Harry broke the agreement the very same day.
The mirror, still safely secured in his pocket, grew steadily heavy with anticipation as the day progressed. The cool metal pressed against Harry's thigh was a constant reminder of its presence. His palms itched to touch it, to run his fingertips along the sharp edge, to cut the tender skin lightly, seeking the familiar release that only the mirror could provide.
He entertained the idea as he slipped away to the lavatories, locking himself in the nearest stall. In the dim light, Harry reached into his robe, grasping the small shard. But when the edges did not bite into Harry's flesh as he expected, a frown creased his brows.
It wasn't that he forgot the morning séance with Snape; rather, he willingly chose to ignore it, hence the bewilderment. Harry recalled the professor's warning about confiscating the mirror for good if he ever indulged in his special habit again, and a bitter taste filled his mouth.
Wisely, he decided to hide the mirror. It was too much of a risk. Though it gave Harry fulfilment no other sharp object could, it was still better putting it away than being hazardous and losing it completely to Snape's clutches.
Even if Harry couldn't imagine a scenario where Snape would find him harming himself again, he wouldn't dare to risk it. After all, he never thought the professor would catch him the first time either. The memory of Snape's cold grip on his wrist still lingered, leaving an imprint like a fading bruise.
Swallowing the unease that clenched his throat, Harry left the toilets with his skin untouched. It still tingled, itched, and the lack of proper atoning for a prolonged time made him relentless. The sensation was akin to tiny needles prickling at his conscience.
That day, Harry snapped at everything and everyone who came his way. He wasn't trying to be subtle about it anymore, telling Ron and Hermione off when they started their meaningless banter again. He was fed up.
Dinner time came, offering Harry a solution to fill in the absence of a sharp object. He pocketed a cutlery knife at an opportune moment, being completely on the edge. The storm brewing in his chest threatened to surface, and Harry felt it; he felt that if he didn't experience the familiar pain in the following hours, he would implode.
Stealthily, he slid the knife into the long sleeve of his robe, securing the blunt object with the impulsiveness he was known for. Harry made sure nobody was paying attention to him - but given how unpleasant it was to be around him the whole day, his friends decided to avoid him and give him peace.
Peace. That's exactly what Harry wanted. Fucking peace. But no matter what he did, he couldn't achieve it.
Snape was, as always, seated at the teacher's table, enjoying his meal as much as someone of his stature could enjoy things. Still, Harry kept an eye on him when he stole the knife, ensuring the git wasn't looking his way. Because Snape kept looking at him every spare moment they were within twenty feet distance. The scrutinizing dark eyes felt like hot coals on his body, so damn uncomfortable, so damn invasive.
As soon as Harry had his sharp object secured, he stood up. No mind he barely touched his dinner; nobody noticed. Nobody cared, the least of them Harry himself. He left the Gryffindor table and then the Great Hall, not one person stopping him.
A tiny part of Harry wished at least one of his friends would've asked about him. Asked if he was alright. Nobody ever asked anymore. Nobody ever checked. And Hermione's "Are you okay?" was like an obligatory phrase to his ears. He could feel the concern behind the words, but he also felt a sense of duty and exhaustion. Hermione asked because they were friends, not because she really cared; that was the impression Harry was getting.
It was ironic, really. The first person who found out about the self-harm was the one who hated him to the bones. Harry supposed that was the cruelty of fate. Not that he wanted anyone to know about his habit. A small and still sane part of him realized that what he was doing wasn't healthy. Self-harm truly wasn't the solution. He recognized the issue, but he didn't put any effort into stopping it - because it didn't matter. To anybody.
And, while it wasn't a healthy coping mechanism, it was something that helped. Not a solution, but it made life bearable for Harry. A temporary disturbance. And that was what mattered. Harry needed to push through just long enough, just until he killed Voldemort, saved the wizarding world, and then he could rest. Ideally for eternity. Or so he hoped.
The knife was so fucking blunt.
