A/N: Chapter warnings for; explicit language description of injury, mentions of character death and torture.
*We are shifting to an alternate Friday update schedule now.
Next update on 27th November, Friday.
Chapter Twenty: The Thread of Present Life
"Were it not Folly, Spider-like to spin
The Thread of present Life away to win-
What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall
Breathe out the very Breath we now breathe in!"
― Omar Khayyám
...
Living with Harry Potter as opposed to only seeing him in classes for no longer than a small glimpse during the years is somewhat different than Draco had been expecting. Of course the mere prospect of being in hiding with his childhood nemesis is nowhere near his boldest daydreams from the age of eleven and onward. This is a rare opportunity, and he recognises it as such.
Harry is an enigma. A puzzle that Draco cannot quite figure out, no matter how hard he tries, there's just something about him, a mystic force field that had revealed itself a few days after they had successfully settled inside the cottage. The Shell Cottage, as Harry likes to call it.
They have a routine now. Or, more accurately, Harry has a routine now, and Draco is unintentionally tangled and woven in the bizarre sequence of tasks the same way one might be in the tightly packed weave of a shawl. Sewn in and inseparable.
Harry wakes up at the crack of dawn each morning, or correction, he resumes being awake at the crack of dawn each morning. Draco knows that the other boy isn't getting much sleep during the nights, even though they share a sleeping place, and Draco's dreams are dramatically milder in comparison to Potter's inner fight every time he closes his eyes. Draco actually doesn't know a whole lot about Harry's sleeping habit beyond the fact that he's a blanket hog.
Harry wakes up, and inadvertently wakes Draco with him, by either probing his arm to inquire about breakfast, or staring at his face long enough that Draco is peeved into opening his eyes anyway.
There are no more cooking incidents, and Draco grudgingly admits that Harry's cooking is a pleasant surprise in the sea of one bleak fiasco after the other. They have breakfast, Harry changes Draco's bandages after he's showered, and then goes to take a shower himself. He's out in less than seven minutes, his hair a right dripping mess and his clothes clinging to his body in a way that suggests he hadn't dried himself adequately.
It infuriates Draco to no end, but he doesn't say anything regarding Potter's haphazard lifestyle. At least he's not leaving wet towels all over the floor, and that's more than good enough for Draco at the moment.
Potter washes the breakfast dishes with no complaint, then in the absence of other things to do, the boy walks over to the red worn couch in the living room, drapes himself on said couch, with the back door opened a nudge to let the wind run through the windchimes as he just lies there and stares into the distance.
Draco watches him doing that a lot. Just staring into space, almost as if he's not aware of his surroundings anymore. There are no books to occupy him, no conversation, although Harry does start humming some times, without even seeming to notice he is.
Songs that Draco does not recognize, muggle probably, it's funny but strangely comforting at once. It baffles Draco, to such extent that he occasionally leaves the book he's reading- The Dire Effects of Moonstone in Brewery- to just sit and watch Harry.
"All you need is love, love, love," he had sung one day, "All you need is love,"
And Draco had just watched.
And he swears, actually swears that Harry has no idea that he's being watched. He could be staring right into Draco's eyes and he wouldn't be able to tell afterwards. It's bugging Draco.
He's seen it happen once, when they were in the cell together, the abrupt way Harry's eyes cleared and his head snapped to meet his.
'Just a goldfish matter,' he had said, as if that offered any measure of help.
It doesn't. It's not, and that's infuriating enough on itself. Draco has no abstract concept of a single thing that goes through Harry's mind, and like an insisting itch on the back of his neck, Draco has the strongest urge to delve and immerse himself in the mystery. He needs a key to Harry Potter.
The boy in question is in the kitchen right now, banging the cupboard doors and rummaging around, seemingly overly comfortable in the small, but cozy kitchen. Five days have passed, and neither of them has stepped outside the cottage yet. Not even to the porch. Harry tends to glance through the back door or stare at the serene waves outside their windows, but he hasn't even once mentioned strolling outside.
The way he looks at the sea reminds Draco of the day he had first seen the sea himself as a small toddler, on a trip to Southern France to their villa house near the beach. Enthralled and terrified of the vastness at once. Those were the best days of his life.
Draco watches Harry watch the sea sometimes too.
"Have you ever been to the sea before?" He cannot help but ask today, and Harry startles, wincing as he holds his arm tighter, and Draco's eyes narrow. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. It's his injured arm, Draco knows, the one with the knife cuts and Umbridge's handy work, there's something colossally wrong with Potter's arm.
It needs to be looked at, probably with the same urgency regarded for his constant trembling and Draco's shoulder. And his cut-up face.
He doesn't answer Draco, doesn't turn to look at the sea either, he just blinks and trails back to the kitchen, silently venturing to fetch a spoon to hollow the potatoes.
"How do you feel about boiled carrots?" He asks some time later, very cautiously working with the knife on the chopping board. Draco is sitting on one of the chairs, skimming through the book he had found in one of the rooms, the Moonstone one that was filled with his godfather's usual corrections in the corners of the text itself. Even the handwriting exuded smug knowledge. Severus probably had a field day with this book, and if he were just petty enough, he would have actually written to the idiotic author and would have told him a thing or two about the 'delicate art of potion making'.
Draco stifles a shudder. He thanks Merlin every day that his godfather shows too many antisocial behaviors and straitlaced ruthlessness to bother and antagonize other people. Merlin knows how the suicide count would have risen if that weren't the case. Even Draco's father had less bite than Severus.
