Diaphragmatic Breathing and Noodles

by batondecannelle

Summary:

“I did not betray your confidence,” Snape tells Harry. “The Dark Lord is an accomplished Legilimens, but I am a master of the art of Occlumency. My mind is an impenetrable fortress.”

“Er… okay,” Harry says.

(He doesn’t know what either of those words mean, but he’s very glad to know that his professor hasn’t sold him out to Voldemort to be tortured and killed.)

Snape regards him for a long moment, his eyes sliding over to the open door of the cupboard. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then appears to change his mind at the last second.

“It is nearing lunchtime,” he says instead. “Would you like a sandwich?”

 

--

 

It's the summer after fourth year. Harry is still reeling from the events of the graveyard. He's haunted by constant nightmares and stuck at Privet Drive, isolated from all the people who care about him.

When Dementors visit Little Whinging, Harry suddenly has much more to deal with than painful memories. His removal from Privet Drive leads to an unexpected encounter with professor Snape.

Notes:

This started out as my very first Harry Potter fic! <3 It is hugely a work in progress, although I have a basic outline of how I want the story to go. I usually have at least a few chapters written ahead but sometimes I hit a snag, so updates can be slow/sporadic.

I update tags as I go, and I may post chapter-specific TWs where I feel necessary, but I don't like spoilers/tons of tags, so I won't tag every little thing. If you have questions or concerns about the content of the fic please message me on tumblr or twitter and I can give you more info. :)

Also-- I am not looking for constructive criticism. I love any and all positive feedback! Thank you!

Chapter 1: do I look like a snake to you?

Harry is on his third hour of yard work, the hot sun beating down on his bare shoulders, his hair falling into his eyes thick with sweat, when he reaches out to pull a weed and instead brushes his fingers against the cool scales of a small garden snake. 

Watch it, the snake hisses, coiling up and rearing its head back to regard Harry contemptuously. 

Sorry, Harry responds. He pauses in his work, sinking back on his heels and wiping the sweat from his forehead. 

The snake blinks slowly at him and uncoils. You understand me, it hisses, sounding confused.

I know, Harry says absentmindedly. He reaches around the snake and yanks up another handful of weeds. The snake watches him. It slithers close, a forked tongue peeking out and tasting the scent of Harry’s dirt-stained hands. 

Where are your scales? The snake asks. 

I haven’t got any, Harry responds. He swallows with difficulty, his throat parched from working all morning in the garden without reprieve. He shoots a wary glance to the sliding door of the house. The hose is coiled up next to the fence, a slow, steady drip of water puddling into the grass below it. Harry wets his lips. 

He could use a break—a moment out of the sun, some water to rinse the taste of dirt from his mouth, and a quick bite to eat if he’s lucky. But he’s on thin ice already. And he can faintly see Petunia through the sliding glass door to the house, chopping something on a cutting board and shooting him the occasional venomous glance to ensure that he’s still hard at work. 

Harry sighs and shifts a few feet forward, starting on a new section of weeds. This work is simple, at least, and it keeps his mind busy. He doesn’t have to think about the graveyard, or Cedric, or the fact that he’s stuck here, alone, while Ron and Hermione send him vague updates that tell him absolutely nothing about what is actually going on in the wizarding world. 

The daily prophet tells him nothing of use, and the muggle news are no better, especially now that Uncle Vernon caught Harry with his ear pressed to the door of their bedroom, straining to catch even a vague confirmation that things are changing, that something has happened, that someone else in the world recognizes that Voldemort is back. 

Now Harry’s got a dark hand-shaped bruise around his arm, and an aching wrist, and has been put on yard work duty indefinitely. His list of chores grows longer by the day, and he’s not permitted back inside until Aunt Petunia needs his help cooking dinner in the evening. 

It’s to keep him out of trouble, is what Uncle Vernon says, and to keep him from sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. 

Harry thinks that if he doesn’t get a real update soon, he might do something very stupid. Sirius can warn him not to be rash all he wants, but he’s not the one stuck at Privet Drive. He’s not the one who saw Cedric die, who saw Voldemort return. None of them have any clue of what Harry’s been through. 

Did they fall off? The snake asks, and Harry startles, blinking away his anger and returning to the present moment. 

What?

Your scales, the snake says, sounding very annoyed. 

No, Harry responds, bemused. I told you, I haven’t got any. I’m not a snake. Do I look like a snake to you? 

The snake hisses something unintelligible. It blinks up at Harry consideringly. 

No, it finally says. 

Harry glances back over at the sliding glass door. Petunia has her back turned now, rifling through the pantry for something out of sight, and Harry chances it. He climbs to his feet and crosses over the yard to the hose. He winces at the squeaky sound it makes when he turns it on, but after holding perfectly still for a moment, he relaxes and drinks as much as he dares. 

The water is cool and soothes his parched throat. He drinks his fill and then runs the hose over his hair, soaking his curls and dripping down over his chest and to his shorts. Then he turns off the hose and lopes back over to his spot. 

He kneels back down in the grass. His hair drips onto the snake, and it sticks its tongue out, slithering closer. Harry goes perfectly still when it begins to wind its way up his wrist. 

Nice and cool, the snake says, slithering up Harry’s arm to coil around his neck. Its forked tongue sticks out and tickles at Harry’s collarbone. 

Yes, Harry says, feeling slightly uncomfortable. The last snake he spent any amount of time with was Nagini, in the graveyard with Voldemort. He remembers her thick, heavy body, the cool shine of her scales under the moonlight. The way she had turned to him hungrily, tongue flicking out to taste his scent, his blood in the air.

“I will not be feeding Wormtail to you, after all ... but never mind, never mind... there is still Harry Potter...."

Harry shudders.

But it’s just a small garden snake, not venomous, and this is the most conversation he’s had in the weeks since he returned from school, so he doesn’t want to offend the little snake. 

There is more water next to the house. In the shade. Harry inclines his head in the direction of the hose. 

The snake’s scales ripple, and it tightens a bit more around Harry’s neck. 

That is the loud man’s territory, the snake says. 

Harry thinks of the purple vein that had pulsed in Uncle Vernon’s forehead while he shouted at Harry the other night, yanking him harshly by his wrist and tossing him into his bedroom. Harry’s ears had rang for half the night afterward. He half-smiles in understanding.

He’s not here right now, he explains. He’s at work. He won’t bother you. 

The snake seems unconvinced. It stays with Harry the rest of the day, eventually slipping into the pocket of his shorts, and doesn’t seem interested in much more conversation. 

Later, when the sun is starting to slip lower in the sky and Aunt Petunia opens the sliding door and shouts for Harry to come in and help with supper, he sticks his hand into his pocket and sets the snake down carefully underneath one of Aunt Petunia’s rose bushes. 

I have to go now, Harry says. You should find somewhere else to hunt. It’s not safe for you here. 

The snake tastes the air, blinking yellow eyes up at Harry. 

Is it safe for you? It asks. 

Harry hesitates. He rubs at his sore wrist. 

It’s supposed to be, he finally says with a shrug.

Chapter 2: keep your window shut

It’s later that week when Harry is lying in his bed, hair damp from showering, his entire body aching from another day full of yard work and cooking and cleaning. The sun has gone down and there are a few stars visible from his window. 

Hedwig shuffles her wings and hoots. 

“I know,” Harry murmurs. He turns toward her. “I’m sorry, girl.” 

She hoots again and eyes him reproachfully. 

“If I had the key, I would,” he says, his thoughts flooding with guilt. He wonders, not for the first time, if he should have sent Hedwig home with Ron or Hermione at the end of fourth year.

Harry climbs off the bed, ignoring his screaming muscles, and kneels on the floor, lifting the loose floorboard underneath his bed. He pulls out a half-eaten roll from dinner the night before, and a small tin of beans, and he pries the lid off, pouring what he can into the bottom of Hedwig’s cage. He tears the roll into pieces and shoves it through the bars as well. 

Hedwig looks down at the meagre offering and then back at him, her eyes narrowed. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again weakly. His stomach flips and he looks away from the food, feeling simultaneously ravenous and nauseated. “I’ll see if you can go hunting tomorrow.” 

He sprawls back across the bed then, lying on his stomach, resting his cheek on the cool side of his pillow. 

If he had his wand, if it wasn’t locked away in the cupboard with the rest of his things, Harry would feel a lot better about his situation. Even just being able to hold it, to feel the soft, warm magic coursing through him would be a relief. 

Harry sighs and flips over onto his back. He can’t do magic anyway, or he’d probably be expelled this time. Especially with the articles being written about him in the Daily Prophet lately. 

Somewhere outside the house, near the street, there’s a loud, echoing crack, sort of like a car backfiring. Harry jolts upright and gazes out the window, his eyes searching for something out of place, something different from the endless monotony of the summer. 

He doesn’t see anything other than one of the neighbour’s cats dashing across the street and disappearing into a bush. 

He hears Uncle Vernon complaining loudly to Aunt Petunia, something about ‘those blasted teenagers.’ Harry smirks and settles back onto the bed. If he had been out in the yard, Uncle Vernon would probably have grabbed him round the neck by now, shaking him vigorously and accusing him of using magic. 

Harry drifts to sleep sometime later when the house has quieted and the soft hum of neighbourhood activity has slowed. It’s hot, even when the sun is down, and Harry has acquired the habit of sleeping in his boxers, his thin blankets shoved to the bottom of the bed so he can sprawl out as much as possible. The window is cracked to let in the slight breeze. 

He wakes with a start at the sound of Hedwig screeching, her wings jostling the bars of her cage. Harry sits up in bed and tries to shake himself out of the throes of his latest nightmare. 

“Quiet,” he hisses frustratedly at Hedwig. “You’ll wake someone.” 

He shivers and feels around the bed for his blanket, pulling it across his lap. The temperature in his room has lowered considerably. Harry blinks and rubs the sleep from his eyes, and as his sleepiness begins to clear, he pauses. He picks up his glasses from his nightstand and slides them over his nose.

There’s something… off, an odd feel to the air, a crisp coldness that is unnatural. The back of Harry’s neck prickles. He glances at the window to see that it has completely frosted over. 

Hedwig screeches loudly again,  and somewhere in the back of Harry’s mind, he hears a thud from the other room and Uncle Vernon shouts something. But he’s frozen on his bed, his eyes still fixed on the window. 

The temperature lowers even further. And then, as he watches, a long, skeletal hand curves around the window.

Cold mist pours into the room. It swirls around Harry and fogs up his glasses. There is a low, hollow, rasping sound, something sickeningly familiar, and a thick feeling of dread coils in Harry’s chest and spreads through his body. 

The dementor enters his room with a cold rustling of robes and skeletal fingers dragging along the walls. 

The sight of it jolts Harry into action. He scrambles off the bed, nearly tripping, and tries to run out in the hallway but his door is locked. Harry jostles the doorknob and pounds frantically against the wood. 

It swings open a moment later and Harry nearly falls on his face in front of Uncle Vernon. His uncle looks furious, his face purple with rage, and he grabs Harry’s shoulders, shaking him vigorously. 

“If that bloody bird won’t shut up, I’ll wring its neck,” he snarls. 

“Dem—dementor,” Harry stammers, his face white, and he wraps his hands around Uncle Vernon’s wrists, trying to get him to let go. 

Behind him, the chill intensifies. Goosebumps break out over Harry’s skin and he shudders. He can feel the effect already growing in his mind, the despair, the hopelessness—he can nearly hear her, his mum, screaming, begging— 

If he just had his wand, he could protect himself, but it’s locked away downstairs in the cupboard—

Uncle Vernon tosses Harry roughly to the floor. Harry catches himself on his sore wrist and winces. 

“Keep your window shut,” Uncle Vernon barks at him. He impatiently stomps across the room and shoves the window back down, slamming it down so hard that the glass cracks. He wheels about and then falters. A look of confused horror takes over the fury in his eyes. He sinks to his knees.

Harry watches, frozen, as the dementor swoops toward Uncle Vernon, one skeletal hand outstretched. Uncle Vernon makes a horrible, choked-off sound. 

Harry doesn’t know what to do. He has no idea what’s going on. Why is there a dementor in Little Whinging? What is it doing in his room? 

“Wand,” he mutters shakily, forcing himself to his feet and brushing away the suffocating feeling of fear and despair. “Wand, need… need my wand.” He tears his gaze away from Uncle Vernon and stumbles out into the hallway. There’s nothing he can do to help him like this, not when he’s unarmed and clad in nothing but his boxers. He moves as quickly as he can on shaking legs, steadying himself along the wall and trying not to imagine what will happen to him if the dementor gives Uncle Vernon the kiss before he can retrieve his wand. 

The door at the end of the hallway swings open and Aunt Petunia screeches indignantly at the sight of Harry out of bed. 

“What on earth do you think you’re—” 

“Get back,” Harry shouts at her. He shoves Aunt Petunia, hard, and she stumbles backward. Her face contorts with a confused fury. 

“You’re not allowed out of your room until morning—” 

“There’s a dementor in the house."  

Aunt Petunia freezes, and her eyes widen. She raises a hand in disbelief over her mouth. 

“Go to Dudley’s room and lock the door,” Harry says. “There’s not much time.”

“Vernon—” 

“Go,” Harry bellows, and Petunia jumps with fright, scurrying into the hallway and toward her son’s bedroom. Harry continues on to the stairs. 

He doesn’t know where the key to his cupboard is. There was no time to ask, and there’s no time to look for it. Harry thinks frantically that he will have to just try to kick the door in. 

He used to fantasise often about doing that very thing, when he was a small child, underfed and neglected and locked away for doing something as innocent as regrowing all of his hair in one night. 

Harry reaches the bottom of the stairs and turns toward the cupboard only to stop short when the cold, chilling feeling intensifies and he hears a quiet, rattling inhale. Harry turns toward the front door. 

Another dementor is floating toward him, just inside the front hallway. The door is hanging open, the glass cracked with frost. 

Harry stumbles over to the cupboard and yanks desperately at the lock. He reels back and kicks at it, hard, but the lock holds. He casts about for something else to hit it with. 

The dementor drifts closer. The back of Harry’s neck prickles. He feels cold sweat dripping down the line of his back. 

He shakes the lock furiously. “Open!” He bellows out in frustration. 

The cupboard door cracks with a surge of magic and then splinters open, and Harry all but dives inside, reaching for his trunk which is—also locked. 

“No,” Harry says weakly. He turns in defeat and tries to crawl out of the cupboard. A thin, cold hand grips him by the neck and yanks him into the air. Harry finds himself pressed against the wall, his legs dangling, as the dementor leans in close, tilting its head and sucking in hard. 

Harry cries out and tries to wrench himself out of the dementor’s grip, but he can hardly breathe, and each time the dementor feeds from him, he feels his defences lowering. Somewhere to the side, Harry vaguely registers that the other dementor has descended the steps behind him and both are crowding closer and closer, dark mists swirling, fear and pain and agony growing to a suffocating level, and Harry’s vision is fading, his mother is screaming and Voldemort is saying “Stand aside— ” 

In his last moments of consciousness Harry registers a bright, blinding light, a rush of warmth, and the pressure around his neck vanishes. He feels his body crumple to the floor and everything goes blissfully dark.

Chapter 3: constant vigilance

When Harry comes to, he is lying on the couch in the living room of Privet Drive. He sits up in a quick, disoriented movement, inhaling sharply and swinging his legs over the side of the couch. He feels around blindly for his glasses.

“Take it easy there, Potter.” A heavy hand comes down on Harry’s shoulder, arresting his movements. Harry’s body floods with unease at the familiar voice. He looks up and flinches.

“Professor Moody?” 

The man in question grunts in response and presses Harry’s glasses into his outstretched palm. Harry shoves them on his face and his eyes dart nervously around the room, taking in his surroundings. 

There is Professor Lupin, leaning against the wall near the front door. He looks tired. He raises a hand in greeting to Harry, his eyes coloured with worry. His wand is clenched tightly in his right hand. 

Harry glances back to Moody and holds back a shudder. The last time he saw the man, he was—someone else. An impersonator. A Death Eater posing as an auror, cornering Harry alone in the Defense classroom, questioning him about the graveyard and digging his fingers into the fresh wound on Harry’s forearm. 

Harry feels cold. “Are you… erm…” he shrinks slightly into the couch. There’s a blanket across his legs, but he’s still only in his boxers, and the lingering chill from the dementors is curled around him like a smothering fog. Harry wraps his arms around himself. He looks away from Moody and back to Professor Lupin. “What… er, what form does my boggart take?” He tries to keep his voice steady.

“A dementor,” Professor Lupin says, his voice gentle. “And what form does your patronus take, Harry?” 

“A… a stag,” Harry stammers. 

“Great,” Moody growls. “We’ve all been reacquainted.” He pats Harry roughly on the head, tousling his hair, and then steps back. Harry resists the urge to flinch again. Professor Lupin pushes off the wall and steps closer, kneeling beside Harry and offering him a chunk of chocolate. Harry takes it and bites a small piece off, revelling in the warmth that immediately spreads through his body. He shivers. 

“What… what happened?” He mumbles, his mouth full of chocolate. “And… where are the Dursleys?” He glances around the room again but sees no sign of his relatives. It’s still dark out. He wonders how much time has passed since he woke up to the unnatural chill in his room, the bony hand coaxing the window open— 

“Breathe, Harry,” Professor Lupin says quietly. He offers Harry another piece of chocolate. “You’re alright now. Your uncle is in the hospital, but he’s going to be okay. Your aunt and cousin are with him. I imagine they’ll be home in a few hours.” 

Harry nods slowly and pushes the chunk of chocolate past his chattering teeth into his mouth. His shoulders drop slightly, and he shifts the blanket up so it’s wrapped around his ribs. 

“And…” Harry pauses, resists the urge to shudder. “The dementors?” 

Professor Lupin grimaces. 

“Gone,” Moody says, his voice rough and hard. “We chased them off with a couple of patronuses. Got here just in time, too, didn’t we?” He grins at Harry. “Nearly gave you the kiss there, didn’t they?” 

Professor Lupin gives Moody a dark, reproving look. Harry blinks and shrinks even further into the couch. He draws his legs up to his chest. He feels at his throat, then, and winces. 

“Try not to touch it,” Professor Lupin says. He reaches into his robes and then hands Harry a tub filled with some kind of thick cream. “Bruise salve. They should heal up nicely by morning.” He smiles at Harry. 

Harry doesn’t smile back. “But I don’t… I don’t understand, professor. Why were there dementors here?” He sits up and glances over at his cupboard. The door is blown to pieces, splinters of wood all over the floor, and multiple pictures have fallen off the wall, their frames shattered. 

“We don’t know,” Professor Lupin admits. He sits down on the couch beside Harry. “I’m so sorry, Harry. It was unfortunate timing all around. We keep a twenty-four hour watch, of course, but Mundungus Fletcher—” 

“A twenty-four hour watch?” Harry repeats. 

“Yes,” Lupin nods. “Dumbledore’s orders. We couldn’t be sure of what to expect, after,” he hesitates briefly and then ploughs on, “Voldemort’s resurrection.” 

Harry is reeling. 

Here he’s been, week after week, isolated at Privet Drive, with nothing but yard work and Hedwig to keep him company. No meaningful correspondence, no communication, and nothing to give any sign that he was anything besides completely and utterly alone. 

“You’ve been… watching me?” He checks, his tone incredulous. 

“Don’t act so surprised, boy,” Moody growls, stomping across the room and picking up one of the broken picture frames. He brushes the shards of glass off and hangs it back on the wall. Then he waves his wand, and all of the splinters of glass lift off the ground and vanish into nothingness. Harry watches him numbly. The broken pieces of the cupboard door reform perfectly together and slide back into place below the stairs. The padlock clicks into place. 

Professor Lupin picks up another blanket from one of the sitting chairs and drapes it over Harry’s shoulders. Harry thinks vaguely that this is one of Aunt Petunia’s special throw blankets, the ones he’s not allowed to touch. He fingers at the fabric, opening his mouth to speak and then closing it. 

“It won’t happen again,” professor Lupin says. He wraps an arm around Harry and tugs him into a half-hug. “We’re doubling up on the watch, and Mundungus has been given a lower-priority duty.” 

“Doubling up,” Harry says slowly. 

“Yes,” Professor Lupin says with a nod. “I’m very sorry, Harry.” 

“So…” Harry pauses. His thoughts are jumbled, and he’s still feeling cold and shaky, even with the pieces of chocolate Professor Lupin keeps handing to him. “You mean I’m… staying here?” 

“No question about it,” Moody interjects. “Dumbledore’s orders.” He stomps over to the window and peers outside, inspecting the neighbourhood with narrowed eyes. 

“Right,” Harry says. “Dumbledore’s orders.” 

Professor Lupin’s smile fades slightly. “I know it probably doesn’t seem like it now, Harry, but this is still the safest option for you.There’s no protection more powerful than the one your mother gave you when she died,” he reminds Harry gently. 

Harry laughs shortly. He gives both of the men an incredulous look. “It didn’t protect very well against dementors, though, did it?” 

His joke falls flat. Professor Lupin’s face shutters, and Moody makes a scoffing sound. 

“Constant vigilance,” Moody says to Harry. He taps his temple knowingly. 

“I’m not saying I agree with the decision, Harry,” Professor Lupin says slowly, like he is choosing his words very carefully. “There are many of us in the Order, myself included, who have been fighting to bring you back to headquarters since the start of summer holiday. If I could bring you back with me right now, I would. But,” Lupin hesitates, “Dumbledore believes that it’s not time yet. We have to trust him, Harry, even if we do not always understand why.” 

Harry’s head is swimming. His throat aches, despite the bruise salve, and he feels a sharp headache coming on. He rubs at his forehead and wonders what time it is. 

“Order?” He asks, feeling like a broken record. “Headquarters?” 

Professor Lupin opens his mouth to speak, to perhaps explain, but Moody interrupts him. 

“Need to know,” he says sharply, his fake eye swivelling at a speed that makes Harry feel nauseous. 

“Right.” Professor Lupin sighs. A look of frustration comes over him. “I’m sorry, Harry. Everything’s being kept very tightly under wraps. You understand, of course.”

Harry doesn’t understand. But he gets the sense that that’s one of the goals of this very confusing conversation, so he nods his head. 

Professor Lupin claps Harry’s shoulder and smiles at him again. 

“Alright. Well, you’ve got the bruise salve—reapply it in a few hours, okay Harry? Don’t forget it.” He tucks an extra bar of chocolate into the blanket on Harry’s lap. “We’ll get out of your hair. And, Alastor is right—it’s a good idea to stay alert and aware of your surroundings. Keep your wand on you from now on, at all times, alright? Just in case?” 

Harry’s eyes dart over to the cupboard again. He swallows thickly. 

“My wand?” 

“Yes, your wand.” Professor looks around the room. “Where is it, anyway? I was surprised when we arrived that you hadn’t already done a patronus of your own. You haven’t misplaced it, have you?” His professor’s tone is light, joking, and Harry feels a lump form in his throat. 

“No,” he says, hesitating. 

This is Harry’s chance, he thinks—all he has to do is tell professor Lupin the truth. He just needs to show him the cupboard.

The cupboard that houses his old mouldy, child-sized mattress. The shelves of dusty cleaning supplies. The broken toy soldier he had pilfered from Dudley’s waste bin and played with for days. The flashlight with dead batteries, and the dull crayons, the ratty blankets, holey, stained socks and cobwebs—the loose floorboard, the one he used to hide food in until it started smelling funny and Aunt Petunia found it, and had dragged him to the bath, dousing him in bleach and muttering “disgusting freak” over and over and over… and his trunk filled with his school things, his robes and his wand and his invisibility cloak, his pictures of his parents and everything he holds dear, and—

Harry opens his mouth. He can’t say it. The words won’t come, they won’t… his throat aches, his face flushes, and his vision swims. “I dropped it,” he says instead. “Upstairs.” 

Professor Lupin looks at him in fond exasperation. “Make sure you go and get it, as soon as you head up to bed,” he says. “You don’t still stow it in your back pocket, do you?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No,” he forces out, in as much of a normal tone as he can muster. He smiles weakly at his professor. 

“Good, that’s good, Harry,” Professor Lupin says. “We really ought to get you a wand holster, you know. Then you won’t have to worry about losing it anymore. I’ll talk to Sirius—I think he has a great lot of them just gathering dust in his closet back at Grim—” 

Moody clears his throat loudly, and Professor Lupin falls silent. He shoots Moody a dirty look. 

“Grim?” Harry asks. 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Professor Lupin says. “It’s not—you know, it’s not that you can’t be trusted, of course. But the location can’t be divulged to anyone without Dumbledore’s express permission. It’s under a very strong Fidelius charm, you see.”  

“Fidelius?” Harry repeats. “Like… like the one that was on my parent’s house?” 

“Godric’s Hollow, yes,” Professor Lupin says with a nod. 

Harry’s brow furrows. “Oh,” he says. “So Dumbledore’s the… the secret guardian?” 

“Secret keeper,” Professor Lupin corrects, his lips quirking up into a half-smile.

“But,” Harry hesitates. “I’m not allowed to know about it? Why not? What if… what if the dementors come back? Or,” he looks between both men entreatingly. “What if something else happens? Or if the wards fail again…?” 

Professor Lupin purses his lips. He glances at Moody, who shakes his head in a minute movement. Harry, watching the exchange, feels his heart plummet. 

“Harry…” Professor Lupin starts. 

“It’s okay,” Harry says quietly. “I understand, professor.” 

“We’ll get you there as soon as we can,” Professor Lupin says firmly. “I’m sorry, Harry. I promise, I’m going to see what I can do. I’ll talk to Dumbledore and the rest of the order. Maybe we can get you out of here by the month’s end.” 

“Maybe,” Harry echoes. “Sounds great. Thanks, professor.” 

Professor Lupin smiles sadly. He squeezes Harry with another firm side hug before climbing off the couch. Harry watches both men walk to the door. 

Professor Lupin turns back at the last moment and looks determinedly at Harry.“You’ll be alright,” he says firmly. “We’ll be keeping a very close eye on you, and the wards. Nothing is going to get through again—I’ll make certain of it, Harry. And be sure to send Hedwig off straight away if you need anything.” 

Harry sits perfectly still on the couch. He tries to smile again at his professor and fails. He thinks of Hedwig upstairs, rattled from the dementor, her feathers limp and dull from weeks spent mostly confined to her cage with little exercise and not much to eat. 

 “Alright,” he says carefully. “I will, professor. Thank you.” 

After they leave, and after the worst of his trembling has eased, Harry climbs off the couch and carefully refolds the throw blanket, placing it back in the exact spot that Professor Lupin picked it up. He puts the other blanket away in the closet, and then goes upstairs. 

He sits down on his bed and thinks.

Harry doesn’t know when the Dursleys are going to be back, but he knows without a doubt that he will be punished for what happened. He thinks this might be the worst thing he’s ever done—worse even than when he accidentally blew up aunt Marge. He doesn’t know what they’re going to do to him. 

He walks over to Hedwig’s cage. She hoots at him.

“I’m going to get in trouble for this,” he says. He takes a pair of pliers out of his desk and uses them to carefully pry the bars of her cage further and further apart until there’s room for her to step out. 

She waits in the cage, staring at him curiously. 

Harry has thought about doing this many times, after he snuck the extra pair of pliers from the shed. He also thought about how easy it would be to set her free if he had his wand, and if he didn’t have to worry about the trace on underage magic. 

“Go on,” Harry says to Hedwig. “Go and do some hunting, stretch your wings, and then stay with the other owls at school. Alright?” 

He figures his punishment for setting Hedwig free can’t be any worse than what Uncle Vernon will already have planned. And Harry doesn’t want them to take Hedwig away, or hurt her. 

Hedwig steps out onto his desk and then flutters to the windowsill. She stares at him for a moment, her head cocked. 

“Go on,” he says again. An odd, thick feeling builds in his throat, and he feels the sting of tears. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in a few months, okay?” 

Finally, seeming reluctant she takes off into the night. 

Harry watches her until she disappears into the horizon. The sun is finally beginning to rise. Harry sits back down on his bed and then curls into the blanket. He closes his eyes, but sleep never comes.

Chapter 4: bloody birds and bloody dismembers

Harry eats the last of the chocolate bar Professor Lupin gave him on the third day of his confinement. He lets the last square of it rest on his tongue. It dissolves slowly, spreading a dark, rich sweetness through his mouth and easing the ache in his stomach. 

The Dursleys came home from the hospital the morning after the dementor attack and promptly locked Harry in his room, just as he expected them to. 

He supposes he should count himself lucky. Uncle Vernon seems shaken up by the attack, and for the most part has avoided Harry completely. Harry spends the vast majority of time locked in his room, besides the two bathroom breaks per day that Aunt Petunia reluctantly allows him. She shoves his meals through the catflap beside the door—usually once or twice a day, and nothing more than an old can of beans or a slice of bread. 

Harry is no stranger to this treatment. It’s similar to the summer after his first year of Hogwarts, when Uncle Vernon put the bars on his window. 

Only Harry knows that this time, there will be no flying car showing up beside his window in the dead of night. There will be no Weasley’s bursting into his room to help him escape. 

Not now that he’s confined here indefinitely, at least until the end of summer, on Dumbledore’s orders.

For his own safety.

Harry smiles bitterly and turns onto his side. It was nice to get a break from the sun, from the constant yard work, but after three days of no human contact and nothing to do, Harry is starting to feel stir-crazy. He’s thirsty, and his stomach constantly aches with hunger, and he knows it will only get worse as time goes on. 

There’s an open letter from Ron on Harry’s desk, next to Hedwig’s empty cage. Harry tries not to think about the contents of it. His friend had nothing helpful to say, nothing insightful, just general alarm about the dementor’s attack and assurances that the order is keeping a close watch. 

“Can’t wait to see you back at Hogwarts and talk about everything, ” Ron had written. 

Harry doesn’t even bother opening the letter from Hermione. 

***

On Harry’s sixth day of isolation, Aunt Petunia raps sharply on his door, unlocks the series of locks keeping him in, and startles Harry out of an agitated half-sleep. 

“Up!” She says loudly. “Get up! I need you to make the eggs.” 

Harry rubs the sleep from his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

“Now!” Aunt Petunia screeches, rapping sharply on his door once more. Harry jumps out of bed and struggles into a pair of loose jeans that used to be Dudley’s, strapping a worn belt around his waist to keep them up, and a holey tee shirt. He scrambles to the door of his bedroom and out into the hallway. 

Dudley is already sitting at the table when Harry enters the kitchen. His small eyes are fixed on the television set, his gaze distant and unfocused. He barely acknowledges Harry’s presence. 

Uncle Vernon is sitting at the head of the table reading the paper, held high enough so that Harry can’t see his face. 

Harry doesn’t waste any time. It’s his first time being let out of his room for more than a bathroom break in almost a full week, and he doesn’t want to mess it up. 

He makes the best scrambled eggs he’s ever made. 

Later that day, after Aunt Petunia has put him to work pruning the rose bushes, Harry wonders what happened that night with the dementor, after he ran down the stairs to his cupboard. But he doesn’t dare ask. 

You’re back, the little snake hisses at Harry. 

Hello, Harry answers. He kneels down and allows the snake to climb up his arm. How are you?

It was very cold, the snake hisses. The dark shadows were everywhere. The air smelt of pain and fear. I hid in the ground. 

Good, Harry says. 

Did they kill the loud man? The snake asks, sounding hopeful. 

Harry huffs out a slight laugh. No, he says. Only gave him a scare. 

Pity, the snake hisses. 

***

A few more days pass in the same manner. Uncle Vernon goes back to work, Dudley goes back to school, and everything seems to be settling back to normal. 

And then one night, Harry wakes from a nightmare, thrashing in his sheets and crying out for Cedric. He sits up in bed and gasps for breath. His throat feels raw.

A light turns on in the hallway, and there are stomping footsteps, and then Harry’s door is hurriedly unlocked and slammed open. Harry flinches. He climbs out of his bed and stands to face Uncle Vernon with his hands out placatingly. 

“Nightmare—” he starts to explain. 

Uncle Vernon’s face is white with fury, but his eyes glint with unspoken fear. Harry takes a step back. 

“Keep your bloody voice down,” Uncle Vernon growls. 

“I’m trying,” Harry says, “but I can’t help it, you see, if I’m asleep—” 

“I don’t give a damn if I have to tape your mouth shut, if that’s what it takes to get some peace and quiet around here,” Uncle Vernon cuts him off. His eyes dart away from Harry and fixate on the corner of the room where Hedwig’s empty cage stands.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s…?” Harry hesitates. He glances over at his desk. 

“Where’s your bloody bird?” 

Harry grimaces. “Oh, I, erm… I sent her away?” 

Uncle Vernon bristles and his face goes a dark, angry purple. His hands clench into large fists. He storms into the room and grabs Harry by the front of his shirt, slamming him up against the wall. 

“Uncle—” Harry’s eyes are wide, and his pulse picks up. He is usually quick enough to duck out of Uncle Vernon’s grasp, but he hadn’t expected such a violent reaction. 

“Sent her off to get more of those bloody— dismembers , didn’t you,” Uncle Vernon snarls. “And you thought we wouldn’t notice.” 

Harry wraps his hand around Uncle Vernon’s wrist, trying to loosen his grip. “No,” he says, bemused and uneasy. “I didn’t. It doesn’t work like that, I wouldn’t even know how to—” 

Uncle Vernon shakes him roughly, and his head bangs back against the wall. 

“You think I’m stupid?” he shouts at Harry. 

“No,” Harry says back, trying to keep his voice level. “I just sent her to stay at school for the rest of summer. I promise, I didn’t give her any letters. I don’t think dementors can read, anyway.” 

Uncle Vernon growls furiously and shoves Harry to the ground. Harry catches himself on his sore wrist and tries to get back up but is blindsided by a heavy blow to the side of his head from Uncle Vernon’s fist. His head explodes with pain, his vision going black around the edges, and he slumps dizzily to the floor, losing consciousness for what feels like just a few moments. 

“—don’t give a damn what those bloody policemen said,” Uncle Vernon is snarling when Harry blinks back into awareness. He kneels down beside Harry and grabs him by the hair, yanking his head up. “I know it was you. There was no one else in the room. You thought you would get away with it, didn’t you? Thought you could finally get rid of us. After all we’ve done for you.” 

“No,” Harry wheezes. He tries to squirm out of Uncle Vernon’s grasp but he can hardly think straight with the radiating pain in his head. 

“I’ve been too soft on you these past few years. You’ve forgotten your place, boy. You’re still just a little freak, aren’t you?” 

“No, I’m not,” Harry protests furiously. He tries to get his feet under him, to push Uncle Vernon away, but the man tightens his grip on Harry’s hair. He turns and starts to drag Harry from the room. 

They pass Aunt Petunia and Dudley in the hall, both clutching at each other and staring at Harry and Uncle Vernon with sleepy, startled eyes. 

“Where are you taking me?” Harry demands, trying to dig his heels into the carpet. Uncle Vernon drags him down the stairs and Harry cries out. He feels strands of hair getting ripped from his scalp. 

“Freaks don’t get their own bedrooms,” Uncle Vernon snarls. He tosses Harry to the floor and Harry stumbles into the wall, knocking his head again. He blinks and tries to sit up, his vision swimming. Uncle Vernon fiddles with the lock on the cupboard under the stairs and throws it open. He grabs Harry’s school trunk and tosses it out into the hallway behind them. Harry, finally connecting the dots in his dazed state, tries to scramble to his feet, tries for a desperate dash for the front door, but Uncle Vernon grabs him by the back of his tshirt and yanks him backward. 

“Let go!” Harry shouts. He throws an elbow back, connecting with something soft, and Uncle Vernon growls in fury, shaking Harry vigorously until Harry begins to feel nauseous. He is then tossed into the cupboard unceremoniously and the door is slammed shut behind him. 

The lock clicks into place. 

“No,” Harry cries out in disbelief. He slams his fists against the door. 

“Quiet,” Uncle Vernon shouts, aiming a kick at the cupboard door. “I don’t want any more funny business, you hear? You’ll stay out of sight until it’s time to go back to that freak school of yours. I don’t want to hear a bloody peep coming from this cupboard.” 

“You can’t,” Harry shouts, his throat feeling hoarse. He begins to panic as reality sets in. “I’m not eleven anymore, I don’t fit! You can’t—you can’t make me—”

“I bloody well can,” Uncle Vernon bellows. 

Harry screams in frustration and pounds on the door again, but he can hear as Uncle Vernon stomps back up the stairs and to his bedroom. 

Harry turns around and slumps against the door to the cupboard. It’s too dark to see anything; the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling burnt out years ago. But Harry doesn’t need a light to know what’s in there with him. There is only the remnants of what was once his childhood bedroom—the pile of moth-eaten, spider riddled blankets atop a mildewy mattress, a smattering of old toys, broken crayons scattered along the floor, and a small metal bucket in the corner that still smells vaguely of piss. 

Harry swallows with difficulty. His head is pounding, his pulse jumping all over the place, and his wrist (which had finally begun to heal) is throbbing again. 

He knows that if he tried, really tried, to break out of the cupboard, he could probably do it. His magic would probably help him, in fact. But he knows what will be waiting for him on the other side if he makes an attempt. And without his wand, what could he do? Where could he go? 

Who would help him? 

Harry thinks faintly of the small garden snake. A lump builds in his throat. He curls into a ball, lies down on his side, and closes his eyes.

Chapter 5: if you're lucky

Two days pass in darkness, in muffled silence, before the door to the cupboard is quietly opened in the middle of the night and someone tosses a bottle of water and bread roll inside. 

Harry scrambles for the water, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers and spilling half of it down his front. The roll is stale, and Harry eats it so fast that he nearly throws it back up. 

The door is closed and locked again before Harry even looks up. He listens to the soft sound of Aunt Petunia’s footsteps going back up the stairs. He wonders what time it is. 

***

 

Harry spends more and more of his time sleeping. He’s exhausted, although he’s not sure from what. He remembers feeling like this a lot as a child, before the letters came, before he learned he was a wizard and was moved into Dudley’s second bedroom. 

Sometimes he jerks awake to see Aunt Petunia’s face scowling down at him. He tries to talk to her a few times, to ask to be let out, but she only grabs the metal bucket from the corner, brushing off his grasping hands and slamming the door shut behind her. 

Harry’s nightmares worsen, and it begins to feel like he only has to close his eyes before he’s back in the graveyard, pressed up against the headstone with a splitting pain in his forehead and Cedric’s cold, white face staring up at him. 

His head hurts a lot, in the cupboard, especially when Aunt Petunia forgets to give him water. He remembers being struck by Uncle Vernon, and getting thrown into the wall, and sometimes he can’t quite recall what happened after that. 

Harry knows he’s not a freak, he knows he’s not a child, not small enough to get shoved into a cupboard and forgotten about. But the days continue to pass, and Harry begins to lose hope. 

***

Then a day comes where Harry is yanked out of the cupboard, his legs tingly and shaky on the wood floor, and someone is dragging him outside, and the sunlight is so bright that Harry whimpers, hiding his face in his hands. 

“Get in,” Aunt Petunia hisses, shoving Harry into the back seat of the car. Harry stumbles across the seat and she throws a blanket over him. He hears the car door slam shut. 

“Quiet,” Aunt Petunia hisses when Harry makes a dazed, confused sound. 

They drive for a long time. Harry is too weak to think about where they might be going. It takes enough of his energy just to keep from throwing up bile on the floor of the car. He doesn’t want to have to clean it up.

Aunt Petunia is muttering angrily to herself in the front seat. Every time she jerks the steering wheel, Harry’s head throbs. 

When the car finally rolls to a stop, Harry is shivering and sweating, his stomach flipping with discomfort, and when Aunt Petunia tugs him out of the car, he stumbles to the ground, scraping his hands and knees on dry dirt. 

She throws the blanket onto the ground next to him, along with a water bottle and a half of a ham sandwich. 

“Aunt… T… Tuney?” Harry mumbles deliriously, blinking up at his aunt through the harsh sunlight.

Aunt Petunia goes perfectly still. She stands for a moment like that, facing away from him, her back stiff. Harry tries to stand up from the ground but his head swims and he stumbles. He vomits into the dirt, his head swimming.

“If you’re lucky,” Aunt Petunia says coldly, still not looking at Harry, “you’ll die out here. Don’t come back. Don’t bother us anymore.” 

Harry stares at her uncomprehendingly. She stalks over to the car, gets in, and drives away.

Notes:

I know this is probably seeming pretty ooc for Harry... Just keep in mind he's dealing with a really serious concussion, and bear with me lol <3

Chapter 6: not a freak

He eats the ham sandwich in two bites, and throws it back up ten minutes later. It’s there, hunched over in the dirt, heaving up bile, that Harry registers what has happened. He crawls to the blanket and opens the water bottle, drinking most of it down and then setting it back on the ground. He picks up the blanket and wraps it over his head so that the sun won’t bother his eyes so much. 

Harry thinks that he should probably try to get some help. 

He blinks blearily at his surroundings. He’s in some kind of wood, with thick trees all around, and a hard, cold dirt beneath his bare knees. Harry crawls out of the sunlight and deeper into the trees, settling his back against a thick tree trunk. 

Harry has no idea where he is. He wonders if anyone saw Aunt Petunia leave the house with him. Professor Lupin mentioned something about wards, he knows that, but maybe they were only concerned about people trying to get inside the house, instead of people leaving the boundaries. 

If he had his wand, Harry could… 

He tries to think of what he would do. His thoughts are moving slowly, his brain sluggish, and his head is pounding. 

There’s the Knight bus, he knows, although it probably wouldn’t drive all the way to this forest. There’s not a paved road in sight, and he remembers the car bouncing around on gravel and dirt for a long time before they came to a stop. 

Hermione would know what to do. 

Harry blinks slowly and lays on his side next to the tree trunk. He pulls the blanket around himself. It’s one of Aunt Petunia’s knit blankets, the ones he’s not allowed to touch. He used to sneak into the living room and feel them with his fingers, press them to his cheeks, and imagine what it would be like to be a part of the family. To be loved. 

Hours pass, and then day turns to night, and the lazy heat turns to a cold chill that has Harry curling tightly around himself and hunching beneath the blanket. He slips in and out of consciousness. 

In the morning, when the haze of dawn is edging over the trees, Harry hears a soft, inquisitive hooting sound. He shifts and pulls himself into a seated position with some difficulty. He rubs his eyes and then squints them open to see Hedwig perched on a tree root beside him. 

She hoots again and hops closer.

“Hey girl,” Harry mumbles. She has a letter tied to one of her feet, with a slightly familiar penmanship on the envelope, but Harry’s eyes slide past it, uninterested. 

Hedwig hoots and flutters her wings, staring at Harry reproachfully. 

“I haven’t got a pen,” Harry says with a shrug. 

She clicks her beak at him. 

“I haven’t any treats, either,” he says. “I’m sorry.” 

The conversation tires him. He lays back down in the dirt, pulling Aunt Petunia’s blanket back around his shoulders. His eyes drift shut. 

Hedwig screeches angrily at him. 

“Come back later,” Harry says, his speech starting to slur. “I’m going to sleep now.” 

He’s nearly asleep when he feels the air shift from Hedwig lifting off. There’s a flutter of wings and feathers near his face and a pinch of pain on his scalp. 

“Hey,” he exclaims, jerking in surprise, raising a shaky hand to feel at his head. There’s a tender patch, and when he peers at Hedwig flying off into the distance, he spots a clump of his hair clutched in her talons. 

***

The next time Harry comes back to full consciousness, the sun is high in the sky and his mouth feels like sandpaper. He pushes into a seated position, and then climbs to his feet, leaning on the tree trunk for support. 

He can hear the faint babbling of a creek somewhere nearby, but until now hadn’t had the energy to seek it out. Harry knows that he needs water. Food, he’s used to going without. But he’s beginning to feel even more faint, and weak, barely able to hold himself up. 

Harry wonders briefly where Hedwig went. He’s not even sure how she found him. Although he remembers sending her all over the place to Sirius during fourth year, so maybe she’s used to it by now. 

The creek is further than it sounds. Harry has to take more and more breaks, pausing to lean on various trees and rocks and eventually having to take breaks to sit down, to take in gasping breaths of air. He stumbles and falls once, crying out when it puts a painful pressure on his sore wrist. He holds it cradled to his chest when he gets up and starts moving again. 

Late afternoon drifts to evening, which turns to night, and Harry finally makes it to the source of the babbling. It’s a very small creek. Harry stumbles to his knees beside it and scoops the water with his hands, drinking it down as fast as possible, water running down his neck and chest and making him shiver. 

He drinks until his stomach hurts and then finally stops. 

The sounds of the forest are all around him. Harry tries to look up to the sky, to look at the stars, but the trees are too thick. He stumbles away from the stream and tucks himself underneath a clump of large tree roots. 

***

Sometime later, when the sky is still dark and the creek is babbling quietly in the near distance, Harry is awoken by a sharp cracking sound and the rustling of robes. He jolts upright and winces when the sudden movement makes his head swim. 

“Idiot boy,” a familiar, oily voice hisses, much closer than Harry had anticipated. He cries out, startled, when he is grabbed roughly around the arm and yanked out from underneath the tree roots. 

Harry blinks away sleep and looks up into the white, furious face of Severus Snape. He gapes at his professor, his eyes widening in shock. 

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Snape sneers at Harry. His grip around Harry’s arm grows nearly painful.

“Snape?” Harry asks. 

“Your little disappearing act is over,” Snape says. “You’ve wasted enough of the Order’s time as it is.” 

“Disappearing…” 

Snape makes an exasperated sound. “Did you hit your head, Potter? I’m returning you to your relatives.” His grip on Harry’s arm tightens even further, like he’s preparing for something, but he pauses when Harry makes a panicked sound.

“No,” Harry says. He tries to tug himself out of Snape’s grasp. He can’t get his feet steady on the ground, and his head is still swimming, his hands shaking, and he feels like he might throw up all of the water he drank from the creek. 

“Quit squirming about,” Snape hisses at Harry, shaking him. 

“I can’t go back,” Harry protests.

Snape glowers at him, although his expression wavers. 

“You’ve nowhere else to go, Potter,” he says, deadpan. “The headmaster requires me to return you to Privet Drive.” 

Harry is humiliated to hear himself let out a dry, exhausted sob. Snape looks at him askance. Then he appears to do a slight double-take, and he looks Harry thoroughly up and down, lingering on his bare chest, his hollowed cheeks, wild eyes, and dirty feet. 

“I can’t go back there,” Harry repeats, his eyes darting about wildly, and he continues struggling to get out of Snape’s grasp. 

“You must,” Snape says. 

Harry shakes his head. “I can’t, I’m not—” he starts to tremble. “I’m not a freak. I’m not.”

He feels it the second Snape’s grip goes slack. He jerks his arm away and stumbles backward, sprawling on the ground, and then scrambles to his feet. He backs warily away from his professor. 

“Potter,” Snape says calmly.

Harry shudders. He takes another step back. “No.” 

“It is the only place for you,” Snape says. “Your mother’s—” 

Harry cuts him off with a harsh, sarcastic laugh. “Oh, right. My mother’s protection. How could I possibly forget?” 

“She gave her life for you,” Snape says through gritted teeth, a steely anger rising in his eyes. 

Harry flinches. “Don’t you think I know that?” He says, his throat feeling hoarse. His hands clench into fists. “She was my mother.” 

Snape’s face shutters. “Of course,” he says stiffly. 

Harry takes another step back. His eyes dart around the dark clearing for something, anything that might help him defend himself. There are only small rocks and twigs, scattered leaves, and the constant babbling of the creek behind him. He glances back up at Snape to see that the man has advanced a few steps toward him, and his wand has lowered down into his right hand. 

“Don’t,” Harry warns. He stumbles further backward, struggling to stay upright, his vision blackening at the edges. “Stay back.” 

“Potter, you must calm down and come with me—” 

“I’m not a FREAK,” Harry bellows. He steps further back and his foot catches on a rock. He tumbles backward and falls into the shallow creek. He catches himself on his sore wrist and hears a sickly cracking sound. Bile rises in his throat and he turns and vomits into the rushing water. 

He’s been vomiting a lot over the past few days. Harry wonders faintly if there’s something really wrong with him. His head hurts too much to really think about it.

Snape paces closer, his robes billowing in the soft breeze of the night. He stops on the bank of the creek. 

“You are clearly in no state to side-along,” he mutters. His eyes are dark and glittering in the moonlight as he stares down at Harry. 

Harry doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what ‘side-along’ means. He wipes his mouth and stares down into the water. He tries to crawl further back, to cross to the other side, but he just slumps further into the water. He gags and spits up more bile. 

“I can take you to headquarters,” Snape says evenly. “Your godfather will—” 

“No.” Harry shakes his head frantically. “No. I can’t, they’ll just send me back. I can’t go back.” 

“...Alright,” Snape says. His tone is careful.

“I can’t,” Harry says again. “I won’t .” His voice wavers. He feels his magic coursing around him wild and angry, and his hair crackles with energy, lifting and standing on end. The water in the creek lurches unevenly around him. 

Snape regards him for a long moment. 

“Well you certainly cannot stay out here,” he finally says. 

Harry shakes his head mulishly and doesn’t respond. The cold water has seeped into his boxers, and he’s beginning to shiver. He tucks his hurt wrist closer to his chest and tries to scoot further away from his professor. 

“Potter,” Snape says. He slowly stows his wand within the folds of his cloak. “I will make a deal with you.”

Harry laughs. His magic spikes again and Snape’s eyes widen.

“You will come with me—” 

“Absolutely not.” Harry shakes his head. 

“Listen to me, Potter. I will not force you to return home, nor to headquarters. In turn, however, you will allow me to tend to your wounds.” 

Harry crawls further back into the creek. The water comes up to his ribs. He tries to contain his chattering teeth in his response.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” 

“You must not remain in these woods, Potter. The continued exposure to the elements, as well as the possibility of the Dark Lord or his disciples happening upon you in this weakened state—” 

“I don’t care. Just leave me here. I can handle it,” Harry says. 

“No, Potter.” 

Harry shudders. “Please. I can’t…” 

Snape takes in a slow, steadying breath, and crouches on the bank, so he’s at eye-level. 

“Harry,” he says quietly. 

Harry stills, his whorling magic stuttering around him. He blinks up cautiously at his professor, who has just spoken his name for the first time in four years of schooling. 

“I will swear to you, on my magic, that I will not harm you. I will not inform anyone of your location.” 

Harry hesitates. His wrist throbs. 

“On your magic?” He repeats shakily. 

“Yes.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what that means,” Harry says. He scrubs at his face with his uninjured hand. The water is so cold, rushing around him. His feet are starting to go numb. He wonders, if he had the strength to stand and run away, if Snape would still go after him. 

“It is the best promise I can offer, other than an unbreakable vow,” Snape says simply. “It means I cannot go back on my word or I risk permanently losing my magic.”

“...Oh.” 

Snape shifts on his feet. He seems impatient, but his face is smooth as he watches Harry shivering in the creek. 

“Is that acceptable?” 

Harry thinks about it. “And you won’t… you won’t make me go back?” He checks. He sways in spot, his vision flickering again, and wonders faintly in the back of his head if this isn’t all just some kind of hyper-realistic dream. 

“I won’t make you go back,” Snape repeats. 

“Okay, erm… alright,” Harry says with a nod. He immediately feels an odd, tingling warm magic spread from the top of his head to his toes, calming his own. He blinks slowly and wavers as the frantic energy melts out of his body. He tries to stand up and then staggers back down, water splashing everywhere. 

“Potter,” Snape says sharply.

“I don’t… I don’t feel good,” Harry mumbles. He sees Snape start to move closer, but Harry’s eyes have already rolled back in his head, and he sinks down fully into the water as his consciousness fades to black.

Chapter 7: astute observations and interrogations

The room Harry wakes in is small, and sparsely furnished, with faded blue walls and a wooden desk beneath a large, yellowing window. He’s laid out on a mattress, a patched white quilt around his hips and a couple of pillows tucked behind his head. 

He tries to lift his right hand, and finds it wrapped in a splint.

There is an assortment of potions on the small nightstand beside the bed. Harry reads them one by one and furrows his brow. He picks up a hydration replenishment potion, feels the weight of it in his palm, and then sets it back down. Behind the potions are his glasses and he picks them up, settling them over his face and re-inspecting his surroundings with a closer eye. 

Harry’s wrist aches and his head is pounding something fierce, but he’s clean and dry, and he’s definitely not back on Privet Drive, at least as far as he can tell. He feels some of the uncertain anxiety in his chest ease slightly.

When the door to the room creaks open Harry scrambles out of the bed. He darts toward the window and raises his left arm out in front of himself in defence, wishing, for what is probably the hundredth time this summer, that he had his wand.

“Relax,” Snape’s dry voice floats over to him, and a few disjointed memories from the night before flood into Harry’s mind. He takes in a deep, shuddering breath and his shoulders drop. 

“Snape?” 

“Astute observation, Potter.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. But the sudden movement of jumping from the bed to the floor has left him feeling woozy, so he stumbles back to the bed, catching himself on the mattress. 

“What’s…” Harry blinks and shakes his head, wincing. “What’s going on? Where are we? How did you find me?” 

“Cease your movements,” Snape orders, sweeping further into the room with a swish of black robes. “You have a severe concussion, which has only partially healed.” 

“I’m fine,” Harry mumbles, his face feeling hot. He’s in a pair of striped pyjamas, definitely not his own, and he can feel thick wool socks on his feet. He squirms beneath the sheets and glances up at Snape. “What is this place?” 

“My home,” Snape says curtly. 

Harry’s eyes widen. “What?” 

“Is your hearing impaired?” Snape stalks over to the nightstand and sifts through the potion bottles. Three of them are pushed to the front. “Take these, immediately. And then you are going to answer my questions.” 

Harry stiffens. “No.” 

“Yes,” Snape hisses. He glares at Harry. “That was our agreement. I have been bound by my magic to follow it, as have you.” 

Harry squints up at his professor and wracks his brain, trying to remember all of the details of how they got here. He vaguely recalls the forest—the hard dirt beneath his hands and feet, the gnarled tree roots, the babbling brook, the blinding pain in his forehead, and the hot sizzling of angry magic along his skin—

“If you strain yourself by thinking too hard, you will only agitate your head wound further,” Snape says. He picks up one of the potions and thrusts it impatiently into Harry’s palm. 

Harry scowls at him in suspicion but finally uncaps the potion and swallows it. There is an instant relief of the pressure in his head, an easing of the pounding pain, and he sinks back into the sheets with a heavy sigh. 

“There you go, idiot boy. Not poison after all, is it?” 

“No…” Harry mumbles. He feels a wave of exhaustion, of thick sleepiness coming over him now that his head isn’t pulsing with pain. He feels another potion being shoved into his hand. 

“Drink.”

Harry forces his eyes open and struggles back to a seated position. Eyeing his professor reproachfully, he swallows the second potion, as well as the third that Snape forces on him. 

“Happy?” He glares at Snape. 

“Exuberant.” 

As the potions settle, Harry feels some of the hungering ache in his stomach, a constant over the past few months, start to dissipate. He slides back on the bed until his back is resting against the headboard. He struggles to keep his eyes open. 

“So, you’re not going to kill me, or send me back home… then what do you want?” Harry asks, squinting up at his professor.

“I want to know how you found yourself alone in that forest with hardly a stitch of clothing on you, a lump the size of an egg on the side of your head, and a wrist broken in two places.” 

Harry flinches. He tucks his right arm up to his chest protectively. 

“Potter,” Snape warns. 

“I don’t know,” Harry snaps. 

“I think you do,” Snape counters, moving closer. 

“That wasn’t part of our agreement, was it?” Harry fires back with a scowl. He scoots further up on the bed, distancing himself from his professor. “You didn’t mention anything about a bloody interrogation.” 

Snape appears infuriated for a brief moment, his face whitening, and then his expression clears. He squares his shoulders. 

“You are correct,” he says through gritted teeth.

Harry grins triumphantly. 

“However,” Snape intones with a dark look, “you promised that I could tend to your wounds. I can’t do this successfully without being informed of the full history of how they came to be.” 

Harry’s smirk slips off his face. 

“You must tell me, at the very least,” Snape presses, “the true severity of your head injury. When and how did it occur?” 

Harry hesitates. He looks down at the quilt, toying with a loose thread. He thinks back to that night in his room when Uncle Vernon discovered Hedwig’s escape. 

“Was it a result of the dementor attack?” Snape adds. “I was informed that Lupin provided you with medical care afterward. Were his actions not satisfactory as to—”

“No,” Harry interrupts Snape quickly, panicking. “No, he was—he gave me some bruise salve, for my—no, the head injury wasn’t until later. I think it was, erm…” Harry squeezes his eyes shut briefly and thinks. “About a week later.” 

“Bruise salve?” Snape repeats, raising one eyebrow. 

“Yes, the er… the dementor, well, it,” Harry gestures vaguely at his neck, mimes a choking motion, and shrugs.

“Succinct,” Snape says dryly. He moves closer and inspects Harry’s neck. “Well, it appears the werewolf managed to do one thing right.”

Harry scowls. 

“However, you mean to tell me that you sustained a severe head injury nearly two weeks ago, and you have not yet received any medical care from a qualified healer?” Snape sounds incredulous. 

“Well,” Harry hesitates. “I wouldn’t say severe , it’s… it’s not that bad, really.” 

Snape’s eyebrows rise even further. “Not that bad? Tell me, Potter. How hard did you hit your head? Did you lose consciousness?” 

Harry frowns. He doesn’t like to think about that night, because it usually makes his head hurt. His hand drifts unconsciously up and rubs at the spot on his skull where Uncle Vernon had hit him. He recalls a few brief moments of inky darkness, before coming back to himself sprawled on the ground, his uncle towering over him.

“Er… maybe? But it wasn’t—” 

“For how long?” 

Harry scowls at his professor. “How am I supposed to know? I was unconscious, wasn’t I? Anyway, I think it was just a few seconds, so it’s not—” 

“A few seconds, or a few minutes? Or was it longer? Think carefully, Potter.” Snape’s tone is sharp. Harry’s stomach twists and he avoids eye contact when he responds. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I think… I think just a moment or two. But… I can’t really remember exactly.” 

Harry waits to be reprimanded again, to be called stupid, but when he looks up, Snape is regarding him with an unreadable expression.

“That is why I am categorising it as severe,” he says quietly. “Especially if you are going to continue to refuse to tell me exactly how it happened.” 

Harry swallows with difficulty and nods. 

“Will you, at the very least, tell me what medical care you were given after the incident? If any? Did your muggle relatives not take you to the emergency room?” 

Harry blinks. He thinks briefly of the tight grip on his wrist, and how it felt to be dragged out of his bedroom and down the hallway, down the stairs and then forced into the cupboard. He can hardly picture it—he hadn’t had his glasses, and his memories of the experience are fuzzy. And after getting thrown in the cupboard, Harry’s memories get even more erratic and difficult to sort through. He’s still not even sure now how much time he spent locked in there before Aunt Petunia decided to abandon him in the forest. 

Harry clears his throat. “None,” he says, his voice small. 

Snape is silent for a long moment. “Very well,” he finally says. “Then I will assume it is a serious concussion, and will treat it as such. Another round of potions over the next few days should do it. Should you experience any more dizziness, nausea, headaches or other symptoms, you will inform me immediately.” 

“Okay, I will, sir,” Harry says quickly when he sees Snape’s dark, threatening expression. He’s hopeful that that’s the end of the uncomfortable questioning, and cringes when Snape ploughs right on to the next topic. 

 “And how do you explain your broken wrist?” 

Harry rubs the back of his neck nervously.. “Oh, right, that. I, erm, I fell?” 

“When did this occur, and what or who caused it?” 

Harry thinks of the first occurrence, when Uncle Vernon caught him listening to the radio and yanked him up to his bedroom by his wrist. It had cracked, the sound muffled beneath Harry’s panicked protests and Uncle Vernon’s shouting. Harry had known something was wrong, then, but he wasn’t sure how to fix it. And he was offered no reprieve from gardening, or housework, and so the pain in his wrist grew greater day by day. And then the dementors had come, and then Harry had set Hedwig free, and then… 

“I dunno, exactly,” Harry finally says. “I think, erm, I fell and hurt it a few days before the dementors came, when I was, er, doing… yard work.”

“Lupin did not cast a full diagnostic?” Snape sounds furious.

“I didn’t know it was broken,” Harry protests weakly. “And I couldn’t think straight, not after the dementors, I didn’t think to ask him—”

“That was not your responsibility.” Snape draws his wand angrily and Harry flinches. 

“It’s fine,” Harry says, cradling his arm closer to his chest. He half-turns away from Snape. “It barely hurts, honest.” 

“You will allow me to mend it, Potter.” 

Harry thinks wildly of the Quidditch match in second year, with the rogue bludger, when Professor Lockhart tried to fix his broken arm and instead removed all the bones in his hand. He glares mutinously at Snape and shakes his head. 

“No.”

“It must be done,” Snape says. “You agreed to this. I am going to mend your arm, and then you will have a glass of water, and then you may return to sleep and stop with your childish fussing.” 

“It’ll probably just heal on its own, anyway—” 

“Do not argue with me, Potter. You should feel fortunate that I did not simply mend it while you were unconscious.” Harry winces, but Snape continues on. “I deemed it more appropriate to wait until you regained full awareness, but if you do not cooperate with me, I will be forced to take more drastic measures.” 

Harry shudders, his body flooding with a fearful reluctance, but after a few moments he slowly extends his right arm out. Snape approaches and carefully removes the sling, holding Harry’s forearm and aiming his wand at the swollen part of Harry’s right wrist. 