Harry was painfully aware of it, of course, he was – from the moment he tried and failed to cut a steak in half during dinnertime, but it didn't make it any less frustrating.
The Gryffindor Tower offered one huge advantage to all other disadvantages; Snape would not in a million years stumble upon Harry there, simply because Snape never stepped a foot into that part of the castle. Yes, any of his classmates posed a threat, but it was milder in comparison to what the man could do. Harry would try to obliviate a student if worst came to worst, but Snape was an impossible feast.
However, the plan to use the empty dorm room for a few discreet cuts while others were still in the Great Hall was falling apart at a rapid pace due to the dullness of the knife.
As a last resort, Harry begrudgingly set off to the library.
Madam Pince shot him a glare when he entered, making Harry realize it was close to closing hours. Hurrying, he embarked on a desperate hunt to find what he needed.
A sharpening charm.
Surprisingly, he found it quickly when he spotted a book titled "Useful Kitchen Spells for All Housewives!" on a shelf. Merlin knew why it was in a Hogwarts library at all, it seemed like an item fit for Mrs Weasley's kitchen.
Not questioning his luck, Harry learned the spell briskly and cast it on the knife right in the middle of the nearly vacant library. Then he cast it again, just to make sure it worked.
He returned the book to its proper place and left the place in haste, wishing Madam Pince goodnight just to irritate her more.
With a truly sharp object in his pocket, living was a little less suffocating.
Harry caught himself smiling as he ascended the endless stairs to the Gryffindor Tower. He quickly schooled his expression into a frown, worried somebody would remark on his sudden change in mood. He was even more concerned that nobody would comment on it, leaving Harry in an even deeper abyss of loneliness.
Fortune wasn't in his favour once he returned to the common room; every corner was bustling with life. Harry groaned internally and, without fully entering through the portrait, turned on his heel and headed elsewhere.
To the astronomy tower.
The climb there was tedious, making Harry realize how out of shape he was. Dropping out of the Quidditch team and avoiding any physical activity didn't flatter his stamina.
The cool evening air did wonders for Harry's mood swings, evening out the emotional balance ever so slightly. Harry wasn't sure how long he stood there, leaning on the handrail with his elbows, a dazed look lost in the distance. His mind was mostly empty, and he kept spacing out, just enjoying the cool breeze that occasionally ruffled his hair.
When his limbs went from rigid to frozen, Harry concluded he'd spent enough time up there. Most, if not all of his fellow Gryffindor mates must have retreated to their rooms by now. Which was perfect, all according to Harry's plan. On his way back, he realized he was out after curfew. Luckily, he did not encounter anybody, not even Mrs. Norris or Filch, reaching the Fat Lady without an incident. Small blessings.
His hand was in his robe's pocket, playing with the handle of the knife hidden there. It was different, so very different from the mirror that was now safely stored away in the secret compartment of his trunk. It wasn't the best hiding place, but Harry had thrown several concealing charms on the pocket for extra measure and peace of mind.
Jittery with anticipation, Harry let out a long breath of relief when the common room was empty. All traces of exhaustion vanished, excitement replacing them in his veins as Harry seated himself comfortably near the fireplace to warm up.
He finally dared to pull out the knife in all its glory, the shiny metal reflecting the flickering of the fire.
Harry rolled up his left sleeve, disturbed by all the scars that decorated his skin, none being fresh.
Damned Snape.
A new flame of anger surged within him. Now that he no longer had to be wary and on the brink of going mad from possibly losing Sirius's mirror, the floodgates for his fury were free to open.
If anybody else had healed his scars, it wouldn't bother him so much. But Snape healed him just to prove his point, to rub it in Harry's face. To make him feel worse, not better. It was an act of rebuke, not mercy or care. Cold and cruel; just like the man himself.
