Without the fever to distract him, Harry awoke the next morning in pain. He had hoped things would have gone numb by now, but everything felt just as bad as it had the morning before. The feeling of the glass in his back overwhelmed everything else, but if he had been forced to assess his injuries, he'd also note the sting in the cuts on his arms and thighs that he'd been able to clean of glass and a deeply bruised ache in his chest. Not to mention the flare in his cheek every time he winced.
Before the rest of his roommates were up, Harry took off his shirt and looked over his shoulder into the bathroom mirror. It looked as bad as it felt. The cuts were angry and red and the sight made him feel a little sick. When the light caught the glass shards still embedded in his skin, they gleamed a shiny red to remind him of their presence.
He awkwardly pointed his wand over his shoulder and, choosing a random shard, nervously said, "Accio." The piece of glass shot upward, leaving an even larger gash in its wake. Harry clenched his jaw to stifle a scream. He dropped his wand as he grabbed onto the sink for support when his legs went wobbly.
That was definitely not the way to do it.
He grabbed a giant wad of toilet paper to mop up the new stream of blood as best he could before reluctantly climbing into the shower to rinse off the rest.
He would just have to figure out something else.
-
Classes seemed an eternity longer than usual. The hard backs of the chairs were unforgiving and Harry couldn't seem to find a position that left him comfortable enough to concentrate. After a big breakfast, though, Hermione and Ron believed there was nothing to worry about in regards to his health. If they did notice anything off, Hermione would think he was simply getting over his supposed flu and Ron would attribute it to what he dubbed "the first-day back squirms," which was the learning curve Ron gave himself for remembering how to sit still for so long under conditions of mind-numbing boredom. Ron looked even more uncomfortable than Harry in those chairs.
By the time they reached their last class of the day, Potions, Harry was getting desperate for a solution, or at least something to take away the pain for a while.
As they sat and brewed their potions, it occurred to Harry what he would have to do, but he really didn't want to have to do it.
He couldn't go to Madam Pomfrey because she had the authority to insist on an exam. But, as reiterated in every year's first week common room lecture from Professor McGonagall, Heads of House did not have that authority. In fact, if a student demanded their discretion, a Head of House had to grant it.
Hermione had once explained that the confidentiality rule was in place so students could feel safe confiding sensitive problems to an authority figure without fear of consequence. The only way a professor could break the code of silence was if they believed a student was a danger to others or a danger to themselves or if the student was in immediate, life-threatening peril. Harry had thought the rule seemed rather dodgy, but Hermione had insisted it was better that students could get responsible advice without being held back by fear. It worked for students who had done something stupid and didn't know what to do about it, it worked for those having trouble with other professors, it worked for those being hurt by someone else.
And, just in case the problem was with Professor McGonagall, or if they wanted to talk to a male instead, every Head of House was bound by the same rule for any student.
He really didn't want to talk to Professor Snape, but he really needed a potion and he was too desperate to wait for the opportunity to steal one, especially since he didn't even know what to steal.
Through the rest of class, he tried to think of another idea, any other idea, but he just couldn't. His back flared and burned at every small movement and he just needed relief from it, even for a little while so he could clear his head and think rationally about it again.
Class ended and Harry headed to the door with his friends, glancing unsurely back at the potions cabinet. Dean bumped into him and Harry's hands clenched into white-knuckled fists as he struggled to breathe through it.
That was it. He couldn't take this anymore.
He muttered a lame excuse to his friends about needing to talk to Snape about his winter break homework before it was graded it and turned back. Once everyone had gone, he approached Snape's desk.
The Potion's master eyed him suspiciously, too vigilant to be surprised in his approach though clearly skeptical about the reason.
"Let me guess," his professor said in a cold, mocking tone, "your relatives wouldn't let you do your homework again? Too busy playing with your Christmas gifts?"
Harry ignored that and reluctantly met Snape's glare. "Professor McGonagall said that if we come to any Head of House with a problem, they can't say anything to anyone if we ask them not to. I need to, uh, do that. With you."
Snape's sadistic sneer flickered into an unbelieving stare. "What?"
Harry licked his lips. "I have a problem and I need to ask you for help under the whole student-House Head confidentiality thing, sir."
Snape looked like he was horrified and was trying to hide it but not very well. Of course the man had been a spy for Voldemort, so Harry suspected Snape wanted Harry to know just how much the idea of a heart-to-heart repulsed him. "That, Potter, is what your own Head of House is for. If you need to speak to a male professor, Flitwick is a far superior confidant. I assure you I care nothing for teenage angst and will prove most unsympathetic to your schoolyard drama."
"It's not school-related and it's not a conversation, even. I'm not looking for advice," Harry assured him, equally disturbed at the idea of sitting down for a cuppa with Snape.
"Ask someone else," Snape dismissed bluntly.