Had. He hates himself for switching to the past tense so readily, even though he knows father didn't have the smallest chance of survival.
Draco is an awful son.
"Boiled carrots?" Harry asks again, now leaving the knife in favor of the peeler, which is marginally safer since Harry cannot physically peel his own skin with the muggle device. At least, that's what Draco hopes.
Draco looks at the neatly cut carrots with nonchalance. "I like them enough."
"Good." Harry dumps the carrots into a pot and then runs it under the tap, dispassionately waiting for it to fill up.
"I've never been."
It takes Draco a moment to catch on. He never had that problem with other people before, never had any issues understanding them, or hell, even reading between the lines of their faces, their deepest, darkest secrets. But Harry Bloody Potter is a first in everything so far.
He waits for the boy to elaborate and Harry pouts as he dumps the pot on the stove. "To the beach. Like, my relatives took their kid every summer. Dudley," He waves a hand, as if his dead cousin's name is of any value to Draco, "They made me go to a safe house in a deserted island once, I was honestly too tired to see much."
Draco doesn't quite know what to do with the information so he just shrugs, running a finger on the chipped swirly tabletop. There's a small piece of carrot left there, desolate and alone. Draco stares at it.
"Do you like it? The sea, I mean," he says after a moment, tearing his eyes away from it.
Harry shrugs, an exaggerated move that is disturbingly highlighted by his tremors. "I do, but there is a lot of blue," he sounds mad about it.
"Don't you like blue?"
"I don't like too much of things," then he looks frustrated at himself. "I don't mean the sea, that's pretty cool, but… extravagance, in general, doesn't sit well with me. Too much of something is too less for other things,"
Draco doesn't understand that either. He has been brought up in wealth and aristocracy and blueblood societies since the moment he was born. Extravagance had very little meaning to him, or rather… The definition was a tad different from what others considered as 'too much'.
Harry looks at him as if he knows. "You wouldn't know," he says so, not in a mean disparaging way, but rather casually as a fact. "You're too rich for this conversation." He rolls his eyes in ill-concealed amusement. "I'm giving you extra boiled carrots."
"I don't have anything against boiled carrots."
Harry stares at him. "Everyone hates boiled stuff. Trust me. It's an ingrained truth. It gets squishy and gross when it goes cold, and there's no taste even if you dump a whole salt shaker on it, except for potatoes and that's only if it's mashed potatoes with the right milk and spices-"
"How did you not breathe once during that sentence?" He is truly astonished by Potter's lung capacity, more so than his ability to ramble on about anything and everything, Draco is more than certain that any lackadaisical word can set Harry off for hours and hours if prompted. It's somewhat impressive and surprisingly not annoying in the least.
There is a foolish voice in Draco's head that just likes hearing Potter talk, regardless of the words or their meanings, a very tiny minority that secretly revels in the sound of Harry's voice, the way the words are formed in his mouth, and more absurdly, the way Harry says his name. Draco chains that voice to the most obfuscating corner of his mind.
Harry scoffs in response. "Some of us have high endurance," he says with a mask of dignity, settling down the slight tremor in his hands by gripping the edge of the counter.
"And others have intelligence," Draco easily shoots back, with a slight smirk. Potter glares at him.
Before either of them can continue the thrilling and yet mind-numbing banter there's a loud crack resounding from the porch. Harry's eyes widen, burning into Draco's as one of his hands close around the peeler and the other whips out his wand.
Draco scrambles to his feet, his mother's wand slipping into his hand as he comes to stand in front of Harry. Both are looking at the closed door with bated breath. He is quite sure that neither of them breathe until the door rattles against the hinges, cringing and struggling, until with a stifled groan it opens and a dark robed man steps inside, his eyes swiftly taking in the surroundings until it lands on Harry and Draco standing in the kitchen.
"What could you possibly do to me with that peeler, Potter?" Snape rolls his eyes, closing the door behind him with a subtle swish of his wand. Harry glares at the man, but lowers the peeler nonetheless, his gaze following Snape as the man makes his way to the kitchen.
Severus looks at Draco. "I'm glad you're up and about." He looks passively normal, stolid as ever. Draco tires of seeing the man's face after being exposed to him for more than a minute. It has been that way since childhood. He cannot tolerate the way Severus stays an unwavering constant. The man peers into his eyes.
"How is your shoulder?" He asks.
Draco shrugs with his good shoulder. "It doesn't hurt too much anymore." Now that's one upside to binging on pain potions, Severus's in particular, highly effective and rarely addictive. Draco still has no idea how the man does it.
From the corner of his eye, Draco can still see Harry wielding the peeler as he glares at Severus, the man turns to glance at Potter as he feels the boy's unsettling gaze on him, and silently waits for Potter to unfold.
In a way, Harry is very similar to his godfather, and whilst Severus's face is the exact depiction of stoicism, Harry's face is a myriad of emotions so tangled in each other that they cannot be discerned into different branches.
"You said no one knows about this place," Harry says, a deep frown etched on his face.
"You and Draco were both injured, and I wasn't available. Do you really think maintaining discretion should have been given priority if you just ended up killing yourselves?" Severus asks, raising an eyebrow in that deadpan way of his that always made Draco feel small.
"How's this place not discreet?" Draco interrupts sharply before Harry can open his mouth. This place wasn't compromised, not as far as he knew anyway.
Harry throws him a slightly worried look before saying, "Moody came here the first day we arrived," he shrugs, "You were, um, unconscious."