Harry's gaze rested on the small lily, the only red mark on his forearm. Harry wondered about its purpose since earlier. Naturally, it couldn't be washed (he tried) nor smudged (again, he tried). It made him nervous and even more agitated that he let Snape do something to him. On the other hand, it was the only way the man returned Harry's mirror, and having a tiny mark with an unknown purpose was a small sacrifice to pay for the prized object. Or so Harry deluded himself.
Hushing the thoughts away, he shook his head and focused on the task at hand; literally.
He only ever used Sirius's mirror for self-harm. Harry knew it would feel different; the knife's edge was narrow and pointy, while the mirror was thicker, with sharper and blunter bumps coating the blade.
It doesn't matter, Harry prompted himself and pressed the knife to his skin. It serves its use, and my blood still flows the same way-
He yelped in pain and surprise; his thoughts being interrupted as an almost blinding pain sprung from his arm.
He quickly withdrew the knife, noticing that the blood really was flowing as always. A lot of it. Harry barely let the blade touch his skin, but the slash was long and deep. He watched in bewilderment, feeling temporarily detached from his own body, as the red liquid began to coat his skin and dripped onto his clothes. It was mesmerizing.
Then, the adrenaline kicked in, punching some sense into Harry's dissociated state. The pain also got too intense to be ignored any longer.
A groan escaped his mouth, and he dropped the knife on the floor, resuming to press his right palm against the gushing wound.
He overdid it. The sharpening charm worked just fine the first time he cast it; the second time must have been an overkill. It was sheer luck that Harry spelt his robe pockets and proofed them against tearing since he used to store the mirror there. Otherwise, the knife would immediately cut through the fabric and probably his leg too.
The blood kept pouring out, warm, sticky liquid spilling everywhere. It was so painful Harry couldn't focus; he couldn't move; he couldn't reach for his wand to perform a basic healing spell because his right hand was now glued to his left forearm, pressing down more and more, and god, it hurt-
He didn't know how long he stayed like that, petrified, but it seemed as if time stretched on endlessly.
At last, a loud slamming noise filled the quiet common room, breaking Harry's trance.
Every single cell in his body startled. Somebody just opened Fat Lady's portrait, and Harry had about half a second to hide all the evidence; yet he couldn't move. Blood kept flowing out, and it was painful, painful, painful-
Somebody help me, please. Harry thought feverishly, panic taking over.
"Potter!"
Oh no.
The very last person Harry ever expected to see stormed into the Gryffindor common room, dark robes billowing behind him like an ominous cloud. The remaining colour drained from Harry's face, only one thought occupying his dizzy mind.
What is he doing here?!
Snape's eyes pierced Harry the moment they landed on him, and he closed the distance between them in two long strides, coming to Harry's side in an instant.
Harry heard an audible gasp coming from the professor's mouth once saw the blood smeared everywhere. Even to Harry, it was a horrifying sight. Despite his growing history and experience with self-harm, his slashes never got this bad.
"What in the Merlin's name did you do?!" Snape exclaimed, his voice conveying so much distress Harry got goosebumps.
He was still paralyzed by a mix of shock and fear. His cut arm kept throbbing in sharp pain, forbidding any coherent thoughts from coming to the surface. Harry also assumed the question was of a rhetorical nature and kept shut, focusing on his ragged breathing.
"Answer me!" Snape's demand cut through the air like a whip again.
Not rhetorical, then. Still, Harry didn't know what to say, the situation was quite self-explanatory.
"I...I didn't mean to," he stammered, his voice weaker than a whisper. His lips were dry, and so was his throat. It was like all moisture was draining from Harry's body through his bleeding wound. At least, he was telling the truth. He really didn't mean to; he didn't mean for the cut to become so deep, and he definitely didn't mean for Snape to find out. Which brought Harry back to the start: What was Snape doing there? How did he know?!
"You didn't mean to?" the man snarled, mocking Harry's tone. "Do you take me for a fool?" He was enraged.
"It was an accident, it truly was-"
I accidentally made the cut too deep. It was for the best that those words never left Harry's mouth.