Harry was feeling lightheaded and irritated. "I can't," he said firmly. "I need to ask you so I'm just putting it on the record that it falls under the confidentiality clause. I just need a potion."
"Ask Madam Pomfrey," Snape pressed with a glare.
"I can't," Harry repeated. He didn't give an explanation and knew Snape wouldn't ask for one. That was the single benefit of having this conversation with Snape: the man cared so little for him that he'd probably just give him what he wanted to get him out without asking questions. The others would probably demand answers before handing out potions.
Snape just glared at him hatefully so Harry continued. "Um, I don't know what kind of potion exactly, but some kind of pain potion? For cuts if that makes a difference."
Snape suddenly looked wary. "Self-inflicted cuts?"
Harry's eyes widened in surprise. "No! No. Just a stupid accident."
"What a surprise," Snape drawled. "And why can't you go to Madam Pomfrey for this?"
Harry just shrugged. They both knew he didn't have to say.
Snape scowled and crossed his arms to show his disdain. "Have you cleaned the scrape?"
Harry hesitated and then nodded. "But, um, something's still in there and I need to get it out."
Now Snape almost, almost looked intrigued. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "As in dirt? Debris? Are you aware of what cleaning means?"
"Yes," Harry said defensively. "But it's...um...debris I guess and I'm just having a hard time getting it out because it hurts."
"You need to go to Madam Pomfrey," Snape said seriously. "You aren't competent enough to properly care for an injury."
"I'm not going to Madam Pomfrey," Harry repeated firmly.
Snape snorted in derision. "Of course not. I forgot nothing makes the fan-club flock more than a wounded hero suffering through an injury in the common room."
To Harry's relief, Snape stalked over to the potions cupboard and disappeared inside. He came back out with two vials and it seemed to infuriate him to have to go through the instructions.
"Since you apparently are too sensitive to clean your wound as is, this is a pain-reducer. Take it first, clean your wound, then take the next to close the wounds. Clean them well before closing or they will get infected."
"I drink the whole vial at once then?" Harry asked, relieved to see medicine in his grasp at last.
"No, I poured them into pre-measured vials for my own amusement." Snape's voice positively dripped sarcasm.
"How long does this one last?" Harry asked, holding up the pain-reducer.
"One hour. If you fail to tend to your wound in that time, go whine to Pomfrey."
Harry nodded and gingerly slipped the two vials into his pockets. He desperately wanted to take the first one right then, but he needed to make sure he'd have some privacy to deal with the glass first.
"Next time, go to someone else with your pathetic martyr issues," Snape spat, swooping back to his desk and pulling the stack of their winter essays to him. The discussion was very blatantly closed, just the way Harry wanted.
"Thank you, sir," Harry said sincerely.
Snape ignored him and Harry stiffly made his way from the room.
-
In the end, he decided to try Myrtle's bathroom for privacy. The ghost was thankfully not present and he hoped she wouldn't pop up unexpectedly. At least Myrtle had nobody to gossip to even if she was suddenly provided with something juicy. Hermione had counted on that fact when they made Polyjuice.
He gulped the bland potion and a minute later a wonderful feeling of numbness spread throughout his body. It was so relaxing after a rotten day of trying not to flinch at every movement that he considered curling up in bed as soon as he finished this.
The gash on his back from his first attempt of summoning the glass was bad and felt impossibly deep. It didn't seem like a good way to go. He didn't want to seriously injure himself and not be able to fix it with Snape's potion for small cuts. It would be very difficult to explain to Madam Pomfrey how he'd managed to slice up the muscles in his back.
He reached his arms around awkwardly, frowning when he realized he could still barely reach any of the pieces. Some he could brush with his fingertips but he couldn't actually get a grip on them. He found a shard in his lower back that he was able to grab and tried to yank it out.
A sharp spike of fire radiated through his body and his fingers slipped away. He gasped for breath. Apparently the pain-reducer had limitations and he had, unfortunately, found them. Clenching his jaw, he reached back for the stubborn shard and tried tugging again. He let out a small, involuntary moan at the pain. He told himself it would over soon.
The shard was bigger than he'd thought and he couldn't tell if it was coming out at all. He grasped at it again and his fingers immediately slipped off. Warily, he looked at his fingers. They were covered in blood.
"Shit," he muttered, turning his back to the mirror and looking over his shoulder. The wound he was messing was seeping red. He grabbed a bunch of paper towels and tucked them in the top of his trousers so the blood wouldn't soak his clothes.
"Come on," he pleaded, trying again to grip it with a paper towel, but he could no longer find purchase on the slippery fragment of glass.
He moved to another and another without success. Most he couldn't even reach.
Now his back was bleeding badly and despite his cleaning spells, which were rough and irritating, the blood wasn't slowing.