“ Brackium Emendo. ”

A warm light darts from Snape’s wand into Harry’s skin, and the relief is immediate. Harry utters a soft, surprised huff of breath, and he slumps back into the bed, feeling weightless.

“Whoa. That feels loads better,” Harry mumbles, his eyes half-lidded. 

“I would imagine so,” is Snapes dry response. He conjures a glass of water and presses it to Harry’s hand. 

Harry latches onto the glass and drains it quickly, the water hitting his empty stomach and making it cramp slightly. He winces and then Snape directs him to lie back against the sheets. 

“Here,” his professor mutters, uncapping another potion when he notices Harry’s queasy look. “A stomach settler.” 

Harry drinks it without complaint. The moment the rolling in his stomach eases, he falls asleep.

Notes:

I used Brackium Emendo here because I liked the thought that Lockhart performed the charm incorrectly in the second book, and this time, Snape performs it correctly for Harry.

But I'm realizing that may have been wrong, and Brackium Emendum may have been the better option. So I may update it at some point but for now I'll leave it how it is :)

Either way, thanks for reading and I hope you guys enjoy this chapter :)

Chapter 8: whinging and moaning

When Harry was still small enough to fit on the child-sized mattress in the cupboard, young enough that he hadn’t started school or been given his glasses, he had yet to figure out his place in the hierarchy of the Dursley household. 

He would stand and press his face to the door, trying to peek through the slats, pleading to be let out to use the bathroom or have a snack or even just stretch his legs a bit. He didn’t understand why his aunt made him stay in the cupboard all the time while his cousin got to roam freely about the house. 

“Aunt Tuney, please,” Harry had cried out desperately one evening, at the end of a long day of isolation. His stomach had been positively aching with hunger for hours, and his eyes were swollen and stinging with tears. Aunt Petunia had been walking down the hallway and froze at Harry’s quiet plea. She had turned on her heel and turned her icy, furious gaze on the cupboard door. 

“What have I told you about calling me that?” She had hissed. 

“I’m… I’m sorry, Aunt Pet—Pet-uney…” 

“Petunia,” she had snapped sharply, and Harry had flinched. 

“Pet-unia,” he had repeated carefully, his voice small. “Could I come out now, please? I’ll be good. I won’t make a sound.” 

“Not now,” Aunt Petunia had said with a scowl. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“But I’m hungry, and—and I need to use the loo, please, and my stomach hurts again—” 

“Use the bucket,” Aunt Petunia had said dismissively, straightening back up and stalking down the hallway away from Harry. 

Harry doesn’t know why these memories are pushing to the forefront of his mind now. He has never liked to think of his childhood, and he has never remembered much of it anyway. It’s only now, with his most recent punishment fresh on his mind, that he finds himself trapped in the painful recollections of his younger self. 

He spends the first few fuzzy days in Snape’s house sleeping off his injuries, being startled awake at odd hours to his professor staring testily into his eyes and pouring some potion or other down his throat. 

He hardly has the energy to sit up, let alone form coherent responses to Snape’s queries, and often wakes in a cold sweat, chest heaving, eyes darting around in frantic confusion until he sees Snape’s black robes and sour expression and remembers that he is not five years old again, he is not locked in the cupboard, and he doesn’t have to ask permission to use the bathroom. 

He tries not to think about how it had felt to spend day after day in the cupboard, isolated in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of the Dursleys going on with their lives mere feet from him, not caring if he had eaten or drank that day or if he was even still alive. And this time Harry had known for sure that it was wrong, that he didn’t belong there, that a family who loved him would never subject him to that kind of treatment. But just like when he had been a small child, there was nothing he could do about it. 

In the mornings, when warm, soft sunlight filters in through the bedroom window and stretches across the room, warming Harry even through his quilt, he goes lax and soaks up the feeling, staring out at the blue sky and wondering how he could ever have begun to take something like this for granted. 

On one such morning, Snape sees Harry eyeing the window and stalks over to it, shoving the glass pane up and allowing fresh air inside, interrupting Harry’s peaceful sunbathing. Harry gapes at him in alarm.

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like? I am opening the window, Potter.” 

“Why?” 

Snape gives him an aggrieved look. “To let in the breeze, idiot boy. You’re stuffing up the room with all of your endless whinging and moaning. I can hardly breathe through it.” 

Harry scowls at Snape, offended. He crosses his arms across his chest. “I don’t whinge and moan.” 

Snape appears to narrowly resist the urge to roll his eyes. He leaves the window open and stalks over to the bedside, stacking new potions for Harry to take on the table. 

“You’re just going to leave it like that? Is it, erm… safe?” Harry asks, his tone unreadable. He glances toward the open window. 

Snape snorts. “Of course it's safe, Potter. For god’s sake, it’s only open a few inches. I don’t know why you are—” he cuts himself off abruptly and gives Harry an odd, calculating look. 

“It’s fine,” Harry says quickly. He doesn’t like the suddenly knowing look in his professor’s eye. 

“You may rest assured, Potter, that this house is secured against any and all threats, magical or otherwise,” Snape says, and Harry cringes, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment. 

“I know, I mean, er, I figured…” 

“Whether your window is open or closed, locked or unlocked, nothing will be able to get in or out of this house that you do not expressly allow,” Snape adds, ignoring Harry’s fumbling. “Additionally, I will remind you that there is no one else in the wizarding or muggle world that knows of your location at the present moment, aside from myself.” 

“Right,” Harry mutters. He rubs the back of his neck. 

“That being said, would you prefer the window to be open, or closed?” 

“You can leave it open,” Harry mumbles. 

Snape hums in assent and then points at the potions gathered on the nightstand, standing at Harry’s bedside and glaring at him threateningly until he’s consumed all of them in full. 

The potions always make Harry drowsy, and as he slips off into another dreamless snooze, he thinks he sees his professor walk over to the window and glance outside, casting a few spells under his breath that make the window pane shimmer.

Chapter 9: don't play with your food

The first time Harry is permitted to sleep through the night without interruption he wakes on his own anyway, his throat sore, voice hoarse from screaming. He jolts upright in bed and scrambles for his glasses, turns wild-eyed and panicked to find his professor standing over him in the dark room, his pale face shadowed by evening moonlight. 

Harry shoves his sweat-soaked blankets aside and stumbles out of the bed, tripping over his feet to the floor. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he rasps. He blinks away inky-black memories of the graveyard and the look on Wormtail’s face when he sacrificed his own hand into the bubbling, frothing cauldron.

Snape steps closer, lowering himself to Harry’s level, and the shadows on his face shift. He looks disturbed.

“Are you injured?” He asks, his voice rough with sleep.

Harry shakes his head rapidly. “No. No, I’m fine. Just a nightmare. I’m sorry I woke you, sir.”

Snape stares at him. 

Harry ducks his head, lowering his gaze, his chest heaving. The last time he woke the household with his nightmares, he was punished with a concussion and locked in his cupboard indefinitely. Harry doesn’t know what Snape is going to do to him, but he’s sure it won’t be pleasant—

“Would you like a vial of dreamless sleep?” 

Taken by surprise, Harry stares up at his professor in shock. “Er… sorry?”

“You are aware of the properties of the Dreamless Sleep potion, are you not?” Snape asks, sounding impatient. 

“Yes,” Harry says hesitantly. He remembers the first time he was given that potion. It was the close of the Triwizard Tournament, after the graveyard, when Barty Crouch Jr. had nearly killed Harry and—even after it was all over, when Harry was settled safely into the hospital wing and his wounds healed—he hadn’t been able to stop shivering.

“Potter,” Snape says quietly, jerking him out of a line of thought that would only lead him right into another nightmare. 

“Sorry, sir,” Harry mumbles, clambering up off the floor and back into bed. Snape flicks his wand and a lavender-coloured potion zooms into the room. He flicks his wand again, muttering something under his breath, and Harry feels all of the cold sweat disappear from his soaked pyjamas and bed sheets. He shivers and then burrows back underneath the faded white quilt. 

Snape holds the potion out in his palm, and Harry obediently takes it. Before he sinks back into a dreamless slumber, he thinks that he must imagine the lightest brush of a hand on his forehead, rubbing inquisitively over his inflamed scar. 

***

“Isn’t that stuff addictive?” Harry asks the following morning, after Snape has forced him to walk himself downstairs and ‘stop lazing about in bed like a spoiled prince.’ He pokes at the fried egg on his plate and watches the yolk break and spill over. 

“Do not play with your food,” Snape says brusquely. He ruffles the Daily Prophet and continues reading. 

“The dreamless sleep,” Harry prods. 

“Hardly,” Snape responds without looking up. “It is fine for the occasional small dose. It would take weeks or months of constant use before it may become a concern.” 

“Oh.” 

Harry drags the egg yolk around with the tins of his fork. 

“Potter.” Snape’s voice is dark with annoyance. 

Harry rolls his eyes, but ducks his head and forces a bit of egg and sausage into his mouth. 

“Is this really your house?” He asks, his mouth half-full of food, and he watches his professor’s lip curl at his lack of manners. 

“Indeed.” 

Harry looks around the small kitchen with renewed interest. It’s not much to look at—faded, peeling cupboards, chipped dishware, and a small window over the sink that is yellowed and cracked with age. 

“Eat,” Snape says, exasperated. 

Harry shovels another bite of food into his mouth and scowls at the table. 

It’s too much food for him to stomach. After weeks and months of surviving on nothing much more than a can of beans per day, Harry is unused to being offered regular meals. And now that he’s more alert and not sleeping the entire day away, Snape seems much more invested in his daily caloric intake. 

His stomach flips, his mouth flooding with nausea as he forces another bite of food down. Snape flips to a new page of the Daily Prophet, muttering something under his breath. 

Harry tears his toast into little pieces, shoving a few into his mouth and swallowing them down. He chases it with a gulp of pumpkin juice, but that only makes his stomach roil more. He stands suddenly from the table, pushing his chair back, and races for the bathroom. 

“Potter, where do you think you’re—” 

Harry misses the rest of Snape’s exclamation. He’s curled over the toilet, his hands trembling, and his chest heaving as he gags and vomits up the majority of his breakfast. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes and he hunches into himself when he hears his professor enter the bathroom behind him. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry croaks. 

“Are you ill?” Snape sounds aghast. 

“No, sir.” 

Snape waits silently as Harry gags again, shuddering, yellow bile splattering into the toilet. Harry wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and grits his teeth. 

“I’m fine,” he mutters, embarrassed. “I can… I can finish it.” 

Snape makes an incredulous sound as Harry pushes up from the floor and moves to exit the bathroom. He blocks Harry’s path. 

“Finish what? Your meal?” 

Harry squares his jaw and nods mutely, his eyes glassy. He rinses his mouth in the sink and thoroughly washes his hands.

“Absolutely not,” Snape says. 

Harry’s face crumples, and his shoulders slump. “Alright, then,” he mumbles, defeated. 

Snape seems confused. “Do you have a severe food allergy that I have not been made aware of?” 

“No,” Harry says. 

“Are you still feeling any pain or nausea from your concussion?”

“No, sir.” 

Snape stares at Harry, who leans against the bathroom counter and folds his arms defensively across his chest. 

“Am I in trouble?” Harry asks.

“No.” Snape pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am simply trying to ascertain the cause of this sudden illness.” 

“I’m not ill ,” Harry says, heat rising in his cheeks. “God, it’s not—it’s not a big deal. It was just… I just ate too much food. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll manage better next time.” 

Harry stares down at his socked feet in shame. Of course, now that he’s not being half starved to death, Harry would still mess things up for himself. 

“Why did you not simply stop eating once you were full?” Snape seems even more confused.

Harry shrugs and avoids his professor’s discerning gaze. “Dunno, sir. You said to eat. And I didn’t want it to go to waste.” 

He thinks of the weeks he spent with the Dursleys at the beginning of the summer—days spent with nothing more than a piece of bread, or a hard-boiled egg, days where all he was given were scraps from dinner, forced to go to bed hungry night after night while Dudley and Uncle Vernon gorged themselves. 

“I am not concerned with waste,” Snape snaps, frustrated, pulling Harry out of his morose thoughts. “You do not have to stuff yourself to the point of vomiting. From this moment on, I would prefer that you only eat when you are hungry. Is that clear?” 

“...Clear, sir,” Harry says slowly. 

“Now go and sit down before you vomit again,” says sharply, finally allowing Harry to exit the bathroom. “I will summon a stomach-settling potion.”

Chapter 10: a bit of gardening

Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself in Snape’s house. Once he’s healed enough to walk about, and he knows for certain that he is permitted to leave the small room on his own, he finds himself fidgeting, pacing, staring out the windows of the house nervously. He wishes that he had his wand. Or anything, really, to keep himself occupied. 

He at least has something to wear now other than his boxers, after the other morning when Snape looked at Harry over the daily paper and demanded to know why he was still parading about in his borrowed pyjamas. Now there is a small wooden chest in the spare bedroom pushed up against the foot of the bed, filled with a sparse variety of shirts and trousers and jumpers that must have belonged to his professor during his youth. 

They at least fit him, which is more than he could say for the holey, extra-large casts-offs of Dudley. But if Harry thinks too much about the fact that he is wearing a young-Snape’s clothing he starts to feel intensely uncomfortable, so he mainly prefers to pretend that he found the clothing in a local charity shop. 

Snape keeps to himself for the most part—especially after Harry no longer requires daily treatment for his concussion. The majority of their interactions are short and terse, awkward, with Harry refusing to share any details of his summer, and Snape mentioning nothing whatsoever about the Order or headquarters, no matter how much Harry prods. 

Harry is on his fifth lap around the house one morning, itching for something to do, when Snape sticks his head out of his laboratory and scowls at Harry. 

“Cease your infernal pacing,” he hisses. 

“I don’t—” Harry pauses, chagrined and annoyed. “What am I to do, then?” 

Snape rolls his eyes. “It does not matter to me, Potter. Simply find something to keep yourself busy.”

Harry wonders what sort of task Snape is expecting him to do. He could clean, but he’s been itching to get outside and stretch his legs. 

“Do you, erm… have a garden?” He asks awkwardly. 

“Of course,” Snape says. “Every self-respecting potions master has one.” He sneers at Harry, like he was somehow supposed to know that.

“Right,” Harry hedges, ignoring his professor’s hateful tone. He fiddles with his hands. “Okay, well, erm—I suppose… maybe I could work on that?” 

“I don’t particularly care,” Snape says again. He glances back into his laboratory. “If you venture outside, do not go past the fence, and do not destroy my herbs.” 

“Okay, but where do you keep all of your—” Harry is mid-request when Snape disappears back into the room, slamming the door shut with a sense of finality. 

Harry stares at the door for a moment and then shrugs. He heads to the back door of the house and pulls on his trainers. 

Snape’s backyard is decently-sized, and nearly overrun with a wild assortment of plants and trees that Harry doesn’t know the names of. He knows what a well-groomed garden should look like, though, and he can tell that many of the plants are overgrown and being smothered by weeds. 

Harry locates a small, dirty shed in the back of the yard and finds an old pair of garden gloves, a shovel, and some pruning shears. He gets to work. 

***

The sun is high in the sky when Harry takes his first break, sitting back on his heels and regarding his work. He’s only conquered one small area of the yard, but it is already looking much better. Harry grins. He brushes his hair out of his face, feeling dirt smear across his cheeks, and leans down to grab another handful of weeds.

He thinks about the small snake, his only friend at Privet Drive. He hopes it’s doing okay. He hopes that it listened to his advice and found another place to live that wasn’t so close to Uncle Vernon, who wouldn’t hesitate to smash it to bloody bits with a shovel, or Aunt Petunia, who would screech loud enough to wake the neighbourhood and then call for animal control. 

It is when the sun has nearly fallen below the horizon, and Harry is hunched over the back corner of the garden, wrestling with a particularly prickly shrub, that he hears the back door to the house slam open. 

Harry freezes and looks over his shoulder to see Snape striding toward him angrily. 

“What on earth are you doing?”

Harry scrambles to his feet, wiping his hands hastily on his trousers. 

“Erm… a bit of gardening?” He offers, confused. 

Snape’s eyes bug out at him. “Precisely long have you been out here, Potter?”

Harry shrugs. “We, er… we spoke this morning about it, didn’t we?” He meets his professor’s eyes tentatively. He’s not sure this time what he’s done wrong, but he can see that Snape’s face is paling, his hands clenching into fists. 

“This morning, that was—” Snape briefly closes his eyes and lets out an exasperated breath. “That was nearly twelve hours ago, Potter.” He rubs one hand over his forehead in consternation. 

“Yes,” Harry agrees hesitantly. “I’m sorry, I… have I done something wrong, sir? You said… you said to stay busy. To not bother you.” 

“That’s correct,” Snape says, his eyes closed, his hand still massaging at his temples. 

“I’ve been working on it all day,” Harry says, feeling a sense of unease wash over him. “I know it’s not done yet, but it’s quite… overgrown, and a lot of work…” 

“Idiot boy,” Snape mutters under his breath. He opens his eyes, drops his hand and regards Harry with a searching gaze. “It’s a wonder you don’t have heat stroke. What were you thinking, spending the entire day beneath the sun? Did you even come in for lunch?” 

“No,” Harry says earnestly. “I promise, I didn’t. I didn’t take any breaks. I didn’t go inside once, honest, sir.” 

Snape makes a strangled sound and steps toward Harry with his hand outstretched. Harry flinches backward and stumbles, falling over the hedge he had just been trimming. The sharp leaves prick through his clothes, giving him shallow scrapes along his skin. He catches himself hard on his newly-healed wrist and bites back a cry of pain. 

Snape curses and bends forward, yanking Harry up and out of the shrubbery. “Idiot boy,” he says again, brushing the sharp leaves off Harry’s clothes. He grips Harry firmly by the elbow of his left arm and tugs him back inside the house. 

Harry feels numb. He stumbles along behind his professor, his heart racing, and a bitter taste of iron in his mouth. His body stings all over with tiny cuts from the leaves, and his skin is tight with irritation from being out under the sun for hours without protection. His mouth is dry and he’s—he’s in trouble. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, but Snape is clearly furious and Harry is sure he’s going to have to spend the rest of the night scrubbing cauldrons, or chopping up potions ingredients, or some other utterly dull task that will make his arms ache. 

“Wait there, Potter.” Snape points toward the sitting room, his face a mask of frustration. “Remove your shirt and your trousers.” He stalks from the room in a whirl of black robes, leaving behind a lingering scent of freshly-cut rosemary. 

It takes Harry a moment to process the instructions, but once he does, a cold feeling washes over him. He begins to tremble all over. He carefully pulls his shirt over his head, wincing as it drags over the fresh scrapes. Then he undoes his belt, coiling it up and placing it on the ground. He steps out of his trousers easily and folds them neatly beside the belt. 

Then he kneels with his back to the doorway, folding his arms carefully in his lap.

It doesn’t take long for his professor to return. Harry hears the swishing of his robes, and he holds himself perfectly still. He fixes his eyes on the floor. 

“...Potter,” Snape says after a long silence.

“Yes, sir,” Harry responds. He tries to keep his voice level. 

“What are you doing?” 

“You told me to wait, sir,” Harry says. 

Snape is silent for another few minutes. The lack of response hikes Harry’s anxiety even higher and he hunches his shoulders slightly, waiting for hot, sharp pain to start crashing down on his shoulders at any moment. 

When his professor is still not saying anything, and hasn’t moved from his spot by the door, Harry begins to panic. 

“I assumed you wanted me on my knees, sir,” he says, “but I can stand against the wall, or lie over the ottoman, or, or—however you’d like, sir.” He chokes out the last words, his heart in his throat, but he keeps still, his eyes fixed on the ground. 

“And why on earth would you assume such a thing?” Snape asks. His voice is low, with a dangerous, silky quality to it that makes Harry’s heart stutter in fear. 

“I,” Harry hesitates and swallows thickly. “I don’t know, sir. You haven’t—you haven’t told me the rules. I’m sorry, sir.” 

Snape is quiet for another long stretch of time before he speaks again. 

“Have I, at any point, instructed you to kneel on the floor?” 

Harry cringes. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know your preferred form of punishment. You told me to remove my clothes, so I—erm, I just assumed you might want to use the belt.”

Snape inhales sharply. 

There begins to be a slow, building thrum of magic in the room, and it smells just like the magic that had melted over Harry in the river when they made their deal. 

Harry shudders when he feels Snape moving closer. The man walks around and kneels in front of Harry, gripping him firmly by the shoulders. 

“Look at me, Potter,” Snape orders. Harry jerks his head up, watery eyes meeting his professor’s. “Do you believe I’m going to strike you?” 

Harry flinches. “Whatever you think is best, sir.” 

Snape makes a tight, angry sound in his throat. “Have you forgotten our vow, in which I am bound by magic not to harm you?” 

Harry hesitates. 

“Furthermore,” Snape says, his expression darkening, “Do you really believe, even without the security of that promise, that I would ever lay hands on a child with intent to cause bodily harm?”

Harry knows that he should say no. 

His mouth forms the shape of the word, but he can’t quite force it past his lips. Despite the positive actions of his professor in recent days, Harry can’t help but think of all of their interactions over the years—all of the times Snape glared at Harry, or sneered, spoke to him contemptuously, given him poor marks for no discernable reason— 

He remembers when Malfoy cursed Hermione last year, her front teeth growing down past her jaw, and Snape had done nothing. No—he had done worse than nothing. 

“I see no difference.”

“I don’t…” Harry lowers his gaze to the floor again. He knows he should lie, but honesty bubbles up out of him. “I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” His throat tightens. 

Snape rears back as if stunned, and Harry cringes, barely resisting the urge to cower further into himself. 

“Get up,” Snape orders, his tone oddly thick. Harry scrambles off the floor. 

“Yes, sir,” he says.

“Come here,” Snape says, inclining his head toward the kitchen. There, Snape guides Harry to sit at the dining table. He sets down a tub of some kind of ointment on the table beside them, his wand, and a small bowl filled with warm water and a towel. 

He proceeds to pick up the towel, squeezing excess water out and carefully swiping at the fresh scrapes on Harry’s arms, back and legs from the shrub he fell into. Harry flinches at the first contact, and then relaxes at the feel of the warm washcloth gently cleaning his wounds. 

“You’ve irritated your skin,” Snape mutters, unscrewing the lid of the ointment. A pungent smell of coconut fills the room. 

He wants to protest, to argue that his bronzed skin can handle much more sun than what he suffered today, but the moment Snape begins applying the ointment, his eyes droop in relief and he slumps down in the chair. It’s cool, and it tingles lightly, and chases away the stinging irritation. 

Snape even rubs the ointment all over Harry’s face, moving carefully around his eyes and nose, and slathers it generously over the tops of his shoulders and the back of his neck.

Harry drifts into a stupor. His adrenaline rush from being caught outside and his mental preparation for a beating has left him feeling overwhelmed and exhausted. 

“I don’t understand,” he mumbles after Snape has finally finished his ministrations and is puttering around the kitchen. He slides a cold glass of water and bowl of potato soup in front of Harry and places a spoon in his hand. Harry nearly faints when he inhales the warm smell of garlic and onion. His mouth fills with saliva. 

“What is it that you do not understand?” 

“Why… why you’re doing all of this, sir.”

“We made a deal,” Snape reminds him. 

“I know, but…” Harry pauses. After a sharp look from Snape, he dips his spoon into the soup and swallows down a quick mouthful. “There must be plenty of ways around that deal. You can’t tell anyone where I am, but I bet you could let something slip, and they could make their own assumptions. So… why haven’t you?” 

Snape gestures impatiently toward the bowl of soup again, and Harry takes another bite, savouring the warm broth on his tongue while his professor answers. 

“The first thing you must understand is that—more so than the specific wording of a magical agreement—the intent behind the words is extremely important.” 

“The intent,” Harry repeats. 

“Yes,” Snape nods. “You were in a state of panic. Injured, and dehydrated, in shock. I made you a vow of trust. Of safety. There was no other way you would have agreed to come with me.” 

“Right…” Harry says slowly. 

Snape seems exasperated. He pushes Harry’s bowl of soup closer to him. “Therefore, were I to do anything to fracture that trust, even if it were not specifically mentioned in our agreement, that could be viewed as breaking my promise.” 

“Oh.” Harry mulls it over. He swallows another large spoonful of the soup. There are small, red potatoes floating in the broth, cut into quarters and they melt like butter on his tongue. 

“You allowed me to tend to your injuries, and bring you to my home,” Snape says, “and I reciprocated that trust by not informing anyone of your whereabouts, and not forcing you to change locations.” 

“And not hurting me,” Harry adds, and Snape sighs.

“Yes… and not hurting you.”

Harry grins, but then his expression falters, and he looks down at the table. 

“I still don’t understand,” he admits. “Why didn’t you just… I dunno, stun me, at the creek? You didn’t have to promise me anything. If it was Dumbledore’s orders—” 

“My direct orders were only to locate you, and ensure you were brought back to safety,” Snape says, firmly cutting off Harry’s line of thought. 

“Oh,” Harry says. “But you…” He trails off. 

“You were severely wounded, Potter. And nearly coming apart at the seams with wild, uncontrolled magic. One wrong move, and you might have performed accidental apparition, hurt yourself further, or destroyed the woods around us. I would have been a fool to attempt to force you back into an environment that may have caused your injuries in the first place. The best possible course of action was to secure your trust, curtail your magic, and then attempt to ascertain the details of your mistreatment.” 

Harry is stunned into silence, broken only by Snape’s continued insistence that he finish his soup. Finally, when his stomach is full and Snape has vanished the nearly-empty bowl, Harry wraps his hand around the glass of water, takes a small sip, and voices the most pressing question on his mind. 

“If all that matters is… my safety,” he starts, fidgeting slightly. “Then… why was I left at Privet Drive, after the dementor attack?” 

Snape’s expression darkens. “I do not know,” he answers. “We at the Order were only assured of your continued safety, and were not afforded details. It was understood to have been a fluke—an unfortunate accident. A mistake on the part of one Mundungus Fletcher, who was promptly removed from his post after the fact.” 

Harry nods. “That’s what they told me,” he says quietly, his lips turning down. “Professor Lupin and… Moody. They said the wards would be fixed, and that Privet Drive was still the safest place for me. But,” his brow furrows, “if there were wards already in the first place, I just don’t understand how a dementor could get into my room without—” 

Snape curses loudly, standing up from his seat, his face twisting in fury. Harry cringes back and nearly knocks his chair to the ground. 

“In your room,” Snape repeats incredulously. “Your bedroom ?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, suddenly feeling nervous again. 

“Dementors in Little Whinging, and nothing to stop them from entering a child’s bedroom in the dead of night, let alone the precious chosen one …” Snape fumes, and begins to pace around the kitchen. He whirls to face Harry, who tries not to flinch again. 

“Who was made aware of this? The werewolf? Moody?” 

“I don’t…” Harry hesitates. “I’m not sure, because… I think when they showed up, I was downstairs. I was trying to get my wand out of my—the cupboard, when one of the dementors… grabbed me.” Harry rubs his hand unconsciously around his neck. “I passed out, and when I woke up, professor Lupin and Moody had chased the dementors away.” 

“The dementors were in your house ,” Snape hisses, slamming his hand down hard on the kitchen counter. Harry jumps. His heart beats unevenly. “This is unconscionable. I had assumed the creatures made an appearance on the street, or perhaps in your yard. Rest assured you would not have been left there, had the entirety of the Order been made aware of the facts. Your godfather would never have permitted it.” 

Snape looks up and appears startled to see that Harry has left his seat and is pressed against the back wall of the kitchen, his face white with fear, and is subconsciously holding his right arm close to his chest. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry says quickly. His eyes dart to the side again, to the backdoor. His fingers twitch. 

“Why are you apologising?” Snape asks. The anger has bled from his voice and he sits, slowly and carefully, back in his chair. He watches as Harry’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. 

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, fidgeting, his pupils blown wide. “You’re… angry.” 

“Yes,” Snape agrees.

“It’s my fault,” Harry blurts out, his voice shaky. 

“Your fault,” Snape repeats. 

Harry nods. “If I had had my wand, I could have cast a patronus. I could have protected Uncle Vernon, and then he wouldn’t have…” 

Snape breathes in slowly, carefully. “And why, pray tell, did you not have your wand?”

Harry’s earnest, open expression immediately shutters. “I… dunno.”

Snape regards Harry curiously. “Well,” he finally says. “In any case, you can rest assured that I will not be returning you to the location of such an insidious attack. Nor will I permit anyone else to make that choice for you.” 

Harry’s shoulders slump, and he slides down the wall to sit cross-legged on the floor. 

“Okay. Thank you,” he says weakly.

“Do not thank me,” Snape says curtly. “I am only providing the modicum of safety and care that should have already been afforded to you.” 

Harry processes that and then nods slowly with a yawn.

“Finish your water and then go to bed, Potter,” Snape says. “We will discuss your gardening stint in the morning, as well as any other remaining concerns you may have with this living arrangement.”

Chapter 11: the pros and cons of cupboards

Notes:

I am completely blown away by the amount of positive feedback I've gotten already!!! I did not expect that so many people would enjoy this haha. I love reading all of the nice comments and it really motivates me to keep writing and updating! <3

They don’t discuss anything the next morning, because when Harry stumbles down the stairs for breakfast, yawning and rubbing his eyes behind his glasses, his professor is nowhere in sight. 

The house is empty, and silent. 

There is no food waiting on the table under a stasis charm,  and no note in perfunctory scribbled cursive informing Harry that Snape is working on a particularly tricky potion and that Harry should help himself to breakfast. 

Harry stands in the kitchen idly, looking around, and his stomach rumbles. He peeks into the pantry. There are a few packets of crisps, and a bag of potatoes, a container of uncooked rice, and an odd assortment of other food items, but Harry hesitates to touch any of it. 

He still hasn’t had the rules explained. And even if he were to sneak something, he hasn’t yet learned what items Snape is least likely to notice are missing.

When the Dursleys would go out of town and Mrs. Figg wasn’t available to watch him, Harry would sometimes spend hours or days at a time in his cupboard, pressing his fingers to the seams of the door and trying to pry it open. Summers were sweltering, winters painfully cold, and Harry never knew for sure when someone would be back to let him out. 

One day he had been weak with hunger, vision blackening around the edges, and he knew that if he could just get the door to the cupboard open, there was a half-eaten bag of crisps in the pantry that he could sneak a few bites from without anyone noticing. 

“Hullo?” He had murmured, his voice timid and raspy, his fingers raw and bleeding from tugging at the door frame. “Aunt? …Uncle? Is anyone out there?” 

His stomach had flipped again, gurgling oddly, and Harry had swallowed hard, straining to hear any other presence in the house. He had squeezed his eyes tightly shut and wished with all of his might that he didn’t have to be stuck alone in this cupboard. He wished that his hands were stronger, and that his legs wouldn’t shake, and that he was tall enough to reach the raspberry buns on the upper shelf of Aunt Petunia’s pantry. 

One of his wishes had, in fact, come true that day. Harry had opened his eyes a few moments later and somehow found himself on the other side of his cupboard door. 

Harry had known, even then, that this was another one of those unexplainable ‘freak’ accidents that always made his aunt so angry. When Harry had turned and seen the still-intact lock on the door, and tugged on it tentatively with his hand, he had known that he was going to be in trouble. 

So he had made sure it would be worth it. 

Harry had headed straight for the pantry and consumed a little bit of everything he could reach—crisps, and biscuits, handfuls of chocolate, Dudley’s favourite toffees—and found a pack of room-temperature water bottles that he tore into like a wild animal, drinking one so fast he spilled most of it down his front and onto the floor. 

Later on, when Harry’s stomach was uncomfortably full, he had finally gone back to his cupboard and leant his forehead against it. He knew that he needed to get back inside. He had thought that maybe he could do it, if he wished hard enough.

But the problem was, Harry had not wanted to go back into his cupboard. 

Even knowing the certainty of painful punishment waiting for him, Harry could not make himself wish hard enough to return to his confinement. He had tried and tried, dissolving into desperate tears, pounding his fists against the peeling wood, and still could not push his way back through. 

***

Harry squeezes his eyes shut in frustration and closes the pantry. 

He has to find a way to shake off this uneasy feeling. The more time he spends alone in Snape’s house, the more panicked he becomes, and the more likely he is to get himself in trouble. 

Under the kitchen sink is where he finds the perfect distraction—a bin of cleaning supplies. 

Harry’s nerves settle slightly as he pulls it out, slides on a pair of yellow rubber gloves and puts himself to work. 

After every surface in the kitchen is spotless and gleaming, even the fogged up window above the sink, Harry wipes the sweat from his forehead and drags the bin of cleaning supplies out into the hall. 

He scrubs every inch of the entryway—the wood floors, the walls, even dusting the old photographs and the odd assortment of umbrellas and canes. Then he hefts the cleaning supplies on his hip and carries them upstairs. 

The spare bedroom, the one Harry has been staying in since that first night, is the easiest to clean. There is not much in it besides the bed and the desk, so all he has to do is fluff up the quilt and scrub the window, opening it a crack to let in a fresh breeze. 

After a while of that, though, Harry begins to feel an uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck, and he’s afraid that if he looks away for even a second, the skeletal hand of a dementor will shove the window frame up and will be upon him again, choking the life out of Harry, sucking out his soul—

Harry slams the window shut. 

He cleans the bathroom beside his room thoroughly and then takes a quick shower, careful to not waste hot water. He scrubs himself clean and then gets dressed in one of the soft, worn sweaters from the wooden chest in his room, and a pair of denim shorts that have seen better days. 

After that, when Snape still hasn’t returned, Harry begins again to feel an itching, nervous restlessness prickling throughout his body. 

He thinks about going outside, maybe tending the garden some more, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed outside of the house when Snape isn’t there. He doesn’t know if he would even want to, not with the uneasy feeling in his stomach and the way his palms are sweating. 

Harry wonders if something happened to his professor. He supposes that Snape could be running errands, or completing a task for the Order… or maybe he just grew tired of looking after Harry. Maybe he decided to give up, to abandon Harry, to leave him all alone here in this empty house— 

Harry begins to pace. He walks all around the house silently in his socks, trailing his hands along the walls, staring at the faded, cracked photographs on the walls until he ends up back on the second floor. 

It’s been hours by now, and most of the day has passed in silence. 

Harry hunches his shoulders forward and starts to hear a fuzzy ringing in his ears. It’s too quiet, and he’s alone, and he’s too uncomfortable to eat, and he doesn’t know what to do.

But there is a small cupboard at the end of the hallway, just across from the room that must be Snape’s. 

Harry has inspected it a few times—it’s mostly empty, with a few higher shelves holding towels and other toiletries. It had initially been covered in a thick layer of dust, but Harry had passed over it in his cleaning frenzy and it was now perfectly clean and smelled faintly of lemons.

There is just enough room for Harry to crawl inside and shut the door behind him. He shrouds himself in comforting darkness. 

With the door closed, Harry removes himself from the oppressive silence of Snape’s home. He curls his legs up to his chest, rests his chin on his knees, and drifts. 

***

When Harry is yanked from the cupboard some undefined amount of time later, a firm arm around his elbow and warm daylight streaming in from the hall window, he is startled from his stupor and makes a sound of panic, ducking his head. 

The grip on his elbow lessens slightly. 

“M’sorry,” Harry mumbles. 

“What on earth are you doing in the cupboard?” 

Harry flinches again. He struggles against the grip on his arm. 

“I dunno, sir, I’m sorry—I’m sorry.” 

Snape lets go of Harry and Harry sinks to the floor, cowering against the wall. 

“Potter,” Snape says gently, and Harry stills. He squints up at his professor and some of the foggy confusion in his mind clears.

“You’re back,” Harry says. 

Snape’s face is grim and pale, and he looks exhausted, with deep circles under his eyes. “I am,” he says.

“You… you were gone,” Harry says, his tone accusatory.  

Snape’s face twists into a complicated expression. He crouches on the floor next to Harry, wincing at the movement. “I apologise,” he says quietly. “I was summoned by the Dark Lord.” 

Harry jerks up in surprise, his eyes widening. He glances at Snape’s arm, covered by his dark robes. 

“I could not delay,” Snape continues. “But I had hoped to return before morning.” 

“You…” Harry hesitates. He wraps his arms around his knees. He’s not sure what he wants to ask. He thinks of the graveyard, of Voldemort’s glowing red eyes, and he grimaces. 

“I did not betray your confidence,” Snape tells Harry. “The Dark Lord is an accomplished Legilimens, but I am a master of the art of Occlumency. My mind is an impenetrable fortress.” 

“Er… okay,” Harry says. 

He doesn’t know what either of those words mean, but he’s very glad to know that his professor hasn’t sold him out to Voldemort to be tortured and killed. 

Snape regards him for a long moment, his eyes sliding over to the open door of the cupboard. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then appears to change his mind at the last second. 

“It is nearing lunchtime,” he says instead. “Would you like a sandwich?” 

Harry’s mouth begins to salivate immediately. “Okay,” he says again. Snape holds out a hand, and Harry stares at it for a moment in confusion. Then he blinks and places his hand forward, allowing his professor to tug him to his feet. 

The sudden movement causes a sharp, pounding pain in his skull, and Harry all at once becomes aware of the unsteadiness of his limbs, a hungering ache in his throat, and a blanketing lightheadedness that chases all thought from his mind. 

“Potter—” Snape says, startled, as Harry tries to speak and then crumples to the ground, his vision whiting out.

Chapter 12: rules and qualms

Notes:

Double posting because I realized both of these chapters were pretty short haha.

Snape doesn’t make Harry a sandwich. He instead brings him a warm bowl of broth and a crust of bread, and only after Harry comes back into awareness and finds himself bundled up in bed with the white quilt. 

His head feels heavy, and his thoughts slow. He blinks up at the blurry image of his professor. Snape picks up Harry’s glasses and slides them on his nose. 

“...You’re back,” Harry says, his words slurred.

The corner of Snape’s mouth twitches. “Yes,” he says. 

Harry shifts on the bed and struggles to a seated position, pushing the quilt off and rubbing his eyes. He stares at his professor as hazy memories filter back through his brain, and he cringes. 

“What… what happened?”

“You collapsed,” Snape says. 

“Oh. Right.” Harry sits up further and glances out the window. “What, er… how long has it been?” 

“About twenty minutes. How are you feeling?” 

Harry rubs absently at his scar and shrugs. “Fine.” 

Snape regards him curiously. “I took the liberty of performing a brief scan of your vitals. You are severely dehydrated, and have not eaten for several hours. As we are currently residing in a home where you have access to ample sources of fresh, clean water and varied nourishment, would you care to explain your current condition?” 

Harry cringes, ducking his head. His cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Erm…”

“When was your last meal?” 

“It was, er, I think it was that bowl of soup, the other night, after yard work,” Harry admits. 

Snape stares at him. 

“An entire day has passed since then,” his professor says slowly, as if Harry is daft. 

Harry shrugs. 

“Explain your actions,” Snape orders. His eyes are steely, and it makes a spark of nervousness go down Harry’s spine. He fidgets on the bed. 

“I didn’t know what was allowed,” Harry finally says, seeming reluctant. 

“Allowed?”

“Well, you still haven’t given me any rules.” 

Snape looks at Harry aghast. “Rules? For what?” 

Harry frowns and avoids his professor’s eye. “I dunno what I’m supposed to do to earn my meals. You haven’t given me any assignments, besides yard work. I, erm, I cleaned as much as I could, while you were gone, but I wasn’t sure…” 

Snape makes a strangled sound and pinches the bridge of his nose in consternation. Harry shrinks into silence. 

“A child does not ‘earn their meals,’” Snape says icily. He picks up the crust of bread on the nightstand, pressing it into Harry’s hands. “You must eat when you are hungry, as I have said previously. At the very least, amounting to three square meals a day. Whether or not I am present. Is that clear?”

Harry stares at him, wide-eyed. “Clear,” he says. 

“Regarding other so-called ‘rules,’” Snape pauses, his mouth thinning. “I suppose it would be in our mutual benefit to establish a set of criteria for the unique situation we find ourselves in at the present moment.” 

Harry doesn’t know why Snape always talks like that. It’s hard to follow his meaning, sometimes. He wonders if his professor does it on purpose, to make people feel stupid, or if maybe he’s always talked like that, naturally, even as a child.

He tries to imagine Snape as a young boy his own age, saying the word ‘criteria,’ and snorts. 

Snape narrows his eyes. “Beyond the consumption of regular meals, I expect you to be in bed each evening by no later than nine o’clock. Likewise, I will expect you to be present for breakfast promptly at nine in the morning, whether or not you are hungry.” 

“Er… okay,” Harry says. 

“In addition, you will use your free time throughout the day to read, or complete your schoolwork, or to walk about in the garden. You will not ,” Snape amends quickly, “spend more than three hours outside per day. You will not perform more than one hour of housework per day, including yard work. Your outside privileges may be revoked if you disregard these rules. Do you understand?” 

Harry’s not sure that he does. He takes a bite from the thick hunk of bread Snape had handed to him, and his words are muffled when he responds. “I suppose so?” He squints at Snape. “But…” 

“Spit it out, boy,” Snape says, sounding annoyed, and Harry flinches. 

“I just… er, I haven’t my things with me. I can’t—my trunk, and my quills, my assignments are… with my relatives,” Harry explains lamely, his face colouring.  

Snape’s expression turns pensive. He taps on the steaming bowl of broth, and Harry reaches out, lifting it carefully to his lips and taking small sips. 

“Very well. I will return to the home of your relatives and retrieve your school things.” 

Harry freezes, and all of the colour seeps out of his face. He sets the bowl of broth back down on the nightstand and it nearly tips over.

“No,” he blurts out. 

Snape raises one eyebrow. “No?” 

Harry thinks wildly of what to say that will turn his professor away from the decision to visit Number 4 Privet Drive. 

“Erm… well, won’t someone see you? From the Order?” 

“Perhaps, but it is not likely,” Snape says. 

“Well, won’t that be suspicious?”

Snape regards him imperiously. “You must esteem my intelligence very little. I am aware of the circumstances surrounding your disappearance from home and the ensuing search. I am not incapable of wearing a disguise, as well as applying a disillusionment charm.” He scowls at Harry, who shrinks back apologetically.

“Oh.” 

“Indeed. I am also acquainted with the inner workings of the Order, as I myself am a member. I happen to know that they have removed the twenty-four hour watch on Privet Drive, as a result of your disappearance. I believe there are a few short check-ins throughout the day, but that is it. Efforts have been shifted towards search efforts for your location.” 

“Oh.” Harry reddens. 

He still doesn’t want his professor to visit the Dursleys, but he can’t think of any other excuse. And it would be nice to have his school things, and maybe be able to finish his summer assignments on time for once. 

“If you have no remaining qualms, then I will plan to visit your home tomorrow morning,” Snape says. 

Harry swallows nervously and nods. He makes to get out of the bed, and Snape whirls, pointing a threatening finger at him. 

“You will remain in bed until this evening,” he says to Harry. “Finish your food. I will fetch you this evening for supper.” 

Harry sighs. He sinks back under the quilt. He is feeling quite fatigued, although he doesn’t want to admit that to his professor. The cleaning frenzy, as well as the hours of gardening the day before, had had its toll on his body. His arms and legs are sore, and his skin is still tight and itchy from sun exposure. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Snape disappears from the room, and Harry listens to the faint sound of his professor walking down the stairs and entering his potions lab.

Chapter 13: your aunt's name is Petunia? (alt. forgive me, Lily)

The next morning, Harry wakes with a foreboding feeling in his stomach. 

Snape is sitting down at the kitchen table, the Daily Prophet held in his hands and a steaming cup of tea beside him. He raises an eyebrow at Harry and points at the plate of breakfast food across from him. 

“Morning,” Harry mumbles. He slides into his seat and picks up a piece of toast. There is a pot of strawberry jam in the centre of the table and pulls it toward himself, spreading a generous layer of it across the bread. 

The window above the kitchen sink is open and there is cool, morning air filtering in. It smells like summer, like freshly cut grass, like the soft shade beneath an oak tree. Harry closes his eyes while he chews.

Snape ruffles the newspaper and is staring at him with an odd look when Harry opens his eyes. 

“Eat,” Snape says, and Harry rolls his eyes, taking another bite of his toast. 

“I will be journeying to your relative’s home forthwith,” Snape continues. “What would you like me to retrieve?” 

Harry thinks about it, even as his stomach rolls with anxiety. He tries not to think about Uncle Vernon’s purple face, or the way Aunt Petunia had looked at Harry when she left him in the forest with nothing but a blanket and a ham sandwich. 

“Erm,” he says. “I dunno… my school things?” 

Snape looks cross. “Obviously. Anything else?” 

“My trunk should have most everything I need in it,” Harry says. “It should be in the, erm…”  

Harry is suddenly struck with the horrible thought that Aunt Petunia might have thrown away his trunk, just like she abandoned him in that forest. If she didn’t want to deal with him anymore, why would she have kept his things? 

He envisions her lugging the trunk into the backseat of her car and driving it to the local charity shop, dumping it all on the curb. Or worse—tossing everything into the rubbish bin, even his firebolt and his father’s cloak. 

Harry’s stomach drops and he suddenly feels a bit ill. 

“Well, it might not actually… be there,” he says evasively.

Snape raises an eyebrow. 

“I just,” Harry hesitates, “I think there’s a chance that Aunt Petunia might have… tossed some of it? After I, erm… ran away.” 

Snape’s face, which had been irritated at the start of Harry’s explanation, goes stark white at the mention of his aunt. 

“ What did you just say ?” 

Harry hesitates, feeling on guard at the sudden venom in his professor’s tone. “I just, erm, I said I think it might not be there—” 

“Your aunt's name is Petunia?” 

Harry pauses. “Er… yes?” 

Snape’s eyes narrow and he sets the newspaper down on the table, turning the entirety of his attention on Harry. 

“And this is the woman who has raised you since infancy?” 

“Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon,” Harry confirms. Snape’s sallow face pales even further and he seems incredulous. 

“Your mother’s sister,” he says slowly, and Harry nods again.

His professor stands up from the kitchen table and begins to pace. Harry grips the edge of the table and forces himself to remain calm. He’s not sure what’s got Snape so upset, but he tells himself that he hasn’t done anything wrong. 

Then he thinks harder about what Snape just said. 

“You… how did you know that—that she’s my mum’s sister?” 

Snape freezes. He stands perfectly still near the sink for a few moments, his back to Harry. He walks carefully back to the kitchen table and sinks into his chair, resting his face in his hands. 

“I believe the headmaster may have mentioned it,” he finally says. His tone is oddly tense, and his face is blank when he finally lowers his hands and looks at Harry. 

“Oh,” Harry says, blanching slightly. He has been avoiding thinking about Dumbledore, and still feels a flare of confusion and hurt every time he thinks about the kindly old man who had apparently thought it best to confine him to Privet Drive rather than bring him to headquarters with everyone else. 

“Yes,” Snape says. He taps his fingers on the table. “Nonetheless. Where will I find your school trunk and your other belongings?” 

Harry clears his throat and ducks his head. “The cupboard under the stairs,” he says. 

He has to hope that they will be there. If not, he doesn’t know what he will do. He has no idea how he would explain to his professor that his own family got rid of him and then, on top of that, disposed of his things like some kind of horrid crime scene clean up. He also has to hope that if Aunt Petunia and Snape come face to face, she will have the decency to at least not tell his professor the truth about how he came to be in those woods. 

Harry thinks he would rather die than have the head of Slytherin house, the man who has spent the last four years of schooling mocking and belittling him endlessly, to find out one more thing to add to his arsenal of insults. 

“That is all?” Snape sounds sceptical. 

Harry thinks harder. Uncle Vernon had confiscated his trunk the second he picked up Harry from King’s Cross, so he hadn’t even had a chance to unpack. All he had in his room was old clothes of Dudley’s, broken toys, and a few books. He’s sure by now Aunt Petunia has at least cleared that room and returned it to its former glory as Dudley’s second bedroom. 

“Oh,” he says suddenly, his eyes widening, and then he shuts his mouth, eyeing his professor nervously.

“Spit it out,” Snape says. His face is still oddly pale, his lips thin. His normal berating of Harry is lacking in energy, and his eyes are unreadable. “I don’t have all day.” 

“Well…” Harry hesitates. 

“ Yes? ” 

“There’s a, er, a garden snake, a little one, that likes to hang out in the yard.” Harry swallows nervously at the look on Snape’s face but ploughs on. “Can you just… if you see him, will you let me know? I’ve tried to get him to find a new home. My relatives… they, erm, they hate snakes. I’m worried…” Harry pauses. “I just want to know if he’s okay.” 

Snape’s expression is unreadable, but he nods. “Very well. I will perform a welfare check on this… garden snake.” 

Harry smiles broadly and sinks back into the kitchen chair, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Thank you, sir.” 

***

After watching Snape through the front window walk a short distance from the house and then apparate, Harry turns away from the window and regards the sitting room, rubbing idly at his wrist. 

The first thing he does is pull on his trainers and go outside, completing as much yard work as he can in the hour that Snape has allotted him. He wants to do more, but he wouldn’t put it past his professor to have set some kind of charm that tells him what Harry’s up to. He doesn’t want to get in trouble again, even if Snape promised he wouldn’t hurt him.

There are, after all, plenty of other ways to be punished. 

He walks back inside as the sun is still rising high in the sky, and gets himself a full glass of water from the sink. It’s then that he notices the array of potions on the counter with a scribbled note from Snape instructing Harry to consume all of them before lunch. 

Harry scowls at the first one he picks up. 

He doesn’t know why his professor keeps forcing him to down nutritional potions. He doesn’t like the way they taste, and it always makes his stomach feel uncomfortably full. Harry swallows it down anyway, along with another that makes his skin tingle warmly all over, and then one that clears even the faintest of headaches Harry hadn’t realised had been needling through his scar. 

He then wanders throughout the house aimlessly, trailing his fingers along the walls, up and down the bannister of the stairs, and refrains from cleaning. 

There is an overly-full bookshelf in the sitting room, and Harry finally considers himself bored enough to resort to reading. He snorts quietly at the thought, thinking fondly of Hermione, and then his smile fades at the thought of her and Ron together somewhere without him. 

One of the books is old and battered, barely held together by a peeling spine. Harry pulls it out and stares at it. 

“The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” he reads slowly. He opens to the first page.  

***

Severus does not know what to expect, standing on the porch of Petunia’s house. His knuckles rap smartly on the door for the third time with no response. There are no cars in the driveway, no hint of movement behind the white curtains, and so he mutters alohomora under his breath and lets himself in. 

The house is excruciatingly unremarkable. Severus glances around the sitting room, his lip curled in disdain. Decorative pillows and knitted blankets abound, along with tackily framed pictures all along the walls of a rotund boy who looks nothing like Potter.

In fact, there are no photos of Potter anywhere—not along the hallway, or above the mantle, or in the kitchen. 

Severus, beginning to feel slightly baffled, ventures to the second floor of the home. 

There is the master bedroom, clean and devoid of any personality, smelling faintly of lemons. Severus sneers at the pitiful collection of throw pillows. 

He continues on down the hallway, first finding himself looking into what is clearly the bedroom of a very spoiled young man. Severus’s first assumption is that the bedroom belongs to Potter, but no— 

There are the photos, again, more of the same plump child who has certainly never missed a meal in his life. Severus’s mind drifts to the near-skeletal, feral, wild-eyed child he had found alongside the creek that night. 

No, this room could not belong to the Potter boy. 

He drags his gaze away from the countless action figures, video games, broken toys, and empty candy wrappers scattered across the floor. He moves on to the second bedroom. 

Now this room—it has a strange feeling to it. Severus walks all the way inside this time. The space is practically empty. There is only a single bed in the centre of the room and a small side table, upon which there is a vase holding a single flower.

A lily. 

Severus inhales raggedly and staggers to the side, catching himself on peeling wallpaper. The room is perfectly clean, almost clinically so, and as he casts his eyes about looking for something, anything that would hint toward Potter’s presence, he finds nothing but a single white owl feather tucked far underneath the bed. 

He cannot linger in that room for long, not with the sweet, honey-like perfume of the Lily flower permeating through the air and making his heart clench. 

Severus makes his way back down the stairs and stands before the cupboard. He eyes it warily. There is a hefty padlock keeping it securely shut, which Severus easily dismantles with another alohomora . He wraps his hand around the small door knob and pulls.

He has to crouch down to get a decent look inside the space. It smells strongly of bleach, and lemons, and underneath all of that he picks up the faint scents of blood, sweat, and more disturbingly—urine. 

Severus stares into the contents of the cupboard for a long, heavy moment. His expression darkens, his eyes taking on a dangerous glint, and his hand tightens around the doorframe so much that the wood splits. 

He falls to his knees and runs his fingers along a dark red bloodstain on the floor. 

“Lily,” he murmurs, his voice shaking with disbelief and fury. “Lily, what have I done?”

*** 

Snape is gone longer than Harry anticipated. After he finishes the book of wizarding fairy tales, he yawns and puts it back on the shelf, looking for something else to read, but nothing catches his eye. He yawns again and wanders upstairs. 

Harry lingers by the cupboard across from Snape’s bedroom. 

Snape didn’t specifically tell Harry that he couldn’t go in there anymore, after all. He could just sit in there until Snape gets back. There would be no harm. 

Harry’s hand is nearly touching the door knob when he hears the front door downstairs open. He snatches his hand back and straightens up, heart racing, and rushes down toward his professor. 

“Potter,” Snape says curtly when he spots Harry. There’s an odd expression on his face. He seems angry—more so than Harry has ever seen him before. Harry shrinks slightly into himself, his eyes darting to the floor. 

“Hello, sir. I, erm… I’ve done my hour of housework, and I… er, I read a book,” Harry says nervously. 

Snape, standing stock still at the entryway of the house, stares at him for a long time without speaking. 

Harry shifts in place and rubs the back of his neck. “Erm, so… did you find my things?” 

“Yes, I did,” Snape replies, his voice perfectly even. He flicks his wand and Harry’s trunk comes flying out of Snape’s pocket, unshrinking and thumping to the ground. Harry lunges excitedly toward it and then freezes. He glances up at his professor. 

“Can I… er, well, are you going to—” he stares at the padlock on the trunk, and Snape copies him, glancing down. His hands curl into fists and his jaw clenches. A vein pulses in his forehead.

“Right,” Snape mutters. He flicks his wand again and the lock dissolves into dust. 

“Thank you, sir,” Harry says gratefully.

“Do not thank me,” Snape says stiffly. 

He is watching Harry again with dark, glinting eyes. After a moment he lifts his hand, holding his palm out expectantly, and Harry watches as the air ripples and the little garden snake shimmers into existence. It floats and twists languidly in the air, encased in some kind of protective bubble. It flicks its tongue out and turns to look at Harry. 

Oh, it's you, the snake hisses. 

Harry’s face breaks out into a relieved grin and he steps closer, not noticing Snape’s startled expression. 

Hello, Harry says. I was worried about you. 

Worried? The snake responds. Why?  

Harry pauses. He glances at Snape. 

I didn’t want the loud man to hurt you, Harry says. 

The snake hisses and flicks out its tongue again. He would not have. I am very sneaky. He could not catch me among the grass. 

Harry’s grin softens and he gazes at the snake fondly. 

Of course, he says. But I found a better place for you. Would you like to see it? There is a big garden, with lots of room to hunt and hide and sleep. 

The snake perks up. Show me, it hisses. 

Harry glances up at Snape again, feeling hesitant, and holds out his hand. His professor releases the snake from its bubble and it slides onto Harry’s palm, wrapping around his wrist and travelling up his arm. Harry hurries outside to the garden.

He takes the garden snake over to the small pond in the corner of the yard, beneath a large oak tree. He crouches in the grass and the snake slithers to the ground. 

What do you think? Harry asks. 

The snake tastes the air with its tongue. 

I must hunt, it hisses, before twisting around and disappearing into the hedges. Harry grins. 

“I had forgotten about your Parseltongue abilities,” Snape remarks from behind him, and Harry jumps.

“Oh,” He says, turning around and smiling sheepishly at his professor. “Yeah, erm… I don’t use it much.” 

Snape regards him a moment longer, his eyes flickering over the grass where the snake disappeared. 

“Harry…” he says, slow and careful, with an odd tension to his voice that makes Harry straighten up, looking at his professor in apprehension.

“Yes, sir?” 

Snape hesitates. “I… will prepare lunch,” he finally says, turning around and heading inside.

“...Okay,” Harry responds, bemused.

“You may remain outside with your snake in the meantime so long as you do not attempt any yard work.” 

Harry scowls at his professor’s retreating back and then sighs in defeat, slumping down in the grass.

Chapter 14: good nests, bad nests, and spilt tea

Notes:

For any returning readers---I added a very short Snape POV to the last chapter! You don't have to go back and read it if you don't want. I just wanted to give a little bit more insight to Snape's visit to Privet Drive. His voice doesn't come as easy to me so I kept it as brief as I could hahaha.

Again, apologies for the short-ish chapter but I should have another one up soon! Thanks for reading and I am loving all of the positive feedback <3

Lunch that afternoon begins as a quiet affair. Harry enjoys the mini sandwiches Snape makes, although he still struggles to eat more than a few. He washes it all down with tea and then darts a nervous look toward his professor, who has been acting strangely ever since he returned with Harry’s trunk.

“Very well,” Snape says, waving his wand, and the remaining sandwiches are wrapped up in cellophane and stored in the fridge. “If you find yourself hungry again before dinner, you may eat more sandwiches or help yourself to anything else in the fridge or pantry.” 

“Yes, sir,” Harry says. 

Snape stares at Harry again, his fingers tapping on the table. Harry tenses in his chair. He feels a sudden urge to flee, and his eyes dart toward the back door. 

“I did not have the chance to speak with your relatives during my visit,” Snape finally says. 

Harry’s shoulders sink in relief. “Oh, good.” 

“Their absence did, however,” Snape continues on, “give me an opportunity to inspect the household without interruption.” 

Harry stiffens. “Oh.” 

His hand tightens around the cup of tea on the table in front of him. He tries to take a sip, but the liquid is sloshing around too much. He sets it back down and the clink of it hitting the saucer is loud in the room. 

“Consequently… I have some concerns,” Snape says calmly.

Too calmly. 

Harry clenches his jaw tightly and then forces his eyes up to meet his professor. “Concerns, sir? About what?” 

“Potter—Harry. I think you are well aware.” 

Harry flinches. “No, no. I’m not,” he says harshly. 

He wraps his hand around the teacup again and silently wills the heat of the tea to calm his suddenly racing heartbeat. Harry wants his professor to stop talking. He had hoped that Snape would just retrieve his things and return with not a word about anything else he may have witnessed. 

Harry knows it can be done. He remembers when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley learned of the bars on his windows in second year. They had stared at him for a moment with worry-creased brows and then laughed it off, too distracted by their own children to follow up. He remembers going to Professor McGonagall at the end of first year and asking if he could stay at school for the summer instead of going home. 

“Whatever for, Potter?” She had said, giving him an incredulous look over her spectacles. “I’m sure you’re looking forward to returning home and spending some time with your family.” 

Harry had shrugged, his face reddening, and had stared at the plate of biscuits on her desk. “Not really,” he had admitted. 

When he had looked back up, his professor’s expression had morphed into something resembling pity. 

“Ah, that’s right,” she had hummed. “You aren’t very close with your relatives, are you? The… Dursleys?” 

“No,” Harry had said. “I don’t… I would much rather spend the summer here, professor. I wouldn’t get in the way—Hagrid said I could stay in his hut, and I can help him with his summer tasks, feeding the animals and such—” 

“I’m very sorry, Potter,” McGonagall had interrupted him gently. “Hogwarts is not open to students during the summer holiday.”

“Oh,” Harry had said. “I understand. Thank you anyway, professor.” 

But he hadn’t understood. Not at all.

When Snape begins speaking again, Harry is jerked harshly out of his memories and back into the present. The tea is still warm in his hand and he takes in a shaky breath, trying to stay calm. He focuses on what Snape is saying. 

“—foremost, regarding the cupboard under the stairs—” 

There is a sudden sharp, cracking sound. 

Harry stares down at the broken pieces of the teacup in his hand, bright red blood spurting from his palm, and warm tea spilling across the table and dripping onto his lap. 

 Snape swears and jumps out of his seat, vanishing the glass and the hot liquid and conjuring a bandage that wraps itself tightly around Harry’s stinging palm. Harry ducks his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, breathing harshly. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“It is alright.”

“I won’t do it again,” Harry persists, his hands beginning to shake. His pupils are blown wide, his face pale, his breath coming out ragged. 

Snape draws closer and Harry shudders. 

“You must calm down.” 

“You promised,” Harry says shakily, reminding himself of Snape’s vow. “You… you said I didn’t have to talk about anything unless it related to my health. I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“This is related to your health,” Snape responds. There is a dangerous look behind his eyes, a tension to his shoulders, and his jaw is set in a way that makes Harry nervous. “We must discuss it, Harry.” 

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head, beginning to feel like a cornered animal. He lowers his arm and glares at his professor, trying to keep his voice steady. “No, it’s not. It’s my business, it’s private, it doesn’t have anything to do with—” 

He jerks back in alarm when Snap grabs his forearm but the man doesn’t let go, tugging him forward and pointing his wand right at Harry’s palm, bright blood soaking through the hastily-applied bandage. 

“Episkey,” Snape murmurs, and then vanishes the bandage, only then relinquishing his grasp on Harry’s wrist. Harry yanks his hand back and stares suspiciously at his professor before inspecting his newly-healed palm. 

“It’s private,” Harry says again, his mouth set in an obstinate frown. 

