The days stretched on, marked by quiet conversations, shared silences, and the steady rhythm of recovery. Harry grew stronger, though his body still ached, and the memories of captivity clung to him like a second skin. He spent much of his time at the Burrow's kitchen table, pushing food around his plate as Mrs. Weasley fussed over him, or sitting outside, staring at the horizon, lost in thought.
Snape remained a constant, if reluctant, presence. He was often there when Harry woke, ensuring he took his potions, and watching with narrowed eyes as Harry attempted to move around more than he should. Their conversations were clipped, filled with sarcasm and occasional grudging understanding, but the hostility that once defined their relationship had dimmed into something else something neither of them could quite name.
One evening, Harry found himself in the sitting room, alone save for Snape, who sat across from him with a steaming cup of tea. The fire crackled between them, filling the silence.
"I suppose I should thank you," Harry said at last, his fingers curled around his own mug.
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Suppose?"
Harry sighed, staring into the flames. "You saved my life. More than once. I just… I don't understand why."
Snape exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "You are not the only one bound by old promises, Potter."
Harry frowned, but Snape offered nothing more. The silence stretched again, thick with things left unsaid.
At last, Snape set his cup down. "Your body is healing. Your magic will take longer, but it will recover. As will your mind—if you allow it." His gaze was sharp, assessing. "You should not waste this second chance."
Harry swallowed, the weight of Snape's words settling over him. He didn't know what the future held, but for the first time since his capture, he felt like he had one.
And, perhaps, he and Snape weren't quite done with each other yet.