Harry woke up in the hospital wing, and all he wished for was some peace and quiet. Naturally, he got anything but that, with Bagman marching in and informing him about what Harry had missed. Not with the entire Gryffindor faculty surrounding him, and definitely not when Skeeter appeared.

Harry sat on the hospital bed in his pyjamas, awkwardness making the air heavy for the whole hour. The chaos around him made him numb until Madam Pomfrey took mercy and ushered everybody except Ron and Hermione away.

Taking the chance he had, Harry inquired about his diagnosis, asking for the reason he fainted, cheeks tinted with embarrassment. "Lack of proper sleep and immense stress, Mr. Potter! Who allowed a fourteen-year-old to be in such a dangerous competition?!" Harry immediately regretted saying anything, but then, he asked himself the same question since day one. Seriously, who allowed it?

He sighed in defeat, running a hand through his thick, tangled-up hair. His tired brain did manage to pick up on the important information tossed left and right during the invasion of the hospital wing by half the castle population. Therefore, Harry knew he placed second in the lake task, right after Cedric. He knew the third task would be sometime in June, heard about Fleur kissing Ron on the cheek after he helped save her little sister, and knew how pathetic he looked when he fainted in front of everybody. Well, the last one was more of a subjective estimate, but Harry couldn't help but feel ashamed when he saw those pitiful looks from his friends.

Even when he turned his attention to Ron and Hermione, both occupying chairs next to his bed, all he saw was pity. It racked up something inside him, something that was placed between his ribcage and a heart, something not of physical form that kept convulsing painfully.

"You know, when I said there would be safety precautions, I didn't mean Snape. Had I known that sooner, I'd never let you compete in the task, Harry, I promise…" Ron said conversationally, but there was heat behind his words. Rage.

"Had I known you were not in any real danger, I'd not step a foot into that blasted lake," Harry agreed with something akin to regret in his voice. Damned be the wizarding history of the tournament; being remembered as a boy who couldn't swim seemed pleasant in comparison to an almost-drowning experience.

"I'm just glad there were any safety precautions at all," he reluctantly admitted a moment later. "I didn't notice you weren't with us until I got to the shore and helped Gabrielle out," Ron confessed. "And when I turned around, I didn't see you anymore. Hermione yelled at me to go back, but everything was so sudden I— I'm sorry that git was faster than me," Ron murmured, progressively getting quieter and more serious with each sentence.

Harry's mind was temporarily stuck on the name Gabrielle, and only after a while, he deduced it was that small girl; Fleur's sister. Ron continued when Harry stayed quiet, taking the silence as a sign his best friend was angry at him.

"By the time I grasped the situation and realized you were not coming back to the surface and probably dr—drown— well, Snape was already in the water. I saw Dumbledore all but shove him into the lake. I wanted to go after you even then, but he was fast. He made it to you in an instant… I'd only be in the way," Ron finished explaining with a grim expression. "I'm sorry."

Then it hit Harry. Ron was blaming himself for the whole incident. He thought Harry getting a cramp was his fault. The look Ron was giving him was so full of self-loathing that it made Harry swallow dryly before he opened his mouth.

"I don't remember it."

The sudden confession took him aback, mainly because it was so far off the original sentence he wanted to say. Nevertheless, two pairs of eyes were staring at Harry in confusion, and he was forced to explain.

"The last thing I remember is us coming to the surface. Then it's blank. Or black. I don't know how to explain it. I know I got a cramp, and I know Snape fished me out of the water, but I have no memory of it. It's— it's weird." He shrugged lamely.

"What I'm trying to say is; I'm fine," he turned to Ron fully, the bed under him creaking. "The only thing that prickles my skin is the next Daily Prophet article about me." Harry forced himself to chuckle to lighten the tense mood. It helped; Ron's wrinkles smoothened out, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I don't even know how Skeeter was allowed to come here, but she wasn't present during the task, so it shouldn't be that scandalous," Hermione said, her voice hopeful, similarly opting to change the subject.