“Harry,” Snape says. He sits back in his seat and drops his hands, like he is trying to appear as less of a threat. “I…can see that this line of conversation is causing you distress. I will not compel you to talk about it further today.”

Harry eyes him warily. “I’m not in distress,” he mutters.

“Be that as it may,” Snape responds, “The issue must be addressed at some point in the near future. It is not healthy for you to continue on in this fashion. You may have removed yourself from the harmful environment, but that does not mean that you have yet begun to fully process or heal.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry says, his voice cold and hard. He crosses his arms across his chest and glares at his professor. 

Snape sighs in consternation and stands up from the table. “Very well. Wash the blood from your hand, Harry. And now that you have full access to your things, I’d like you to spend the afternoon catching up on your schoolwork.”  

“Yes, sir,” Harry says immediately.

Snape sighs again. 

***

Harry doesn’t see the garden snake for a few days, but one morning he is out pulling weeds when it lifts its head up out of the grass, slithering toward him and up around his wrist. 

There you are, Harry says. 

This is a very good nest, the snake says. It twists its way up Harry’s arm to loop around his neck. 

Yes, I thought you would like it, Harry responds, pleased. 

It is good for you , the snake says. You do not smell like pain and sadness anymore.  

Oh, Harry says. He pauses amongst the weeds and glances back at Snape’s house. Really?  

Yes, the snake hisses back. It curls up tighter around Harry’s neck, but not enough to restrict his breathing. Harry reaches his hand up and pats absentmindedly at its scales.

Chapter 15: dream-visions and disappearing cupboards

The next time Snape is called away, Harry is given a more adequate warning. He’s curled up on a chair in the sitting room, re-reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard when Snape bustles in, his robes fluttering frantically and his face pale. 

Harry closes his book and sits up, immediately picking up on the tension emanating from his professor. “What is it, sir?” 

“The Dark Lord is calling me,” Snape says, his mouth thin. 

Harry stiffens. His grip on his book tightens and he swallows, a feeling of nervousness coming over him. “Oh.” 

“My presence will likely not be required for more than a few hours,” Snape goes on. He points at Harry. “You are to remain indoors until my return. You will eat dinner in an hour. There is leftover soup in the fridge, and bread in the pantry.” 

“Er—”

“You will spend the evening on your school work, or reading,” Snape continues. “You will retire to bed by nine o’clock, as agreed. If I have not yet returned in the morning, you will have breakfast and then continue to remain safely indoors.” 

“Okay, but I—” 

“If I find upon my return that you have left the house, even for a moment, I will not hesitate to have you spend the rest of your summer writing lines.” 

“But what if you don’t come back?” Harry blurts out, finally able to fit something in between Snape’s threats. His heart rate is picking up. He can hardly believe that he’s begun to prefer his professor’s presence. But—he hasn’t forgotten how it felt the last time Snape disappeared for a death eater meeting. 

Snape pauses and looks at Harry with an odd expression. “I will,” he finally says. 

“But what if you don’t?” Harry presses. He sets his book aside and turns to face his professor, stretching his socked feet down to rest on the floor. “I can’t—I don’t… What if they find out about me? The death eaters? What if someone—what if something—” 

He doesn’t realise he’s beginning to stutter, to nearly hyperventilate, until Snape is crouching on the rug in front of him and grasping him firmly by the shoulders. 

“Listen to me, Harry. The floo in my study is keyed into one location, and one location only—the headmaster’s office. It is untraceable. Should anything happen, or if my absence goes on for more than twenty-four hours, you can and should remove yourself to Hogwarts and then request to see your godfather. He is the only other adult, apart from Albus Dumbledore, who may have some sway in where you go from that point onward.” 

Harry doesn’t relax, and if anything, begins to feel even more uneasy. “But then what if… what if I can’t reach Sirius? What if they just send me back to the Dursleys? I don’t want—you promised—” he shudders, his eyes squeezing shut, and Snape shakes him slightly. 

“You must attempt to remain calm, Harry. This is the only course of action I can offer you that is in accordance with our vow. I cannot tell anyone of your presence here, nor can I forcibly remove you to another location,” Snape reminds him. 

“Yeah, but—” Harry trails off and sits there a moment, stumped. 

“Would you prefer to revise our terms?” Snape asks gently. 

“No,” Harry says immediately, shaking his head. “No, sir.” 

“Very well,” Snape says. “Then you will have to remain here, or you may travel to the headmaster’s office. Those are your options. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Harry says. 

And he does understand, this time. But that does not mean he has to like it. Harry draws his legs up to his chest, staring moodily at his professor. 

He doesn’t want the man to go. He wants to go back to his book of wizarding tales, and he wants to stay on the couch until dinner, and he wants to listen to his professor tinkering in his potions lab and making the house smell like rosemary and ginger.

Snape regards him for a moment longer. His hands are still resting firmly on Harry’s shoulders, and he fixes him with a regretful look.

“I would prefer to send you to the Order of the Phoenix,” he says. “But they are under the Fidelius charm and without the headmaster’s approval, I cannot reveal to you the location.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. “And that’s… that’s where Sirius is? And… everyone else, too?” 

“Yes,” Snape responds. 

“Oh…” Harry says again. His chest tightens, his brow furrowing at the confirmation, finally, that his friends have all been staying together since the beginning of summer. He still doesn’t understand why he couldn’t have just gone to stay with them. With wizards like Moody, and Professor Lupin, and Mr. Weasley, and Sirius—couldn’t they protect Harry just as well? 

Snape finally straightens up, fixing his cloak and regarding Harry with a reluctant expression. “I cannot delay the Dark Lord’s call any longer. Remember our vow, Harry. Rest assured that in the event I am detained longer than planned, and you find yourself at odds with the headmaster or anyone else, I will not hesitate to retrieve you from your relatives or anywhere else you may be sent upon my return.” 

“Oh. You mean you would… you would come and get me?” Harry says, his brow furrowing, and Snape seems exasperated.

“Of course, idiot boy.” His professor adjusts his robes and fixes Harry with a sharp look. “Do you think I would simply abandon you?” 

Harry presses his lips into a thin line, and doesn’t respond. He watches Snape turn and begin to pace toward the door.

“Regardless—I must go now, Harry. Unless you have any further reservations—”

Harry has a sudden thought and jumps to his feet, eyes widening, and then hesitates and begins to wring his hands. 

“What is it?” Snape asks impatiently. 

“Can I please—I mean, could I bring my, erm, the snake inside?” Harry asks in a rush of words. “Just while you’re…” 

Snape stares at him. 

“You’ve seen him, he’s small,” Harry says quickly, desperately, “and—and well-behaved, he won’t… he usually just stays close to me, or he hunts for mice—” 

“I do not care one way or the other,” Snape interjects. “Bring the snake indoors if you must. I trust you will keep each other out of trouble.” 

Harry gapes at him in surprise. “Really?” 

“Go and fetch him, now,” Snape says. “Then you will remain inside for the duration of my absence. Is this acceptable?” 

“Yes sir,” Harry calls over his shoulder as he rushes into the backyard. He finds the garden snake curled up and dozing beneath the oak tree. 

Do you want to come inside for a bit? He hisses hopefully. You can explore the house. There might be bugs or mice you could hunt. And you can see my nest. 

Harry means to say room, not nest, but he’s found that some words get twisted when he tries to speak them in Parseltongue. 

I would like to explore the odd-smelling man’s territory, the snake responds. He willingly slithers into Harry’s palm, and Harry rushes back inside just in time to see Snape walking out the door. 

“I will return as promptly as I am able,” Snape says before the door closes behind him. 

Harry stares at the door for a moment and then turns to his snake. 

Do you want to see the pantry? 

***

Harry still feels unsettled by the quiet oppressiveness of the empty house, although it helps to have the snake with him this time. He takes it on a tour around the house, eventually heading upstairs after eating a small dinner of leftover soup and crackers. 

They pass Snape’s room and Harry pauses. 

There is a smooth, blank spot on the wall where he could have sworn the towel cupboard had been. He touches the wall with his fingers. 

What is wrong? The snake hisses. 

Nothing, Harry says after a moment of hesitation, continuing on to the spare bedroom.

He wonders if this has something to do with Snape’s visit to Privet Drive. Harry remembers his professor attempting to speak with him about it. He wonders if maybe this is a punishment for Harry being unwilling to broach the subject. But—if it is a punishment, it seems odd. Wouldn’t it make more sense to punish Harry by locking him in the cupboard, not vanishing it? And if Snape ever does decide to lock Harry up, where will he put him?

Harry doesn’t know. He feels slightly uneasy, but he brushes the feeling off. He supposes he can ask his professor about it when he returns. 

And besides—Harry doesn’t need the cupboard, because he’s not alone this time. He has the snake with him, and he’s allowed to eat, and doesn’t have to clean, and Snape promised to come back. 

This is where I sleep, Harry says when they reach the spare bedroom, and he crouches down to let the snake slither off his hand and onto the floor. It goes right to his trunk and slips inside, investigating his school robes and homework papers. 

The rest of the evening is uneventful. After making a valiant effort on his potions essay, Harry slumps back in his bed, falling asleep atop his sheets, and the snake curls up on his chest. 

***

“You expect me to believe that you do not know where the boy is?”

“My lord—I am not always privy to the innermost workings of the order, and Dumbledore does not—”

“Crucio!"

Harry watches the sallow, pale-faced man writhe on the floor, screaming, his back bending unnaturally. 

He grins. Around him, Death Eaters shift uneasily.

“We were told he was staying with his muggle relatives for the summer, as he has done every year previously,” Severus pants when the curse is finally lifted. A dribble of spit falls from his mouth to the floor, and Harry chuckles cruelly. 

“You were misinformed,” Harry tells him, flicking his fingers and watching Severus cry out in pain. The man crawls forward, pressing his face to Harry’s robes. 

“Forgive me, my Lord,” he mutters. “Dumbledore believes the boy left of his own free will, independent of any adult intervention. The order does not at this time have any leads on his location. If we act quickly, we may be able to find him before they do—” 

“Crucio!” 

Severus twitches at Harry’s feet, his eyes glazed, his body limp when Harry gets bored and decides to lift the spell. 

“I am disappointed, Severus,” Harry says softly, crouching beside the pitiful man. He uses his wand to brush a strand of oily hair out of the man’s sweat-stained face. “What use do I have for you as my man on the inside, if Dumbledore does not even trust you?” 

“He does,” Severus says, shuddering with Cruciatus after-effects. “I promise you, my Lord. The moment he learns of the boy’s location, I am sure he will send me—” 

“Get out of my sight,” Harry says coldly. “Do not return to me until you have found a way to make yourself useful.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Severus says. He rises slowly, trembling on his feet, and exits the room. 

Harry sighs and turns his attention to the rest of the room. His eyes catch a flash of ashy blond hair and he grins. 

“Lucius,” he purrs, climbing out of his chair and striding over to the simpering man. “You have a son Harry’s age, do you not? What is his name?” 

“My lord,” Lucius stammers, appearing shocked. “Please, he is not—he is not close with Potter, he would not be an asset to you—” 

“Crucio!” 

Harry glares down at the man’s twitching form. 

“Answer me,” he commands. 

“Draco,” Lucius says weakly. “His name is Draco, my Lord.”

“Excellent. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Harry keeps his wand trained on Lucius. “Now, if the boy manages to escape notice for the rest of the summer, we must have a plan in place to remove him from Hogwarts. You will bring Draco to see me at our next meeting. I have an important task for him.” 

Lucius’s face, if possible, pales even further as he cowers on the floor. 

“A task? But—my Lord, please—he is only fifteen, surely you are not intending to give him—already—” 

Lucius cuts off as Harry blasts him with another Crucio. 

“You are forgetting your place, Lucius,” Harry says softly. “Who is your master?”

“You are, my Lord,” Lucius says quickly. 

“And do you not wish to serve me to the best of your abilities?” Harry purrs. 

“Yes, yes, of course, my Lord, anything, but Draco—” 

“Perfect,” Harry interrupts him with a savage grin. “Then do not disappoint me. Bring him to the next meeting.” 

“...Yes, my Lord.” 

Harry turns away. “Now—Yaxley. Tell me of your progress on the Department of Mysteries.” 

***

Harry wakes with a deep, shuddering gasp, jolting upright in bed and clutching at his heaving chest. His shirt is soaked in cold sweat, and his scar is aching enough to make his vision blurry. He stumbles out of bed and falls to his knees on the floor before pushing himself back up. 

The snake is somewhere beside him making concerned hissing noises, but Harry is too panicked to discern any words. His eyes dart around the room in a panic, and he presses his hand to his forehead. It feels unusually warm, and wet, and when he pulls his hand back, it is dripping with blood. 

“Shit,” Harry mutters. He makes his way to the door of his bedroom with difficulty, his legs shaking, his head pounding painfully with each step. 

He’s not sure what time it is, but there is cold moonlight coming in through the window, and the hallway is dark. The house is silent. 

Harry tries to remember the details of his dream. It’s hard, because each time he thinks of Snape, his body contorting on the floor, and the vicious pleasure that Harry had felt, his desire to hurt, to maim, to kill — 

Harry gags and staggers to the floor again, clapping his hands over his mouth, and is unable to stop himself from vomiting. 

He doesn’t know where Snape is. He doesn’t know if the dream was just that, a dream, or if it was real. The last time one of his dreams felt like this was before last year, when he dreamt of the old house and the muggle and Voldemort speaking with Wormtail and Barty Crouch Junior. 

And that had turned out to be real. 

Harry gags again and then pushes himself up against the wall. Something brushes against his ankle, and Harry glances down to see the snake coiling up around his leg. It hisses something at him, but Harry shakes his head, his mind reeling, and stumbles over to Snape’s bedroom. 

He needs to—needs to hide, to get somewhere safe, because what if Snape changed his mind? What if he decided to turn Harry in? What if the dream was a distraction, and the Death Eaters are coming to take him away?

Or—what if Snape is dead, and there is no one coming at all? 

But the cupboard in the hallway is gone. Harry presses his hand to the wall where it used to be. Another sharp stab of pain radiates through his scar, and Harry whimpers. 

He turns back to the door to Snape’s bedroom and wraps his hand around the doorknob. 

It’s unlocked. 

Harry lets himself in and reels around the room in a haze, his eyes glazed, and hesitates by the small bed. His eyes dart to the wardrobe in the corner and he stumbles over to it, throwing open the wooden doors and crawling in. He closes himself in darkness. 

***

Harry is unsure if it is minutes, or hours later, when he fades into a semi-awareness and registers the snake trying to speak to him again. 

Blood , the snake is saying. You smell like blood. And evil. Where is the man?  

Evil? Harry repeats numbly. The snake is wrapped around his wrist now, and it squeezes him lightly. 

What are we hiding from? The snake asks. 

Harry doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know. 

Your heart is beating very fast, the snake tells him. 

I’m sorry, Harry says. 

If the loud man attacks us, I will bite him.

Harry smiles faintly. It’s not him I’m worried about, he finally says, relaxing slightly, leaning his head against the wood of the wardrobe. Speaking with the snake is helping him out of his head a bit, and he becomes more aware of the tightness in his chest, his trembling limbs and his clothes soaked with sweat. 

What about the other man? The snake asks sometime later. It has slithered up his arm and is coiled around his neck. 

Harry hesitates. He thinks of the dream-vision again and winces.

I don’t know, he says.

I will bite him too, the snake announces. 

Harry is too exhausted to respond. He curls his knees up to his chest and closes his eyes.

Chapter 16: sorry my snake tried to kill you

When the door to the wardrobe creaks open, Harry jerks into awareness and hears a loud, furious hissing. Someone within the room makes a startled sound, and the hissing cuts off abruptly. 

Harry can’t quite see through the moth-bitten coats hanging around him. He shrinks back further and keeps his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. 

“Harry,” Snape’s voice cuts through his rising panic. His professor sounds weary, and his voice is rough. “Are you in there?” 

Harry keeps quiet. 

“Are you injured?” 

A long silence stretches between them. 

“Your snake is attempting to kill me,” Snape says. 

Harry twitches nervously and finally climbs out of the wardrobe. He spots the snake wrapped around Snape’s wrist, tiny fangs buried ferociously into his professor’s skin. 

Snape’s eyes widen. “Harry,” he says faintly. He lifts his other hand, the one not currently being mangled by the snake, and tries to come closer, but Harry flinches away. 

“Don’t… don’t touch me,” Harry stammers, his back knocking into the wardrobe. His eyes dart around the room. 

“What has happened?” Snape asks. His voice is soft and careful. 

Harry swallows thickly and shakes his head. He wraps his arms around himself. “You…” he shudders. “I saw…” 

Snape’s eyes widen even further. His hand twitches.

“You had a vision,” he says. 

Harry nods. 

“What did you see?” 

“I saw…” Harry closes his eyes. “I saw you, and—and, er… Mr. Malfoy, and—” his voice is trembling hard enough that it’s difficult to speak.

“Ah,” Snape says. 

“So are you going to… are you going to turn me in?” Harry asks weakly. 

“No,” Snape says, his response immediate. “I made you a vow.” 

Harry swallows again and nods. “But he hurt you,” he says shakily.

Snape sighs. “That is a common occurrence at these kinds of meetings,” he says, sounding resigned. “It is unfortunate that you had to bear witness.” 

Harry’s legs are trembling too much for him to remain standing. He sinks down to his knees, Snape watching him with his brow furrowed in concern. 

“I didn’t know if you would come back,” Harry says. 

Snape regards him through dark, unreadable eyes. “Then why did you not floo to the headmaster’s office for aid?”

Harry shrugs. “There wasn't… there wasn't time. I had to, erm,” he glances at the wardrobe and flushes. “What… what happened to the cupboard in the hallway, sir?” 

Snape looks at the wardrobe as well, and his countenance darkens. He looks back at Harry and seems to weigh his words for a moment. 

“I am sorry I did not warn you,” he finally says. “After what I witnessed at your relative’s house, I did not think it wise to keep an area like that accessible to you in this home. It is not healthy to be kept in a cupboard for hours at a time, Harry. I will not allow it, nor will I permit you to seclude yourself in one indefinitely each time I leave the house.” 

Harry gapes at him. “They didn’t—I wasn’t—” 

“You are bleeding,” Snape says, gently cutting him off. “And you appear to be in shock. We may resume this discussion of your cupboard at a later date, if you wish to.”

“I… I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“For now, will you curb the murderous desires of your snake, and allow me to tend to you?” 

Harry hesitates. He glances to the bedroom door behind his professor. Harry is still on his knees, and he doesn’t think he could make it around Snape and out of the room fast enough without his legs buckling. 

“Remember our vow,” Snape says quietly. “At all times, and above all other commands, whether from the Dark Lord or Albus Dumbledore, I prioritise your safety and wellbeing, Harry.” 

Harry nods jerkily. 

“Your snake, Harry,” Snape says, gesturing to his wrist with a wry look on his face.  

It’s okay, Harry hisses.

The snake immediately relinquishes his choking grip around Snape’s wrist and is lowered to the floor. He slithers over to Harry and curls up in his open palm. 

He would not dare to hurt you while I am here, the snake says smugly. 

Harry smiles. Thank you, he says to the snake. He looks back up at his professor. 

Snape holds out his hand to Harry. 

Harry takes it. 

***

Seated at the kitchen table downstairs, a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders and Snape dabbing Harry’s forehead with a warm towel, Harry feels himself beginning to come back to his senses. 

“I’m sorry he attacked you,” he says quietly, wincing when Snape pats a little too firmly over his scar and pain jerks through his forehead. 

Snape curses under his breath and sets the warm towel to the side. 

“Do not apologise,” he murmurs, sounding distracted. “The snake performed admirably. You were right to not lower your guard.” 

“Is your arm okay?” 

Snape doesn’t spare a glance at his own arm, bruised from the snake’s grip and with two swollen bite marks. 

“He is a common garden snake,” he says dismissively. “I am fine.” 

He waves his wand and a warm cup of tea floats toward Harry. Harry wraps his hands around the porcelain and the comforting warmth makes his eyes drift shut. 

“Have you had many visions like this, Harry?” Snape asks. 

Harry’s not sure when his professor began to regularly use his first name. It makes an odd feeling bloom in his chest each time. 

“No,” he says. “Not really. Just… the one, before fourth year.” He pauses and thinks. “I dunno. Sometimes…”

“Yes?” 

“There’s this… I’m not sure. Sometimes lately I dream of this long, dark corridor. I don’t recognize it. But… there’s a door at the end, and it’s locked, and I want so badly to get inside.” 

Snape has gone perfectly still. 

“I don’t know if it’s a vision,” Harry continues nervously. “I just… I don’t think it’s my own?” 

Snape’s face is unreadable when he raises the towel to dab at Harry’s forehead again.

“Do not let it concern you,” he finally says. 

Harry stares down at the snake now coiled safely around his own wrist. “Okay.” 

The man smells of fear, his snake hisses quietly. 

Harry frowns, but he knows how unsettled people are with his connection to Voldemort. And his scar is odd-looking enough on a normal day, even without blood oozing out of it.

“Is, erm. Is Malfoy okay?”

“Hm?” Snape says, wrapping a thick white gauze around Harry’s head. 

“In my vision, er—Voldemort,” Snape winces but Harry ploughs on, “he said he had a task for Malfoy. I mean, Draco.”

Snape’s brow furrows and he focuses on the gauze, ensuring that it is wrapped tightly over Harry’s scar. 

“I was not privy to that conversation,” he says quietly. “But you should not concern yourself with it. Draco’s mother loves him quite fiercely and I doubt she would allow any harm to befall him.” 

Harry thinks about that. He wonders how much Malfoy’s parents could really love him, if they decided to get involved with Voldemort in the first place. But he supposes maybe they didn’t understand, at first, how much danger they would be in. Maybe they had no other choice.

He doesn't realise he’s still shivering until Snape adjusts the blanket around his shoulders. 

“Your scar has not yet ceased bleeding,” Snape says. “But, fortunately, it has slowed. The gauze is charmed to absorb any excess blood and keep the site clean. We will check on it in the morning.” 

Harry glances out the window to see that it’s still dark outside. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Snape helps him out of his chair but Harry stumbles, clinging to Snape’s robe, his head spinning. He clutches at this forehead and winces. 

“Do not touch it,” Snape admonishes, pulling Harry’s hand away from his head, and Harry flinches back, nearly falling again. His teeth start to chatter. 

“I’m s… I’m sorry, sir,” he says. He is still feeling cold, even with the heavy blanket wrapped around him.

“It’s alright, Harry. I will help you back up to your room. You need rest.” 

“I’m not—I’m not tired,” Harry says stubbornly. He leans heavily on Snape, not reacting when the man wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulders. 

“Then we will sit down, and you may read until it is time for breakfast,” Snape suggests, steering Harry toward the sitting room. Harry blinks and finds himself swaddled in a mass of blankets on the couch, his snake curled around his neck, and the book of wizarding tales is placed in his hands. He is still shivering. 

“I will make more tea,” Snape mutters, and makes as if to leave the room, but Harry drops his book and grabs the sleeve of Snape’s robe. 

Snape turns and raises an eyebrow. 

Harry’s eyes dart around the room. His fingers curl around the fabric and his face flushes. “Don’t…” he hesitates. 

Snape’s expression softens minutely. He sits down on the edge of the couch beside Harry. 

“The Dark Lord will not call for me again tonight,” he says. 

“Are you… sure?” Harry asks, swaying slightly in his spot. More shivers wrack his frame and Snape frowns. 

“I am sure,” he says. “You will not be left alone again.” 

Harry nods, but when Snape moves to get up again, Harry makes a muted sound, tightening his grip on the man’s robe. 

“Try to read something, Harry. It will help you calm down.” Snape picks up the abandoned book from the floor and places it in Harry’s lap. Harry tries to pick it up, but his hands are shaking too badly. 

“I don’t… I can’t…” he wavers helplessly, his eyes flooding with frustrated, fearful tears. His hand is still woven tightly around Snape’s cloak. The snake lifts its head and hisses a warning at Snape. 

Snape appears torn. He stares at Harry, his eyes critically inspecting the gauze around his forehead, and then sighs. He picks up the book.

“I have seen you reading this book many times,” he says. “Which tale is your favourite?” 

“I like the… three brothers,” Harry forces through still-chattering teeth. “The, erm… the cloak is cool. Reminds me of my dad’s.” 

Snape resists the urge to scowl at the mention of his childhood nemesis. “Very well.” He flips to the correct page in the book and begins to read. 

“Three brothers, travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight reached a deep treacherous river where anyone who attempted to swim or wade would drown. Learned in the magical arts, the brothers conjured a bridge with their wands and proceeded to cross. Halfway through the bridge, a hooded figure stood before them.”

Harry has read the story so many times by now that he doesn’t really have to pay much attention. The sound of Snape’s voice curls around the room, chasing away Harry’s fearful thoughts and making the tightness in his chest ease slightly. 

He doesn’t realise he’s shuffling closer and closer, his head drooping with exhaustion, until in his fuzzy state he leans it tentatively on Snape’s shoulder.

The reading pauses, and the room goes sharply silent for a moment but for the sound of Harry’s chattering teeth. 

Snape takes in a slow, careful breath and then continues to read, his voice sounding slightly strangled. 

Harry’s eyes drift shut and, after a while, the sound of Snape’s voice and the shuffling of pages fades into the background and he sinks into a heavy sleep. 

He doesn’t feel the light brush of a hand running through his tangled, sweat-soaked curls, or another blanket being layered atop his shivering form. He only curls unconsciously closer to his professor, one hand still gripping tightly to the fabric of his cloak.

Chapter 17: an unexpected guest

Notes:

I really struggled with this chapter. I was moments from posting it yesterday and then realized I hated it and had to go back and do a ton of editing haha. But yay, exciting new plot development! I'm really looking forward to the next few chapters.

Thank you again for all of the kind comments and feedback! :)

Harry wakes to bright, warm sunlight streaming in through the drapes, and the soft hum of his professor’s voice floating out of the study. He struggles out of his blankets and climbs to his feet, scratching absently at his forehead and making contact with the bandage from the night before. 

His scar throbs faintly. Harry frowns and scratches it some more. The bandage tears and he swears under his breath, pressing his palm hard to his forehead and trying to force the wrappings back into place.

His hand comes away bloodied.

Harry winces and hopes that Snape won’t be mad when he sees it. He thinks that perhaps he could unwrap the whole thing and then quickly clean his forehead in the sink, and then he could attempt to replicate Snape’s charm from the night before, although he doesn’t remember hearing any sort of incantation. 

There is a box of first-aid supplies underneath the bathroom sink upstairs, though, and Harry certainly knows his way around one of those.

Harry is wavering anxiously near the couch, deliberating on options and considering chugging the lukewarm cup of tea on the side table, when he registers his professor’s voice again coming out of the study. 

“—no, I cannot,” Snape says, the low hum of his words near unintelligible from Harry’s distance.

Harry freezes in alarm. It sounds as if his professor is… having a conversation with someone?

Who could it be? 

He had thought that Snape wasn’t allowing anyone else into the house—especially not after the Death Eater meeting Harry witnessed last night. He supposes it could be Dumbledore, although that doesn’t make him feel much better. 

Making a quick decision, Harry abandons his bleeding forehead and creeps closer to the study, taking extra care to avoid the creaky floorboards. 

There is first, the soft crackling of coals and the shifting of logs, and then Harry slowly begins to make out the other person’s voice. It is feminine but harsh, scratchy, as if filtered through the crumbling embers of a fire. 

Harry realises then, with great relief, that his professor must simply be speaking with someone through the floo.  

He remembers those late nights during the Triwizard Tournament, when he would speak with Sirius about the tasks and his godfather would give him helpful advice and lend a listening ear. Harry’s heart would leap when his godfather’s face would shove into place amongst the crackling logs in the fireplace. It was one of the only bright spots in Harry’s life during that time, when Ron had turned his back on Harry and the rest of the school thought him a cheat. 

Harry’s heart aches terribly for a moment and then he forces himself to focus back on Snape’s conversation. 

“Absolutely not, Cissa. You do not understand the magnitude of what you are asking me,” Snape says in a low, furious tone. “My circumstances at the present moment make it impossible to—” 

Harry presses himself to the wall and strains his ears to pick up the other side of the quiet argument. He carefully shifts a few feet closer to the door.

“I understand,” Snape is saying. “But you must—”

“The Dark Lord has asked for him,” the woman says, cutting Snape off, her voice suddenly wavering. “ By name. He has a task for him. Do you not understand what this means for Draco?” 

Harry jerks in surprise. Malfoy?

“I understand,” Snape says again, sounding extremely weary, “and I am astonished that the Dark Lord is thinking of marking Draco before he reaches his majority.”

Harry feels cold all over as he processes the words. 

He’s wondered before how it might feel—to have Voldemort press the cursed ink right into your skin. To know that you would have to serve him for the rest of your life. Harry wonders if it hurts terribly. He still remembers how it felt in the graveyard, after all, when Wormtail had sliced through the skin of his forearm with that knife.

Harry still has the scar. He looks down at his arm, tilting it into the light, and traces his fingers over the jagged, upraised wound. Madame Pomphrey had done her best, but, according to her, cursed wounds never heal right.

“It will scar,” she had warned him. 

Harry hadn’t responded. He had still been trembling violently with Cruciatus aftereffects, and he could think of nothing but Voldemort’s cold, pale body rising up out of the cauldron. 

He is thinking of it even now, with his back pressed against the wall and his ears straining to overhear Snape’s private conversation. Harry grits his teeth and forces himself back into the present. 

“—nonetheless, you cannot ask this of me,” Snape continues on, still unaware of Harry’s presence in the hall. “My proximity to the Dark Lord, as well as Albus Dumbledore, is too close. Neither of them trust me well enough to consider—”

“There is nowhere else for him to go,” the woman hisses, sounding anguished. 

Snape makes a frustrated sound. Harry pictures him man rubbing his temples, or perhaps pinching the bridge of his nose. Or if he’s feeling particularly vexed, Harry has noticed that he will fold his arms across his chest, tapping two fingers on the opposite arm, and a certain muscle in his jaw will pulse.

“Why do the three of you not simply flee the country?” Snape asks. “I know of your property in France. I know you have connections in Germany.” 

“It is not that simple,” the woman says sharply. “Lucius and I are attempting to secure safe passage to Germany, but we cannot access our vaults without alerting the Dark Lord. And I do not wish to pull Draco from Hogwarts. It is the only place that I am certain the Dark Lord will not breach.”

Snape is silent for another long moment, and the only sounds Harry picks up are the soft cracklings of the fire.

“Please, Severus,” the woman says, her voice rising in desperation. “I trust you. You’re the only one I know who will keep him safe while Lucius and I attempt to secure a safe house out of the country, and I do not know how long that will take, or if the Dark Lord will apprehend us before we are able. You’re his godfather. Can you not do this for him?” 

Harry, beginning to feel antsy, and uneasy at the topic of conversation, shifts in place. The floorboards beneath his feet betray him with a loud creak. 

Snape curses. 

“You assured me that you were alone. Who is there with you?” The woman asks sharply.

Harry panics. He presses himself even closer to the wall and holds perfectly still. 

“Give me a moment, Cissa.” 

Harry looks wildly around the hallway for an escape route. He could run upstairs, or to the kitchen and out the back door. But his wand is somewhere in the sitting room, abandoned in Harry’s eager haste to eavesdrop. He is frozen midst-panic when Snape walks out of the study, secures the door, and then turns an arching stare on him. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry blurts out, his eyes wide. “I didn’t…” 

“You are awake sooner than I expected,” Snape says. His eyes trail over Harry’s face and immediately focus on his mangled bandage. Snape’s face darkens and he takes out his wand.

Harry cringes and stumbles backward a few steps. “I didn’t mean to,” he says. “It was just itchy, I, I’m sorry…” 

“Hold still,” Snape says. He grasps Harry by the elbow and tugs him closer, pointing his wand at Harry’s forehead. Harry closes his eyes. There is a soft, cooling sensation, the pain in his scar ebbs slightly, and he feels the bandage rewrap itself around his head. 

“Does that feel better?” 

“Erm… yes,” Harry says, feeling uncertain. He presses his fingers to the fresh bandage and Snape tuts, pushing Harry’s hand away. 

“Do not fuss with it,” his professor says. 

“I wasn’t,” Harry says. His hand goes up again to his hair instead, nervously flattening his fringe.

Snape eyes him wryly. 

Harry’s eyes dart toward the study again, and he opens his mouth to ask a question, but his professor beats him to the punch.

“Have you had any additional visions this morning?”

“No,” Harry says. “I slept fine, just…” he hesitates. 

“What is it?”

“Well I just erm, I dreamt of that door again,” he finishes lamely, pushing his socked foot along the wooden floor. He glances up at his professor. “Is that bad?” 

“It is fine,” Snape responds, although his mouth has pressed into a thin line, and his brow is furrowed. “Do not dwell on it.”

Harry shrugs, although a feeling of unease worms its way through his stomach. “Okay,” he says. He glances toward the study again. “Who were you talking to in there, sir?” 

Snape closes his eyes for a moment. “A close acquaintance of mine,” he finally says. “Narcissa Malfoy.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He supposes that makes sense, considering the voice had sounded female, and she had mentioned the names Draco and Lucius. “But erm… I thought your chimney was, er, not open to anywhere except Dumbledore’s office?” 

“ Professor Dumbledore, Harry,” Snape says, “and yes, that is correct. We are able to enter his office through this floo at any time, although he is not permitted the same level of access on his end.”

“Oh,” Harry says again, feeling mildly relieved. 

He’s not quite sure what he had been picturing—something like Dumbledore stepping calmly through the floo and spotting Harry, and immediately dragging him back to the Dursleys.

Harry shudders. 

“As such, I may also approve fire-calls on a case by case basis,” Snape adds, adjusting his robes and stowing his wand. “She sent an owl to ask permission this morning and I granted it.” 

“So… she can’t come all the way through, then?” 

Harry pictures another scene this time—Lucius Malfoy stepping through the roaring flames, his icy glare fixed on Harry, gloved hand raising a threatening wand. The man had been ready to kill Harry over a house-elf back in second year, after all. And he had stood there in the graveyard, silently, his eyes cold and sharp through the Death Eater mask, watching on as Harry endured the Cruciatus. 

“No, she cannot,” Snape says with a nod. His eyes are gentle on Harry, as if he has some idea of what Harry is thinking.

Behind them in the enclosed study, the fire crackles and pops, and the woman’s voice rings out hoarsely. 

“Severus, please, we do not have much time.”

Snape’s jaw clenches, and his gaze darkens. He presses his hands to his temples. The wooden floor creaks beneath his feet. 

“Erm… sorry, but—what exactly does Mrs. Malfoy want, sir?” Harry asks. 

Snape lifts his head and stares at Harry resignedly. “She is seeking refuge for Draco.”

“Seeking refuge?” Harry repeats. “But why would—”

He blanches, suddenly, recalling some of the finer details of his vision the night before. Of Snape’s body, pale and bloody, writhing on the floor. Of Mr. Malfoy’s horrified expression. And then of the warm, triumphant feeling that had bled through Harry’s mind at the expense of other people’s pain and suffering. He had enjoyed it. He and Voldemort had been of one mind, one desire—

“Harry,” Snape says sharply, and Harry blinks. His professor is leaning over him, hands grasping Harry’s shoulders tightly. 

“I’m… I’m sorry, I was just—” Harry stammers, flushing, his palms clammy. He swallows thickly and tries to push down the sudden bile rising in his throat. His scar is aching terribly, and he wonders if it is bleeding again.

“Do not think of it any longer,” Snape tells him. “Let it pass from your mind. This is your reality. You are secure here , in my home, regardless of where your mind drifts while you sleep. Do you understand, Harry?” 

Harry, his eyes glassy and his lower lip trembling, nods. 

“Furthermore, I am certainly not going to force you to cohabitate with another person of whom you do not fully trust. I will assist Narcissa in finding another place for Draco to safely stay.” 

At first, Harry feels an immediate rush of relief at Snape’s words.

Because of course he doesn’t want the blond git to come and stay with them. Malfoy has done nothing but torment Harry at every turn at Hogwarts, turning up his nose and making nasty comments about Ron and Hermione and their families. The boy is stuck up, and prejudiced, and absolutely no fun to be around. It’s bad enough having to see Malfoy at school every year—Harry can’t even imagine the torture of having to see him during summer vacation, too.

But—then Harry remembers how pale Malfoy had looked, hunched and nervous at the Slytherin table at the end of fourth year, after the tournament and Voldemort’s resurrection.

Harry also remembers how he had felt stuck with the Dursleys, alone and in pain, with nowhere to go and no one to ask for help. 

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, forcing the words out despite his reluctance. “I, erm—I heard her. She said… he has nowhere else to go?” 

Snape regards him curiously. “There is always somewhere else to go,” he says. “It is not your responsibility to worry about Draco.” 

“Well—but, there’s room here,” Harry says, his mouth turned down into a stubborn frown, “isn’t there? And… are you really his godfather?” 

“Yes, I am,” Snape confirms. 

Harry worries at his lower lip, his brow furrowing. “You shouldn’t turn him away,” he finally says. “Not for me. If it were Sirius, I wouldn’t want…” he hesitates. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“This is not about what is fair,” Snape says gently.

“Yes it is,” Harry insists. He is staring resolutely at his professor and jumps when the fire in the study behind them crackles loudly. 

Snape seems exasperated. He runs a weary hand over his face.

“You must understand the severity of the situation, Harry. There is a possibility that Narcissa would, upon learning of your presence here, decide that her best chance to save her family would be to attempt to overpower me, abduct you, and turn you over to the Dark Lord.”

Harry’s face pales. “No, she wouldn’t—” he hesitates. “Would she?” 

“If it were me, I might consider it,” Snape says darkly. “Were Narcissa to succeed, she would curry endless favour with the Dark Lord. She might never have to fear for Draco’s life again.” 

“Oh.” Harry fidgets, staring past his professor at the door to the study. A tendril of fear curls through his ribcage. He reaches a hand up and tries to scratch at the bandage covering his scar, but Snape knocks his hand away again with a chiding look. 

“Does this change your mind?” his professor asks. 

Harry thinks about it and his mouth twists into a frustrated scowl. 

“Well, obviously I don’t want to get handed over to Voldemort,” he says, feeling guilty when Snape flinches. “But, er… isn’t there some way around it? What if we just don’t tell her I’m here?”

Snape purses his lips. He folds his arms across his chest and cocks his head to the side. “I suppose that could work,” he finally says, seeming reluctant. 

“Just tell her there’s another student that’s already staying here with you,” Harry adds, brightening up. “She’ll just assume it’s another Slytherin. Won’t she?”

“Most likely,” Snape says. He eyes Harry shrewdly. “I would not have guessed that you would invest this much effort into ensuring that your schoolyard rival is allowed to stay in your direct proximity.” 

Harry flushes, although he’s not sure why. “Well it’s—” he stammers. “It just wouldn’t be fair, is all,” he says lamely. “Yeah, he’s a bit of a git—”

“Language,” Snape interjects.

“But he still deserves to be safe,” Harry finishes. “Right?” 

Snape stares at Harry for quite some time and then seems to come to an internal decision. The conflict in his face clears. 

“Very well. If you are certain,” he says, wrapping his hand around the doorknob to the study. “I will invite Narcissa to come through. We may discuss it further, and she will have to decide if she is alright with her son staying alongside an unidentified guest.” 

“Okay,” Harry says. 

Snape shoots a warning glance at Harry. “I will not tolerate any further eavesdropping.”

Harry reddens in embarrassment. “I’m sorry—”

“Go upstairs and organise your things,” Snape interrupts him, pointing toward the stairs. “In the event that Draco does come to stay here, the two of you will have to share the spare bedroom.”

“Oh,” Harry says, startled, and his stomach suddenly clenches with anxiety. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. 

“I will conjure a bed for Draco, and ensure that you both have adequate space for your things. Is this acceptable?”

Harry doesn’t normally mind sharing a room. He is used to the shared Gryffindor dormitory, and he highly prefers it to his solitary room at Privet Drive. He likes listening to the soft sounds of other people sleeping and shuffling around at night. And in the summers, when he was permitted to spend a few weeks at Ron’s house, Mrs. Weasley would always room them together and although Ron would apologise for the lack of space, Harry was too embarrassed to admit that it made him feel like he was truly part of the family.

Of course—Harry has never shared a room with a Slytherin before, let alone Draco sodding Malfoy, but he supposes things could be worse. 

“Yeah, erm… it’s alright,” Harry finally says, realising he’s been standing there in the hallway deliberating for quite some time. He smiles sheepishly up at his professor. 

Snape’s severe expression softens and he gestures toward the stairs again. “Go upstairs and get started then, Harry. Give me a moment with Draco to help him gather his bearings and adjust to this new reality. I will call you back down for breakfast.”

Harry nods and turns away from the study with some reluctance, wishing he could overhear the ensuing conversation between Snape and Mrs. Malfoy. He instead goes up and into the spare bedroom and closes the door before turning to face his trunk. 

He hasn’t fully unpacked it, but his school things are strewn about the room, his invisibility cloak hanging over the desk chair and photos of his parents and of Ron and Hermione on his desk. Harry gathers everything up and stows it back away in his trunk, and then tucks it beneath his bed. Then he sits down on the mattress and tucks his hands under his thighs. He strains to hear something else from downstairs, but there is only silence.

Chapter 18: a git for a godson

Notes:

The next few chapters upcoming after this one are some of my favorites so far. Thank you for reading <3

Malfoy is glaring at Harry across the table at breakfast two hours later. Snape stands at the counter, stirring something on the stove that smells like garlic, and Harry wonders if it’s going to be soup for dinner. 

He looks down at his plate and takes another bite of eggs. 

“I still don’t understand what he’s doing here,” Malfoy says sulkily, playing with his food. 

“Draco,” Snape warns. 

Harry grins smugly at Malfoy, but his teasing feels forced. The other boy looks paler than usual, and his eyes have a wide hauntedness to them, his hands clutching the cutlery unusually tight. Harry wonders what Malfoy’s mother had to say to get him to agree to come here. 

“Same as you,” Harry says with a shrug. 

Malfoy sneers at him. “I find that hard to believe. Why don’t you go and stay with your beloved weasels? Or whoever it is that spoils you every summer? One of your millions of fans? This can’t possibly be your only option, Potter.” 

Harry stiffens. The reasonable amount of empathy and goodwill he had mustered up for the other boy dissipates. The snake climbs up out of his shirt sleeve and onto the table and tastes the air with its tongue. 

You smell angry, it says. Who is this boy? I will bite him. It slithers across the table towards Draco and rears up threateningly. 

Draco jerks back in his seat and his face pales. 

Stop that, Harry says, shoving a bite of pancake in his mouth. He’s just a boy from school. 

“Potter’s trying to kill me,” Draco screeches, jumping out of his seat and cowering closer to Snape who has turned to regard the situation with an unreadable gaze. “He’s set a bloody serpent on me! It’s like second year all over again.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “He’s a garden snake, Malfoy. And I wasn’t the heir of Slytherin, remember? Or is your little brain too jammed full of prejudice and hair gel to recall that bit of detail?” 

“Harry,” Snape warns.

“He started it,” Harry mutters, shoving another spoonful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. He holds his hand out and the snake hisses threateningly at Malfoy once more before retreating into Harry’s long shirtsleeve. 

“Make him get rid of it,” Malfoy demands.

“I will do no such thing,” Snape says, his voice curt. He turns back to the bubbling pot on the stove. “Sit down, Draco. You are making a fool of yourself. Have you already forgotten your conversation with your mother this morning, as well as our agreement?” 

Draco makes a sour expression and glares at Harry before reluctantly returning to his seat. 

“Can’t go crying to daddy now, can you?” Harry taunts quietly, unable to hold back, and Malfoy’s face contorts with fury. 

“You shut your bloody mouth, Potter,” he snarls, leaping right up to his feet again and plunging a hand into his robes to pull out his wand. Harry jumps backward and instantly pulls out his own wand. 

“That is enough.” 

Snape’s voice is hard. Harry jerks his gaze away from Malfoy and looks at his professor. He cringes slightly at the look of furious disappointment on Snape’s face. 

“But Severus, surely you can’t expect me to—” Malfoy’s tone is plaintive, entreating, and Snape ignores him.

“Sit down, both of you,” he says coldly.  

Harry and Draco both slink back into their seats, scowling at each other. Harry reluctantly stows his wand but keeps his hand resting on his thigh, near his pocket, ready for a quick draw. 

“You will not waste my time and your own this summer with more of your childish squabbling,” Snape says. “We are not at Hogwarts, this is not a quidditch match, and I do not have the energy to constantly keep you from attempting to blast each other with inane hexes and curses.” 

“If he draws his wand on me, I’m not just going to sit here and take it, am I?” Harry says hotly.

Snape abandons the soup bubbling on the stove and draws closer to the table. He looks at Harry reproachfully. 

“Harry,” he says quietly. “Have you already forgotten that it was upon your request, not yet three hours ago, that Draco was permitted to stay here? You were given ample opportunity to refuse—were you not?” 

Harry crosses his arms across his chest and glares down at his plate, ignoring Draco’s outraged intake of breath. 

And I will make this perfectly clear,” Snape continues, “I would not have allowed Draco to cross over the threshold if I believed there was even the slightest chance of him having been corrupted by the Dark Lord.” 

“You—” Malfoy is sputtering, his face red, “you let him decide? But I’m—Severus, I’m your godson , why does he get a say—” 

“Quiet, Draco,” Snape says sharply, and Malfoy closes his mouth with a humph, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms. He glares at Harry indignantly. 

Harry thinks that it was a lot easier to consider having Malfoy come and stay with them as an abstract concept, when he was still fuzzy with sleep and recovering from his vision. Now that the boy is sitting right across from him at the table, Harry thinks that he might have made a mistake. He really doesn’t want to spend the rest of his summer listening to the git whinge on and on about every little inconvenience, spout uneducated comments and slurs at every turn, and try to make Harry look bad in front of Snape. 

“Do you understand me, Harry?” Snape asks.

“...I guess,” Harry says sullenly. The snake coils tightly around his wrist and he stares down at it, avoiding his professor’s gaze.

“Do you wish for me to find Draco somewhere else to stay?” 

Harry’s head jerks up and he gapes at Snape in shock. He looks over at Malfoy, whose face has gone red again. 

“You’re going to send me away?” Malfoy says in disbelief. “But mother said—you can’t! There’s nowhere else—”

“Draco,” Snape says, and the boy falls silent. 

Snape watches Harry calmly. “Well?” 

Harry feels put on the spot, and uneasy, and he wishes he hadn’t eaten that last bite of eggs. He shifts in his seat and frowns. 

“No,” he finally says. “It’s fine.” 

“Very well,” Snape says, his face nearly unreadable, although his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “Then it is settled.” 

“So I have no say whatsoever, it’s only whatever Potter wants?” Malfoy says, nearly spitting, his teeth gritted. “Of course, the bloody chosen one gets his way. I should have known—” 

“Draco, that is enough ,” Snape says. His tone is icy. Malfoy goes quiet and hunches in on himself, his lips turned downward. 

“It just doesn’t seem fair,” he mumbles, his eyes flashing up to glare at Harry again.

“Oh it isn’t,” Harry agrees readily. “Do you think I really want to be stuck here with your pompous arse all summer?” 

Malfoy stiffens and opens his mouth again, two bright spots of red appearing on his cheeks, but is startled back into silence when Snape slaps a hand down on the table. 

Harry flinches hard, the spiteful smirk slipping off his face. His eyes dart toward the back door. Around his wrist, the snake sticks its head out and tastes the air. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry says quietly. “It won’t happen again, sir.” 

Across the table, out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Malfoy shift uneasily in his seat. When Harry risks a glance back up at his professor, the man seems faintly chagrined. 

“You must both learn to control your tempers,” he finally says. “...Myself as well. Otherwise, this living situation may quickly become intolerable. Do you both understand?”

“Yes,” Harry and Malfoy respond warily, ignoring each other. 

“Good,” Snape says. He clears his throat and turns to Harry. 

“Have you finished eating, Harry?” 

Harry glances down at his half-eaten plate. His stomach flips. “Yes, sir. I’m full.” 

Snape’s glare softens slightly. He takes in a slow breath and breathes it out, smoothing his expression. “Very well. Why don’t you take your snake out into the garden and give yourself a moment to cool down. In the meantime, I will show Draco where to put his things.” 

“Fine.” Harry stalks out of the kitchen and out into the backyard, the screen door slamming behind him. 

***

Harry’s not surprised to have been sent out in the yard to ‘cool down.’ He knows what that really means. 

It was only a matter of time before his professor grew tired of him and took a page out of the Dursley’s book, relegating him to the outdoors so that Harry can be out of sight, out of mind, and not risk bothering anyone with his freakishness.

He kicks around some dirt angrily in the yard, trying to shrug off Malfoy’s pale, smug face from his mind. Eventually he crouches down and begins pulling weeds. The snake slithers out of his sleeve and onto the ground. 

You are frightened, the snake says, peering up at Harry.

Frightened? Harry laughs harshly. No, I’m not. I’m angry.

The snake appears unconvinced, but after a few moments seems unwilling to pursue the subject and slithers off into the grass.  

Harry tries to calm himself down. He reminds himself that Malfoy didn’t have a choice, and that he hasn’t had as much time to adjust to his new situation as Harry has. 

“Doesn’t mean he gets to be a stupid git about it,” Harry mutters to himself. He stomps inside a few hours later when Snape calls him in for lunch. 

There is a cold glass of water waiting for him at the table, and a ham sandwich with some crisps on the side. Harry eats quickly, his eyes darting around the room, waiting for the obnoxious blond boy to make his reappearance.

“Draco has requested to take his lunch upstairs,” Snape explains, sitting at the head of the table and making notes in what looks like the first year’s potions textbook. “He is feeling… rather overwhelmed.” 

“Oh.” Harry sets down his sandwich. He pushes down the unsettled feeling in his stomach. 

“Eat, Harry. You did not have a big breakfast this morning.” 

Harry picks up one of the crisps and eats it slowly and carefully, taking his time, and doesn’t notice his professor watching closely.

“Where is your snake now?” 

“He wanted to stay outside,” Harry says, eating another crisp. “He had more hunting to do.” 

Snape hums in response and flips the page of his textbook, making another small note. They sit like that in silence for a while, Harry struggling with his food, and Snape pretending not to watch him. 

Harry waits for his professor to say something. He assumes that Snape is going to reprimand him for this morning. He will probably tell Harry that he needs to behave himself, and be nice to Malfoy, and stop being immature—

“It is clear that Draco is not the only one feeling overwhelmed with this new arrangement. Is there something you wish to discuss, Harry?” 

“No,” Harry says quickly, his eyes darting up in surprise. “No, I’m—fine. It’s fine, sir. Like you said—I asked for him to stay here, didn’t I?” 

Harry’s not going to complain—not now, that he’s gotten himself into this mess. He’s just going to have to work harder to control his temper. 

Snape purses his lips, and doesn’t seem convinced by Harry’s response. “I am not speaking lightly when I say that you are safe here, Harry,” Snape says. “I understand that the two of you have not always gotten along, but you may rest assured that Draco will not do anything untoward to you or disturb the security of this household. He would not risk losing his magic.” 

“His… magic?” Harry repeats.

“Yes, Harry. I have had Draco make the same vow that I made to you.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. 

He supposes that changes things. He wonders what would have happened that morning at breakfast, if he had continued provoking Malfoy, and if the other boy had grown angry enough to try and hex him. 

“Do you understand, Harry? Do not take advantage of this. I do not want you intentionally provoking Malfoy in an attempt to draw out his magic.”

Harry scowls down at his plate. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he says sullenly. He picks up another crisp and eats it.

Snape sighs. “I did not think that you were,” he says. “But I know you can be quick to anger, and quick to draw your wand. I do not want you to do something in a fit of rage that you will only come to regret afterward.” 

Harry feels a rush of anger at his professor’s words. “A fit of rage!” He exclaims. “I’m not, I wouldn’t…” he’s breathing harshly, clutching the edge of the table extremely tight to keep from jumping out of his seat. Snape raises an eyebrow and waits him out. 

“Okay,” Harry says, after having taken several deep breaths and bitten back several furious comments. “I might… yeah, erm… sometimes I guess I do get… a bit… angry.” He looks up at his professor and a red blush of chagrin spreads over his cheeks. “I’m, er… I’m sorry about this morning, sir. It won’t happen again.” 

His professor gives him a knowing look, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “It likely will happen again,” Snape says wryly. “We will simply have to continue to work at it and be patient with each other. Can you do that, Harry?” 

Harry half-shrugs, surprised that his professor hasn’t begun shouting at him yet. He hasn’t even been given extra chores. 

“I suppose so,” he says. 

“On that note—I brought down some of your school things,” Snape continues, not privy to all of Harry’s internal turmoil. He nods toward the stack of books on the kitchen counter. “I think it would be best if we gave Draco a bit of privacy today to adjust to this new living arrangement.” 

“Right,” Harry says. He looks reluctantly at the mass of homework he still hasn’t finished for the summer. “I guess, er… can I stay in here with you? Work on my potions essay?” 

“Of course. When you are finished, I will read it over.” Snape gives him a clear look of approval, and Harry straightens up in his chair, some of his anxiety easing. He clears his plate, wrapping the partially-eaten sandwich and storing it in the fridge for later. Then he grabs his textbook and parchment from the counter and settles back into his seat. 

It’s much easier to do homework this way, rather than by moonlight in the second bedroom at the Dursleys, heart thudding at every creak, or scrambling to pull it together on the train to Hogwarts. The sound of Snape’s quill scratching on parchment helps calm Harry’s thoughts and he finds himself fully absorbed in his work, learning more about moonstones than he ever might have without Snape’s help. 

***

When Harry finally walks upstairs and into his now-shared bedroom that evening, he sees that the room has been transformed. Instead of the single bed in the centre of the room there are now two, each pushed against opposite sides of the room. There is also another desk, and the closet looks to have doubled in size. 

Malfoy is already in his own bed, turned to face the wall, and doesn’t react when Harry walks in except for a slight stiffening of his shoulders.

Harry sits gingerly on his bed. He looks at the other boy and opens his mouth, but then closes it. He crawls under the quilt and tries to fall asleep. 

Unfortunately sleep never comes, no matter how long Harry keeps his eyes tightly shut, or how deeply he burrows under the covers. He can’t relax. He listens to the slow, even breath of Malfoy sleeping across the room. 

Scenarios mount in his head, causing Harry to grow more and more uncomfortable. 

What if this is all a ruse? Voldemort had said he had a task for Malfoy—something to do with Harry. What if he got to Malfoy before he came here? 

What if Mrs. Malfoy brought her son here under the guise of fleeing Voldemort, when really she was just helping her son get close to Harry so he can complete his task? 

In his exhausted, circular thoughts, Harry finally remembers that Mrs. Malfoy couldn’t have known Harry was here. Snape promised Harry, he made a vow, and he hasn’t broken it yet. 

But then… what if Malfoy finds out why Harry’s really here?

He could tell everyone in Slytherin about how pathetic Harry is. About how he couldn’t defend himself against the Dursleys. How he allowed himself to be abandoned, defenceless and without his wand, in the middle of nowhere. How his own family doesn’t want him.

Harry sits up in bed and looks out the window. The moon is full and high in the sky, soft light filtering through the bedroom. Malfoy is curled into a ball under his blankets.

The rest of the house is silent. 

Harry quietly pushes his quilt to the side and presses his socked feet to the cold wood floor. The floorboard creaks, and across the room, Malfoy shifts slightly and mumbles something. Harry waits until he quiets down before climbing out of bed and walking out into the hallway. 

He thinks about taking a blanket, but he doesn’t want to fall asleep on the couch and have to deal with Snape’s inevitable questioning in the morning. Instead, Harry curls up on the couch in his pyjamas, turns on the table lamp, and picks a new book from the bookshelf. It’s dark and dusty, appearing to have spent quite a bit of time on the shelf without attention. Harry runs his hand along the damaged cover. 

“ Advanced Occlumency, ” he mumbles to himself. The word sounds vaguely familiar. Harry thinks he remembers Snape mentioning the topic a few weeks previously, after the first time he disappeared for a Death Eater meeting. 

Harry flips open to the first page. 

***

He jolts awake some time later, groggy and confused, to Snape standing over him. There is warm sunlight coming in through the window and Harry has a faint ache building in his forehead. He squints up blearily at his professor. 

“Would you care to explain why you have foregone a perfectly good bed to spend the night on the couch?” Snape asks. He’s in a maroon dressing gown with an apron slung over it, spatula in hand, and Harry stares at him bemusedly. 

“Potter,” Snape says. 

“Erm,” Harry says. “No, I didn’t… I didn’t sleep out here.” He sits up and rubs his eyes and the book slips off his lap and onto the floor.

Snape picks it up. 

“Advanced Occlumency?” He looks from the cover to Harry and raises a sceptical eyebrow. “A bit of light reading?” 

Harry nods quickly. “Yeah, erm… I got up early. Didn’t want to… bother Malfoy, so—yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. 

“You got up early,” Snape deadpans. 

Harry nods again. “It was too early for breakfast, so, er, I dunno.” He smiles weakly at his professor and shrugs. 

“I see. And how far did you get in your casual survey of the mind arts?” Snape asks dryly, and Harry’s cheeks colour. 

“Well…” he grimaces. “Not very far, to be honest. It’s quite dense. I think Hermione would like it.” He grins at Snape, who rolls his eyes. 

“Right. In any case, I believe I’ve made it quite clear that you may access the kitchen at all hours of the day. You do not need to wait until the appropriate time to eat if you are hungry.” 

“Erm, right. I know,” Harry says with a sheepish smile. He takes the book back from Snape and reshelves it, glancing toward the stairs. “Anyway, is he… is Malfoy—?” 

“I believe Draco is currently utilising the shower,” Snape says. “We can likely expect he’ll be in there for quite some time.” He shoots a warning look at Harry but then turns around, heading back towards whatever is sizzling in the kitchen.

Harry races back up the stairs to the spare bedroom and changes out of his pyjamas into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He can hear the shower running down the hall and really doesn’t want to risk running into Malfoy coming back out of the bathroom. Harry glances over at the other boy’s bed and sees that it’s perfectly made, with the quilt tucked in neatly at each corner, and he appears to have unpacked all of his things and arranged them across his side of the room. 

Harry looks over at his side of the room. Even with the rushed tidying he did yesterday, it still looks like a mess compared to Malfoy’s. He scowls.

Chapter 19: the name game, and a bit of light reading

Notes:

This is a short one, but one of my favorites :) Thanks for reading! I hope everyone had a fun Halloween!

Breakfast that morning goes smoother than the day before, if only because Malfoy is resolutely ignoring Harry, and Harry is too busy keeping the snake from stealing bacon off his plate to worry about anything else.

Quit it, Harry hisses. 

I’m hungry, the snake responds. 

I’ll take you outside in a minute. 

“Perhaps if you ate your food, instead of playing with it, the snake would not feel so tempted,” Snape offers, his tone sardonic.

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“I can’t eat under these conditions,” Malfoy announces. 

“Then don’t eat.” 

“Harry,” Snape warns. 

Harry shrugs. He shoves another piece of bacon in his mouth and then clears his partially-emptied plate. The snake climbs onto his proffered hand, curling around his wrist, and Harry walks over to the screen door, shoving his feet into his trainers. 

Snape’s garden looks miles better than it did on Harry’s first day here. He surveys the varied patches of herbs with his hands on his hips and then squats down to let the snake out into the grass. 

Happy hunting, he says, watching as it disappears into a rosemary bush. 

“What’s its name anyway?” 

Harry closes his eyes and grits his teeth. 

“What are you doing out here, Malfoy?” 

Malfoy scoffs and Harry climbs to his feet, turning around and glaring at the pointy-faced boy. 

“Severus thought it would be a good idea for me to ‘get some sun,’” Malfoy sneers. “Like I don’t know what he’s trying to do.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and turns back around, scanning the yard. There is a little weed attempting to sprout in the back of the garden and he stomps over to it, yanking it out of the earth and tossing it over his shoulder, dirt clod and all. 

“Hey!” Malfoy nearly shrieks, and Harry bites back a grin, picturing the boy stumbling backwards, his spindly limbs wheeling through the air. A few feet away, the snake pops up out of a shrub, a large cricket trapped in its jaws.

Good catch, Harry hisses, and the snake dips its head at Harry, hissing something unintelligible back. 

“What are you saying to it?” 

Harry isn’t expecting Malfoy’s voice to sound off right behind him. He swears and jumps backward, scowling at the other boy, his hand straying instinctively toward his wand stowed in his back pocket. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He says. 

Malfoy flushes angrily and crosses his arms. 

“You can’t make it attack me,” he says. “Severus said we’re supposed to get along.” 

Harry heaves a great sigh and sits down in the yard, watching the snake disappear back into another hedge. 

“He doesn’t have a name,” he says flatly.

Malfoy sinks down in the grass across from him, leaning against the trunk of the oak tree. He stares at Harry in disbelief. “How can you have your own pet snake, and you haven’t even named it?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “He’s not my pet , you stupid git.” The snake slithers out of the grass toward him and Harry holds his hand out. 

You smell angry, the snake says. 

I’m fine, Harry responds. He wants to know what he should call you.  

Why would he call me?  

Not like that. He wants to know what you are. I’m called Harry. Do you have a name?  

The snake thinks for a long moment. It curls itself around Harry’s wrist and looks at Malfoy. 

I am a snake, it says. 

Harry sighs in defeat. “He says he’s a snake.” 

“Well, that’s obvious,” Malfoy scoffs. “But what’s its name?” 

