Ten: Zakopane

When Harry woke it was still dark, with that dusty darkness peppered into fog that often precedes dawn. He had kicked his sheets off sometime during the night and found himself shivering, uneasy on the heels of some dream he couldn't remember, with a sour taste in his mouth and a dizzy head and, worst of all, wet, again.

All he wanted was to go back to sleep. Instead, he trudged out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. The harsh light made him squint. In the mirror, he looked dead.

Promptly, he realised he would not be able to change like he'd wanted to: his clothes were all back in Berlin. So was his album. He swallowed the tears and blew his nose, because there was nothing that could be done about any of it.

Maybe he could go back to sleep. He did not have dry clothes anyway, so it didn't matter. He could pretend that nothing was wrong for a few hours and deal with the fallout in the morning proper.

When he re-entered the room, Snape was sitting up, watching him. It was very creepy and very awkward, and Harry nearly ran to his bed to make it stop.

'Have you been sick?'

'No,' Harry said. He didn't tell Snape what had really happened. He would find out eventually, of course, but Harry could at least avoid having to say it.

He kept his face pressed into the pillow, so he only heard Snape shuffle over, and sigh, and then the mattress dipped.

'Sit up.'

Harry did, though he didn't like it, and let Snape touch his forehead to check for a fever that wasn't there. 'I'm not ill,' he reminded him.

'You're very warm, actually. It might be heatstroke. Does this happen often?'

Snape wasn't asking about heatstroke, he knew, he was asking about the other thing but not saying what it was, which Harry appreciated. 'No. It's not happened in ages. I mean, that time in the first place we were, but other than that, not since I was like nine.'

He peered up at Snape to catch his smile. 'Ages,' he repeated after Harry, like it was funny.

For some reason, the fact that Snape was happy made Harry feel sad. He had to bite his lip not to start crying and hid his head in the crook of his elbow in case he did. His breaths were coming in wet and stuttered.

'I—I'm not sure what to do to help you, Potter. What did your aunt use to do when this happened?'

A current of fear shot through Harry. 'I don't want you to do that!'

'Very well, I won't,' Snape sounded a little affronted. 'Tell me anyway.'

Harry really didn't want to, but he was too tired to be contrary. 'She—she used to, uhm, make me put my face in it. Cause she said that's what you're supposed to do to dogs, I mean when they're puppies, to teach them not to, you know, so maybe it would work for people, too.'

Silence answered him. Harry felt really stupid for speaking at all: it was a weird thing to tell someone, especially your teacher.

'Was your uncle aware of your aunt's use of this particular—method?'

'Uh, I don't know. It was only my aunt who changed sheets and stuff like that, so I'm not sure if she told him or not.'

'I see.'

Snape didn't say anything else, but he had Harry get up and then he gave him one of his shirts to use as a nightgown. When Harry came back from changing in the bathroom, his bed had been stripped and remade with the sheets from the old armoire in the corner. He saw in the breaking dawn that they were an intricate daisy pattern. They smelled of lavender.

The next time he woke, it was because the landlady had knocked on the door. He watched through slitted eyes as Snape collected the breakfast tray and then spoke with her a while in the corridor. He couldn't make out very much beyond that Snape told her Harry was sick, which wasn't true, and still Snape was always saying that.

Apparently, Snape had managed to convince not just the landlady but himself, too, because after he'd set his plate and tea on the little table by the window, he carried the tray over to Harry's bed and let him have breakfast right there in his nest of blankets.

'You know I'm not really ill,' Harry told him.

'You have heatstroke.'

'No, I don't.'

Snape ignored him and went to eat his breakfast by the window, facing the part of the room that Harry wasn't in.

He was halfway through his blueberry cream bun when he remembered something.

'Sir, yesterday when the wizard police caught us, was it you who cast those spells on the dog and the bins?'

'We call them Aurors, not the wizard police.'

'Aurors. It was you, sir, wasn't it? Because the guy Auror was saying how it wasn't him, and I didn't see them coming from his wand, I don't think.'

Snape didn't even bother to turn around in his chair, which Harry thought was awfully rude.

'Yes, it was me. I wanted to ensure the authorities of wizarding Germany would find out about the incident. If news reaches Britain that these Aurors attacked and pursued you in the middle of Muggle Berlin, it might discredit the Ministry and inspire sympathy toward you—it's all politics, Potter. At this juncture, there is no need for you to understand it.'

'I do understand,' Harry wasn't entirely sure he did. 'I'm old enough to understand politics.'

'I look forward to an impassioned debate before the next election.' Snape stood, even though Harry could see there was still plenty left on his plate. 'For now, I will go buy you clothes. Stay put.'

'Why can't I come? I don't really have heatstroke.'

'Whether or not you do is beyond the point, seeing as you're currently wearing nothing but an oversized shirt. You will stay in bed and wait for me, or I promise you I will be severely displeased. Is that clear?'