Harry felt immense gratitude when she didn't say those famous words "I told you so." Because she had full right to it. From then on, the conversation took on more of a polite tone, the three of them carefully avoiding anything Tournament-related.

Soon, it was time for dinner, and the pair left, leaving Harry alone. He wanted to call Pomfrey to ask if he was free to go, but in the end, he decided against it. Since the nurse didn't discharge him when she had the chance, it probably meant he was to stay the night. And even if that wasn't the case, Harry grimly arrived at the conclusion that he found more solace in an empty hospital wing than in a lively Gryffindor common room.

It weighed on him that he lied to his friends—or, partially lied.

His memory was hazy, but he definitely remembered the drowning incident. He recalled the worst moments—the ones when he truly started to believe it was the end, with morbid details. But mainly… he remembered that strange touch.

The way his arms were gripped, too tightly for Harry's comfort. Long fingernails dug mercilessly into his flesh, squeezing his veins until Harry felt his heartbeat throbbing painfully. It was more disturbing than the cramping sensation in his leg, more invasive.

He couldn't shake it off, he couldn't free himself from those hands because he was frozen, pain paralyzing him, and everything hurt, it hurt so much. The way his teeth were clenched, his eyes shut, every muscle tensed to the point of tearing, not to mention his foot and left calf…

And yet, Harry's focus was hyper-fixated on that touch, on that foreign sensation that did not stem from his own pain. He latched onto it with all his might, desperately trying to forget everything else—the nauseating fear, the dizzying panic, the absolute despair he felt when his head dunked underwater, not when he thought it was over, over—

A small gasp forced its way out of his mouth, making Harry pant for air. The feeling suddenly felt almost real; his arms truly ached, his fingers were aching too, cramping even, and it was at that moment Harry looked down and realized he was crushing his arms in a death grip.

He was trembling. It took great effort to will his hands to release his tender flesh. The pain made his complicated thoughts a bit clearer, grounding him in reality. He was fully at the hospital wing again, his mind no longer straying back to the lake, back underwater, back to that soul-crushing helplessness.

He wasn't traumatized, Harry told himself. He was just… shocked. He couldn't be traumatized by something he barely remembered. Soon, the experience would fade into the background until it completely disappeared. Yes, it was always like that. Harry had been through worse and survived—Quirrell, the Basilisk, and Dementors constantly vying in the competition of "which of them left more damage on the boy who lived?"

Something stupid, laughable even, as drowning did not stand a chance against Harry's long and fruitful history of life-threatening situations. Yes, it was nothing. Nothing new, anyway. And so, Harry stored it away, tossed all those feelings that were not in any form or shape of traumatizing nature, into a small box. He kept all his complicated emotions in there—all that remained from his childhood and his years at Hogwarts. Everything he wasn't capable of processing or moving on from.

It was safely locked up, at the very back of his mind, numerous locks and chains preventing anything from slipping through his defences.

One day, Harry would open it and deal with what was waiting inside. Or so he deluded himself. He would open the locks one by one and take things out, slowly, deliberately. He'd forgive himself for putting his friends through danger at the age of eleven, he'd compensate for years of neglect at the Dursleys and buy everything he ever wanted, he'd get over his irrational and recently developed fear of snakes, and he'd try swimming as well again… one day. When would the day come, Harry didn't know. But before it did, before the incidents felt mentally scarring at best, he kept the box locked and hidden, its contents forgotten.

The next few days were… interesting. Half of the school wanted to know what happened during the second task in great detail, while the other half ridiculed Harry for his performance.

And so, he let Ron have the spotlight.

His best friend basked in the attention he was having, changing the story about his capture every time somebody asked about it. In one day, Harry heard about six different versions of the tale, each progressively more ridiculous and action-packed. But once Ron mentioned twelve buff men storming the Gryffindor tower via windows, Harry shot him an unimpressed glance.

"Funny, how nobody asked me about the lake task," Hermione remarked one evening when they were all gathered in the common room, Ron surrounded by a larger group of students.