“He doesn’t have one,” Harry says through gritted teeth. 

“Well, give him one then!” 

Harry resists the urge to pull out his wand and hex Malfoy until the boy loses his ability to speak. Instead, he looks back to the snake. 

Would you mind if I chose a name for you?  

I do not care one way or the other, the snake responds. It winds its way up Harry’s forearm and wraps loosely around his neck. Malfoy watches the movement with wide, horrified, fascinated eyes. 

“What’s he saying?” 

“He says I can give him a name.” 

“Make it something fitting for a snake. Something regal.” 

“Oh my god. He’s just a garden snake, Malfoy.” 

“Like that matters! What about… oh, I know. Kaa!” 

“Kaa?” Harry snorts. “That’s stupid.” 

Malfoy glowers at him. “No it’s not, Potter. You’re stupid. Kaa is the name of the snake in the Jungle Book. It’s a perfectly good name for a snake.” 

Harry wrinkles his nose. “The Jungle Book?” 

Malfoy looks at him aghast. “Don’t tell me you’ve never read it? Mother told me it was a very popular story among muggle children.” 

Harry shifts uneasily, an odd flush rising over his cheeks. He folds his arms across his chest and frowns at the other boy. “So? I’ve never heard of it.” 

Something tickles uneasily at the back of his mind, a foggy memory of a children’s movie playing on the television while Harry pressed his face to the grate of his cupboard. Dudley had danced in front of the colourful screen, laughing, stuffing himself with popcorn. Harry had strained his ears, trying to hear the song the great big bear was singing, but Aunt Petunia had descended on him like a hawk, dragging him into the kitchen to help cook dinner. 

“What about Naga, then?”

Harry blinks. “Naga? A little close to Nagini, isn’t it?” He smirks at Malfoy, who glares at him. 

“Alright, Potter, since you’re so much better at this than I am. What do you want to call him?” 

“I was thinking maybe… Noodle.” 

“Noodle!?” 

Harry grins and shrugs modestly. “Yeah.” 

“Noodle. ” 

“Because he’s really long, and thin, like spaghetti,” Harry explains, miming the shape with his hands. 

Malfoy looks furious. “I know what a noodle is, Potter.” 

Harry’s grin widens. “So you agree, it’s a good fit.” 

“No!” Malfoy explodes. “It’s ridiculous. You can’t seriously be thinking of naming him that. He won’t follow your command anymore, that’s for sure.” 

Harry turns to the snake. Can I call you Noodle? 

The word doesn’t really fit in his mouth exactly right—not in Parseltongue. He tries to form it a few times to no avail and then he ends up, instead, saying something that sounds like winding-wheat-branch.

The snake flicks its tongue out. Sure. 

Harry looks up at Malfoy, smug. “Noodle says it’s fine.” 

Malfoy stares at Noodle and then back at Harry. He makes a sound of disgust and climbs up from the ground, dusting dirt from his pants and stomping inside, muttering all the while about that “stupid bloody scarhead” and the “conniving little snake” and Harry finds himself laughing, hard, for the first time since he got home from school for the summer. 

***

 

Very early the following morning, when Harry has once again given up on sleep and has wandered downstairs in search of something to entertain himself with until breakfast, he encounters Snape. 

His professor eyes him knowingly.

“More light reading?” 

Harry can’t think of a good excuse. He stumbles over his words. 

“Yeah, er, I mean—I was going to, just needed some water—” 

Snape quickly interrupts his panicked rambling. “Has Draco done anything to harm you since he arrived?” 

Harry blinks. “Er… no?” 

Snape regards Harry with a long-suffering expression.

“Has he ventured any threats relating to his father or the Dark Lord?” 

Harry thinks about it and grimaces. “I don’t think, erm… no, he hasn’t.” 

“Does he snore very loudly?” 

“ No ,” Harry stammers out, flushing. “That’s—it’s not about—” 

“Then what is stopping you from getting a good night’s rest, Harry?”

Snape waits patiently for Harry to respond. He’s in the same maroon dressing gown from the other night, his feet bare, and he crosses his arms across his chest, raising an eyebrow. 

“I just can’t sleep,” Harry finally says. He shrugs and looks down at the wood flooring. “I’m sorry, sir.” 

Snape seems frustrated. “Do not apologise,” he says, rubbing at his temples wearily. He beckons Harry further down the stairs and then picks up the book on Occlumency from the shelf. He opens up to the third chapter and hands it to Harry, who cringes. 

“Honestly, sir, I gave it a shot, but, er, I think this topic is a little above my reading level,” he admits, and Snape rolls his eyes.

“Of course it is, idiot boy. The mind arts are no simple study. Some attempt to master them for years and are still unsuccessful.” He presses the book into Harry’s hands. 

“So what makes you think I’ll be any different?” 

“I don’t,” Snape says flatly. “However, that does not mean one should not, at the very least, make an effort. Do not tell me you wish to continue having visions of the Dark Lord that make your scar swell and bleed?” 

Harry flinches. “No, sir.” 

“Then read it.” Snape points midway down the page. “This is a fairly simple exercise for clearing your mind. You may take the book with you upstairs and practice in bed.” 

Harry sighs but reluctantly takes the book and trudges back up the stairs. He settles into his bed, climbing beneath the sheets as quietly as he can. He doesn’t want to risk waking Malfoy and starting another argument.

The page of the book that Snape pointed to is half-full of diagrams of people lying in bed, eyes closed, with arrows pointing at different parts of the body. Harry squints at it.

“What the bloody hell is dia-phrag-matic breathing?” He mutters to himself, sounding out the unfamiliar word. He freezes when Malfoy shifts in bed, and he waits until the boy settles before reading on. 

Harry has to tilt the book toward the window so that he can use the moonlight to read. There is a wide variety  of information about breathing, and stretching, and how to be able to sit comfortably for hours at a time without moving. 

He takes in an experimental breath through his nose, holds it for seven seconds, and then exhales through his mouth. 

The book says to rest his hand on his stomach, to concentrate on the air coming in and out of his body, but that only makes him feel silly. Harry’s not convinced that he’s doing any of it right.

But the act of it does calm him, and he’s so busy counting the seconds of his inhales and exhales that he forgets to worry about Malfoy sleeping peacefully beside him. He even forgets to move onto the next section of the book. He winds up reclining on his back, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, breathing evenly in and out until his eyes drift shut and he sinks into a deep sleep.

Notes:

The Name Game was stuck in my head all week while editing this haha.

If you had a snake, what would you name it?

Chapter 20: a mountain of trauma

Notes:

A longer-ish chapter for you guys! :) This one was difficult but it was fun to get some more of Harry & Snape interacting. As always thanks for reading, hope y'all enjoy :)

Of course, one hour of controlled breathing isn’t enough to keep the tormented memories of his mind at bay. When Harry jolts awake in the early hours of the morning, drenched in cold sweat and trembling, Snape is already there beside his bed like clockwork. 

“I told him to,” Harry says miserably, his voice breaking. He sits up in bed and rubs his eyes. “I told him to take the cup with me.”

“It was only a dream,” Snape says quietly. He makes a small movement with his fingers and the room brightens minutely. 

“He said… he said to bring his body back.” Harry blinks up at his professor and then shudders. He draws his arms around himself and Snape pulls the blanket up so it’s covering Harry’s shoulders. 

“It’s my fault, isn’t it? My fault he’s dead?” 

Harry doesn’t hear the sharp intake of breath across the room.

“Purge it from your mind,” Snape says. “It is no use to dwell on the past, or to attempt to place blame on anyone but the Dark Lord.” 

Harry scrubs frustratedly at his tear-stained cheeks and looks around the room. He is startled to see Malfoy sitting upright in bed, his face pale, eyes staring wide at Harry. 

“Get a good look, why don’t you,” Harry snarls viciously at him, a tense feeling of shame coiling in his gut. Malfoy blanches and averts his gaze, drawing his knees up to his chest. 

“Harry,” Snape says, his tone gently chiding. “Did you complete the exercises?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, defeated, his voice shaking. “Well, I tried… I did the, erm, breathing stuff? But then I accidentally fell asleep.” 

Harry winds his hands around the soft white quilt. He tries not to think about Cedric’s cold, blank face, or the pain in his scar from Voldemort, or Wormtail slashing open his forearm—

“Then it was an adequate first attempt,” Snape says quietly. 

Harry laughs, although it comes out as more of a sob, and he feels his face flush. “Hardly. How am I supposed to—how long can this go on? I can’t even—I can’t even sleep through the night, and I don’t understand why—” his voice breaks again and he hunches into himself, avoiding looking at the other side of the room where Malfoy is still sitting silently.

“You very recently went through an intensely traumatic experience,” Snape reminds Harry.

“Traumatic?” Harry repeats. The word sounds wrong. It makes a nervous, guilty, uncomfortable feeling blossom in his ribcage.

“Yes, Harry. Traumatic.”

Harry squirms in place, his brow furrowing. “No, no it wasn’t that—I’m fine. It wasn’t even the worst—” 

“You witnessed the senseless murder of one of your schoolmates,” Snape interrupts calmly, making Harry stop short. “You then underwent physical and psychological torture from the Dark Lord, and barely escaped with your life. In addition, you were forced to participate in a deathly tournament with students years above you and constantly placed in life-threatening scenarios. Previously to that, you were—” 

Harry feels his heart rate increasing with each deadpan declaration. “Okay!” he finally exclaims, his voice high and panicked, glaring daggers at his professor.

He doesn’t want Malfoy to be hearing any of this. He’s not traumatised. The graveyard was hard, but… this sort of thing happens to Harry all the time. He should be used to it by now. 

“So you agree,” Snape says quietly. 

Harry feels around on the nightstand beside them until Snape leans over and hands him his glasses. Harry shoves them on his face and swipes at the drying tear tracks on his cheeks. 

“Harry. I asked you a question.” 

Harry stares mulishly up at his professor and shrugs. 

Snape sighs. He shifts closer and wraps another blanket around Harry’s shoulders. 

“It has become increasingly clear to me that you have a mountain of trauma that you have not been given adequate time to process, and that no adult has attempted to help you overcome. This has manifested in your irregular sleep patterns and other unhealthy habits.” 

Snape is murmuring quietly, but Harry hunches even lower in his bed, darting his eyes warily over to Malfoy. The other boy has laid back down, his back to the room, but the rigidity of his spine tells Harry that he is still awake and listening. 

“No, no I’m… I’m fine,” Harry says. Another nervous tremor works through his body as he speaks, and Snape gives him a reproachful look. 

“You cannot continue on in this way,” his professor says. “And I cannot, in good conscience, continue supplying you with dreamless sleep potions.” 

“But you said—” 

“That was weeks ago, Harry,” Snape says, ignoring Harry’s outraged glare. “You must begin to find some other way to sleep peacefully. The exercises will—” 

“I don’t get what bloody good breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth is doing for me when I still see Voldemort coming out of that fucking cauldron every time I close my eyes,” Harry says through gritted teeth, new tears stinging at his eyes. Across the room, he sees Malfoy flinch. 

“It will help,” Snape says, ignoring Harry’s foul mouth. “But you will have to practise consistently. This is not a skill that is going to come naturally to you. It is not quidditch.” 

Harry is still shivering, trying to shake off the aftershocks of his nightmare. He doesn’t respond. Snape waves his wand and Harry feels the cold sweat dissipate from his hair and his pyjamas. 

“Try to get some more sleep, and we may discuss this in the morning,” his professor suggests, and Harry blanches.

“More sleep? I can’t just…” Harry glances out the window at the still-darkened sky, his face falling in dismay. He looks at Malfoy and then at Snape. He’s ashamed to ask, but he doesn’t want his professor to turn out the light again and leave him alone with his thoughts. “Do I have to? What time is it? Can’t I just go and sit downstairs until morning?” 

Snape glances out the window and sighs. “It is exceedingly early,” he says. “Nevertheless… you may. Bring the book with you.” 

***

Snape sets a cup of herbal tea on the table beside the couch and layers Harry with blankets until he stops shivering. Harry curls up with the Occlumency book on his lap and stares at it blearily. 

“Start with the breathing exercises again,” Snape suggests.

“But I don’t want to fall asleep,” Harry says, his tone petulant, and his professor sighs.

Noodle curls down around Harry’s wrist and then across the book, stretching his body across the couch cushion. 

Don’t you start in on me too, Harry hisses. 

Why are you always awake when the sun is resting? Noodle hisses back. 

Like you’re one to talk. I thought snakes were nocturnal.

Not me, Noodle responds. 

“If your snake is going to distract you, I will put him outside,” Snape warns Harry, who scowls.

“His name is Noodle,” he says grumpily. 

“Yes, Draco was sure to inform me.” Snape’s tone is dry. “Complete the breathing exercises again, and if you continue to feel unsettled past that point, you may move ahead to page twenty-three.” 

“Fine.” 

Snape gives Harry one last warning look and then walks out of the room and into the kitchen. There is the tinkling of dishes being moved around, the clicking of a gas stove, and the soft sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. 

“Aren’t you going back to sleep, sir?” Harry calls out. 

“Focus on your exercises, Harry.” 

“But, are you really making more tea now? The sun hasn’t even come up yet—” 

“Then I do not want to hear a word from you until it has,” Snape responds icily. Harry crosses his arms across his chest and frowns. He opens up the book and stares at the page he was first attempting to read when he fell asleep.

He doesn’t want to do the stupid breathing exercises. They just make him sleepy, and Harry knows what will happen if he falls asleep again. 

It’s humiliating enough to wake up the entire household one time in a night, let alone twice. And he’s sure Malfoy is positively gleeful at the thought of telling all of his Slytherin friends about Harry’s inability to sleep through the night without being coddled by his potions professor.

Harry instead skips ahead to page twenty-three, which seems to be the beginning of a section all about structured dreaming. He skims the first paragraph with little interest, mumbling out loud.

“‘The first exercise entailing … one must envision himself in … whichever locale he has,’ erm, ‘experienced the strongest sentiments of… uninterrupted peace and tranquillity.’” 

“That does not sound like guided breathing,” Snape’s voice interjects from the kitchen. The house has begun to smell faintly of peppermint tea, and Harry hears the clink of a spoon against a tea saucer. 

“I’m only reading the book aloud, sir,” Harry calls back in a forcibly-polite tone, and then much quieter, “bloody wanker.” 

“Language, Harry.” 

Harry scowls and returns to the book.

It’s not a difficult decision, although the wording takes him a moment to piece out. Harry’s immediate thought is the first place that ever felt like home to him—Hogwarts. The first time in his life that he went to sleep at night surrounded by friends, with a full stomach, shoulders and back for once not aching from housework. 

Harry pictures the Gryffindor common room with a warm fondness—his four poster-bed with maroon drapings, Ron’s quidditch memorabilia, the comfy armchairs, and the fireplace, in front of which Hermione always forces them to do homework. The great glass windows where Hedwig likes to perch, and where Harry can gaze down at the quidditch pitch when he’s bored, thinking over strategy for their next game.

He can nearly hear the soft crackling of the fire and low hum of conversation—Dean and Seamus playing a game of exploding snap in the corner, Hermione marking up Ron’s latest essay, Fred and George discussing their next money-making scheme—

Thoughts of his friends make Harry’s focus falter. His half-solid vision of the common room dissipates around him. 

He wonders where Ron and Hermione are now. He assumes they must still be together at headquarters (wherever that is), but perhaps they’ve gone back to the burrow, or perhaps even Diagon Alley to purchase school supplies for the new year. 

They usually go together for that, the three of them. It is something that Harry spends all summer looking forward to—sometimes the only thing that keeps him going when he’s stuck at Privet Drive. Although he has a feeling that won’t be happening this time around. He tries to brush away the pang of unhappiness and anger he feels at the thought.

It was sort of like this before second year, after all. Harry didn’t hear from his friends all summer, and he had felt terribly alone. Uncle Vernon had been especially harsh that summer, angry with Harry for every little thing, punishing him left and right with cupboard time, or dark bruising around his arms, or hours and hours of yard work. 

Harry had thought that maybe his friends forgot about him. And in his lowest moments, with all of his school books and things locked away, Harry had sometimes feared that he imagined the whole thing. He would sit in his cupboard with his knees pulled up to his chest, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, hoping and praying that it was real, that he truly was a wizard and not a freak, and that he would be able to return to Hogwarts in the fall and be around people who didn’t hurt him, or ignore him, or stare at him in disgust like he carried some kind of horrible disease.  

Then, of course, Ron had shown up with his brothers and they had taken Harry away from the Dursleys, and then—he had found out about Dobby, and the letters. 

So Harry understands. He knows that his friends aren’t really leaving him in the dark on purpose. But it still hurts. He still feels alone, and he misses them terribly. And he has no idea what sorts of things they are hearing about him now. What if they find out what happened at Privet Drive? How will they treat him then, when they find out just how unwanted he truly is?

Harry, lost in thought and fully distracted, nearly gives up on the dream exercise altogether. He forces his thoughts back into line and scans the next heading with very little interest.

“‘An individual seeking … respite in the case of relentless, or rather,’ erm, ‘tormenting visions in sleep, and wishing to … in certain cases…’” Harry squints at the book in confusion. 

“Having trouble?” Snape interrupts dryly. 

Harry jerks upright, startled, his glasses nearly sliding off his nose. He pushes them back up and frowns at his professor. 

“It’s impossible to read,” he complains. “I don’t know what half of these bloody words mean.” 

“Language, Harry.” 

Harry sighs and tries very hard not to roll his eyes. He jumps when his professor draws closer, but Snape only sits down on the couch beside Harry, leaving a few inches between them. He peers at the book. 

“Which words are giving you difficulties?” 

Harry suddenly feels embarrassed. He scrubs at the back of his neck and his cheeks redden. 

“Harry.” 

“Dunno,” He mumbles reluctantly with a slight shrug. “S’not the words, so much, I guess. Erm… just, all of them… together?” 

“Can you expound on this further?” Snape asks, and this time his tone has softened by a small degree. 

Harry shrugs again. “It’s just, er… it’s like I start a sentence, and then by the time I’m halfway through it, I have no idea what I’ve just read. And so I go back and restart, but I get lost again at a different spot. And if there’s a word I don’t know, I spend so long trying to figure it out that I forget all the other words. And then I get frustrated, and my head starts to hurt, and I feel like I should just give up…” Harry cringes, realising that he’s begun to ramble and his professor is quietly listening with an unreadable expression. 

“I can usually manage fine,” Harry adds hastily. “My other school books aren’t so bad, and usually Hermione, well she erm… she goes through and leaves notes for me, and little diagrams, and…” 

Harry closes his mouth. He sinks further back into the couch, his shoulders hunching, trying to put more distance between him and his professor, who is eyeing him with an odd, knowing look. 

“Diagrams,” Snape repeats, and Harry nods. He stares down at Noodle, who blinks lazily up at him. 

“I can manage,” Harry says again. “It’s just that, I suppose this book is a little harder than I’m used to. I’m sorry, sir.” 

“Do not apologise,” Snape says smoothly. “Many students struggle with reading comprehension. Furthermore, you are broaching an area of magic in which you are completely inexperienced. It is to be expected that you would have difficulties. It is, in fact, an error on my part that I did not foresee this and endeavour to assist you.” 

Harry’s brow furrows. He can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “An error, sir?” 

“Yes,” Snape says. He pulls the book from Harry’s lap and points to the top of the page. “Is this where you left off?” 

Harry nods. 

Snape inspects the paragraph silently for a few moments while Harry fidgets beside him. 

He waits for his professor to make a scathing comment, or berate him for being a bad student. Harry knows that he’s not great at staying focused. And Snape gives him plenty of grief for it in the potions classroom. So he doesn’t quite understand the patience in his professor's tone when he begins to speak again, filling the silence of the room with a quiet warmth. 

“The author is instructing you on a technique that may help you achieve a more calming dreamspace,” Snape explains. 

Harry blinks. “Oh, er… okay?” 

“Did you envision your location?” 

“Oh, yes,” Harry nods. “Erm. Hogwarts?” 

“The entire school, Harry?” Snape’s voice is wry, and Harry blushes again. 

“No, I mean… I meant the common room. The Gryffindor common room, sir.” 

Snape gives Harry an odd look, and there is an odd tightening behind his eyes that makes Harry shift in place. 

“Is that okay, sir?” 

“That is where you feel the safest?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Snape purses his lips and, for a very brief moment, seems to be nearly overcome with grief. Then his expression shutters and he looks back down at the book. “Very well.”

“Is that, er… is that okay, sir?” 

“Yes,” Snape says, and then he hesitates for a beat. “It may be a factor in some of your difficulties. It is common practice to select a location that has been known to you for many years, and that you have spent a significant amount of time residing within. Often, since childhood.” 

“Oh.” 

Harry looks down at his lap. Noodle, somehow sensing his distress, slithers along the couch cushion and coils around Harry’s wrist. 

What is wrong?

Nothing, Harry responds. 

He thinks about third year—trying the Patronus charm over and over for hours, failing every time, until Professor Lupin told him his happy memory wasn’t good enough. Harry hadn’t known how to explain that he couldn’t think of anything stronger. And now here he is, doing his best to follow the book’s instructions, and now Snape is telling him that he’s never going to be able to do it. 

Harry blinks furiously. 

“I said it was common practice,” Snape says quietly. “Not that it was a requirement. You may still complete the exercise successfully, Harry. It just may take more effort on your part.” 

“Right. More effort,” Harry says. He clenches his jaw, steeling himself. He can do that. It may have taken him an entire semester to learn the Patronus, but he did it, and he can do this too, even if he has to spend the rest of his summer reading this dusty old book.

“Are you ready to continue?” 

Harry looks down at the section of the book Snape is pointing to. He wrinkles his nose. “‘Yield to… nocturnal repose?’” 

“ Sleep , Harry,” Snape says, his tone gently exasperated. 

Harry blanches. “Sleep? But I don’t—that’s the whole reason I came down here,” he complains, feeling tricked. “I don’t want to—” 

“What did you think ‘cultivating a serene mindscape before attempting nightly slumber’ meant?” Snape asks.

“I had no bloody idea!” Harry scowls. “I told you, it’s hard to read it when it’s all like—” 

“You cannot survive on two hours of sleep a night,” Snape interrupts Harry’s fuming. “I understand your reservations, Harry. And should you continue to struggle, we may discuss other options. But tonight, I would like for you to at least make an attempt to get some more sleep.” 

Harry opens his mouth to argue more, but stops at the warning look on his professor’s face. “Alright,” he says glumly. 

“Thank you,” Snape says. He stands up from the couch, his hand brushing lightly over the top of Harry’s head. “Now—lie back, close your eyes, and work on envisioning the Gryffindor common room.” 

Harry does as he’s told. Once he’s reclined against the cushions of the couch and closed his eyes, he feels Snape layer one, and then two blankets over him. Noodle climbs up to wrap loosely around his neck. For a moment, the room is quiet but for the sound of Harry’s soft breathing. Then he hears Snape walk out of the room and back into the kitchen. 

Harry squares his shoulders. He really doesn’t want to fall back asleep. But if he has to lie here anyway, and Snape is going to hover until morning, then he figures he might as well give it a go. 

He imagines walking into the common room after a long quidditch practice, his muscles straining, his body fatigued and ready for rest. Ron would be there, already in his pyjamas, begging Harry to play a round of wizard’s chess with him before bed. Hermione would be curled up in the corner with her hair pulled up, a quill behind her ear, studying furiously for a quiz that’s not coming up for another two weeks. 

Harry’s throat thickens. 

He realises that he won’t be able to stay focused on the setting if he continues thinking of his friends—his breath is already hitching at the thought—so he keeps himself moving, trudging up the stairs to the boy’s dormitory. 

Harry always liked settling into his four-poster bed, drawing the maroon drapings partially closed and lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His breaths begin to even out and slow, and his arm falls to the side, slipping off the edge of the couch and brushing the wood floor of Snape’s sitting room. 

On nights he couldn’t sleep at Hogwarts, Harry would pull out the Marauder’s map and stare at the mass of names on the parchment, making sure that each of his friends were safe and sound one by one until his eyes drooped. 

Harry wishes that the map had a wider range than Hogwarts. If he could pull it out and see Ron and Hermione’s location, or Sirius, or even Luna or Neville… 

Although he’s not actually looking at the map, his eyes still drift shut. Harry grows tired, and he can’t quite remember why he was trying to stay awake in the first place.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he can still smell peppermint tea, and he can hear Snape tinkering with something in the kitchen, and he can feel the soft fibres of the couch beneath him, but Harry can also hear Ron’s soft snoring, and the old creakings of the castle at night, and Hedwig’s muted hooting when she comes in late from a successful hunt. 

He drifts off like that, the book sliding off his lap onto the floor, and doesn’t register the sounds of Snape returning to the sitting room, the quiet shuffling of pages, and a heavy blanket being tucked carefully around him.

Chapter 21: broken glass and apologies

Harry blinks into awareness and finds himself staring up into a pair of icy grey eyes. He jolts upright and smacks his forehead right into Malfoy’s, who for some reason had been standing directly over him, their faces mere inches apart.

“Bloody hell,” Harry groans, clutching at his forehead. He scoots away from the other boy and gathers the blanket up to his chest. “What do you want, Malfoy?” 

“Severus told me to fetch you for breakfast.” Malfoy scowls at him, shifting back to a more normal distance. 

“And you needed to be precisely one inch from my face to do that?” 

“Shut up,” Malfoy snarls. His cheeks redden and he stomps out of the room toward the kitchen. 

Harry stares after the other boy, bemused, his head still aching faintly. He presses his palm into the scar on his forehead and then clambers off the couch. 

Snape is already seated at the kitchen table, the latest edition of the Daily Prophet in front of his face, and Harry settles in across from him, stabbing a sausage with his fork and taking a bite. 

“It’s like you were raised in a barn,” Malfoy sniffs as he cuts into a piece of buttered toast. 

“Maybe I was,” Harry mumbles, his mouth full, and he grins when the other boy shoots him a dirty look. 

Harry feels well-rested and content for the first time in weeks. He somehow avoided having another nightmare, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the dream exercise from the book, or because he was sleeping on the couch instead of the bedroom, but Harry is not going to let his good mood be spoiled by the pointy-faced git. 

“Please attempt to eat your food and refrain from shouting at each other for once,” Snape interjects dryly, turning to a new page in the paper. 

Noodle coils around Harry’s ankle and then travels up his leg, climbing up onto the table and inspecting Harry’s plate. 

Are we hunting today?  

Sure, Harry responds. Are you hungry?

Yes, and I want to go outside.  

“Harry,” Snape says, lowering the paper and giving him a reproving look. “You may converse with your snake later. I’d like you to finish your breakfast this morning.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and pokes at the eggs on his plate. He’s already finished one sausage, and his stomach feels full. 

“Can’t I finish it later?” 

“No,” Snape says curtly. “Not today, Harry. I need to see you eat something of substance before you make your escape to the backyard again.” 

“You said I only have to eat when I’m hungry,” Harry retorts, his cheeks flushing. He shoots a warning glare at Malfoy and the other boy blanches, averting his gaze and taking a too-big swallow of orange juice, nearly spilling it down his silk pyjamas. 

“That is true to a reasonable extent, but not when your caloric consumption drops to an insupportable level—as it has these past few days,” Snape says. 

“Well, I’m not hungry,” Harry shrugs uncomfortably. His eyes dart to Malfoy again, and he begins to feel slightly cornered. He wishes that his professor wouldn’t embarrass him in front of the other boy. 

Malfoy, seeming to sense the rising tension, shovels the rest of his food quickly into his mouth, abandoning all pretence of manners, and then excuses himself from the room. Harry watches him go and then stares at the tablecloth, avoiding Snape’s eye. 

“Harry,” Snape says again, and Harry scowls. 

“How did your mindscaping exercises go this morning?” 

Harry is surprised at the abrupt subject change, and he glances up. “They went, erm… fine.” He shrugs. “I fell asleep again, I think. I dunno. But I didn’t have any nightmares that I can remember.” He fiddles with his fork. Noodle loops lazily around his wrist and flicks his tongue out, blinking at Harry. 

“That is good news. Even if you do not end up mastering Occlumency, if the practice gives you a few hours of peaceful sleep, it is well worth it.” 

“Right,” Harry says. He fidgets in his seat. He wants to go outside, but he hasn’t finished his plate yet.

Snape frowns slightly at him. He folds up the Daily Prophet and sets it aside, focusing his complete attention on him.

“Is there something else bothering you, Harry?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Has Draco—”

“ No, ” Harry says emphatically through gritted teeth. “It’s—I’m fine, Snape. Sir . You don’t have to coddle me. And who gives a damn if I’m not eating enough, anyway? It’s already way more than I ever got with the Durs—” 

Harry nearly bites his tongue off in his attempt to stop talking, but it’s far too late. 

“Ah,” Snape says. His expression sharpens into something dangerous.

Harry shifts nervously in his chair. Noodle twists up around his arm and then settles into the hollow of his neck. 

He smells of bloodlust , Noodle remarks. Harry ignores him, staring warily at his professor. 

“...Can I just go outside now, please?” 

“No, Harry. I would like to discuss this further.” 

“Well I wouldn’t,” Harry retorts stubbornly. 

Snape clenches his jaw tightly. “We cannot avoid this conversation forever. You have clearly suffered severe mistreatment at the hands of your muggle relatives, and it must be addressed. What I witnessed during my visit to Privet Drive, especially regarding the cupboard under the stairs—” 

Harry really doesn’t mean for it to happen. But all of the glass in the kitchen shatters, including the window above the sink, and Harry doesn’t realise for a moment that he’s jumped to his feet, his hands clenched into fists and his chest heaving, his hair standing on end. He stares at Snape with wild eyes. 

“I—I don’t—” Harry stutters, his thoughts scattered, his mind blank with conflicting fear and fury. He winds his fingers through his hair and tugs at it. “I didn’t—didn’t mean mean to—” 

“Breathe, Harry,” Snape says, his tone perfectly calm. His eyes track Harry’s every movement.

Harry sucks in a sharp breath with difficulty, his shoulders hunched up nearly to his ears, and he shakes his head. 

“It’s not—I wasn’t, I mean, they—they didn’t,” Harry stammers. “You don’t—you have it wrong.” 

He can’t get a handle on his magic. His hands are shaking, his knees trembling, and he’s got his eyes fixed on the back door, waiting for his chance to make a run for it and escape whatever punishment his professor is certainly planning for this freakish display of magic. 

“Do I?” Snape asks quietly. “Do you truly still expect me to believe that?” 

Harry nods furiously—frantically. “Yes.” 

“And you still expect me to believe that your severe concussion and broken wrist were from you ‘falling down?’” 

Harry shudders, his magic flaring again, and the wooden table creaks beneath his fingers. 

“Yes, I do, sir,” he says.

Snape stares at him for a long, tense moment, and Harry waits for his professor to ask more questions. But instead, the man slowly stands up from his seat. He takes out his wand and Harry cringes, stumbling backward, pressing up against the back wall of the kitchen. 

“Calm yourself. I am simply repairing the damage,” Snape says. Harry watches as the man waves his wand, pointing at varied areas of the kitchen until all of the shattered bits of glass have flown up and rejoined together. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry says quietly, once everything is back in order. His heart is beating uncomfortably fast. He can feel his magic still radiating out and around the room, rattling the dishes in the cupboards, and he doesn’t know how he’s doing it or how to make it stop.

“It is quite alright,” Snape says. 

“But I…” Harry stumbles over his words. He tenses up when Snape comes closer to him. “What are you doing?” 

“You are bleeding,” Snape says. 

Harry looks down at himself. There is a thin slash across his left arm, likely from a stray bit of flying glass, and it is bleeding sluggishly. He startles when Snape waves his wand and the cut seals itself neatly back up. 

“I’m sorry—”

“I am the one who must apologise,” Snape interrupts him. “I overstepped my bounds, and in my own frustration I pushed you too far. It will not happen again.” 

Harry gapes uncomprehendingly at his professor. He is so surprised by the apology that some of the fight drains out of him, and his shoulders drop. He sinks back into his chair and rests his head in his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted, and he hears the dishes and silverware finally settle back into place. 

He doesn’t notice Snape’s immediate look of stark relief.

The kitchen is silent for a few moments as Harry works hard to calm down, to reel in all of his tumultuous emotions and prepare for what is coming.

“I clearly do not always know the best course of action in these situations,” Snape finally admits, breaking the silence, sitting back down in his seat across from Harry. His expression, for maybe the first time ever since Harry has known him, is open and vulnerable. “I understand that having Draco here has made things difficult for you. And I must apologise if you have been feeling unsafe, or neglected in any way.”

“I’m fine,” Harry protests, and Snape shakes his head. 

“You must attempt to meet me somewhere in the middle,” he says carefully. “If you are not feeling up to eating, then we will begin once again supplementing your meals with regular nutritional potions. Does that sound acceptable to you?” 

Harry grimaces. He hates the slimy film those potions leave in his mouth. But he looks up and sees Snape’s entreating expression, and finds himself reluctantly nodding.

“Okay,” he says. 

“In return, I will refrain from questioning you further about your relatives, or other topics that you do not feel comfortable discussing for the foreseeable future. However, if at any point you do feel the need to talk, I would hope that you understand my willingness to listen, as well as be a trusted confidant.” 

Harry thinks about it slowly, saying the word ‘confidant’ over and over again in his head. He looks up at his professor. “You… you mean you wouldn’t tell anyone? Not even Malfoy?” 

“Of course not.” Snape shoots him an incredulous look. “I am not a fifteen-year-old boy. I do, in fact, possess a certain amount of decorum to my name, and I understand the need for discretion.”

Harry’s not so certain of that, but he supposes that if Snape really is a spy for Dumbledore, he must be pretty good at keeping secrets. 

That realisation, oddly, is what finally calms Harry completely down. “Okay,” he says again. “That… that sounds good to me.” 

Snape seems satisfied. He picks up the Daily Prophet again and shakes it out. “Very well. You may take your snake outside now, if you still wish, Harry.” 

Harry grins, relieved, but then pauses halfway out of his seat, his face paling again. 

“What is it?” 

“Well… you haven’t said what my punishment is yet,” Harry asks reluctantly. He fiddles with one of the napkins on the table.

Snape looks at Harry askance. “Punishment?” 

Harry regrets asking, once he sees the dark look re-emerging on his professor's face. He shrugs uneasily. “I did magic, and I broke your things,” he says. 

“There is no punishment for accidental magic,” Snape says tersely. “It is, by definition, uncontrollable.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. 

Snape’s expression twists. “Are you accustomed to being punished for these kinds of outbursts?” He asks carefully. 

Harry flinches, ducking away from Snape’s gaze and grabbing his trainers, shoving them on his feet. 

“No. No, it’s not—that wasn’t—I don’t want to talk about it,” he says in a rush of words, and is out the door before Snape can respond, the screen door slamming loudly behind him.

***

When Harry comes back in from yard work and chasing Noodle around in the grass, he sits down tentatively at the table and sees a small nutritive supplement potion next to his plate. Beside him, Malfoy is seated quietly, taking small bites of his sandwich. He shoots a sidelong, wary look at Harry but doesn’t say anything.

Harry glances at Snape, who responds with a blank expression, tiling his head slightly toward the potion. 

Harry clenches his jaw and nods back, reluctantly picking up the potion, uncorking it, and swallowing it in one go.

Notes:

the next chapter is one of my favorites! <3 thanks for reading!

Chapter 22: remedial baking for fugitives and cowards

Notes:

Lots of Harry & Draco in this one! <3

On the fifth day following Malfoy’s arrival, Harry wakes with an intense craving for homemade cinnamon bread.  He is standing at the kitchen counter, wearing one of Snape’s spare aprons, and is mixing a bowl of dough when Malfoy wanders in.

“There you are, Potter. What are you doing?” 

“Go away,” Harry says. He uses his forearms to push up the sliding sleeves of his shirt, trying not to get flour all over himself. 

It’s a cold day, overcast, and the air outside is heavy with the moisture of an impending rainfall. 

“What is that?” Malfoy inches closer and peers into the bowl. Harry tugs it closer to himself and scowls at the other boy. 

“Snape said I could,” Harry says. “Bugger off, will you?” 

Harry has never liked cooking, much. The sound of crackling oil still makes unease curl low in his stomach, his forearms stinging with phantom burns, and he doesn’t like to be near the kitchen when Snape is wielding a saucepan or poking at a hot pan of sizzling bacon. 

But baking, for some reason, Harry loves. 

Aunt Petunia only let him assist her ever so often, and Harry always secretly felt giddy when his aunt would seat him at the kitchen table and instruct him to knead bread dough or mix up a batter for chocolate biscuits. He could use his hands without fear of being burnt, and when the food went into the oven, he could smell the results of his success from all over the house, even when locked within his cupboard. 

And once, on Dudley’s birthday, Harry had snuck a slice of cinnamon bread from the centre of the loaf and scarfed it down frantically, hunched over like a wild animal, eyes darting continuously over to the backyard where his cousin had been swinging at a ginormous pinata. Harry had never tasted something so delicious. It had been fresh from the oven, warm and buttery-soft, and dusted in a light coating of cinnamon sugar that Harry can still taste sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, when sunlight comes in through the window and Harry forgets where he is. 

“That is acceptable,” Snape had said that morning, when Harry asked if he could bake something in addition to his cleaning for the day.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do it fast, and I won’t make a mess,” Harry had said, staring up at his professor wide-eyed and trying not to sound too eager. 

Snape had regarded him with an odd expression. “You may do what you like,” he had finally said. “I have not baked in quite some time. If you wish to make bread, I will not stop you.” 

Harry blinks back to the present and flinches when he sees how close Malfoy has come. 

“It smells like cinnamon,” Malfoy says. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Does it now? What an astute observation, Malfoy. Really. What would I do without you?” 

Malfoy’s face colours in anger and he takes another step toward Harry, who pulls the mixing bowl close to his chest. 

“I don’t understand you, Potter,” Malfoy finally says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “What are you really doing here?” 

“I’m making bread, you dolt,” Harry says. 

“I meant,” Malfoy says frustratedly, nearly stomping his foot on the kitchen floor, “what are you doing here ? Why are you in Severus’s house, baking bread, wearing a bloody apron for merlin’s sake?”

“It’s none of your bloody business,” Harry says, his jaw clenched, and his eyes flash angrily. “And stop asking me about it, unless you want to get hexed.” 

“Severus said we have to get along,” Malfoy says, his gaze darkening. “If I can’t hex you, then you shouldn’t hex me. It wouldn’t be fair. And I want to know the truth. I think I deserve to know why my godfather is harbouring a fugitive.” 

“A fugitive?” Harry laughs. “What are you on now?” 

“A fugitive from the Dark Lord,” Draco insists. 

A tendril of unease curls through Harry’s chest. 

“It’s none of your business,” he repeats, staring down into the bowl of dough. He grabs a handful of flour and scatters it across the counter before pulling the dough out of the bowl and beginning to knead it. 

“He’s my godfather,” Malfoy says. His proximity is beginning to make Harry feel annoyed and uneasy. “And he hates you. How did you trick him into this?” 

“I didn’t trick him,” Harry says through clenched teeth.

“Severus said you made some sort of agreement. Why on earth would he do that? And why didn’t you go and stay with the weasel, or your precious little mudblood—” 

Harry slams the dough onto the counter and marches toward Malfoy, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shoving him up against the wall of the kitchen. 

“Don’t call her that,” he snarls. 

Malfoy’s face is white with anger. “What, mudblood ?” He sneers, and Harry’s grip tightens. “I think I’ll call her whatever I like, thanks. And get your dirty hands off me. You can’t afford the cost to replace this shirt.” 

Harry’s other hand curls into a fist. He plunges it into his pocket and pulls out his wand, pointing it at the hollow of Malfoy’s throat. 

“Going to hex me now, Potter?” Malfoy sneers. “Do you think Severus will allow that? Do you really think he won’t kick you out? I am his godson, after all. I have the most right to be here.” 

Harry seethes. His chest heaves with furious breaths and he shoves Malfoy hard against the wall before stowing his wand back in his pocket and forcing himself to turn away. 

“Just shut up and leave me alone,” he says, his voice dull and hard.

“I knew you didn’t have it in you. Lazing about in the sun with your pet snake all summer, baking bread, all the while the Dark Lord grows stronger. There’s people dying, you know, and my father says—” 

“I don’t give a damn what your father has to say,” Harry hisses, whirling around and fixing narrowed eyes on the other boy. “Don’t pretend like you care about any of that. Your father is a fucking Death Eater, Malfoy. He watched me get tortured in that graveyard. Did you know that?”

Malfoy flinches. 

“That’s right. But first, he got down on his hands and knees and kissed Voldemort’s feet. Like a bloody dog greeting its master. And then he stood there, with those other cowards hiding behind masks, and he watched me get Crucio’d. And he laughed. ”

Malfoy flinches again, but Harry ploughs on, his voice shaking with anger. “So I think the real question should be what are you doing here, Malfoy. Can you answer me that?”

Malfoy’s face pales even further. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hisses. 

“It’s funny you should call me a fugitive,” Harry says coldly. “ I know why you’re here, Malfoy. Voldemort decided to make you a proper Death Eater, didn’t he? And you couldn’t go through with it. All of that talk of following in daddy’s footsteps, and you were too afraid to get a little mark on your arm. Mummy had to send you away to hide behind dear old Uncle Severus. Isn’t that right?” 

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy snarls, his face contorted with fury.  

“If it weren’t for me,” Harry presses, “you might be Voldemort’s little errand boy, by now. You’re lucky to be here.”

Malfoy furiously whips out his wand but instead of pointing it at Harry, he points it at the bread dough on the counter. It raises up and spins wildly in the air before splattering to the ground. Flour goes everywhere. 

They stare at each other in shocked silence. 

“I… I’m…” Malfoy stammers. 

Harry scrubs the flour from his cheeks and scowls at the other boy. 

“Incredible,” he says. “Thanks for that.” 

“You don’t deserve to be here,” Malfoy blurts out hotly. “You’ve got plenty of blood traitor friends to hide behind. Snape is my godfather, he’s my family, you have no right intruding and accusing me of—”

“My parents are dead,” Harry says quietly.

Malfoy’s mouth gapes and he stares at Harry. He seems at a sudden loss for words.

“I have no family . Don’t you understand? My friends won’t talk to me. My godfather is actually a wanted fugitive, and Dumbledore thought I would be perfectly alright spending the summer stuck with my muggle relatives, cut off from the wizarding world and vulnerable to the occasional dementor visiting my bedroom.” 

Harry is humiliated to find that over the course of his ranting, his indignant anger has somehow morphed into tears stinging at the back of his eyes and an unsteady trembling of his breath.

“...Dementor?” Malfoy repeats faintly, his eyes wide.

Both boys jump at the sound of Snape’s drawling voice.

“What, pray tell, is going on here?” 

Their professor scans the kitchen, his gaze lingering on the flour coating the cupboards and the lump of dough on the floor. 

Harry grimaces. He braces for Malfoy to blame it all on Harry, to throw him under the bus and try to get him kicked out. He wonders what his punishment will be.

“Hello, Severus. We were having a… conversation,” Malfoy says, his voice sounding slightly strained.

“Is that so,” Snape asks dryly. 

Harry opens his mouth in shock and then closes it. He darts his eyes around the kitchen. 

“It was an… er, an accident,” Harry adds, glancing at Malfoy with uncertainty. “I’ll clean it up. Sorry, sir.” 

“Is that your bread?” Snape asks, gesturing toward the lump of dough on the ground. 

Harry feels disquieted. “Yes,” he admits. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to waste the ingredients. I can erm… I can pay for it. And I won’t do it again, sir.” 

Snape waves his wand and the splatters of flour disappear from the kitchen cupboards, counters, and floor. The ruined dough lifts up and is deposited into the waste bin. Harry watches it go with a lump in his throat. Outside, the sky breaks, and it begins to softly rain, drops pattering quietly on the window. 

“It is no matter,” Snape says. “Simply start over, and endeavour to not drop the entire thing on the ground this time.” He eyes Malfoy shrewdly, and the other boy shrinks into himself, a heavy look of guilt on his face. 

“I can start over?” Harry asks, barely daring to believe it. 

“Of course, idiot boy,” Snape says. “Unless you used up the last of the ingredients?” 

“Er… no,” Harry says. “There’s enough to make more.” 

“Very well,” Snape says. “Will it be sufficient for two loaves?” 

“I think so,” Harry says slowly, confused, “but I wasn’t planning—” 

“Draco,” Snape interrupts. “You will join Harry.” 

“What!” Both boys exclaim, turning to glare at each other in horror. 

“I don’t want to do it with that git—”

“Baking is for house-elves , Severus, it’s not fair—”

“He’s going to bloody ruin it, I’d rather not do it at all if he’s going to—” 

“Enough,” Snape says dryly, yet again interrupting their frantic complaints. “Draco—consider this a supplemental potions lesson. Believe it or not, baking is often just as careful a process as potions making. It would serve you well to gain some skills inside the kitchen if you truly wish to be a potions master someday.” 

Harry stops short, surprise replacing some of his indignation. “Potions master?” He turns to Malfoy. “You want to be a potions master when you grow up?” 

Malfoy flushes. “It’s none of your business,” he says sharply. “Severus, you promised to not tell anyone about that! If father catches wind—” 

“Harry,” Snape goes on, “this will be an exercise in patience and self-control for you. I want you to show Malfoy how to make the bread, and focus on remaining calm. Utilise your breathing exercises from the book.” 

Harry stares at his professor in dismay. “You want me to practise Occlumency now ? While I bake bread ? With him ?” 

“Yes,” Snape answers. “It is as good a time as any. Furthermore—in this setting, you are not at risk of falling asleep. You may be able to make significant progress, if you put in a concerted effort.” 

Harry slumps in disappointment, shooting a nasty glare at Malfoy. If the other boy hadn’t walked in and purposefully antagonised him, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

Malfoy looks just as regretful as Harry. 

“Severus,” he starts, “I was going to work on my Herbology essay today, though. Don’t you think that takes precedence over—” 

“I am quite certain that you have finished your schoolwork for the summer, Draco,” Snape says, raising a knowing eyebrow at the boy. “Now, cease your complaints and excuses, and make cinnamon bread, both of you.” 

Snape sits down at the kitchen table and drags the latest Daily Prophet over. He begins to flip through the pages. 

“Er…” Harry hesitates. “Sorry, but I erm… I thought you had a potion brewing, sir?” 

“It is in stasis,” Snape replies without looking up. “I will remain here in the kitchen for the next hour, so as to ensure there is no senseless squabbling between the two of you during this process.” 

“Bloody hell,” Malfoy mutters under his breath. 

“Language, Draco.” 

***

Later that day, when the bread is cooling safely on the counter and Snape has finally withdrawn back into his potions lab, Harry sits on the windowsill of the spare bedroom, his feet clad in a pair of extra thick socks and Noodle is tucked safely in the sleeve of his sweater. 

“Potter.” 

Harry cocks his head to the side. There is a warm slice of cinnamon bread in his hand, and he raises it to his mouth, taking a small bite. From the corner of his eye, he sees Malfoy hovering at the entrance to the room. 

“Malfoy,” he says. 

Harry’s mind has calmed considerably over the course of the afternoon and evening. He doesn’t want to admit that Snape was right—it had helped to work on his breathing exercises while baking. He had been in the midst of kneading the dough when his irritated thoughts had slipped and the tension in his shoulders had melted away. It had been easy, then, to show Malfoy how to shape the bread. How to sprinkle the mixture of cinnamon and sugar over the dough and slide the whole thing carefully into the oven. 

“I didn’t want to come here,” Malfoy says, closer now, and Harry turns his head fully, blinking at the other boy who is now perched delicately on the edge of the windowsill beside him. 

Harry takes another bite of his cinnamon bread. The windowpane is cool, and it is still raining softly outside. The herbs in the garden ruffle slightly from wind, and thunder rumbles quietly in the far distance. Harry watches a drop of rain slide down the glass. He wonders if, in the morning, more weeds will have sprung up among the freshly-watered dirt.

“Mother made me. She said that circumstances had changed, and that we weren’t safe anymore, and we had to go into hiding.” 

Harry hums in acknowledgement. 

In his mind, he is still kneading the dough. It has to be perfect—if he stops too early, the dough will be too tight, not elastic enough, and it won’t rise in the oven. If he does it for too long, the bread will come out chewy, and won’t taste right. Aunt Petunia would be furious, but—Harry immediately guides his thoughts back into a safer place. He made the bread in Snape’s house, and his professor said it was alright, and even when he messed up, he wasn’t punished. 

“I didn’t understand. I…” Draco hesitates. “I wanted things to stay the way they had been. I like the manor. I like my room. I like…” Draco’s gaze drifts to the window. He traces a running raindrop with his finger. “I like watching the peacocks run around the grounds in summer.” 

“Peacocks?” Harry repeats. The cinnamon bread is still warm in his hand. Noodle slithers out of his sleeve and flicks his tongue out, tasting the air. 

Draco pushes himself all the way up on the ledge, leaning his back against the window pane, and he shivers. 

It smells like yeast, and the field where I left my nest, Noodle hisses. 

You wouldn’t like it, Harry hisses back. Too much sugar. 

“Mother let slip that the Dark Lord wanted me for a task. He chose me. I was elated. I could not understand why we would flee.” 

“I could,” Harry says. 

“I finally had a chance,” Malfoy adds. “A chance to prove myself. To bring honour to our family name. To step up beside my father and take on my rightful place beside him.” 

“Yeah. Sure. Right at Voldemort’s feet,” Harry says. He realises his chest has tightened, his fists clenching, and his calm thoughts have begun to fray. He forces his fingers to loosen and he stares out the window. One of the rosemary bushes has blown over. He’ll have to replant it in the morning. 

“Well, yes,” Malfoy says. “But mother wouldn’t hear it. After I whinged and moaned for hours, she finally brought out her pensieve.” 

Harry jolts. He thinks of the one he had found in Dumbledore’s office. It had felt weird to dive down into the swirling memories. And he had learned about Barty Crouch Junior, and Snape, and… 

“She showed me memories of father, after his Death Eater meetings. They were… not pleasant.” 

Harry nearly snorts. He wants to make a scathing joke. But he glances over at Malfoy, and sees the boy’s pale, unsmiling face. 

“I can’t imagine they would be,” he agrees. He runs one finger along Noodle’s scales. It’s grown colder in the room by a few degrees, and he wishes that he had put on a second pair of socks. Thunder growls again in the distance but it’s further now, muted, and the rain has quieted. 

“I’ve never seen my father look that way.” Malfoy shudders. “He would come home a shell of a man—shaking, and trembling, vomit all down his front. Pale as a ghost. It would take my mother hours, sometimes days, even, to bring him back to normal. She would hold him and pet his hair while he cried… like a newborn babe.” 

Harry’s lips press tightly together. He remembers what Snape has looked like, each time he returns from a meeting. And he has seen, firsthand, how Voldemort treats Lucius Malfoy. Harry can still recall the visceral feeling of disdain, of disgust that had coiled through his body upon looking down at the man during his vision. 

No, Voldemort is not fond of Malfoy’s father. Not at all. 

“I’m… sorry,” Harry offers. 

Malfoy half-shrugs. “I don’t think I’ll ever see him the same. Not after all of that. I thought that joining the Dark Lord meant… something different.” He shifts uneasily on the windowsill. “I don’t want to end up like my father. A snivelling wreck. A man who couldn’t even remember his own name. My mother told me that if I couldn’t complete my task, the Dark Lord would punish me just the same.” 

“Probably,” Harry agrees. 

Malfoy glances away from the window and makes brief eye contact with Harry. “I didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t want him to hurt me, like he hurt my father. I didn’t want to die.”

The rain picks up for a moment, and the raindrops pelting the glass window nearly drown out Malfoy’s next words. 

“So, yes, Potter. I ran away. I took the only offer of refuge that was available to me. I hid behind my godfather’s cloak because I am a coward. Just like my father.” 

Malfoy slips away from the windowsill then, his feet padding along the floor until Harry hears him sink onto his bed. There is the soft shuffling of sheets and blankets, a quiet huff of breath, and then silence. 

Harry finishes the last bite of his cinnamon bread, although his stomach has begun to twist with discomfort. He presses his socked feet to the cold wooden floor and pads over to his bed on the other side of the room. He sits on the edge of it and looks over at Malfoy, who is laying with his back to the room. 

“I don’t think that makes you a coward,” he says quietly. 

“What?” Malfoy asks.

“I don’t think not wanting to die makes you a coward,” Harry says. 

Malfoy stiffens, but doesn’t respond. 

“I thought I was going to die in that graveyard. The only duelling spell I could remember was expelliarmus.” Harry snorts humorlessly. “I tried to run. I hid behind the headstones. I hoped the police would come and save me, or maybe Dumbledore. But nobody came. So I don’t… I don’t blame you. For taking an out when it was offered to you. You can’t really fight Voldemort. You can only hope and pray that you can hold him off long enough to escape.”

Thunder rumbles again outside, louder this time, and the sounds of rain intensify. Harry shivers and crawls underneath his blankets. Noodle climbs up and coils around his neck. 

“Police?” Malfoy says after a while, sounding confused. 

“Oh, erm… muggle aurors, I guess.” Harry shrugs. He waits for a long time to see if Malfoy is going to respond, but after a time, the only thing he hears is the soft sound of the other boy’s snoring.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! :) Does anyone else like to bake? My favorite thing to make is banana bread! I have like 30 frozen bananas in my freezer right now hahaha

Chapter 23: thick as thieves // feed AND shelter?

Notes:

I was doing last minute edits and accidentally turned this into a monster of a chapter. Enjoy! <3 Haha thank you all again for all of the kind comments and feedback, I love it! It keeps me going :)

also a quick update: I have gotten far enough into my writing to be able to confidently say that the endgame here is eventual or at least pre-Drarry. So I am going to update the tags. It's definitely going to be more of a slow-burn, and I have no intentions of letting Harry & Snape fall by the wayside. But just wanted to confirm that for anyone who's been wondering.

On the seventh day following Malfoy’s arrival, Harry is scrubbing the sink of the upstairs bathroom and humming quietly to himself. 

It’s been a quiet, peaceful morning. Harry thinks, rather optimistically, that if he works quickly, and finishes his chores without pause, then perhaps he can seclude himself somewhere in the house where Malfoy and Snape won’t bother him, and he can spend the remainder of the day relaxing and catching up on lost sleep.

Snape had mentioned at breakfast that he wanted to spend some time reviewing Occlumency with Harry today, but Harry is hopeful that his professor will be too preoccupied with potions brewing, and he will forget.

It is, of course, right in the midst of Harry’s hopeful planning when Malfoy decides to waltz into the bathroom, his hands shoved in his pockets and a bored, moody look on his face. He sniffs imperiously.

“Can I help you?” Harry asks snidely, after Malfoy has been watching him in silence for a few minutes. He squeezes out the sponge and scrubs at a stubborn spot on the old ceramic counter. 

Malfoy scowls. “This is all your fault, Potter.” 

“Want to try that again, Malfoy?” 

Malfoy’s face heats and he nearly stomps his foot. “It’s not bad enough that Severus has you doing the work of a house elf, is it? You had to give him the idea to drag me into it, too?” 

Harry wrinkles his nose. “What?” 

“Here’s how it is, Potter. I, unlike you, wasn’t raised by common muggles. And I, unlike you, am not in the habit of getting my hands dirty.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, “and you, unlike me, are a slimy, lazy little git.” He turns away and resumes his scrubbing, ignoring Malfoy’s squeak of fury. A moment later the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and when he senses that Malfoy is about to grab his arm Harry wheels around, his wand already out and pointing underneath Malfoy’s chin. 

“Don’t touch me,” Harry says coldly. He presses the tip of his wand into Malfoy’s pale skin. The other boy swallows audibly and narrows his eyes at Harry. 

“Don’t be rude, then,” he snarls, backing away and putting some space between them. He eyes Harry’s wand warily. “I’m only up here because Severus thinks it would be ‘good for my character’ if I joined you during your ‘daily chores.’” Malfoy sneers at Harry.

Harry stops short. He turns and leans against the bathroom counter, stumped. 

It had made sense for him to have these rules—to have to clean the house, or do yard work, or cook a meal. He has appreciated Snape only requiring an hour of work from him each day. The agreement had felt like a blessing, after Harry’s summer full of constant hard labour with little rest or reward.

But Malfoy? Harry wants to laugh. 

The blond git clearly hasn’t worked a day in his life. Harry doesn’t know what Snape is playing at, forcing Malfoy to follow Harry around and play at house work. Is he trying to make Harry’s life harder?

Harry frowns at Malfoy and reluctantly stows his wand in his back pocket. 

“That’s stupid,” he finally says. 

“Obviously,” Malfoy says, rolling his eyes. “Who knows what the man is scheming now. Probably hoping we’ll be thick as thieves by the end of summer.” 

Harry snorts derisively. “Yeah, right.” 

“I would much rather hex you than be friends with you,” Malfoy adds, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway of the bathroom.

“Agreed.” 

Malfoy grins sharply at that and then darts his eyes toward the hallway and lowers his voice. “Listen… since neither of us want to be around the other, why don’t you just tell Severus what he wants to hear? He’ll think I’m being a good boy and bonding with his precious chosen one, and you won’t have to deal with me getting in the way of your house elf duties. And then I can go and have a lie down.” 

Harry stares at the other boy. “You’re joking.” 

Malfoy’s face colours. “No, I’m not. It’s a good idea.” 

“I’m not going to lie to Snape,” Harry hisses indignantly. 

“Why not?” Malfoy argues, his voice raising. “I do it all the time.” 

“He’s… that’s different,” Harry splutters. “He’s your godfather, isn’t he? And your head of house. You’ve gotten away with every little thing since first year.” 

“So?” Malfoy sniffs. 

“So, that’s not how it is for me, is it?” Harry grits his teeth. He wets the sponge under the faucet, adds more soap, and crouches down to scrub at the cupboard doors below the sink. Behind him, Malfoy makes an exasperated sound. 

“Will you stop cleaning for one bloody second?” 

“No,” Harry snaps. “I’ve still got twenty minutes left.” He ignores the other boy and continues cleaning.

Malfoy huffs. “You can’t be serious.” He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the tub. Harry can feel eyes on him but he continues cleaning. He opens the cupboard and begins to organise the toiletries and towels into neat piles. 

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he finally says, when he straightens up and all that’s left to do is sweep and mop the tiled floor. He levels a harsh glare on Malfoy. “It’s like you’ve said. Snape might be your godfather, but to me, he’s just a man who has always hated me and now has the unfortunate duty of looking after me.” 

Malfoy’s expression twists into something stiff and unreadable. 

“So, no,” Harry continues, his harsh look morphing into a smirk as he stares at the other boy. “I’m not going to lie to Snape for you. You’ll have to suffer through cleaning with me every day, or else I’ll make him send you away. How does that sound?” 

Malfoy’s face grows positively murderous. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“I would,” Harry says. He shrugs. “I’m stuck with you anyway, aren’t I? Might as well get some hard labour out of it.” He smirks at Malfoy and grabs the broom from its spot against the wall. He thrusts it into Malfoy’s hands. “Now, why don’t you sweep the floor? I’ll go and get the mop bucket.” 

“Oh, you absolute wanker, you—” 

Harry ignores the other boy’s indignant complaints and takes the stairs two at a time, nearly skipping into the kitchen and stopping short when he spots his professor seated at the table with a steaming cup of tea. 

Snape raises an eyebrow at him. They can both faintly hear Malfoy from upstairs, whinging loudly and banging the broom around. 

“I, erm… I told him to sweep,” Harry says evasively. 

“I see,” Snape says.

“Did you… did you really tell him he had to help me?”

“Yes,” Snape says. “I thought it was only fair.”

“Why?” 

“I thought that would be obvious.” Snape eyes Harry curiously, taking a sip of his tea. 

Harry checks the temperature of the water in the sink, and scuffs one socked foot along the floor. He speaks thoughtlessly. “Well, he doesn’t need to, right? He’s a part of your family. He doesn’t need to earn his place.” 

Snape straightens up slightly in his seat, and his eyes go steely. 

Harry grimaces. 

He can always tell when he’s said something that his professor will want to ‘unpack’ with a great deal of uncomfortable conversation. He checks the level of water in the mop bucket but it’s not even halfway full yet. 

“And you believe that the opposite is true for you?” 

Harry avoids Snape’s gaze. “Of course, sir.” 

His professor makes an angry sound and Harry ducks his head. He wraps his palm around the handle of the mop bucket. He could just take it back upstairs now, and finish filling it up in the bathtub. 

“Listen to me, Harry.” 

Harry risks a quick glance at his professor and sees the man still seated at the kitchen table, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “When you are a part of a household, everyone must do their fair share of work. There is always cooking and cleaning to be done. It is a team effort. It is not meant to be a test of your worthiness, or a sign of your ranking among other household members.” 

“Ranking?” Harry repeats. 

“Did your cousin not have any chores?” Snape sounds exasperated. 

Harry thinks about it. 

He doesn’t think that he’s ever seen Dudley do any kind of housework. One of his earliest memories of his cousin was when Aunt Petunia had instructed Harry to ‘clean up Duddykin’s room,’ and he had spent the better part of a day gathering up all of the dirty clothes and food wrappers and empty soda cans. He had crawled underneath Dudley’s bed, finding the floor sticky with spilled cherry soda. Aunt Petunia hadn’t let Harry have dinner until Dudley’s room was sparkling clean. All the while, Harry had listened to his cousin lounging downstairs, eating crisps and watching his favourite television show. 

“Well?” Snape asks. 

“Erm… no, sir. I don’t think so?”