"What do- What? Mad-Eye Moody?" Draco turns to Severus, "How many others know about this place, Severus? Is it even really safe?"
One didn't have to be a genius to assume what someone like Mad-Eye Moody would do to the son of a known Death Eater. And he's been here when Draco was unconscious.
"I can assure you, Professor Dumbledore, me, and Moody are the only other people who know about this place. It's the safest place for you right now."
"Yeah," Harry mutters, "Just like Hogwarts is the safest place in the world."
Severus purses his lips, but doesn't try to contradict Harry. Harry continues, "And it took you five days to return."
Severus raises his eyebrow at the messy haired boy and then glances around the kitchen with narrowed eyes. "I consider this a victory." He hums. "Nothing is burnt beyond repair, the doors and windows seem to be intact," he sounds utterly serious in spite of his obvious mockery. "There are no corpses around the cottage, all things considered Potter." His eyes land back on Harry. "I'd say you handled yourself well for five days,"
"You're too salty," Harry deadpans and abruptly turns away from the two to attend to the bubbling pot of carrots. "You should probably lower that, it's bad for your heart,"
Draco snorts, shoulders loosening at Harry's apparent ease, and Severus half-heartedly glares at him. His face takes on a long suffering expression that often accompanies the man when Longbottom is near.
Draco isn't as amused as he thought he would be. He's intrigued, once again, by Harry's reactions. He hadn't looked bitter in the slightest these past few days, in spite of the worsening macabres that life kept throwing at him. He even seemed somewhat bright at times. This bitterness seems only reserved for Severus. It even sounds righteous.
"I don't like this amount of sass and disrespect, Mr. Potter," Severus finally says.
Harry doesn't take the bait. "Do the others know I'm alright? Sirius, and Remus and my friends. Do they know I'm alive?"
"Yes. They've been notified of your general wellbeing. Not the location, obviously."
Harry allows a small nod before turning away to the carrots once more.
There's silence once more and neither Draco nor Severus are obliged to break it. They are both very much aware of the Dragon in the room. Possibly a very dead one. The miasma of it is almost stifling, and has no place in the brightly lit kitchen.
He stares at Severus, and the potion master stares back at him, his chin idly propped on the back of his hands, the edge of his elbows are just brushing the tip of the table.
Draco wants to ask so badly. 'Is he dead? Is it over yet?' but at the same time, asking such a question seems inelegant, deformative somehow. What he really wants to know, isn't whether his father is dead or not, it's whether he died in disgrace, and alone, and in pain.
Severus slowly inclines his head, and Draco slumps back into his chair, unsure of how he should be feeling. He's glad that his father isn't suffering any longer than he should have, but he shouldn't be glad that his father is dead at all.
He opens his mouth on impulse, almost asking 'was it quick? ' but then stops himself at the cusp of time as Harry picks up the steaming pot and rushes over to the sink, to drain the carrots. He and Severus watch Harry fumble with the hot pot.
"Potter-"
"I can handle it," Harry snaps back, and he's not wrong. Even though the steam must be scorching and the pot a bit heavy to handle, Harry pulled it off with impressive deftness, especially with the state of his hands.
Severus tears his eyes away from the boy and back to Draco.
"I need to examine your wounds Draco," he says. "I brought some balms that might help with the scarring, two disinfectants, and a skin grafter, you know how it works."
This time Draco really cannot reign in the frown creasing his face. Balms. And skin grafter potions? Even if Severus were stupidly optimistic there wasn't much any of those things could do to a werewolf wound. Werewolf injuries cannot be healed. It's a universal truth.
"It won't do much," he feels stupid telling this to a man who taught this to him in the first place. "Fenrir Greyback did that to me."
"I know, Draco," he says, and his voice is soft, "but you should at least try them. It wouldn't do you any harm and it might actually lessen the scarring."
"By two percent," Draco shoots back, his logic was overpowering, it squashed down any hope with hard facts, like a boot trampling ants.
"Better two than none."
"His shoulder is more urgent though, isn't it?" Harry says, frowning, "It's been five days, the wound hasn't even closed, I change the bandages three times a day, per your instructions… nothing seems to change." Harry had been worse than Draco about his wound, constantly fretting about the bleeding, hovering like a mother hen. It drove Draco up the wall, but, and he would never admit that to Harry, it also made him feel not so wretched to be worried about.
"It is a dark curse, simple healing charms wouldn't do the trick, Potter."
"Obviously," Harry says dryly, and his lips thin a bit.
"How is the trembling," Severus asks, eyes flicking over Harry's hands, which Draco hasn't seen still even once since coming back from Malfoy Manor, "Has it lessened?"
"No." Harry abruptly turns back to his cooking, his back to them.
"And you've been taking soothers?" Severus surges forward, undeterred.
Draco interrupts him, "They don't work on him for too long."
"Draco," Harry starts.
"It's true," Draco says, shooting Harry a look to shut him up, "It barely lasts him an hour before he burns through a vial."
"What about the pain relievers? Are they burning out faster than usual as well? A typical dose can last about five hours," Severus asks.
"I'm sorry," Harry blinks, frowning, "Pain relievers?"
"Haven't you been taking any?" Severus looks surprised. Draco is too, even though he shouldn't have been. He's never seen Harry take any pain relievers for himself and like a moron had just assumed that Potter binged on the thing while showering.
Harry's clueless expression says an entirely different story.
How is Harry functioning at all without any pain relievers? After being tortured for so long? "At all?"
