Starched Cuffs Chapter 4, a harry potter fanfic

A/N: Those days where you oversleep and you're still exhausted? Those days suck. Especially because I was only up so late because I had writers block and, of course, I didn't get inspired until very 't just stop.

Chapter Four

When Harry arrived at the portrait Snape was already there.

"I'm not late," Harry said preemptively.

"I am aware of the time," Snape replied. "Open the Room."

Harry didn't, not immediately. "The storage room? The one that burned down? It could still be on fire, I'm not sure how Fiendfyre works."

Snape glowered at him. "Do you think I would tell you to open it if I thought y!

"Er, no," Harry replied anxiously. "Why can't you?"

"Because I told you to," Snape said irritably. "This is detention, Potter, not an evening stroll. Do what I tell you."

Harry was torn, but he did what Snape asked. "I need the place where everything is hidden," he said quietly, pacing in front of the wall. The door appeared and Harry looked at it, realizing he was starting to shake and not being able to stop himself. The last time he was in here was the night of the battle. Crabbe had died. Harry, Ron and Hermione had almost died. They'd saved Malfoy and Goyle. Everything was burning, smoke curling up. He could barely breathe and Malfoy's arms were clamped around him so tightly it was painful. Outside the room was life. Outside the room was death.

"Potter?"

The voice was coming from far away and Harry barely heard it. The door was singed around the edges, like the fire had tried to escape. It had been held back, obviously, the whole castle hadn't burned and the door was unscathed except for the edges, but those edges, they were—blackened and—and…

Harry opened his eyes. Snape was kneeling in front of him, looking—looking concerned? Why was he kneeling?

"Harry, do you remember what happened?" Snape asked, and his voice was—was soft? Kind? Harry felt very fuzzy.

"I—uh, no?" Harry tried. "Am I on the floor?"

Snape nodded. That explained why he was kneeling, why Harry was sitting on and leaning against something hard and cold, and also probably the slight pain in his arse and left wrist.

Harry's eyes flew to his wrist. Snape was saying something but it flew over his head. His wrist, his left wrist, the one that hurt, Snape was holding it. His grip was loose but stable, his hand warm and strong. His fingers were calloused and rough but reassuring. As he stared the pain faded away completely. Harry's first thought was that Snape was magic, and then he realized how ridiculous that was. Of course he was magic, he was a wizard. Harry was on the floor and he still didn't exactly know why but presumably he had fainted or something, and he'd probably landed wrong on his wrist, and Snape had fixed him.

"Harry," Snape said sharply, and Harry's eyes flicked from his wrist to Snape's face. He was looking concerned. Harry had never seen his eyes so close before. They weren't black after all, just very dark brown. "I need you to focus. Are you okay?"

"I think so," Harry replied, still very confused. "My arse hurts."

A brief smile flashed across Snape's face. "That is to be expected. How's your wrist?"

Harry turned back to it. Snape was holding his wrist. His wrist was fairly perfect, but he couldn't say that. "Er, fine. It stopped hurting."

"Good." Snape let him go and Harry immediately felt the loss. "You didn't hit your head and I healed your wrist. You'll be fine. Do you remember what happened?"

Harry rubbed his eyes, skewing his classes. "Fire," he said slowly. "Smoke, and—oh, Merlin." He squeezed his eyes closed and covered them entirely with his hand. "The Room of Requirement. Yeah, I remember." He dropped his hand. "I'm sorry, this is humiliating. How long was I out for?"

"No more than a minute," Snape replied. He reached into his robes and pulled out a small bar of chocolate, the size that Muggles handed out on Halloween. "Eat this."

Harry shook his head. "No, I'm fine." He started to stand and Snape pushed him down. He left his hand on Harry's shoulder, and that didn't help with the coherency.

"Stay seated and eat this." He shoved the chocolate into Harry's hand and Harry took it, unable to help himself. One of Snape's hands was on his shoulder, the other was pushing chocolate at him, and that hand had just been holding his wrist. He was close. He looked concerned, though less so now. Images of that last night in the Room of Requirement were flashing through his mind. Abject terror and the smell of Crabbe burning and the smoke in his lungs, suffocating him.

Everything was so fuzzy.

Snape sighed irritably and took the chocolate back. He unwrapped it and handed it back to Harry. "Please do not make me feed you."

That successfully pulled Harry out of his thoughts. He jerked his hand away from Snape's and ate the chocolate. It helped, sort of. The memories were still there but they were no longer so immediate. They were back in the past, where they belonged. He stopped shaking and his heart stopped racing.