It was clear, sure, but that didn't mean Harry had to be happy about it. The room didn't even have a TV. 'You were supposed to tell me about my mum,' he reminded him, feeling brave. 'Or was that a lie?'

Snape glared at him. 'I will tell you about her once you are no longer wearing my shirt.'

'You're just going to keep delaying it until I've forgotten. But I'm never going to forget.'

'I have been foiled,' Snape had lost all interest in the conversation. 'Goodbye.'

The moment the door shut behind him, Harry got out of bed. He examined the food Snape had left on his plate: fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, and a bit of sausage, none of which looked very appealing to Harry. He snagged the last piece of bread from the tiny basket, though, to save for later.

For a while, he sat on the wide windowsill. The meadows behind the house dipped with the slope, then rose again where the next mountain began. Steel-grey crags dwarfed the horizon, some still glistening with winter snow. As he looked, Harry felt a thrum in his hands, one that slipped along skin to disappear into the crooks of his elbows. He squirmed under it; he thought this was what it felt like to be tickled.

A knock rapped on the door. It was the landlady, come to collect the breakfast tray.

'You liked breakfast?' she asked him. Harry felt a stab of impatience. A strange thought crossed his head that if she didn't hurry up and leave him alone, he would touch his hands to her face and see what happened.

'Yes, thank you,' he said, trying to forget the thought even as he was thinking it. 'The blueberry bun's really good.'

'I will bring another one. You want?'

Harry mostly wanted her to leave. Maybe it was just that he was standing before a stranger bare-footed and not wearing any underwear. But it would have been rude to say no, so he nodded.

'Very sad, ill on your holiday. We have a room, a social room, with table tennis and games and books.'

'I'm supposed to stay in bed,' he said, for once grateful for it.

She hummed. 'I bring games. You stay and feel better, okay?'

She did bring games: there was monopoly and memory matching, and an old box of draughts with shirt buttons for pieces; there were playing cards, and one of those electronic games with printed boards where you had to match words and pictures. Harry played draughts against an imaginary opponent for a while, reminiscing about playing chess with Ron in Gryffindor Tower, then got tired of that and napped, and by the time Snape finally got back with clothes that were all at least a size too big on him, Harry was feeling decidedly frustrated. If he heard one more is that clear from Snape, or if the man had the gall to demand Harry be grateful for the whale clothes, he was going to show him Harry could be displeased, too.

'Do not make that face,' Snape warned him. 'They're good enough for now.'

'Yeah, for a whale.'

'I did not have your measurements, Potter. You're a child, you'll grow into them. And I do not appreciate the bratty attitude when I have spent the last two hours weeding my way through the heat in a strange city, where not a soul speaks any language I recognize, acquiring these items for you out of the goodness of my heart. Is that clear?'

Alright. Harry was done.

'I'm not getting dressed,' he declared, then burrowed fully into the blanket to stress the point. Also because what he was about to say would come out much easier if he couldn't see Snape looking at him. 'Do you buy your clothes five sizes too big because one day maybe they'll fit? No, you buy clothes that actually fit you, like all adults do—but just because I'm a kid, you think it doesn't matter what I look like, and you don't care that I might be embarrassed or whatever, because why would you, it's not like I have feelings. So, I'm not getting dressed because I'm not going anywhere dressed like that. I'd rather stay in your stupid shirt since it makes no difference. And anyway, you won't let me go anywhere because I have heatstroke, remember?'

'So, your plan is to lounge about in pyjamas all day?'

'Yeah, so what?'

He heard Snape swallow.

'I thought we might both dress like civilised people and sit down to talk about your mother over tea.'

'I don't want to. I'm going to play board games in bed, I don't have to be dressed for that.'

The silence stretched until he couldn't take it anymore: he had to shift the corner of the blanket a little so he could peer up and gauge Snape's reaction. Harry's one eye and Snape's pair of them met briefly: the man might have planning murder or a wedding and Harry wouldn't have been able to tell which.

He quickly threw the blanket back over his head. It was nice underneath, if a little stuffy. The sun fell through the window and bathed the pocket of space a golden yellow.

'If you're staying in bed, then you don't have to get dressed. But put on some socks.'

Harry was surprised enough that he found himself emerging from his hiding place and obeying before he realised what he was doing. He paused with one sock hanging halfway off his foot. 'Aren't I supposed to have heatstroke? I'm just going to be even hotter.'

'Either get fully dressed or put the socks on, Potter.'

'You're supposed to explain your reasoning when you tell me to do something,' Harry pointed out. 'Your reasoning doesn't make sense for the socks. First you say I have heatstroke, then you say I have to wear socks if I'm in bed, but if I'm staying in bed, how would my feet even get cold?'

'For—'

Suddenly, Harry found himself on his back, legs hanging halfway off the mattress. Snape held the ankle he'd yanked as he forcibly pulled the sock onto his foot. The idea to kick flickered in Harry's mind, but faded quickly when he was released.

'Fine,' he spat, reaching for the thick wool jumper Snape had bought him. 'Then I'm just going to assume you want me to boil to death.'

