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Harry smiles, forcing his face to rise naturally into the expression, blanking his eyes just enough to keep the pervading sadness from them. His friends, excited for the feast tonight, don't notice the mask that he wears all day, holding it close like it's something precious, a second layer of skin so much thicker than the tissue-paper of his own flesh. So easily hurt. So damaged. So mournful of the people that he's only ever heard screaming, only seen in the silhouette of sickly green light, haunted by the soul-cold of Dementors.
He's not sure if remembering his parents' death is a blessing or a curse. And that in itself has a profound melancholy dripping between his ribs, pooling around his heart. He feels suffocated.
He had woken up feeling heavy and... slow. Sort of distant, staring up at his dark green canopy with an intense awareness of it being Halloween, the lingering chill of his nightmares where his father shouts and his mother screams and that green light flare so bright-
"Harry, Harry, are you awake yet?" And apparently Draco's already up, so he's probably zoned out for at least half an hour, but he focuses in on his friend's voice, grounds himself with nails in palms and words in his ears.
"Yeh, I'm up," he returns, shoving his curtains open and stumbling out of bed. He's faced with a bright smile and bed-mussed blond hair. Draco is bouncing on the balls of his feet, excitement obvious,
"I've heard that even breakfast is Halloween-themed this year! Apparently they have pumpkin crepes and bat croissants and candied applies, so we'd better get there quick." Draco pauses, takes in how bleary-eyed Harry is beneath the glasses,
"Are you alright Harry?"
"I'm fine. Just woke up late, is all." His dismissal is successful and they both get dressed, Draco speeding up his usual morning routine with anticipation, and they head up to the Great Hall without the rest of their dorm-mates, meeting Ron and Hermione at the doors.
"We're totally sitting at the Gryffindor table today because they have more toffee apples and you, Malfoy, are not arguing with me," Ron starts, arms folded, but Draco is already headed in, making a beeline for the end of the table where, indeed, there is a platter of toffee apples. Hermione and Harry share a brief eyerolls because whilst Draco and Ron may be polar opposites in many things, their desire for good food is not one of them. Even if Draco is more snobbish and Ron far messier about it. And for a minute, Harry feels happy.
Then he sits down, heady smells of rich food wafting under his nose, and promptly has a rolling stomach and tight throat. Today really isn't his day.
"Harry, there's some porridge here too, if you'd rather." And thank Merlin for Hermione who is offering him a bowl of good, plain porridge; far better than sweets or anything similarly rich and decadent and sickening. Hermione has long since been aware that Harry avoids most of those heavier foods and, even better, if she has any idea why then she hasn't brought it up, always excusing him with similar reasons to her own, and that's more than enough for Harry. Particularly on days where he just wants the warmth of his friends.
"You two are so boring," Ron comments, teeth tacky with half-chewed toffee. From beside Harry, Draco nods along, although he does finish his mouthful before adding on,
"It's Halloween, you can have a treat today, surely?"
"I'd still rather not. And I think it's quite sensible of Harry to refrain from it all too." The ginger promptly grunted in tandem with Draco and Hermione interrupted her own fond half-smile to lecture them both on healthy eating habits. Harry, feeling a little better, manages to get down most of his porridge, enjoying the little hint of cinnamon. It's just that little bit of extra flavour that helps to keep him going, to keep him eating even when his mind is as distant from his body as the candles amongst the ceiling.
By the time Hermione's mini-lecture is rounding up, Harry has had more than enough to eat and is leaning back, drawing his spoon in slow circles, looking around the room. So many happy students, all laughing or half-asleep, digging into the morning's treats. It has him feeling distant and isolated, seeing the room in muted greys, their chatter dulling into background noise that rings in his ears with a deep drone. It's almost painful.
But then his eyes catch on something. Dark and still and calm and- Professor Snape. The Head of House who has offered him help and advice and understanding, even with terse words and an often harsh demeanour, and who has found him even more pictures to fill up the album Hagrid had given him in first year, had listened to Harry in that first week of school when he hadn't known anything and had been caught in between a warring Draco and Ron, had been so lost and adrift and hopeful. Professor Snape, who is sat at the Head Table, as neutral as ever. A rock in the tempest of Harry's melancholy. And so he clings to that, taking a deep breath, then another, not even registering his friends' continued conversation, just dragging air in and out, fighting back the haze in his head and the iron around his lungs.
Then Professor Snape turns his head away from his plate, aware of the concentrated staring, and raises a single eyebrow at the boy.