The only people who were fed up with the tale, except Harry and Hermione, were the Weasley twins.

They kept interjecting Ron's heated story-telling, mocking him for all the half-truths and lies he kept saying.

"Ronykins? I didn't know you were so—"

"—athletically inclined."

"Fred, remember that time when he fell—"

"—off the stairs?"

"Yes. That was very horizontally inclined of him indeed."

Harry and Hermione snickered, but others were too immersed in the story to listen to Fred and George's jokes.

Despite everything, Harry was glad that his best friend was shielding him from all the repetitively boring questions. For the first time since the Tournament started, Harry felt almost normal.

Almost.

Harry's classmates outside of the Gryffindor faculty were not as merciful with their lack of interest. It was a chore to walk through a busy corridor.

"Potter, be careful when you brush your teeth; it'd be most unfortunate if you drowned with a toothbrush in your mouth!"

"Hey, who spilled the juice here? Potter, watch out! This is a safety hazard for you!"

"Somebody call the teacher! I think Potter consumed his drink too fast! Where's Snape? The damsel is in distress again!"

"Hey, don't involve Snape with the likes of him. He has far better things to do than cater to Potter's needs like the rest of the teachers…"

The last exchange was between two Slytherins, and for once in his life, Harry could not agree with them more. He wished the blasted man would never save him.

Not that he didn't want to be saved, but Snape? Again? Wasn't the first year enough? Why was he continuously meddling in Harry's affairs? Wasn't there anybody else who was capable of saving him from drowning? McGonagall? Yes, she was a bit old, but in good shape; Harry judged by the vigour she taught them the Yule Ball dance. Surely, she was capable of lurching into the deep waters to rescue Harry.

Or Hagrid. Flitwick. Sprout. Hell, even Filch was better. Dumbledore with his spells! Anybody.

Hermione did tell Harry that once he disappeared under the surface, it was practically impossible to cast any sort of summoning or floating charm on him, as they did not know where to aim. "The most Dumbledore would've been able to summon was lakeweed. Seriously, did you ever pay attention during magical theory?"

Harry stopped complaining about Dumbledore's lack of involvement after that, but he did not stop being bitter. Why did it have to be the Professor who hated him most? Harry was now indebted to Snape, again, and this time he could not even feign ignorance.

Quirrell told him about the broom incident, so it was easy for Harry to pretend that he did not know anything. He didn't have to thank Snape for saving him. But this? The whole school saw it. It didn't matter to Harry that the Potions Master was a dispatched safety guard, it didn't matter to him that it was technically the man's duty.

Harry's conscience nibbled at his every thought, but the idea of seeking Snape out and thanking him made Harry almost retch. And so, he ignored the dilemma until the last possible moment, until he was in the potions classroom again with his classmates, waiting for Snape to come and begin their lesson.

Just as Harry was agonizing over meeting the hated man again so soon (because even a lifetime later would be too soon), Parkinson caught their attention when she shrieked like a dying bird and threw Witch Weekly at Hermione.

Harry's gut twisted in unease, and rightfully so. The article about Hermione's love triangle was even worse than the one about Harry's glistening eyes. To top it all off, it also mentioned the drowning incident.

Harry Potter: Drowning in Heartache?

Youngest and yet the most extraordinary of all Tri-Wizard Tournament champions, Harry Potter seems to be unimmune to the usual pangs of adolescence. Deprived of parental love, the fourteen-year-old champion sought consolation in the embrace of his girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger.

Little did he know that Miss Granger's thirst for famous wizards could not be satisfied solely by the popularity of the Boy Who Lived. Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup, has also been caught in the net this plain but ambitious girl has set for her prey.

Openly toying with both boys' affections, Miss Granger seems to be shamelessly collecting her famous boyfriends like trophies. In light of these shocking events, Harry Potter came to encounter danger during the second Tournament task, almost drowning right at the finishing line. Whether his broken heart accounted for this almost deadly mistake remains to be unknown. Harry Potter's well-wishers must hope that next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate, perhaps one that won't bring harm his way.

