Harry Potter: Tooth and Nail

Harry Potter

Drowning in darkness. Climb out, fight it. Something got in, made him sleep. Too long, too deep, falling and falling inside, can't find the way out. Open eyes. Open!

New place. Light is different. Wait, don't move, someone might see. Listen for breathing, listen for voices.

Nothing. Open eyes, careful. White plaster ceiling. Flowers on wallpaper. Not downstairs bed, not front room. Blankets on him, heavy like hands, off, off! Shove them, kick them. No, too fast, sharp needles poking, thin hot jabbing below his knees. Push out tongue, bite its soft flesh. QuietQuiet StillStill.

Breathe. In and out. Roses and lavender. Not real. Old and dusty, like flowers in the wallpaper. Window, stretch up to see. That building there, with the green door. Familiar. Rooftops closer now. Same cage, different floor.

Needles jab. Less now. But pain. His breath hitched. Not the numbness. Not dead weights at the knees. His not-there legs.

Baby thinks he's too important to kneel to his rightful lord? I'll make you kneel. I'll make you crawl.

Bigger bed. Edge was far, so far. Drag one leg, then other. Slow, gentle. Heels on floorboards. Like spikes through his bones. Floorboard ridges, under his toes. Smooth-Rough-Smooth. Clear, like a splash of water. Not-there legs were there.

Press feet against the wood floor, easy, easy. Spikes grew bigger, hotter, sharper. Splitting his bones. Noise came out, tongue didn't stop it. Bite hand. QuietQuiet StillStill. Pull legs up, don't let them touch.

No walking for Baby. Not ever again.

Better now, stop biting or skin will break. Curve of grooves where he bit. He ran his tongue inside his mouth. Teeth. All his teeth. He opened his mouth and tasted rose-lavender. Crumbled like dust. Traces of magic, too, crumbled in the air. Floating bits, too small to catch. A woman, long ago. He touched the sheets, the headboard. Traced a purple flower in the wallpaper. Sharp lines, not blurs of color. Eyes better. He felt his face. No glasses. And something more, inside. Stronger. Easier to breathe. Head clearer.

Purple flowers. Seen them before, in a book. Wolfsbane flower. Potion flower, muggle wallpaper. Hiding in plain sight.

Also known as Monkshood, Potter. Will I ever get that through your thick head?

Yes, Professor. Every ingredient, every spell. Said them, until I couldn't say them. Then lists in my head. For years, in the darkness and piss and mud. Asphodel-Belladonna-Bubotuber… the pink with chocolate smell, can't remember, in sleeping potions, never drink if it smells like chocolate... Daisy-Devil's Snare-Dittany...

And polyjuice. Rank polyjuice breathed on his face. Had to be, had to be. Too-sweet grassy fluxweed, faint rotting Boomslang skin.

Too-sweet grassy breath, saying Please, Harry.

Pleasepleaseplease HarryHarryHarry. Fingers in his heart, worming in. Not Harry, not Harry! Harry was weak. Harry looked in those eyes and believed. Potter. What they called him. What the Thing called him. Potter made him remember: don't look, don't believe.

Please, Harry. I love you.

He pressed his hands to his ears, but the voice was inside. Wanted to find the cupboard, where the voices stayed outside. Lock the door. Can't find me, can't find me. But not now. Not safe. He couldn't make Snape forget. A few minutes, a few seconds, but not enough.

The Thing had given Snape a turn, this time. Let Snape take him to his house. Time for Snape to play. Snape would pry open his head, pluck out the juicy bits. Hold them up to the Thing like plump grubs. My Lord, this is how he's weaving the spell. Simple magic, really. A child could do it.

He squeezed his eyes shut. A pot clanked, somewhere below him. He imagined Snape, looking at that pot. Seeing Potter in the reflection. And Potter, shrinking SmallerSmallerSmallerGone. ForgetForgetForget...

The clanking stopped. He held his breath.

But Snape's thoughts were spokes on a bicycle wheel, brrrrrrr. And he was one of those spokes. Potter-Potter-Potter...

A floorboard creaked. Another. On the stairs, closer. Coming to play.

Fingers fumbled over the sheets, headboard, end table. He needed hard, needed sharp, needed magic. Hit, cut, make him bleed, make him stop. CloserCloserCloser.

Found it. Small shiny black box. Magic. Like tiny banging drum, warm beating little frog heart. Charm. Motion charm. Music box, girl goes round and round. Hold it close, feel its pulse. He knew its rhythm, its smell. Snape magic. Different Snape, young Snape. But he'd turned Snape's magic before. Motion charm could be a weapon.

