowed. "Forget it. It doesn't matter anyhow."
The silence stretched on. A sharp tap from somewhere ahead accompanied by a cold, detached voice. "You're right, Potter. It doesn't matter anyhow." More silence. Harry felt curiously numb. "Now get up and move towards the sound."
Anger flared suddenly and Harry wanted nothing more than to storm up to the potions master and smash that nose and then stalk out of the hospital wing, but he bit his lips hard and suppressed the urge, letting numbness seep in again. Very aware of the stinging at the back of his eyes, he got up and made himself move towards the sound. He felt like he was sleepwalking. A little voice in his mind was ranting furiously, berating him for acting like such a bloody stupid fool—of course this was bound to happen, how could he be such an idiot? how could he have expected anything else? it was Snape, after all—
But the voice was muffled by an overwhelming numbness. Harry readily identified it as the kind of numbness that wore off after a while and got replaced by rage and tears (if he could have shed any).
"Pay attention, Potter," Snape snapped. "This way."
Harry wanted to lash out and snarl, but he stilled as he noticed something. The man's voice was different: though sharp, it was flat and held no cruelty, not particular malice… Stop dreaming, Potter, he snapped at himself and pushed all those stupid sentiments out of his head.
"Feel with your feet and your hands, Potter!" The voice was harsh, but Harry couldn't help but pay more attention to its tone than the words, and he fancied that the annoyance was a bit… curbed at the end.
"Yes, sir," Harry muttered cautiously, maneuvering around a bed and getting closer to his goal. He took a few steps forward, sensing nothing, and froze, suddenly felt lost in nothingness.
"Well? Remember to keep your equilibrium." Tap. "Most sounds will not be this obvious. You will have to learn to be subtle, Potter."
Harry nodded, though inwardly he was getting more and more confused. Why was Snape's voice lacking that biting hate or sharp malice? Probably got sick of your stupidity, he sneered at himself, though he didn't know what he felt under his numbness.
"For now, you will have to practice moving without murdering yourself, Potter. Though Madam Pomfrey has given you potions that will prevent muscle damage and promote muscle development, you will have to exercise constantly."
Harry nodded again, coolly this time. Snape didn't sound cold or annoyed or spiteful. He just sounded aloof. The Gryffindor part of him was desperate to toss away all pretenses and demand an explanation, but another side of him, one that did not suffer as much in that month of torture, whispered to him to wait. After all, one stupid outburst is enough for today, he growled decidedly.
There was a faint pop, and then a whirring before silence. Footsteps and the stirring of a cloak, and Harry tensed involuntarily as Snape moved towards him. "Hold out your hand, boy." Harry did and felt something that felt and weighed like an apple drop into the palm of his hand. "This is a Sounding Globe. It will make various sounds and move around the room at random. You will listen to the sounds and try to obtain it."
Harry nodded yet again, fingering the globe in his hand.
"Well?" Snape sounded impatient. "Stop standing there. Activate it with your wand."
"I don't have my wand," Harry replied in the same tone the other man used: clipped, a bit harsh, but devoid of malice. "It was… broken. And burned."
"I see." A pause. Then the rustling of cloth, and Harry heard a tapping sound. The sphere in his hand shivered a bit before rolling off and made a sound similar to a child's pattering footsteps. "I've activated it for you. What are you waiting for, Potter?"
Stupid little ball, Harry thought exhaustedly an hour later as he maneuvered around one of the chairs Snape had conjured and scattered throughout the wing. He felt rather stupid at first, grouping around of the elusive ball while Snape watched. He was expecting his movements to be accompanied by a scathing commentary, but none came.
He wondered why no said commentary came, but he tried to keep his mind focused on getting the ball. Easier said than done, he thought peevishly. He wished he weren't blind so that he could see the potions master's expression, wish he weren't such a coward and would just drop pretenses and demand an answer from Snape…
Harry heard the swift rustling of a cloak and the patter of footsteps. He tensed only slightly when the potions master neared him and plucked the Sounding Globe out of his hands.
"I believe you have practiced enough for today, Potter. Despite what you may think, you certainly are not fully healed. See that you eat proper meals and sleep long hours."
"Yes, Professor," Harry intoned, mimicking the professor's short, expressionless voice. Finally, it's over, he thought, ready to keel over and go to sleep.
"Oh, and Potter?"
Harry looked up. "Sir?"
Snape's voice was stiff and formal. "I… accept your apology."
Harry blinked. And blinked again. That's… interesting. A pleasant feeling beneath the numbness and fatigue began to bubble up in him, but he scowled it away. Honestly, after five years of trying to make his life hell, he was glad Snape had accepted his apology?
But Snape was speaking again, in the same voice except that he sounded slightly choked. "And I, in turn, would like to extend an apology of my own, regarding our previous… misunderstandings."
Harry shut his mouth after realizing, five seconds later, that his jaw had dropped. He's apologizing to me, Harry thought dazedly. Snape apologized to me, his bane of existence… He hastily suppressed a smile that threatened to split his face in half.
"Apology accepted, sir."
"I expect you to exert yourself fully in what I teach you," Snape said sharply immediately afterwards, but Harry didn't flinch at all. "Be assured that—this is only to make our working interaction more bearable! I will return sometime later today, and I expect to find you well occupied."
With that and a swish, Severus Snape stalked out of the hospital wing, leaving a grinning Harry Potter behind.