Flushing a little, half-embarrassed to be caught out, half-uncaring, Harry manages the faintest of smiles, tinged with relief, and nods to the teacher. The gesture is returned, if more subtly so, and it allows the teen to keep on breathing, air still rasping to curl in his lungs, steadier and surer by the second. And finally Harry turns away, back to his friends, to find them very deliberately leaving him to the interaction. All three of them know that Professor Snape has been looking out for Harry, looking out for all of them, over the last few years, and that the fact means a lot to their raven-haired friend in particular. But now that he's paying attention again, he's quick to be included.
"Harry, don't you think that the Patronus spell is more about intent than specific wand movements?"
"I- Probably, yeh. You can be a bit off with your movements, but if you don't have the right memory then it's no good regardless." Hermione nods along, despite their other friends frowning a bit,
"Exactly! I know you two were raised practising incantations, movements included, and they're incredibly important, but so is intent and the ability to picture what you want to happen. Particularly now we're getting older and more naturally performing the movements."
"I wish I hadn't helped teach you Latin," Draco laments. Hermione's experimentations - their experimentations - had been prompted by Draco agreeing to help Hermione through Latin two years ago now. And it had made all of them far more opinionated about magical theory.
Yet today, as with everything else, he couldn't find himself truly engaged with the conversation. He curses himself for it, even as he listens then zones out then listens again. Ron is the first to clock his continued mental absences, glancing askance at him,
"You alright mate?"
"Hm? Yeh, I'm okay," Harry deflects, flashing a smile only long enough for all three of his friends to see it, before drawing back a little again. Whilst perhaps a bit worried still, they take him at face-value, Hermione gently bumping their feet beneath the table, Draco nudging him with a pointy elbow, but their conversation goes on and Harry makes a more concerted effort to participate. That seems to ease them further again.
Harry... survives classes. He's not doing his best, but several of the lessons are already Halloween-focused anyway, not taken very seriously, with spells more based around novelty than the curriculum. Hermione complains some at first, as she does every year until Ron points out that they're just learning even more, which makes her smile and Draco snort, exchanging an amused look with Harry. Their constant presence is a balm and an anchor both. Except for moments where they get all worked up and excited, acting like the kids they really still are at thirteen, and Harry fades. It's not a conscious thing, quite the opposite, but his year-mates' laughter will turn to screams of 'Not Harry!' and flashes of blue bat-Summoning spells will bleed into bright green and all he really wants to do is hide away in their room in the dungeons, the abandoned classroom that's just for the four of them, and stay there until the Dementors have left and Halloween is over and he can breathe again.
Harry has barely breathed all day.
When their last class finally comes to an end, having picked giant pumpkins during Herbology, Harry is immediately searching for a way to get out of the feast. He wants to curl up, alone or maybe with Hedwig, and just be. No forced smiles or having to pay attention or being happy when he feels overwhelmingly sad and numb and distant.
"I'm just gonna go see Hedwig first," he offers, quite possibly cutting one of his friends off but not aware enough to really notice it,
"I'll catch up with you guys later. Save me a seat?" He feels a little bit bad because he has exactly zero intentions of turning up at the feast and taking that seat, but saying it makes his distraction see even more realistic. Believable.
"You sure? We can all go to Hedwig together, it'll only be quick, won't it?"
"Well, yeh, but I wanted to clean her perch today. And I-"
"Don't like doing it with magic, Harry. We know, it's fine," Draco interjects. Harry forces himself to poke the other teen in the shoulder like he usually would, a move more gentle than truly a poke, and dodges the reaching fingers that aim for his ribs, hiding behind Hermione. But of course Ron goes after him too and Harry takes the convenient opportunity to run full-pelt to the castle, escaping the threat of being tickled. Or of being called out.
"See you later guys! I'll try not to be too late!" There, perfect. And now he can get to one of the corridors with open window-slits and whistle for Hedwig. She always recognises him, even from across the grounds. And Hedwig is soft and quiet and sweet, even when she pecks at him for being an idiot, and stroking her feathers is a comfort better than any other he knows. It's a soothing, grounding habit that's staved off more than one nightmare or panic attack. Particularly after incidences at the Dursleys.
Or days like today. And that's probably why the sight of her, shining white in the beginnings of sunset, has something in his chest loosening and slackening. Calming.
"Hey girl," he murmurs, enjoying the faint prick of her talons on his raised arm. The owl immediately coos, low and with that tone he recognises far too well.
"I'm alright. Just- today isn't a great day, I guess." She coos again, more firmly this time, tilting her head into the gentle touch he runs across her feathers, gently pinching at his wrist with her beak, so very careful, as always.