"Silence!" Snape's sharp command interrupted Harry's blabbering. His eyes narrowed as they fell upon the knife discarded on the floor. "Accident, you say? Accident. Let me guess, a knife fell from the sky, and you just so happened to have your forearm exposed at such an angle it inflicted a life-threatening wound?"
As on cue, he picked up the cutlery knife Harry previously used, showing it to the teen with a vicious expression. Harry squirmed uncomfortably. The blood flow wasn't stopping at all, making his right palm sticky as he kept applying pressure. The rest of his body was getting cold, and Harry noticed that his previous goosebumps turned into slight tremors. Snape's presence was not easing his state in the slightest.
This was not how the evening was supposed to go. At all. Even though nothing ever went Harry's way in his life, given the Potter-luck and all, it still never ceased to amaze him how things always turned out so magnificently disastrous. Fleetingly, Harry wondered if this was some twisted punishment; Snape catching him in the act of self-harm two nights in a row... was fate playing with him? Didn't Harry deserve a break for one. single. day?
Apparently not.
The man was bestowing him a livid and weirdly triumphal look, waving the cursed knife in front of his face. Harry knew he should have stuck to the mirror – this is what he got for betraying Sirius. His guts twisted at that thought, he had already betrayed Sirius, and it cost the man his life.
Not now, Harry. Not now. He had to remind himself feverishly, focusing on what was in front of him and not on the guilt beginning to weigh on his chest again. The excruciating pain coming from his left forearm was suddenly a welcomed sensation.
"Potter, we talked about this in the morning! This. Morning." the professor went on when Harry kept quiet. Snape's teeth were showing as he decided to give him a piece of his mind. The look he was giving Harry once his pupils snapped up to his face was murderous. "We had an agreement, didn't we? Didn't we?"
Harry gulped, not allowing himself to feel more guilt because of Snape. Not now, not ever. Snape was the last person who had a right to evoke such feelings.
"What are you doing here? How come you knew?" the best option was to steer the conversation elsewhere, ignoring Snape's shame-provoking taunts.
"I'm not sure when you started suffering amnesia, but I sincerely hope that's why you did all this, and not because you've once again discarded my authority as a professor!" Snape kept singing his own tune, acting as if Harry didn't say anything.
"I gave you the mirror back under the condition you would stop with your self-harming tendency," The man continued in one breath, but his eyes wandered briefly to Harry's exposed skin at a place that bore the lily symbol.
And it clicked for Harry.
"It was dark magic after all! You branded me, Snape, how dare you-!"
"Don't call it dark magic!"
The remark agitated Snape further, even after Harry thought it was no longer possible.
"It's none of that sort, as I informed you this morning! I simply placed a charm on that tattoo to alert me if you were foolish enough to do this again," Snape hissed, his reluctance evident. The admission seemed to cost him, as if acknowledging his involvement in Harry's struggle was a personal defeat. "It was a mere precautionary measure."
Harry's mind raced with conflicting emotions. Anger, betrayal, and a deep sense of violation battled within him. "Why would you do that? Invading my privacy like that—"
Snape cut him off with a sneer. "Your privacy is a luxury you can't afford. You've proven that, especially tonight. This isn't about your secrets; it's about preventing you from causing bigger damage by wallowing in your self-pity."
Harry glared at Snape, his anger bubbling to the surface. "Self-pity?! You had no right—"
"I had every right!" Snape snapped back, losing the last remains of his patience for their heated argument. "After what you've displayed yesterday, it was the only way to ensure your safety. I went out of my way to return that blasted mirror of yours, and this is how you show your gratitude to me?"
"Gratitude? What gratitude? For what exactly should I be thankful to you? You're ruining me, you're ruining the last, the very last thing that is keeping me sane, you are destroying everything I managed to build-"
"Potter, are you listening to yourself? You sound completely delirious!" Snape retorted, his eyes narrowing. "This may seem an inconvenience for you, but for me, it's a necessary intrusion to ensure you survive your own recklessness."