"I'm not in pain," Harry explains, clenching and unclenching his fists, "I'm actually fine, it's just the fuck… the trembling."
Severus ignores the almost swearing, "No other symptoms?"
"Why are you talking as if I should be in pain?"
"Potter, nerve damage isn't…" Severus hesitates, "There is bound to be chronic pain, pins and needles, some people have mentioned short stabbing sensation in the damaged area. I just assumed, given the amount of damage your body took…" Draco winces. As if being tortured wasn't enough. You have to live with the pain for the rest of your life too.
"Is that-" Harry seems to realise what he's doing with his hands, and clasps them together, "Is that bad?"
Draco doesn't know, and Severus has that no nonsense expression on his face.
"I might need to consult Poppy regarding your case, Mr. Potter," his godfather says, "She has your medical history."
"Why can't she come here?"
"The same reason no one else can. The security regarding this house is airtight. We cannot disclose the information to just about any random person."
"I don't understand," Harry's brows furrow.
"He means only people with high pain tolerance can keep their mouths shut," Draco interjects. In a way, he's almost glad Moody was the only outside party who knew about their location. Almost.
"If they're found, and tortured for information…" Severus' mouth tightens, "Well asking them to silence themselves is too much of a sacrifice. You do have experience with that personally, Mr. Potter. Holding onto sensitive information under torture is impossible."
Harry's eyes flash.
"You and Moody?"
"Have our own methods. Don't worry about it." He brushes him off, "I'll consult with Poppy over your file. Maybe allergies are at play. Brighten up, Potter."
Harry's face perks up in a way that clearly suggests that he is anything but chipper. "Great," he says, and Draco feels as if Harry regards that word with a different meaning than others do. Great means fucking awful.
Severus inclines his head and then gestures at Draco to lean back in his chair.
"I see you've been making adequate use of my clothes," he drawls.
"Just get it over with, Severus."
"Will you be staying for dinner?" Harry asks, looking dead into Severus's eyes. It confuses Draco, horribly. What had the man done to him when Draco wasn't looking? Harry is not outright offensive, but Draco can feel the anger and withheld frustration coming off the other boy in waves, even as his face is pleasantly polite, if not a bit snarky.
"If that wouldn't be too much trouble," says Severus, who as far as Draco is concerned abhors such trivial gatherings with a passion that rivals his hatred for stupidity.
He gives the man a look. He's planning something, he's always planning something, but if Harry's off behavior is anything to go on, he's not going to like it. He has yet to see what an angry Harry can do beyond hurling insults in school corridors.
He wants to ask Severus whether he's sure before Harry grins.
"Great! We have boiled carrots and green beans," Harry's voice is awfully cheerful and menacing at once. Draco glances at him with mild surprise. They were supposed to have roasted chicken and pasta on the side. Apparently, the plans have changed. Harry catches his eyes and clears his throat. "And chicken."
"That would be adequate," Severus easily replies and turns back to Draco. "Shall we head to the living room?"
Draco mutely follows, scarcely catching Harry mildly scowling at the man's back in something akin to grudging distrust, before his face is blocked by a chalky wall and the pasted sea shells.
Laying over the sofa, Draco tugs the shirt off, slowly so as to not hurt himself. Belatedly, he realises, he could have just spelled it off and scoffs, draping the shirt over the armrest.
Severus unwraps the bandages manually, and Draco opens his mouth, but Severus cuts him off, "I'd rather avoid magic as much as possible."
"Right," he mutters, wincing when the gauze sticks a little to his injury, which still has the annoying tendency of spontaneously oozing blood at random inconvenient moments.
"How much do pain relievers help?" Severus asks as he pulls away the last roll and the small cloth of dittany, starting to dab away at the crusted blood with a wet rag he had conjured.
"Completely numbs the pain in my chest and cheek, and the shoulder is a fierce throb, but not unbearable burning."
Severus hums, "And Potter has been changing your bandages and taking care of the wound adequately?"
"Yes?" Draco frowns, he doesn't actually know what is 'adequate' regarding this type of injury, although Harry has been almost overbearing in his worry, fussing and working over his shoulder as much as he could given his tremors.
"I think we can try a skin grafting potion now," Severus abruptly announces, straightening up and vanishing the rag along with the used bandages as he produces a heavy-looking vial from his robes. Draco looks at the vial hopefully, a skin grafter would mean that his shoulder would at least stop bleeding. Which would be a huge improvement.
Severus takes Draco's left hand in his and touches the tip of his wand to the back of it. Draco winces when a stinging pain erupts there for a second as Severus nicks a shallow tiny stripe of skin from the flesh and quickly drops it in the potion, before closing the wound. He gently swirls the vial and the murky blue colour changes to a deep blood red.
Severus gives no warning as he starts tipping the contents of the vial onto his shoulder in a small trickle, and Draco's eyes water at the burning sting. He tries glaring at Severys for the lack of a heads up, but he's too busy clutching at his discarded shirt to keep from crying out.
"I could've cast a numbing spell, but I really don't want to risk interfering."
By the time the vial is empty, Draco is gasping and his fingers are cramped from clutching too tightly at his now wrinkled shirt.
"Potter!" Severus's slightly raised voice startles Draco from his pain hazed daze and he looked up to see Harry emerge from the kitchen.
"Yes, sir?" He sounds almost too polite. The previous hostility hasn't disappeared yet, then. Not that Draco expected it to. He just thought Harry might get distracted from it sooner or later. He is good at it.