Click-shhhick of door knob. Snape. Watching. Deep tunnels, don't look in the eyes, that's how they fish inside, find what's left and pry it loose.

Snape settled into a chair in the corner. "Potter. I thought you might be up. I had a… feeling." A long finger rose to his temple, tapped it.

Gloating. Your magic is weak. Weak, and I am strong. They loved to gloat. Straight and tall and unafraid, while he hid and crawled. But Professor Know-It-All didn't know everything. Potter knew things, too. Things that would hurt. Things that would kill.

Snape steepled his hands, eyeing him like an undercooked steak. "Can you walk?"

He avoided the dark eyes, watched Snape's hands. Most had lying faces, smiles and crucio. But hands told the truth. He could lie with his face, too, tell Snape the wrong things.

But his legs couldn't lie. Snape would see. He shook his head no.

Snape nodded. "I thought I'd have another day. You woke early."

He talked like this now, like they were both people. Look at them, Snape in a chair, Potter on the bed. Like they would stroll downstairs, tea and crumpets. Tricks. Make the toy think it's human. Pull the string and hear it cry.

Another day. Snape said another day. Sunlight in window, but thunder and lightning when Snape tricked him, made him sleep. He pointed at the clock, made a questioning grunt. Never speak. Bellatrix cackling, holding her sides. Never speak.

Snape frowned, gaze narrowing to Potter's throat. "The rules of triage dictated I wouldn't see to your voice until the end. Still. Diagnostic spells showed functioning vocal cords. It's either a well-hidden curse, or simple obstinacy on your part." He glanced at the clock. "It's nearly five."

Four forty-seven. Anyone could see. Not stupid. He pounded his fist on the bed, pointed again.

"Excellent, something other than you first." Snape rubbed his cheek, contemplating the clock. "Time. Ah. How long you've been asleep."

Potter nodded.

"Six days, off and on. You roused yourself enough to take liquids. And bite me, once you grew a new set of teeth. Gratitude at its finest."

Tongue against teeth, hard ridges of molars pushing back. Strong and hard and his again. Something warm bubbled in his chest. Teeth. Eyes. Feet that feel the floor. Hair tickled against his shoulders. Clean. No mats pulling at his scalp. A faint memory came to him, of Snape checking a poultice on his chest. Like Madam Pomfrey, when he was sick. She used to...

No. Don't think like that. There's a price. Always a price. Maybe he'd already paid. Six days. Snape in his head and his body, spells burrowing in, using that wand. That wand. In the throne room, that long dark thing had cracked his ribs, carefully, one by one. Couldn't scream. Wouldn't scream. Every breath splintering fire. Then healed, then cracked again. Each rib made a sharp bright sound as the wand pressed in. The Thing had liked that. The Thing had shown sharp glistening teeth, touched the pain with curling fingertips. That wand had touched him. Six days.

Warm bubbling turned sour. He retched, dribbling saliva on the sheets.

"It was necessary, Potter. Whatever you think my motives are, surely you realize I'm not harming you."

Yet.

"I'm attempting to heal you. Don't you wish to be healed?"

No. I want you to crawl to the Thing, pissing your robes in fear, and tell it that you failed. Tell it you played mediwizard, but I wouldn't play back. Crawl before the Thing and tell it that.

In the Throne Room, you whispered in my ear. Show your fear, Potter. It's what the Dark Lord wants. Obey, Potter. If you don't, you'll die.

Promises, promises. Your turn, now. Cower. Beg. Die.

Hard sharp steps in the hallway. Two. No, four. His throat squeezed shut. Others here. That's why he was healed. Their toy was broken, but now he's fixed, time to play. He stared at the door and held the music box tightly. Not enough magic. His chest hurt, ribs too tight.

Snape turned, narrowed his eyes at the door.

Needed to hide. Bed too high, too exposed. He rolled, tumbling, onto the floorboards. Spikes up his legs. Under the bed, soft coating of dust. Cotton nightshirt, press it close, stops coughing, stops noise.

Clatter-clatter came the footsteps. But the footsteps were wrong. Too fast, too sharp. Barrrum-barrrum-barrum, a thing with too many legs. Clatter-clatter wood on wood. He lifted the hem of the duvet. Curved wooden poles, dancing. He inched out. Not poles. Chair legs. Wooden and wicker chair, galloping across the room. Snape cursing at it. It crashed into the bed, clatter-clatter-clang. The metal frame shuddered over him.