Upset and feeling desperate, knowing it was probably a bad idea, he shakily swallowed the other potion just to stop the bleeding. The blood stopped, but as the wounds tried to heal and his skin closed around the shards, the glass was more stuck than before.
He numbly put back on his shirt feeling worse than ever: he only had a half hour before the pain came back full force.
What was he going to do?
-
Ignoring the problem obviously wasn't the solution, but in the next few days it was the only thing Harry could think to do. Eventually, the pain did ebb away...not fully, but enough that he could live with it and not have it define every waking moment.
But it didn't look good at all and that was making him nervous. They went from angry red to, on close inspection, actually taking on a greenish hue. They started to glisten with something slimy Harry wasn't certain he wanted to know about. He had scars from where cuts and scrapes had gotten infected during his childhood but it had all seemed to work out in the end so he just hoped it would somehow go away or that the answer would hit him. He kept vowing to deal with it during his free time, but the first week back was hectic and Hermione was pushing her O.W.L. study schedule even harder.
He occasionally tried pulling one out, but they wouldn't budge and they seemed connected to every nerve in his body. He knew he had dug himself into a hole, but he had no idea how to get out.
One morning, he woke with a fever and the pain was back.
It wasn't going away on its own. The wounds were swollen and disgusting looking. The first time the wounds had made him sick, he figured it was just the shock of such a trauma. This time, it seemed much more sinister.
He fidgeted all the way through Potions class, sneaking uncertain glances at Snape, who lectured a trembling Neville about his incompetence. Damn; he didn't want to go back to him, but Snape was probably the only professor who cared so little about him that he wouldn't make a big deal out of it and ask follow-up questions. If he did, it would come from a place of mocking, and Harry at least understood how to deal with that.
So, making his excuses, Harry stayed after class. Snape seemed in disbelief of his own bad luck.
"What now?" he asked in a dangerous tone. "I am not your potions dealer, Potter."
Harry sat in one of the chairs closest to Snape's desk. "Well, the thing is, the other one didn't really work."
"Nonsense," Snape dismissed. "If you're taking pain potions recreationally..."
"I'm not!" Harry interrupted. He didn't want to get turned away; if he was, he had no idea what he would do. "If I was doing that, I'd say it was my scar or something, I wouldn't ask for a cut-healing one just for the hell of it."
"The instructions were idiot-proof, Potter. Just drink them. How do you propose you managed to screw that up?" Snape demanded.
Harry avoided his gaze, looking down at the table he was leaning on. "Well, you know how I said there was debris in there? I, um, well, I couldn't get it out and now I think it's infected."
Snape stared at him as if he couldn't believe someone so moronic could possibly exist. "What part about clean your wound were you unable to comprehend?"
"I tried, okay?" Harry said in annoyance. "I just couldn't! I cleaned it with soap and water but I couldn't really reach and something is still in there. Look, I just need something that will, maybe, push it out or something. Or, at least maybe loosen it all up? I took the second potion and it made my skin really stick to it."
"You couldn't get a foreign object out of your skin and you took a potion to close up the wound?" Snape asked incredulously. "Were you repeatedly dropped on your head as a child?"
Harry's face grew hot with anger. "I had to stop the bleeding and..." He shook his head. "I'm really not feeling well and I just need something to help me get this stuff out and maybe to help with the infection and some sort of stronger pain-reliever to help me do it all. Can I just have that and go? Sir?"
Snape looked at him appraisingly. "What is it that you can't get out? A pebble? A splinter of wood?"
Harry swallowed. "Um..." Not knowing what to agree to, he shrugged a shoulder to announce he wasn't going to answer.
Snape pulled an essay toward him and dipped his quill into his inkpot. "See Madam Pomfrey."
Harry's head whipped up. "I can't. You have to help me. It's in the school rules."
Snape raised a challenging eyebrow. "File a complaint with Dumbledore. Of course, he'll be much more interested than I in the details of this injury."
Harry's heart sunk. Snape had him there. He would never tell Dumbledore or anyone who'd tell him. He didn't want people interfering. He didn't want people to realize how weak he was. They couldn't lose faith in him when he was their only hope. Snape was the only one who never had any hope in him to begin with and was therefore the only person who he felt comfortable approaching. Now what was he going to do?
Wordlessly and without any further eye contact, Harry rose and left the classroom.
-
The next day, Harry still had a fever. He tried, once more, to get the glass out of his back. He stupidly cast the summoning charm on another piece, hoping it would work better, but it twisted and wrenched and remained stuck. He could barely move his right shoulder afterward and he barely managed to take notes the next day.
Everyone was stressed out, so his tired, weary mood fit right in and no one questioned it.
All day, Harry tried to come up with a way to deal with his injuries. He couldn't go to anyone else; he refused to explain what happened to Madam Pomfrey or McGonagall. Not only would he rather die than see the pity in their eyes, he was also sure they'd find a way to interfere and the last thing he wanted was for everyone to find out or for them to piss off the Dursleys before dropping him off there like they did the previous summer.