"The nerve soothers you've been taking," Severus says, starting to wrap Draco's shoulder in fresh bandages, this time without the Dittany, "Bring me a vial. I want to see which one you're using."
Harry nodded and left the room, the sounds of his feet melting into the sounds of waves crashing as he went upstairs.
"The salve?" Draco asks, hating himself for it. He knows it won't really help, and he'd said as much. But the possibility of reducing the scarring even by a meager two percent was better than nothing.
Severus nods and gives him a small unlabeled jar. "Apply it twice everyday. Preferably after showering and before going to bed."
Draco murmurs his assent as he twists open the cap and scoops up a fingerful of the clear gel, slowly and carefully applying it to one of the cuts on his abdomen. It was wonderfully cool against his still slightly heated skin.
"Sir."
Draco admonishes himself for startling again as Harry hovers beside the couch, trembling fingers wrapped around a vial and the hand outstretched, partially covered under the sleeve.
Severus doesn't do anything for a beat, and then he moves as if to take the vial but instead seizes Potter's wrist and pulls the whole boy forward as Harry squeaks in surprise.
He tugs Harry's right sleeve up and stares at his hand. Draco, too, stares.
His hand, for once, isn't glamoured. And it looks fucking terrible.
The area where Draco knows he has the words carved in is a bruised purple colour, and horribly swollen. And there are faint, dark poisonous veins spreading upwards towards his wrist and disappearing upwards. It looks like blood poisoning. But the uneasiness rising in his gut tells him it's not as simple as that.
Severus has a stony expression on his face as he asks, speaking before Harry has a chance to say anything, "What's this?"
"Let go." Harry tries wrenching his hand away.
"Be still, and pray tell, what is this?"
"It's nothing," he snaps.
"Nothing." Snape's fingers subtly press down on the etched words and Harry yells, "Nothing doesn't hurt," Severus snaps back. "Who did this to your hand?"
"It doesn't matter." Potter is still trying to pull his hand away, although his attempts are now half-hearted at best.
"You're right-handed, and this is in your handwriting, not self-harm, yet curiously done persistently, otherwise the cuts wouldn't be so deep,"
"Harry, just tell him," Draco cuts in, frowning at Harry. What was there to hide now?
Severus' head whips around towards Draco, "So you knew of this and didn't come to me… friend in need of dittany…" his eyes narrow, "seems like this mysterious friend in need is finally found."
"Umbridge," Harry says abruptly.
"Dolores Umbridge?" Severus, remarkably, doesn't look fazed as he catches on.
"She had this Quill, and she kept assigning me detentions for stupid things, then she made me write with the Quill on the parchment until the lesson had sunk in." There is a scowl on Harry's face, which is decidedly more hostile than anything Harry could've made towards Severus.
"And you're the only one she did this to?"
"I don't know." Harry suddenly looks worried, biting his lips as he mumbles, staring at his grotesque hand.
"Potter, your hand looks poisoned."
Harry takes a step back, startled, "What?"
"The Quill must have been laced with something, Draco, scoot over so he can sit." Draco, gaping slightly, shifts on the couch, swinging his legs off and scooting over to one side.
"I'm fine," Harry says. Draco reigns in a snort. Even Harry sounds like he doesn't believe it.
"You're not." Severus rolls his eyes, "Is there any stiffness in your arm? Any aches that have no apparent origin? Be honest."
"I guess," he bites his lips, "it's been hurting for a while now."
"The bleeding," Draco suddenly mutters, he wants to smack himself. "Why didn't I catch that sooner?!"
Severus turns to him. "What about it? Tell me."
"The bleeding was too excessive, for such a small cut." He's supposed to be smart.
"I'm here too, you know," Harry grumbles, looking between them both.
"And a few days ago," Draco explains, "he had an accident with a knife," he's not sure how to phrase it any other way without making Harry sound like a psycho.
"Yes," Harry interrupts before Draco can worry about it. "I accidentally cut my finger, and it bled a lot." He scowls at Severus, "Does that mean it's the poison?"
Severus stares down at Harry's hand with pursed lips, "Could be four types of poison, by your descriptions. I can narrow it down to two by taking a small blood sample. Roll up your sleeve, I need to see how far it's advanced."
"I wasn't really worried about it," Harry mutters. "I swear it wasn't this bad yesterday."
"The nerve soothers," Severus says quietly as he examines his arm.
Draco frowns. "The nerve soothers? Could they have worked as a catalyst?"
"Not exactly," Severus mutters, running his wand along Harry's arm. "The ingredients are volatile in nature in nerve soothers, they can react with any foreign substance in the body that isn't a pain reliever."
"I'm guessing that's bad," Harry says.
"It's certainly not good, how many vials have you taken?"
"I don't know… two? I took one this morning before breakfast."
"And you've been having detentions with that woman for over a month, two, and she made you use the Quill every time?" Harry nods. "Why didn't you go to Poppy? This needed to he reported."
Harry, naturally, ignores the last question, "Is it too late to fix it?"
"No, I need to take a blood sample, though I'm fairly certain of the poison's nature. Still, we need to be diligent."
"Why would she poison Harry?"
"Why wouldn't she? She had a double-edged blade, one for the ministry, and one for whomever she works with. Silencing Potter was the main objective in both groups. We have been too lax with your protection." Severus shakes his head once as he takes out a vial for the blood, mouth twisting in a sneer while speaking about Umbridge.
"This will be reported back to Albus, measures need to be taken with other students. Hold still, Potter. This might sting."
