Chapter 10
"I need the bicorn horn, Potter," Snape drawls, not looking up from his cauldron.
Harry mashes the horn carefully, noting its consistency. It's not quite fine enough yet. Just a few more minutes.
She'd stayed up late last night studying the diagrams from the back of her Potions textbook. They're burned in her brain now.
As stressful as it is working with Snape, it's kind of nice. The process is calming when she isn't doing it in front of an entire class. If she stays focused on the ingredients, she can lose herself. She needs that, especially after yesterday. Her body is already lighter, light enough to fly away. The motions of dicing and grinding materials takes away the heavy ache in her chest.
And Snape isn't so bad either. He's just as grumpy and demanding as usual, but it doesn't seem malicious. He's trying too hard to be stern.
Could it all be an act?
Maybe. It's certainly an effective way to keep students in line. Perhaps he wears a mask just as she does. That would explain a lot.
Harry finishes with the powder and passes it carefully to Snape, who nods approvingly. He adds it to the cauldron, and it bubbles in response. She watches, curious to see what color the liquid will turn next.
"Start on the mandrake root," Snape barks. He could have said it in a normal voice. They are the only ones here. He chose to yell it, and he chose to add that twinge of irritation. Interesting.
"Yes, sir."
She moves back to her station, using her knife to dice the root into precise chunks. The blade cuts it like butter. For a moment, she forgets about Snape, forgets about the roots, forgets about the situation.
She used to cook with butter. A lot. It was a popular ingredient in the Dursley household. Vernon and Dudley, being the fat pigs that they were, always preferred meals full of butter and fat and salt. The revolting smell of the grease that used to drip down from their half-opened mouths wafts through her nostrils.
Would they miss her?
That's a stupid question. They must be so happy she's gone. Her shoulders sag without her permission. Did they see the noose and the tree? Did they hope that I succeeded?
"Where are those roots, Potter?"
Shit.
She jerks back to the present and straightens, pushing her shoulders back.
"I'm working on it."
"Well, work faster. As you should know, timing is especially important in brewing."
"Yes, sir," she replies, not a trace of emotion in her voice. She sounds like a robot.
Harry dices faster, reveling in the feel of the knife's gentle strokes beneath her palms. Despite her speed, each chunk of root is still the same size. Her cutting technique has always been superior to that of her classmates. After all, she's had a lot of practice.
Faster. I need to go faster.
She wills her hands to fly, juggling between grabbing new roots and slicing. She's almost done. Just a few more roots.
"Potter, why is it important for the roots to be diced precisely?"
He does this often: tests her knowledge out of the blue. It must be to keep her engaged. Perhaps he is aware of her persistent daydreams. He is an observant man, too observant at times.
It's an easy question. She doesn't even have to think about the answer before it slides from her lips.
"It allows the pieces to be broken down at a specific rate. If they dissolve too fast or too slow, the consistency of the potion will be off."
Snape doesn't bother to praise her on the correct answer, but she didn't expect him to. Dungeon bats don't give praise.
Harry reaches for the last root, watches the bright glow of fire from beneath the cauldron reflect off the blade, and shudders involuntarily, remembering. The knife slips. A line of red appears on her finger, and she stares down at it, numb. The scar on her chest must look like that, still bright red and raw. It burns beneath her shirt.
It was weak of her to shudder. She shouldn't have done that. And she'd be weak to complain about such a minor injury. The cut isn't deep. She's had much worse. Ignore it. Harry buries her left hand in her pocket before the first trickle of blood can fall.
She wipes the blade on her pants, sneaking a glance at Snape. He's still stirring. He must not have noticed.
Without steadying the root, she makes one final cut. Perfect. She scoops the ingredient into a bowl and slides it toward Snape.
Harry doesn't pause to watch the cauldron this time. With only one hand, she'll have to work more quickly. There is no time to waste, and there is no room for any more mistakes. She stretches for the next ingredient, but a large, pale hand blocks her path.
"Let me see it," Snape snarls.
He knows.
She takes a step back, feeling her composure slip slightly. She wills her mask to stay in place and stares up at him blankly. He's angry.
"Your finger. You cut it. Now, let me see it," he grumbles through gritted teeth.
Why is he so angry?
"It's fine. Just a scratch."
Snape looks more mutinous than ever. His voice drops to a dangerous growl. "I don't care if it's just a scratch. Do you realize what will happen if your blood ends up in a potion?"
Would that be bad? She isn't sure. The textbook didn't say anything about blood. Then again, her blood has been in a potion before, and that had ended horribly.
"No, sir."
"Well, listen closely, Potter. Blood is an extremely powerful ingredient, and it is especially utilized in dark potions. Inadvertently using blood as an ingredient can take a perfectly harmless potion and mutate it," he shouts. "You obviously are not an expert in brewing, so when I give you an order, you better damn well follow it!"
"Yes, sir."