He could summon out the glass, then set up some situation where he could pretend the cuts were new, but the infection was obvious and it would be completely apparent what he had done, which would make him look crazy. And that was the only idea he'd come up with.
Throughout Potions, he kept coming back to the bad idea, trying to imagine wild scenarios where it could work, but he was unable to come up with one that actually would.
His potion flopped predictably, but at least it didn't fail in a flamboyant way. He sluggishly packed up his belongings, still lost in his thoughts when he heard his name.
"Potter, stay," Snape snapped in his you have detention because I hate you voice.
Harry didn't know what to make of it. Did he really have detention or had Snape changed his mind?
Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder in sympathy. Harry ducked his head and slammed his eyes shut against the pain. Ron didn't seem to notice, seeming to think Harry was being humorously dramatic at Snape's summons.
To avoid having his friends figure out something was wrong, he immediately turned and headed over to Snape's desk. The professor paid him no attention, busy marking something while the rest of the class filed out. Harry eased himself into one of the seats to wait.
The second the door clicked shut behind the last student, Snape looked up angrily.
"You haven't been to the Hospital Wing."
Harry held his gaze, though he didn't feel as sure of himself as he was trying to appear. "I told you I wouldn't."
"Are you mentally incompetent? You obviously have a high fever," he growled.
Harry licked his lips and looked down at the smooth surface of the desk. "I don't...I don't know what to do if you don't help me," Harry admitted in a very small voice.
There was a long silence. Harry sneaked an apprehensive glance up at his professor. Snape's expression was unreadable. It seemed to Harry that the greasy git had gone into spy-mode, which probably meant there was a lot going on behind that cool fa溝de. It wasn't surprising. Harry felt pathetic having to beg for help like this and he knew Snape was probably torn between disgust and sadistic glee to finally have something to hold over Harry's head.
"There is no potion that would push something foreign from a wound. It must be removed manually. Potions would help with that process and in the aftermath. Unfortunately, since you're an imbecile, the wound is now closed over it and I don't see how you'd be able to remove it on your own."
"Well, it didn't close over it," Harry corrected. "It closed around it. But I can't reach and I can't pull it out."
Snape leaned forward in his chair, eyebrows furrowed. "There's something actually protruding from the skin?"
Harry hesitated. "Yeah."
Snape stared at him. "Well, what is it?"
"I don't want to say."
Snape scowled. "How do you plan to remove it when you haven't yet managed?"
Harry let out a shaky breath and ran a hand over his face. "I don't know."
"Potter, you must get this healed. This is not a joke," Snape snapped. "If you have a fever, the infection is already bad. Though I am confident your stupidity knows no bounds, Madam Pomfrey has seen it all. You need medical attention. If you refuse to seek it, I will report you on grounds that you are a danger to yourself."
Harry looked up in alarm. "You can't do that unless you think I'm suicidal!"
"A severe infection is deadly."
"I looked up the clause. You can't report me unless my life is in immediate danger," Harry protested. "You're under magical influence. The spell won't let you."
Snape's eyes stormed. "These things move quickly, you imbecile! By the time it becomes life-threatening, there may not be anything they could do for you."
"I'm not going to the hospital wing. Just give me the potions. I'll figure it out on my own," Harry said irritably. "I could use a stronger pain-blocker and something to control the bleeding."
"You said you can't reach it," Snape reminded him, sounding incredulous of Harry's idiocy.
"I'll figure it out!" Harry replied defensively.
"Then why haven't you yet?" Snape demanded condescendingly.
Harry didn't have an answer for that. He crossed his arms despite the pain the movement caused and looked away.
"Someone needs to fix this wound. There has to be someone else..."
"I'm not telling anyone else."
Snape grumbled something under his breath that Harry was pretty certain he didn't want to hear. Then, he spoke up. "Fine. Then I will be forced to heal it myself. Let's see it."
Harry's head whipped up. "What? No!"
Snape glared. "You cannot heal it yourself, you are too bent on making my life hell to ask someone else to heal it, I am unable to request someone else help you...if you have another option, please, do speak up."
The problem was, Harry didn't have another option. Shit.
"Is there a way to heal it without seeing it?" Harry asked hopefully.
Snape looked as if he was considering quitting his job. "I assume," he said with great difficulty, "it's in an embarrassing place. If that is why you won't ask the school's medi-witch, I assure you, you have nothing she hasn't seen before."
Harry blanched, thanking the gods that the pockets of his jeans had kept anything from managing to get into a more humiliating area. If someone had to pull glass from his arse, he would probably have faked his own death rather than let that happen. "Er, no, not an embarrassing place."
Snape seemed at least a little relieved at that news, but still, his wariness was clearly communicated. "Where is the injury?"