"I haven't been here since—"

"There is no reason to explain," Snape interrupted, pulling away and standing up. "Many have been affected by the war, it is nothing to be ashamed of. Take your time; I do not want you to faint again."

Harry flushed. He had just started to think that Snape was being reasonable, and then he had to ruin it by saying something like that. Harry was embarrassed enough without Snape saying it like that.

He did take his time, though. This was the first time he'd fainted this year, but he'd thrown up in the middle of the welcome feast, and couldn't sleep through the night for the first few weeks. He wasn't the only one, not in the slightest, but he was the one who everyone was looking to for guidance. The welcome feast incident had been in front of everyone, but he'd still managed to be relatively discreet, and several students had gone into hysterics, and that was what people remembered. The nightmares were managed with silencing charms on his bed. This, though. The only person here was the one he didn't want to see his weak side. It was humiliating. Dementors all over again.

Also, his wrist was tingling. So was his shoulder, and his hand.

Harry pulled himself to his feet, first using the wall as support to make sure he was stable and then stepping away. He forced himself to look at his professor. "I'm okay," he said again. "I'm good. Thanks for fixing my wrist, and for the chocolate."

"Come, we are going down to my office," Snape replied. "Clearly you are not fit for this particular task. You will be brewing—"

"No, I'm fine," Harry said firmly. "I told you I'm fine, and I don't need to be coddled."

"Potter, I have no interest in babysitting you, or being your therapist," Snape replied. "Once again I remind you that you are serving detention with me, and you will do what I tell you."

"You told me to open the Room and I did," Harry said. The door was there, and he walked over and threw it open. He kept his eyes on Snape, though, rather than looking into the room. "I made the door appear and I opened it. I don't know why you wanted me to, but I did it. Whatever I needed to get out of my system, I did that, too. Can we move on?"

Snape studied him. "You do not need to prove yourself to me."

Harry took a step into the room, still looking at his professor. He didn't know what to say, because he really did need to prove himself to Snape, but of course he couldn't tell him that. "Malfoy talked to me again. He said I wasn't nice enough, and something I was doing made you upset. So I'm being nicer. It's your detention, we'll do what you want."

A lot of that wasn't what Harry meant to say, and Snape was entirely aware of it. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were ordering me around," Snape said smoothly. "Lucky for you, I do know better. Move out of the door, then, and hurry up."

Harry finally turned around and walked into the room properly. Or started to, at least, but stopped still when he registered what was in front of him. He stumbled forward when Snape slammed into him, and jerked back when Snape grabbed his shoulder to prevent him from falling, all the while muttering angrily under his breath. Harry himself was speechless and barely registered Snape's presence at all.

Ash was everywhere. Piles and drifts and whole landscapes of ash. Rising up were bookcases, chairs, and boxes; a thousand years of hidden things. The room was—was rebuilding itself? Was that even possible?

"Move, Potter," Snape said irritably, and Harry stepped to the side unthinkingly.

"How—?"

Snape scoffed. "You did not truly believe the likes of Vincent Crabbe could destroy Hogwarts, did you? The castle is much older and much more clever than Crabbe."

Harry wasn't sure how that logic tracked, but he let it go. Hogwarts had been full of surprises since his first day; this was just another in a long line of impossibilities. "So what're we doing?" he asked. The room was so big it was hard to think about. He'd known that before, but now that it was largely empty he could see just how far it stretched on.

"You have a penchant for finding things," Snape said sourly. "Mostly things you are not supposed to find. My book had many protection spells on it, and I want it back."

It took Harry a moment to connect the two sentences. "We're here looking for your old potions book?" he asked, looking at Snape.

"As you so clearly proved, it is not safe to leave lying around," Snape replied, shooting him a look. "Additionally, I have not looked through it in many years, and I find I am curious. I never confiscated it when you found it, and…" He trailed off, then glared at Harry. "It is none of your concern why I want it. The book is mine, and you are under my direction. That is all you need to know."

"Okay," Harry said slowly. He took out his wand. "Er, sure. Accio potions book!" Nothing happened.

"There are many spells on my book, I told you," Snape repeated, though he looked more proud than upset. "Repelling summoning charms is only one. I am not sure if it could survive Fiendfyre, but it is a possibility. However, I do not wish to waste time looking for what isn't there. We will split up and each cover half the room. If we do not find it by the end of your detention, I will consider it gone."

"Extended detention, then?" Harry asked, kicking a small pile of ash.

"No," Snape replied. "Two hours should suffice." He waved his wand and a glowing blue line divided the room in half. "Take the left. I will let you know when two hours have passed."