"You okay to come down into the dungeons with me love? It probably won't be for too long. Just- just long enough to settle, I guess?" Her hoot is distinctively affirmative, at least to him, and he lets out his second fully-genuine smile today, for all that it's still tinged with something sad and lost. Hedwig gently cuffs his shoulder with a wing and he gets close to a proper laugh. He loves his owl.
"Thanks girl."
It doesn't take long for Harry to get to his group's room, opening the door up with their current password, Hedwig happily perched on his shoulder to preen his hair. It's been at least two years since he's bothered trying to stop or scold her. Which, considering they've only known each other for three years, is quite a long time, but she's even more stubborn than him, which really is saying something, he knows.
But now, entering this safe space with only Hedwig at his side, he can stop being quite so stubborn, can let himself collapse into their pile of pillows and blankets, Hedwig flapping in the air until he has curled up on his side, glasses discarded somewhere he doesn't even keep track of, and finds his friend settling on his arm, just below the shoulder, huddling down and again preening at his hair, accompanied by the occasional low crooning that genuinely eases that something in his chest again.
It's what allows the tears to pool in his eyes and his hands to catch under his robes, digging into his sides as he curls up even tighter, chest beginning to heave with silent, soul-wrenching sobs that have his throat raw but his lips bitten closed, staying quiet for all that his whole body judders. He's never grieved for his parents like this, but with their deaths ringing in his ears, how could he not?
Severus frowns upon seeing three of the troublesome quartet sitting at the Slytherin table, Draco and Granger on one side, Weasley opposite, with one empty seat beside him. Emphasis on the empty.
Harry had blatantly been... off-kilter during breakfast and lunch, and whilst the Potions Master hasn't had a lesson with the third years today, Severus has no doubt that the silly boy has been that way all day. Understandable, considering. And of course, the other children haven't really clocked just what implications it being Halloween has, or if they have then they've dismissed it, perhaps due to how generally unaffected Harry has been every other year.
Severus is keenly aware that Harry now knows the tunes of his mother and father's death, the light of the Death Curse and the shadows of orphancy.
And so, of course, he eats as much as necessary to be able to leave without the other staff complaining too much, before striding out of the staff entrance with all of the grace and twice the pace as usual. Nobody would comment on it, he knows. They wouldn't dare. Regardless, he leaves quickly, assessing that empty seat and immediately listing off possible locations to himself, deciding that the dungeons are first priority, then the dorms and finally the Owlery. Harry doesn't tend to go to the library without reason, although he finds more reasons than many might expect of the Chosen One. And so that leaves the three main haunts of the boy.
Glad that his Head of House status grants him more access to student-locked doors than the children would like to think, it doesn't take Severus long to reach one of the many abandoned rooms on the first two layers of the dungeons, one that he knows the troublesome quartet have made their base, and he knocks briefly on the door, trying not to go for his usual harsh rapping. This is softer and more of a request than a demand. It receives no answer either way. Sighing to himself, the man promptly calls his magic to him, softly so, gently so, and directs it at the door, allowing Hogwarts to sense him, to know him and recognise his status and allow him in to help his student, for all that he can't hear him and, frankly, the brat might be elsewhere, but this is the most likely place and-
Ah. The poor child. For all that the room is quiet, pierced only by low keens and the owl's soft hoots, the sheer miasma of anguish is heavy and suffocating and Severus, for half a second, drowns in it, flounders in the grief that is so similar yet greater than his own, until he lets Muggle steel trace his spine, heavy but not a burden, instead a source of strength that he draws upon as he crouches in the middle of the room, still a good distance from Harry, and, strangely, meets the golden-orange gaze of the owl. Hedwig, he believes.
"Harry, child, can you hear me?" And apparently the teen does hear him as he sucks in a breath, choking and hacking on it, scrambling back in a ruckus of cushions and blankets, Hedwig fluttering into the air with an indignant hoot, only to settle on the nearest sconce, peering down at her master. Severus, for his part, stays still and quiet, fighting back his concern to focus on the logic of Harry being in some kind of panic and unlikely to take him approaching very well.
When he hits the wall, chest still heaving, tears still tracking down his face, something in Harry seems to jolt and he blinks at Severus, squinting a little.
"S-Sir?"
"Yes Harry. It's only you and I. Whilst I'm quite sure you're not well, considering the date and state I've found you in, I must ask if there is anything I can do for you."