Snape’s eyes bug out and then he appears to reign in an angry outburst. He stares at Harry. “Well. You must understand that this is not that kind of household. You complete a few chores every day to contribute to the functioning of this home, just as I complete my own housework and as Draco has been instructed to begin contributing.” 

“But I can handle it on my own, I’m used to it, so you and Malfoy shouldn’t have to—” 

“Harry.” 

Harry closes his mouth and shrinks back against the counter. His heart begins to thud erratically. 

“The hour of housework was a limit , not a requirement ,” Snape says emphatically. “It was to ensure that you did not continue spending entire days and nights scrubbing the house from top to bottom until your palms were cracked and bleeding. Do you understand?” 

Harry hesitates, and then dares to be honest. “No, not really. Sir.” 

“It means that I would prefer you not work at all, if you do not wish to,” Snape says. 

Harry feels like his brain is short-circuiting. “Not at all? Sir?” 

“That is what I said.”

“But I…” Harry holds tighter to the rim of the mop bucket, trying to will his hands not to shake. “I have to.” 

“Why?” 

“Because… because…” Harry struggles for words. “That’s the rule.” 

“And why do we have rules?”

Harry is confused. He doesn’t know what his professor wants him to say. 

“I don’t…” he pauses and shrugs. “There are always rules, sir. There has to be. So that I know what I’ll get punished for.” 

Snape’s expression shutters. He swears quietly under his breath and Harry flinches. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” 

“You must cease with your endless apologies,” Snape hisses frustratedly, and Harry jerks back, knocking the mop bucket and sloshing water out over the counter. His eyes widen in panic and he darts to the backdoor, escaping into the backyard. 

“Harry,” Snape calls out, following behind him.

Harry squints up at the bright sunshine above them and retreats further out into the garden. He glances behind himself briefly but doesn’t catch sight of Noodle. The little snake is probably burrowed deep in a hole somewhere, hunting for bugs or mice. 

“Harry,” Snape says again. He’s drawn closer, and Harry cringes back, holding his hands out pliantly in front of him. He itches to pull his wand out, but he knows that will just make his professor angrier. 

“Okay, I won’t,” Harry says quickly, trembling. “I won’t clean anymore at all if you don’t want me to, sir.” 

Snape’s tone is careful, like he’s speaking to a wild animal. 

“You think that I am angry with you. I am not angry, Harry. And I am not forbidding you from housework. I am simply trying to understand the motivation behind your actions, so that we may resolve this issue of communication.”

Snape takes a step closer to Harry, and Harry edges further out into the yard, his features twisting in nervous confusion. “I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t understand.” 

“I have told you that a child does not earn their meals. Have I not?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, a bit hesitant. He takes another small step backward. “But…” 

“In a similar vein—one which I had hoped, naively, that you understood—a child does not earn their place in the home. It is a right, not a privilege. It is not to be given and taken away at will.” 

Harry gapes uncomprehendingly at his professor.

Snape appears flustered now, and even angrier. “Do you truly believe that you will be punished if you do not clean for exactly one hour every day, no matter the circumstances?”

“I mean,” Harry says falteringly, for some reason beginning to feel embarrassed, “I know that you… I know we made the vow, so, er… I know that you can’t… hurt me?” 

He does know that, although he is hard-pressed to get his subconscious mind to understand it. 

“The vow has absolutely nothing to do with this,” Snape says calmly, appearing to have reigned in most of his raging emotions. “You are a child in my care, and that means it is my duty to feed and shelter you, no matter the amount of time, cost, or effort that that takes.” 

“Feed and… and shelter?” Harry repeats, his tone laced with uncertainty.  

“Yes,” Snape nods. His eyes shift, and he seems grief-ridden for a fraction of a second. 

“Oh… but, no, I’m not worth…” Harry stumbles over his words, his heart pounding. “You didn’t have a choice, see, taking me in.” 

A look of understanding comes over Snape and he steps closer to Harry, who for once, does not flinch further back. He permits his professor to come closer.

“It was my choice,” Snape says firmly. “I offered you the deal, and you accepted. And had you chosen to reject my offer, it would still have been my responsibility to remain at your side until I could ensure that another trusted adult would take care of you.” 

Harry fidgets. His brow furrows. “Yeah, but… now you’re stuck here with me. And I’m—I’m a lot to deal with. My nightmares, and, erm… I’m not very well-behaved, and I don’t know how to follow directions, and… Uncle Vernon always wanted me to stay out of the way, and be quiet, and pretend like I don’t exist—” 

Harry trails off then, his face paling, seeming to be at a loss for words. When he looks back up at Snape, he is teary-eyed. “Do you… do you want me to do that, too?” 

“No, Harry,” Snape says. “Absolutely not.” 

Harry nods slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line in an effort to keep them from trembling. He feels lost, staring up at his professor with his shoulders hunched. 

“Will you come back inside, now?” Snape says quietly. He offers his arm to the boy, relief lining his features when Harry stumbles forward and allows himself to be tugged against Snape’s side. He sags against his professor and stumbles back into the house on unsteady feet. 

Snape guides him to take a seat at the table and Harry sinks into it shakily, his eyes darting toward the sink where the mop bucket still rests. He half-stands up again.

“I haven’t finished the bathroom—”

“Sit down, idiot boy,” Snape says, pushing down firmly on Harry’s shoulders until he sags back into his seat. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees a quick flash of blond hair and wide, inquisitive eyes peeking around the door frame to the kitchen before flashing back out of sight. 

“Now,” Snape says. He settles into the chair across from Harry’s. “It is imperative that you understand something. Are you listening, Harry?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, his voice small and thin. He folds his hands in his lap. 

“I am revising our housework rule to specify—more clearly this time, so as to avoid any possibility of further miscommunication—that you may, if you feel so inclined, complete up to one hour of labour per day. If you wish to reduce the amount of time, or have a day off, that is always permissible. If you exceed this hour limit, you will not be punished , but you will be required to discuss your reasoning with me, so that I know if you are overextending yourself. I will be sure to inform Draco of the same terms.” 

“Okay,” Harry says. He stares down at the wood fibres of the table, his eyes glassy. He feels unmoored, unsettled, and doesn’t quite understand why his professor cares about this so much. 

Aunt Petunia never cared if he spent all day cleaning. She would send him out to do yardwork during the hottest part of the day without batting an eye, and often wouldn’t allow him inside for water until sundown. She would withhold dinner until every inch of the kitchen was sparkling. 

Harry learned how to work hard despite these conditions, and it became like second nature to him. It was the only thing that gave him worth, in the Dursley household—he knew that none of his relatives wanted to scrub the toilet, or dust the bookcases, or mop the floor—so he would do those unsavoury tasks, and in turn, he could sometimes secure a bite to eat at the end of the day, or a long, undisturbed nap in Dudley’s second bedroom, or a nice cool glass of water. Harry knew they wouldn’t get rid of him, not if he could prove himself to be of enough value to them. If he could show just how much his presence made their lives easier. 

Of course, then the dementor attack had happened, and Uncle Vernon’s nervous breakdown, and then Harry had been locked in his cupboard, and then—Aunt Petunia had driven him into the forest and left him there, and so Harry knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had failed. His freakishness had finally outweighed his usefulness. 

“Is that acceptable?” 

“Yes, sir,” Harry says. He blinks hard. 

Snape watches Harry carefully. He narrows his eyes. 

“Remind me then, Harry,” he says quietly. “What is my duty?” 

“Duty, sir?” 

Harry begins to feel as if he is losing the thread of conversation. He wishes he knew the magic words to get his professor to stop looking at him like that. He wants to finish filling up the mop bucket, and he wants to go back upstairs and tease Malfoy some more, and he wants to stop talking about his feelings. He wants to stop feeling this tight, hot thickness in his throat.

“My duty to you, and to Draco, and to any child in my care,” Snape says. “We discussed it only moments ago. Have you forgotten already?” 

“No,” Harry says stubbornly. He wracks his brain. “You, erm… you said… to feed? And…” 

“And?” Snape prompts.

“Shelter.” 

Snape nods approvingly. “Now, say it in a complete sentence, like a person who is fluent in the English language would,” he says, and Harry flushes. 

“I can speak in complete sentences,” he protests. 

“Excellent, Harry. Then it should be no trouble at all.” 

Harry scowls at his professor. He feels a wild urge to stomp his foot on the ground, like he has seen Malfoy do when the boy is very angry. 

“Go on,” Snape prompts patiently. 

“Ugh. Fine. God. ” Harry takes a deep, steadying breath, pushing his frustration away and deciding that cooperating with his annoying professor is the quickest way out of this situation. “It’s your duty to, erm… feed and… and shelter me,” he says lamely, stumbling over his words, his cheeks hot with embarrassment. He feels like he is eight years old again, in grade school, trying to read aloud without mispronouncing a word. 

“Once more, please,” Snape says. “Speak clearly. Less fumbling.” 

Harry grits his teeth. “It’s your duty to feed and shelter me,” he says, harshly spitting out each word, one by one so there can be no accusations of mumbling or stuttering. “There. Happy?” 

“No matter what?” Snape asks. His expression has softened. He draws closer to Harry, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“No matter…” Harry hesitates. He thinks over the previous conversation again. “No matter the, erm… time, cost, or… effort.” 

“Good,” Snape says. “And do you believe that, Harry?” 

Harry frowns. He stares down at the table. His cheeks feel wet, his vision suddenly blurry, and he’s not sure why. 

“Harry,” Snape says gently. He squeezes Harry’s shoulder, and Harry feels a conflicting urge both to flinch away from his professor, and lean into his touch. He blinks rapidly and shakes his head. 

“I don’t, I don’t know… I, I can’t—” 

“It’s alright,” Snape says. “It’s alright, Harry.” 

Harry scrubs furiously at his cheeks. 

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” he says frustratedly. “This is so, I’m so stupid, this is bloody ridiculous and I’m—” his voice breaks, and he wraps his arms tightly across his chest, ducking his head. 

“Do not speak of yourself in such a manner,” Snape says firmly. “This can be a difficult concept to understand, especially for a child that has not been provided these things uninterrupted since birth.” 

“No, it’s not—difficult,” Harry says, swiping at his cheeks again, frantically willing himself to pull it together. “I mean, of course, it makes sense, but I just don’t—you can’t really expect me to—” 

Harry cuts himself off suddenly. He darts nervous, wary eyes at his professor and then looks down. He fidgets with his fingers. 

“Expect you to do what, Harry?” 

“To believe you,” Harry says miserably. “I’m sorry—”

“That is quite alright,” Snape interrupts. “I appreciate your honesty.” 

Harry looks up and stares at his professor in shock. 

“I cannot control your beliefs surrounding the matter, nor can I change the fact that, for the better part of your life, you have been saddled with adults who have not cared for you. I only ask that you attempt to keep an open mind, and allow me to demonstrate for you the actions of an adult who has some semblance of responsibility, and who prioritises your safety and wellbeing.” 

“You, sir?” Harry asks shakily. “You mean… you?” 

Snape sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks down at Harry and then gently tousles the boy’s hair, running his fingers through Harry’s curls. Harry nearly preens at the feeling, like a touch-starved cat. A hot blush rises over his cheeks again, and he feels the flow of his tears finally slowing to a stop.  

“Yes, Harry,” Snape says quietly. “I am, of course, referring to myself.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. He sniffs and rubs at his eyes. “Okay. Yeah I can try, erm… to keep an, an open…”

“An open mind,” Snape reminds him.

“Right.” Harry nods. He takes in a slow, deep breath, and exhales, his shoulders dropping. “An open mind.” 

“Good,” Snape says. He releases his grip on Harry’s shoulder and moves a few feet away, settling into one of the other kitchen chairs. He scrubs a weary hand over his face and sighs. He looks at Harry in a calculating manner. “Now then—I believe you have done quite enough chores for one day. Would you agree?” 

“Well…” Harry hesitates. He thinks about everything they have just discussed, but there is still a niggling feeling in the back of his mind… a sense of incompletion.  “I dunno, I haven’t… I still haven’t finished mopping.” He fidgets in his seat and adopts a mulish expression.

“It is no matter. Draco is perfectly capable of picking up where you left off,” Snape says, and Harry cringes. 

“I, erm… All due respect, of course, sir, but I don’t think Malfoy knows how to do it,” he says. “I was going to show him how—”

“Then I will assist him,” Snape interjects. “I believe between the two of us, we will manage mopping the bathroom floor for one day. This will, in addition, provide me with an opportunity to speak with Draco, and ensure that there will not be any further miscommunication about the distribution of work in this household.” He raises an eyebrow at Harry. “Alright?” 

“Erm… alright,” Harry nods uneasily. “But then… what do you want me to do? For the rest of my cleaning time?” 

Snape sighs. He rubs at his temples. He looks at Harry intensely, like he is trying to solve a particularly puzzling equation. 

“Do not worry about the remainder of your hour. You may spend the rest of your day however you wish,” he finally says.

“Oh,” Harry says. “Okay.” 

***

For lack of something better to do, and not wanting to work on his homework, Harry spends the next few hours outside. He sprawls out on the grass on his stomach, basking in the warm feel of the sun on the nape of his neck and his arms. He wonders how Malfoy is faring inside, having to do housework for what is probably the first time in his entire life.

Harry snorts. Snape is probably getting an earful, right about now.

After a time, Noodle finds him. Harry is near dozing off when he hears the soft, familiar hissing of his snake. He cracks one eye open. 

You should not slumber in broad daylight, without shelter, Noodle says with a hint of reproval. You leave yourself vulnerable to predators. Did your nest mother not teach you the basics of survival?  

It’s fine, Harry hisses back. There’s no threat to me here. Or… only sunburn, I suppose. If I were outside all day, maybe.

Sun… burn? Noodle repeats slowly.

Don’t worry about that, Harry says. It’s not a problem for you. You don’t have the same kind of skin as me. 

We are snakes, Noodle says.

The snake slithers closer, rearing up to regard Harry’s face, and flicks its tongue out, tickling Harry’s cheek. Harry swats fondly at it. 

I’ve told you, I’m not a snake, Harry says with a hissing laugh. I’m human.  

No other human can speak to me as you do, Noodle counters, sounding smug. You are a snake. You are just big, loud, and clumsy, and all of your scales have fallen off. That is why I must keep a very close eye on you. 

Harry feels mildly insulted. He yanks up a handful of grass from the earth and tosses it at the snake, smirking when it slithers backward, trying to shake off the loose bits of grass from its scales. 

I’m only big in your eyes, he protests. I’m normal-sized for a human. Small, even. And I’m not clumsy. You should see me ride a broom. 

Ride a broom?  

Harry spends the next ten minutes trying to explain quidditch to the snake, to no avail. He eventually heaves a great sigh and rests his face in the crook of his elbow. 

Forget it, he hisses. 

No, I will not forget. And I will not permit you to go floating up in the sky on nothing but a flimsy stick. You will fall and all your fragile bones will break.

Harry rolls his eyes. I won’t fall.

Yes, you will. And you’ll die and then I will have no one to talk to.  

You’d be fine, silly, Harry says. He flips over onto his back and rests his arm over his eyes, blocking the sun. He feels Noodle slither up his arm and onto his chest, curling into a ball. 

They stay like that for a long time, and Harry drifts off at some point. He feels warm, and his thoughts are soft and faint inside his head. He rests one hand on Noodle’s scales, stroking them gently. The weight of the snake is nice on his chest. It keeps Harry grounded—reminds him where he is, safe in Snape’s backyard, with no chores to do and no impending punishments to prepare for. 

He only moves when the sound of the back door creaking open jolts him into awareness. 

“Harry,” Snape calls out from inside the house. Harry sits up, catching Noodle in his hand and letting the snake slither off into the undergrowth. He rubs his eyes and brushes loose pieces of grass off his shirt, looking over at his professor. 

“It is time for lunch. Come inside and wash your hands.”

“Yes sir,” Harry says. He clambers to his feet and hurries back inside, kicking his shoes off just inside the door and entering the kitchen. 

Malfoy is already seated at the table, a half-eaten sandwich in front of him. He takes a bite of a chocolate biscuit and glowers at Harry. “Pleasant morning for you, was it?” 

“Better than yours, I’m sure,” Harry responds, smirking at the other boy. He crosses to the sink and quickly scrubs the dirt off his hands before sitting down at the table across Malfoy.

“Silence,” Snape cuts in, before Malfoy can respond. “Eat your food, both of you.” He slides a plate over to Harry, along with the familiar swirling nutritive potion, and Harry sighs, uncorking it and drinking it down as quickly as possible. He picks up the sandwich and takes a big bite. He wants to get the taste of the potion out of his mouth as quickly as possible. 

When Harry glances up, Snape is sliding a tub of ointment over to him. 

“What’s that?” Harry asks, spewing crumbs all over his plate. Snape scowls at him. 

“Chew and swallow, please,” he says. “Idiot boy. Weeks of staying here with me, and you still have the manners of an ape.” 

Harry grins at his professor. “Sorry, sir.” He finishes his bite, swallowing carefully this time, and takes a big drink of water. 

“You went outside without putting on sunblock, again,” Snape says, sounding annoyed. “I want you to apply this topical lotion to your face, neck, and shoulders—after you have finished eating,” he adds emphatically when Harry immediately sets down his sandwich. 

Harry frowns at Snape. “I don’t need that stuff, though,” he says with a shrug. “I was only out there for a couple hours.”

“Do not argue with me.”

“The only one of us who needs sunblock is Malfoy, and he never goes outside anyway,” Harry says, sniggering, his grin widening when the other boy shoots him a vicious look. 

“I do so,” Malfoy says hotly. “Maybe I could have today, if I wasn’t being put to work like a bloody slave—” 

“Language,” Harry says cheerfully. He takes another bite of his sandwich. 

“That is enough.” Snape gives them both a warning look and then stands, walking over to the sink and beginning to clean up from the meal preparation. “Any more bickering, and I will have you both writing lines for the rest of the afternoon. Is that clear?” 

“It’s not my fault, Potter’s the one who—” 

“Clear, sir,” Harry says loudly, talking over Malfoy. He glares at the other boy. “Shut up, you idiot,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “It’s like you actually want to write lines, or something.” 

“Of course I don’t want to write lines,” Malfoy hisses back, his face colouring. “I’m not stupid. You’re such an arsehole, Potter.” 

“I heard that,” Snape says over his shoulder. “Finish your sandwich, Draco. You may go outside after lunch if you’d like. There are plenty of hours of daylight left for you to enjoy.”

“I’ll go with him, sir—” 

“I don’t think so, Harry. You will remain indoors, and we will go over the next chapter of your Occlumency studies,” Snape says immediately. He turns from the sink, wiping his hands on a clean, white dish towel. “I will not permit you to weasel out of it.” 

“Damnit,” Harry mutters under his breath. 

Malfoy perks up, seeming pleased at the idea of having the entire backyard to himself. He finishes off his sandwich and jumps up, taking his dishes to the sink and then walking over to the back door. 

“Is Noodle outside? I want to play with him.” 

“He’s not a toy, you stupid git.” 

“For the last time—language, Harry.” 

“Sorry, sir.” 

“So where is he then?” Malfoy cranes his neck, looking out into the backyard through the glass pane on the door.

“None of your bloody business—” 

“ Harry. ” 

Harry sighs. “He’s probably sleeping under the oak tree.” 

Malfoy’s gaze sharpens, and then a broad grin spreads over his face. “I can see him! He’s all coiled up. Do you think he’ll bite me if I touch him?” 

“Maybe,” Harry says with a shrug. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” 

The grin slides off Malfoy’s face and he frowns at Harry. Snape lets out an audible, disappointed exhale of breath. 

Harry feels slightly guilty. “He won’t bite you,” he amends. “He knows us all by smell, see? He knows you’re not a threat.” 

Malfoy smiles again, his eyes brightening, and Harry blinks. An odd feeling curls behind his ribcage. He tentatively returns the boy’s smile, and Malfoy’s eyes widen a fraction of an inch. He whirls around and slams the door open, running out into the backyard without a second glance.

Chapter 24: shared custody of a snake (also: what is foot ball?)

Notes:

Another long one!

I've been struggling with this chapter but just wanted to post it anyway so I don't get stuck. Also--blink and you'll miss it, but the last part of this chapter contains our first Draco POV! :) <3

***I did very minimal research on the Fantastic Beasts book and on Horntails and Unicorns lol. Most of the stuff on them in this chapter, I just made up. Just wanted to make that clear lmao

A promise is a promise, and Harry tries very hard to adjust to his new dynamic with Snape and stop going through each day waiting with bated breath for the man to turn on him. 

He starts to sleep marginally better at night, at least. There are a few notable times that he makes it all the way to morning without jolting awake from a dizzying nightmare. Instead he wakes slowly, the sun warming his face from the window. Instead of listening to the choked, panicked sounds of his own breathing, on those mornings Harry burrows further into his blankets and listens to the quiet, muffled snores emanating from Malfoy in his bed across the room. 

And on those mornings, he doesn’t jerk in alarm when Snape raps lightly on the door to their bedroom. He sits up slowly, pushing his blankets off, and feels around the nightstand for his glasses.

“Morning,” Harry says, his voice rough, shoving his glasses onto his nose and blinking sleepily at his professor. 

The corner of Snape’s mouth twitches. “Not for much longer. It is nearly noon. You slept well, I gather?” 

Harry scrubs at his eyes beneath his glasses and yawns. He stretches his neck from side to side and then swings his legs over the bed until his feet touch the wood floor. 

“I suppose,” he says with another yawn. He runs a hand through his tangled curls. “Somehow managed, despite Malfoy’s snoring.” 

“Shut up, scarhead,” Malfoy rumbles sleepily from across the room. 

Harry grins. He sticks his hand under the sheets, pulling Noodle out of his drowsy coil, and coaxes the snake to wrap around his wrist instead. Then his smile falters and he looks up at his professor nervously. 

“Oh, erm… I’m sorry, sir.” 

Snape fixes him with a sharp gaze. “And what are you apologizing for this time, Harry?” 

“Erm, well, for sleeping in?” Harry says. “That’s one of the rules, isn’t it? I’m supposed to come down for breakfast at nine, only…” he gestures helplessly at the bright sunlight coming in through the window.

Snape purses his lips. “It is of no consequence. I am pleased to see you catching up on sleep. If that means the occasional lie in, I am not opposed.” 

“Oh,” Harry says again. His shoulders drop, and the nervousness melts from his frame. “What if I had slept all day, though?”

“All the better,” Snape says curtly, calling Harry’s bluff. “You are a growing boy. I trust that you will listen to your body and rest when you are tired.” 

“Could I sleep all day too, Severus?” Malfoy asks, still burrowed beneath his blankets. 

Snape takes in a slow, patient breath, exhales, and then closes his eyes briefly. “Merlin, help me,” he mutters quietly to himself. 

“C’mon, Malfoy,” Harry says, rolling his eyes, and fighting back another yawn. He rifles through the drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a pair of wool socks. “If you don’t get up soon, I’ll have eaten all the bacon.” 

Malfoy sits straight up in bed, his hair wild and tangled, and glares threateningly at Harry. He shoves his feet into his slippers and stands. 

“Yeah, right,” he shoots back, eying the snake wrapped around Harry’s wrist with a hint of envy. “You have the stomach space of a starved street rat, Potter. I think I’ll manage quite well. And I believe I’ll have all the bacon I want while you and Severus are busy working through another one of your behavioral issues.” 

“We’re not—I don’t have the stomach of a—seriously, Malfoy? I don’t have any bloody issues, you prat—” Harry splutters, his cheeks reddening. Noodle tightens around his wrist and lets out an inquisitive hiss.

“Draco,” Snape says, his tone sharp. 

The blond boy quiets, his cheeks going slightly pink, and his sneer morphs into a sulky frown. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean it.” 

Snape pointedly clears his throat, drawing both of their attention back to him. “I have already eaten, therefore I will not be dining with you this afternoon,” he says. “I have a few potions brewing that need frequent attention. I thought the two of you might enjoy lunch outside for today. There is an assortment of sandwiches, crisps, fruit, and crudites assembled beneath the oak tree.” 

“Outside?” Harry perks up, immediately forgetting his embarrassment over Malfoy’s comments. He gazes out the window. The grass looks warm and inviting, and the herb garden is ruffling from a slight breeze. It looks like Snape has laid out Harry’s favorite blue and green quilt, and there is a large pitcher of strawberry lemonade. 

“I don’t want to eat out there,” Malfoy scoffs, his lip curling. “There’s bugs, and dirt, and it’s hot as dragon’s breath. Why can’t we eat in the dining room like civilised wizards?” 

“You will survive the experience,” Snape says drily. “I am certain of it.”

“But—what if I get sunburned, Severus! My skin is sensitive, it can’t withstand so much—” 

“Draco,” Snape says exasperatedly. He looks pointedly at the tub of sunblock on the edge of Harry’s desk, and Malfoy scowls. 

“There’s a football in the shed,” Harry says suddenly. He looks between Malfoy and Snape awkwardly. He’s not sure why he’s interrupting, except that he doesn’t like when the two of them bicker. “Do you, erm… do you want to kick it around the yard?” 

The scowl disappears from Malfoy’s face and is replaced with a look of bemusement. He regards Harry oddly, almost in suspicion, like he thinks Harry might be joking. 

“Foot ball?” 

Harry shrugs. “Oh. It’s like a, er… quaffle? You erm… well, you normally play football with teams, see. But we can just kick the ball back and forth anyway.” 

He forgets, frequently, that Malfoy is unfamiliar with many muggle topics. Harry finds it baffling.

Malfoy ruminates on it. “I suppose that could be interesting,” he finally responds. He glances at Snape, who only sighs. 

“Get dressed, both of you. You may play ball if you wish, but only after you have finished eating. I want you both out of bed and downstairs in ten minutes or less—do not make me come back up here.” He then withdraws from the room, closing the door gently behind him. 

Harry climbs fully out of his bed, adjusting the sheets and fluffing the blankets out until they are more or less arranged to his liking. He glances over at Malfoy, who is staring at him oddly again. 

“What are you looking at?” Harry says hotly.

Malfoy’s eyes widen and quickly flick downward before flashing back up, like he has no control over them. “Nothing,” he responds quickly.

 Harry frowns. He glances down at himself and quickly becomes aware of the fact that he’s shirtless, dressed in nothing but his striped pajama pants and socks, and he reddens, scrambling for a tee shirt. 

“Don’t you have an hour-long shower to get started on?” Harry says with a sneer, feeling exposed. 

He knows that he’s lost a significant amount of weight since what happened at the end of fourth year and then the following weeks spent with the Dursleys. It has happened to him each summer—he’s used to it by now, has come to expect it, even, but he is grateful at least that Snape’s watchful eye over the past month has him beginning to steadily gain back what he lost. But he knows that it will take time. And he doesn’t need a poncy spoiled git like Malfoy, sneering at his shrunken frame and poking fun at him for being an underfed orphan.

Malfoy goes red and scoffs. “I don’t take an hour, you stupid—” 

“Whatever,” Harry says, his tone biting.

Malfoy glares at Harry and flounces from the room, his bag of toiletries slung over one shoulder.

***

“Can I hold him?” 

Harry, who had been dozing on his bed, half-asleep after working on another one of the dozens of Occlumency exercises Snape has assigned him, jerks back into awareness and scowls. Noodle hardly shifts from his curled up position on Harry’s chest. 

“Sod off, Malfoy.”

“I’ve never held a snake before. Mother wouldn’t let me.”

“I really don’t see how that concerns me,” Harry says. His eyes drift shut and he tries to get back to the feeling of relaxed calm he had been basking in only moments previously. They had kicked the ball around for hours that afternoon, only stopping when Malfoy grew tired and claimed to have twisted his ankle. Harry’s body feels pleasantly sore, his limbs heavy, and he has begun to blink slower and slower as the night has progressed.

“Come on , Potter. I’m bored.”

Harry sighs and sits up in bed, holding out his hand for Noodle to slither onto. He glares at Malfoy across the room. “What part of ‘sod off’ do you not understand, you stupid git?” 

Malfoy frowns at him. “Quit name-calling, you prat. Severus said we’re supposed to get along, remember?” He sniffs snootily and Harry rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever. He’s not a pet, anyway. How many times do I have to tell you? You can’t bloody well just demand to hold him anytime you want.” 

“You hold him all the time,” Malfoy argues, his cheeks flaming. 

Harry shrugs. “He likes me.” He grins smugly when he sees the other boy stiffen with anger, his pale fists clenching. 

“Well I think he would like me too, if you would just… just put in a good word for me,” Malfoy says, his words huffy. 

Harry yawns and sits further up in his bed, sliding his legs off the mattress and onto the ground. He stretches and pushes the white quilt into a ball at the foot of the bed. “And why would I do that?” 

“Because there’s nothing else to do in this stupid bloody house, that’s why,” Malfoy whines desperately, looking for all intents and purposes as if he is about to get on his knees and beg. 

Noodle uncoils slightly in Harry’s hand, sticking out his tongue to taste the air. 

The boy is being very loud again, he remarks. 

Harry sighs. He wants to know if he can hold you .

Hold me? The snake rears up, confused. I do not need to be held.  

I am holding you right now, Harry reminds Noodle.

Malfoy watches the exchange from his bed, frozen, his eyes wide. 

Noodle makes an odd hissing noise, sort of like a scoff. 

You are not holding me, Noodle says. I happen to be lying on you, that is all. Your essence is warm, and it makes me sleepy.

Harry doesn’t know how to respond to that. 

Can he hold you, then? He asks instead. He’s being very annoying.

Do you want me to bite him? Noodle asks.

No, Harry says quickly. No, just… sit in his palm for a while. 

Fine.  

“Come over here, then, before he changes his mind,” Harry says to Malfoy, his voice tight with irritation, and the other boy brightens up, jumping out of his bed and rushing over to Harry. 

“Really? You actually asked him?” 

“How else am I supposed to get a moment of peace and quiet?” Harry says nastily, and then feels bad when the eager smile slips off Malfoy’s face. “Whatever. Here.” He thrusts his arm toward the other boy, who rears back in shock. 

“Wait—right now? He’s—” Malfoy’s face pales. “Is he going to bite me?” 

Harry wants to make another sarcastic comment, but he sees the real fear on Malfoy’s face and hesitates. “No,” he says shortly. He holds his hand out closer, and the other boy finally leans in, holding a shaking palm out. Noodle uncoils from his spot on Harry’s palm and slides over to Malfoy, who lets out a quiet, nervous shriek, holding perfectly still. Noodle wraps tightly around his arm. 

“Oh my god, he’s going to fucking bite me,” Malfoy whimpers, his voice shaking. 

Harry snorts. “I thought you wanted to hold him? Calm down, jesus. He’s just getting comfortable.” 

Malfoy takes in a sharp, jittery breath, staring down with wide eyes at the snake wrapped around his arm. Noodle curls around a bit more and then goes still. 

“Am I… am I doing it right?” Malfoy asks, glancing up at Harry, terrified. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Malfoy. You’re doing a brilliant job.” 

Noodle flicks his tongue out, brushing the skin on the other boy’s arm, who jumps in fright. “What’s he doing?” 

“He’s just smelling you,” Harry says. “Honestly, you’re acting ridiculous. He’s just a garden snake.” 

“I told you I’ve never held a snake before,” Malfoy whines, shifting closer to Harry on the bed and thrusting his arm out. “Tell him not to bite me!” 

Harry sighs again. He thinks you’re going to bite him, he says to Noodle, who uncoils slightly and looks at Harry. 

I could bite him, Noodle says. Should I?  

No, Harry says, exasperated. Stop squirming around, anyway. You’re making him nervous. Are you doing that on purpose?  

No, Noodle says evasively. 

“What’s he saying?” 

“Nothing,” Harry says. “He’s not going to bite you, Malfoy. Not unless you give him a reason to. Do you want to hold him or not?” 

Malfoy stares down at the snake with a conflicted expression. 

“I suppose,” he says, his voice sullen. He settles down further onto Harry’s bed and slowly rests his wrist on his lap, not taking his eyes off Noodle. 

“Sure,” Harry mutters, scooting back on the mattress to give the other boy room. “Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?” 

Malfoy ignores him. He moves his other hand very slowly towards Noodle, and when the snake doesn’t react, he carefully strokes his scales. 

Harry rests his back against the headboard and closes his eyes. He has no hope now of restarting his mind exercises, not now that Malfoy has climbed onto his bed like he owns the place and has begun cooing delightedly at Noodle like the snake is a newborn baby. 

“I knew you were a nice snake,” Malfoy whispers after a while. “You’d never bite me, would you?” 

“I can still hear you, Malfoy. I’m right here.” 

“Shut your mouth, Potter,” Malfoy hisses. He lowers his voice and resumes talking with Noodle, who perks his scaly head up in interest. 

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with such an idiotic master. I would never have named you something as common as Noodle . Would you like it if I called you something else? Hmm? How about Zephyr?” 

Harry opens one of his eyes and stares incredulously as Malfoy holds his wrist up to his face, staring in awe at the snake and continuously petting its scales. 

“Absolutely not,” Harry says, and Malfoy ignores him. 

What is the boy saying? Noodle asks. 

Nothing, Harry says. He’s just trying to bother me.

“What’s he saying?” Malfoy asks hotly. “Tell me.” 

“No,” Harry retorts. “Quit ordering me around, you git. I’m not one of your bloody house-elves.” 

Malfoy reddens and glares at Harry, but can’t seem to think of an adequate response, and instead sniffs imperiously, looking back down at Noodle and continuing to stroke his scales. 

They sit in silence for a while, and an unusual calm descends over the room. Harry eventually lays back down in defeat, pressed as close to the headboard of the bed as possible, and flings an arm over his face, closing his eyes. He listens to Malfoy murmuring quietly to the snake on the other side of the bed. 

At some point the bedroom door creaks and Harry sits up to see Snape peering into the room, an unreadable expression on his face when he spots the two boys. 

“It is past nine,” Snape says curtly. 

Harry yawns and stretches, shooting an accusatory glance at Malfoy. “ I’m ready for bed. Malfoy won’t leave me alone.” 

Malfoy scoffs and rolls his eyes. “It’s barely past nine, Severus. And Potter’s being a bore. I already finished all of my schoolwork for the summer, so what else am I supposed to do?” 

“You could get off my bloody bed, for starters,” Harry suggests lightly, his eyes narrowing at the other boy. 

“Do not start,” Snape immediately says, speaking over Malfoy’s indignant squawk. “It is far too late in the evening for me to contend with more of your endless squabbling. Draco—put down the snake and return to your own bed. Harry—put on your pyjamas and complete your exercises.” 

Harry and Malfoy both groan, glaring at Snape and then at each other. 

“But he’s wrapped around my wrist,” Malfoy whines, holding out his arm for Harry and Snape to witness. “He doesn’t want me to put him down yet. Do you, Cersei?” 

Harry scowls. “His name is Noodle, you stupid obnoxious git.” 

“Harry,” Snape says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. 

Harry rolls his eyes and climbs out of his bed, grabbing his pyjamas from the wooden chest and stalking into the bathroom. He ignores Malfoy’s proffered snake-covered arm. 

“I told you to put the snake down, Draco,” Harry hears Snape saying. “I do not have all night to deal with this.”

“He’s—I said, he’s wrapped around my wrist,” Malfoy complains, spluttering. “I don’t speak bloody Parseltongue, do I? How am I supposed to get him off?” 

“Language,” Snape says, sounding beleaguered. 

Inside the bathroom, Harry shrugs out of his shirt and pants and pulls on his striped pyjamas. He wets his toothbrush and glances at himself briefly in the mirror. His hair has gotten longer, wilder, nearly brushing his shoulders now.

He wonders what Sirius would think of it. 

Outside of the bathroom, Snape and Malfoy continue arguing. 

“—wasn’t even sleeping yet, he was just reading that stupid book again—” 

“—told you before, Draco, Harry needs his rest and it is imperative that you refrain from agitating him directly before bed—” 

“—wasn’t agitating him, merlin’s sake, I just wanted to hold Noodle for a bloody minute. I don’t see how—” 

“ Draco Lucius Malfoy. ” Snape lowers his voice to an angry hiss, and Harry can’t make out the words anymore past the rushing of the sink. He turns off the faucet and leans his back against the door to the bathroom, straining his ears and feeling uneasy at the conversation being had without him present. 

“I know,” Malfoy is saying in the next moment, his tone quietly petulant. 

“Do you? Because it seems that at every turn, I find that you have devised some new and creative way in which to antagonise Harry. Do you not understand the urgency of his Occlumency study? Have you not also woken with him, nearly every single night since you arrived here, to witness the aftereffects of his nightmares?” 

“I have, Severus. I… I’m sorry, alright? I understand.”

“Very well. Then put down the snake, now, and get into bed. We will discuss this further in the morning.” 

“But, you’re not listening! He’s still wrapped around my bloody arm—” Malfoy is hissing furiously, his face red with embarrassment, when Harry comes striding out of the bathroom and stalks back over to his bed. 

Are you going to let him go? Harry asks Noodle. We have to go to bed now. He avoids Snape and Malfoy’s eyes, staring blankly down at his snake. 

I am comfortable here, Noodle says, flicking his tongue out and curling tighter around Malfoy’s arm. The boy pets my scales very nicely. 

Fine then, Harry snaps, his words hissing out more sharply than usual, and Snape and Malfoy both flinch in surprise. He climbs into his bed and gets under the covers, turning to face the wall and reluctantly opening the Occlumency book. The words swim in front of his eyes and he blinks furiously, his shoulders tensed. 

“Harry,” Snape begins, sounding unusually hesitant. 

“Aren’t you going to take him back—” Malfoy starts. 

“He doesn’t want to go with me,” Harry says, his tone thick with venom. “You wanted to hold him, so you can deal with it.” 

“...Oh,” Malfoy says. 

Harry doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so angry. He can hardly breathe in and out evenly, let alone focus on the book of mind arts held tightly in his hands. He hunches further into himself when Snape speaks. 

“Do not forget your—” 

“I know,” Harry snaps. “I’m not deaf, you know. I’ve spent hours every bloody day for the past two weeks studying this stupid book, and nothing has changed. So I’m sorry my fucking nightmares are keeping you both up at night, but there’s not really anything I can do about it.” 

The room is deathly silence for a long, painful stretch of time. 

“Language,” Snape finally says, his tone dry. 

Harry, despite himself, snorts. His shoulders relax a fraction of an inch.

“Does this mean I have to go to sleep with this bloody snake wrapped around my arm all night?” Malfoy sounds half-awed and half-terrified. Harry ignores him. 

“I apologise if our conversation made you uncomfortable, Harry,” Snape says. “I did not mean to imply that your nightmares are an inconvenience or a hindrance. I merely wish, for the benefit of your well-being, that you may achieve a good night’s rest every now and then without being plagued by painful memories.” 

“I know,” Harry says dully, the venom seeping out of his tone. He sighs and closes the book, curling up under the blankets. He keeps his back facing the room. “I’m sorry, sir.” 

“It is alright,” Snape says. “...Are you quite certain your snake would not prefer to pass the night with you?” 

“His name is Noodle,” Harry mumbles, ducking his head under the blanket. “And yes, I’m sure. He said he wants to stay with Malfoy.” 

Malfoy remains silent, across the room in his own bed. There’s the sound of rustling sheets, and the plumping of a pillow, and then Malfoy is whispering something to Noodle under his breath that Harry can’t quite pick up. 

“Very well…” Snape says, sounding unusually hesitant. 

“And I have the breathing exercises memorised,” Harry says. “So you can turn out the lights.” 

“Are you certain?” 

“Yes. Please,” Harry says. His throat tightens, and his eyes sting. 

“...Alright, Harry. Goodnight.” 

The room darkens, and Harry listens to the creak of the door shutting, and the sound of Snape’s near-silent footsteps down the hall. 

Harry and Malfoy lay on opposite sides of the room in silence for a while, only broken but the soft sounds of Malfoy shuffling around, and Harry attempting to perform his stupid breathing exercises while his throat is still tight and his eyes swimming with tears.

After a while, though, both boys settle in for the night, and Harry lets out a slow, heavy sigh. 

“Potter?” Malfoy says. 

Harry clenches his jaw very tightly for a moment, and then forces himself to relax. “What do you want now?” 

“I… well, er… I’m sorry if I… antagonised you.” 

“You didn’t. It’s fine.” 

“Okay,” Malfoy says. “...Goodnight, then. Potter.” 

“Goodnight.” 

Harry burrows further under the blankets and shoves his pillow over his face, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and trying to shove down all of his wayward emotions until they are bottled back up. He drifts off like that, uneasy, missing the comforting weight of Noodle on his chest.

***

When Harry wakes later that night after only a few hours of restless slumber, he jolts upright in bed, his face white and his whole body shuddering. 

He feels a hand brush his sweat-soaked bangs away from his forehead, and after a quiet murmur, his damp pyjamas and bedsheets are dry and cool. 

Harry is not exactly sure where he is. Echoing remnants of pain in his wrist, pounding in his head, and Aunt Petunia’s sharp voice bounce around his skull and Harry thinks that… he must be in his cupboard again. He flinches and scrambles backward when a hand touches his shoulder. 

It’s dark in the cupboard, like always, and suffocatingly silent, and Harry is afraid to thrash about too much and crush his glasses. Aunt Petunia warned him she wouldn’t buy him another pair this time, and he doesn’t want to have to wait until school starts back up again. He stretches a shaky hand out and sobs with relief when the spectacles are placed into his palm. He shoves them on his face and strains his eyes, staring around into the soft darkness. 

“Harry,” someone says, their voice low and careful. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry pleads. “I’m not a freak, I’m not. I… I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it.” 

“It is alright, Harry,” the same person says. It doesn’t sound like Aunt Petunia, but Harry doesn’t know who else would be talking to him through the cupboard door. He shudders and wraps his arms around himself. 

There is a quiet word, and a soft flush of light, and the room brightens marginally. Harry’s eyes dilate and he cringes, ducking his head down. 

“Please, don’t lock me in again,” Harry begs, his voice weak and trembling. “I don’t… I don’t like the dark. I’ll be good, honest.” 

“What’s he talking about?” A second voice hisses from further away, and Harry jerks his head toward the sound in confused alarm. 

“Quiet, Draco.” 

“Please, Aunt Tuney,” Harry says, his voice small. “Can’t I do the washing up? Or a bit of gardening? I don’t want to be alone in here anymore… I’m scared.” 

“I am not your aunt. And I am certainly not going to lock you up in a cupboard,” the voice says. Harry lifts his head slightly and squints. At the foot of his bed there is a man crouched, dressed in a maroon dressing gown, eyeing him worriedly. Harry looks down at the soft white quilt twisted through his fingers, and then he glances across the room. The boy sitting up on his bed stares back at Harry with wide, discomfited eyes. 

“Oh,” Harry says slowly, glancing between them nervously. “But see, Aunt… Aunt Tuney, I mean—Petunia, she said I have to, because I’m in trouble for… erm, for being a freak again—” 

“You are not in trouble,” the man interrupts, sounding forcibly calm. 

Harry squints at him again, his features swimming, and then his eyes widen as recognition finally begins trickling through his mind. He reels back, startled, his face colouring in shame. He looks around the room once more as familiar sights and sounds begin to clear the fog of memory, and then he inhales sharply. 

“Do you know who I am?” the man asks.

“I…” Harry hesitates. “I, I don’t… Snape?”

“Yes.” 

“Oh,” Harry says faintly. He winds his hands through the blanket and stares down at his lap. His shoulders hunch. “And you’re… we are, erm, sorry, where are we?” 

“We are in my home, Harry. Spinner’s End.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. A huge, overwhelming flood of confused relief and embarrassment floods through his body and he slumps back against the headboard, suddenly feeling exhausted. 

On the other side of the room, Malfoy sits up and climbs out of his bed. 

“Not now, Draco,” Snape warns, sounding weary. 

Malfoy ignores their professor and pads across the room on bare feet. Harry tenses up as he approaches, watching the other boy warily, but all Malfoy does is lean over and stick his arm out. 

There you are, Harry hisses, blinking heavily up at his snake. He holds his arm out and Noodle slithers onto his wrist, travelling up his arm to coil around his neck. 

Go back to sleep, the snake says, his tongue coming out to taste the air and tickling Harry’s skin. Harry shivers. Snape adjusts his blankets, pulling them up to Harry’s shoulders and layering another blanket on top. The weight of it calms him.

But I don’t want to, Harry responds to Noodle, but his teeth are chattering so much he’s not sure if the Parseltongue comes out right. The snake doesn’t respond, only travelling down from his neck to curl up on his chest, forcing Harry to lay back down on the bed, his curls sprawling across the pillow. 

Snape presses his palm gently to Harry’s forehead for a moment, and then adjusts his blankets once more before standing. 

Harry half-sits up before he can, and clutches at his professor’s sleeve.

“You’re leaving?”

Snape pauses and looks at him gently. “I am simply returning to my quarters,” he says, but makes no move to tug his arm out of Harry’s grasp. 

“But I don’t…” Harry looks around the room blankly and then back up at his professor. “Did I do something… er, something wrong?” 

“No,” Snape says. “You have done absolutely nothing wrong, Harry.” 

Harry nods jerkily, his eyes filling with fresh tears, and Noodle hisses something to him, but he’s not listening. 

“If you do not wish to return to sleep at this moment, you may come downstairs and have a cup of tea,” Snape offers, and Harry stares at him hopefully.

“Really?” 

“Truly,” Snape says. 

Harry sits up further in bed and Noodle slithers down to wrap firmly around his ankle. “Okay,” he says, sliding out of his bed onto shaky legs. He gathers the white quilt up in his arms and trails behind his professor as they walk out of the room and head downstairs. 

***

Draco watches as Severus guides Potter out of the room, and a tight feeling wraps around his chest. He throws on his dressing robe and slippers and is out the door behind them in a flash.

Potter doesn’t realise Draco is following silently behind them until the moment that Draco clambers up onto the couch beside him. He jumps and turns wild, confused eyes on the other boy. 

“What?” Draco says crossly. “I wanted tea, too.” 

Potter blinks at him bemusedly and then sinks into the couch, seemingly too exhausted to care. He offers the other side of his blanket to Draco, who hesitantly takes it, tucking his knees beneath the fabric. 

They listen to the creaking of the old house, the sound of a spoon clinking against glass in the kitchen and Severus’s near-silent footsteps. When their professor returns to the room, he presses a warm cup of chamomile tea into Potter’s hands. 

Potter holds the teacup tightly, his hands trembling around the small ceramic cup. Draco watches as he lifts it carefully to his lips and takes a small sip.

Severus sets another cup of tea on the side table beside Draco, and then hands him a book. Draco stares up at Severus uncomprehendingly. Severus gives him a pointed glare and nods toward Potter, who has curled up with his knees tucked into his chest and is staring vaguely at the corner of the room. 

Draco’s confusion softens into a look of understanding. 

“Drink your tea, Harry,” Severus says, and Potter startles, liquid sloshing in his cup. He blinks with wide eyes at Severus and lifts the tea back to his lips, swallowing down another mouthful. 

“Fantastic Beasts…” Draco mutters, studying the cover of the book. “Really, Severus? A textbook? And this is from first year, too. Don’t you have anything more—” he trails off when he sees Potter perking up. 

“We’re on Hungarian Horntails,” Potter says. He glances between Severus and Draco, uncertain. “Er… Snape usually reads it, though…” he looks back at Draco and a look of embarrassment crosses over his face. 

“Draco is going to take a turn tonight,” Severus says curtly, sweeping back into the kitchen. “Merlin knows he could use the practice.” 

“Hey,” Draco complains. 

 Potter reddens, curling further into himself. “You don’t have to,” he says. “It’s… it’s stupid, I’m not a baby—”

“Be quiet, Potter,” Draco says, glaring at the other boy. “Severus wants me to read it, so I’m going to read it. Now drink your bloody tea and try not to stare about the room like you’ve just witnessed unspeakable horrors. It’s unsettling.” 

“Draco,” Severus warns from the kitchen. 

Draco rolls his eyes and flips through the book, pausing on a page in the middle that has a large sketch of a horned dragon. 

“ ‘The horntail’s history of violence can be traced back as early as the twelfth century,’ ” Draco reads, beginning from the middle of the page where Severus has left a page marker. “ ‘Until the reign of King Andrew the Second, the wizarding kingdom of Hungary struggled to find non-lethal ways to curb the territorial desires of the wild creatures.’ ” 

Draco pauses and frowns, looking up at Potter, who is staring at him avidly. 

“Drink your tea, Potter,” he says. Potter blinks and looks down at his lap, lifting his teacup to his lips again. He takes only a small sip and then looks back to Draco expectantly. 

Malfoy sighs, his eyes finding the spot on the page again. “ ‘What the monarchy did not understand at the time, was how to appeal to the gentler temperament of the Horntail. When approached correctly, and with the right offering, these spiny dragons were, as unlikely as it seems, almost always willing to reach a peaceful compromise.’ ” 

Potter nods knowingly. He presses the warm teacup to his lips and closes his eyes, swallowing down another mouthful. 

“ ‘I encountered my first Hungarian Horntail in 1925. It was a hot, dry summer, and the dragons in the Romanian Sanctuary were growing restless. One morning I was assisting in a feeding when I came across a—’ ” 

Potter sighs heavily and leans his head against the arm of the couch. He stretches out with a yawn, swallowing down the rest of his tea before setting the cup on a side table. He curls up and draws his legs close to his chest.

Draco has finished the chapter on Horntails and has flipped ahead to start on unicorns when he looks up over the top of the book and sees that Potter’s eyes are closed and his breaths have become slow and even. 

“Potter?” Draco whispers. Potter shifts slightly and mumbles something, burrowing further underneath the absolute mountain of blankets Severus has layered over him.

Noodle, who has slithered up from Potters’s ankle to coil around his neck, lifts his head up and turns his eyes on Draco. He flicks his tongue out and hisses. 

“Why do you always have to rub it in,” Draco mutters. “I can’t understand you, you know.”

On the other end of the couch, Potter twitches in his sleep and his face screws up in pain. Draco stares at him worriedly and his gaze wheels about the room, landing on Severus, who is leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. 

“Continue reading aloud,” Severus says. “He may be asleep, but the familiar sounds will soothe his subconscious.” 

“Oh,” Draco says. He looks down at the book in his lap and then back up at his godfather. “But, Severus… what was he talking about?” He turns his gaze on Harry, whose expression has smoothed somewhat.

“He was disoriented upon waking, and confused his dreams with reality,” Severus says. “It happens quite regularly.”

“Right,” Draco says slowly. “But… I thought Potter’s nightmares were about the Dark Lord? Or… about what happened that night in the maze? With Diggory?” 

“They most typically are,” Severus responds. He has a wary look in his eye, like he wants Draco to stop talking, but Draco presses on. 

“Then who’s Tuney?” 

Severus’s face shutters. A vein in his forehead pulses. “Do not speak that woman’s name in Harry’s presence,” he says sharply. “ Ever. ” 

Draco rears back and swallows nervously. 

“Do you understand me, Draco?” 

“Yes, sir,” Draco says. He is brimming with more questions, but he is familiar with the look in his godfather’s eye and he knows when not to push. Beside him, Harry shifts restlessly. Severus points to the book and Draco sighs, lifting it back up and finding his spot. 

“ ...‘Her name was Cherry, and she was fiercely protective over her young. I was the only one of our party of twelve whom she allowed to approach. After hours of careful coaxing, I was permitted to pet her mane. We named her foal Ash, after the tall trees of the Welsh forests.’ ” 

Potter shifts again and hums, settling further down into the couch. His legs relax and he stretches them out across the cushions, nudging Draco’s hip. Draco goes perfectly still and his careful reading stutters. 

Severus has gone back to the kitchen, and Draco hears him open a cabinet and drag something heavy out onto the counter. There is the sound of chopping, then, and the running of a faucet. A burner clicks on. 

Draco jumps when Potter makes a quiet, nervous sound. He looks down at the other boy, whose face has once again twisted into a grimace of pain. 

“Stop that, you dolt,” Draco mutters. He wraps his hand around Potter’s ankle. The boy is wearing a pair of mismatched socks—one bright red and covered in little broomsticks, and the other green, covered in shiny gold snitches. Draco stares at them bemusedly. When Potter twitches again, Draco tightens his grip, waiting until Potter settles down before he begins to read again. 

“ ‘The next time I returned to that forest, Ash was nearly fourteen years of age. I was pleasantly surprised to find that he remembered me. We spent many days exploring those woods together, and by the end of it Ash had offered me several of the hairs from his mane for the construction of wands…’ ” 

Draco reads and reads until his voice is hoarse, and the soft hints of morning are brightening the outside sky through the window. Eventually his words slow, and his eyes droop, and the book drops face-down on his lap. He reclines his head on the arm of the couch and falls asleep, his breaths synced with the boy beside him, his hand still wrapped firmly around Potter’s ankle.

Notes:

Thank you again for everyone leaving comments and kudos!! Nothing motivates me more, and I love hearing what everyone's thinking about as they read <3 also, happy thanksgiving!

Chapter 25: war and pumpkin juice

Notes:

this one ends on a slight cliffhanger! For anyone who doesn't want to be left hanging--it will be resolved in the next chapter! :) we love unreliable narrator Harry, lol

Harry finds the deck of playing cards a few mornings later, shoved behind a row of dusty potions textbooks in the sitting room. The cards are old, many of them stained or creased, but they shuffle decently well in his hands. 

“What have you got there, Potter?” Malfoy asks, sauntering into the room with an overly-full glass of orange juice.

Harry shrugs. “Cards.” 

Snape’s voice drawls from the kitchen. “If I find so much as a single drop of juice on my furniture, you will be scrubbing every centimetre of that room for the foreseeable future.” 

Both boys ignore him. 

“I haven’t played exploding snap in ages,” Malfoy says. He sets his orange juice on the coffee table and the liquid nearly sloshes over the rim of the cup. 

“It’s not exploding snap,” Harry says. “They’re just normal playing cards.” He shuffles them again. He can hear Snape cracking eggs in the other room.

“Oh.” Malfoy seems puzzled. “What do you do with them, then?” 

Harry stares at the blond boy. “What? Have you never played a regular card game?” 

Malfoy’s face heats. “Of course I have.” He glowers at Harry, who grins back at him. 

“Right… I forgot, playing cards are for muggles, aren’t they?”

“That’s not true, Potter. We studied tarot in divination just last year.” 

Harry laughs. “Yeah, right, but that’s different.” He shuffles the cards again and Malfoy watches intently, trying to appear uninterested. “We play cards all the time in Gryffindor. You don’t in Slytherin?”

Malfoy scowls and doesn’t respond. 

“Let me guess—you find it beneath you? You don’t want your perfectly clean, pure-blooded hands touching something muggle-made?” 

“Harry,” Snape warns, and his voice sounds closer now. Harry looks over at the doorway and sees his professor leaning against it, a dish towel in hand and a disapproving look on his face.

Malfoy’s face is pale with anger when Harry looks back at him. “Don’t be an arse, Potter. I was only asking.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Do you want to play something or not?” 

“Like what?” 

Harry shrugs. “I dunno, there’s erm… blackjack, war, crazy eights—” 

“War? What’s that?” Malfoy interrupts.

“Oh, it’s easy. Sort of boring, honestly.” Harry shuffles the cards once more, just to see the look of barely-concealed envy on Malfoy’s face, and then divides the cards into two equal stacks. 

“It is time for breakfast,” Snape says. 

“Are these your cards, sir?” Harry asks. “I found them on the bookshelf. Do you have any other games?” He pushes one of the stacks of cards over to Malfoy. 

“No,” Snape says curtly. “Now, boys. Before the eggs cool.” 

Malfoy sighs, getting up with a groan and heading into the kitchen. 

“You’d better not look at my cards, Potter,” he says over his shoulder. 

“I haven’t even explained the rules yet,” Harry retorts, rolling his eyes again. He picks up his own stack of cards and flips idly through them, organizing by number. 

“Harry,” Snape says quietly, once Malfoy has left the room. “I do not want to ask again.”

“I know,” Harry responds, just as quiet. He looks down at the coffee table. “I’m just not feeling hungry this morning, sir.” 

“I assumed as much,” his professor says, his tone careful. “You may not feel hungry, but regardless, you must attempt to eat and drink something. And if you are truly not feeling up to it, you must have at the very least a nutritive supplement.” 

“I don’t like how they taste.” Harry’s voice is sullen.

It’s embarrassing how often he finds himself arguing with his professor about food, of all things. He had thought that the man would lose interest, after a while, and stop paying attention. He had thought that after a few nutritional potions, Snape would forget the matter and would stop watching Harry so closely at every meal. But it’s been nearly a month and a half now, and a day does not pass that his professor is not fixing him with a steely-eyed gaze, asking him to sit down at the table and try to eat something. 

“Yes, as you have informed me repeatedly,” Snape responds, his voice dry. “And—as I tell you every time—the potion unfortunately cannot be mixed into something more palatable. But you may drink it quickly, and then wash it down with a glass of pumpkin juice, if you’d prefer.” 

Harry, despite his souring mood, perks up at the mention of his favourite juice. Snape heaves a long-suffering sigh. 

“Are you two nearly finished arguing? Bring me my orange juice, Potter,” Malfoy’s imperious voice drifts from the kitchen. “And you’d better not drink any of it.” 

“Harry,” Snape warns, but Harry is already marching over to the aforementioned glass of juice. He picks it up and chugs the entire thing before walking into the kitchen, his professor trailing behind him like he is on the cusp of witnessing a wizard’s duel. 

“Hey,” Malfoy complains, his eyes narrowing when Harry slams the empty glass on the table. 

“That’s what happens when you try and tell me what to do,” Harry says, smirking at the other boy and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. 

“Please,” Snape says, sounding bereaved. “Do not bicker at the table. Draco, there is plenty of orange juice. You are welcome to pour yourself another glass.” 

Harry sits down and spears a sausage from the plate in the middle of the table. Beside him, Snape pushes over a piece of toast and a jar of apricot jam. And then next to Harry’s plate, he sets a familiar, swirling flask and a full glass of pumpkin juice. 

“Can I have pumpkin juice too?” 

“Not this morning, Draco. Finish your food.” 

Malfoy huffs in disappointment and reaches across the table to drag the pitcher of orange juice toward himself. 

Harry spreads jam over the toast and takes a few small bites, glancing surreptitiously at his professor, who nods at him in approval. 

“So how does that game work, anyway?” Malfoy asks, his mouth half-full of potato. 

“ Chew and swallow , Draco,” Snape says. “Conversation after.” 

Malfoy scowls and makes a great show of chewing his food and swallowing dramatically, taking a great gulp of his orange juice. 

“I’ll show you,” Harry says. “It’s easier with the cards in your hand.” He takes another bite of his toast. The apricot jam is thick and sweet on his tongue, the bread warm, and he washes it down with some pumpkin juice. 

He thinks that maybe he was a little bit hungry, after all. 

Snape stands and takes his plate to the sink, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and beginning to wash up. 

“I don’t see how you could have a war with a bunch of little cards,” Malfoy muses. 

Harry snorts. “It’s not real war, Malfoy. You’re just pitting cards against each other.” He finishes his toast and spears another sausage with his fork, taking a small bite. “You know, sort of like wizarding chess, I suppose? But, er… no magic.” 

“Sounds boring,” Malfoy says.

“Well, it is,” Harry says with a shrug. Malfoy stares at him with a bemused look and then glances at Snape. His face falls and he stands up, crossing quickly over to their professor. 

“What is it, Severus?” 

Harry looks over and jumps out of his seat when he sees Snape doubled over, clutching at his forearm and grimacing.

“I am fine,” Snape forces out through clenched teeth, pushing away Malfoy’s proffered arm. “The Dark Lord requires my presence.” 

Malfoy stiffens, shooting a terrified look at Harry and then back at Snape. “He is? Right now?” 

“Yes,” Snape says. “I must go to him.” 

“Do you think it’s because—because of me?” Malfoy blurts out. “My parents, what if they… Severus, what if—” 

“It will be alright, Draco.” Snape opens his arms and Malfoy falls into them, trembling, burying his face in Snape’s cloak. 

Harry’s heart clenches and he averts his eyes, feeling oddly unsettled at the sight. 

He doesn’t think Snape has ever been so willing to hold Harry like that. But he’s—Harry’s different. He’s not Snape’s godchild. He’s not a Slytherin. He doesn’t blame his professor for not wanting to be close to him. Harry has never been the sort of child that deserved things like that.

He keeps his gaze lowered as Malfoy murmurs worried complaints to Snape, and Snape responds quietly. Finally, Snape coaxes Malfoy to sit back down at the kitchen table. He looks between both boys and then rests his hand on Harry’s shoulder. 

“I trust you will both refrain from getting into trouble while I am absent,” he says. “I will not be here to dissuade your schoolyard squabbles. You must remain indoors until my return, and floo to the headmaster’s office in case of emergency.” 

Harry nods tightly, his expression grim, and then his eyes dart toward the window above the sink. 

“Can I—” 

“Yes, Harry. Run and fetch your snake. Please move quickly—I do not have much time to spare.” 

Harry dashes out into the backyard and spots Noodle curled into a lazy heap underneath a rose bush. 

It is going to rain again, Noodle says when he sees Harry. 

Do you want to come inside? Harry asks breathlessly. 

Alright, Noodle responds, uncoiling and then winding around Harry’s lowered wrist. Harry nearly sprints back inside and finds Malfoy and Snape still in the kitchen. Snape has gripped both of Malfoy’s shoulders and seems to have just finished saying something important. Malfoy’s face is resolute, although his lower lip quivers slightly. “Yes, I promise, Severus,” he says. 

“Good,” Snape says. He turns and catches sight of Harry. 