She holds her hand out to Snape. The blood has trickled and smeared between her fingers, leaving them slick and warm. Just like melted butter.
Snape grasps her hand gently. His fingers are icy, but surprisingly soft. She manages not to pull away when he makes contact with her bare skin. He studies the wound for a moment and then pulls his wand out.
Don't flinch. Don't flinch. Don't flinch.
She flinches.
Weak.
He stitches up the cut with a casual wave of his wand.
"Now rub this over your injury and wrap it with a bandage," he says thrusting a jar of cream and a roll of gauze at her. She follows his directions without a word, and then looks at him expectantly.
"I think that's enough for today," he says turning away from her.
No! No. He can't do this. Not now!
"But sir," Harry protests, the first hint of genuine frustration present in her voice.
Surely, she can continue. The wound is wrapped and protected. There's no risk of her getting blood anywhere.
His black eyes glitter with irritation.
"You're dismissed, Potter! Go!"
Maybe it's not an act. Maybe he's just a git.
She goes.
Harry can't meet his eyes at dinner that evening. He's disappointed in her, just like Dumbledore.
You deserve it.
It was only cutting ingredients. What's simpler than that? She can't manage to do a single thing without fucking up.
"Eat, Potter," Snape grumbles from across the table.
Harry picks up the fork and tosses something into her mouth. It doesn't matter what it is. Everything tastes like ash anyways. She gnaws on the food, chewing and chewing, but it doesn't dissipate. Perhaps it's meat. It's definitely something tough.
She grips the glass with a clammy, white hand and chokes down the chewed food with a gulp of pumpkin juice.
Just scarf it down. Quickly, so you can leave. Hurry. Before you panic and show him how weak you truly are.
As soon as her plate is clear, she walks stiffly away from the table, not bothering to say a word.
The next two days pass in a blinding haze of words and turned textbook pages. She dozes in and out a few times without intending to, waking abruptly with her face pressed against the desk. On the third night, she doesn't even bother to crawl into bed. There's no hope of sleeping without a nightmare and she can't handle that. Studying is what she needs. If she studies hard enough, Snape will let her help again.
He has to.
She's not even sure it's morning when she registers the faint sounds of conversation drifting in from Snape's living room. She presses her ear to the door, but the voices are too muffled for her to understand.
When she creeps out of her room for breakfast, the visitor is gone. Snape is nowhere to be seen either. Breakfast is on the table as usual, but something new catches her eye. A stack of parchment rests beside her plate. She steps closer. Letters. They're letters. She thumbs through them. Four from Hermione, one from Ron, a couple from Sirius.
Harry cradles the envelopes in her arms. A brick settles in her stomach. She can't open them. As much as she misses the company of her friends, the distance between them is too significant. She's not the same person she was a few months ago, and they'll never understand why. She can't bear to read their words. She knows what they'll say. They'll ask how she's doing. She can't tell them that. They'll ask questions about what happened that night. She can't tell them that either. There will be worry. There will be pity. There will be confusion.
Every line will remind you that you can't be honest with them anymore.
She wobbles unsteadily toward the sitting room, her legs seeming to move of their own accord. They carry her toward the hearth, where a glistening fire lurks, and she crouches down beside it. Her hands feel numb, even as the heat creeps nearer to her skin. With a sad smile, she feeds the flame. One by one, the envelopes shrivel and die. Charred words peer up at her, only for a moment, some of them drifting up into the air and floating lazily. She sits there, long after they've turned to ash, wishing that things could be different.
"What are you doing," a deep voice growls.
Harry whirls around. Snape is standing sternly with his arms crossed. Despite his tone, he doesn't appear to be angry.
"I was cold," she lies. It's strange how easily the lies seem to flow these days. Telling the truth is much harder.
"Perhaps you should wear some clothes without holes," he says, gesturing to her raggedy, grey sweatpants.
She frowns down at them. They hadn't always looked so worn. When Aunt Petunia had given them to her, they only had a small blue stain on the pocket. But after a few Summers of work in the garden, the knees had completely worn away, leaving them patchy and pathetic looking. Harry didn't care. They were the most comfortable pants she owned.
"Yeah. Maybe so," she says dryly.
Then Snape's tone shifts from snarky to inquisitive. "Why did you burn your letters?"
So, he'd known all along. He'd only asked questions to amuse himself.
What game is he playing?
"I thought the flames could use some more kindling," she says.
I can play too.
"You are aware that magical fireplaces continue to burn on their own unless the charm is removed."
Harry purses her lips in mock confusion. "I forgot."
Snape smirks down at her. "Did you manage to read any of them before feeding the fire?"
She shakes her head.
"One of those letters was from your godfather," he says, sounding genuinely irritated at the mere mention of Sirius. "He was writing to inform you that he's coming to visit this afternoon."
Game over.
She's not ready to see him. Not yet. She can't see him.
The blood drains from her face, and she begins to sweat. Her stomach gurgles with panic.