"Um, my back," he revealed cautiously.
"Fine," Snape said sharply. "Go into my office and sit down. I will be a moment."
Not quite believing this was happening, Harry followed direction, reminding himself that he had no other option.
The office was small and seemed to mostly be used for storage. As he'd witnessed when he'd last snuck in here, Snape did his work at the more comfortable desk in the bigger classroom, though there was a smaller one in here.
He set his book bag on the floor near the foot of the couch, safely out of the walking path. He sat gingerly and panicked about how Snape would react.
The man stalked back in looking severely annoyed.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Remove your shirt," he barked, measuring out a potion into a small cup.
Harry licked his lips nervously. "I should probably warn you that it's actually more than one...um...thing."
Snape didn't say anything, only stared at him suspiciously, so Harry turned his back to him and, with a deep breath for courage, unbuttoned his shirt. Shrugging it off caused pain to flare and he embraced the distraction from his dread of Snape's reaction.
Harry didn't look when he felt Snape suddenly striding toward him. He tensed in anticipation, then winced at the resulting protest from his wounds. Snape's cold, long-fingered hand grabbed his shoulder and Harry could feel the man's eyes taking in the horrible battlefield of his back.
"What is this?" Snape demanded loudly. "Potter, what the hell happened?"
"I fell," Harry said lamely. "Into a glass table."
"Why on earth would you be so stupid to keep injuries like this to yourself?" Snape asked. He sounded pretty angry.
Harry didn't respond to that.
"I asked you a question!" Snape shouted, stepping around to glare at Harry face-to-face. "Are you really that pride-filled? Are you really so arrogant that you would let this fester rather than admit you were clumsy?"
Harry crinkled his nose. He really wished the word fester hadn't been used. It made his stomach a little queasy. He hung his head and just shrugged.
"For the love of..." Snape trailed off but it seemed off. Harry looked up to find Snape staring at the front of his torso, which he was trying to block by holding up his shirt. Harry mentally cursed.
Snape's hand darted forward and snatched the shirt away.
"Hey!" Harry yelled angrily, crossing his arms over his chest, though he knew it wasn't enough.
"Where did you get those bruises?" Snape demanded in a deathly-quiet voice.
Harry knew his chest and stomach were littered with the remnants of Vernon's beating. The bruises, which had started off black and blue were now in the later stages of healing and had turned yellow, green and light purple, but they were all still very obvious.
"It doesn't matter. I just need help with my back."
But Snape leaned forward and swatted Harry's hands away. "This happened over winter break? I presume the injury to your cheek happened at the same time."
That, at least, had healed nicely.
"Yeah," Harry admitted in annoyance. He yelped in pain when Snape poked a particularly tender spot.
"Your ribs have fractures," Snape announced.
Harry was surprised at that. "They don't feel fractured."
"Take a deep breath."
Snape waited and Harry did so, wincing.
"Feel that?"
"I just mostly feel my back."
"How did you fall into the table?"
Harry felt unfairly bombarded. He wasn't ready for this. Snape wasn't supposed to ask questions!
"I just...fell."
"Then why didn't you want to go to the Hospital Wing?" Snape challenged, temper rising rapidly.
"I don't have to tell you!" Harry snapped petulantly.
"Well, I don't have to heal you!" Snape snapped loudly.
Harry felt his frustration welling. He grabbed his shirt from the couch arm where Snape had thrown it aside and started putting it back on. "Fine. I don't care. I'll just summon it out and figure out how to heal it up myself!"
"Don't be an imbecile!" Snape growled. "Take your shirt back off and I will tolerate no more tantrums."
Harry complied only because the rational part of him was screaming that this was his only option.
Snape stood back, apparently lost in thought. He scowled at the small room, but at least he wasn't scowling at Harry. Harry followed suit and glared at his knees.
"You live with Lily's sister, correct? You live with your aunt and uncle and...a cousin?" Snape asked suddenly, his voice calm once again.
Harry looked up at him suspiciously. "Why?"
"Because if they didn't cause this than you would have told them," Snape said darkly.
"You're jumping to conclusions," Harry accused. "I fell into the table and I got into a fight with some neighborhood boys."
"There's no use in lying. I'm not permitted to pass this conversation on if you'll recall."
"I'm not lying," Harry protested.
"You're certainly not lying convincingly."
Harry opened his mouth to protest but Snape abruptly moved to examine Harry's back.
"Potter. These injuries...they're severe," Snape said evenly. Harry wondered if he had deliberately chosen to speak while Harry couldn't look at him.
"Well, it's probably never good news falling through glass," Harry muttered.
"All of them. Including where someone apparently stomped on your chest."
Harry didn't say anything and Snape let out a frustrated huff of breath.
"You need to tell the headmaster."
"There's nothing to tell," Harry said firmly.