He pulled himself out. Chair stood close, spindly legs and trembles, like a newborn calf. Wood, patchy polish, dust. He touched the curved back. Chair galloped away, skittering to a stop on the other side of the room.

"It's been in my mother's family for generations," Snape said. "But it's gone a bit off."

Chair hugged the wall, creeping towards the door.

"When my grandmother's legs weakened, she used to..." A kettle whistled downstairs. Snape frowned, glanced towards the door. "Do what you like with it." He strode out, leaving the door open behind him.

Chair's wicker seat frayed at the edges, a spray of reeds. It crouched next to a dresser, trying to hide. Ugly broken crawling thing. A trick, a trap. Look how kind I am, Potter. I'm your friend. Obey me.

But door open, chance to explore, look for weaknesses. Rag rug in the hallway, brown pattern like watching eyes. Dust clumping at the edges. Another door, closed, locked. Wards, too. Not Snape's mother. Newer, fitted in the door frame in strong clean lines. Snape's magic. Might not break. Maybe altered, with time. But the way out was downstairs.

Stairs difficult with hands and knees, like falling headfirst slowly. Chair clattered behind him, up and down, banging into the walls. Front room looked different now. His old bed gone. Behind him, kitchen. No wards on that door. But around the house. Always around the house. He pressed a hand against a wall, felt the rumble-rumble of old magic. Not ancient like wards in the dungeons, where each stone hummed. But old enough to settle into the bones. Harder to turn. But not impossible.

Snape stood in the kitchen near the cast-iron oven. Oil crackled in a pan. Smells drifted close, fish and salt and potatoes, hooking his gut. He sat on the floor. Begging dog. But he couldn't conjure food. Tried and tried, in the dungeons. Summoned discarded trays, dragged through the slot on the floor. Duplicate the scraps, again and again. Mushrooms in a corner. Moss, bitter, made his stomach twist, but stayed down. But here, no trays to sneak, nothing growing in corners and cracks. Only what Snape gave him.

Chair crept closer, dainty, quiet now. Leaning towards him. He pushed it away.

"There's another chair." Snape nodded across the table. "Stationary. If you're unwilling to use that." He glared at Chair wandering about the kitchen.

One chair at the table stuck firmly, legs to floor. Grasping and heaving, he pulled himself onto it. A wet towel lay on the table. Flash to bath, Snape's sodden clothes, falling into sleep and can't stop, Snape touching, touching.

Squeeze head tight, listen to the pain. Better pain, not like inside. Need to stay outside his head. Need to eat, get stronger.

Wet towel is just a towel. Hands weren't coated in dirt, but dust from the stairs. Black flecks in his calluses, dirt trapped between layers of skin. The towel was warm, pockets of steam in the folds. He pressed it to his face, breathing in wet cotton and soap.

A brown paper bag lay on its side, an apple spilling out. Yellow and red, smooth, waxy. He pressed the apple against his nose and mouth. Sunshine and sweetness and wood. He'd dreamt of apples in his cell. A wide, open field, empty except for an apple tree. Reach high into the branches, leaves tickling his arm, and pluck a sun-warmed fruit. One bite, two, but it was never enough. More and more, juice sliding down his chin, but the hunger stayed, scraping his insides. Then waking, gums grinding against nothing.

Tongue against new teeth again, just to make sure. He bit into the apple, crunching the hard flesh, juice bursting. The pleasure of it shocked him. He was consumed by it, of pulpy bits sticking to his lips, the roll of bitter and sweet. When the white flesh was gone, he bit into the core, split the seeds between his teeth. Rolling the papery fragments over his tongue. He swallowed the last of them and sucked on the stem, licking the juices off his fingers.

Snape sat across the table, staring at him.

He started. Didn't see Snape sit. He hadn't tracked Snape for seconds, maybe minutes. Snape could have—but he hadn't.

Just sitting, a glimmer in his eyes. "I'm curious what you would do with a pineapple."

Two plates of fried fish and potatoes lay on the table and two glasses of water. Snape dug in, slicing the fish into thick strips. Potter fingered his spoon, then pointed at Snape's knife.

Snape didn't look up, grunting around half-eaten fish. "I think not."

The edge of the spoon broke apart the fish and potatoes. Saltwater and butter, tangy oil and rich earth. The heat of it stayed with him, spread inside him. He licked the spoon with each bite. Crispy, salty. Water cold and fresh.