"Sure," Harry said, surveying the expanse before him. How was he supposed to find anything in here? The ash was at least five or six inches deep at its most shallow, never mind the piles and drifts and landscapes. He could hear Snape muttering spells under his breath but he didn't look over to see what was doing; that would have felt like cheating.

Less altruistically, this gave him a puzzle, and he needed something to focus on to avoid going crazy. The last time he had been here combined with the physical contact from Snape was too much to process. Figuring out how to find a book was better. And frustrating. But still better.

"Time is up."

Harry jerked. They hadn't spoken in two hours, the only sounds being the quiet casting of spells, the swish of ash moving around and the occasional sneeze. He looked over his shoulder at Snape, who was a football field away. He was frowning, his arms were crossed, and his black robes were a patchy grey from the ash.

"Do you want to keep looking?" Harry asked. "There's a lot of room left. We could keep going, if you'd like."

Snape was too far away to see his expression. "This is the second time you have offered to extend your detention," he replied. "It is unnerving, and I am not a man who is easily unnerved."

"I'm being nice," Harry said, trying to keep annoyance out of his voice. "I'm flattered you think it's unnerving."

"Is this Draco's doing?" Snape asked. "Has he threatened you?"

"No," Harry replied, tightening his grip on his wand to keep his voice in check. "We're indifferent towards each other, remember? Don't care either way. I'm the sort of guy who offers help, as long as the person isn't a complete arse. So I'm offering help. In the spirit of apathy."

Snape let out an annoyed sigh. "Your detention is over," he said. "I have no control over what you do. If you would like to spend your evening sifting through piles of ash, you are welcome to do so."

"Fine, I will," Harry replied, because he absolutely sounded apathetic and not anything else. "Are you staying?"

"I have come this far," he said, surveying the room. "It would be foolish to stop now."

"Well there you go," Harry said, turning back to his work. He was being stupid. He knew that. Everything from the past had faded away, leaving only how Snape had cared for him when he'd fainted and what Malfoy had said and what Harry felt. He was trying to stay between indifferent and nice, but he was pretty sure he crossed both those lines and was back in the same sort of suspicious territory that had gotten him detention in the first place. His feelings towards Snape were irrelevant. He needed to get over himself.

What really surprised Harry was that he was still focused on Snape's cuff. Snape's hand had been on his shoulder. He had held his wrist. He'd called him Harry. And he was still stuck on the cuff.

It's just that his cuff was soft. He hadn't thought it would be soft. He'd thought starched and cold, but it hadn't been. Soft and warm.

Of course that wasn't all, and he wasn't only focused on the cuff. Mostly, yes. But there was also how his first name had sounded coming from Snape. Good, that was how. Low and sensual and caring. His hand was warm and calloused and strong. His eyes were the color of really dark, really expensive chocolate. All of those things had been expected, had Harry thought about them beforehand. Of course his name would sound good, of course his hand was wonderful, of course his eyes weren't entirely black, eyes weren't black.

But his cuff, though. He really hadn't thought his cuff would be soft.

Somehow the softness of Snape's cuff was directly responsible for Harry continuing to shift through an infinity of ash looking for something that had no doubt been incinerated along with everything else, he just wasn't sure how.

Harry was very glad he stayed.

Fifteen minutes later he found it. "Snape!" he called, dusting off the familiar cover. "I got it!" Advanced Potion Making stared up at him, complete with the familiar 1950s style illustration and battered cover. Property of the Half-Blood Prince. "It's not damaged at all," he remarked, flipping through the pages. "What spells did you use on it?"

"None of your business," Snape said, suddenly at his side, sending up a cloud of ash. Harry started coughing, waving the air in front of his face with the book. "Stop that," he snapped, grabbing his book.

"It survived Fiendfyre, it can handle being a fan," Harry wheezed. "A thank you might be nice."

"You were the one who hid it here in the first place," Snape replied, slowly leafing through the book.

Harry stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. It was hopeless; his pants were as dusty as the rest of him, he was just rubbing the ash in. His glasses were covered, too, but there was no way his shirt would help the situation. No, he needed a shower, a washing machine and a microfiber cloth, none of which were available in this room.

"I'm going to head out," he said, walking towards the door. "Detention back at your office tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Snape replied vaguely.

Harry ground his teeth together. Of course Snape wouldn't thank him, or acknowledge that he had done something nice. Indifference, that was all. Really, really infuriating indifference. He opened the door and took a grateful breath of fresh air. He hadn't realized the Room was so dry and acrid until now.

"Potter, wait," Snape called suddenly. "Detergeo."