How much does he know? Would Dumbledore have told him what she'd done? Would he be angry?
"I'm not feeling very well, sir. Can't I just stay here?" She fiddles nervously with her glasses. She's losing control. This isn't okay.
"The headmaster thinks it would be good for you to see him, and he wants you to communicate with your friends as well. He's concerned that you are isolating yourself."
So, what if I am? I don't see how it's any of his business.
"I don't want to talk to Sirius, and I don't want any more letters."
"This meeting isn't optional, Potter," he says firmly, turning to leave. "The dog will arrive right after lunch."
But what does Sirius know? She wrings her hands together frantically. She needs to know. Snape will know.
"Sir!"
Snape turns to face her.
"Does he know?" she whispers.
She hopes that Snape won't ask what the question means. She doesn't think she can handle explaining herself.
"No," he says earnestly. "Only the headmaster, Madame Pomfrey, and I know what occurred this Summer. Your godfather doesn't know anything."
She lets out a breath that she hadn't known she was holding.
"Good."
Harry steps out of the shower and yanks roughly through her wet hair with a brush, attempting to tame it before it dries and kinks up. She winces as a small clump of hair rips free and tangles around the bristles. She chucks the brush against the wall.
This is bloody stupid.
Dumbledore shouldn't be able to force her to see Sirius. She's not ready. It's not fair.
She and Sirius have never been particularly close. Yes, he's her godfather, and yes, she cares for him, but the truth is, she doesn't really know the man. He definitely doesn't know her. They've only seen each other a handful of times. She enjoys his company. He's the first adult that's truly shown an interest in her. Still, their interactions are often stilted and awkward. They have nothing to talk about aside from her parents and quidditch.
She gives up on her hair. It probably still looks messy, but it has to be better than before. She doesn't bother to check. The towel draped over the mirror keeps her safe from her reflection. If she had an ounce of courage, she'd be able to face herself in that mirror without fear. But she can't. Not today.
She can imagine her appearance though. Her face is probably sallow and pale. She pinches her cheeks, hoping to draw some color into them. Dark circles undoubtedly hang beneath her eyes from lack of sleep, but she can't help that. Perhaps her glasses will cover them.
Harry storms out of the bathroom and digs through her clothes, tossing most of them onto the floor. She has nothing to wear! Nothing that won't raise questions anyway. Every piece of clothing she owns is either holey or stained or ridiculously oversized. She doesn't mind wearing her castoffs around Snape. He just assumes she's purposely being a slob; his opinion of her appearance isn't that important. But Sirius needs to think she's doing well. She doesn't need him asking any questions.
With a huff, she pulls on her school robes. They'll keep her scars concealed and hide how thin she's gotten. If Sirius asks, she'll say Snape makes her wear the uniform. Sirius will believe that. Actually, Harry's surprised Snape doesn't force her to look more presentable; seems like something he would do.
Harry plops down on her bed and tries to breathe. It's only one afternoon. She just has to get through a few hours and then everything will be fine. She glances up at the clock apprehensively. Less than an hour to go.
There's no reason for her to worry. She has a plan. Sirius won't find out about what she did or why. She can put on a fake smile and lie, and he will never know. Never. Harry throws herself backward onto the bed and buries her face in her hands.
Dear Merlin, help me.
The time passes much too quickly. It's five minutes past noon when a knock on the door startles her.
"Come in," she says, her voice nearly cracking.
Damn it. Control yourself!
Snape peeks through the open door.
"Your late, Potter. Lunch is at noon," he reminds her.
"Sorry," she says mechanically and follows him toward the table.
Just the thought of food turns her stomach. She peers up at Snape wistfully, letting her mask fade.
"I know I'm not supposed to skip meals but can't I, just this once? I promise I'll eat extra at dinner."
She winces at the sound of her own voice. She sounds like a pathetic little girl.
"Potter," he says reproachfully.
"Please, sir," she whispers desperately, massaging her temples. "Please."
After a moment, he nods. "Drink your potions."
"Thank you."
She recognizes the taste of a calming draught, and then much of the tension leaves her body. That's good. If she's going to play this role properly, she can't be stiff. She must be carefree, joyful even.
"Are you ready?"
"No," she says, but she strides toward the fireplace anyway.
Snape says they'll be flooing to the hospital wing together. He obviously doesn't trust her not to make a run for it, and his suspicions have merit. Running was her first instinct.
Sirius is supposed to meet them there. He might already be there waiting. She sucks in a breath.
Hopefully he's running late.
Snape looks down at her. For a moment, his eyes are softer than usual.
He dropped his mask.
Harry looks away from him, her skin prickling oddly. Snape shouldn't look at her like that. It's not right.
Seconds later, when she sneaks a glance, Snape's face has gone back to normal. His eyes are steely and dangerous and familiar. He grabs a handful of powder, and they step into the flames together.
Harry takes one final breath, straightens her back, and forces a half smile.
It's time for the real game to begin.
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