Harry's breathing grew heavier, pain springing up his forearm all the way to his shoulder, but he didn't allow the agony to reflect on his face. He was far too furious and couldn't let Snape have the final say. Not when it came to his life, to his own choices.
"I don't need your protection," Harry spat out, his voice dripping with resentment. "And I certainly didn't ask for this... this intrusion into my life."
Snape's expression tightened, the lines on his face etching deeper into frustration. "You might not think you need it, but your actions speak louder than your words. You're spiralling down a dangerous path."
"Then let me! For fuck's sake, let me. I've been saying this since yesterday! You don't get to decide what's good and what's best for me! You're not my guardian and you sure as hell aren't my saviour as you have tried to paint yourself since last night! You ridiculed me just hours ago, mocking me for acting like this to get attention! You can't just switch it around how you please."
There was a game Snape was playing with him, but Harry didn't have the right cards. He didn't know the rules, nor did he want to, but the man kept pushing him around like a chess piece, toying with him, and Harry'd had enough.
He experienced a lot of pain in his life, mental and physical, but at that moment, when his forearm felt like it was splitting in half, and his right hand kept shaking from the prolonged strain of applying pressure – he felt miserable like never before. Having an ongoing argument with Snape while the man kept standing above him like a judge about to speak Harry's life verdict was just too exhausting.
God, the fatigue was becoming unbearable.
Snape's sharp gaze, keen as ever, caught the subtle signs of Harry's deteriorating condition. The professor's scowl deepened, and the pointless argument suddenly ceased.
"You look like hell," Snape stated evenly, his disdain momentarily replaced by a flicker of genuine concern.
"Your compliment is greatly appreciated," Harry retorted back but it felt weak to his own ears. It was strange. His arm kept throbbing, and his vision kept swirling in weird directions and there was the feeling of light-headedness...
"Get up. We're going to Pomfrey," Snape ordered suddenly, leaning down to help Harry to his feet.
That broke through the thick haze Harry was in and he flinched away from the professor's touch, backing into the cushion of the sofa.
"No," he mumbled, shaking his head in silent protest. The mere thought of Pomfrey, with her scrutinizing eyes and the inevitable questions sent shivers down his spine. He couldn't let the truth surface. If somebody found out, somebody who was not Snape, Harry would be sent to St Mungo's and then they'd keep him there, away from Hogwarts, away from Sirius's mirror, away from the only home he'd ever known...
"Potter, you need medical attention. Now!" Snape barked but didn't try to touch him again. Instead, he scanned the bloodied scene closely.
"No, I can't, I won't. I can't." Harry hoped that if he said it enough times, it would get through Snape's thick skull. It didn't.
Snape's gaze, sharp and unyielding, bore into him. "This is not up for negotiation. I won't have you collapsing on the common room floor due to your stubborn pride."
"It's not about pride, it's - they will all know. Everybody will know, and I can't let that happen, I don't want to be sent away, please..."
Harry begged only a handful of times in his life, but never as desperately as at that very moment. His unfocused gaze squinted at Snape, his expression a grimace of pain, complexion pallid.
"I'm not going to compromise your health nor I'm going to put up with your childish antics any longer. The cut needs tending, and you have no one else to blame but yourself for this!"
Just as Snape said it, there was a noise coming from the top of the dorm stairs. Harry's panicked eyes snapped up to the professor and they exchanged a look. They must have been too loud when they argued, attracting unwanted attention. Maybe it was Hermione or Ron coming to check on the commotion, them being prefects and all.
Stupid. Careless! Harry cursed feverishly in his mind that was freaking out. He was barely surviving Snape's involvement, if anybody else was to see him like this-
"Help me," A voice whispered, so desperate it prickled Harry's ears. He couldn't be found out, not by other people, not now, not with Snape standing inches away...