A long pause falls then, Harry staring at him, still curled into himself, shivering against the cold stone wall, tears coming to a halt but his erratic breathing only worsening, hitching briefly when his owl coos at him, but refusing to settle down. His eyes, wide and green and oh-so-shadowed, haunted with ghosts and a pain so raw and untouched that it feels sacrilegious to even be privy to. Yet Severus doesn't flinch away or give in, unable to ignore the agony of this foolish, brave, sweet child who has friends in opposing houses and fights for himself and his school despite expecting nothing but hurt and rebuttal, who stands up again and again regardless of criticism or fear or jeering. This young man who has been growing up under the worst of circumstances that Severus can do so little to change but has so much wish to. Accordingly, he doesn't take Harry's silence as rejection, and instead waits until there's more calm, less tension. And then he acts.
Severus shuffles forwards, almost hesitating, distinctly telegraphing his movements as he spreads his arms wide and, receiving no fear, wraps the child into the dark folds of his robes and cloak, drawing Harry in close, for all that he keeps his touch light. He doesn't want to scare the boy off, but he very much wants to comfort him. And so he pulls the teen in, tucking him against his chest and bowing over him, close and comforting, offering an embrace more parental than either them likely remembers receiving, rocking slightly from side-to-side in a gentle soothing motion. It's certainly more than he's ever offered a student before, but for Harry, he barely falters. This lonely, grieving child who would rather suffer alone than seek out his friends or teachers. Who feels so deeply. So strongly. And those feelings are undirected because Harry has nothing to guide this mourning to: no figure he can turn to, no grave that he knows he can visit, nor spirit or kind memory to call upon. The teen is so very isolated in this sorrow, on a day where most children are laughing and stuffing themselves silly with treats, and none of them seem to have thought upon the date's significance to one in their midst. Not unsurprising or particularly resentable, but distinctly unfortunate all the same.
Which is why Severus is here now.
Eventually though, the damp patch over Severus' collar stops growing and Harry's low keening tapers off, his breaths deepening into something far steadier, entrenched in a deeper sort of melancholy, as serene and dark and overwhelming as the very ocean. It's a more coherent, more accepting state, but no less awful to see, to feel a thirteen year old going through.
And then finally, Harry turns his head just a little, enough to be breathing into the gap of air by Severus' neck, and he speaks,
"N-none of them realised and none of them can understand but why would they because their parents are alive, they have happy families, and- and I'm glad they don't but- but I feel so alone and- and lost because there are these people that I never got to know and I- I hate it because I've only seen them screaming and scared and d-dying in these bloody Dementor visions and it hurts now, more than- than it ever has before!" Harry pauses, breathing heavily and raggedly, his voice softer than feather-down when he goes on, as though confiding some great secret. Perhaps, to him, it is.
"I never really used to mourn them? They were just... faceless ideals that I was told bad things - awful, stupid things - about. But now I've seen them, heard them, and they just w-wanted me to be s-safe and-" He cuts off again, nearly dissolving back into tears, but instead only sags further into the safe darkness of his Professor. Of the one adult he fully trusts. Severus is more than determined to be worth that trust.
And so he stays silent, absorbs the boy's words, and soothes a hand in steady circles across Harry's back, the motion repetitive and calming and present. Listens to the boy's grief, keeps him close and safe, and allows him to let out the emotions he's been bottling up all day.
Sometimes such deep hurts need more than friends or pets to deal with. Sometimes it requires an adult who can understand, who can comfort and reassure and be responsible, who he could rely on and collapse into and give his hurts and troubles to. Someone who can be strong for him.
"It's alright Harry, it hurts, I know, but it's alright. They would be so proud of who you are becoming, so proud of your strength and intelligence and compassion, of you being able to accept help and support and love from those around you. I know it hurts, but hush. It's alright, hush, it hurts, I know," he murmurs, still rocking gently from side to side, gratified that Harry sags further into him, tears still gone. And eventually, those green eyes slip closed, the quietest of snores beginning to slip out, only to be muffled in Severus' robes.
Sighing quietly to himself, Severus shifts his grip on the child until he can scoop him up in his arms, picking him up as he rises to his feet, with numb legs and a sore back, and glances over to the owl, still perched on the sconce.
"I expect you can make your own way back to the Owlery?" The barely-quiet hoot he receives is almost as indignant as the fiery eyes. Facetious creature. Rolling his eyes back at the owl, Severus turns on his heel, ensures that his grip on the teen is secure, and leaves. He'll settle Harry in the dorms, perhaps dig up some more photos of the Potters, and request permission from Dumbledore to take the child to their graves this weekend. Some closure for the boy.
But until then, Severus will tuck Harry into his dorm bed, brush the wild hair back from his forehead, set the glasses on the nightstand beside a glass of Cooling-charmed milk, and offer the briefest of smiles at the sleeping child, before whirling away again. Harry will be alright, in time. And Severus will watch over him all the same.