Twenty-Seven: Hogwarts to the Burrow
'Want more tea, 'Arry?'
Harry shook his head, but it didn't matter, because Hagrid was already pouring. The weather was damp and unpleasant, the skies overcast; he warmed his hands in the steam that burst from his mug.
He'd seen Hagrid almost every day since he'd got back to Hogwarts, so he supposed the silence was only natural: everything they could have said, they'd said already over this past week. Except for that one thing he'd not been able to push past his throat, even if it was stupid.
'Ah, I'll miss having ya 'ere,' Hagrid sank back into his armchair. 'Long way still 'till start of school. But it'll be good for you, better than being stuck 'ere all on your lonesome.'
'I'm not lonesome,' Harry lied. 'You keep me company.'
'Eh, it's not the same. What time are ya leaving?'
'Five.'
'You excited?'
Harry nodded, even though he wasn't. He should be. He'd see Ron, he'd see the twins, and Mrs Weasley had been very nice to him back at the platform. It was probably only that he'd slept so little: he'd tossed and turned and thought about nonsense, and then once he'd finally lost awareness, he'd dreamed that he'd wet the bed and woke up shivering. He hadn't actually wet the bed. For a moment, he'd even felt proud: like that was some sort of victory, something to celebrate.
He'd bothered Hagrid long enough, he knew: it wasn't polite to hang around indefinitely just because he was anxious. He took a breath to brace himself. 'Uh, Hagrid, do you remember—do you remember the album you gave me?'
'Sure, I remember.'
'Well, I—when I was abroad, did you read about how the Aurors came after me in Berlin? So, when that happened, my knapsack fell off, because I was running, and I lost it. The album. I'm sorry.'
He bit his lip as he waited. He was too afraid to look at him: even the tiniest sign of disappointment from Hagrid and he knew he was going to cry.
'Ah, that's too bad. But don't ya worry, 'Arry, alright? Gimme a couple o' weeks and I'll get you a new one, won't I? Just need to write some letters, get some more copies.'
'Yeah,' Harry said, wiping his eyes. He felt angry with himself now, for ever thinking that Hagrid would be angry. 'Thank you.'
He left soon after that, but instead of going back to Gryffindor Tower, he wandered the grounds. He knew that the flash of movement he was watching for, he would never see: there were predators around, and plants that were probably poisonous to tortoises, and even if he did find it, what would he do with it? He couldn't take it with him to the Weasleys without asking. But none of it mattered; it was nice to imagine, and Harry was bored.
He'd taken his jumper off at Hagrid's but pulled it back on now: only August, and yet last month's heat was already edging off. He sniffled, nose full of the dew that hung in the air. Maybe if he found the tortoise, he could give it to Professor Snape, as long as he first solicited a promise that he wouldn't chop it up for potions ingredients. They probably made some brews with tortoise brains or some such thing—anything remotely disgusting seemed to work well in potions.
Talking about his album had reignited an old sadness, and he nursed it in the cupped hands he'd slid underneath the jumper for warmth. He thought sometimes he'd rather never have seen the pictures, so he wouldn't feel bad for losing them. Or that he'd rather never have heard stories of his parents, so he wouldn't have to walk around in the drizzle, looking for a tortoise that was long dead. That the whole summer hadn't happened, because then it would never be over. He even wished, and he was ashamed of it, that he'd never received his Hogwarts letter, that he was back in Privet Drive now, ceiling trembling as Dudley thudded down the stairs. It was all very stupid.
'Have you lost something?'
Harry's head snapped up. He hadn't even seen Snape approach, and it wasn't as though the open grounds had many shadowed nooks for sneaking about.
'No,' he said. He hadn't really seen Snape around this week, not since the day they'd got back from Inari, and he knew that was entirely his own fault for being weird.
'Your arms, perhaps? You seem to be missing those.'
Harry quickly wrenched his hands from under the jumper. It had been a joke, but he hadn't even smiled, which made it awkward. And he could tell, because Snape was looking away and clearing his throat.
Harry balled his hands into fists. He wanted desperately for him to go away, and he wanted more not to want that.
'I'm looking for Harold,' he explained, hoping a little that Snape might laugh and then Harry could take offense.
'May I look with you?'
He wanted to say no, but he couldn't say no. Snape clearly didn't care either way, because he'd matched his stride with Harry's before he'd managed to form any sort of answer.
'What have you been up to today?'
'I was at Hagrid's.'
'I see. And yesterday?'
'Packing. And I went to see Hagrid.'
Snape gave him a beat to elaborate, but if Harry did that, it might encourage him hanging around.
'How about the day before that?'
Harry almost smiled. 'Hagrid's.'
'I see.'
The plan had backfired, Harry realised, because now he could sense that Snape was embarrassed, and that meant Harry felt embarrassed for him, and it was altogether horrible. 'I met with Professor Dumbledore, too,' he remembered. 'Just to talk about natural magic.'
'Did you learn anything interesting?'
He gave a shrug. 'Different kinds of stuff.'