Snape brought a pitcher to the table to refill his glass. Round and squat, fogged up, small droplets working their way down. A flash of a place, long ago. Large tables, food piled high, could eat for weeks and weeks. Large pitchers of icy water. And others with pumpkin juice. A hand reaching to pour. "Want more, Harry?"

Don't think, don't remember. Not that. Hurts inside, burn it out. Can't. Make others forget, but not himself. In his cell together, huddled near the door, arms around each other. Their wide eyes, hazel and blue, begging him.

Please, Harry…

Then he was dragged back, displayed. Immobilized in the air, struggling against nothing, the Thing touching his scar, making it bleed. Wand pointed at his chest, his throat, curses slithering inside. Goblet at his lips. Fresh at first, like spring water, then burning, aching. Thirst shriveling his tongue, his throat. Goblet at his lips again, spring water, cool and fresh. Turn away, don't drink. But he couldn't.

Gulp it down, more and more, until faces crowded his vision. Cedic, pale, eyes clouded, lips blue. Dark robes and masks. Laughter. Dumbledore, squeezing Uncle Vernon's shoulder, nodding sympathetically. "Such a waste of my time." Sirius and Professor Lupin, shaking their heads. "Look at him, Remus. Does he ever stop crying? James and Lily would be so ashamed."

Couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't hide. Empty air and echoes all around him. Wanted to run, feel the solidness of a wall, be safe, unseen. But the walls receded.

The Thing's eyes, red and gleeful. "Choose, Potter. The blood traitor or the mudblood. Choose, or they both die."

"Harry…" In his cell, warm hands in his hair, freckled face nudging his, soft lips on his cheek. "Save me, Harry. I love you."

Split in two, frozen, trapped between impossible choices. No escape, except deep in his mind. That's when John began to whisper. A voice in the darkness. Others, too. But first John, his voice clear, humming in his ear. So charming, so practical. "It's all right. Sometimes, someone has to die. It happens all the time, and we should be prepared for it. Don't tell me the thought hasn't crossed your mind. Which one you could live without."

No no no! A trick, polyjuice. Had to be, had to be. Death Eaters like their trophies. Flaunt wands, watches, even bones, scoured clean. Death Eaters wore the dead. But nothing, after that day. Not their hair, not their wands. Lies. Had to be. Because he couldn't. He wouldn't.

"Potter."

Shoulders jumping, his head snapped up. Kitchen, not throne room. Watching black eyes. Eyes that dug in, tried to find his memories.

He snapped his mind shut, caught that tendril of Snape's magic, held it wriggling like a trapped worm.

Snape broke eye contact and the tendril slipped away. "Yes, fine. If you'd only let me…" He stopped, fuming, and waved it away. "Eat. It's getting cold."

Fish still warm, but potatoes cold. Memories dragged him away, minutes, sometimes hours. Don't think. Feel the hunger, let it tell you what to do. Another bite, another. He tried to eat it all, but couldn't. One fraction, and the curling hunger drew back, dulled for a bit. Another, and his stomach swelled, rock-heavy. Brought the spoon to his mouth anyway, tried, but couldn't. Set the spoon down.

Couldn't leave it. Hunger not gone, only waiting. Always there, ready to claw. He pushed the rest together on the plate, and gathered it in his napkin. Rolled it tight, twisted into a packet. Safe in his sleeve. Another meal, maybe two.

Snape heaved raspy air through his nose. "I don't suppose it would do any good to point out that I've provided you with the basic necessities?"

Yes. Very nice cage. Reward me with treats until I eat from your hand. He held his sleeve close, in case Snape tried to grab it.

Dark eyes watched silently. Felt like a bug pinned to a board. Watching, always watching. The need to escape rose, stronger than hunger. But didn't look at back door. That would give him away. He stared at his plate, fingering the packet under his sleeve. With this, he could go a few days. If he could get away. Needed time. Time away from those eyes. Would not give Snape his secrets. Never.

Something from behind nudged his shoulder, touching. He turned and snarled, ready to bite.

Chair jumped, landed, bang scuttle-scuttle slam, through the swinging door. Hiding behind the sofa as the door swung shut.

"I've a matter to attend to in a few days." Watching. "It shouldn't take more than an hour, and I would prefer to…" Long breath out. Fork stabbing, last bit of fish gone.

He stared at Snape's throat, watching the gullet work. Wished he could eat like that, store food for days and days. Yes, said John, practical John, still whispering in his ear. It's not fair, is it? Why should he be the one who controls the food? He's no better than us. Quite the reverse. He should be the one begging us. For scraps of food, for our favor. For mercy. And there's only one way to make that happen. His gaze drifted down to the knife.

