Time passed strangely.
Sometimes it moved like molasses, thick and sticky, stretching seconds into unbearable hours. Other times it slipped through Harry's fingers like water, whole days vanishing into darkness.
He woke to voices. To quiet spells. To someone dabbing at his forehead with a cool cloth.
Then nothing.
Then pain.
Then Hermione's voice.
"…he's not sleeping, not really he flinches, every time."
The blankets were heavy. He couldn't tell if the weight on his chest was from the fever or the memories pressing down. Every time he drifted, Bellatrix's laugh would rise again from the corners of his mind. Cold tile under his back. Wandlight in his eyes. Her voice whispering promises of pain.
Where's your bravery now, little hero?
He jerked awake with a hoarse cry.
Strong hands held him.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound was steady rain on the roof, maybe. Or the echo of water in some dark corridor Bellatrix left behind in his mind.
Harry's eyes opened to the ceiling of Grimmauld Place.
The familiar cracks in the plaster should've been comforting. Instead, his pulse kicked against his ribs as if something was wrong, something was missing.
No shackles.
No darkness pressing in.
No.
A sob strangled itself in his throat before it could escape.
Hermione was asleep beside his bed, curled up in a chair with a blanket draped over her. Her face looked years older than the last time he saw her, jaw tight even in sleep. A book lay open in her lap, pages bent from anxious fingers.
Harry blinked, slowly.
He wasn't dreaming.
The room was warm, firelight flickering against the stone. Clean bandages wrapped his arms. The dull throb of pain was still there, but it was grounded real. And he realized, vaguely, that he was still alive.
But he didn't feel like himself.
Just a raw outline of who he'd been.
Time moved strangely again.
Potions. Murmured spells. Molly's hand on his forehead. Remus reading softly. Ginny peeking in once, face pale. And through it all, Hermione always Hermione watching over him like a tether to reality.
He couldn't remember everything.
Not yet.
But fragments drifted up when he closed his eyes: silver light, screams, the scent of blood and stone, his own voice breaking on words Bellatrix would not stop tearing from him.
"Stop don't touch them please"
He gasped awake again.
This time, Snape was there.
Sitting in the shadows across the room, arms folded, his eyes sharp beneath heavy brows.
"You're not dying," he said, tone flat. "If you were, I wouldn't be wasting time here."
Harry turned his head slightly, his throat dry. "Why are you here?"
Snape didn't answer immediately. He stood, crossed to the table beside the bed, and set down a potion with a flick of his wand.
"To make sure you don't do anything idiotic. Like survive a Death Eater stronghold just to die of infection."
Harry stared at him. "Why did you come back for me?"
Snape glanced over his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable. "Because she would've destroyed you."
There was no warmth in his voice. No apology.
But something about the way he said it like it mattered left Harry quiet.
Snape stepped closer. "Your mind is damaged, but not beyond repair. You'll need time. Dreamless Sleep, restorative potions, and above all… silence. You'll heal faster if you stop reliving it."
Harry's throat worked around a lump. "I can't help it."
Snape's expression didn't change. "Then control what you can. Start with this." He nodded toward the potion. "Drink it. Rest."
A pause.
Then, quieter: "You're not weak, Potter. But if you refuse to rest, you will break."
Later, long after Snape had gone and the fire had burned low, Hermione stirred.
She woke with a soft gasp, saw Harry watching her, and immediately sat up, brushing sleep from her eyes.
"You're awake," she whispered, her voice raw with emotion.
He nodded faintly.
"You scared me," she said, leaning forward to touch his hand. "I thought we were going to lose you."
Harry closed his eyes. "Me too."
She didn't speak. She just held his hand tighter.
And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, the silence felt less heavy.