"Ow!"
"Your blood," Severus says, "It's not as thick as it should be. This must have caused the bleeding along with a severe lack of platelets to clot your blood. I know what this is."
"Just by looking at my blood? Don't you need to run tests or-"
"No, Potter. I don't need to examine this any further," his jaw is tight as he speaks, "This is a poison I brewed myself."
"What?!"
Draco isn't as surprised. He knows that Severus brewed potions for the dark lord, he knew Severus is great at potions. So really, it was only a matter of time until one backfired.
"I created this poison, it's a slow-acting one," Severus is speaking, "subtle enough to slip right past any skilled healer."
"But it looks-"
"The effects of the poison fade the moment you die from it, rendering your death into a tragic, albeit natural accident," Severus interrupts.
"Why would you ever brew something like that?!" Harry sounds horrified, and that'd probably be a normal reaction to that, but Draco can't help being a tad impressed.
Severus never let him play around with the fun stuff when he was younger, so this sounds just as fascinating to him as it might sound horrifying to Harry.
"It's tactical," Draco answers instead of Severus. "Quite brilliant actually. And handy enough to garner the right amount of praise and attention."
"It's…" Potter looks between the two of them, eyes wide, "it's barbaric!"
"Well, I didn't intend to poison you with it, Potter," Severus says dryly, "I'm a potion master, I have my own set of responsibilities. Brewing advanced poisons is one of them."
"But if you brewed the poison-"
"No one is aware of the instructions. None of my vials have been missing either. Trust me, Potter, no one can make this poison the way I do. I recognize my work."
"Then how did she poison me without stealing from you?"
Even Severus looks a little troubled, "I will look into it. For now, we need to take care of that."
Draco can see the way Harry swallows nervously before asking, "Please tell me there is an antidote?"
"Of course there is," Severus scoffs, he looks a bit offended, "Always remember, Potter, the best poisons are those with antidotes, the worst are the ones without."
Draco hums, "Because they cannot be tamed."
Severus nods, "Anyone can be on the receiving end of it, even the brewer. Intelligent people would know, a sharp blade is only appreciated when it's pointed at the enemy."
"Yes, that all sounds very fascinating," though Harry doesn't sound excited in the slightest. "So there is an antidote," he confirms.
"I haven't brewed it or the poison in more than five years. It won't take long to prepare." He turns to Draco once more. "You have been treating it with the vials you took from my office, yes? The usual?"
"Essence of Dittany, Murtlap essence, blood replenishing potion. I didn't know it was poisoned."
"Good. Nice job, Draco."
"Yes, nice bonding experience," Harry cuts in, wringing his left hand and bouncing his leg restlessly, "Am I going to die?"
"No, she has been using extremely low dosages, to prolong the suffering, I would imagine. It only worsened this dramatically as a result of the nerve soothers. Do not take any more unless I tell you or you've consumed the antidote."
"So…"
"Dinner?"
Severus shakes his head. "No. Potter and I are going to talk. Upstairs."
Harry throws Draco a small smile over his shoulder, it's dimmed but reassuring, Draco hates himself for feeling its warmth.
He's not the only one who catches the smile.
Severus jerks his head towards the stairs, gesturing for Harry to leave, but lingers back for a second and turns to him, "Draco."
Draco blinks. Once. Twice. He holds Severus' gaze for approximately three seconds, and pretends he doesn't understand.
He knows nothing. Severus thinks he does, but he doesn't. Harry means nothing to Draco, and that smile isn't worth what his godfather thinks. Severus sighs and follows Potter upstairs.
Unwanted, and unneeded warning, Draco listens to Harry's footsteps thumping on the stairs.
Unwanted. And unneeded.
The bedroom is just as sparse as he remembers it being, with the exception of the slightly rumpled bedsheets and the clean windows, which had been coated in a thin sheen of dust the last time Severus had slept there.
Potter, Severus thinks, slightly amused, now looks a little nervous as opposed to the not so subtle hostility from earlier. After little contemplation, Severus walks over to the bed and sits down, and conjures up a chair. Wooden and hard backed, gesturing for Potter to sit.
Potter gives him a poorly hidden surly glance before sitting stiffly.
His hands, Severus notices with some satisfaction, actually shake a little less than they did the last time he'd seen them. Not by a wide margin, but noticeable to the observing eye. Though the boy might not have noticed it himself. Potter is fidgeting under his stare now.
"I believe you have something to say to me?" He asks.
Potter's eyes narrow, and Severus can almost see the scathing remark, almost certainly something idiotic, forming in his head, so Severus cuts him off. "I have taught you for over four years now, Potter. I dealt with other teenagers for longer. So out with it already."
"You never allowed me to defend myself in your classes." The surly expression is back.
Severus arches a brow, "I'm not asking you to defend anyone and we're not in my classroom. I believe it would benefit us both greatly if you hurried this up, time is golden."
Potter stares at him for a moment, and then takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "Mr. Malfoy is dead," then Potter's shoulders slump, all the fight draining out of him.
"Yes." He keeps his face perfectly blank, trying to gauge what he wants to say.
"I…" Potter fumbles with his hands for a beat. "He is beyond dead. And Voldemort is not happy at the moment,"
Severus isn't sure where Potter is going with this, but there's one thing he is sure of.
"Do not say that name!"
Harry frowns. "Why not?"
"Potter," Severus leans forward, willing the boy to understand. If nothing else, then this, "for once in your life listen to your elders. Never utter a name when you don't know of the power it holds. Never."