The rest of the article quoted Parkinson's comment about Hermione being ugly and the possibility of using love potions on Harry and Krum. Surprisingly, as the trio finished reading the piece of questionable literature, Ron was the most outraged of them.

He scolded Hermione for agitating Skeeter, but as Hermione mentioned Krum inviting her over to Bulgaria in the summer, Ron's face changed from pale to bright red. Harry was too busy being embarrassed by the fact that the whole wizarding world was now aware of his swimming incident.

"Despite how undoubtedly entertaining your love life is, Miss Granger, it has no place for discussion in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor," an icy voice sounded right behind their backs.

Harry's blood ran cold. They were all too caught up in their banter, not noticing that Snape crept over to their desk.

"Ah… reading a magazine as well? Last week, it was a book outside the Potions curriculum, now this?" Snape quipped, snatching the copy of Witch Weekly from Hermione's hand. Harry saw how her face quickly mirrored Ron's blushing expression. "A further ten points from Gryffindor…" the professor hummed absentmindedly, his eyes scanning over the article. "But of course, our celebrity has appearances to uphold…" the sneer could be heard in Snape's tone when he noticed Harry's name.

"'Harry Potter Drowning in Heartache?...' My, my, what seems to be bothering you now, Potter?" Snape asked into the air of a quiet classroom, and then, to Harry's utmost mortification, he began to read the whole text out loud.

The article was bad, but it sounded tenfold worse when Snape read it with that hideous voice of his. He made sure to pause after every sentence, giving the Slytherins time to laugh to their hearts' content. Harry wondered if this was a punishment for Snape saving his life. Maybe it was the Potions Master's payback?

If that was the case, Harry yearned to be in that lake again, head under the surface, lungs filled with water. All thoughts of gratitude were squashed mercilessly after the spectacle Snape was displaying.

But.

Harry would never admit it, even to himself, though in a strange, twisted way, he felt relieved. Snape, who was vicious, vile, and hateful, was easier to deal with than Snape who deserved his thankfulness. The weight lifted off Harry's shoulders when he realized he did not need to treat the hated professor any differently and could continue to despise him openly.

"…In the light of these shocking events, Harry Potter came to encounter danger during the second Tournament task, almost drown-"

It was most peculiar how quickly Snape's voice died down, followed by two uncomfortable seconds of silence. Harry swallowed dryly, face burning. He was glad nothing changed between him and Snape, but it did not make the humiliation any less awful.

Here comes the ridicule; he's going to chew me out for having to save me.

Harry tried to brace himself for it, his hands balling into fists and muscles tensing up.

"Truly heartbreaking," Snape said at last, irony dripping from every word. "Well, I better separate the three of you before we get to see yet another little love triangle unfold. One Weasley-Potter dance was quite enough for my eyes."

Then, Hermione was moved to work with Parkinson, and Harry landed himself a front desk. That was the end of it. No more ridicule, no more taunts, and most of all, no mention of Harry's drowning.

The rest of the lesson went on. Harry prepared his ingredients for Wit-Sharpening Potion diligently while he felt Snape's searing glare on him. He pretended to openly ignore it the same way the man was openly staring at Harry the whole time. Harry was puzzled as it was; he did not need to look into Snape's infuriatingly black eyes to feel more complicated emotions stirring inside his chest.

Why was the man so damn unpredictable? What was he trying to gain from doing this to him? Harry absolutely hated the uncertainty.

He just hoped Snape was not expecting some sort of kneeling act of gratitude from him, not only for saving his life but for not bringing the borderline traumatic experience up. (No, it was not traumatic, Harry told himself sternly.)

The scarab beetles were mashed to fine powder as Harry vented all of his frustration on the poor dead bug when somebody knocked on the door and interrupted his daze.

"Enter!" Snape yelled with his usual piercing tone.

Harry turned around, and the rest of his classmates with him. Everybody wanted to see who was willing to come to Snape's dungeon willingly. For a moment, Harry's guess was Moody, until Karkaroff's goat's face greeted them. He glided through the classroom until he was uncomfortably close to Snape.