"That's enough!" Snape barked. "Clearly something horrifying occurred between you and your uncle. It could happen again. It would be utter stupidity not to inform the headmaster so he can take appropriate action, or do you actually want this to happen again?"
Harry crossed his arms and glared ahead at the wall. He flinched as Snape's fingers ghosted over the wounds. "I've complained about the Dursleys before to him and he keeps sending me back. The last time anyone tried to tell my uncle off was right before last summer and it made things worse. Dumbledore doesn't need to know anything. No one does."
"Except me, apparently."
"You already think I'm pathetic. It's not like your opinion of me could get much worse," Harry said bitterly.
"The headmaster will not think less of you for this," Snape said in an oddly un-hostile tone.
"People expect certain things from me, Dumbledore being very high on that list. You think it's an accident I end up in all these crazy situations? Dumbledore kind of points me in the right direction without admitting it. For whatever reason, he's prepping me for fighting Voldemort. He obviously needs me to be strong and I'm not going to have him lose hope just because my uncle and I got into a fight," Harry said firmly. He huffed in annoyance. "Look, it's no use trying to tell me to go somewhere else at this point, okay? If you're going to help me, please help me. Otherwise I'd rather just go than sit here talking forever because I'm not feeling very good and getting all depressed about my family isn't helping."
Harry couldn't see Snape's face and refused to look around. At first there was nothing but silence, and then he heard the man moving around.
"The blood around the wounds is too clotted," he said suddenly. Harry did turn around then. Snape was frowning, looking almost regretful. "You have two options. I can give you a potion to un-clot your blood near the surface. This will make it easier to remove the glass and cause less damage. The cuts have been left unattended too long to magically help with scarring, but this would reduce it. Or you can take a pain-reliever. The two don't mix. The latter will make the removal process much easier for you to bear, but since you've essentially grown your skin to the glass, the entry-points will be ripped open in even worse ways than originally. The scars will never heal smoothly. It's up to you."
Harry winced. "So if I don't want scars I can't take anything to numb it first?"
"There will be some scarring even then, but it will be much more subtle. And yes, if that's the option you choose, I can give you nothing to ease the pain until after. I can give you something relatively strong after the glass is out and you've taken the antidote."
Harry dragged his hands over his face with a groan. He knew from his previous attempts how much it hurt to tug at those shards. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to actually feel them pulled all the way out one by one. But he'd do anything to reduce scarring. Someone was bound to ask where he'd got it from.
"I'll skip the pain-reducer then," he voiced.
Snape nodded clinically. He grabbed one of the cups off the table and thrust it at him. Harry took a breath, then gulped it down.
The effect took a few moments but soon he could feel warm, thick liquid seeping down his back.
Snape sat next to him with tweezers and an empty beaker and Harry turned his back fully toward the man.
"I am sure you realize this will be greatly unpleasant. I will try to move quickly," Snape offered. Harry was thankful for the words of comfort. An hour ago he would have sworn Snape would move with deliberate slowness if given this chance, but Harry felt himself desperately throwing his trust at his professor. It wasn't necessarily founded but Harry felt sure the man would stick to his word and try to cause him as little pain as possible.
Harry felt a sharp jolt as Snape got a grip on a shard in his shoulder. He bit his lip but couldn't help letting out a desperate whimper when he felt Snape unsuccessfully try to pull it out. Harry clenched his fists and dug them into his forehead as Snape latched on again and wrestled it from his skin.
He could hear the piece of glass clink loudly into the beaker and Snape cleaned the wound with something that felt soothing. Harry's hands dropped back to his sides. He felt a little nauseous but mostly, he felt suddenly very lax. Everything began to feel very heavy and his vision started to slowly pulsate.
"Potter?"
"Uh huh?" Harry murmured.
A long-fingered hand reached around and caught his chin, pulling it sharply to the side. Snape examined his face briefly before pushing him down onto his stomach.
"Lay down before you lose consciousness," he instructed sharply, though it was unnecessary since he was the one swinging Harry's legs up onto the couch. "Control your breathing."
Until he said that, Harry hadn't realized his breathing had sped up. He made a conscious effort to slow it and after he got it under control, he did begin to feel a little better.
"I need to know that you're conscious. You need to talk while I do this," Snape said, sounding about as pleased to hear Harry blabber on as Harry felt about doing it.
"Talk?" Harry repeated doubtfully.
"It will distract you from the pain and let me know you haven't passed out," he said clinically.
"Maybe it's good if I pass out. Then I can't feel it," Harry reasoned hopefully.
"I can't do this when I don't know that you're alright and I can only know that something is not urgently wrong if you stay awake and talk."
Harry groaned. Suddenly a bright flash of pain coursed throughout his body and he let out a pained cry.
"Talk, Potter," Snape instructed more firmly, another shard clinking against the bottom of the beaker.