Long-fingered hand moved to lay over it. Watching, dark eyes narrowing. "I was going to say I'd prefer to leave without warding you within a small space. Besides having an uncanny knack for altering wards, you have a more amenable disposition when not confined." He gazed at the wobbling door until it stilled. "Relatively speaking."

Admitting it. Pretend to care so Potter doesn't bite. Still. An hour alone, not warded on a bed. Not enough time, but better than none. Play nice. Stop looking at knife, straighten up. Smile? No, too much, Snape will know. Give up food.

It was hard, so hard. Needed food. Needed it. Could be a trick. Take food, then no more until he obeyed. Napkin warm from fish inside. Mouth watered, but he couldn't eat more. Had to risk it, to make Snape trust. Pull packet out, slide it across table. Don't look at knife.

Snape's other hand closed around it. "Appreciated. Without preservation charms, it would have stunk up the house is short order."

Potter tapped the rim of his empty glass. Could make shards. Unbreakable, probably. He became aware of another feeling of fullness, far below his stomach.

"You can move about in the front room. I'll ward off my desk and the bookshelves. And the kitchen." He patted the knife under his hand. "Too many possibilities in here. And try not to…" He paused. "Never mind. Perhaps it's best not to give you ideas."

He nodded, distracted. Too much water. He glanced at the swinging door, but the bed was gone from the front room. Hadn't seen chamber pot. Upstairs? Or somewhere else? Moved his hands in the air, showing the shape of it.

Keen eyes went blank, confused.

He tilted the pitcher so a stream poured onto the table, pointed at his groin. Another gesture, directed at the water.

Snape held up a hand. "I've got it, thank you. It's next to your bed, upstairs." He studied Potter for a moment and jerked a thumb at a door behind him. "Or the privy. Outside."

His heart pounded. Impossible. Never outside. Not in years. Couldn't move. Find the trap.

Snape cleared the plates. "This isn't Buckingham Palace. One or the other will suit." Watching. Out of the corner of his eye, but still watching.

Hold onto the chair, slide down slowly. No wards on back door. Not possible. Open a crack.

Sun setting, blazing fire. He held up an arm, tried to see. Pavement, walls, narrow wooden building on the side. But the space yawned, walls receding, sun like bright fingers pinning him into place, shoving inside and stopping up his throat. Whiteness spread, until he couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Couldn't hide, like the throne room. Too much light, needed cover, needed to go under, in the dark.

The door clicked shut, whiteness replaced with black spots in the air. He blinked. Snape stood over him, frowning.

The center of his night shirt was wet, yellow stain spreading. Heat burned his face. Does Baby need a nappie? Black robes swishing. Laughter. Couldn't stop his body from leaking, bleeding, screaming. Tried and tried, but couldn't stop it. That was the joke.

Rustle of robes. Snape reaching into his pocket. Wand. Potter snapped to attention, heart pounding. Watch the hands. The hands will tell. Couldn't block it or turn it, not without more pieces of magic. But he could know what's coming.

Snape grunted. "It would only be a cleaning spell."

Maybe, to make him trust. Or maybe Snape was bored playing mediwizard. Maybe cruciatus instead.

The hand dropped, wandless. Raspy breath through his nose. "Fresh clothes are in the wardrobe. I'll bring a basin."

He stripped off the nightshirt and left it on the floor. Nightshirt caught on his knees and he wanted to move fast, away from the door, the whiteness. Upstairs, he could breathe again. See again. Walls to hold onto, things to hide under.

He stopped in the upstairs hallway, stared at the pattern in the rug, rag-brown eyes staring back. If he broke the wards, found a hole to burrow through. Then light, noise. Eyes, watching him crawl on the cobblestones. And Snape. Death Eater Snape, Minister Snape, Professor Snape. So fast, so sharp, so ruthless. Always ready with a counter-spell. The professor would track him down. Unless he found a weakness.

When it was done, when he was alone in his cell again, another voice found him. Ashes, who spoke like dead leaves. Parched throat, like his. Ashes was quiet, content to listen, sometimes disappearing into the dark.

The Thing had found them both, when it pried into his mind. First John, charming John, who made it smile. But Ashes. When it found Ashes, something had flashed on the Thing's face. Not even for a second, or a half-second. But it was there. Terror.

I learnt, Professor. Everyone's afraid of something. Even you.