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Hedwig snapped her beak in annoyance, her feathers puffed out making her seem like a giant ball of lint from a tumble dryer that was standing on a paper tray, as Harry tried to approach her with his freshly sealed letter. She was knackered, and if Harry thought that she was going anywhere he was sorely mistaken. She nipped his finger as he reached toward her. Harry pouted slightly when it became clear that his letter was not going anywhere that evening and stowed it precariously in his trouser pocket before turning his attention back to his familiar. There was a letter with the hallmark green writing of the Hogwarts Headmaster attached to her left leg and her downy breast was flecked with yellow pollen and Harry thought of the fields she must have flown over earlier, how he wished that he could have gone with her and felt the wind in his hair, the adrenaline flooding his body and his heart pumping in his chest. He cleaned the pollen away from her by brushing her down before detaching her papery burden. He looked thoughtfully at the neatly folded letter and gently chewed his tongue, wondering what the letter contained and whether it was about him. He placed it in his pocket with his own letter where it seemed to smoulder.
"Come on, Hedwig," said Harry extending his arm in front of her legs for her to step onto, which she duly did. The muscles in her legs shook from the strain of the flight and Harry clucked his tongue comfortingly allowing her feathers to settle down so that they lay flat on her body. Harry left his room and padded softly down the stairs to the living room, careful for Snape not to hear him on the way. It was late, very late and he did not want to be found out of bed. Silently, he unclasped Hedwig's cage and let her hop onto her perch while Harry proceeded to refill her food bowl and removed the water bowl, which he would have to take to the bathroom. Harry put his hand in his pocket and felt Snape's letter looking pensively into space. He didn't know what Snape had written to Dumbledore but he bet that it was about him. Maybe he could work it out from the response that was in his pocket. Harry took the letter out and held it in his hand, looking at the emerald ink which was identical to the annual letters he received. He could just open it, quick and simple. Snape would never have to know, he could repair it. Or, if he just bent the parchment slightly he could read the interior mouth that the folds of the paper would form, like a dentist looking at the ridges of someone's mouth and inspecting the plaque one the teeth. But no, that could damage the letter and then Snape would know, and then Harry would be in a world of trouble. Harry frowned, but suddenly the answer to his problem struck him: a memory from the spy films that Dudley used to watch on the telly. He looked at the light in the centre of the ceiling. It would be bright enough.
Harry stood below the light and raised his right hand holding the letter steadily between his thumb and forefinger, trying to cover a minimum of the text that was concealed within. He was too short and too far away. He frowned and creased his brow in thought, scanning the room for possible solutions to his problem. He saw Snape's chintz armchair. Perfect. As quietly as he could, Harry pulled the chair beneath the light pushing the mahogany coffee table away and up against the sofa. He stood on the seat of the chair with his back to the door and reached up once more with the letter. Too far again, though the light shone through the opaque cream paper in a muted way. Resting one arm on the chair's arched back and thrusting his other hand, which still held Hedwig's bowl out for balance, Harry placed his feet on either arm of the chair. The chair creaked ominously in protest. Harry extended himself to his full height and stretched up once more placing the letter as close as he dared to the light.
"POTTER!" Snape strode forward into his living room, surveying the broken furniture and Potter. He had gone completely white, a mixture of anger and fear. Whereas earlier in the day he had flipped literally he was now about to flip figuratively.
In alarm Harry snapped his head round and misbalanced himself spectacularly as he shifted his weight from across the two arms just to the right hand side of the chair causing it to come away from the main frame. As the arm fell away from under him Harry from where he was and crashed into the coffee table which split beneath him letting him come to rest on the floor. The bowl dropped out of Harry's grip and span comically on its circumference as Harry laid crying and groaning in pain. Hedwig screeched violently from her cage which rocked precariously on its stand as she beat her wings on the bars in response to the commotion.
"AHH," Harry moaned, creasing Snape's letter and tucking it into the band of his trousers, attempting to hide it from Snape. His own letter to Ron slipped unnoticed from his pocket. Shifting his weight his arm made a sickening creaking noise as the two halves of Harry's bones rubbed against one another. He called out and started to cry harder, shaking horribly. Snape took three deep breaths as Harry continued to whimper at his feet. Bending down Snape grasped Harry under the armpit of his good arm and wrenched him to his feet making Harry call out in unrestrained anguish as his broken arm hung to the side. With a flick of his wand Snape conjured a sling from the ether which held Harry's limb tight to his torso. Harry bit his lower lip and screwed his eyes shut as Snape dragged him from the room, away from the debris of his misdeeds and into the kitchen, where he was forced into a chair.
"Stay," said Snape, addressing Harry like a feral animal that had invaded his home. Snape left the room and went down into the cellar where he scanned the shelves and started to count. One, two, three…breathe deeply: in for four and out for four, a voice in the back of his head said, there is an innocent explanation…four, five, six… innocent explanation my backside, a second snider voice chimed in, you saw the letter and the owl and both of those must have come from Albus…seven, eight…it may have been addressed to Potter, the first voice replied…nine…I requested an immediate reply to my correspondence and that is what Potter has…TEN! While the internal dialogue had raged within him, Snape's eyes had found one of the bottled potions on his store shelves. The counting had helped him calm down but only slightly. The nosy-parker, how dare he? His breathing quickened again and he was forced to hold himself in check, closing his eyes and attempting to clear his mind of all thought. His fist shook as it clenched tighter around the bottle. What to do with Potter?