Harry calmed his gasps and clenched his fists in preparation for the next one.
"What about?"
"You can start with why your uncle wouldn't get you medical attention for something like this."
Another white-hot lick of flame surged up and down his spine and Harry lost the willpower to keep his secrets. He was suddenly angry and upset. The pain of this procedure was bringing tears to his eyes and he hated his uncle for doing this to him.
"He hates me," Harry ground out as Snape pulled another piece out. "He's never brought me to the doctor or anything. He'd be happy if I died, especially if it happened in a way where he couldn't possibly be blamed."
"That seems melodramatic," Snape said doubtfully. "I am sure your relatives care for you."
"Oh, well then they really show it well, don't they?" Harry snapped. Snape ripped out another piece and Harry let out an involuntary half-sob. "God, will you stop just for a minute?"
Snape wordlessly complied and Harry pressed his fists to his forehead.
"I must continue, Potter, before the potion's effects wear off," he finally said. "Continue speaking. How, exactly, did this occur?"
"He was drunk and mad. He'd been looking for an excuse for a while. He caught me when I was sneaking back in at night. And no, I wasn't visiting my fanclub," Harry said bitterly.
"I didn't say you were," Snape said mildly. He was having trouble pulling out another shard and Harry suddenly hated him too. He hated everyone. He felt like he was going to get sick. It hurt so bad.
"I know you think I deserved this," Harry accused. "You think I'm always breaking the rules and I need to be taught a lesson."
"I agree your penchant for rule breaking deserves punishment, but I would never condone child abuse. What has been done to you is sickening, accident or not," Snape said firmly.
Harry's hatred toward the man slipped into a different emotion with that statement, one Harry wasn't sure how to describe. He trusted the man again and suddenly desperately wanted Snape to face down the Dursleys and hex them into oblivion, or to march right to Dumbledore and demand to know why the old man had ever thought it wise to put Harry with such disturbed people.
"Continue," Snape said simply and Harry could feel the tweezers grab onto another piece. He desperately began to spill in hopes it would somehow act as a buffer to the pain.
"I was visiting someone in the hospital. Our families are in a feud because last summer Mr. Stenson found out about this all and punched my uncle and tried to take me away from them. I really thought I might be able to live with them, but then the Dursleys won out. They always do so I should have known, but it really, really sucked," he rambled, the words spilling out of his mouth at high speed in preparation, but he suddenly realized Snape had stilled.
"Exactly how long has this been going on?" he asked.
Harry felt disoriented and confused. "The table? It happened the last day of break."
"No, Potter." Snape's voice almost sounded gentler in a strange way. He sounded almost sorry as he continued, though Harry took this as evidence that he wasn't in the right state of mind to be making judgments about how Snape sounded. "How long have they been abusing you?"
Harry still wasn't sure how to answer so he just started talking without thinking. His mind was too preoccupied with what was going on with his back. "I don't know. Well, I guess the last summer? That's when my uncle started drinking and beating me up. Before then it was only every once in awhile when he was drunk and mad, but it wasn't so constant or so bad. They only put me back in the cupboard at winter break, but he only beat me up the once...it just got a little out of control. So I don't know. Maybe it's getting better because the amount's getting lower, but then this happened, so I don't know. Um...what was the question? Oh yeah, when. Um, yeah, when I was younger..."
His tangent slammed to a halt while Harry cried out in agony at another piece being removed. He dug his forehead into the cushion and groaned weakly. He stayed like that, welcoming the dark it provided.
"Potter?" Snape questioned urgently.
Harry moaned softly.
"Potter, you must stay conscious. Can you hear me?" Snape demanded.
"Yeah," Harry said distantly. He wanted so badly to slip into oblivion but he forced himself to keep talking. He didn't care what he was saying and didn't much pay attention to it. At least focusing on talking, especially answering questions, distracted him slightly from the pain. "What was the question?"
"When did your uncle begin to abuse you?"
"Summer," he answered groggily. "Didn't I already answer that?"
"You were beginning to talk about when you were younger," Snape prompted.
Harry could feel the tweezers connect with another piece of glass and began blurting things out in a panic, as if he could get so wrapped up in talking that he wouldn't realize what was happening to his body. "Just, you know, smacks and stuff, mostly. He beat me pretty bad once when I was maybe six 'cause I shoved Dudley away from me with a burst of magic and it completely freaked them all out. And once he stabbed me in the arm with a pencil 'cause I drew a picture of a flying motorbike." Snape started tugging and Harry let out a small cry and shut his eyes. He spoke even faster. "My aunt chased me with frying pans and I never got any food 'cept stale bread crusts when they weren't too mad. And they kept me in a cupboard. Dumbledore knew it too. That was my bedroom: the cupboard under the stairs, when Dudley got two rooms. I really hate them. I know that's bad but I-"
His words slammed into an anguished cry as another piece was pulled out. He dug his forehead into the cushion and clenched his jaw. He was beginning to feel nauseous and was afraid to ask how much more of this he'd have to take.