That was apparently the end of Snape's tether. 'How informative,' he scoffed ugly, which made Harry feel very small.
He had actually learnt some very interesting things. They'd talked about how different emotions had magic, too, and that's why places where a lot of blood had been spilled in a war, or where a lot of people had celebrated in the past, they held magic, too. Dumbledore thought that Harry's mum had used natural magic that night that she'd saved him from Voldemort, and that she drew it from love, which was a bit hard for Harry to understand, since normally he had to touch the ground or the water or a rock or something to access natural magic, and you couldn't very well touch a thing like love. But Dumbledore had a theory that maybe this was why Harry had this talent for natural magic: that it came from being exposed to so much of it when he was a baby, since it took a lot of magic to prevent the killing curse. Dumbledore had said he wasn't sure this was what had actually happened, but Harry had already made up his mind: that was what had happened. He said so.
He could tell Snape that, he supposed. What had happened with the guardianship, that wasn't even Snape's fault, and Harry had no right to be angry or anything. Not that he was anymore. He was just—he felt shy, and off-kilter, and when he remembered the things he used to talk with Snape about just over a week ago, the things he used to do with Snape there to see—he wanted to squirm with shame.
'Sorry I'm being so quiet,' he whispered. 'I don't really feel like talking.'
He didn't look up at Snape. He hadn't looked at his face once since he'd found him here.
'That's alright,' he heard him say. 'In any case, we should focus our mental capacities on the tortoise search.'
So they did, for quite a while, until the chill let go off Harry's skin as it warmed with motion, and the sun peeked out from behind the gloom. It painted silver threads around the edges of the darkest clouds, and rushed toward the ground to glimpse off the lake, so strong it made Harry's eyes and head hurt.
He decided to lead them there, thinking that tortoises needed to drink, too, and also because the shimmers in the black water looked rather glorious. The boulders on shore were wet with rain and slimy with kelp, but he could tell that hanks of magic run through them, and when he climbed one, he felt a swell of energy even through the soles of his shoes. Part of it probably had nothing to do with magic, he thought: it was nice to look down at Snape, and nice to climb.
It wasn't the best vantage point for spotting tortoises, but he had Snape for that now, so instead he concentrated on finding the best crannies and flats where to place his foot next, arms thrown wide for balance. He couldn't go too fast: his shoes were already coated with grime, and they slid and squeaked dangerously on the stone.
'Is there something wrong with your teeth that you would rather be rid of them?' Snape asked him, audibly unhappy. 'I don't understand what's lacking about solid ground.'
'It's boring,' Harry explained. He'd intended to get down, actually, but now that Snape had complained, he wouldn't anymore if he could help it.
After they'd got back to Hogwarts, Harry had thought he would never be able to come near Snape again. He'd even considered asking Dumbledore—begging Dumbledore to let him drop Potions. It wouldn't have been much of a loss, it's not like he learned anything in that class, and anyway, would it be very safe for him to be in among all that fire and fumes when he might spontaneously lose it and start crying for no reason? He'd cried over a hole in his sock just the other day, and it wasn't normal tears, it was disgusting, rocking-back-and-forth, snotty hysterics that made his stomach hurt and his cheeks burn.
But maybe he could do it. He didn't feel particularly like crying now, did he? Maybe he could just look at it differently, maybe he could just focus on—
It was like this: Harry had been afraid no one would ever want him, and now, someone had wanted him, even if it was just for that one day. It still hadn't mattered in the end. But someone had wanted him.
It was the same as missing people: it felt awful to miss Ron and Hermione, to fear if they missed him back and if it would be the same when they saw each other again. But it had been more awful before, back when he hadn't ever missed anyone at all.
He measured the distance in his head and jumped, skipping two smaller boulders to land directly on the next one, the sharp peak digging painfully into his foot through the flimsy trainer.
'Harry!'
It hadn't been that big a jump, even, but Snape still sounded outraged. Harry grinned.
'Do you want to see something?'
Snape crossed his arms. 'If this something involves a cracked skull, then not particularly.'
'No, it's nothing like that. But you have to step back.'
'Certainly not.'
'It's safe, really. But you can't be too close.'
'That is what leads me to assume it is most assuredly not safe.'
Harry groaned. 'Come on! Trust me. Just a step back.'
Very put-out, Snape took a tiny step.
'One more.'
'You said one step.'
'Yeah, one normal step, not one fake step.'
Once he was satisfied that Snape stood an appropriate distance away, he looked him in the eye: he absolutely had to see his face.
'Ready?'
'No,' Snape said.
Then, through the soles of his trainers, through his feet and up his legs, Harry pulled the magic high and tight, and then the magic pulled him, and he was falling backward, straight onto the pointed rocks.
Snape leaped forward, hands grasping and eyes wild with shock—but before he could reach him, Harry thought to himself, I want to be caught.
And the magic rose around him, and caught him, and placed him gently back on his feet.
Thank you for all your sweet and/or furious comments on the last chapter. There's been a lot going on on my end and I haven't had a chance to sit down and reply to them, but will hopefully get to it soon!
Click through for the epilogue!