Snape mounted the stairs and re-entered the kitchen. Potter had remained at the table where he had been left and was looking decidedly sorry for himself. His face was blotchy and tear stained and he nursed his broken arm through the sling with his free hand. His nose was running and he sniffed loudly every so often inhaling the liquid which dangled from his nostrils. Snape scowl deepened in disgust. De drew his wand and conjured a tissue which he shoved under Harry's nose.
"Blow," ordered Snape. Harry turned his head away roughly and sniffed viciously once more. Snape made a second attack with the tissue, which Harry dodged wincing as he was forced to move his arm. "Blow!"
"I am not four," Harry spat out between his teeth. Tears came to his eyes and he looked down, focussing on the table top, anywhere rather than at Snape who seemed to be attempting to bore a whole through his body with his eyes. Snape pulled Harry's good arm away from the sling and shoved the tissue into it as Harry sniffed wetly once more. Harry blew his nose while continuing to stare at the table. He bit his lip.
"Well?" said Snape, putting the bottle delicately down on the table, "are you going to tell me what you were up to?"
"Are you going to fix my arm?" retorted Harry. This was not the right response, as Snape was force to count to ten once more, creating a silence in which Harry returned his attention to the table. Maybe I am just suicidal, he thought, yeah that would explain why I find myself on the third floor corridor having to fight for my life and why I can't keep my giant mouth shut and stay out of trouble. He must just have a death wish.
Snape grabbed Harry's broken arm and pulled it out of the sling, forcing it straight. Harry screamed in agony. He had never been in so much pain; well not since Quirrel had laid hands upon him. Snape pulled the limb taught and straight with one hand on Harry's wrist and the other on his shoulder pushing the two points apart.
"Drink the potion," said Snape. Harry struggled to even see the potion; his vision seemed to be being blotted out by the white heat of the pain. He saw that it was one of the healing potions he had helped with and felt incredibly sad as he looked at the watery red quality of the fluid. It was the strongest one that had been made, and he knew why it wasn't the brightest in colour. The muscles in his body shuddered horribly as he uncorked it single-handedly and held it between his lips; tipping his head backwards he swallowed it in one quick gulp. A hot light burnt through his arm and the bones clicked and crunched back into position. Snape immediately dropped Potter's arm which hit the table with a thud, before sitting opposite from him. Harry stretched out his arm and wiggled his fingers. The corners of mouth twitched upwards.
"Thanks," he said. There was still silence from Snape who continued to stare unblinkingly, but Harry had no answer for him. He didn't know why he had done it and nothing that he said could explain it. He didn't want Snape to use his owl, but that wasn't really the reason. He wanted to know what Dumbledore had said and he suspected that it had been about him, that wasn't it either. He looked up at Snape who was still staring at him. "I'm sorry, sir,"
"That wasn't my question, Potter. What were you up to?"
I suppose honesty is always an option, thought Harry. Harry reached into the back of his waistband and removed the letter and attempted to smooth it flat on the table and then pushed it along the table.
"Accio," the letter floated into his hand and Snape's beliefs were confirmed.
"I tried to read it, sir."
"Why?"
Harry stared at his hands and spread them on the desk. Why did he do these things?
"Why, Potter?" said Snape again. "Potter?" he repeated, his tone a mixture of exasperation and disappointment, and slightly uncharacteristic of him. Potter had begun to exceed his, albeit low, expectations. He was not as arrogant, lazy or rude as Snape had first found him to be. "Well?"
"I don't have an answer, sir," Harry said forlornly.
"I am very disappointed, Potter." Harry sniffed again. "Go to your room."
Snape left the kitchen table and went to his living room to evaluate the damage there. Shutting the door behind him he picked up a loose part of the chair and tossed it into the air, catching it with grace. This he repeated in a steady rhythm, frowning. He heard Harry pad up the stairs almost silently but the stairs creaked under his slight weight. The patter on the step quickened on the first creak as he shot up the stairs. Snape heard Potter's room door click almost imperceptibly. Continuing to throw the baton he looked at the door. He finally tired of his catching and dropped the wood to the floor and drew his wand making quick work of repairing the furniture that Harry had destroyed. A small fold of paper on the floor caught his eye and he picked it up, seeing the childish writing on the front he immediately recognised it as the letter Harry must have written to one of his ghastly little friends. How would he like it? Snape wondered. With that he ripped open Harry's letter.
Snape sucked his lower lip so hard that the skin was bleached white from its sallow yellow. Hmm, treating him well, Quidditch, learning lots… he couldn't stop treating him well no matter how he felt at this very moment, he couldn't stop teaching or training him, that would defeat his letter to Dumbledore, and potion prep had now become fun, but Quidditch? No. Obliterating Harry's memory would probably be going a little too far even for him and besides then Potter would not even be aware that he had been punished as the satisfaction he felt about his new learned knowledge would disappear along with his memories. What to do?
As he thought, he sunk onto his chair and screwed Harry's letter into a tight ball. He would have to talk to him. That was the only option. He was meant to punish Harry not himself!
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