"Potter?" Snape prompted after a moment.
"I'm not feeling too well," Harry admitted reluctantly. He figured this way if he puked all over Snape's furniture, he'd at least have given warning.
"There's only one piece left. From the visible width, it appears to be the largest, though that could be a misconception. Be assured that, at least, this is the last one."
"That's good," Harry breathed. "Just go fast, please."
Snape did go quickly. Harry couldn't even draw a breath as pain shot through his shoulder. Ironically, he was utterly silent through the most painful of them all, unable to scream or even make the slightest whimper. By the time he got his breath back, the world was swaying and Harry was overwhelmed by the feeling of sinking down even though he was already lying flat. He could actually feel himself losing consciousness.
Suddenly, he was rolled over and Snape's earnest face loomed above him. Fingers snapped in front of his eyes and Harry flinched at the unpleasant jolt.
"Drink the antidote and you can rest," Snape said sternly.
Harry tried to lift his head but couldn't move.
Snape maneuvered his arm under Harry's shoulders and lifted his upper body enough that Harry could reflexively drink the vial of potion pressed to his lips. After, he was lowered back down. Harry closed his eyes tightly, thankful for the silence.
He felt as if he was floating on the border between wake and sleep for a few minutes. It eventually dawned on him that he was no longer in pain. He felt stiff as he slowly sat up, surprised when a blanket dropped down to his waist at the movement.
He looked up to see Snape at the smaller desk. The man was scribbling on a piece of parchment, but set down his quill and turned to Harry with an unreadable expression.
"How long was I asleep?" Harry asked in disbelief. He hadn't even realized he had fully gone under.
"Nearly an hour," Snape informed him. "How do you feel?"
"Good," Harry said truthfully. "My back's kinda numb, but it doesn't hurt at all."
"There was too much trauma to the area to perform any more magic on it than I already have. It will have to heal naturally, but the scarring should be minimal. I also healed your ribs but they will be particularly fragile for the next few months," Snape said, fingers steepled near his chin. It seemed odd and Harry realized it was because he rarely saw Snape seated without being occupied with a task. Somehow, to have Snape offering his full attention without trying to intimidate him or act as if he was being interrupted made Harry feel like Snape had invited him into his private life. It was silly, of course, because Harry had forced the situation upon his professor and couldn't picture Snape with a personal life anyway, but Harry rubbed his hand over the blanket Snape had obviously draped over him in his sleep and felt once again that embarrassing wish that Snape would deal with the Dursleys and take him away.
He blushed a little, even knowing Snape couldn't know what he was thinking, and shook the thought away. He must be truly desperate for a father figure if he was feeling fond of Snape just because the man let him kip on his couch.
Feeling more than a little pathetic, Harry stood and folded the blanket. He shouldered his book bag.
Snape stood also and presented him with a vial and a paper bag.
"A sip after every meal for the pain. Let water run over the cuts in the shower and a clean bandage every night," he instructed.
Harry's fingers curiously slipped to his lower back. He could feel the lower edge of a giant bandage stuck to his back.
"Thank you, Professor," Harry said sincerely. "I wouldn't have known what to do if you hadn't helped me."
Snape frowned deeper. "I urge you to discuss the problem with someone. I consider it an urgent situation and when you return to your relatives for the holidays, the spell will allow me to tell Dumbledore."
"What?" Harry demanded. "No it won't!"
"If I feel your life is in immediate risk, the spell will allow me the freedom to speak to the headmaster," Snape reminded him, but surprisingly, without condescension. "These situations only get worse, Potter."
"I won't be going home 'til summer," Harry said defiantly.
Snape nodded once. "Then you have you have five months to inform the headmaster before I do."
Harry felt annoyed but not too worried. He would figure out a way around it. All he had to do was stay somewhere else first. If Snape didn't know when he was staying with the Dursleys, he couldn't be convinced of the immediacy of danger.
And, of course, there was the possibility Harry wouldn't be around that long anyway.
But he had bigger fish to fry in the meantime, like figuring out how to finish off Voldemort before O.W.L.s.
"I'll think about it," he lied.
"I don't want this to be my problem for the next five months, Potter," Snape said in irritation. "There are much more sympathetic confidants than I. Your head of house, for instance, would treat the issue with delicacy and confidentiality."
"Don't worry, it's not like I'm going to be coming to you to talk about my feelings or anything," Harry appeased. "It's not your problem; it's mine. You don't have to think about it ever again."
With that, there seemed to be nothing left to say, so Snape swooped away moodily into the potions cupboard and Harry left relieved.
Of course, Snape did think about it again, more than he would ever admit to.