The man stared at him for a millisecond, eyes unblinking. An internal struggle played out on Snape's features, a fleeting moment where his usual stoicism wavered. After a brief, contemplative pause, something shifted in his expression as he made up his mind. With a decisive resolve, he moved. The bloodied mess vanished alongside the knife as Snape forcefully propelled the teen to his feet.
Harry was forced to lean heavily on him, his trembling legs almost giving out completely as he put weight on them. He didn't even mind the extensive physical contact with the man, so focused Harry was on not getting caught. It all felt like a fever dream, one that was never meant to end.
Harry prayed to all gods he knew as they shuffled toward the Fat Lady portrait in silence. At last, they managed to leave the common room without being seen or heard.
"Give me your arm," Snape ordered the moment they were safely hidden in a darker corridor. He let go of Harry, but only after he made sure the teen was resting his back against a wall for support.
Harry's tense body sagged with relief once they were out of immediate danger of being caught and he barely heard Snape's words.
"Potter!" The man urged again, all but snatching Harry's bleeding hand and rolling up his sleeve.
Since Harry stopped applying pressure on the wound, more blood was gushing out. The pain intensified, making him whimper in agony. He reflexively tried to pull his hand back, wanting to cradle it to his chest but Snape didn't let him, iron grip keeping Harry in place.
"Don't move," he seethed, eyes flickering on the slash to assess the damage closely. "If you don't want to go to the hospital wing, do as I say."
With that, Snape pulled out his wand and started murmuring spells in Latin. Harry's breaths came in short gasps while the man worked on the cut. Compared to Snape's harsh demeanour, his touches were gentle, creating a contrast that stirred conflict within Harry.
"Keep still," Snape muttered under his breath when the teen twitched involuntarily. "Just a little longer."
The professor's wand was tracing a series of intricate patterns in the air and the Latin incantations, though rapid, were almost hypnotic to listen to. The blood, once an unrelenting torrent, gradually slowed to a trickle. The sharp pain that had Harry gasping began to ebb away, replaced by a dull ache. Snape's expression remained stern, concentration etched into his features as he focused on the delicate work of healing.
As the last spell left his lips, a shimmering, silvery glow enveloped Harry's forearm. The wound closed before his eyes, leaving only the memory of the pain. Snape released his grip, allowing Harry to pull his arm back.
"There," the man concluded, face unreadable. "Consider yourself fortunate that you didn't sever an artery.
Harry breathed out heavily, briefly closing his eyes. His head rested against a wall, and he fought against the lingering dizziness. "Thank you," he whispered quietly. A hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.
"Follow me, we're not done," Snape all but commanded, but his voice was strangely muffled. Harry croaked, forcing his heavy eyelids open. He couldn't find it in him to respond, but Snape was not waiting for a reply. As Harry's world swirled, and he was caught wondering whether he would faint or throw up sooner, Snape led him through the castle with a surety that evoked a strange sense of reassurance.
The journey was a disjointed series of corridors and staircases. Meanwhile, the light-headedness persisted, making each step for Harry a conscious effort even with Snape's support. After what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at Snape's Defence Against the Dark Arts office.
The room held a peculiar blend of familiarity and unease for Harry. It used to be a haven when it belonged to Lupin in his third year, but then Moody the imposter took over, and last was Umbridge, spoiling the good memories of the place.
Snape ushered Harry inside, casting a series of privacy charms to ensure their conversation remained confidential. Or maybe he was paranoid after Harry's little screaming stunt the other night in the bathroom, and the spells were merely preventing every and all sound from leaving the four walls of his office.
"Sit," Snape turned to Harry, indicating a chair. Harry complied, sinking into the seat with weariness. He didn't know what the man intended to do to him, but he hoped they wouldn't start arguing again as Harry was in no state for another heated debate.
The professor began to pace around the room, opening several drawers in haste. "You're a fool, Potter. A stubborn, reckless fool," Snape mumbled under his breath.
Harry groaned. Of course, more arguing. There wasn't a way to have a conversation with the man without feeling the need to murder him.