The ash vanished. Harry's clothes, hands and glasses were as clean as before they started, probably even cleaner. "Uh, thanks," he stammered, surprised.

"I do not need Filch giving you detention," Snape replied. "Your evenings are mine, no one else's."

Harry gaped at him. What—what the hell? Snape sounded almost possessive of him, like maybe he wanted to spend time with him. That was not possible. Absolutely not.

"I do not wish to extend your detention beyond the break," Snape continued, seeming to realize what he'd said. "You are difficult enough after a day of relaxing, let alone teaching, and heaven forbid after your class. I can hardly tolerate your presence once a day, I have no interest in prolonging our contact."

That was more like it. Harry blamed the twisting in his stomach on inhaling too much ash, which made no sense, even to him. "Right. See you tomorrow, then."

Snape waved his hand dismissively, and Harry left.

Harry had a lot of explaining to do that night. First he needed to explain why he was late and, in order to do that, he needed to go back and tell Ron and Hermione about his second conversation with Malfoy. He hadn't mentioned their first, so he needed to add that, too. There was a brief derailment around his fainting, but Harry kept the focus on Snape's reaction to him, not his own reaction to the Room.

When he finally finished, Ron and Hermione were staring at him.

"Your day has been stranger than mine," Ron decided. "I've been doing homework and—"

"Ron, shut up," Hermione whispered, elbowing him. "But yes, Harry, that is very strange. At least parts of it; I don't want you to take stock in the wrong things, and I can see you already are. I know how much Snape's reactions must mean to you, but I really think it isn't healthy for you to see anything into them. He's your professor and he has a responsibility to his students."

"Yeah, I know," Harry said, and while he did know, it was still twisty to hear Hermione say it so blatantly. "Forget about that. It's the Malfoy stuff that's weird. Why does he suddenly care how Snape and I get along? He said that Snape was in a foul mood after detention on Sunday and I was actually nice that day, and almost impressive, sort of. The Draught of Peace, remember?"

"Maybe you did it wrong?" Ron suggested. "He took it expecting to be peaceful but turned into a git instead?"

"No, he'd have told me if I did it wrong," Harry replied. "I'm sure he would've. He'd have made me redo it or something." He glanced at Hermione, who looked as though she was in pain. He sighed. "What is it, 'Mione?"

"Well, that's the night he asked about you staring at his cuff, right?" she asked quietly. "Maybe you were annoying him and not realizing it."

Harry glared at her. "I'd expect he's used to being stared at by now," he replied testily. "He wouldn't care if it was me or where I was staring or why."

"Clearly he does," she continued. "Otherwise he wouldn't have said anything."

Twisty, twisty, twisty. "Fine, but minor annoyance and yelling at Malfoy aren't the same thing," Harry said. "Probably, I dunno. I don't know what they're relationship is like. If I did, maybe I'd know why exactly Malfoy feels he's being 'nice' and 'helpful'."

"That's the thing," Hermione said. "We don't know anything, and you're reading into what isn't there. Snape could have been upset about something else entirely. Draco genuinely wants his godfather to be happy, and he likes blaming you for everything."

"That's not what I'm saying!" Harry exclaimed.

There was a second moment of silence.

"What are you saying, mate?" Ron asked.

"I don't know," Harry admitted, propping his elbows on his legs and leaning his head in his hands. "I just—I really don't know. That it's strange, that's all. That maybe something is strange. You both said it was strange. What happened to strange?"

"We're talking about Snape and Malfoy," Ron replied. "They're always going to be strange."

"Hermione?" Harry asked miserably.

"It is strange that Draco is suddenly taking an interest," she said. "I would have thought he'd always have bothered you about it or never mentioned it. Even if you factor in that Snape isn't undercover anymore, I would have thought if Draco was going to bring it up, he would have at the beginning of the year. Then again…"

Harry sighed again. "Out with it."

"You were getting along at the beginning of the year," she said uncomfortably. "It's only since you turned in that paper and started fighting with Snape all the time that Draco stepped in."

"Can we just—strange!" Harry burst out. "It's strange! Just leave me with it's strange, okay? Forget everything else—which is a lot—and we don't need to decide on what's strange, I just want it to be strange."

"I'm not sure if that's a good idea," Hermione replied softly. "You might want to, er, let it go."

Harry glared at her. "I don't like you."

"I just don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm not going to get hurt," Harry said sharply. "I'm fine. It's strange, that's all."

"You've said strange a lot," Ron replied.

"Very strange then!" Harry yelled. "Look, it's late. I'm going to bed. See you in the morning."