"We have to talk," he said to the Potions Master. If Harry wasn't sitting so close to them, he'd not hear a thing.

"We'll talk after the class is over, Karkaroff," Snape whispered back pointedly.

Harry was pretending to be focused on cutting his ginger, but his ears were straining like never before. He was trying to catch every word and breath the two said.

"No, it has to be now, or you'll slip away again, Severus. You're avoiding me," Karkaroff insisted.

Harry could not help but wonder what was up with their relationship. Why was Snape avoiding Karkaroff? And why did Karkaroff seem so desperate to talk to Snape? And then there was their first name basis…

"After the class," Snape whispered yet again, this time more heatedly. It finally silenced Karkaroff, who shut up and lingered near Snape's desk until the last moment, as if he feared Snape would vanish otherwise. And it probably wasn't far from the truth, Harry judged as he studied Snape's tense expression.

The curiosity got the best of him, so as the lesson was nearing its end, Harry purposefully spilled some armadillo bile on the floor. As others packed their stuff and started to leave, Harry bent down and began to wipe the mess, hiding inconspicuously under the desk.

"What's so important?" he heard Snape ask.

"This," Karkaroff said, and then he rolled up his left sleeve, showing it to Snape. "Well? You see? It's never been so vibrant before, not since…"

"Cover yourself!" Snape hissed angrily, his eyes looking over the emptying classroom. Harry squinted and tried to see what Karkaroff was showing Snape but with no luck.

"But you must have noticed…" Karkaroff kept singing his tune.

"We will talk later!" Snape shut him up again, and then his glare landed on Harry. "Potter, what are you doing there?"

"Wiping the floor, sir," Harry said innocently, threading carefully when facing the professor's ire. He even lifted the wet cloth for Snape to see. Karkaroff took the opportunity and stalked off in haste.

Harry was suddenly alone with Snape. The tension became palpable, the impending words of gratitude hanging in the air.

He did not want to do it. Harry finished wiping the mess and packed his things up, begrudgingly slowly as Snape continued to watch him. Seconds passed, yet neither of them spoke. Harry did not want to say it.

He felt nothing but hate for the man, and he would bet his Firebolt that Snape reciprocated the sentiment. Harry was also sure Snape did not want to hear his thanks either. He willed his legs to move, to leave the dungeon, and yet he remained standing there, looking into those cold, dark eyes that were swallowing him whole.

"What do you want, Potter?" Snape finally asked him when Harry's mind continued to swirl in his dilemma.

"Err, I… uh…" Harry stuttered, desperately trying to think of something to say.

"How articulate. Would that be all?" Snape sneered maliciously.

It was Harry's cue to leave, he knew, but his stubborn brain ignored it. He took a deep breath and pushed out the words that were stuck in his throat.

"…Thank you."

It came out as a half-whisper, but Snape's expression immediately wiped into a blank mask. He didn't react otherwise. The silence was suffocating, and Harry's gaze dropped to the floor, inspecting the bile stain from his previous mess.

"And what did I do, pray tell, to deserve the golden boy's gratitude?"

It was not what Harry expected, but it was something he should have accounted for. Of course, Snape would react that way. The air in the dungeon grew colder, if that was possible.

As Harry stood there, under the scrutinizing gaze of the professor, this time voluntarily facing Snape's wrath, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief and regret simultaneously. Relief that the words were out, that the heavy obligation to express gratitude had been fulfilled, and regret for the futility of such a gesture. There was also a leftover taste of humiliation on Harry's tongue as Snape was forcing him to verbally acknowledge what the man did for him.

But Harry didn't make another sound. Saying that tiny 'thank you' already took away his power of speech and all he was left with were his glares. He bestowed one onto Snape, eyes full of loathing, a contrast to his previous display of gratitude, and then he turned on his heel, leaving the dimly lit classroom behind. The heavy door creaked shut, echoing the finality of the encounter.

Harry slept dreamlessly that night, his conscience letting him rest in peace.