"Did you bring me here just to tell me this?" Harry retorted. "Because right now, the whole room is titled sideways for me, and I'm seeing you double."
Snape scoffed and came close to Harry, two small vials in his hand. "Yes, that's precisely it. Ten points to Gryffindor for such astute observation. I decided to humour my otherwise agonizingly boring night with your existence."
The sarcasm dripped from each word with such intensity Harry could almost taste it. He frowned, feeling weirdly hurt. It must have shown on his face because Snape schooled his expression into one of blankness, halting his condescending remarks.
"Drink this," he said instead, handing Harry one of the two small vials. Before a protest could come from the teen's mouth, he quickly added: "It will help you replenish lost blood. The feeling of dizziness and nausea should also subside."
To that, Harry had nothing to say, so he uncorked the bottle, grimacing at the foul smell before diligently swallowing its contents. He made a disgusted noise once the potion slid down his throat.
"I'll never get used to that taste," Harry noted almost conversationally.
"I would hope so; one should not get overly familiar with the flavour of blood-replenishing potions," Snape said back, his voice still devoid of sarcasm. He handed Harry the second vial. "This one is Calming Draught."
Harry drank it silently, grimacing again as the liquid invaded his mouth. The tension in his body eased, and overwhelming fatigue threatened to claim him. Snape observed him for a moment before retreating to a chair behind his desk.
"You can't keep going like this; you do realize it? It's not healthy. You cannot allow your inner affairs to destroy you," he spoke after a short silence.
"Yeah, who's gonna save the wizarding world then? I know," Harry mumbled to himself, head lolling backwards against the armrest. Now that he was no longer feeling on the edge of puking his guts out, deadly exhaustion washed over him. His eyes closed again. With enough imagination, Harry could delude himself that he was in Remus's quarters and not Snape's.
"That's not what I meant."
"It doesn't matter what you meant," Harry mumbled, his consciousness starting to slip away. He knew he should move, get up from the comfortable chair, and return to his own bed, but he was tired. "It's always been like that."
The professor watched Harry slump as his body betrayed the weight it carried.
"You're not invincible, Potter," Snape stated after a while. "The world won't crumble if you take a moment to tend to yourself."
Harry huffed a weak laugh. "Taking a break is a luxury I can't afford. If I rest, people die. If I don't, people still die. It's an endless cycle."
His fatigued mind wandered to Sirius and refused to leave the image of the man's hollow expression. Harry's eyes suddenly started to sting. "And it's always my fault," he whispered to himself.
"You give yourself far too much credit for the deaths happening around every day." Snape shook his head in disbelief.
Harry's response was barely audible, a mixture of resignation and pain. He wanted to speak more but couldn't.
The professor decided that continuing this conversation was futile for now. Instead, he took a step back, eying Harry critically.
"You need rest," he declared abruptly.
Harry mumbled something that might have been an agreement, but sleep was already claiming him. Sirius was still lurking behind his eyelids, and his cheeks felt warm and wet, but he wasn't crying. Crying in front of Snape two times in one day would be a humiliation he'd never live down.
A pair of strong hands grabbed him. Harry let himself be manoeuvred around, mainly because there truly was no energy left to make him struggle against the man.
The world blurred, and Harry slumped onto something soft that was suspiciously similar to a mattress. That felt odd; they couldn't have been in his dorm room yet. The bedding and pillows were arranged around him, and though he didn't move to tuck himself in, a warm blanket rested on his body. A smell Harry couldn't quite place filled his nose, lulling him into the slumber he so desperately needed.
It was peaceful
A/N: I know, but we're getting somewhere. This was meant to be 3 chapters long, and yet my incapability to write a short story once again didn't let me down. I don't know how long this will be after all, but the next chapter definitely won't be the last one. I'm sorry, I wish I could write Snape's change faster, but this is already my fastest speed T-T.
I haven't beta-read this properly yet, so excuse my bad grammar for now.