He pulled the jumper on. It was knit in a black-and-white V-pattern, and so long that it pooled around Harry where he sat. It was real wool, too, scratchy and warm.

It had been less than a minute and he was overheating already, half from the jumper and half from an anger he didn't understand. Snape had been annoying as always but not genuinely mean, and he'd even offered to tell Harry about his mum, but Harry had to go and say he preferred to play stupid board games. Even if Snape tried to tell him about her now, Harry wouldn't be able to stand it, he'd have to cover his ears or force Snape's mouth shut or start shouting, and he had no idea why—but the rage burned in his throat and in the back of his eyes.

And now, Snape was smirking at him, and he had no right in hell to do that.

'It's not funny!' Harry yelled. The smirk did not budge. 'Stop laughing at me!'

'Would you prefer I start shouting?' his tone was a harsh contrast to the smirk. 'Because that is one alternative I see in the circumstances.'

'No! I've not done anything wrong, you said you would give me your reasoning, and it's not my fault the clothes are too big—'

'It is not, but you know very well you are being extremely insolent. I am attempting to see humour in the situation, but my patience is running exceedingly thin—'

'I don't care! I don't care about your patience or about if you're displeased or not, and stop asking me is that clear, I'm not stupid and you're never allowed to say that again, and stop telling me I'm ill all the time, I'm not ill and I don't have bloody heatstroke, you're the one with the heatstroke!'

'Potter—'

'No! I'm talking now, and—and you're not allowed to laugh at me! You think it's all so funny, yeah, because all the Aurors are after me and I'm just some kid, and I don't know how to order at a restaurant and I have to wear whale clothes—so funny—and that I cried over some stupid album, but they were my only photographs and Hagrid's only just given me them, so now he's going to be angry with me for losing his present, but you don't care—you think it's so funny, that I still do that at night and what my aunt did to me after, but it's not funny, so how about you just shut up?!'

His knees dug into his forehead. He was choking—the jumper scratched and trapped him, and where it was wet with fresh tears at the sleeves, it weighed and stuck and Harry hated it. He hated it, too, that Snape hadn't said anything about what had happened during the night; he hadn't expected Snape to react in any way at the time, and even now he wasn't sure what he'd wanted, but he'd wanted something, and he had got nothing at all.

He tried to breathe. He couldn't.

'Alright,' Snape said after a minute. 'I agree with you, none of it is very funny at all. I will not laugh anymore. How about we take that jumper off you and you blow your nose on something that isn't clothing, and then we'll play one of your board games like you wanted. Is that agreeable?'

Harry felt too embarrassed to answer, but he lifted his arms as Snape tugged the wool over his head. He blew his nose into a tissue, then tried to dab his eyes with it, but there'd been too much of that watered-down snot that comes out when you cry, and the soaked paper only redistributed it all over his face, where it mingled with sweat and saliva. It was so disgusting it nearly made him start crying all over again.

'Can I have another tissue?' he whispered with his head down, not wanting Snape to see his face—preferably, he would never have Snape see his face again in his life.

'Yes. Which game do you want to play?'

With shaking fingers, Harry pried open the box of memory: it would require the least amount of talking. 'Can I take my socks off too?' he asked his kneecap. 'Just for a little bit, then I'll put them back on.'

'Yes. You don't have to wear them if you're warm.'

'No, I'll wear them, I'm just really hot right now because of the jumper.'

Snape was rubbish at memory. It was odd, since he seemed generally like a smart person; but Harry kept finding pairs and Snape picked up the same three cards over and again. By the time Harry had eight pairs to his name and Snape a measly one, he'd started feeling pretty bad for him, and purposefully missed matches to give him a chance. It was for naught: he won anyway, and easily, but couldn't very well rejoice in the victory when he'd first yelled at Snape and then obliterated him playing a game for small children.

'Sorry,' he said. 'We can play something else if you like.'

He was still too much of a coward to look up from his lap, but he felt Snape watch him.

'You must allow me my opportunity for a rematch,' he told Harry. 'After, I can teach you a card game your mother and I used to play when we were children, if I can manage to remember it. But we should pace ourselves. We'll be staying here for a few days, I think.'

'I'm not ill,' Harry reminded him.

'Yes, so I've heard. But the next stage of our journey promises to be exhausting, and I for one am very tired already. No one knows we're here, not even the Headmaster—it'll do us both some good to rest while we can.'

'Okay.' Being stuck here for a few days playing board games actually sounded pretty good to Harry. 'As long as it's not because of me.'

'Well, your heatstroke is of course a factor—'

'I don't have heatstroke!'

'You don't? I had no idea.'

'I've told you—'

'Ah, I suppose it wasn't clear enough. Let me check again so there is no confusion: do you or do you not have heatstroke?'

'It's not funny,' Harry complained, though it was a little.

'Of course not,' Snape agreed, and started reshuffling the cards.


Thank you for reading!

We're doing two chapters again on Wednesday since, you know, it's Christmas and cheer must be spread. See you then!