“Do not forget your potion, Harry,” Snape says, nodding toward the kitchen table. “There are more in the drawer to the left of the sink, should you find yourself in need while I am gone.” He shoots Harry a meaningful look and Harry flushes, glancing embarrassedly at Malfoy. 

“Yes, sir,” he says quietly. 

Snape nods. “Very well. I will return as promptly as I am able.” 

He turns about with a whirling of robes and stalks out the front door. Harry listens for the faint popping sound of Snape apparating. Then he turns to Malfoy, who is staring back at him with wide, discomfited eyes. Noodle climbs up his arm and loops around his neck. Harry smiles.

“Are you ready for war?” 

***

They play war until Malfoy grows bored, which is only a few rounds. After that, Harry teaches him to play crazy eights, and then blackjack. When Snape has been gone for a few hours, and the sky outside the window has darkened to a threatening grey, Malfoy begs Harry to teach him how to shuffle. 

“It has to be some kind of magic,” Malfoy insists, staring incredulously as Harry shuffles the cards between his hands again. A half-empty bag of crisps lies between them.

Harry grins. “It’s not magic, dummy. It’s just the cards. Here.” He hands the deck to the other boy. “Cut the cards in half—yeah, like that. Now hold each half in your hand like this… no, you dolt, the other way. There’s… no. God, give them here, I’ll just show you. Put them there, and your thumbs should be on top, and then—” 

That takes up another half hour of time, after which Malfoy is grumpy and Harry is annoyed. 

“It just takes a bit of practice,” he mutters when Malfoy storms out of the room in a huff. 

“It’s stupid, and undignified,” Malfoy announces. “It’s not worth any more of my time.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. 

They have a late lunch, which happens to be ham sandwiches from the fridge that Snape prepared the day before. Harry has a harder time with this meal than he had with breakfast that morning. He pokes at his sandwich and eats a few chocolate biscuits, scowling when Malfoy sets one of the potions next to his plate. 

“Severus said you have to,” Malfoy defends himself, his mouth set obstinately. “You don’t want me to get in trouble when he gets back, do you?” 

“I don’t care what happens to you, you bloody git,” Harry mutters, but he uncorks the potion and chokes it down anyway. Malfoy looks mollified and eventually stands and drags Harry out of the kitchen, citing a need for ‘more distractions.’ 

***

“How long is Severus gone for, usually?” Malfoy asks later, when they’ve run out of things to do and have eaten a light dinner of bread and soup. 

Harry, lounging diagonally on his back across the top of his bed sheets, holds his arm high above his head and watches Noodle twist around his wrist. It’s past bedtime, but he’s not tired, and he really doesn’t want to start his breathing exercises.

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Sometimes a few hours. Sometimes a few days.” Outside, thunder begins to quietly rumble.

“A few days?” Malfoy is incredulous. “What the bloody hell could they possibly be doing for that long?” 

Harry grits his teeth. “I don’t know, Malfoy. Wouldn’t you know more than me, anyway?” 

Malfoy lets out an angry huff of breath. “No, Potter. Mother wouldn’t let father tell me any details on the meetings. She said it wasn’t proper. I never saw more than what she showed me in the pensieve.” 

“Oh.” 

The soft sound of rain drops begins pattering on the window. 

Harry lowers his arm and Noodle uncoils, slithering underneath Harry’s shirt and curling up on his stomach. 

You were right, Harry hisses. It is raining. 

I am always right, Noodle responds, smug. 

Across the room, he hears Malfoy shuffling around on his bed and then there is the sound of soft footsteps on the wood floor. The next time the blond boy speaks, his voice sounds much closer. 

“Where’s Balthazar?” 

Harry groans. “Stop that, you git.” 

“Can I hold him?” 

“Go away.” 

The edge of the bed dips. “Come on. I’m bored, Potter. You can’t honestly be trying to sleep, can you? It’s not even ten o’clock yet.” 

“Bedtime is at nine,” Harry says, and Malfoy snorts. 

“Kissarse. Severus isn’t even here. I haven’t gone to bed before nine by choice since first year.” 

Harry grits his teeth, sitting up in bed and scooting up against the headboard. He supports Noodle with one hand until the snake climbs up his chest and coils around his neck. He scowls at Malfoy. 

“Haven’t you ever heard of personal space?” 

Malfoy sniffs and is opening his mouth to respond when a flash of white-hot pain stabs through Harry’s head. He claps a hand to his forehead and cries out. The pain only deepens, and Harry’s vision blackens around the edges. The room fades around him. 

 

 

“—tell me the truth, Severus. Did you know?” 

“No, my lord. I have not spoken with Lucius since the last—” 

“Crucio!” 

 

 

Soft hands wrap around Harry’s wrists, tugging his hands away from his face, and Harry opens his eyes to squint up at Malfoy. 

“What is it?” Malfoy asks, his face pale. He scans Harry’s face and his mouth thins with worry. “Your scar, it looks—” 

 

 

“—must have been planning to betray me for quite some time. I know that you are close with Narcissa. Tell me, Severus, where are they hiding? Have they taken young Draco with them?”

“I am not privy to that information, my lord. If you would allow me to consult with Albus Dumbledore—” 

“Crucio!” 

 

 

Harry is laughing when he jolts back into himself this time, his eyes watering from pain, and he has begun to shiver all over. Malfoy shakes his shoulders roughly. 

“Stop that,” Malfoy says harshly. “What’s happening to you?” 

“I’m fine,” Harry forces out through clenched teeth. The window beside them is lit up in a flash of lightning, and then thunder rumbles, closer than before. Harry flinches and jerks backward when the pain in his scar surges again.

 

 

The sallow-faced man writhes on the floor, his limbs bending unnaturally, his eyes rolling back in his head. Harry grins savagely and crouches beside him. “Severus,” he croons, using his wand to trace through the strands of greasy, sweat-soaked hair. “My most faithful and trusted servant. You want to help me, don’t you?”

“Yes, my lord,” Severus gasps out, his chest heaving. He lurches toward Harry and grasps the hem of his robes. “Please, forgive me, my lord. I was not informed of their plans. I am certain we will be able to locate them. If you would allow me to—”

Harry snarls impatiently, grabbing Severus by the shoulder and jerking him into an upright position. “Cease your disgusting rambling,” he hisses. Beyond them, at the end of the chamber, Nagini slinks, slow and heavy, along the floor. 

“My lord, please—”

“Legilimens!” 

 

 

The world lurches back into warmth and colour, and Harry shudders, swaying in spot on the bed and once more pressing his palms to his forehead. His scar feels warm and wet, and something trickles down his forearm, dripping onto the bed. 

Malfoy stares at him in horror. “You’re bleeding!” 

“I’m fine,” Harry repeats, his voice hoarse. He scrubs at his forehead and winces. Noodle climbs up his arm and coils around his neck. 

You smell weird, Noodle says. Harry ignores him and tries to climb up out of his bed but Malfoy presses down on his shoulders, arresting his movement. 

“What are you doing? Sit still!” 

“I have to…” Harry mumbles, and then swipes at his forehead again. His palms are bloodied, his cheeks streaked with tears, and he can feel his shirt dampening with cold sweat. 

 

 

Severus’s mind is, as always, dull and unoriginal. Harry sneers as he slashes through the layers of repetitive memories. Nothing worth noting beyond bubbling cauldrons and slicing up potions ingredients. 

“Worthless,” he snarls, releasing his grip on the man’s feeble mind and shoving him back down to the floor. “Have you done nothing of note this summer?” 

“My lord,” Severus’s voice is thin and shaky. “I have been searching for the Potter boy, along with the rest of the Order. In the meantime I have been fulfilling my post as the potion’s master of Hogwarts and—” 

“Silence,” Harry hisses. He begins to pace. “I find it very hard to believe that you have not yet found the boy, Severus. Can you not think of a single potion that could lead you to him?” He stalks over to the man and crouches low, murmuring in his ear. “How long are you going to continue wasting my time?” 

“We are closing in on his location, my lord,” Severus says, his mouth bloodied. He stares up at Harry with a rabid devotion in his eyes. “I will not fail you again, my lord. I assure you. You will have the boy by summer’s end.” 

Harry feels viciously triumphant. He knows that his most trusted servant will not let him down—not after making such a promise. “Very good,” he praises Severus. He runs his fingers through the man’s tangled locks. Severus closes his eyes and holds perfectly still. “Then perhaps… I will not kill you, Severus. Not tonight, after all. You will bring me the boy, won’t you?” 

“Yes, my lord. It will be done,” Severus says thickly, his tone fervent. “I will not return to you again without him.” 

Harry grins sharply and then whirls around, returning to his seat at the front of the room. He beckons to Nagini. 

“Leave me,” he says over his shoulder to Severus. 

 

 

Harry gasps back into awareness again and blinks wildly, cringing away from the hands grasping at him. The loud pattering of rain on the window nearly drowns out Malfoy’s words.

“Potter, what the bloody hell is—”

Harry makes a panicked sound. He shudders, scrambling backward and banging his head hard against the bed frame. There is a quiet, fierce hissing sound near him, but Harry ignores it. He is near sobbing now, chest heaving, and can hardly breathe. 

“It’s just me, Potter,” Malfoy says, his eyes wide and his hands held out placatingly. “You’re having visions, aren’t you? Severus said you might, and we’re supposed to stay calm and—” 

Harry blinks hard and shakes his head, shoving Malfoy’s hands away. “Stay calm? No—you don’t understand, he’s—” 

The scene flashes through his mind again and he cringes. Snape, writhing on the floor, his mouth twisted in a bloody grimace, making a last-ditch desperate promise to Voldemort to save himself—

Malfoy yanks up one of the smaller blankets from the bed and tries to press it to Harry’s forehead. “It’s bleeding a lot, Potter, just calm down! Let me wipe it off and when Severus gets back I’m sure everything will be fine, he’ll know what to do—”

Harry flinches back, shoving Malfoy away again.

 No, I can’t. He’s… he’s going to take me,” he says abruptly. 

“The Dark Lord?” Malfoy frowns. “Don’t be stupid, Potter. He can’t find you here. Severus would never—”

“Not him,” Harry says. He draws his knees up to his chest, trying to stop his body from trembling. The tears are still falling from his eyes, and he doesn’t know how to make them stop. He clenches his teeth. “Snape. He said—he promised—he told Voldemort that he would bring me—” Harry’s voice breaks and he dissolves into another round of sobs, his shoulders hunched. 

Malfoy is silent for a moment but he draws closer. Harry stiffens when he feels a tentative hand on his shoulder, but this time he doesn’t push the other boy off. There is more hissing, and something wrapped tightly around his neck, but Harry shudders and continues ignoring it. 

“You saw Severus?” Malfoy says quietly, and Harry nods.

Malfoy hesitates and comes a little closer. His hand tightens on Harry’s shoulder, and the weight of it is grounding. “Are you sure? I don’t think Severus would… mother said he was loyal to Dumbledore?” 

Harry shrugs. His heart is beating frantically, his pulse racing, and his thoughts moving so erratically that he’s struggling to pull a sentence together. He leans unconsciously into Malfoy’s touch. 

“What did he say, exactly?” 

“I don’t… I can’t—” Harry squeezes his eyes shut. He misses the next flash of lightning, and when thunder booms, he flinches hard.

“Merlin. Take a breath before you pass out.” 

Harry takes in several sharp breaths, his ribs aching, and he tries to gather his scattered thoughts enough to explain his vision.

 “He said, er,” Harry clears his throat, “‘you will have the boy by summer’s end.’” 

The words, uttered shakily, ring out into the silent room. A moment later Harry’s eyes widen and he tries to scramble off the bed, but Malfoy holds him fast. 

“What are you doing now, Potter?” 

“You don’t understand. We have to—we have to go, Malfoy, I can’t—he’s coming back, he’s coming back right now , so we have to—” 

“Stop,” Malfoy hisses, now restricting Harry with both hands pressing down on his shoulders. “Potter, it’s not—how can you be sure Severus wasn’t lying to the Dark Lord? He’s a spy, isn’t he? I don’t… Listen, I don’t think he would betray you. Didn’t he make you a vow? Didn’t he promise not to hurt you?” 

Harry shakes his head furiously. “He would , I know he would because—I was t—I mean, Voldemort was torturing him, he was going to kill him, and I’m not worth—there’s no way Snape would—just to save me , I’m not—” 

The distant sound of a door opening downstairs causes Harry to fall silent. Both boys go still. 

“It’s too late now,” Harry whispers.

Chapter 26: misplaced guilt and calming draughts

Notes:

some fun developments in this one! also lots of dialogue because as it turns out, it is a very difficult task to try and convince Harry that he is deserving of love :')

“It’s too late now,” Harry whispers. His scar throbs and he flinches, pressing his palm hard into his forehead. 

“No, it’s not, you dunce. Stop being ridiculous,” Malfoy says fiercely. He draws closer to Harry, positioning himself slightly in front of the two of them—closest to the door.

Harry swallows thickly and shakes his head. He doesn’t feel like he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t want to believe that Snape would hurt him. And he knows that he should be lunging for his wand, currently tucked into the drawer of his bedside table. He should be finding a spot to hide, or making his way to the floo in the study, dragging Malfoy behind him. He should be running to Dumbledore. But he is trembling so hard that he can barely move—let alone pull together some sort of plan—and his heart feels like it is teetering right on the edge of breaking in two.

Harry desperately does not want to believe that another adult in his life would abandon him. He knows what he saw, what Snape promised to Voldemort, but—Snape made promises to Harry too. Didn’t he? And he hasn’t broken them yet, but—when Harry thinks of the agony on his professor’s face, the twitching of his body under the Cruciatus, Harry thinks that it would take a lot of strength and willpower to undergo something like that and then not break. And why would the man choose to suffer, just for Harry? What has Harry done to deserve that kind of devotion? 

Harry wonders if Snape is even capable of breaking, anyway. Or—if you break, does that mean it’s over? Is that it? Or could his professor bend, and break, and scream, and bleed, and then return home to Harry like nothing happened? And what will he think of Harry for forcing him to go through with this torture? How much more could he endure before deciding that the most rational option would be to give Harry up?

Harry thinks ruefully that if he were smart, if he weren’t so selfish , he would have perhaps left the safety of his professor’s home weeks ago. He could have taken his wand, and his cloak, and ran. 

There are, of course, a few more years left until he can perform magic without the underage trace, but Harry knows for a fact that he has plenty of money in his vault to survive until then. He could withdraw enough to pay for a room somewhere, and make a disguise for himself, and keep his head down. Then, maybe, nobody else would have to worry about him. Nobody would have to get tortured on his behalf. And nobody would have to face the decision of saving his life, or saving their own. 

But, Harry thinks, the problem is that he is selfish. 

He doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want to try living without his professor who ruffles his hair in the morning, and forces him to eat marmalade toast, and reads to him in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep, and doesn’t get mad when Harry sleeps late in the morning instead of getting up early to weed the garden. 

Harry has had a taste of a normal life, a life with an adult who treats him like a child, not a burden—not something to be pitied or shoved in a closet or kicked around like a dog —and he doesn’t want to give that up for anything. 

Both boys listen, in silence, with bated breath, as someone moves slowly up the stairs of the house and toward their bedroom. There are frequent stops and starts, and the sound of dragging fabric, like their professor is leaning the majority of his weight along the wall as he walks. 

Then the door creaks open. 

Malfoy raises his wand, his hand shaking slightly.

Snape’s face is pale. His robes are crumpled and torn, smeared with dirt and blood, and his limbs are twitching. He sags against the doorframe, eyeing both boys and their position on the bed. 

“Boys,” he says, his voice guarded. “It is past your bedtime.” 

Harry peers around Malfoy and stares warily at his professor. The man looks like he has just stepped off a battlefield. And upon making eye contact, Snape’s eyes widen. 

“Harry. You are covered in blood,” he remarks quietly. 

Harry shudders and ducks back behind Malfoy. 

He knows he’s acting cowardly, but he can’t help it. He’s afraid. And the sight of his professor fresh from a round of torture is making him feel horribly, nauseously guilty. Around his neck, Noodle hisses, and Harry finally processes some of the Parseltongue. 

I will bite anyone who would lay hands on you.  

Don’t, Harry responds. I don’t want you to hurt him. 

“Wait,” Malfoy says suddenly, his tone heightened with stress when Snape moves to take a step into the room. “Severus, don’t… just, stay there, because Potter’s… erm, he’s had a… er…” 

The back of Malfoy’s neck reddens, and he appears to be at a loss for words. He glances back pleadingly at Harry. Harry takes in a quick, steadying breath, and peeks around Malfoy once more to verify his professor’s location. 

Snape is still slumped against the doorframe, and is eyeing him worriedly. “You have had another vision,” he says, a hint of questioning in his tone, and Harry nods. 

“Then you have witnessed my conversation with the Dark Lord.”

Harry’s face crumples, and he nods again.

Snape swallows hard and his expression shutters. He slides slowly down until he’s seated on the floor, his back pressed to the wall, and his head tilted back. He closes his eyes and sighs. 

“Harry…” he says quietly.

Harry blinks furiously and stares down at the white quilt clutched in his hands. “Are you… are you going to do it?”

Snape doesn’t respond right away. The silence of the room feels like it’s closing in around Harry. Rain patters on the window, lightning flashes, and then thunder rumbles somewhere in the far distance. Harry shivers and then finally forces his gaze up to his professor, who is staring at Harry with a torn, saddened, yet unsurprised look in his eye. 

“No, Harry,” he says gently—almost as if it pains him to have to put it to words. “Of course not. That was never a possibility.” 

Harry stares numbly at his professor, uncomprehending. “Why not?” 

Snape blinks heavily and then closes his eyes again. He snakes a hand into his robes and pulls out a potion vial, uncorking it and swallowing it down in one go. A few of the tension lines in his face clear and he takes in a slow, steadying breath.

“He said…” Malfoy starts, as Snape pulls out another potion—this one dark green and shimmery, “he said you told the Dark Lord…” 

“I said what was required of me.” Snape runs a shaky hand through his hair and sighs again. His shoulders are slumped under an unseen weight. He uncorks the potion and downs it before speaking again. “To get out of there. To return to you both. Do you understand?” 

Neither boy responds, but Malfoy relaxes minutely. He lowers his wand. 

Snape remains seated, leant against the wall, but his gaze trails over Harry’s face. “May I enter the room?” he asks. “Your head wound requires attention, Harry.” 

Harry flinches and curls his fingers into Malfoy’s pyjama top without quite realising it. The other boy leans back in response, uttering his words quietly so that only Harry can hear. “It’s okay, P—,” Malfoy hesitates. A steely look comes over him, and he clenches his jaw, seeming apprehensive. “Harry.” 

Harry stiffens and jerks his head up, eyes wide in shock, and his mind going blank for one blissful moment. He stares at Malfoy, unsure if he heard correctly. 

Malfoy frowns back at him, his cheeks reddening. “Weren’t you listening? He just wants to help you, you prat . Alright? And you need it. We need it.”

Harry hesitates for a long moment, looking between Snape and Malfoy, and then shakes his head in a quick, jerky movement. Malfoy sighs, and Snape’s face creases in frustration.

“You are not thinking rationally, Harry. I made you a vow,” Snape says. “Do not tell me you have forgotten?” 

Harry makes a quiet, uneasy sound and shifts on the bed. “No,” he says, his voice rough. “I—I haven’t forgotten...” He stares at Snape beseechingly. “But… he hurt you.”

“That does not matter,” Snape says. “My pain is inconsequential.” 

Harry shudders. He shakes his head again, watching as his professor reaches into his robes and withdraws yet another potion, swallowing it down with a grimace. “I saw the whole thing,” Harry insists. “I was… I was there . I was… it was me who—” he pauses. “Voldemort, he said he would kill you.” 

“That does not matter,” Snape says again, his voice patient and gentle. 

“Yeah it does. It does,” Harry chokes out. He scrubs furiously at his face. “It matters, because it’s my fault. He’s hurting you because you’re protecting me. Just like he hurts everyone who tries to protect me. You can’t say that doesn’t fucking matter—” 

“That is not entirely true. And it is certainly not your fault, Harry,” Snape begins trying to reason with him, but Harry scowls fiercely, angry tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. 

“It is, of course it’s my fault! It’s always my fault!” He sobs. He feels hot and cold all over, and shivery, and his teeth are beginning to chatter. Thunder booms outside, rattling the window frame, and Harry flinches.

“He is going into shock, Draco,” Snape murmurs.

“Shock?!” Malfoy says beside Harry, horrified. His arm around Harry unconsciously tightens.

“Yes. You must vanish the blood and sweat from his hair and clothing, as soon as possible. It will help.”

“I don’t know any fucking spells for that, Severus,” Malfoy says. He sounds agitated and close to tears himself. He yanks one of the blankets closer to Harry, trying to wrap it around his shoulders.

Harry’s breathing grows shallow. He hates when the two of them talk like he’s not there. “No, I’m not—I’m not going into sh—into shock. I’m fine,” he forces out. He shrugs the blanket off and tries to push Malfoy away again, but the boy doesn’t budge. 

Snape braces a hand on the wall. He rises slowly and shakily back up to his feet, his gaze unwavering on Harry. 

“Would you prefer to visit the headmaster’s office?” he offers calmly. “I will not stop you. You may, both of you, use the floo and seek aid from Albus if you no longer feel safe. I would never force you to remain here.” 

Malfoy tenses, his grip around Harry’s shoulder going tight for a moment, like he’s afraid Harry is going to accept this offer and then he will have to decide if he will stay or go with him. 

“No,” Harry immediately says again. Thunder rumbles above them again, and Harry glances briefly at the window before looking back at his professor who is staring at him with an intensely worried gaze.

“Are you certain? I will…” Snape hesitates. “I will not be angry with you, Harry. You are not a prisoner here, and I understand that this latest vision may have changed the way you view me, or changed the way you feel in this house. I would not blame you for… no longer wishing to cohabitate in the same living space as… a person like… me.” 

It is extremely out of character for Snape to stumble over his words like this. Harry gapes at his professor in dismay, his stomach dropping. 

 “No! That’s… that’s not what I, I don’t want…” 

“Harry…” Snape purses his lips. He seems resigned. “If you cannot trust me to even set foot in the same room as you, I am not sure how we will be able to find a—” 

“Please,” Harry interrupts, his tone turning desperate.  “I… I’m sorry, I want to stay. I like it here, so much, I don’t want to leave…” he buries his face in his hands and tries to force the tears back in his eyes. He feels horribly conflicted, confused, and slightly ill. His fear of being turned over to Voldemort has mixed horribly with his fear of losing Snape, of leaving this place that he has grown to love, and the combination makes his stomach churn. 

“I don’t want to leave either,” Malfoy mutters, defiant. “There’s no way I’m going to stay with that old coot. Not willingly.” 

Snape hums. There is a thread of relief mixed within the exhaustion in his tone. “Alright,” he finally says. “I am glad to hear it. But now—in that case—you must allow me a certain measure of trust, Harry. Your scar is still bleeding quite fiercely, and it requires my attention.”

Harry presses his fingers into his scar and grimaces. They come away sticky with blood. Harry sways on the bed and Malfoy grips him more tightly. “It’s not that bad,” Harry mutters. 

“You’re getting blood all over me, you idiot,” Malfoy hisses under his breath. “Listen. If he was going to betray you, don’t you think he would have done it by now?” 

“I… I don’t know, I—” 

“Harry,” Snape interjects. “Please.”

Harry uncurls slightly from Malfoy’s grasp and looks at his professor. The man still looks unnaturally pale, exhausted, like it is taking all of his effort to remain standing. He has one hand still pressed against the wall holding himself up. As Harry watches, Snape’s entire body wracks with a shudder. He looks mere moments from collapsing back down to the floor. Harry’s mind flashes unwillingly again to the image of Snape twitching in front of Voldemort, screaming in agony. 

What is Harry doing? Here he is, losing his mind over a stupid vision. He’s had plenty of those this summer. He should know better by now. He shouldn’t need his professor to coddle him and reassure him that everything’s alright. He shouldn’t be adding further torment to round out Snape’s already horrible night. No wonder the man keeps offering to send Harry away to Dumbledore. 

“...I’m fine,” Harry says. “Really.”

“No, you most certainly are not,” Snape says wryly. 

“I’m fine ,” Harry says again, his voice wobbling, and he wipes angrily at his cheeks when even more tears come coursing down. “I don’t need you. Either of you. I don’t need any help, I can handle it myself like I always have, so just leave me alone—” 

Harry’s vision is blurred with tears, and he doesn’t notice his professor crossing the room until he suddenly finds himself enveloped in a heavy, smothering warmth, and his face is pressed against the scratchy black fabric of Snape’s cloak. He fights very, very briefly and then gives in, collapsing into the embrace and dissolving into thick sobs. Snape rubs comforting circles into his back, muttering something under his breath, and Harry’s pyjamas become warm and dry.

“Oh,” Harry hears Malfoy murmur beside him. “That’s an easy spell. Isn’t it? I should have known, from first year…” the boy trails off, seeming frustrated.

Harry shudders and clings more tightly to his professor. The man smells like dirt, and blood, and dark magic, but then somewhere underneath all of that is the faint scent of rosemary, and it makes something deep in Harry’s chest begin to settle. He thinks of sunny afternoons spent out in the garden, or mornings in the potions lab, chopping ingredients, or working on his homework while Snape makes soup in the kitchen, all of those moments that have made Harry feel warm and safe and cared for. He tries to not think about the vision. It doesn’t work, not really, but he tries.

Snape allows Harry to cry for a long time before finally clearing his throat. “May I see your scar now?” He asks, and Harry sniffs and nods tiredly, feeling wrung out, leaning back enough for the man to inspect his forehead. He feels bracketed on both ends, held close to his professor’s chest and with Malfoy guarding his back. Some of the growling wariness in his mind begins to settle. 

Snape’s expression creases with concern and he holds a hand out. A warm, damp cloth zooms into the room and Snape grabs it, swiping the blood from Harry’s cheeks and then dabbing gently at the sore spot in the middle of Harry’s forehead where his scar is still throbbing painfully. Harry winces. 

Malfoy leans in close, squinting at Harry’s face. 

“Why’s it bleeding so much, Severus?” 

“I do not know, Draco,” Snape murmurs, his eyes fixed on his task. He withdraws a familiar salve from within his robes and removes the cap, smearing it generously across Harry’s forehead. The sensation is smooth, and it smells like mint, and it makes Harry’s eyes drift shut. He hears Snape utter a quiet spell and then his forehead is encased in a soft bandage. 

“It really hurts,” Harry mumbles hoarsely.

“I know, Harry. It’s alright. You are going to be alright,” Snape says absently. He wipes the dried blood and tears from Harry’s face and neck and then runs his fingers carefully through Harry’s tangled curls. 

Harry nearly melts at the feel of it. 

He can’t remember anyone having ever touched his hair in that way. Perhaps Mrs. Weasley, although her touches always seemed to be a motherly attempt to tame his wild locks. From Snape it feels more like a soothing gesture. Almost as if Snape is reassuring himself that Harry is alive and in one piece. 

“So you’re not… you’re really not going to…” Harry stumbles over his words, staring up at his professor awkwardly.

Snape’s arms around Harry tighten. “No, I am not going to turn you over to the Dark Lord,” he says firmly. “I have told you many times before. Your continued health and wellbeing is my priority above all else, Harry. I am only sorry that you had to witness our conversation, and that it frightened you so. That was never my intention.” 

“But, he’s going to kill you then,” Harry says, his eyes widening in despair. His heart, which had only just begun to settle, starts to pound furiously again. “He said he’ll kill you, and then you told him you wouldn’t come back without me, you promised him—” 

“I am fully aware of the promises I have made, Harry,” Snape says, his voice calm and careful. 

“I don’t…” Harry clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut. “Why did you promise him that? It’s not… I don’t want anyone else to die because of me.” 

Harry thinks of the graveyard again—how could he not? Of Cedric’s look of surprise, frozen eternally on his pale, lifeless face. Of Harry’s own parents, giving their lives for a child destined to someday destroy Voldemort. Of Malfoy just now, placing himself between Harry and Snape, pointing his wand at his own godfather.

How many more people will give their lives for Harry? 

“I have no intention of dying,” Snape says wearily, jolting Harry out of his disparaging thoughts. “Are you listening to me, Harry? I told the Dark Lord I would not return to him again without you, and that was the truth.” 

Harry wavers. “You… you said… er, what?” He tries to remember the exact wording from his vision, but that only makes his scar twinge painfully again. 

“I am not going to return to him,” Snape says emphatically. “It is no longer feasible for me to continue spying on the Dark Lord when I have you and Draco under my care. It has been, frankly, irresponsible of me to continue attempting to do so.”

“...Irresponsible?” Harry repeats, trying to process the startling wave of information. 

“Yes, Harry. Grossly irresponsible. Furthermore—at this rate, my body will not withstand much more physical torment. I am nearing the precipice upon which I would no longer be of use to the Order as a spy, and I would become incapable of looking after you both. It is therefore the better, and more logical option, to remove myself now, while I am still in possession of my body and my wits.” 

As if suddenly remembering the current state of his health, Snape blanches, withdrawing yet another potion from his robes and swallowing it down. His eyes bulge momentarily and he coughs into his elbow.

“You’re quitting the Death Eaters?” Malfoy asks from his place still beside Harry, his eyebrows raised in shock. “Mother said it couldn’t be done.”

“No, it cannot,” Snape says wryly, adjusting the blanket around Harry’s waist. “That is why your mother and father have gone into hiding, Draco, just as many other Death Eaters who have fled in years previous. I, however, do not have the option of abandoning my duties and going completely underground. I must retain my position within the Order, along with my post as the potion’s master of Hogwarts.” 

“Oh,” Malfoy says quietly. 

“Indeed. Nevertheless—the Dark Lord will be hard-pressed to seek retribution. This home is unplottable, and I have been considering placing it under the Fidelius for some time now. I will split my time between here and Hogwarts and—I will be perfectly fine , Harry,” Snape says emphatically, squeezing Harry’s shoulder when he notices the boy’s panicked breaths. 

Harry’s tremulous calm has been fully shattered by his professor’s latest revelation. “You’ll die,” He says thickly, his eyes wide, and he clutches nervously at his professor’s cloak. “He’ll kill you, he’ll torture you, he’ll Crucio you again like he did in my vision, when I, when he—” Harry cuts off, gasping, his throat nearly closing, and his mouth fills with saliva. He jerks violently when Malfoy tries to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“No, he will not,” Snape says. “Do not think of your vision any further, Harry. It will only continue tormenting you.” 

“But I don’t want—” Harry trembles and then coughs hard. Snape pulls Harry closer, nearly onto his lap now, holding him snugly to his chest, and Harry dissolves into another round of sobs. His throat begins to ache. “I can’t, I just can’t see you like that again. He’ll find you, he’s—” Harry shudders. “It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it. Just turn me in, sir. It’s okay.” 

“Harry,” Malfoy murmurs bleakly, sounding horrified.

“ Never say that again, ” Snape says, his words sharp and angry.

“But it’s true, it’s—”

“No, Harry.” Snape’s gaze has darkened dangerously, and Harry resists the urge to duck his head and pull away. “I will no longer permit you to speak of yourself in such a manner. Your severe lack of self-worth does not indicate any measure of reality. I will tell you this as many times as I have to to make the message stick in your thick, idiotic skull—you are worth it. You are worth it ten, one hundred, or a thousand times over. Every sacrifice made in your honor does not diminish that worth. And you will not wallow in self-pity because of your continually misplaced feelings of guilt. Even were I to perish, to die under torture or by some other violent means—” 

“Don’t—don’t say that,” Harry protests, shaking his head repeatedly, his chest tight, but his professor ploughs on. 

“That would not be your fault, nor would it diminish even a fraction of your worth. Do you hear me?” Snape shakes Harry lightly. “The Dark Lord is a vile, evil man, and you attempting to sacrifice yourself in the place of another is, and always will be, a plan without any logic or merit. Do not even allow the thought of it to cross your mind, Harry. I will not permit it.” 

“You can’t,” Harry protests, panicking, his tone thick. “You can’t tell me that. After everything that has happened, you can’t—you can’t tell me I’m not allowed to… this whole war, my parents, Cedric… what else am I supposed to do to make it right?” 

Malfoy makes a choked sound, his face pale with disbelief. He shifts closer to the two of them, trying to wrap his arm around Harry’s waist, but Harry shrugs him off in agitation. He’s feeling nauseous again, his stomach roiling, and he can hardly believe or process anything his professor is saying. 

Snape grits his teeth. He takes a deep breath and is silent until the anger in his features settles into a smooth calm.  

“Harry. This is… this is far too much for us to tackle in one night. Had I known, as a surety, of the depth of this issue, of your internal struggle… but, it is alright. It is not insurmountable. We will discuss it in the morning, when you are thinking more rationally. For now, I want you to calm yourself, and perform your breathing exercises. If you have need of a calming draught, I will fetch it for you, and—” 

But Harry doesn’t want to do the exercises. He doesn’t want to calm down. His professor’s not listening, and he’s going to die, and it will be all Harry’s fault. How can he not see that? Harry begins to panic even further, and his scar throbs painfully. He jerks out of Snape’s grasp, lurches backwards and tumbles to the floor of the bedroom, heaving up bile. He coughs hard again, gagging.

Malfoy drops down to the floor beside him and hovers close, his hands near but not touching Harry’s back, and he makes a pained sound, like he wants to help but has no idea where to start. Harry shies away from the boy and curls into himself, blinking furiously and trying to shove down the sick feeling in his throat and the back of his mouth. 

“Draco—go and run the bath, now please,” Snape murmurs quietly. Harry registers the soft footsteps of the other boy dashing toward the bathroom. He shivers and coughs some more, hunched over on hands and knees and struggling to hold back more tears.

Snape kneels beside him and carefully vanishes the vomit from the ground before placing a light hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry flinches, cowering away from the man, his stomach flipping with guilt, but Snape doesn’t let go. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry croaks. 

Snape shifts his hand from Harry’s shoulder to his lower back, rubbing it gently. In his other hand, he holds a small vial out, in a familiar colour. Harry grabs it, twisting the top off with a shaking hand, and swallows it down without hesitation. A soft calm spreads from the top of his head to his toes, and Harry shivers. He begins to breathe a little easier, and the anxious rolling of his stomach settles.

“I thought you said… no more potions,” he says, his voice hoarse, and he cracks a weak grin at his professor, who looks back at him impassively.

“The ban on dreamless sleep still holds,” Snape says dryly. “However, under the circumstances, I thought you might benefit from a bit of calming draught. I cannot hope to successfully hold a conversation with you while you are in this state.”

Harry cringes and ducks his head again, and his professor sighs. 

“It is no matter. Now, tell me Harry. What are you apologizing for?”  

Harry hesitates. He worries at his lower lip and keeps his gaze focused on the wood floor. “I don’t know,” he finally says. 

“I think you do.” 

Harry squeezes his eyes tightly shut. “I don’t want you to die.” 

“I am not going to die, Harry.” 

Harry shakes his head and then cringes when the motion sends more pain up to his forehead. “You’re not listening,” he says thickly, on the edge of another bout of sobs despite the valiant efforts of the calming draught. “And… I’m sorry, I know, I’m being stupid but…”

“You are not being stupid. Idiot boy . Have I not just impressed upon you the importance of your self-worth? Why do you continue to speak of yourself in such a manner?” Snape speaks to him gently, fondly, like he is trying to settle a wild horse.

Harry sniffs and scrubs at his eyes. He sits up on his knees. “Yes I am,” he says. “And you… you’re hurt, you shouldn’t have to deal with me, and I can’t believe I can’t just… I accused you of—of betraying me? Even though I know, I know we made the vow, and even Malfoy, he tried to tell me, and I’m so bloody stupid, I’m so sorry—” Harry trails off, new tears dripping down his cheeks, and he wraps his arms around himself. 

“Your initial reaction, considering the circumstances as well as your difficult past, was perfectly warranted.” Snape sighs. “There is no need to apologize. You are clearly feeling overwhelmed by your vision, and tormented with feelings of misplaced guilt. I am fine. I have, in any case, dealt with far worse.” 

“Misplaced—” Harry chokes out, incredulous. 

“Yes, Harry. Misplaced.” 

Harry’s frowns and shakes his head. 

“Please… do not argue further with me. Not now.” Snape inhales deeply and exhales. 

“Okay. I’m sorry,” Harry says again, miserable. 

Snape hums. He runs a hand through Harry’s curls, scratching lightly at the base of Harry’s neck. Harry shivers and blinks up at his professor with glassy eyes. 

“Listen to me, Harry. It is past your bedtime, and you and I are far too tired to have this conversation. So will you trust me when I say that, for tonight at least, I have everything under control, we are safe, and you do not need to worry?” 

“I… I don’t…” Harry hesitates. “Everything?” 

“Everything,” Snape repeats. 

“But what about—” 

“If you have further concerns, we may discuss them in the morning. I think what you need most right now is a warm bath and then perhaps a cup of tea afterward. Do you agree?” 

“A bath? I…” Harry hesitates again. 

He hasn’t had a bath in a long time. Not since before the second task, when he took the golden egg to the prefect’s bathroom. The thought of it unnerves him slightly, although he’s not sure why. “I don’t know, but what if he, what if you, we have to make sure , because I don’t want—” 

“Harry. Listen to me carefully. All I want you to do now is focus on your breathing. Let the calming draught do its job. You do not need to worry about me, or Draco, or what the Dark Lord is planning. For tonight, you are safe, and I am going to take care of you. Is that acceptable?” 

Harry’s shoulder slump, and he blinks owlishly at his professor. 

“Focus on… my breathing?” 

“Yes, Harry. Can you do that for me?” 

“I can… I can try, sir.” 

“Very good, Harry. That’s all I ask. Now—come on, up you go.”

Harry doesn’t protest when his professor helps him off the ground and guides him carefully toward the bathroom. They walk right past Malfoy, who is hovering by the tub with a towel thrown over his arm, his body tense, like he is afraid that Harry might collapse at any moment. Harry is quiet as Snape helps him out of his pyjamas, leaving him in only his boxers, and coaxes him into the warm bath. 

The water is filled with bubbles and smells of lavender, and Harry sinks into it with a shiver.

Notes:

as always thank you so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos !! <3

Chapter 27: coconut conditioner and chamomile tea

Notes:

a bit of a shorter one this time, but very excited to show harry getting some much needed comfort <3

tw: reference to past child abuse (more details in the end note!)

Before Harry used the prefect’s bathroom to listen to the golden egg, the last time he had bathed was as a child—before he had grown big enough to shower on his own. 

Aunt Petunia hated Harry’s baths, perhaps even more than Harry himself. They happened infrequently and always without warning. Harry would be kneeling in the yard, pulling weeds, covered in dirt and sweat and would suddenly find himself yanked up into the air, held beneath his armpits a few inches away from his aunt, like she was trying to touch him as little as possible. She would march him upstairs into the bathroom next to Dudley’s bedroom. 

“Strip,” she would say. 

Harry still remembers the sharp, disgusted tone of voice, and the annoyed glint of her narrowed eyes on him. He would struggle out of his soiled clothes and then stand beside the tub, arms wrapped nervously around himself, and watch as his aunt dumped bleach into the water. 

After the first time she bathed him like this, Harry learned how painful it would be. He would watch her pull on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, and he would feel horrified tears begin to spill down his sunburnt cheeks. 

“No, please,” he would beg. “I’m clean, I don’t need it—”

“Be quiet,” Aunt Petunia would hiss. She would grab him around the elbow and yank him into the half-filled tub, hot water sloshing and the bleach already beginning to sting the skin of his feet and ankles. 

“But it hurts,” he would always whimper, crying harder, even though he knew the tears would just make his aunt angrier. She would shush him furiously and then shove him down into the water, dunking his head and then roughly scrubbing every inch of his body. 

All Harry could ever do was squeeze his eyes tightly shut, hold as still as possible, and wait for it to be over. 

Aunt Petunia didn’t care if it hurt. She didn’t care if the bleach gave him reddened, irritated rash spots all over his skin for days after. She only cared if he looked presentable when the neighbors drove by and saw him picking weeds while Dudley kicked a ball around with his friends.

–

“Harry,” Snape says, and Harry blinks, startled. He feels the warm water around him, and the comforting weight of his professor’s hand on his shoulder. He breathes in deep and inhales the scent of lavender again, and the image of Aunt Petunia in his mind’s eye dissipates.

“Oh,” he says quietly. He wraps his arms around his knees, drawing them close to his chest.

“Are you comfortable with the temperature of the water?” 

“...Yes,” Harry says, hesitating. He looks around the room, nearly craning his neck, looking for the familiar bottle of bleach that his aunt always used. He doesn’t think his professor would use something like that, but… he can’t shake the image of it from his head. And if there were any time Harry deserved that kind of bath it would be tonight, after Harry accused his professor of betrayal, bled all over himself and the bed, and then threw up on the floor. 

Aunt Petunia would have been furious.

“Good,” Snape says. 

“But you can… erm, you can make it… hotter? If you want?” Harry says, nervous, stumbling over his words. He links his fingers together and stares down into the gently swirling water. “I’m really… I made a mess, didn’t I?” 

“It should not be hotter than what is comfortable for you,” Snape says carefully, after a pregnant pause. 

“Oh,” Harry says again. He looks up at his professor incredulously. “But… I’m sorry, sir. I don’t—I don’t need to be comfortable, though. You can… you can…” he starts to tremble again, his thoughts drifting back to the past, and only Snape’s hand tightening around his shoulder brings him back to the present. 

“Who do you think this bath is for? Idiot boy,” Snape says quietly. “It is supposed to help you feel better.”

Harry screws his face up. “Really? So I’m not… I’m not…” 

Snape’s face contorts. He looks horribly furious for a moment, and then exhausted, before his face smooths over. “You are not in trouble,” he says emphatically. “This is not a punishment.” 

Harry feels slightly dizzy for a moment with all of the tension that immediately melts out of his frame. “Oh,” he says, and then feels a little stupid. “Right.” 

Snape scrubs a weary hand over his face, and then looks at Harry for a long time, until Harry begins to squirm. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again. 

“No more apologies,” his professor says, his voice tight. “We will discuss this later. You are not in the right state of mind at the moment.” 

“Okay,” Harry agrees readily. He takes in another slow, deep breath, letting the scent of lavender permeate his nostrils further. His eyes drift half-shut.  

“Now… why don’t you begin by washing your hair,” Snape suggests, pulling Harry’s divided attention back to him. He places a bottle of shampoo in Harry’s hand. 

Harry stares at it blankly.

“Severus, look at him !” 

Harry startles. He had forgotten that anyone else was in the room besides him and his professor. He twists his head and stares with wide eyes at Malfoy, who is now leaning against the door jam to the bathroom, his face pale.

“You can’t honestly expect him to—”

“Draco—” Snape sighs. “He is fine. I know you are concerned, but I have the situation handled. If you would like to be of service, you could perhaps go downstairs and make him some tea?”

“But, Severus—”

“Tea, Draco.” 

Malfoy’s face colours. He scowls at Snape and then folds his arms across his chest. “Fine.” 

Snape sighs, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops. He turns back to Harry, who is still sitting there quietly in a bit of a stupor, staring at Malfoy. “Alright. How does that sound, Harry?” 

“Hm?” Harry’s gaze drifts from Malfoy’s face back down to the shampoo bottle. 

“Would you prefer chamomile or peppermint?” 

Harry blinks, and looks up at his professor. He frowns slightly. 

“Sorry?”

“Chamomile or peppermint,” Snape repeats patiently.

“Er… chamomile sounds erm… sounds nice, please,” Harry says, after ruminating for a while. He inhales slowly, deeply, and then exhales.

The bathroom door swings shut, and Harry listens to the sound of Malfoy’s hurried footsteps running down the stairs and into the kitchen. He cranes his neck and looks up at his professor again, waiting for instruction. 

“Your hair,” Snape says gently. 

Harry obediently squeezes the shampoo out into his palm and then lifts it to his hair, massaging it into his scalp with both hands. The room falls silent, but for the muted sounds of water dripping slowly from the faucet.

“I showered this morning, though,” Harry comments blankly after a while, closing his eyes at the feel of the soft product in his hair and the warm water all around him. 

“Is that so?” Snape asks. 

“...Yeah,” Harry nods. “So I don’t… I don’t think… er…?” 

“Rinse it out, now,” Snape says, when it’s apparent that Harry is not going to complete his sentence. Harry squints his eyes open to see his professor conjuring a pitcher of water. When Harry makes no move to take it, Snape shuffles closer, reaching out to support the back of Harry’s head. He pours the water carefully over his soap-soaked curls. 

Harry struggles briefly, thinking suddenly of his newly-bandaged scar. “It’ll get wet,” he says, his eyes flashing in panic, and Snape tuts.

“Calm yourself,” he says. “The bandage is charmed, Harry. As it always is. Now, close your eyes.” 

Harry stares fuzzily up at the ceiling, but then grudgingly allows his eyes to drift shut. His professor pours the water again and again, smoothing his fingers through the tangled strands of hair until the shampoo is completely rinsed out. Then Harry is guided back up, and Snape works something cool and thick into his hair that smells like summer. 

“What is that?” Harry mumbles. 

“It is a coconut scented conditioner,” his professor responds, inspecting the label of the bottle. “It is not one I have purchased for you this summer, so I assume Draco brought it along with his other things from the manor.” 

Harry hums. He inhales deeply and exhales. 

He thinks bemusedly that if he knew baths could be this nice, maybe he would take them more often. The bath in the prefect’s bathroom had felt like a special one-time thing—a luxury. But here he is, in Snape’s old house, the ceramic tub cracked and worn in places, stained a slightly off-colour, but—the water is warm, and the soaps are soft and smell nice, and Harry hasn’t felt so comfortable and safe in years.

Snape presses lightly on Harry’s chest and he leans back, closing his eyes when another cupful of water is poured over his hair, washing the conditioner out. There is a quiet rushing in his ears, a spreading numbness, and he keeps his eyes shut even as he’s coaxed back into a seated position and Snape begins combing his fingers lightly through Harry’s soaked curls. 

“It is a pleasant smell, is it not?” Snape says quietly, and Harry hums again. 

Harry has never thought about doing anything for his hair besides the typical quick scrub in the shower. Aunt Petunia always complained about it and cut it as short as she possibly could. And at Hogwarts, Harry just wore it naturally. He didn’t mind the curls, although they did get quite frizzy at times and often tangled while he slept. 

The door to the bathroom swings open again. Harry jolts in shock, his eyes flying open, and he cringes closer to his professor, sloshing bathwater all over the place. His nervous trembling, which had only slightly abated, starts right back up again. 

“Oh,” Malfoy says, sounding anxious. He stares at Harry who is staring back at him like a deer in headlights. “I didn’t mean to… It’s just that, well, the tea is ready.” 

“Thank you Draco,” Snape says. “Will you place it on Harry’s nightstand, please?” 

Malfoy nods and rushes out of the room again, the door swinging shut behind him. Harry blinks, feeling like his shoulders have hunched all the way back up to his ears again. He swallows thickly. 

“Would you like to get out now, Harry?” Snape asks. “I have a fresh pair of pyjamas here for you.” 

Harry nods. The bath has been nice, but his boxers are soaked, clinging uncomfortably to his skin, and he doesn’t want his hands to prune up. 

Snape helps him up and out, immediately casting a gentle drying charm over his hair and body that makes Harry’s shoulders slump. He leans heavily against his professor as he is helped into a soft pair of striped pyjamas and some woollen socks. The air in the bathroom is thick and warm, and Harry’s thoughts feel pleasantly hazy, like he is half-dreaming. He stumbles over his feet when Snape guides him back into the bedroom.

Malfoy is perched on the edge of his own bed, his hair mussed and his eyes wide, seeming to not know what to do with himself. 

“What would you like to do now, Harry?” Snape asks. Harry shivers and hangs onto his professor’s cloak, struggling to gather his thoughts all together again.

“I, erm,” he sways, and Snape wraps a steadying arm around his shoulders. 

“You may return to bed, drink your tea and go to sleep,” Snape suggests, “or you may come downstairs and have a light snack, and we will continue our reading of Fantastic Beasts. Which would you prefer?” 

Harry ponders over the options fuzzily, his brow furrowed. He glances at his bed and the cup of steaming tea on his side table. 

“Er,” he says. “I don’t… I erm, I don’t…” he shudders again, his teeth chattering. He looks up at his professor and catalogues the deep lines of fatigue and stress on the man’s face. Snape himself is still trembling slightly—likely holding back as many visible aftereffects of the Cruciatus as he can for Harry’s own benefit. 

Harry shifts on his feet, feeling sad and guilty, and then looks back at his bed. 

“I want to lie down,” he finally says. “I’m tired.” 

Snape walks him over to the bed and helps him up and underneath the covers. Harry’s blue and green quilt is layered overtop of him, along with a ridiculous amount of others, and then Noodle burrows underneath everything, wrapping tightly around Harry’s ankle. 

Harry sits back up when Snape hands him the cup of tea. It smells nice, and soothes his throat, and makes his eyes blink heavy and slow. Snape waits patiently beside Harry’s bed until he swallows down his last mouthful and then sinks back down into the bedsheets. Snape takes the teacup and saucer in hand and gives Harry a once-over, his eyes scrutinising the bandage on Harry’s forehead. 

“Is it still bleeding?” Harry asks, patting at it nervously, and Snape shakes his head, pushing Harry’s hand away. 

“No, it is alright,” he says. “Is it causing you any further pain?” 

“No,” Harry says. 

He feels slightly guilty about the lie, but it only hurts a little now, the excruciating throbbing beginning to abate, and he doesn’t want to worry his professor any further. 

“Very well,” Snape hums. He hesitates at Harry’s bedside for a moment and runs his fingers lightly, once more, through Harry’s curls. Harry closes his eyes. After a moment, Snape withdraws and walks to the other side of the room.

“I’m sorry Severus, I didn’t—I didn’t know the spells to help him, I didn’t know what to do,” Malfoy says quietly, sounding pained, and Snape hushes him. 

“It is alright, Draco. It is most fortunate that he had you here with him. How are you feeling now?”

“Me? How am I… feeling?” Malfoy sounds confused. 

Harry’s eyes are still closed, but at the pregnant silence that follows, he imagines his professor pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Snape sighs. “Yes, Draco. I would imagine, after witnessing what you have tonight, that you might be feeling somewhat unsettled, or anxious. That would be perfectly normal.”

“I’m not unsettled,” Malfoy says, sounding affronted. “Nothing happened to me . It was Potter who was—”

“And to have to witness a friend go through that, and be unable to help—must have been painful,” Snape says quietly. 

Malfoy sniffs. “No,” he says, but his voice has softened. “I’m not… I’m not unsettled. I just… I wish I could have helped him more. And he’s—” Malfoy huffs. “He’s not my… he’s not my friend, anyway.” 

If Harry weren’t so exhausted, he thinks he might roll his eyes. Instead he snuggles deeper underneath his quilt, his thoughts going hazy as he listens to the two of them conversing across the room.  

“As you say,” Snape says dryly. “In any case—yes, it was a lack of foresight on my end to not ensure you and Harry had a range of useful spells to use in case of emergency. I apologize, Draco. Why don’t we set some time aside tomorrow and review some of the most common incantations for first-aid?” 

“Alright,” Malfoy says, sounding faintly comforted. “That sounds good, Severus. It was honestly embarrassing. I can’t believe I forgot that spell—” 

“It can be difficult to recall exactly what you need, in the heat of the moment, especially when you are under duress,” Snape interrupts him. “Do not punish yourself over it. Simply do what needs to be done, so that you can be more prepared the next time.” 

“Yes, sir,” Malfoy says. “I will.” 

“Very well,” Snape responds. He sounds weary. Harry hears the uncorking of another potion vial, and in the quiet room, beyond the soft pattering of rain on the window, Harry can hear his professor swallow down what is probably some sort of vile concoction to chase away pain or tremors from the Cruciatus. He wonders how many more potions Snape will have to take, after he’s withdrawn to his own room and finally has a chance to take care of himself. 

“Rest now, both of you,” Snape finally says, raising his voice a bit to address both of them. “I will be in my chambers for the remainder of the evening—if you have a need for anything, you may simply call out and I will respond promptly.” 

“Okay,” Malfoy says. Harry attempts an understanding nod at his professor. His head feels heavy. 

“Goodnight,” Snape says, his eyes dark and watchful. 

“‘Night,” Harry mumbles. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of his professor walking out of the room, turning out the light, and closing the door.

Notes:

tw: referenced child abuse - Harry takes a bath and thinks about when Aunt Petunia would bathe him in bleach. He very briefly worries that Snape will do the same.

also--I did not come up with this concept myself. I've read a few different fics that involve traumatic bathing incidents for Harry, but it's been a while and I can't think of any now by name. I will keep it in mind and add credit once I figure out where I got it from hahaha. If anything rings a bell while reading, please comment and let me know so I can credit those works for my inspiration! <3
(update: thank you @Lizard171 !! I am now pretty sure I was inspired by elph13 in The Heir to the House of Prince, which is one of my most favorite fics I have ever read, it is beautifully written and I highly recommend it!)

as always, thank you so much for reading and giving feedback :) all the kind comments keep me going!

Chapter 28: noodle soup

Notes:

This chapter was going to be longer, but I'm struggling with the second half so I decided to split it. The good thing is, now you guys can enjoy a cute Drarry moment and I can focus on the problem section without feeling stressed about not updating lol <3

Harry very nearly falls asleep. He tries his hardest. The bath certainly helped, and his stomach is no longer flipping with nausea, but his heart is still beating rather fast, and he can’t stop quietly trembling beneath the sheets no matter how tightly Noodle coils around him hissing words of comfort. He thinks maybe he should have accepted the offer to go downstairs and read, but it’s too late now. He really doesn’t want to bother his professor.

“...Malfoy?” Harry whispers tentatively, when the room has drifted into silence for more than an hour and he’s unsure if the other boy is still awake. 

“What is it, Potter?” Malfoy responds, his voice rough with sleep. There is a shifting of blankets, and Harry can sense that Malfoy has sat up in his bed and is looking over. “Are you having another vision? Should I go and get Severus?” 

“No,” Harry says quickly, embarrassed. “No, it’s, I’m… fine.” 

“If you say so,” Malfoy says. They lapse into silence again. Harry shifts awkwardly beneath his mountain of blankets. 

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” Malfoy asks after a while.

“Yeah,” Harry responds. “Er, I’m trying to. I just…” he hesitates. 

“Spit it out, Potter.”

A lump rises in Harry’s throat, and he struggles to continue speaking. “I just, erm, I wanted to say… thanks, I suppose?” 

“Thanks? What for?” 

Harry fidgets. He regrets opening his mouth in the first place. He’s already kept Snape up for half the night, and now he’s bothering Malfoy when the boy is clearly exhausted and not in the mood to talk. He resists the urge to burrow further beneath the blankets and cut the conversation completely off.

“You… you stood up for me,” Harry finally says, trying to put into words what has been niggling at his mind from the moment Snape crossed the threshold of their shared bedroom and Harry had taken cover behind the blond boy. “To Snape. You… you threatened him? With your wand.”

“Of course I did!” Malfoy sounds affronted. “What else was I supposed to do?” 

Harry falls silent. His cheeks colour, and a guilty feeling brews in his stomach. 

Malfoy makes a sound of disbelief. “Merlin, Potter. You actually thought I hated you that much? You thought Snape would betray you, and I would help him.”

“No,” Harry says quickly. “No, of course not—” 

Malfoy scoffs. 

“I didn’t,” Harry protests. “I was just… surprised, that’s all.”

“Surprised?” Malfoy sounds even more insulted.

“Well, we haven’t always been on the best of terms, have we?” Harry says, a bit indignantly. 

“That’s not my fault, is it? You prat. If I recall correctly, it was you who refused to shake my hand on the train. In pureblood circles that is close to treason, you know. So it was perfectly within my rights to claim—” 

Harry grits his teeth, pushing down his annoyance, and ploughs on. “Will you let me finish talking?”

Malfoy huffs, but falls silent. 

“It’s just that I know Snape is your godfather,” Harry continues, after waiting a moment to make sure the other boy is finished speaking, “and this isn’t really the sort of summer that you were expecting. So… I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have blamed you. You didn’t have to do it, you know? You don’t have to put yourself in danger because of me.” 

Harry fingers the edge of his blue and green quilt and stares up at the ceiling in the darkness of the room. 

“I know I didn’t have to,” Malfoy says, this time sounding a little less huffy. “I just did it. Okay? So stop beating yourself up over it. Stupid bloody saviour. You know, you’re not the only one who’s allowed to be a self-sacrificing idiot. You have to pass the baton every now and then.” 

“Pass the…baton—?” Harry chokes out incredulously.

“Shut up. You know what I meant.”

Harry, for the life of him, can’t think of an adequate response. Silence reigns in the room for another long bout of time. When Harry is turning around in bed for the tenth time, trying to get comfortable, to push away the faint ache lingering in his scar and the aftereffects of his vision, Malfoy exhales loudly and sits up in his bed again. 

Harry stills. “I’m sorry,” he says, ashamedly. “I just can’t sleep.” 

There is more rustling of blankets, and quiet mutterings, and then the padding of light feet across the wooden floor. 

“Budge over,” Malfoy says, standing right beside Harry’s bed. 

“...What?” 

“Make room,” the other boy says impatiently, flapping his hands toward Harry’s blankets. Harry, startled, scrambles to the side of the bed and gathers up his bedsheets with him. 

He isn’t completely surprised to have the other boy invading his space like this—Malfoy has made quite a habit of sprawling across Harry’s mattress at any time of the day, stealing his blankets or distracting him from his chores. 

But he has never exactly climbed underneath the sheets right beside him. 

Something twists, low in Harry’s stomach. 

Malfoy murmurs a quick greeting to Noodle before flopping his head back against one of Harry’s extra pillows. The blankets settle over them and the room returns to silence. 

“Erm…?” 

“What?” Malfoy says, sounding cross.

“Well… what are you doing?”

Harry feels it is a perfectly reasonable question to be asking, considering the circumstances. He turns on his side and stares at the other boy, trying to read his expression through the darkness of the room. Another nervous tremor wracks through his frame.

“I’m trying to sleep,” Malfoy says. “ Obviously. ” 

“Er,” Harry says. “Okay? But why…” 

Malfoy reaches across the mattress and wraps his hand around Harry’s wrist, ignoring Harry’s yelp of surprise. “Jesus,” he swears. “How can you still be shivering? You must have twenty blankets on you right now.” 

“I’m not shivering,” Harry protests, yanking his arm out of Malfoy’s grip. “I’m fine.” He clenches his jaw and tries to hide the chattering of his teeth. A humiliated blush rises over his cheeks.

Snape needed his rest. And Harry was perfectly fine. He didn’t need a bedtime story, or someone to fall asleep next to. He could handle it just fine.

“Is that all you ever say?” Malfoy says. “‘I’m fine.’”

Harry shivers again and Malfoy sits up, pulling an extra blanket from the foot of the bed up and layering it over Harry. 

“I don’t need you to tuck me in, Malfoy, I’m not a child—”

“Shut up,” Malfoy says. “Merlin’s sake, Potter. I could hear your panicked breaths from all the way across the room.” Malfoy lays back down beside Harry, leaving only about six inches of bed space between them.

“I wasn’t, I’m not panicked—” 

“Right,” Malfoy drawls, interrupting him, “and I’m not a Slytherin. Quit being so stubborn. Don’t you have breathing exercises, or something? Or are you just going to lie here quietly imploding all night?” 

Harry grits his teeth, his cheeks feeling warm. “They don’t work,” he says. “And I don’t want to do them right now.” 

He can feel Malfoy rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, because you’re the expert, aren’t you? You must be even better at Occlumency than Severus by now.” Malfoy’s tone is unapologetically mocking, and Harry tenses, glaring at the other boy. 

“Shut up,” he retorts with a scowl. Noodle climbs up his leg and wriggles along his back, peeking out the front of his pyjama shirt and then coiling around his neck. 

“Have you really memorised all of the exercises?” Malfoy goes on, ignoring Harry. “I heard you say that to Severus the other night. But that book must have more than six hundred pages. So I think you were lying. Imagine that. Famous Potter—the Scarhead-Who-Lived—a stinking liar. ”

Harry clenches his jaw angrily and turns around, shuffling away from Malfoy as far as he can, and lies on his side with his back to the other boy.

“Believe whatever you want,” Harry finally says. “I don’t bloody well care. Just leave me alone, you git.” 

Harry’s voice isn’t as venomous as he would like. He’s still feeling weak from his vision, and shaky, and his limbs are trembling too much for him to control his movements well. 

“Alright then—if you’ve really memorised them, what are they?” Malfoy challenges behind him.

Harry begins to make a very thorough mental list of all the hexes he would perform on Malfoy right this moment if he wasn’t too tired to grab his wand from the bedside table. 

“I’m waiting, Potter.” 

“I am going to wring your bloody neck,” Harry says. 

“I don’t think so. Not in your current condition,” Malfoy says with a sniff. “It would be an embarrassment to even try.” 

Harry makes an angry exasperated sound and tries to sit up, to climb out of the bed, thinking that he may as well go downstairs and have some more tea at this point, but there are so many blankets layered over him by now that he can’t quite muster the strength to get out from under them. He slumps back against the pillow in defeat. 

Why do you keep squirming about? Noodle hisses. 

Harry rolls his eyes. He feels bone-tired, completely devoid of energy, but he’s afraid to close his eyes. He doesn’t want to wake up in Voldemort’s head again. He doesn’t want to be the unwilling participant in someone else’s torture. 