"Calling him you-know-who is stupid," he says, scowling.
"Calling him by any other name is a foolish oversight."
"Whatever." Potter throws his hands up in exasperation, not understanding the severity of it, "That's not even the point! I know when it happened. It happened three nights ago, at midnight, didn't it?"
Severus stills, not speaking for a moment, before- "Is that a hunch?"
"I saw it." Severus blinks. Once. And Potter swallows before continuing, as if the words are clawing their way out. "I… did it. I think I killed Mr. Malfoy. And tortured… I tortured-"
"Potter, what are you talking about?" Severus' voice came out sharper than intended, and Potter rears back in his chair for a moment, before forging on with vehemence.
"I bashed Rosier's face in, with my foot. And I splattered Mr. Malfoy's brain all over the floor. And I stood and watched as they killed Mrs. Malfoy, and you were there too! And you did nothing and Draco has lost so much already, and I'm responsible for it and I'm pretending that it's nothing and you're doing the same thing and that's not fair-"
"Stop." There are tears in the boy's eyes and he's working himself up.
"I cannot! It felt good. I was exhilarated by their pain, I liked it when Mrs. Malfoy screamed, I made Rosier cry like a baby, I choked him with my foot! There's something wrong with me, because I thought they weren't real, I thought they were twisted dreams, but they aren't. Every second of it is true. Bellatrix killed her sister and I killed Draco's dad. I killed his dad and I was just making us dinner as if nothing had happened!"
"Potter!" Several tries to cut off the rambling boy, "You need to calm down,"
"We're both an accomplice! I'm a murderer!" He is near hysterical by now, barely coherent, heaving in choking breaths. He looks about ready to hurl his guts on the floor.
"You're not," Severus says firmly, his voice level even as his mind churns behind his occlumency walls. "The dark lord was the one who killed Lucius and tortured Rosier. You never even left this cottage."
Harry shoots him a glare, eyes red-rimmed and… desperate. "Then how can I have been there? And done those things? How could you be there and do nothing? Draco begged you. I was there. Right next to you, and he begged you to do something, and you just stared right back at him. You did nothing and I didn't either." Well, at least that explains Potter's earlier attitude towards him, a sardonic part of his mind supplies.
"Potter, I need you to understand something, first and foremost. You. Weren't. There." Severus doesn't know when he stood up, but he is now standing, an arm's length away from Potter as the boy stares up at him, "Not when Narcissa was dying and not while Rosier was being punished. You never left this cottage or your home in Surrey, you never left your bed." Severus leans down, trying to drill the fact into Potter's head, "You seeing it from a certain point of view doesn't necessarily mean you are the wrongdoer."
Porter hesitates for just a moment before contradicting, "But I didn't just see it. I felt it! I'm still feeling it. I tried to tell Dumbledore as soon as I found out but the ministry was there and Professor McGonagall was there and she made me go back. Then the whole Sirius thing happened-"
"I know." Severus steps back, crossing his arms over his chest, "I don't need a full recount, Mr. Potter."
"I need it to stop!" Potter bursts out again, shooting out of the chair, before going on in a much subdued voice, "I feel so guilty, I've been pretending all the while with Draco and I cannot do it anymore." Potter exhales, long and slow, exhausted. "I'm a monster."
"The dark lord is the one who did this," Severus repeats, "You were merely an onlooker. Potter, I can vouch with utter certainty, that you weren't responsible for any deaths."
"Then what is happening to me?" he asks, and his eyes are too bright.
"I'm sure that Professor Dumbledore will know. He will be made aware immediately, and we will look for a solution. Right now, you need to calm yourself, Potter. You cannot go downstairs like this."
"Calm. Yeah, calm is easy." The boy turns his head away and chuckles, the laugh bubbling out of him resembling something that'd suit Black more than Potter, "I just witnessed two murders and a gore show, calm is easily manageable."
"You've been holding up for five days," he points out.
"Barely, Snape, barely."
Severus narrows his eyes, and considers rebuking the boy for his lack of respect, but looking at his face; drawn in, pinched, dark circles lining his red eyes, the tremors wracking his body, and decides that he is, quite frankly, a mess, and deserves to be let off the hook for once.
"We need to head down now," he says instead, "I know Draco, he's already halfway up the stairs to start eavesdropping,"
"Only now?" Potter frowns.
"His pride won't let him follow us right away."
"Can you um-" Potter's gestures at his flushed face and red-rimmed eyes and Severus rolls his eyes before swishing his wand over the boy's face.
Potter takes in a sharp breath and stumbles backwards, eyes going wide. The back of his legs hit the chair behind him and it topples over with a loud crash. Severus pauses midspell and lowers his wand.
"Potter," he says, slowly, cautiously.
"Yeah, yeah," Potter mutters, looking away and running a hand through his hair.
"I wasn't going to hurt you." Severus straightens up, looking at Potter's face intently.
"I'm sorry, I know," then he purses his lips, and amends, "No, I don't actually know that, just, ignore me. Sorry."
After a long moment, Severus sighs, "You don't have to apologize, Mr. Potter. I understand that these past few days have been…" Severus searches for the appropriate word, "Quite stressful."
"I'm fine," Potter snaps, "Great."
"As you say so, but perhaps confiding in someone-"
"No, I'm fine, thank you. I'm great." Severus keeps his snort to himself and lets the boy continue, "We need to head downstairs or the chickens burn, at this point I'm taking down a whole species."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. Thanks."