All Harry wanted to do was sleep but it wasn't happening. There was too much on his mind, and very little of what he was thinking about was conducive to sleep. It was Snape's hands. The use of Harry's first name. How Snape had seemed genuinely concerned, and possible in more than a strictly professor sort of way, maybe, if Harry stretched it. Regardless of what Snape meant, the slipup about how Harry's evenings belonged to him.

And his bloody cuffs.

Harry cast a quick locking charm on the dorm.

Eventually he fell asleep thinking about white cuffs.

Harry made certain not to mention Snape or Malfoy once that Tuesday. He was aware that, over the years, he had a tendency to talk a lot about both of them for one reason or another. He was also aware that this was possibly the most annoying reason for his rants, and definitely the most pathetic. So, for today, and maybe tomorrow if he had a particularly good hold on his self-control, he wouldn't say anything.

He also didn't give Malfoy a chance to talk to him. He spent the day in the Gryffindor common room studying, much to Hermione's delight and Ron's annoyance. It was good, though, in a way. He was useful and productive and nobody was telling him what to do or how to do it. Well, except for Hermione, but he was used to that and didn't mind anymore.

In keeping with staying quiet, no words were said when he left for detention.

Harry was on time and knocked.

"Enter."

He'd also gotten the hang of this, and glanced over to his left. The potion station was set up. "May I ask you a question, sir?"

Snape looked up from his book, the first time Harry had managed to get his attention so quickly all year. "What is it, Potter?"

"Was my Draught of Peace right?" Harry asked.

Snape frowned. "Passable," he said tightly.

"I'm confused, then." Harry rushed ahead before he could remember all the reasons he'd had for not doing this exact thing. "Malfoy told me you were upset that night, and—"

"My life does not revolve around you," Snape interrupted tersely. "Your brewing skills have no effect on me. Nor is my mood any of your business. Instructions and ingredients for a Calming Draught are waiting."

"Right," Harry said dejectedly, wondering if it was possible to sound more pathetic. He didn't need to look at the instructions; he'd spent most of his summer with what remained of the Order, and Calming Draughts were nearly more common than coffee. He could brew one in his sleep, and it'd probably taste better than what passed for coffee at Grimmauld Place.

Which is why he was confused when he came to the dried elder flowers.

Harry consulted the instructions. Snape had written them out rather than give him a book, and dried elder flowers were indeed among the list of ingredients. They were to be powdered and added first, left to simmer for the full length of the brew. He glanced over his shoulder; Snape was back to reading. Harry could ask him, but he didn't think that would go over well. The last time he thought an ingredient might have been a test it had been thrown back in his face as incompetence.

It was just that he was sure elder flowers didn't go in a Calming Draught.

"Professor?" Harry asked quietly.

"Follow the instructions," Snape replied.

Harry shifted nervously. "But—"

"Do as I say, Potter," Snape interrupted. "I wrote them out myself, there are no mistakes."

Well. Fine. Harry followed the instructions.

He had been working on the potion for fifteen minutes or so when it started to emit a pale yellow vapor. He checked the instructions; a vapor wasn't mentioned. He ran over everything he'd done, and it had all been by the book or, in these circumstances, by Snape's writing. The last thing he wanted to do was bother Snape again, especially when he had been told so explicitly to follow the instructions. So he continued on.

Another half hour and Harry was ready to add the last ingredient. He thought. Focusing had been steadily getting more and more difficult, but he had been triple checking everything, and he was positive it was time to add the peppermint. He knew what he was doing, he'd done it a hundred times before. Last to go in was peppermint. Not maybe, not potentially, but definitely. It made the whole room smell pleasantly of the herb, and he thought it entirely possible the smell still lingered at both Grimmauld Place and the Burrow.

So he added the sprig.

The pale yellow vapor intensified, clouding Harry's vision entirely. It smelled like peppermint. He waved his hand, trying to disperse the cloud, and took a breath. Not a big one, just the sort that went along with living. He could feel the vapor sliding down his throat and settling in his lungs. He started coughing, and that only made it worse. The unpleasant heaviness was replaced with the sensation of tightening and swelling and then he wasn't coughing anymore because he couldn't breathe at all. His world narrowed to his lungs and the vapor and how his eyes were watering from lack of air and he wasn't going to be able to stand much longer if he couldn't take a decent breath but with every miniscule gasp he drew more of the vapor in and his vision was starting to turn grey.

Two thoughts occurred to him simultaneously. The first was that Snape had finally succeeded in poisoning him. The second was that he was going to faint in front of him again.

For the second day in a row, he did.