“I’ve examined the book a bit myself,” Malfoy admits from behind Harry, sounding closer than before. Harry stiffens. 

“It’s mine,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “I’ve told you not to touch it.” 

“Is it? I thought it belonged to Severus,” Malfoy says smartly. “And besides—my mother has a copy, you dunce. And you know, I found it incredibly dull as a child. The breathing exercises were much too simple to keep me entertained for long.” 

“Simple—” Harry snorts, and then feels angry again. “It’s not about the level of difficulty, you stupid prat. It matters if they work or not. And they don’t work for me.” He reaches a hand up and traces Noodle’s scales where the snake is still coiled around his neck. 

“Which ones don’t work?” 

“All of them,” Harry says shortly. “It doesn’t matter which ones, or how many I do. I still can’t sleep through the night. I still wake up screaming and—” Harry cuts himself off. “I don’t want to talk about it. I told you, I’m not doing them tonight.” 

“It took me an hour to figure out the first breathing exercise,” Malfoy muses, completely ignoring Harry. “I was seven years old, and mother had left the book open on her desk. It looked important, and I had seen her studying it in the evenings when I was supposed to be tucked away in bed.” 

“ Why are you telling me this,” Harry asks dully, and Malfoy continues ignoring him, ploughing on. 

“And to think that I spent so long sounding it out— dia-phrag-matic . It was perhaps the longest word I had ever read. I thought I was on the cusp of unlocking some wild, previously unheard-of magical secret. But it was just a bloody breathing technique. Diaphragmatic, diaphragmatic, diaphragmatic… can you say that ten times fast? I bet you can’t, Potter.” 

“Shut up.” 

Unbidden, though, the word begins to march in loops around Harry’s mind. It is all he can think of for a few long moments. He blinks, heavy and slow, and then opens his mouth to say something rude to Malfoy, but the boy talks over him. 

“I was so wrapped up in the exercise, I didn’t see my mother coming until it was too late. She snatched the book away and told me I was far too young to attempt something like that. I didn’t see it again until the summer after second year. It was right after father’s—” Malfoy’s voice stumbles for a moment before continuing on, “well, father made some sort of mistake, and mother was furious with him for months. She decided that summer that I should take up Occlumency. I still don’t know what it was that spooked her so.” 

“Second year?” Harry mumbles. 

“Yes, Potter. Do try and keep up.” 

Harry’s eyes drift shut. He hears Malfoy shift onto his side facing him, and he keeps talking. 

“It wasn’t until last year that I made any progress. What else was I supposed to do while you were off galavanting and making a fool of yourself in that stupid tournament? It only took me so long to charm those ‘Potter Stinks’ buttons, and then mother owled me and said she wouldn’t send my Christmas chocolates if I hadn’t shown any significant progress in my Occlumency studies. I couldn’t take that chance, so I delved back into the book and I found that my skill improved at a much greater pace when I simply—” 

Harry doesn’t know at what point he slips from the waking world to dream. It happens slowly. In the foggy edges of his mind, he finds himself sitting in the History of Magic classroom near the window, and Malfoy is standing at the front of the room, pointing at the chalkboard. 

“Diaphragmatic,” Malfoy is saying. “Diaphragmatic, diaphragmatic, diaphragmatic. It’s that simple. Even someone as stupid as Potter could do it. Couldn’t you?” 

Malfoy turns and stares expectantly at Harry, but Harry is busy staring out the window. Ron is hovering right outside on his broom, clad in Quidditch robes and an orange knitted hat. He beckons at Harry and nearly loses his balance. 

“Come out,” Ron mouths. 

Harry grins and tries to climb up from his desk, but he’s stuck to the seat of his chair. 

“Repeat after me,” Malfoy says, pointing at the board again. “Diaphragmatic.” 

“Diaphragmatic,” Harry says. He looks back to the window then but Ron is waving apologetically at him, zooming off into the distance on his rickety broomstick.

“See, I knew you could do it.” Malfoy beams, dragging Harry’s attention back to the classroom. Harry stares at him bemusedly, wondering why the boy is teaching his class in a pair of silk pyjamas. He looks to his left to make a smart remark to Hermione, but her desk is empty. Every desk in the classroom is empty, in fact, except for Harry’s. 

He looks back up to the board, where Malfoy is still pointing, except he is now going over a list of names. 

“There are a lot of options to consider,” Malfoy says. The boy is wrapped in a blue and green quilt now, and has soft slippers on his feet. “When naming a snake, it is very important to make the right selection. You don’t want your snake to bite your arm off. Do you, Harry?” 

Harry looks around the room again. 

“Er… no,” he responds, although his mouth feels sticky, like it is filled with treacle tart, and he’s not sure the words come out right. Malfoy stares at him and then hums in approval. 

“Exactly. Now—turn to page thirty-three. We’re going to spend the next hour reviewing all of the great serpents known throughout muggle and wizarding history. Who wants to go first?” 

Malfoy makes a great show of looking around the room before settling on Harry. 

“Well?” He says, raising an eyebrow. 

“Er,” Harry says. He looks down at his desk, but there is no textbook book to flip open. He looks back up at Malfoy. “There’s, erm… Kaa?” 

“Exactly,” Malfoy says, smiling nodding approvingly, turning to the board and underlining a hyper-detailed drawing of a rigatoni noodle. “Potter is on the right track. Now let’s see what else we encounter upon turning to the next page and examining the history of Italian cooking, beginning in the year—” 

But then Harry is gone, falling through his desk and the floor, floating oddly through space, and Malfoy’s voice is fading into the distance. 

When Harry regains control of his limbs, he is back in that familiar dark corridor. 

He shivers with excitement. The hall is long, but at the end of it, he sees the door. It’s only a few feet away. A few steps, and he’ll be able to wrap his hand around the doorknob. He’ll be able to see inside. 

He’ll finally find the answer to what he’s been seeking. 

Harry’s fingertips are brushing against the cold metal door when he jolts back into awareness. 

-

The spare bedroom of Snape’s house is dark, and silent, aside from Malfoy’s quiet snores beside him and the still-continuing patter of rain on the window. Harry tries to sit up but his arm feels… stuck, on something. He glances down sleepily and squints through the darkness.

Malfoy’s hand is still wrapped tightly around Harry’s wrist. 

The two of them seem to have shifted a bit closer in sleep, and Harry thinks all of a sudden that—if he just scooted a few inches over, slid himself closer to the middle of the bed, he could tuck himself right up against the warmth of Malfoy’s chest and fall back asleep.

Harry blinks wildly, torn with fleeting images of the corridor, and the warm feel of Malfoy’s fingers on his skin. He sinks back into his pillow, a safe distance from the other boy, and sighs. 

“Nnn… Not now mum… I’m going to… turn this peacock blue,” Malfoy mumbles, his grip tightening, and he shuffles closer to Harry. “It’s a very… mmm… yes. Complicated charm. I’ll have some biscuits later, please. Thank you.” 

Harry closes his eyes. 

He feels oddly calm, tethered, more so than he usually does after a night of confusing dreams, and especially more so than after one of his visions. He sinks right back into sleep and this time he dreams that he is swimming in a great pot of bubbling broth, filled with hundreds of writhing Noodles, and they are all hissing the same thing—

Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep…

Notes:

thank you for reading and for all the kind comments! :) also, happy holidays! I have to go out for some last-minute gift shopping tomorrow and I am dreading it lol

Chapter 29: hugs and healing spells // there are three sides to this war?

Summary:

where Snape somehow finds himself professing to be the protector of all children, Harry lets himself be vulnerable twice (twice!!) in one chapter, and Draco bites off a little bit more than he can chew.

Notes:

this chapter fought me tooth and nail. it was dragged kicking and screaming out of my consciousness. but yay, here we are!!! enjoy some (light?) comfort for Snape as well as a very angsty moment for Harry & Draco! :) I hope the multiple pov-swapping isn't too disorienting.

After a few more chapters, we'll likely start to see the emergence/return of a few other canon characters besides Harry, Snape, and Draco. Just giving an early heads up! It has been so fun to explore their dynamic, and that will of course continue, but I am excited to also throw a little bit more into the mix!

The next morning when Harry wakes, he turns over and finds an empty spot in the bed where Malfoy had slept beside him. 

The house smells faintly of coffee, eggs, and bacon, and Harry’s stomach rumbles. He sits up slowly and stretches. There is warm sunlight pouring in through the window and spilling across the bed sheets. Harry pats the blankets bemusedly, searching for Noodle, but the snake is nowhere to be found. There are his glasses, at least, folded up on the side table, and Harry grabs them.

He follows the scent of coffee out of the room and down the stairs, stumbling into the kitchen. 

“Finally awake, are you?” Malfoy says with a snort, and Harry jerks upright out of his half-asleep daze. He looks up and sees the blond boy perched on the kitchen counter beside the sink, his legs kicking idly, and Snape’s book of Occlumency spread open across his lap. He has a quill in his hand and appears to have filled the margins with scribbled notes in dark blue ink. 

And there is Noodle—coiled around Malfoy’s wrist, scales glinting in scattered sunlight, blinking lazily at Harry. 

“Er,” Harry says. He scrubs at his eyes beneath his glasses and blinks hard. Then, remembering the previous night, an embarrassed blush starts at his chest and spreads up his neck and over his face. 

It sort of feels like it was a dream, although that can’t be true, because Harry’s bed had smelled just like Malfoy this morning, like coconut and vanilla and freshly-cut fruit. 

“Don’t make a big deal of it,” Malfoy says curtly. His eyes are fixed on the book, and he appears to be faintly blushing as well. 

“Oh, er… okay,” Harry says. He spots the pot of coffee on the table and drags it closer, along with an empty mug, and pours himself a generous serving. “Thanks, er. For the coffee. And—” Harry gestures toward the spread of breakfast foods. 

“Yes, well,” Malfoy says. “You’re welcome, I suppose. I would have made tea but I think, considering last night, we all could do with a bit more caffeine this morning. And as for the food—it’s just leftovers from yesterday. So you can thank Severus for that.” Malfoy ducks his head and goes back to the book. The tips of his ears are red. 

“Right,” Harry says, feeling awkward. 

He thinks about his dream again, of Malfoy in his velvet pyjamas, pointing at the chalkboard and smiling proudly at Harry. His stomach flips, and he stares surreptitiously at the blond boy perched on the counter, his hair smooth and soft tucked behind his ears and his feet clad in expensive-looking slippers. Harry can’t quite figure out the odd fluttering that’s happening behind his ribcage. 

“Quit staring,” Malfoy says.

“Sorry,” Harry says, flushing even darker, averting his gaze. He reaches up and yanks his glasses off his face, scrubbing at them furiously with the edge of his pyjama shirt before putting them back on. Then he grabs a piece of bacon from the plate and shoves half of it in his mouth. 

The sound of his chewing is loud in the otherwise silent kitchen. 

“Charming,” Malfoy says. 

Harry scowls, beginning to feel annoyed. “Shut up,” he says. “Where is Snape, anyway?” 

“Severus hasn’t come down yet,” Malfoy says with a shrug. He squints down at the book and then scribbles another note in the margins. 

Harry, who normally avoids that book like the plague, finds himself growing curious. “Hey, what are you writing in there anyway—” 

The wooden floor of the kitchen creaks, and there is a quiet, muffled sound, like a groan of pain. Harry wheels around, his gaze landing squarely on his professor. 

Snape has barely crossed the threshold of the kitchen. He looks exhausted—dark circles lingering underneath his bloodshot eyes, and he has a smattering of irregular bruising along his arms and across his shoulders. Harry stares at him. 

He’s never seen his professor in anything but his robes or his dressing gown, but now Snape is wearing just a thin white tee shirt and a pair of loose, drawstring pants. The clothes hang loose on his frame.

Snape grips the edge of the doorway, his fist white, knuckles straining, and he takes one shaky step into the room and then falters. His hair hangs, lank and unkempt, in his face, and his gaze is fixed furiously on the ground. He takes another step and then nearly stumbles. 

Harry’s body moves before he even has a moment to think of what he’s doing. In the blink of an eye, he finds himself across the room and has thrown a supporting arm around his professor’s waist. 

Snape makes a quiet, startled sound. “Harry,” he says, wheezing slightly. He leans some of his weight gratefully on Harry and tries to take another step forward. But Harry, his gaze darting ahead to the uncomfortable kitchen chairs, tightens his arm around Snape’s waist and starts to guide him in the other direction. 

His professor makes another indiscernible sound, seeming confused, but is too exhausted to complain as Harry guides him into the sitting room and helps him onto the couch. 

“I have not lost the use of my legs,” Snape says dryly, watching almost warily as Harry grabs the blanket hanging over the couch and drapes it over his professor, making sure that his pale feet are covered.

“Stay there,” Harry orders. Then he dashes into the kitchen where Malfoy is frozen on the counter, watching Harry with an odd look on his face. 

“What?” Harry says heatedly. 

“...Nothing,” Malfoy says. 

Harry wavers by the table after he puts together a plate of breakfast food for Snape. He looks at Malfoy again. 

“Can you erm…” he hesitates, suddenly feeling awkward. 

“Tea?” Malfoy asks, raising an eyebrow. He closes the book and sets it down on the counter beside him. 

“Thanks,” Harry says, and then rushes back out of the kitchen toward Snape. 

His professor has hardly moved. He has merely leant back a bit, resting his head on the couch cushion, and he sighs when Harry places the tray of food on his lap. 

“Harry… Your efforts are greatly appreciated,” he says carefully, his eyes gentle on Harry, but to Harry’s dismay he picks up the tray and slides it onto the side table and then— “but to be perfectly transparent, I am at the moment feeling far too nauseous to keep anything down.” 

Harry frowns. He fidgets beside the couch for a moment, and then sinks gingerly onto the cushion beside Snape. “Nauseous?” He asks. 

Snape nods. “An unfortunate side effect of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus,” he says quietly, and Harry cringes.

“Oh,” he says. “Er… I’m sorry.” 

“Do not be,” Snape says. He runs a weary hand through his hair and sighs again. “I am accustomed to it. The feeling will fade in a matter of hours.” 

Harry scoots a bit closer, staring at the dark bags beneath his professor’s eyes, and his shaking hands. He frowns again. “Okay but, do you want erm…” he thinks hard. “Do you want a stomach settling potion? Or a… calming draught? Or maybe a—” 

“Harry,” Snape interrupts gently with a wry look on his face. “Those are excellent suggestions, however—I have already consumed far above the recommended number of potions in a twenty-four hour period, and I have exhausted the greater part of my magical core. It would not be wise of me to continue in this manner. I will, unfortunately, have to spend the day recovering on my own.” 

Harry’s shoulders slump. “Okay,” he says. He tugs at a loose thread on the couch and tries to think of something else that might help his professor.

Malfoy sails into the room then, a teapot in one hand and teacup in the other. “What about tea, at least?” He asks. “Mother says you can never have too much tea.” 

The corner of Snape’s mouth twitches and he nods. “Yes, thank you Draco. You may leave it there on the table and I will help serve myself when I am ready.” 

Draco hurries over and sets the teapot down, arranging it as close to Snape as he possibly can, and then steps a few feet back, staring at his godfather and worrying at his lower lip. 

“My, my,” Snape says, leaning back against the couch and surveying both of them with his eyebrow raised. “This is pleasant. Perhaps I should undergo torture at the Dark Lord’s hand more often, if it means that I will be treated like royalty the morning after.” 

Harry scoffs. Malfoy folds his arms across his chest and rolls his eyes. “Don’t get any ideas, Severus,” he says, and then a devilish look crosses his face. “Anyway, Potter’s only doing all of this because he feels guilty for vomiting all over the place last night.”

Harry’s face goes red and he scowls at Malfoy indignantly. “Shut up!” He says. “I didn’t—not all over the place. So… shut up.” 

“Whatever you say,” Malfoy responds tartly. 

Harry frowns in dismay and looks at his professor, who is looking back at him with a fond, amused expression. 

“That’s not… that’s not why,” Harry hedges, embarrassed. 

“It is quite alright, Harry—” 

Snape makes a startled ooomph sound as Harry suddenly lunges forward, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him tightly. 

And then they both go perfectly, rigidly still.

-

Harry still remembers his first hug. 

He had just slammed his fingers in the door at school, and had been trying really hard not to cry because he had learned by then that crying was for babies, not little boys, and that Harry would be in trouble if Aunt Petunia picked him up from school and he had red-rimmed eyes. 

But his teacher had seen it happen and so she had rushed toward him, tutting worriedly and taking his hand in hers, inspecting each finger closely. 

“Oh no, you poor dearie,” she had said. “Does it hurt terribly?” 

Harry had stood there frozen, shocked at her willingness to draw close to him, and to touch his hand, and he had felt a flood of warmth spread from his arm up to his chest. 

“N-no,” he had said after a moment, but his lip had wobbled, and then he had begun to cry. 

“Hush, there you go. It’s alright. Just let it all out,” his teacher had murmured kindly and then—she had tugged him close, right up to her bosom, and let him sob until his nose was running and his eyes swollen. 

Harry almost hadn’t wanted to stop crying, because he knew that when he stopped, his teacher wouldn’t hold him anymore. But after a while he took in one last, steadying breath, and then he leaned back to regard her in the eye. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he had said, his voice small. “I won’t do it again, I’m sorry.” 

She had frowned at him, her kind smile drifting into something puzzled. “Well you certainly will cry again,” she had said, almost teasingly, and patted him on the back. “All children do, of course. It’s a thing of nature. No need to apologize for it, Harry dear.” 

Harry had sniffled and then nodded, but— “please don’t tell anyone,” he had said very quietly.

His teacher’s face had fallen a little more, but she had only sighed. “Alright. I won’t, sweetie. It’s alright. Now—wipe your nose, that’s a good boy, and then why don’t you go and play outside with the other students? There’s still a bit of break left.” 

Harry hadn’t wanted to go and play outside. Dudley was out there with all of his friends, and their favorite thing to do was chase Harry around until he fell and tore his jeans or scraped his palms on the pavement. But he did as he was told, stepping out of his teacher’s arms and grabbing his coat, trudging out the door. 

-

There are other memories like that one, few and far between, and Harry has gathered them in his mind like precious jewels, guarding them closely.

There was the first time that Hagrid hugged Harry, lifting him tightly in his arms outside the Hogwarts express after first year and Harry had been so shocked he had done nothing but hang there, limp, legs dangling, soaking up the affection like a sponge. 

He hadn’t realised that he was supposed to return the hug, to wrap his arms around Hagrid too, but Hagrid hadn’t seemed to care. 

And then—there had been that moment in second year, after everything with the Chamber of Secrets and the basilisk, and Hermione had come running into the great hall and thrown herself into Harry’s arms, and Ron had jumped up and joined in, tucking both of them close to his chest. 

Harry had thought that maybe this was how it felt to be part of a family, to get swallowed up inside an embrace so that all you can think of or feel is just — warmth. 

Sirius had hugged Harry too, that night when Harry and Hermione turned back time, and right before he climbed atop of Buckbeak and disappeared into the skies. It had been a quick embrace, fleeting, and Harry had stiffened when he realised just how frail his godfather’s body was, how he was nearly skin and bones after sitting in Azkaban for twelve years. 

Sirius had held him close and shuddered, taking in deep gulping breaths, like he was afraid this was the only time they would be close enough to touch.

(That was when Harry had still believed he was going to live with Sirius for the summer, not the Dursleys, and so—when he thinks about this embrace now, after everything that has happened in between, he aches with regret and he wishes he had held on to his godfather just a little bit longer.) 

-

But Harry doesn’t remember the first time he initiated a hug himself, because—and he’s fairly certain of this—he has never been brave enough to make the attempt. 

It always seemed far too risky, trying things like that. Much easier to keep to himself. To wait until someone else decided to take him into their arms. Then Harry could relax into the embrace, knowing that it wasn’t his choice, so he didn’t have to let go until they did, because they were the one who decided that this was something they wanted in the first place. 

And so in that moment, on the couch with his arms wrapped around his professor (who is still sitting very still, like he is afraid to even take in a breath), Harry thinks about all of this in an instant and his body floods with fear. 

He suddenly feels terribly, horribly stupid. 

Snape has only hugged him a few times by now, really, and each time has been wonderful, and now Harry has messed it all up. He doesn’t deserve any kind of embrace—especially after how much strain he’s put on his professor this summer, and how horribly he’s been acting.

So he is about to withdraw, to pull away from Snape and give him some space when—his professor makes an odd sound, sort of like a sigh, and all of the stiffness melts out of his frame. His arms come up around Harry in return and wrap very tightly.

Harry was not expecting this. His mind goes fuzzy. He presses his head into the crook of Snape’s neck. His professor is trembling, slightly, and feels fragile in Harry’s arms but Harry still squeezes him back as tight as he can. “M’sorry,” he mumbles, the words muffled. 

Snape exhales and makes a quiet, humming sound. He runs his fingers through Harry’s curls. “I am fine,” he says quietly. 

“You don’t seem fine,” Harry says, miserable.

His professor chuckles dryly. His arms tighten around Harry. “Be that as it may. I have suffered far worse than this in my lifetime. Such is the lot of one who has chosen to serve the Dark Lord. I have accepted this, Harry. And I do not wish for you to dwell on it.”

“...okay,” Harry says reluctantly. He rubs his cheek over the soft texture of Snape’s shirt. “But, you’re quitting now. Aren’t you? You said you were last night. So then… that will be better. Won’t it? Because Vol— he won’t be able to hurt you anymore.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for Snape to respond. 

“Yes,” his professor says, after a long silence, and after he has run his fingers through Harry’s curls once more, gently detangling them. “Yes, I am. I have made my choice. I will not return to him, nor will I continue to spy for the Order.” 

Harry sighs in relief. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad.” 

He waits, then, for Snape to gently push him away, to end the embrace, but he doesn’t. He lets Harry stay right there, curled up next to him on the couch, and he doesn’t move a single inch until Harry himself slowly draws back, unwinding his arms and blinking up at his professor. 

“But…” Malfoy’s voice cuts in and Harry looks over to see the blond boy perched on the coffee table with a nervous look on his face. “Severus, what about Dumbledore? Mother said you were spying for him, because he ordered you to. Do you really think he would just let you stop?” 

Harry’s eyes widen and he looks back at Snape in alarm. 

“He’ll let you, won’t he?” He asks, shifting on the couch, suddenly feeling nervous again. “He’s not like… well he’s not like Voldemort, is he? If you don’t want to do it anymore… can’t you just tell him no?” 

Snape grimaces, and Harry feels a cold hand grip his heart. 

“It is… not that simple,” his professor says haltingly. “I made Albus a vow, a very long time ago and—although I believe I am currently adhering to the parameters of this vow to the best of my abilities—he will not understand how my leaving the Dark Lord’s side is beneficial to our fight. When he finds out, he will be… unhappy. He will ask questions. And—” Snape glances at Harry, then, his lips pursing, “—as I am not permitted to share your location, nor any details of your wellbeing with a single soul, it may be… difficult, for me to impress upon Albus the importance of me being released from my duties of espionage.” 

“A vow?” Harry repeats after a moment, when he’s processed everything his professor just said. “Like ours?” 

Snape’s eyes shift. “Not exactly,” he says, and Harry suddenly gets the feeling that his professor does not want to talk about this. He hunches into himself. 

“Oh. Is this like, erm… something I’m not, er… privy to?” he asks, remembering how Snape had described the goings on of the Order anytime Harry had ventured questions. 

Snape gives him an odd look, the corners of his lips curling, and then he seems sad. “No, Harry,” he says gently. “This is information that you should have access to. It certainly pertains to you. But, be that as it may…” Snape shifts, stretching his neck from side to side, and works his jaw. “I am not certain that I am up to discussing it at the current moment, and in my condition. May we table it for another day?” 

Harry hesitates and then nods.

He knows how it feels to not want to talk about something. And there have been plenty of topics that his professor has tried to broach with him only for Harry to lash out in anger, or withdraw, or explode something with accidental magic. 

So he supposes it’s alright, really, if there are some things that his professor does not feel ready to share with him. Harry knows that Snape won’t hesitate if it’s something that Harry needs to know. He sinks closer to the man then, nearly resting his head on his shoulder. It’s a very nice feeling, to be allowed to sit close, to have his arms wrapped around his professor, and to not be pushed away, even as the minutes stretch on and the morning grows late.

“But does this mean that,” Malfoy interrupts suddenly, seeming uncomfortable, “you aren’t on the Dark Lord’s side… but you aren’t on Dumbledore’s side, either?” He regards Snape uneasily from his spot on the coffee table. “I don’t understand, Severus.” 

Snape shifts, his arm tightening around Harry for a moment, and he sighs. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I suppose you could put it that way. And in that case—you may trust that the only ‘side’ I am on is Harry’s. And yours, Draco. And the side of any child who needs it.”

Harry is startled to hear the words coming from his professor’s mouth. 

His side? Harry’s? 

He doesn’t know if he’s ever had an adult say that sort of thing to him. It makes him feel oddly warm. He wants to hug Snape again, to squeeze him very tightly, but instead a mischievous thought crosses his mind, and he grins up at his professor.

“Any child, you said?” he asks. “What about Neville?” 

Snape sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he says, very solemnly. “Even the Longbottom boy, should he have need.” 

Harry gapes at his professor. “Really?” He ignores Malfoy scoffing beside him. “What about erm… Ron, and Hermione too?” 

Snape eyes him beseechingly. “Harry,” he says with a sigh. “If I say ‘any child,’ perhaps you may infer that by that I do mean any child? And that you are not required to list every single adolescent you can think of to verify them name by name?” He seems faintly exasperated.

Harry’s grin widens, that warm feeling in his chest expanding, and he shrugs. “I suppose,” he says, relenting. “Just wanted to make sure.” 

“Of course,” Malfoy mutters from beside them, his tone sort of mean, but mostly teasing. “You would immediately try and bring the entire house of Gryffindor under protection, wouldn’t you?”

Harry rolls his eyes and is working up to a retort when Malfoy’s gaze sharpens in on the still-untouched teapot on the table beside Snape. 

“Severus,” he says. “Aren’t you going to have some tea?” 

Harry’s gaze snaps back to his professor and all of his worries return tenfold. Snape still looks haggard, and shaky, and he has even begun to sag a bit across the couch, like it is taking everything in him to stay awake and alert and be present for this conversation. Harry’s heart sinks and he starts to feel guilty again. 

“Later, perhaps,” Snape responds. “Thank you for your concern, Draco. But I am fine.” 

Harry frowns. “Are you still feeling, erm… nauseous?” he asks. 

Snape closes his eyes briefly and then nods. “Unfortunately, I am,” he says. “But it is no matter.” When he opens his eyes, he zeros his gaze on Draco. “I had hoped to go over some basic healing spells and potions with the both of you this afternoon, but seeing as I am indisposed at the moment, you will have to make do with a guided study.” 

“Healing spells?” Harry blurts out, eyes wide. He looks over at Malfoy, who seems unsurprised. 

“Yes,” Snape says. “It is vital that every young wizard knows the basics of what to do in case of emergency. I have been remiss in not instructing the both of you in this subject. And as Hogwarts does not offer even an introductory healing course, you and your fellow students have fallen far behind the standard expectations of the wizarding world. There is much to learn. It is not a simple practice, nor will the spells come naturally. This will take patience and determination of will, Harry,” Snape says pointedly. 

Harry straightens, his eyes flying over to his professor from where they had been staring distractedly out the window.

“Oh, erm,” he says, flushing. “Right. Sorry, sir.” 

Harry is not very excited to add another difficult subject to his schedule when he is already spending hours each day on Occlumency, and trying to catch up on his summer assignments as well. But he can see that Malfoy is pleased at the idea, and he supposes that it would be smart to learn something about healing, especially with how often Harry finds himself in near-death situations. 

(Harry would prefer to not find himself in those kinds of situations at all, of course, but it seems that the universe is not willing to grant that request as of yet.)

“It is alright,” Snape says, his tone patient. He gives Harry a knowing look. “I am well aware that you do not perform well in silent study, Harry. That is why you will do an active study alongside Draco.”

Harry darts his eyes over to Malfoy, who is looking at him smugly. 

“Now—” Snape continues on, “listen to me very carefully, both of you.” His expression grows severe and threatening. “You are not permitted to attempt any spellwork this afternoon. Not without my close supervision. You will simply read through the first two chapters of the book together— The Healer’s Helpmate , found on the bottom row of the bookshelf over there—discuss what you have read, and make notes on which incantations you think would have been the most help to you in the past, had you had access to this knowledge. Do you understand?” 

Harry nods, feeling a bit relieved. He hates reading that great big Occlumency book all by himself. It has been better since Snape realised he was struggling, and now usually Harry’s study is complemented by his professor at his side, making the occasional helpful comment, offering definitions of tricky words, and plying Harry with tea and biscuits whenever he feels defeated by the enormity of the subject. 

He doesn’t know how helpful Malfoy will really be, or if the blond boy will just spend the entire time lazing about and insulting Harry’s intelligence, but it will be better than being alone, at least.

Malfoy, for his part, brightens up, climbing off the coffee table and walking over to the bookshelf where Snape is pointing. He crouches down and runs his finger along the book titles. 

“What did you say it was called, Severus?” 

“The Healer’s Helpmate,” Snape says curtly. Malfoy makes an aha sound and pulls a thick book from the shelf. He dusts it off and then flips it open to the first page, staring at it intently, and begins to mumble to himself. 

“Hey,” Harry complains, finally relinquishing his hold of his professor and clambering off the couch. He scowls at Malfoy. “We’re both supposed to study it together. Quit hogging it!” 

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Potter. You and I both know that it’s you who most often needs medical attention. I’m not the one with the stupid bloody scar right in the middle of my forehead that ‘hurts,’ ‘all the time,’” he says, using very sarcastic air quotes, and Harry bares his teeth. He reaches to yank the book away from the blond boy, but Malfoy leaps back, holding it out of reach. 

“Give it here, you git—”

“I think I’ll be needing all the time with this book I can get, if I’m to be responsible for cleaning you up next time,” Malfoy says, a smirk on his face. 

“Draco,” Snape sighs, but seems too weary to get between them. He just watches with his dark, glittering eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly, and settles back in on the couch like he is watching a soap opera. 

“You could get hurt too,” Harry says. He eyes Malfoy darkly. “Anything could happen. You know? Like, for instance, you could get punched right in your stupid, snooty face. It could happen at any moment. Right now, maybe. You’d never see it coming. And then I’d need a turn with the book, wouldn’t I? To see what sort of spell it would take to fix a broken nose.” 

Malfoy’s face colours. “You wouldn’t dare—” 

Harry smiles. He cracks his knuckles.

“Boys,” Snape says with another sigh. 

Harry darts his eyes toward his professor and he feels slightly abashed. His shoulders deflate and he drops his hands. “Oh, erm… sorry, sir,” he says, ducking his head. 

“It is fine,” Snape says, seeming resigned, but—then his eyes glint with something sly. He glances between Harry and Malfoy. “You really must cease with your performative squabbling. I have heard enough of your empty threats to each other this summer to know that neither of you is actually in danger of a hex or a mean left-hook.” 

Harry’s jaw drops. 

Malfoy’s reaction is similarly miffed. “Performative?” He repeats. “Don’t insult me, Severus.” 

Snape looks like it is taking all of his strength to not roll his eyes. He shifts around a bit on the couch and then sinks even further into the cushions. Harry wonders idly if, after they’ve finished studying, they will return to the sitting room to find that their professor has melded himself completely within the fabric of the couch. He wonders if there is a spell in the book that would help with that.

“Whatever you call it, I do not have the time, nor the patience or energy to participate in this farce today,” Snape says firmly. “Therefore I expect that you will both make a valiant effort to get along, so that in the meantime I may rest inside in peace, without any interruption that is not urgent. Do you understand?” Snape says, arching an eyebrow at Malfoy, who seems chagrined. 

“Fine,” he says, scowling at Harry.

“Alright,” Harry says, kicking his foot along the floor, returning Malfoy’s scowl with a vengeance.

“Good. Now, why don’t you take it outside?” Snape glances over to the window. “The weather appears to be acceptable. You may take the snake with you, and get some sun in the meantime. I will have lunch ready in a few hours.” 

Harry, who had been gazing out the window with wide eyes, turns to gape at his professor in alarm. 

He doesn’t even think his professor could stand up without aid right now, let alone walk into the kitchen or try to prepare a meal. Not with the way his hands have been shaking, and the way the dark circles under his eyes have only deepened over the past hour. “You… lunch? No, we can, I mean, you don’t have to do that. We can manage it. Can’t we, Draco—?” Harry freezes for a moment and then feels even more alarmed. He looks quickly over at Malfoy, who has an odd look on his face, and his cheeks have heated. Harry clears his throat. “I mean, erm… well. We can handle it, can’t we?” He rubs the back of his neck, which is reddening at an alarming rate. 

Malfoy seems amused, and faintly pleased, and his eyes darken when he responds. “Of course, Harry,” he says.

Harry flushes. He remembers Malfoy calling him Harry at some point last night, in the middle of Harry’s panicking, but the memory is vague and fuzzy at the edges, and he isn’t quite sure if he was dreaming or not. He feels embarrassment brewing in his stomach. He doesn’t know if it’s allowed—doesn’t know if Malfoy will make fun of him, or grow angry, if Harry sometimes calls him by his given name.

It is not something that they’ve ever done, not once in the four years they’ve been in school together. But—it’s what friends do, isn’t it? And although Harry knows that neither of them would admit it, he thinks that Malfoy has become his friend this summer, and—at the very least, they have apparently grown to trust each other enough to even sleep in the same bed, sometimes. 

And doesn’t that mean something? Doesn’t that mean that Harry can call Draco by his name? 

Snape looks between them. He suddenly appears faintly suspicious. He purses his lips and opens his mouth, but closes it without saying anything. 

With Malfoy distracted, and with his professor clearly thinking very hard about something, Harry takes his chance and snatches the book out of Malfoy’s hands. He tucks it under his arm and goes running out the back door. 

“You bastard, give it back!” Malfoy shouts, racing after him, Noodle still clinging tightly to his arm and hissing in alarm.

***

“Oh yeah, I know that one. Snape’s used it on me loads of times,” Harry says with a yawn, pointing at a spot on the page Draco has just flipped to. 

They had run around the yard for a bit, shouting at each other and fighting over the book, and then Harry had flopped into the grass, his hair falling over his eyes and his chest heaving. He had waved his hand tiredly at Draco and called for a truce. 

Now they’re curled over the book, staring down at it, and Draco can feel the sun warming the back of his neck. It’s been about an hour and his throat is starting to feel dry. He thinks maybe after they finish this next page, he’ll convince Harry to go inside and make them some iced tea. 

Draco looks down at it and snorts. “Episkey? Of course he has. Clumsy Potter, always getting into a scrape of some sort. When did he use it on you, hm?” 

Harry pauses for a bit to think, sinking back on his heels in the grass. 

Noodle is curled up a few feet away from them, half-dozing, scales shimmering. He lifts his head and flicks his tongue out lazily, hissing something, and Harry looks over with a soft smile on his face. He hisses back. 

Draco scowls. 

He’s used to the Parseltongue by now, mostly, but he still hates feeling left out. And he wishes he could hear exactly what it is that Harry is hearing each time, so he could see what the snake is always saying to make the other boy smile like that.

Draco should be the only one to make Harry smile like that. 

“Potter,” he says, forcing his tone into something cross. “I asked you a question, you arsehole. Don’t be rude.” He digs his hand into the ground, careful to not get dirt beneath his fingernails, and yanks up a handful of grass.

“Oh, right. Erm,” Harry says. He fidgets, and worries at his lower lip. “Well, I sort of cut my hand one time. On a, er, a teacup.” 

Draco’s face twists. “A teacup?” 

He tries to imagine in what sort of scenario the boy would have cut his hand on a teacup. Maybe during one of his ridiculous cleaning frenzies. Maybe Harry had climbed up onto the counter and shoved his hand to the back of the cupboard, feeling around for dishes to dust, and had rammed his fingers right onto the jagged edge of an old porcelain saucer. 

There are lots of old things like that, in Severus’s house, things that kick up dust when Harry and Draco touch them. There are rooms sealed shut, and faded curtains that smell like moths, even after Harry has washed them three times, and an odd rectangular indent in the wall upstairs near Severus’s room, like some sort of closet or chamber that was at some point sealed off by magic. 

He’d pointed it out to Harry once, idly, and the boy’s face had gone pale, and he had snarled something very rude to Draco before running off in the other direction. And when Draco had brought it up to Severus later, his godfather had frowned disappointedly at him and told him to ‘not concern himself with things that are not any of his business.’

“Oh,” Harry says a moment later, eyes widening, and he points at another section on the page. “That one too! The bandaging spell. He used it that same day, actually.” 

Draco opens his mouth to respond, but Harry has already seen another familiar spell and he is grinning and pointing to it. “Here’s another one! Brackium Emendo.” 

“Emendo?” Draco repeats, leaning in close and surveying the spell. 

It sounds vaguely familiar. 

Draco thinks suddenly of a chaotic game of quidditch from years ago, and an angry bludger, and Harry on the ground doubled over, clutching his arm to his chest and his face twisted in pain. Draco frowns. He had been laughing then, but—he is not laughing now.

Harry’s smile falters for a moment and he looks down at his wrist. He rubs at it nervously. “Yeah. It… fixes broken bones. If you do it right, at least. But, er, I’m sure you remember that one from, erm, second year,” he shrugs, seeming suddenly uncomfortable. 

Draco feels queasy. He stares at Harry’s wrist a moment longer before looking up. “You said Severus used it on you? What for?” 

Harry shifts. He digs his hands into the grass, tugging at it, and he looks over at Noodle, avoiding Draco’s gaze. “My wrist,” he finally says. “It was erm… Snape said it was broken in two places, I think.” 

Draco’s eyes widen. “Two places? Merlin. What, did he shove you down the stairs?” 

A fleeting, barely-there look of panic flashes through Harry’s eyes and Draco, who had been full-on joking, reels back in shock.

Harry, for his part, doesn’t respond. His lips press into a thin line and his hands curl into fists.

“Did he?” Draco repeats. He leans in closer to Harry and grabs his wrist. Harry makes a nervous sound and tries to yank it away, but Draco holds on firmly. He squeezes very gently, prodding at the fragile bones in Harry’s wrist and up his forearm. He tries to imagine how it would feel to have a wrist break that badly. He had sprained his wrist once, during quidditch practice in third year, but Madame Pomphrey had fixed it in an instant. 

(Although Draco hadn’t admitted it, then. He had whinged and moaned for as long as he could in the hospital room so that Pansy would fawn over him and bring him chocolates and do his coursework.) 

“If he didn’t, then how did you break it, Harry? Tell me,” Draco demands, staring at Harry through what he hopes are dark, threatening, uncompromising eyes. 

Harry huffs and tries again to pull away. “Of course he didn’t,” he says, sounding angry. “Snape would never —he promised he would never—” 

“Then who did?”

Harry’s face shutters. “Nobody.” He yanks again on his hand, hard, squirming backward to get out of Draco’s grip, but Draco still refuses to let go.

Harry narrows his eyes and his mouth turns downward in a scowl. 

“What the fuck, Malfoy,” he says, his voice rough. “Stop it. Let go.” 

“No,” Draco says. He grabs Harry’s other flailing wrist and presses closer.

“Let go, you stupid prat,” Harry repeats through gritted teeth, squirming, his face going hot. 

“Tell me how you broke your wrist first,” Draco says. 

“No!” Harry’s eyes are bugging out, his chest heaving, and he tugs furiously with both arms, trying to get some space between them, but Draco doesn’t budge. 

“What, is it some dirty secret? Is it embarrassing? Why don’t you just tell me, Potter?” 

Harry exhales heavily and flexes his hands, his fingers straining. His eyes are hard on Draco when he finally responds.

“I fell.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Is that what you told Severus?” 

“...Yes,” Harry says, sullen, avoiding his eyes. 

“So then what really happened?” 

Harry struggles again, trying to get his knees under himself, to get away from him and Draco grits his teeth, holding fast.

He knows he’s not supposed to ask about these things—Severus has told him over and over again to leave it well alone—but Draco has never been very good at not sticking his nose where he doesn’t belong. 

He just wants to know who hurt Harry. 

He wants to know why Harry sometimes gets that distant look in his eye and hunches his shoulders inward, rubbing nervously at his left wrist like it still aches, even weeks after it was supposed to have been healed. He wants to know why Harry’s nightmares get worse on cold nights when Severus forgets to close the window, or why Draco’s not allowed to ask about Harry’s muggle relatives, or why sometimes when Harry wakes up at night crying, he can’t settle back down until Severus pulls him into his lap and rocks him, murmuring quietly in his ear and running fingers through his hair, like Harry is a child again, like he has forgotten how it feels to be loved, or—perhaps he never felt anything like that at all, not even once, and is just now having to learn how to be held and spoken to gently, and doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

Draco swallows thickly. “Just tell me, why don’t you?” he says, quiet and intense. “I’m not going to make fun, Harry. I won’t tell anyone. Not even Severus. Alright?” 

Harry blinks up at him and then, very suddenly, looks as if he might cry. And Draco wonders if maybe Severus was right—maybe he is pushing too hard. 

He thinks of that day early on when he had first arrived here, and he had hidden in the hallway and listened to Harry and Severus fighting in the kitchen. There had been a sharp sound of shattering glass, and a surge of magic so wild and strong that Draco had fallen to his knees. So he knows now what happens when Harry gets really upset—when he feels cornered, or angry, or misunderstood. Severus has told him again and again to tread lightly. To be gentle. To watch how he speaks, and how he moves, and to think about how his actions have consequences. 

“Snape said I don’t have to talk about it,” Harry says then, his eyes bright and swimming with the threat of tears. He starts to tremble slightly.

“Alright,” Draco says, feeling a bit sick. He loosens his grip then, and Harry immediately pulls his hands away, tucking them close to his chest. He blinks rapidly and seems half-frightened, half-ashamed. He avoids Draco’s eye.

Beside them, Noodle comes slithering over and climbs up into Harry’s shirt, popping out of the collar and coiling around Harry’s neck. He hisses something, sharp and questioning, and Harry hisses quietly in response. He reaches a shaky hand up and pets the snake’s scales.

Draco leans back on his palms. He gives Harry the space he probably should have from the start of this conversation. And he waits for Harry to run off, to disappear, to maybe run inside and into Severus’s arms, but he doesn’t. So they stay there like that, and the seconds and minutes inch by, and the breeze blows gently, the heat of the sun beats down on them, and Draco tries to think of how to apologize, which is something he does not make himself do very often.

“Harry, I’m—” 

“It was my uncle,” Harry says, so quietly that Draco thinks maybe he misheard. 

“Your uncle?” Draco repeats.

“Yeah.”

Draco’s heart clenches. “Oh.”

Above them, the leaves of the oak tree ruffle in the breeze, and the wood creaks. Draco listens to Noodle hissing quietly to Harry, but it seems like Harry has stopped responding to the snake. Draco tries to process what Harry has just told him and he feels suddenly cold with disbelief.

“Your uncle, Harry? You mean... But, was it… Harry, was it an accident or—”

“Draco—” Harry says, his voice soft and pleading, and he very carefully turns his face away from Draco, but that doesn’t quite hide the single tear that slips from the corner of his eye and slides slowly down his face into the grass beneath them. Harry scrubs at his face and takes in a shaky breath. “I don’t… I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have said that. I really don’t want to talk about it. At all.”

Draco stares at Harry in dismay. He has no idea what to say. He wonders how it is that Severus always seems to know how to help Harry feel better—to make the haunted look in his eyes disappear. “Harry,” he starts, staring at the other boy with wide eyes. “Harry, I’m—I didn’t mean to—” 

Harry sits up, rubbing at his wrist, and then swipes at his eyes again. He pushes his glasses up on his nose and sniffs, and then shuffles forward and grabs the book. He flips to a new page and stares at it unblinkingly.

“Harry,” Draco says again, staring at him. 

“Let’s just keep reading,” Harry says without looking up. He is still staring at the page, but Draco can see that his eyes aren’t moving.

-

Severus watches the boys through the window just long enough to ensure that they aren’t going to kill each other. He doesn’t think they will call his bluff, but—if he blinks and finds them tussling in the grass right at each other’s throats, he will only have himself to blame. 

But they only run around for a while, kicking up grass and dirt and shouting at each other, and then they tumble down into the grass, lying shoulder to shoulder, and flip open the book. 

Severus sighs in relief. Then he finally allows himself the luxury of lying down. He presses his cheek to the cushions of the couch and closes his eyes. He stops fighting the curse aftershocks and just lets himself shake for a while, silently, clenching his teeth together and curling his fists up in the blanket Harry had layered over him. 

The blanket is very soft, and warm—nicer than the blankets Severus keeps in his own chambers. He does not typically spoil himself like this. But, Severus supposes, this is a special occasion after all. 

He thinks of the way the boy had hugged him—effortlessly, near instinctively, his face pressed into Severus’s chest. Like Severus was something sacred—something to fear losing.

Severus doesn’t know how to define this feeling. His heart has been thudding since that moment, his rib cage squeezing, and he thinks that there is nothing Harry could ask of him that he would not give to see the boy safe and happy and warm, wrapped up tightly in his arms. 

And so he does not regret his promise to leave the Dark Lord. It was, perhaps, one of the easiest decisions he has made in his entire life. He will deal with the consequences that come. He will do whatever it takes so that Harry does not have to get hurt again.

Notes:

as always thank you to everyone who has been reading and leaving such kind and supportive comments <3 I hope everyone's enjoying the holidays !! anyone get a weird christmas gift? my sister gave me a new tarot deck, I'm super excited to try it out.

Chapter 30: am I seeking punishment or am I seeking something else that I cannot yet put into words?

It’s a warm afternoon a few days later and Harry is standing beside the sink, helping Snape wash up after lunch. 

He can just barely see Noodle through the window, slithering across the grass and pouncing on some unlucky grasshopper. 

Draco is seated at the kitchen table behind them—Harry can hear the faint scratching of his quill. All morning, he has had the Occlumency book in hand and has been scribbling furiously in it. Ever since Harry’s last nightmare he has been working on— something, and he won’t let Harry see what he’s writing— not until it’s ready, Draco says each time Harry asks. Harry doesn’t mind. If it means that he gets a small reprieve from his mind exercises, he’ll let Draco hog the book for as long as he wants.

And so the past few days have been quiet, and peacefully devoid of conflict, and Draco has kept an annoyingly close eye on Harry, eyes widening if Harry so much as sneezes unexpectedly. 

“Should I call for Severus?” he says nearly twenty times a day, staring at Harry’s scar in worry anytime Harry seems agitated. “Is it hurting again?” 

“No, you git, I’m fine,” Harry always responds, although he fears that his tone has begun to sound terribly fond when he speaks to Draco, instead of annoyed, and he has no idea when or how that happened or how to make it stop.

And Snape seems to have made a habit of checking in on Harry at odd intervals throughout each day, even more so than ever before. He will place his hands on Harry’s shoulders and say something like—

“How are you feeling today, Harry?” 

Or—

“Have you worked on your Occlumency exercises today, Harry?” 

Or—

“Would you like to assist me with a potion this afternoon, Harry?” 

Or— (and this is usually only late at night, when Harry wakes from a nightmare and Draco is sat up in his bed across the room from them, his brow furrowed in worry, and Snape is running his fingers through Harry’s curls, uttering the spell that always makes his pyjamas feel dry and warm) —“Remember our vow, Harry, and breathe. You are safe here. I will not permit anything or anyone to harm you.” 

On those nights Harry is hard-pressed to keep his composure, typically collapsing against his professor’s chest and trembling, fists wrapped tightly around Snape’s maroon nightgown, and Snape lets him stay like that for as long as he needs until his tears abate and his heart rate returns to normal. 

(And if these extra attentions from Draco and Snape make an odd warmth bloom in Harry’s chest—if he finds himself quietly pleased at the thought that someone, anyone , could be worried for him, could be thinking of him, well—that’s nobody’s business but Harry’s.) 

So he really doesn’t know why he does it. Harry does not fully understand the tight, anxious feeling that has been building beneath his ribcage since this morning, when he rolled out of bed and Draco had uttered a quiet “morning,” and Snape had nodded briefly at Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder before sliding a plate full of fried eggs and sausage links and fruit slices in front of him. 

And he does not fully understand why, after such a peaceful morning, and a quiet lunch, the next time Snape hands Harry a dish to dry, Harry lets it slip out of his fingers and shatter all over the floor. 

The kitchen falls silent. From behind them, the soft sounds of quill scratchings pause.

“Do not move,” Snape says immediately. He pulls his wand out of his robes and the broken pieces rejoin seamlessly. Snape then snatches the plate out of the air and stows it in the cabinet. 

Harry stands perfectly still. There is an angry, buzzing cloud filling his mind, like a swarm of bees, and his mouth tastes of iron. 

Snape looks him over. “Are you hurt?” 

“No, sir,” Harry says calmly. 

“Very well. Would you like to continue drying dishes, or would you like a break?” 

“I can keep going,” Harry says. 

But the very next dish that Snape hands Harry also goes straight to the floor. This time, one of the ceramic pieces ricochets back up, nicking the skin above Harry’s ankle. 

Snape waves his wand again and repairs the dish, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed. He looks Harry over and heals the cut on his leg. 

“Why did you do that, Harry?” he asks quietly. 

Harry, his face now set into a mulish frown, shrugs. 

“Quit it,” Draco says from the kitchen table behind them. “One of those shards almost hit me.” 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry growls, whirling around to glare at the other boy, and he feels an odd pang in his chest when he sees the flash of hurt in Draco’s eyes. 

“You don’t have to be an arse about it,” Draco sniffs, and is opening his mouth again to add more when Snape cuts him off. 

“Draco. Why don’t you continue your studying upstairs for the time being?” 

Draco frowns then and shoots another glance at Harry, this time seeming slightly worried. He opens his mouth, wavers for a moment and then closes it. 

“Now please, Draco.” 

Draco’s face creases. “But, what are you going to—is he—”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, toneless, and he forces himself to half-smile at Draco. 

He doesn’t know what is going to happen next. He has never tried to intentionally provoke Snape. All of his mistakes, up until this point, have been accidental. But all he knows is that the tightness in his chest is getting worse, and his hands are shaking, and so something needs to happen, good or bad, so that Harry can relax, so he can stop feeling like the world is quietly imploding around him. 

So—if he has to break a few dishes, if he has to goad his professor into punishing him, well—it shouldn’t be very difficult. Harry’s good at getting into trouble. He’s good at making people angry. And he doesn’t want Draco to have to witness it.

Draco’s shoulders slump. He purses his lips, seeming unconvinced, but he closes the book and tucks it under his arm before ducking obediently out of the room.

Harry listens to the fading sounds of Draco’s footsteps on the stairs. The further the blond boy goes, the more his stomach twists itself into an anxious knot and so when he finally looks back at Snape, he flinches back slightly. His professor is staring at him with an unreadable expression, and seems to be waiting for Harry to speak first.

“It was an accident,” Harry says.

“Was it?” 

“Yes,” Harry insists, a stubborn look forming on his face. 

Snape pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and sits down. “I don’t believe that is true, Harry,” he says. 

Harry’s hands clench into fists. “It is. It’s true,” he says. 

“Why don’t you have a seat, so we can discuss what is wrong?” Snape counters, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest and scowls. He remains where he is, standing near the kitchen counter. “I don’t want to sit down. And I don’t want to discuss it. And there’s—there’s nothing wrong.” 

Snape is silent for a few moments. He leans back in his chair and rests his hands on the table. “You have been unsettled since this morning,” he finally says. “Were you able to get adequate sleep last night? After your latest nightmare, I would understand if—” 

“I slept well enough,” Harry interrupts. “And I’m not unsettled.” 

He glares at Snape, who returns his gaze with a smooth, calm expression. 

“Then tell me Harry, what has possessed you to intentionally break my dishware?”

Harry flinches again. He feels something angry trying to claw its way out of his chest. “I told you it was an accident,” he says, his voice rough. His breaths are growing shallow. “So—so if you don’t believe me, then why don’t you just—just punish me and get it over with?” 

“Punish you,” Snape repeats.

“Yes,” Harry bellows, his voice cracking and his heart thudding unevenly. “Punish me, damnit!” He kicks at one of the kitchen chairs and it rocks in place, nearly tipping over. Then he whirls around, eyes the line of clean dishes on the counter and thinks about throwing them all to the floor and watching them shatter. He wonders if that would make him feel better.

“Harry,” Snape says, a hint of warning in his tone when he sees what is in Harry’s line of sight. “If you continue to purposefully destroy household items, you will have to take care of the ensuing mess. I am not going to continue cleaning up after you when you are behaving in this manner.” 

Harry makes a frustrated sound and winds his fingers through his hair, yanking hard. His pulse is thudding in his ears and his eyes are squeezed tightly shut and so when he suddenly feels a hand wrap around his elbow he is not expecting it. He jerks backward, stumbling, until his back hits the kitchen counter. He stares up at his professor with wide, angry, mistrustful eyes. He doesn’t remember seeing Snape climb up out of the kitchen chair, or hearing footsteps.

Snape drops his hand. He seems faintly regretful. “I apologize,” he murmurs. He takes a step back from Harry and shows empty palms. “I am not going to hurt you, Harry. You are safe.” 

Harry nearly growls. He shakes his head furiously, ignoring his professor’s attempt at calming him. “I won’t clean up anything,” he forces out, a thick lump rising in the back of his throat. “You said… you said I don’t have to clean every day if I don’t want to. Right? So. I’m… I’m not. I’m not cleaning anymore today. I don’t want to.” 

Harry then, not knowing what else to do but still feeling that itchy, restless feeling, snatches a wine glass from off the counter and raises it high above his head. 

“Harry,” Snape says, his voice still calm, although there is an edge of some tense emotion in his eyes that makes Harry waver. “Put it down right now, Harry. You are only going to hurt yourself again.” 

“No,” Harry says. His entire body is trembling, and he is gripping the wine glass so tightly that his hand feels numb. “You’re going to punish me anyway, aren’t you? So why should I listen to you? It doesn’t matter what I do. It never does.”  

His vision is inky at the edges, his breathing short and panicked, and he flinches back again when he senses his professor edging closer. 

“You must calm down, Harry,” Snape says quietly. “Breathe.” 

Harry shudders. He tries to inhale but the breath gets caught in his throat. He places his other hand on the counter, trying to steady himself, realising faintly that his legs are trembling, knees knocking together and he’s having trouble staying upright. Still, he holds the glass high above his head and keeps his eyes fixed on Snape. 

“I do not know what is troubling you,” Snape says, slow and careful. “But you have not done anything that warrants punishment. And if you had, the most I would assign you is lines, or potions prepwork with me in the lab.” 

Harry shakes his head. “That’s not true. It’s not. You could do—there’s so many other things you could do, and I don’t know why you haven’t—why you haven’t yet, because I know you want to, because I’m a bad kid, and a fr… a freak, and I’m—” 

“Like what?” Snape interrupts, and Harry short-circuits for a moment. He blinks at his professor.

“What else could I do, Harry?” 

Harry processes the words, and then all of his confused anger seeps away. He begins to feel cold all over. 

“I… I… I don’t—” 

“What else could I do?” 

There is a note of steel in Snape’s voice, and a scary, angry look in his eye, but Harry can tell the man is still trying to sound calm and unaffected. 

Harry swallows. He lowers his arm unconsciously, the wine glass still gripped tightly in his fingers, and it sways at his side. His professor tracks it with his eyes and then looks back at Harry. 

“Answer me, Harry,” he says. 

“You,” Harry pauses, his throat thick. He swallows again. “You could, erm, you could… I mean…” 

“Lock you in a cupboard?” 

The wine glass slips from Harry’s fingers. He waits numbly for it to hit the floor and shatter, but it zooms straight into Snape’s waiting hand instead. Harry gapes at his professor in horror. 

“No,” he says hoarsely. It suddenly feels as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. “No.”

“Harry,” Snape says, his voice achingly gentle. He sets the wine glass on the table, far out of reach. He inches closer to Harry. 

“No,” Harry says again, shaking his head. “I didn’t, I, I mean—I don’t. I don’t want to, that, it’s...” He shakes his head even harder, his chest seizing up and he can’t breathe. 

“Harry,” Snape says again. 

Harry flinches. He curls his right arm into his chest and hunches his shoulders. When Snape moves closer again, close enough to touch, Harry stumbles back, bumping his head against the cabinets. 

“I… I’m sorry,” Harry says. He can feel his eyes filling with tears. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t an accident, okay, sir, I did it on purpose—I don’t know why, I just. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, I am,” he repeats, panicked, as his professor continues to draw closer and closer. 

“It is alright,” Snape says. He pauses, and then makes a small movement with his hand, like he was going to lay it on Harry’s shoulder. But when Harry flinches again, hard, his professor’s hand lowers. 

“I just don’t want to go back there,” Harry blurts out, his tone turning desperate, even as he still curls protectively inward. “I want to stay here, please sir, I—” Harry shudders and a few tears escape the corners of his eyes, sliding down his cheeks.

“I know, Harry.” 

Harry scrubs furiously at his cheeks with one hand, keeping the other tucked close to his chest. “You don’t understand,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t… one day, you’re going to be angry enough. Then you won’t want to put in so much effort anymore. You’ll realise it’s not worth it. That I’m not—” Harry chokes off. 

“That will never happen.” Snape’s voice is so firm that it jolts Harry slightly out of his panic. “There is absolutely nothing that you could do that would make it acceptable for me, or anyone , to hurt you, or neglect you, or lock you away. Do you understand, Harry?” 

Harry’s eyes have widened. “No, that’s—” he shakes his head. 

“Yes,” Snape presses.

“No, that’s, that’s not true—” 

“You have spent this summer with bated breath, watching my every move, waiting for me to snap. Haven’t you? And you still do not understand that that will never happen, Harry.” 

“No,” Harry stammers, “no, you’re lying.” 

“I am most certainly not lying.” 

“You are,” Harry forces out, his voice choked, “because if—if you’re not lying, if you’re telling the truth then—then that means it was always possible, and they just…” Harry shudders again, blinking frantically, and swiping at his eyes. 

“What was always possible?” 

“I thought,” Harry goes on shakily. “I thought, something must be wrong with me, because—they were always nice to Dudley, and—and I saw Ron with his parents, and Hermione and—I’d wondered… what was wrong with me? What was so wrong with me that I couldn’t, that they couldn’t just—” 

Harry is shaking so much now that he can hardly speak. Snape closes his eyes and takes in a slow, steadying breath. 

“Harry.” 

“But you’re—” Harry forces out, his voice breaking. “You’re just my professor, and you hate me, but even you haven’t… you haven’t hurt me, not once, and I don’t understand—if you can do it, why can’t, why can’t—” 

“Breathe, Harry.” 

Harry tries to inhale, but just like before, the breath catches painfully in his throat, and he starts to cry in earnest, huge, shuddering sobs that wrack his frame and make his legs wobble. He stumbles forward and finds himself cradled securely into his professor’s chest. Snape rests a hand on the back of Harry’s head, holding him close, and begins to talk to him in the soft, gentle way that he usually only reserves for Harry’s bad nights, when he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is. 

“Do you truly still believe I hate you? Idiot boy.” 

Harry shivers and mumbles something incomprehensible, burrowing his head further into the soft fabric of Snape’s robes.

“There is not now, nor has there ever been, something wrong with you. Do you understand me?” 

Harry doesn’t respond. He’s soaking up the liquid warmth of his professor’s voice, and the quiet sounds of the kitchen around them, and the near-undetectable squeak of the stairs, like Draco is sneaking back down them as quietly as possible. 

“Your aunt and uncle are a repugnant stain on the face of this earth. They are entirely unfit to raise a child. That you were left in their care was a gross oversight, and—although I am not equipped with a time turner—I am nevertheless going to do everything in my power to heal the damage they have inflicted upon you. You will never be forced to return there. Not while you are here with me, under my care. I would never allow it. Do you understand me, Harry?” 

“Re… repugnant?” Harry repeats, his voice wobbly. 

“Absolutely repugnant.” Snape’s arms tighten around Harry. 

This, for some odd reason, makes Harry cry even harder. 

-

He hates crying. He only has painful memories of it—Aunt Petunia always got angry when he cried, and it usually made his punishments worse, not better. 

As a small child, he had watched curiously as Dudley had learned the power of his tears. He had watched as his cousin used petulant cries and sobs to get whatever he wanted. 

Harry had wanted, more than anything, for his aunt to fawn over him like she did her own son. So one day, after scraping his hands and knees on the cement outside and tearing the leg of his pants, Harry had stumbled inside on shaky legs, tears pouring down his face and his shoulders shaking with sobs. 

“Aunt Tu— Petunia,” he had whined, his voice high and stressed.

She hadn’t even looked at Harry, at first. Hadn’t even made any sign of hearing him, although he was standing right beside her as she bustled about the kitchen, preparing a fruit salad for dinner. 

Harry had sniffled tremulously and shuffled closer to her, although he eyed the wooden spoon in her hand with a wary familiarity. 

But he had thought—certainly she wouldn’t hurt him, not then, not while he had already fallen outside and hurt himself. Maybe if she saw his skinned knee she would gather him up to her chest and hold him close, pressing a fond kiss to the top of his head, like he had seen her do for Dudley just that morning. 

“Aunt Tuney, I fell,” he had said, tugging lightly at her skirt with a trembling hand. “It hurts.” His eyes had welled up with more tears and they had dripped down his cheeks, gathering along the line of his jaw and then pooling warmly in his collarbone. 

Aunt Petunia had gone perfectly rigid. She had turned away from the kitchen counter and looked down at him, her lip curling, the wooden spoon gripped tightly in her fist. 