Dinner is awkward. So awkward, in fact, that Harry cannot even imagine the thought of chewing too loudly, and so slightly settles for lightly scraping his fork against his plate. The fork, which thankfully remains in his hand and doesn't clatter down to the table or floor.
Draco for his part seems to be enjoying his food, and doesn't seem to mind the awkward tension around the kitchen at all.
"This is really good," Draco compliments Harry, as he does every day, and Harry ducks his head into his drink with a small nod.
"Thanks," he says and Draco nods back, promptly digging back into his food. Harry doesn't know what the other boy's intention is behind the nice exterior, it's making Harry feel guilty, and all… weird inside. He doesn't know what to call it yet, he stashes it away as he picks on his beans.
"You should try it, Severus," Draco continues, nodding his chin at Severus's plate. Harry's fork does a sharp screech against the china as his hand starts seizing, he lets go of the fork and fists the hand on his knee. Draco doesn't respond but Snape's eyes swiftly shift to Harry's.
"It's not as bad as my potion making skills," Harry says for lack of a better thing to say. He is now very much aware of how much he regrets inviting Snape to stay over just to force feed him extra boiled vegetables as revenge.
"Your cooking is definitely better than the potions," Draco says with a snort and reaches for his cup. Harry gives him a tight-lipped smile but doesn't glance away from Snape's eyes.
"I have no doubt," the man finally says. "However I prefer my meals in room temperature,"
Harry subconsciously feels his eyebrows rise before he shrugs. "Okay. Do you want me to pack you a plate to go, sir?" Harry might have made a bit too much, and he knows that Draco doesn't like to have the same food twice in a day if possible. Harry could put it away for later, but honestly, the man looks as if he needs it, and now that Harry has vented off a bit and gotten everything off his chest, he's feeling more amiable to the idea of being kinder to Snape.
The man had saved his life, after all. More than once. He even did it today, by catching Harry's poisoned hand by pure luck. Granted, the poison is his creation to begin with, but Harry prefers to look at the silver lining. If it weren't for him, Harry would have most likely been dead in a few days' time, especially with the rapid pace with which he was consuming those nerve soothers. Not only they didn't work, but also accelerated his potential murder.
A murder with an invisible murderer.
No no, that isn't quite right. Because there is a murderer if one was to get tangled in the tangential technicalities. Harry himself was the murderer, in this respect.
Snape gives him a weird, identifiable look. "No, it's fine."
It's fine. Harry hates that sentence, in fact, it's right up there in his list of passionately hateful things. Right at the top is 'Great ' closely followed by 'Dolores Umbridge' and 'Pink toads' and 'Squirming insects'. 'Fine' takes the fifth place, while being in no way less hated than the others by Harry.
Harry might not love equally, but he sure as hell can hate things equally. At least they don't need to strive for his attention like eager little puppies.
"I made plenty," he says and gets up to act on his passive threat. He's more than sure that Severus Snape would regard it as such. In a way, Harry is getting exactly what he wanted.
"You could use a meal or two, Godfather," Draco drawls between a bite of his chicken and Harry freezes, his back to the duo and his hands midair to reach the cupboard.
"What did you just say?" He asks without turning.
"He could use a meal or two?"
"Godfather," Harry says, his hands dropping by his sides. "You're his godson?"
Severus clears his throat and Draco momentarily pauses to swallow his food. "Yeah," he easily replies. "Why else would I call him by his first name?"
Harry doesn't allow his mind to follow through with the mental forehead slapping that is bound to come whenever he's being particularly dense. "That doesn't mean he's your godfather," Harry says, and he has a good point. He calls Remus and Bill and Charlie by their names, and they're not his guardians.
"Well, you're not supposed to… oh nevermind."
"What," Harry asks, "what is it?"
"You wouldn't get it. It's a pureblood thing," Draco briefly explains, quickly wiping his mouth with a napkin. Harry waits for him to elaborate.
"You're not supposed to address your elders or people with higher blood status or political standing without their official title. But Severus is my godfather. So I can abuse the system."
"So… it's basic manners,"
The boy shrugs. "Kind of. I wouldn't know, I wasn't around uncultured wizarding families. You should ask your friends."
"That's mean," Harry frowns.
"The truth is rarely simple."
Harry wants to reply with 'Fuck you' Just to prove the other boy right, before he remembers that Snape is also present in the kitchen with them, and watching this exchange with the barest hint of wariness. Harry flushes and wrenches the cupboard open.
"We have plenty of food left, sir."
"It won't be necessary, Mr. Potter-"
"Oh just let him have it," Draco cuts the man off and stands as well, grabbing his empty plate to discard it off in the sink. "He made a lot of boiled carrots."
Harry flushes a little. They are mostly for Draco because he was being a git, but the blonde doesn't even hate boiled carrots. Maybe he should serve them cold and soggy to him later.
Snape is quiet for a moment before he says, "Very well, if you must."
The man's eyes trail away from Harry to Draco and they linger, with a deep meaning behind his gaze.
Draco holds the man's gaze for a long moment before looking away.
Harry tilts his head to the side, chewing on the inside of his cheeks. What was that about? He knows better than to ask, but he can't help being curious. Draco looks a little unnerved, and Snape is still staring intently at Draco.
He thinks about growing up with Snape as his godfather, and wrinkles his nose.
He just hopes whatever that glance was about, it wasn't anything too important. His stomach feels heavy from uneasiness, but he tries to ignore it.
Probably nothing. Hopefully nothing.