“What did you say?” She had asked coldly. 

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Harry had stammered. “Petunia, I meant—Aunt Petunia. I didn’t mean—it’s only just, I fell, and hurt my knee, and it’s stinging awfully, and I dunno what to do and—” 

He had trailed off, letting out another nervous sob, his hands shaking. 

Aunt Petunia had narrowed her eyes at him. She had bent at the waist, looking him up and down, eyes lingering on his torn pants, bloodied knee, and bits of gravel embedded in his palms. 

“You dirty, nasty little boy,” she had said, her face contorting in anger. Her hand had shot out to grip his wrist painfully tight. “You’ve ruined another perfectly good pair of pants now, have you?” 

“No, I haven’t— I mean, I didn’t mean to!” Harry had protested futilely, and his heart had sank as his aunt dragged him out of the kitchen and toward his cupboard. She had stopped right in front of the door and held out an expectant hand.

Harry had stared at it. A very, very small part of him had held out hope that maybe… maybe his aunt was going to hold his hand now, for the first time ever? Maybe she was going to fix his scrapes. Maybe she was going to make it better. 

“Take them off,” she had snapped impatiently, gesturing at his pants. “I’ll see what I can do about the damage. You’ll have to go without in the meantime. I’m not wasting Vernon’s hard earned money on another pair just for you to go bumbling about in the streets and ruin them again.” 

Harry, in complete and utter shock, despair curling through his chest and making his throat tight, had removed his pants and handed them to his aunt. 

“I… I’m really sorry, Aunt Tuney, I didn’t mean to,” he had said, near whimpering, his voice small and his eyes glassy. His aunt hadn’t responded. She simply twisted her mouth, in that way that made her look like she had just eaten a lemon, and opened the cupboard door, shoving him inside. 

Harry had spent the better part of a week in his cupboard that time, only allowed out for bathroom breaks or to help with the cooking and cleaning. At the end of the week, he was brusquely presented with an old, ratty pair of Dudley’s jeans. 

They hadn’t fit right, and they constantly slipped down to Harry’s knees unless he kept a tight grip around the waistband with his hand, but—he had learned his lesson. He had learned what crying would get him. From that point on he had tried very hard to only cry in his cupboard, when he was alone, where no one would hear him. 

-

“Harry,” Snape says, and Harry blinks, pulling himself back up out of the deep well of his memories, the ones that rise up and choke him sometimes, swallowing up everything around him. He looks up at his professor. 

“Sorry,” he croaks. 

“Hush,” Snape says. “It is alright, Harry. Are you feeling any better?” 

Harry takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and exhales slowly. 

“A bit,” he says quietly.

“Good,” Snape says. 

“I’m…” Harry clears his throat and starts again. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I just… I sort of freaked out—it’s been going so well, and now I’ve ruined everything—” 

“You have not,” Snape interrupts him. “It is perfectly normal to be feeling this way. This is likely the first environment in which you have felt safe enough to express some of these thoughts.”

“Oh.” Harry fidgets slightly, his fingers curled around Snape’s robes. “Is that why… is that why I’ve felt awful all day? I didn’t… I just felt so angry, like this—buzzing, or itching, and like I wanted to scream, or hide, or…” he trails off, his voice still shaking slightly.

“Yes,” Snape says. “And it very well may happen again. It will take your subconscious mind and body time to understand that they do not need to be on constant alert.” 

Harry frowns. “Again? But I don’t…” he glances at the counter, and the floor, and then over to the wine glass on the kitchen table. His fingers twitch. “I don’t want to get so angry again, that was,” he hesitates, “a bit scary.” 

“Yes, it was,” Snape agrees. “That is why the next time you begin to feel this way, you will promptly inform me, and we will find a safer way for you to express your feelings—one that does not involve the reckless destruction of glass and ceramic dishware.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. “Okay, yeah. That sounds… that sounds alright.” 

He wavers there for a moment and then sinks forward into his professor’s chest again, hiding his face and taking careful inhales and exhales, trying to go back to the way he felt before this whole mess of a day. He thinks of the calm that always comes over him while he bakes cinnamon bread. 

They sit like that for a long time, and the only thing Harry pays attention to is the even rise and fall of his professor’s chest and the soft chirping of birds from the kitchen window. He only lifts his head when the kitchen floor creaks behind them.

“Draco,” Snape says quietly, the slightest hint of warning in his tone.

Draco looks past Snape to Harry, taking in Harry’s swollen eyes and tear-tracked cheeks. Harry ducks his head ashamedly and tries to swallow down the thickness in his throat. 

“Is he— is Harry in trouble?” Draco asks stiffly. 

“No,” Snape says immediately, squeezing Harry’s shoulder when Harry flinches. “He is fine, Draco. He was harbouring a number of reasonable worries that needed to be addressed. He is not going to be punished.” Snape squeezes Harry’s shoulder again, and Harry relaxes. 

“Okay.” Draco seems to relax minutely as well, the tension in his shoulders dropping, and he shuffles further into the room, his eyes darting around warily as if he is looking for loose bits of glass. 

Harry reluctantly sits up then, shifting over to his own chair and putting a breadth of space between him and his professor. He scrubs at his cheeks, suddenly feeling exhausted. He yawns. 

Snape stands and rests his hand on the top of Harry’s head for a moment, ruffling his hair. 

“Why don’t you boys go and play cards upstairs? I will call you back down for supper this evening.” 

Draco perks up, seeming excited to do something besides adding notes to the Occlumency book. He glances hopefully at Harry, who scrubs at his face again and then stands, his legs still shaking slightly. 

“Yes, sir,” Harry says, his voice still hoarse, and he darts a nervous glance at Snape. “But can I, erm, can I please go and get—” 

“Yes, Harry,” Snape sighs. “You may go and fetch your snake first.” 

***

They play gin rummy on Harry’s bed for a half hour before Harry starts to doze off. 

“Potter,” Draco says again, sounding faintly exasperated. Harry blinks heavily and sits upright, realising he’s begun listing sideways again, halfway asleep. 

“Oh. My turn?” he mumbles. 

Draco rolls his eyes. “There’s only two of us here, you know. You can pretty much assume that after I take my turn, yours will come right after.” 

“Right. Yeah, okay,” Harry says with a yawn. 

They play for a few more minutes and when Harry has begun to blink heavily again, his thoughts swimming, Draco speaks and this time there is an odd tension to his voice. 

“Harry…” 

“What,” Harry says, his eyes drifting shut. He gives into his drowsiness and sinks fully onto the mattress, lying on his side facing the other boy.

“I’ve been, well… meaning to ask you something.” 

Harry tenses. He opens one eye and squints at Draco. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, his voice hard. 

If the blond git thinks he’s going to interrogate Harry about what just happened in the kitchen, he’ll be sadly mistaken. 

Harry really doesn’t know what he was thinking that day, out in the yard, letting Draco get so close. Letting him touch Harry’s wrists, and pull him close—letting him know even one tiny part of Harry’s embarrassing history with the Dursleys. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t a blanket permission for Draco to suddenly get the inside scoop on Harry’s personal life. He clenches his jaw tightly shut and prepares for Draco to ask him something horribly invasive.

Draco rolls his eyes again and clicks his tongue in annoyance. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask, you dunce.” 

“I don’t care.” Harry rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He abandons his handful of cards, letting them fan out across the blanket beside him, and Noodle lets out a quiet hiss, slithering across his stomach to curl up atop his ribcage. 

Are you finished playing with rectangles? You smell of fatigue. 

Probably, Harry responds. And I’m not tired. I’m fine.

“What’s he saying?” Draco asks, leaning closer with a curious look in his eye, and Harry scowls. 

“Nothing, you git. Have you always been this nosy?” 

(Harry knows the answer is yes, but he asks anyway just to see the angry look on Draco’s face.)

Draco scowls back, but then his stormy expression clears. 

“Well, you try sitting there and listening to a rare, ancient language being spoken all the time with no hope of translation,” he says with a sniff. “Any normal person would be curious.” 

Harry falls silent. He pets one hand along Noodle’s scales, and the snake flicks his tongue out, tickling the palm of his hand. 

“He just asked if we were done playing,” he finally says with a small shrug, not sure why he is conceding at all to Draco’s questioning. “That’s all.” 

“Oh.” 

“Snakes don’t really…” Harry hesitates. “I’ve told you. They don’t have much to say, normally. It’s not that exciting.” 

He feels some of his anger drifting away. Draco hasn’t done anything, after all. Harry doesn’t know why he’s getting so defensive. He thinks maybe Noodle is right—maybe he needs a nap before he says something he will regret.

“Hm.” Draco shifts a bit closer, and Harry stiffens. 

He thinks, all of a sudden, of the other night when Draco had laid right beside him under the sheets. He remembers the way his hand had felt, wrapped right around Harry’s wrist. He had felt the boy’s breath fanning softly over his face. 

“Why do you still call him Snape?” 

Harry blinks. He turns his head to stare incredulously at Draco. 

“What?” 

“You call him Snape. It’s weird,” Draco says. 

“Weird?” Harry snorts. He sits up slightly, pushing up on his elbows. “What do you mean, weird? What the bloody hell else am I supposed to call him?” 

Draco moves closer and stretches out his hand, catching Noodle from slipping off Harry’s chest and onto the blankets between them. The snake coils lazily around Draco’s wrist. Draco looks at Harry like he’s an idiot, and Harry bristles. 

“He’s my professor,” Harry says. 

“That you live with,” Draco says meaningfully. 

Harry frowns. “So?” 

Draco huffs. “Are you really this stupid? He calls you Harry, doesn’t he?” 

Harry’s frown deepens. He’s too tired for this. He sinks back down onto the mattress on his back, fiddling with the fraying hem of the sheet. “So?” he says again. He takes in a shallow breath and folds his arms around himself. 

“So,” Draco pauses. He seems to be suddenly choosing his words very carefully. “So… don’t you think that… means something?”  

Harry frowns again, and then he yawns. He turns back onto his side facing Draco.

“I dunno,” he says. “Yeah… I suppose? He always called me Potter at school. But now, he…” Harry squints his eyes at Draco and lapses into silence. 

Harry feels the other boy shuffle even closer on the bed, and he feels too exhausted to react this time. And then something warm settles over him. He looks down and sees his blue and green quilt. 

“What—what are you doing? Are you tucking me in?” he asks, incredulous, and then yawns yet again. 

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy says venomously, and then his tone softens minutely. He sounds awkward when he speaks again. “You’re still… you’re shaking, so...” 

“Oh.” 

“Severus didn’t…” Malfoy hesitates. “He didn’t say anything to you, right? He wasn’t angry? He didn’t…” 

“No,” Harry says. His eyes drift shut. “Suppose he might make me do lines, tomorrow, though. I did break his dishes.”

“Hm.”  

“So you think… what, you think I should call him Severus?” Harry snorts without opening his eyes.

“It would be better than calling him sir,” Draco says quietly. 

Harry sinks further into sleep. Before drifting off into complete slumber, he feels the weight of one more blanket settling over him and Malfoy leaning in close, murmuring something quietly to Noodle, who wraps more tightly around Harry’s wrist in response.

Notes:

I just went through the comments from last chapter and I am absolutely blown away!! I can't believe how many supporters this little story of mine has. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! <3

Chapter 31: bowtruckles vs. leaf bugs, and the revisal of emergency contacts

Summary:

lots of Severus POV, and a cute lil drarry moment at the end.

Notes:

Hello! <3 I'm sorry for the huge delay! Things got super crazy around the holidays of course, and then my birthday, and I've recently gone full-time at work so have just been a bit overwhelmed. I haven't abandoned this story! I still have a lot of chapters written ahead, but there is so much I want to do/ so many directions I could take that I'm starting to think this may end up being a 2 or 3 part series.

Soooo, updates may continue to be a little slower from here on out as I figure all of that out. This is of course a work in progress so I guess it can be expected to run into the occasional snag. Bear with me! <3 I wasn't entirely satisfied with this chapter but I'm trying to get over being a perfectionist so I'm just sharing it with you guys anyway, to help me get back on track working on this fic lol. Thank you for the continued support and kind comments!! Also, happy late Valentine's Day!

Severus has grown attuned to the sound of Harry’s cries in the night like he is to the look of a potion brewed wrong, simmering off by a minute degree, or like he is to the hard look in Albus’s eye when he is about to say something he knows that Severus will not like. 

Harry still wakes him most nights, even as the summer has grown warm and long and they are nearing the end of July. It is like second-nature now to climb out of bed, silence the charm that alerts him to unusual activity in the spare bedroom, and throw on his dressing gown. 

The boy is sobbing into his chest not a moment later. “I’m sorry,” Harry says thickly, hiding his face and trembling. 

The room is dark and quiet around them except for the soft, shifting movements of Draco sitting up in his bed across the room. Severus flicks his fingers and the room brightens minutely—just enough to ensure that Harry does not think he is back in that godforsaken cupboard.

“It is alright,” Severus says.

“I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong,” Harry says. His grip tightens on Severus’s dressing gown. “I did the exercises, I swear, I always do them, I’m trying, I just…” his voice breaks and he seems unable to complete the rest of his sentence. 

“You have done nothing wrong,” Severus says. “As I have told you repeatedly—the mind arts are no simple task. You will not master Occlumency in a single summer, and certainly not at the age of fifteen with the myriad of trauma your mind is still attempting to process.” 

“Draco can do it,” Harry says sulkily, darting a saddened, envious gaze at the other boy. 

The corner of Severus’s mouth quirks. “Hardly. He is no master. And that is beside the point. Draco’s mother has been instructing him on this subject far longer than you have even known of it.” 

Severus looks over at Draco, then, taking in the boy’s wide, nervous eyes, and hunched shoulders. 

“Lie down, Draco,” he says. “Harry is fine.” 

Draco shifts around on his bed, seeming uneasy, and then looks at Harry, ignoring Severus’s simple instruction (as he is often wont to do). “What did you dream of this time?” he asks quietly, and Severus grimaces. 

“I have told you before, Draco. Do not press Harry for details about his—” 

“It was… it was him ,” Harry interrupts with a shudder, his voice muffled, face still pressed into Severus’s dressing gown. 

Draco opens his mouth and speaks again, despite Severus’s warning look. “Harry said…” he sits up further, drawing his knees to his chest. He looks at Harry. “You were saying ‘don’t touch it.’” 

Harry flinches. He pushes himself up and stares at Severus and then at Draco. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t… I think it was…” he screws his face up. “I think I was dreaming of the graveyard again. Voldemort, he… after he came out of the c— the cauldron, he… it hurt so bad.” Harry shivers. 

Severus very carefully conceals his surprise. 

Harry has not typically been willing to discuss the subject of his nightmares once he has regained some measure of lucidity. And Severus has still heard very little detail on the night of the Dark Lord’s resurrection. He knows only that which Albus was willing to impart—that of a dark regeneration potion, one which required great sacrifice on the part of Pettigrew and Harry. He knows that the Dark Lord regained his physical form, and that in the aftermath, Harry underwent torture by Cruciatus and was forced into a duel. 

Severus hungers for more information of that night. For his own sake, of course, to learn anything he can that will help in the fight against the Dark Lord. But for Harry’s sake as well—because Severus knows (from personal experience) how detrimental it can be to hold these things inside. He knows that Harry spoke of the experience with Albus, but he does not know that he had the chance to confide in any of his friends, nor did he receive any counseling after the fact. All Severus knows is that, more often than not, the events of the graveyard are what Harry is reliving each night as he attempts peaceful slumber. 

Severus does not want to startle Harry out of this rare openness, this willingness to share his feelings, so he tries very hard to keep his voice level as he responds. 

“What hurt, Harry?”

“My scar.” Harry’s voice wobbles. “It was like—it hurt more than anything. The last time it hurt that bad, I think it was with Quirrell, when he, erm… when I had to…” 

Harry’s trembling increases and he falls silent. The snake comes slithering out from beneath the blankets, then, and coils around Harry’s wrist. It hisses something, quiet and inquisitive, and Harry ducks his head and responds. The snake coils tighter.

The edge of the bed dips. “With Quirrell?” Draco repeats. He inches close to Harry on the bed, reaching out and running a finger along the snake’s scales. 

Severus purses his lips. His first instinct is always to scold, to reprimand his insolent godson and send him back to his own bed before Harry becomes further agitated, but—he watches surreptitiously as Harry seems to somehow soften, his shoulders slumping in relief the moment Draco approaches. And Severus will not deny how the two boys, against all odds, have grown closer over the past few days and weeks of forced proximity. 

He does not fully understand what has caused this great change in his godson, nor what has caused two boys who once professed to be enemies to now find comfort in each other. But he is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If this means less squabbling over toast at breakfast, less hurling of insults, slurs, and empty death threats, Severus is not going to do anything to jeopardise their sudden peace. 

Harry nods at Draco. “Yeah. My scar, er, it… it always hurt, in first year, whenever I had defence class. But I didn’t know why. And… then when I had to fight him, to save the stone, he unwrapped his turban and I saw…” 

Harry looks lost for a moment. He shifts closer to Severus, seemingly unaware of it, and he pets at his snake's scales. 

“You feel pain in your scar when the Dark Lord is near,” Severus concludes, and Harry nods again. 

“Yeah, erm. I think so? A lot. Especially if,” Harry grimaces, “if he touches it. In the graveyard, he said, he said… ‘I can touch you now.’ And he pressed his finger right to my scar. It was so—” Harry cuts himself off and presses his palm to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. He seems to be lost in memory.

“He touched you?” Draco’s voice is sharp. He stares at Harry’s scar, like he might be able to see the imprint of the Dark Lord’s hand if he looks close enough.

Harry nods. “Felt like my head was splitting open.” 

Draco cringes. He lifts one end of the blanket that has nearly fallen off the bed and tucks it around Harry, as if he hopes the simple act will keep Harry’s torturous memories at bay. Harry sinks back into the blanket and blinks heavily, looking up at Severus. 

“Why does it hurt like that, do you think?” 

Harry’s voice has gone soft and raspy, filled with sleep, and Severus feels his chest tighten with emotion as he looks down at the boy. 

“Has the headmaster mentioned your connection with the Dark Lord?” 

“A little,” Harry says with a yawn. 

“That is the most likely explanation. The connection that was forged that fateful night—the night he tried and failed to kill you—and he left his mark on your forehead. And now that the Dark Lord has used your own blood to reforge his body, it stands to reason the connection would only grow stronger. This is why you must continue practising Occlumency, Harry.” 

Harry nods, yawning again, seeming to be thinking it over very thoroughly, and then an expression of abject horror dawns over his face. He sits straight up in bed and claps a hand to his forehead. He looks as if he might faint and Severus comes closer, resting a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder.

“What is it?” he asks sharply, hoping desperately that the boy is not going to be subjected to another vision—not after just waking up from a nightmare. Does the boy’s suffering and pain know no bounds? Will there be no end to his torment? 

Harry struggles with his words for a moment, his face white, and then he squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

“Can’t it, I mean—if I can see through his eyes, couldn’t he—couldn’t he see through mine too?” 

The room goes utterly silent, and Draco inhales sharply. 

“Harry,” Severus begins, but it is too late. The boy throws himself from the bed, falling to the floor on his knees before scrambling back up, out of the room and into the hallway, his breaths coming out quick and panicked.

“Severus, what does he mean—” 

“Stay there, and remain calm,” Severus says to Draco, following Harry out of the room. He catches a glimpse of the boy disappearing into Severus’s own chambers. 

He has an inkling of where Harry is heading, and it makes a quiet fury kindle in his chest. 

It has been some time since the boy has felt the need to hide away like this, to seclude himself in a small, dark area, and Severus had hoped that he was beginning to overcome some of his trauma from Petunia’s mistreatment.

And yet Severus stands in front of his wardrobe a few moments later, resting his hand against the ageing wood. 

“Harry,” he says quietly. 

“Go away.” Harry sounds on the verge of tears.

“No. I want you to come out of there, so we may discuss it like rational beings.” 

“There’s nothing to discuss. I — I’m not coming out.” 

Severus weighs his words for a moment. He considers opening the wardrobe and forcing the boy out. But he is never completely sure what course of action is going to yield the most positive results, and so he remains still, listening to the shallow sounds of Harry’s breathing, muted behind the wardrobe door. 

“Do you think I hadn’t had the same thought?” He asks gently. Harry remains silent, so Severus continues on. “That was my primary concern after your initial vision. The possibility seemed very real that the Dark Lord had witnessed me, harbouring you, through your own eyes.” 

“What?! Then—why didn’t you say anything?” Harry asks shakily, his tone accusing. “And is that—is that why Dumbledore wouldn’t let me go and stay with Ron? Why I can’t go and be with the Order? Because I’m—I might be, he might be—he might be inside my head —” 

“Harry. Calm yourself,” Severus says. “I simply did not think that it was worth mentioning. I see now that that was in error.”

“Worth mentioning!?”  

“There was no need to introduce yet another stress to your already overwhelmed, exhausted, and guilt-ridden mind,” Severus says, lips twitching wryly at the incredulity in Harry’s voice. “Either he could see into your mind, which would mean that my position as a Death Eater was compromised, or he couldn’t.” 

“But you—he could have killed you. You could have walked into the next meeting and he would have just—!”

“But he did not,” Snape interrupts carefully. “Listen to me, Harry. I do not believe this connection you have to the Dark Lord goes both ways. Or rather—if it does, he has not yet realised it, and has not had the thought to take advantage.” 

“How would you even know if he—” 

“You have these visions when the Dark Lord is feeling a particularly strong emotion. Am I correct?” 

“...Yes,” Harry says after a while, his voice sullen. 

“What kinds of emotions?” 

Harry is silent for a long time. Severus does not press—he waits. 

“Anger,” Harry finally mutters. “Or… happiness. Triumph... Bloodlust.” 

“And have you yourself experienced any strong emotions similar to these over the past few months, Harry?” 

Severus waits as Harry is, again, silent for a very long time. 

“I suppose so… yeah.” 

“Can you share a few of them with me?” 

“Erm…” Harry hesitates, his voice going quieter. There is a soft thunk, like Harry has rested his head against the wood of the wardrobe. “Well, I don’t know… fear, and… anger, and…” 

“Do you remember how it felt, after you spent that entire day outside gardening—when I spoke brusquely with you, and dragged you indoors, and you believed I was going to strike you with your belt?” 

Harry makes a soft, startled, wounded noise, and Severus feels a pang of regret, but he stays quiet and waits for the boy’s response. 

“Yes, I remember that. Sir.” 

“And what were you feeling at that moment?” 

“...terrified,” Harry whispers. 

Snape grits his teeth. He grapples, again, with the urge to tear the wardrobe open and pull Harry out. “And do you not believe, if your connection with the Dark Lord went both ways, that he would have been with you that night? Do you not think that he would have seen through your eyes, as you have seen into his head these past few months?” 

“I… I dunno,” Harry stammers. “I don’t…”

“And how do you think he would have felt, upon learning of this connection between the two of you?” 

“Er… I don’t know? Probably really happy,” Harry says slowly. “Triumphant, I suppose? Because… he would know he could use it to, er, to his advantage?” The boy sniffs, his voice shaky, and Snape’s heart clenches.

“That’s right, Harry. And so tell me—did you feel anything like that that night?” 

“No, sir.” 

“And so does it not stand to reason, that because the Dark Lord has not questioned me, or attempted to torture your location out of me, that he must be completely unaware of your current situation, or who you have been spending the majority of your time with?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, sounding reluctant. 

Severus waits for the logic of his arguments to sink in before speaking again. 

“Will you come out of the wardrobe now, Harry?” 

Harry makes a quiet, frustrated noise and there are sounds of rustling within the wardrobe. “But what if you’re wrong?” he says. “What if he—we can’t know for sure. You should keep me locked up anyway, just in case. Or I can wear a blindfold? Or—” 

“That is enough, Harry,” Severus says sharply. He is not going to allow the boy to continue hiding when he is so clearly distressed and in need of comfort. “You may come out of the wardrobe now and converse with me face to face, or I will not hesitate to come in and retrieve you. Do not make me ask again.”

Harry falls silent for so long that Severus has wrapped his hand around the wardrobe door and is moments from throwing it open when Harry finally emerges, looking up at Severus with a sheepish, tearful expression on his face. His eyes are swollen and red, and he is quietly trembling. 

“There you are,” Severus says dryly. 

Harry blinks hard. “I don’t want you to die,” he stammers. “I don’t want you, or—or Draco either, and I already, with Cedric—it was my fault. I told him to take the cup. And I made you take me in. You shouldn’t have… You should just send me back to the Dursleys because… well,” Harry looks down at his lap, his hands fidgeting. “Dumbledore’s probably right, isn’t he? It’s not safe. And… I won’t stop you. I understand now why I can’t be around anyone. We can just dissolve our vow. I wouldn’t blame you for—”

“That is quite enough.” 

Severus ignores the way Harry flinches, the way he scrambles backward like he intends to throw himself back into that blasted wardrobe. Severus yanks Harry closer and folds him against his chest. 

“Don’t—” Harry says, his voice choking, his entire body shuddering. 

“Do not ask me to send you back to that horrid place, with those horrid people. I will not do it, Harry. I will not allow you to place yourself back in harm’s way just to soothe the idiotic part of you that would likely sacrifice yourself to save something even as small and insignificant as a bowtruckle.” 

Harry finally dissolves into tears again, as Severus suspected he would. 

The boy spends altogether too much time swallowed up in sadness, weighed down by the great amassment of responsibilities the wizarding world has placed on his shoulders, and although Severus knows this, he has yet to figure out a solution to all of the boy’s troubles. He can only hold Harry gently, allowing him to tremble and shake, to cry until the shoulder of Severus’s robe is damp.

“Bowtruckle?” Harry finally mumbles after a long time, his voice rough and muffled through Severus’s dressing gown. 

“Yes. Do you recall the chapter on them? It was one of the first we read this summer.” 

“Oh… yeah,” Harry says, seeming to perk up a bit, and he lifts his head, regarding Severus with watery, swollen eyes, his pupils dilated and his cheeks tear-stained. “They’re cool. Live in trees, right? Sort of like a leaf bug.” 

“What on earth is a leaf bug?” 

“It’s like… well, sort of like a bowtruckle,” Harry says awkwardly. He sniffs, and then scrubs at his face, blinking rapidly. “But not magic, I suppose. It’s all green, and looks—looks like a leaf?” 

“Ah.” Severus’s voice is dry. “Well, perhaps I should acquire a textbook on muggle insects. It seems I am lacking in that area of knowledge.” 

“Yeah…” Harry says, sounding distracted now that Severus has given him something else to think about besides the possibility of the Dark Lord inhabiting his mind. Harry looks up at Severus. “How come it’s like that, anyway, sir? Are all wizarding animals… magic? Or are some normal? Like… can all owls deliver mail, or only magic owls? And like… erm, are kneazles cats, or something else? Did cats come first, or kneazles? Or is it more like—” Harry’s rambling is cut off by a wide, lingering yawn. He blinks and appears to have lost his train of thought. 

“We can certainly review the chapter on kneazles in the morning,” Severus says. “And you may tell me more about these ‘leaf bugs.’ Does that sound acceptable to you, Harry?” 

Harry half-shrugs, and sniffs again, finally loosening his claw-like grip on Severus’s dressing gown. “Yeah, okay,” he says. 

Severus half-walks, half carries the boy back to the spare bedroom. Draco is still perched at the edge of Harry’s bed, and his eyes snap to Severus the moment they re-enter the room. 

“Is—is he, Severus—what is—” 

Severus feels Harry flinch, curling into him, and he squeezes the boy’s shoulder comfortingly. 

“Everything is fine, Draco. Do not worry. The Dark Lord cannot see through Harry’s eyes.” 

Draco relaxes minutely, although he still seems tense with worry as he gives Harry a thorough once-over. 

“Sorry,” Harry forces out, avoiding Draco’s gaze. “I didn’t—didn’t realise. I would never, erm, I would never have wanted to put either of you in danger—” 

“Oh, shut up, would you?” Draco interrupts, thrusting his arm out to show Harry’s snake wrapped tightly around his wrist. “Come and relieve me of this ridiculously clingy bracelet, Potter. Noodle is not a fan of your latest theatrics. And neither am I, for that matter.” 

Harry stiffens at Severus’s side, and Severus narrows his eyes at Draco, preparing to reprimand his godson, when Harry opens his mouth. 

“He can bite your arm off, for all I care,” he says snarkily. He shrugs out from under Severus’s arm and stumbles over to his bed on visibly trembling legs. Severus hovers closely behind him. 

He has yet to grow accustomed to the silky, slippery sound of Parseltongue, no matter the frequency and ease of which Harry speaks it. It still reminds Severus of the Dark Lord—still makes his heart pound with unease each time he hears it coming from Harry’s mouth. 

Whatever Harry says, it must appease the young snake, because it relinquishes its grip on Draco’s arm and willingly slithers over to Harry. 

The boy stumbles again and Severus catches him gently around the arm, helping him onto the mattress and layering him with a more than adequate amount of blankets. 

Draco seems reluctant to return to his own bed, but after patting the snake one last time over its scaly head, he trudges back across the room and climbs beneath his sheets. 

Severus brushes his hand over Harry’s forehead one last time, smoothing stray hairs and is about to leave them for the night when Harry’s hand shoots out and grabs the sleeve of Severus’s dressing gown. 

“What is it?” Severus asks gently. 

“If I…” Harry yawns, his eyes half-lidded. It seems this is something he deems important enough to address immediately, rather than waiting until morning, and Severus braces himself for whatever self-sacrificing ideal is about to spill from the boy’s mouth. “Will you just promise me that, if something… changes, and—if Vol—if he can see inside my head after all, or if—if something else goes wrong, will you promise to send me away then, at least? So I won’t hurt anyone?” 

Severus feels his heart clench at the casual readiness of the boy, always willing to throw himself to the wolves in order to spare his friends. 

“No, Harry,” he says.

And—to think that Severus has wasted four years thinking the worst of this young boy. Thinking that Harry was selfish, and spoiled. To think that Severus himself happily perpetuated some of the boy’s neglect and abuse. Severus had done nothing but ignore and belittle, accuse and insult, and hadn’t felt an ounce of regret even while staring into the same bright green eyes that Lily had once gazed upon him with. He hadn’t cared at all. His heart had been full of poison and grief and had no room for a small boy with skinny wrists and untidy hair and bruises hidden beneath sagging clothes. 

“But that’s not fair,” Harry protests. He tries to sit up in bed but Severus presses down gently on his shoulder until Harry heaves a great sigh and slumps back down. From across the room, Severus hears Draco stifle a laugh. 

“I do not care one whit about what is fair,” Severus says. “You will remain here with me until classes recommence in the fall.”

“But—”

“The Dark Lord himself could walk right up to our door and ask for you and I would not give you up. He could force himself into your mind and attempt to control you and I would still not let him take you from me.”

“But Dumbledore said—” 

“Dumbledore is not always right, Harry, nor does he always make the best decisions regarding students,” Severus interrupts, ignoring Harry’s scowl. He reaches down to adjust the boy’s blankets, his hand brushing across the snake’s scales in the process. It blinks up at him, flicking its tongue out, and Severus represses a shudder. “Furthermore—while there may be some validity to his concerns, the decision to return you to your relatives was made while lacking extremely vital information regarding your health and wellbeing. I am certain he would not force you to return to them now, were he to fully understand the extent of their abuse.” 

“Ab-abuse?” Harry’s scowl morphs into a worried frown, and he shifts in the bed, eyes darting across the room to glance at Draco. His cheeks bloom with colour. “Why do you always—?” He breaks off and exhales a heavy breath. “It’s not even, it wasn’t, they weren’t—” 

“Harry,” Severus interrupts patiently. “I understand your discomfort with using that word. However—regardless of what you would call it—it is important that you learn to communicate what has transpired during your time at Privet Drive, most recently as well as throughout your childhood. There may come a time in the future where you will find yourself needing to explain your experiences to another trusted adult aside from myself.”

Harry’s eyes widen seemingly in horror, and he opens his mouth to lodge a complaint but Severus holds up his hand.

“If you cannot even bring yourself to discuss it with me,” he continues, “then you will have a significantly more difficult time speaking with, for example—Professor Dumbledore, or your godfather, or the werewolf.” 

“They wouldn’t—why would I need to tell them anything?” Harry says stubbornly. He yawns again, but seems obstinately fixated on finishing the conversation, no matter the late hour. “They don’t—Sirius doesn’t need to know, it’s not—it’s nothing, really—” 

“It is not nothing.” Severus tries to keep the sharpness out of his tone, but Harry flinches anyway. Severus immediately softens his tone and adds, “I am, of course, certainly not going to force you to discuss anything that you do not wish to. But I cannot predict the future. And I would hope that if there ever comes a time that I am not at your side, you will have the tools to keep yourself safe and far away from those horrid muggles. And if that means that you will have to be brave, if it means that you will have to be honest and direct about your mistreatment, then that is what you must do, Harry, even if it feels scary or shameful. You must promise me this.” 

Harry’s frown has melted away, but his brow is still furrowed, and he looks up at Severus, seeming conflicted. 

“Do you think… you think something’s going to happen? To us?” he says, and his voice has gone very, very soft. 

Across the room, Draco makes another muted sound. 

“No,” Severus says carefully. “No, Harry. I simply think it is in our best interest to be prepared for all possible outcomes. Do you understand?” 

Harry appears to think for a long moment. “And you think that if—if I told Dumbledore, or Sirius, or—you think if I told them about the… about the Durs—if I was erm… honest with them, you think they’d believe me?” 

“Despite your godfather’s many, many shortcomings,” Severus says dryly, “the man loves you more than anything. He has spent most of the summer asking about you. Do you really think he would not listen if you told him you were hurt or in danger or had some other issue? Do you think he would not fight to be by your side if you needed him, even if it meant the possibility of returning to Azkaban?” 

Harry’s expression clears slightly, his shoulders dropping, and he smiles. “I suppose not,” he says. “But I don’t… I don’t want him to go to Azkaban ever again, so—” 

“That is none of your concern,” Severus interrupts. “He is your godfather. His primary duty is to look after you. All else is inconsequential.” 

“Inconsequential?”  

Harry suddenly seems angry again, and so Severus changes the subject before the boy can blurt out some more utter nonsense about not being worthy of care. 

“As for the headmaster…” he pauses. “It is true that it was by his hand that you were originally placed with your relatives. I believe Albus was acting in the manner he thought was best to secure your safety. I do not believe, however, that he put an adequate amount of thought into your wellbeing after the fact. And it is true that, although he cares very dearly for you, he has not always acted with your best interests at heart.” 

“Cares… very dearly?” Harry repeats, disbelieving, and Severus nods, carding his fingers through the boy’s curls. 

They are much softer lately, less likely to become knotted or tangled, now that Harry has discovered Draco’s beauty products and has begun to apply random assortments of them liberally each day, like he is an aspiring beauty pageant contestant.

“Yes,” Severus says. “Albus certainly cares for you. However—it is important to consider that he has already lived through one wizarding war, during which he learned what the consequences can be when you care about someone… too much. When you let your love utterly cloud your judgment. And this knowledge has made him into what he is today. He feels love and affection for a great number of people. He would surely die for you Harry, if the circumstances ever called for it.”

Harry’s eyes widen.

“But,” Severus hesitates, choosing his words very carefully, “He is not likely to let his affection distract him from what he believes to be the best course of action. If he still truly believes that Privet Drive is the safest place for you, it could be somewhat… difficult, to command his attention enough to… adequately describe the shortcomings of your relatives, enough so that Albus understands that you cannot be returned, no matter what. He may simply… act first, and ask questions later.” 

Harry gapes at him. Severus sighs. 

He has spent a great amount of time pondering this issue, over the past few weeks and months, as Harry’s visions have increased in number and Severus has begun to fully understand the reasoning behind Harry being excluded from the Order. So he may understand it, but that does not mean he has to agree with it, or go along with a plan that leaves a very vulnerable and traumatized child in the hands of his abusers. 

“But you said…” Harry is frowning again. “You said I could go to his office, if it was an emergency. You said he would let me stay with Sirius. Wouldn’t he?” 

“That was my initial belief,” Severus says. “Now, however—I am not so certain.”

Harry’s face twists in disappointment. “Why—?” 

“The issue herein lies with our vow. I cannot discuss your existence here with anyone, and I can no longer promise that the headmaster would permit your acceptance to headquarters without question. My floo is only keyed to his office, and so—at this current moment in time, the only route of aid available to you will lead you straight into his arms, at which point he could very well return you to the Dursleys or detain you at another location, depending on how strongly he fears your connection with the Dark Lord.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. He sinks further into the bedsheets, soft curls fanning across the pillow, and his eyes suddenly seem distant. The snake uncoils from around his wrist and slithers up his arm, looping around his shoulder and then his neck. Severus tracks its movements. Outside the window, the wind whistles, branches of the oak tree creak, and then across the room, Draco shifts in place again and exhales quietly. 

“Do you…” Harry starts, seeming pained. “Should we, I mean, the vow… do you want me to—” 

“No, Harry,” Severus interrupts gently. “I would never ask you to give up the boundaries that you set—”

“I don’t mind,” Harry says, a bit stubbornly, interrupting him back in turn. “It’s… it seems a bit ridiculous, when you say it all out loud. I think…” he hesitates. “I mean, you said Padf— I mean, Sirius is alright? You trust him?” 

“Trust is a strong word,” Severus says wryly. “But, yes. If we are going to make a list of adults that I could trust to have your best interests at heart, he would certainly make the number one spot.” 

Harry’s brow furrows, but he nods. “Okay. Well, you can— I don’t know how it works, but… if you ever need to, if something… if something happens, you can tell him about me.” 

“Sure, let’s put the notorious Sirius Black down as Harry’s emergency contact,” Draco mutters quietly from across the room, sounding a bit put out, and Severus shoots him a warning look. 

“Draco, do not—” 

“He’s my godfather, and one of the best people I know,” Harry says angrily, glaring at Draco. “Do you have a problem with that?” 

“No, Harry,” Draco says quickly. His face has gone pink, and he looks regretful. “Of course not.” 

Harry glares at Draco a bit more and then he turns his gaze back to Severus. “Is that it, then?” he asks. “With the vow, I don’t… I don’t really know how it works.” 

“Do you permit me to share information regarding your whereabouts with Sirius Black, should circumstances call for it?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, shivering at the magic that immediately begins to trickle warmly over them both. 

“And do you permit me to arrange transportation for Sirius Black to come here, should the need arise, or for you and Draco to travel to his location—wherever that may be, and whichever is deemed the safest at the time?” 

Harry’s eyes dart over to Draco, and he nods. “Yes,” he says. 

Severus clenches his jaw. “So mote it be,” he says, rolling his shoulders a bit at the feel of new magic settling between them. “I will continue looking for additional solutions,” he adds, when he looks down to see that Harry still seems unsettled. He smoothes the blanket over him. “I have no intention of sending you away to stay with your godfather anytime soon. Put it out of your mind for the time being, the best that you can, and rest assured that you will not be returned to your relatives. Do you understand me, Harry?” 

Harry nods, a bit tentatively, but he seems faintly relieved. “Okay,” he says. 

“Will you go to sleep now, or do you have any more pressing topics that must be addressed before morning?” Severus asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Harry yawns. “No, I think that’s it,” he says. “Thanks, Sn—” Harry hesitates and his face contorts oddly, and then he says— “Thanks, Severus.” His eyes dart up, flashing over Severus’s face, reading his expression, and then dart away again. His fists curl around the sheets, like he is suddenly feeling very uncomfortable.

Severus freezes. He feels his eyes widening, and his heart begins to thud rapidly in his chest. He is barely able to formulate a normal response. The sound of his name in the boy’s mouth for the very first time makes him feel warm, nearly light-headed, and—he has never felt this way before. He didn’t know it was possible to feel this way. He hadn’t thought that Harry would ever feel close enough, would ever trust him enough to cross over that invisible, unspoken line between them. 

“Certainly,” he says stiffly, brushing his hand over Harry’s curls once more. “Goodnight, Harry.”  

***

Harry really did think he was fine. He thought he’d be able to fall back asleep right away. But even after Severus has left, after the lights have gone out and Noodle has curled into a warm ball on Harry’s stomach, his thoughts continue to race, and he can’t quite settle down enough for even a light doze. 

And so after a long while of silence, of trying and failing to fall asleep, Harry turns onto his side, moving with difficulty beneath all of the blankets. He squints over at Draco through the darkness of the room. He thinks that the other boy might also still be awake—his breathing hasn’t yet deepened the way it does when Draco is about to start snoring.

“Draco?”

The boy’s response is instantaneous. “What is it, Harry?”

 Are you… well… you’re not… are you angry with me?” 

Draco turns to face him. “...Angry?” he responds, sounding sleepy. “No, don’t be daft. Why aren’t you asleep?” 

Harry shrugs, and then feels stupid, knowing the other boy can’t see it. “Dunno. This whole time, I could have—Voldemort could have seen you and—” 

“I have already been branded a traitor,” Draco interrupts him, his voice harsh enough that Harry flinches.

“Draco, I—”

“My parents have gone into hiding. I ran away instead of taking the mark. There isn’t much the Dark Lord could see through your eyes now that would change his mind about me, one way or the other. Don’t you understand that, Harry?” 

Harry’s throat thickens. He swallows with difficulty, and tries to speak without his voice shaking. “I know, but he could, erm, he could possess me though, couldn’t he? And what if I hurt—I could hurt you, like—like when Ginny had the diary, and I wouldn’t know, I wouldn’t be able to stop it and—” Harry tries to keep talking but he chokes, his breaths coming out harsh and strained, and his chest starts to hurt.

Draco swears under his breath. He sits up in bed, shoving his blankets aside, and Harry cringes and falls silent. 

The lamp on Draco’s bedside clicks on, filling the room with a soft, low light, and some of the anxiety building in Harry’s chest immediately feels soothed. He takes in a short breath and watches warily as Draco climbs off his bed and stalks over to Harry’s.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says quickly. He doesn’t know what the other boy is planning. But it’s late, and they’re supposed to be asleep, and Harry knows it must be frustrating sharing a room with him, when every single night there seems to be another issue causing unrest and commotion in the early hours of the morning. Draco can’t be getting much more sleep than Harry at this point, and he doesn’t know what the boy is going to do. He prepares to be shouted at, reprimanded, insulted, or threatened—

“Shut up,” Draco says, glaring at Harry. The bed dips as Draco clambers onto it, ruffling the sheets and blankets and scooting in right beside Harry. Harry makes a startled sound and scoots backward, his back bumping against the headboard. 

 “I’m—I’m sorry, really, I didn’t—” 

“Honestly, Potter. Do you want Severus to come back in here? You’re going to set off his monitoring charms.” 

“No, I don’t—” Harry protests. His hands start to shake. “I’m fine, I’ll be quiet. I’m sorry, Draco, I really am—” 

He can match Draco’s banter normally, during the waking hours, when he’s in the right state of mind and not on the verge of tears. But now, in the dimly lit room, when his eyes are still swollen from crying into Snape’s robes, and he can’t quite get the lump in his throat to go down? He doesn’t think he can take any more of Draco’s snappy, angry comments, or his insults, or harsh words. He scoots further back and nearly tumbles off the other side of the bed. 

Draco makes a frustrated sound. He leans closer and grabs Harry right around the waist, pulling him back to the centre of the bed. 

Harry freezes. His entire face flames, and his breath catches in his throat. Draco’s arm is warm around him.

“Hold still,” Draco orders. 

“Er…” 

Draco sighs, and Harry can sense the boy rolling his eyes. Draco’s arm tightens around him and pulls him even closer, closer still, until Harry’s back is pressed to Draco’s chest. 

Harry makes an embarrassingly squeaky noise. 

“What are you doing—!” 

“Quiet,” Draco says. Harry feels breath warm against his neck. He shudders, and Draco’s arm grows even tighter around him. Harry squirms and tries to scoot away, but Draco’s grip is firm, and the blankets are heavy and warm atop them. 

“I don’t see how this solves anything—?” Harry splutters, his face reddening, and he gasps when Draco presses closer, throwing his leg over Harry’s hip. 

Harry suddenly feels totally and completely smothered. His mind goes blank. 

“Shut up,” Draco hisses in his ear. “Just be quiet, Potter. Close your eyes and quit squirming. Jesus. You’d think I was attacking you.” 

“...You’re—you’re not—” Harry shudders, trying to corral his scattered thoughts, a tingling thrill traveling through his body from his head to his toes. “...You said jesus— and that’s a muggle swear word, Draco—” 

“Yeah, well that’s what happens when you start spending all your time with an uncultured blood traitor, isn’t it?” Draco says, but—his tone is soft, almost teasing, lacking the venom that it usually carries. Harry, taken aback, goes still. 

Draco seems to be waiting for Harry to lodge another complaint. When nothing comes through, he chuckles, and Harry’s mouth goes dry. 

“What, nothing else to say? You’ve run out of ideas? You’re not going to claim that the Dark Lord is hiding right behind your eyes again—” 

Harry shifts, struggles anew against Draco’s hold, and makes a nervous sound of protest. Draco cuts himself off. His breath ghosts hotly along Harry’s neck again. 

“Sorry,” Draco mutters. “Shouldn't have said that.” 

“He could be,” Harry says quietly—pleading. “He could be, and you wouldn’t—you would never know, until it was too late, see, so you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t be—” 

“I don’t give a shit,” Draco says. “You’re being ridiculous. You’ve been practicing Occlumency, haven’t you? It’s practically all you do these days.” 

“Yeah, but it’s not working. You know that Draco, I mean you saw me just now, I haven’t—” 

“And I saw you in Defense last year. You shook off the bloody Imperius. You know how many wizards can do that, Harry?” 

Harry is speechless. He had nearly forgotten. 

Draco laughs bitterly. “Not many, that’s who. Not me. Not my father. Do you understand?” 

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it. He blinks heavily. Noodle travels up over his leg and hip, scales sliding smoothly along skin, and then wraps around his forearm, hissing quietly. 

“But…” 

“No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. It’s nearly three in the morning, you prat. Close your eyes. Stop thinking so hard and just go to sleep.” 

Harry shudders. He wants to stay awake, to keep arguing with Draco, to convince the boy to leave him alone, but—it’s so… he’s so warm, underneath the blankets. And the weight of Draco’s arm around his waist is… Harry blinks heavily once more, and then his eyes slide shut. He inhales slowly, deeply, and then exhales. His shoulders slump and he melts into the sheets. 

Time becomes hazy, and Harry slips into a halfway-dreaming state. He goes boneless in Draco’s hold. 

“See?” Draco murmurs quietly, and Harry is not sure if he’s dreaming. “There you go. It was nothing. We’re safe here, aren’t we? And if we weren’t, we’d go somewhere else. We’d go and stay with your stupid godfather. And you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

Harry shifts slightly, mumbling gibberish in response. 

“Of course,” Draco hums. His lips brush faintly against the back of Harry’s neck, and Harry shivers. 

“Mmf—” 

“Hush,” Draco says again. “Go to sleep, you idiot.” 

And Harry does.

Chapter 32: anxiety & peppermint tea

Notes:

it's a short one, so apologies, but wanted to drop in and give this fic some love!

“Tell me, Harry,” Severus drawls. Harry looks up. 

“Yes?” he asks, projecting a look of innocence across his face. 

They’ve been working in silence for about an hour, the two of them, sitting quietly in Severus’s study. The fireplace smoulders to the side, flames flickering soft and blue, and the air smells of sea salt and burnt caramel. 

Harry has found this to be his favourite room in the house by far. 

He loves the great wingback chair, draped in velvety fabric of a deep green that reminds Harry of a mossy forest. The chair is the perfect size to curl up in, and there are always a few blankets stowed to the side that he can wrap himself up in. When Noodle comes in he never strays far, gravitating most commonly to the fireplace, coiling up on the warmed stones and dozing while Harry works on his summer homework. 

Or while Harry pretends to, at least. 

Severus raises an eyebrow. “Have you completed your reading?” 

“Yes,” Harry says quickly.

Severus seems skeptical. He sets down his quill and pushes the stack of essays to the side. “Truly?”

Harry presses his lips together in a nervous smile. “Well… nearly,” he says. He swallows and then stares down at his history of magic textbook. He hasn’t finished the chapter yet—hasn’t even started, really—and all he has to show for himself from the past hour are the animated doodles he’s drawn in the margins. He looks beseechingly at his sketch of Ron flinging a garden gnome over his head. The gnome goes flying, tumbling across the parchment and then disappearing. Stick-figure Ron looks at him and shrugs. 

“Are you in need of assistance?” Severus asks. 

Harry flushes and shakes his head. “No, it’s er… it’s okay. Draco said he’d go over it with me later. He’s three chapters ahead, so he says he can explain it pretty well.” 

Severus’s mouth twitches. “Very well. That is acceptable. In the meantime, why don’t you take a break? Your eyes must be fatigued from staring at that page for the past hour.”

Harry flushes deeper, and closes the book, setting it carefully on the floor and then pulling his knees up to his chest. He glances out the open window, into the sky, and his brow furrows. 

“You may go outside for the remainder of the afternoon, if you wish,” Severus says. “However, in that case you must take the snake with you. Do not even think of leaving me to tend to him alone.” Severus shivers nearly imperceptibly, and Harry bites back a grin. He nearly climbs out of the chair to make his escape but then he pauses, wavering. He looks out the window again and then back at his professor. 

“Alright. Spit it out, whatever it is,” Severus says, leveling Harry with a shrewd look.

“I don’t,” Harry stammers, immediately defensive. “What? There’s nothing—” 

“You have now resided in my home for months, Harry,” Severus says dryly. “Do you think I cannot tell when you have something you wish to say? In addition to that you are, perhaps, the worst liar I have ever known.” 

Harry gapes at him in outrage. “No I’m not! I’ve gotten away with lying to you loads of times. Like that time in second year, me and Ron—” 

He abruptly closes his mouth. 

Severus’s mouth curls into an almost-smile, like a cat who very nearly caught the cream. “How unfortunate. What were you going to say, Harry?”

Harry doesn’t respond. He glares mulishly at his professor.

“You know, this is as good a time as any to make a confession. Professors cannot take points during the holiday. Why don’t you come clean about one of the many rules you’ve broken during your time as Hogwart’s golden boy?” 

Harry scoffs and rolls his eyes, stretching his legs out to the floor and crossing his arms over his chest. “Nice try. If I was really a bad liar, you’d know already, wouldn’t you? You think you can trick me into confessing something, well—you’ll have to do better than that.” 

Severus sighs, but doesn’t appear to be disappointed. He seems more amused than anything. He picks up his quill and drags the stack of essays back over. “It is no matter. I will think of something,” he says. 

Harry huffs in annoyance and stands, pacing to the window and resting his palms directly on the glass pane. 

“Harry. I have asked you not to dirty the glass,” Severus says. “Clean it now, please.” 

Harry rolls his eyes again and takes out his wand, muttering the spell under his breath. “Scourgify.” 

The fingerprint smudges on the window disappear. Harry stares out the window at Draco, lounging with his back against the trunk of the oak tree, his pants rolled up and his bare feet resting on the grass. He has the deck of cards in his hands and is trying to shuffle them without much success.

Do you want to go outside? Harry hisses. 

Yes, Noodle answers. 

“Harry,” Severus says sharply when Harry tries to make his exit. 

Harry grimaces and turns around to face his professor, who has once more set down his quill and is giving Harry his undivided attention. 

“What?” Harry says, exasperated. “You said I could go outside. I’ve been studying all morning, and—”

“Which I did not ask you to do,” Severus interrupts him gently. “I know you did not spend three hours of your day here in my study because you wanted to get ahead in your school work.”

Harry glowers at his professor and doesn’t respond.

“You have been distracted all morning,” Severus goes on. “What is it that you wish to ask me? Is there something bothering you? Have you and Draco gotten into another quarrel?”

“A quarrel?” Harry snorts. “No.” He looks out the window again. Draco has abandoned the cards off to the side and is crouched by the pond now, poking at the water with slim, pale fingers. 

“Harry.” 

Harry grimaces. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces the words out. “Do you think they’ve thought about me?” 

Severus pauses. “Who are you referring to?” 

Harry is quiet for a long time. “Ron, and Hermione, and,” he hesitates. “Padfoot, and, er. I dunno.” 

Draco loses his balance and nearly falls into the pond. Instead he pinwheels backward, arms waving, and sprawls over the grass. His face goes red and he shouts something that Harry can’t hear through the glass. He smiles and then jolts when Severus speaks. 

“You are asking me if I think your friends and your godfather have ‘thought’ about you?” he repeats slowly.

“Yes,” Harry says. 

Severus sighs, and he sounds like he is pinching the bridge of his nose, although Harry doesn’t turn around to check. 

“I’m certain they have,” his professor says. “Do you have some reason to believe that they wouldn’t?” 

Harry shrugs. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Dunno. Haven’t seen them since the end of the tournament,” he says, suddenly feeling miserable. “They wrote, of course, but… they couldn’t say much. Said it was confidential. And… Sirius said to keep my nose clean and stay out of trouble.” 

“Ah.” 

“I know the Order was looking for me,” Harry goes on, finally turning around to face Severus. “Right? That’s why you found me that night.” 

“That is correct,” Severus says. 

“And… Ron and Hermione are with the Order too?” 

“Yes, they are.” 

Harry frowns down at the wood floor. “So they know that I was — that Aunt Petunia took —” Harry coughs and then flushes. “I mean, that I ran away?” 

Severus regards him curiously. “Yes,” he says. “I would imagine so. That is the popular understanding of what happened to you.” 

Harry nods and then slinks back to the wingback chair, sinking into it, and doesn’t react when Noodle slithers up the side of the chair and wraps around his forearm. 

“So they’re still looking for me?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Severus says, and then smiles wryly. “Although, as you can see, they have had no success.” 

Harry doesn’t smile. He feels slightly sick to his stomach. He looks out the window again and presses his lips tightly together.

“I cannot help you if you will not talk to me, Harry,” Severus says gently. 

“I just,” Harry hesitates. He draws his knees up close to his chest. “Do you think they’re worried about me?”

“Undoubtedly,” Severus says. 

That doesn’t make Harry feel better. He frowns. “So, do you think I’m being selfish?” 

Severus stiffens. He sits forward in his chair. “No, Harry. What makes you say such a thing? Has Draco—” 

“No,” Harry says quickly. “No, of course not. I mean, maybe a bit, when he first got here, but it’s just—” 

Severus stands up from his desk and walks over to Harry. He sits on the chair beside Harry and rests a hand on his knee. “Listen to me, idiot boy. Although I may have initially been reluctant to keep you here in my home, it has become readily apparent that this is the safest place for you to reside. You are not selfish for wanting to be safe. You are not selfish for cutting off communication from your friends and family when that is the best course of action to support your safety.”

Harry opens his mouth, but Severus continues speaking. “Yes, the Order worries. In fact, I believe Molly Weasley has had to keep your friends on a very tight leash to stop them from going out to look for you.” Severus chuckles wryly and shakes his head. “But that does not mean you must give yourself up to them.” 

“Mrs. Weasley wanted me to stay with her, after the third task,” Harry interjects, her voice small. “Ron said so. But Dumbledore said no.” 

Severus purses his lips. “Is that so?” 

Harry nods. He looks over to the window again. He can just see the top of Draco’s head. It looks like he has begun to rifle through the herb garden and is plucking leaves from the peppermint plant. He is muttering to himself and gesticulating wildly with his arms, seeming annoyed about something.

“Do you think he should have said yes?” Harry asks. 

“Yes,” Severus says. “Of course I do. But he did not, Harry. And so here we are.” 

Harry’s shoulders slump. 

Severus regards him for a while, his eyes dark and unreadable. “What else is troubling you?” he asks. 

“Well,” Harry says, and then he pauses. He stares down at the patterned rug on the floor. He laces his fingers together on his lap to try and stop himself from fidgeting. “When I go back to school in the fall, how is that going to work?” 

“We have discussed this. It is none of your concern, Harry,” Severus says gently, knocking their knees together. “You will be alright. Your friends will understand.” 

“Well,” Harry says again, scowling a bit, still staring at the floor. “I don’t know if they will, because I think I would be angry if my friend were missing all summer and then it turned out they were perfectly fine the whole time.”

“‘Perfectly fine?’” 

“And last year,” Harry goes on, ignoring his professor’s outraged interjection, “Ron was angry with me nearly all semester because of the tournament, even though I told him I didn’t put my name in, and he didn’t believe me. And Hermione felt bad for him, so I hardly saw her either, and the only person who would talk to me was Sirius, and only through the floo at night when the common room was empty. And what if it’s like that again?” Harry takes in a great gasping breath and continues on before Severus can say anything. “If Ron’s mad, he might not talk to me, and then Hermione will feel stuck between us, and what if the whole school finds out about what happened to me? They already don’t believe me about Vol— sorry, about him being back, and last year they all hated me for stealing the spotlight from Cedric, and—” he begins to talk faster and faster, his face going red, and his breath stuttering a bit, and Severus squeezes his knee firmly until Harry falls silent. 

“It will not be like that again,” Severus says firmly. 

“How can you be sure?” 

“Because I will be there with you, Harry. Things are not the same as they were last year. You will not be alone, no matter what happens.” 

“But you hate me!” Harry blurts out, and Severus’s face goes white. 

“Harry. Please do not tell me, after all this time, that you still believe I do not care for you like I would my own—” 

“No,” Harry flushes, “I meant that, er. Everyone thinks you hate me. That’s how it’s always been! They’ll be suspicious if you suddenly start to be nice, or stop giving me detentions, or—” 

“I have been a double agent in this war since before you were born, Harry,” Severus says dryly. “Do you think I do not know how to pretend? Did you think we would waltz into Hogwarts hand-in-hand, announcing to the wizarding world that we have resolved all of our issues and spend a wonderful summer together?” 

“No,” Harry says. He scowls at Severus. “But—” 

“Of course, we will act as if nothing has changed,” Severus says calmly. “But that does not mean you will not have me at your side, Harry. My office will always be open to you, and my private chambers will be accessible—” 

“But that’s not fair,” Harry blurts out, jumping to his feet and beginning to pace. He glances out the window but Draco isn’t out in the yard anymore. He looks back to Severus and frowns dejectedly. “Draco can see you all the time, he’s a Slytherin, and you’re his head of house and his godfather, and you won’t have time for me. You’ll have to give me low marks and detentions and tell me I’m an arrogant jerk, just like my father, and call me insolent boy, and—” 

“Harry,” Severus says sharply.

“You will,” Harry presses. “Just wait and see—” 

“Severus!” Draco bursts into the room and Harry jumps, whirling around, his eyes wide. “Can you show me how to— oh.” Draco blinks, taking in Harry’s stance and looking between them. Some of the wind seems to have been knocked out of his sails. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“Yes,” Severus says.

“No,” Harry says. His chest is heaving, his hands clenched into fists and his face red. He sincerely hopes that Draco didn’t overhear anything he just said. He feels suddenly, horribly ashamed. 

Severus shoots Harry a warning look. “Yes, Draco. Harry and I are in fact in the middle of a private discussion.” 

“About what?” Draco asks, and Severus sighs. 

“Do you, or do you not understand the meaning of the word ‘private,’ Draco?” 

“I’m going outside,” Harry announces just as Draco is opening his mouth to respond. He picks up Noodle from the fireplace mantle and brushes past the blond boy and out into the hallway. 

“Harry, this conversation is far from over—” 

“Can you show me how to make peppermint tea now, Severus?” Harry hears Draco ask Severus, seeming too impatient to listen to the rest of Severus’s sentence. “You promised we could after lunch. I have the leaves all ready, and—” 

He doesn’t hear the rest. He pushes the back door open and slips outside, kicking off his socks and trainers and walking out onto the warm grass barefooted. And when he plops down into the grass, leaning back on his palms and squinting up at the blue sky, Noodle slithers down off his arm and stares at him for a moment. 

You smell of fear, Noodle says. 

I’m fine, Harry says. There’s nothing to worry about. 

The snake seems skeptical. I will hunt quickly, and return to you, he says. 

Harry’s mouth breaks into a half-smile. You can take all the time you need, he says. We’re safe here. I am just… thinking about the future. 

Will we not always be safe? Noodle asks, and Harry shifts on the grass uncomfortably. He spins a blade of grass between his fingers. 

Probably not always, he admits. But you will be fine. You don’t have to go back to school with me in the fall. You can live here. 

I will go where you go, Noodle says.

Harry huffs exasperatedly, although his smile is a bit more genuine this time, and he reaches out and runs a finger along the snake’s warm scales. Okay, he says. Then we will just have to make sure we stay safe, wherever we go. 

That is a good plan, Noodle says. 

Harry sighs and lays back, letting the warm sun beat down on him. He throws an arm over his eyes and listens to the soft, almost-imperceptible sound of the snake slithering off into the bushes. 

And a while later, when Draco bangs out into the backyard and tugs Harry up, forcing him into the kitchen for tea and biscuits, Harry finds that some of the tension in his chest has eased. He drinks the tea made from fresh peppermint leaves—

“Gathered them myself, like a common gardener,” Draco had said, his chest puffed out, extremely proud of himself—

And he eats the biscuits, warm and gooey with chocolate, and he listens to Draco prattling on about the recipe passed down from his great-great-aunt, and when Severus sweeps into the kitchen to begin preparations for dinner, Harry doesn’t try to escape again. He meets his professor’s gaze and he ducks his head a bit apologetically, but Severus only says,

“Later,” in the curt tone he uses when he’s annoyed, although—he doesn’t seem annoyed at all, and his eyes on Harry are gentle with a soft understanding.