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Chapter Text

In the blistering heat of July, a fourteen year old boy, drenched in sweat and shaking profusely, sat upright on a firm mattress in the smallest room of 4 Privet Drive. Said boy clutched at his heart through a sweat-filled shirt, drawing in wobbly breaths and quieting all sounds of life. The room felt suffocating, as if an intense, invisible flame engulfed the small space, consuming his thoughts before darting away in fear of the other inhabitants of the house.

Harry hesitantly touched his fingertips to his forehead, feeling dried flakes of blood from beneath his hair. His scar had reopened. Slowly, he dropped his head back onto the pillow, his small frame trembling from the effort.

He pressed his palms to his eyes and focused on staring at the corner of the room, desperately wishing away the whirling vision as thoughts of a foreboding, familiar spin reeled into him. Round and round he traveled, discombobulating his head and bringing about the stench of vomit.

He had vomited that night in the graveyard too.

For a split second, before the harsh carousel had spun them apart, Cedric had taken his hand, grasping it in such a peaceful manner, Harry had briefly believed the portkey was part of the tournament.

He now put his own hands together, envisioning the hand that once held his.

His corner wasn’t doing any good as his stomach began to lurch, launching his body to the edge of his bed as the little contents of his dinner spilled out. Groaning, he forced himself to remain as quiet as possible so as not to wake the Dursleys.

Vernon, though always rough with Harry, was different this summer.

A recent failed promotion seemed to tear the man apart, dissolving what little resolve he had and driving Number 4 Privet Drive further away from any sense of normalcy Petunia had tried to maintain.

The tension in the house was palpable, but it wasn’t until a few nights ago, when Harry had quietly snuck out of his room to head towards the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, sneaking past the Dursley’s rooms, footsteps hidden under Vernon’s snoring, that he began to grasp the heightened cruelty of his uncle.

He softly opened the bathroom door, hoping to quickly grab an ibuprofen to ease the pounding in his skull, when he stumbled across Aunt Petunia.

She was paler than usual, if that was possible. Her lips were pursed, her brows furrowed, and her hand trembled as she reached for the ibuprofen. She seemed oblivious to Harry standing there.

He watched her down three pills, clutching a glass of water with both hands that shook, droplets splattering onto the pristine black and white patterned floor. She gripped the counter, as if it were the only thing keeping her upright, before turning towards the door where Harry stood.

Her eyebrows rose in surprise before her mouth snapped shut. Harry kept his gaze low, suddenly captivated by the red and black carpet at his feet. Had the stands always been so frayed? The carpet had grown more worn, as though being stepped on had become less of a duty and more of a burden.

When the silence wore on, Harry risked a glance up, halting mid rise when he caught a glimpse of his aunt’s face. Where porcelain skin usually gleamed, her cheek was swollen, an angry, bright red welt marring her appearance.. Her face looked lopsided, and for a short moment, Harry almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it. Aunt Petunia, a woman set on diminishing any imperfections in sight, whose identity depended on establishing a superiority from sublimity, now stood before him, her own face a reflection of abnormality. Such deviation brought a hint of joy to Harry- who had been shunned his entire life for his own peculiarity: his freakishness.

But the joy that flickered in his chest quickly dissipated when he caught her expression. His throat tightened, and his stomach sank.

When angry enough, it seemed his uncle no longer cared who took the brunt of his blows.

Petunia’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the counter, her wide, strangely fearful eyes darting to meet Harry’s. For a fleeting second, he swore he saw pity–a strange, hollow kind of remorse–in her gaze. It struck him so unexpectedly, he took an involuntary step backward, creating distance between them as if to compensate for the unwanted closeness he suddenly felt.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. His jaw locked in place, refusing to move.

Harry’s eyes returned to the carpet, wishing the loose threads would let him sink into the fabric–let him disappear into its red and black pattern, running endlessly as though the threads were a field of grass, ignorant of the house and its inhabitants. Ignorant of the guilt drifting toward him. Ignorant of the anger slowly coiling within him.

If he were a carpet, he could be trampled on without a thought.

A cold arm grabbed ahold of his arm, jolting him from his thoughts. He flinched back from the sudden contact, jerking his head up, but his aunt had already turned away. Her grip on the counter tightened one last time before she retreated to her room. Vernon’s snores filled the house as she opened the bedroom door, the sound muffled when the wood clicked shut behind her.

Harry stood in the hallway, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. He glanced back at the closed door, squinting through the darkness to make sure it stayed shut, before turning toward the bathroom.

As he took his first step, something cold brushed his palm. He looked down, his body frozen as there, in his hand, was the clear casing of the ibuprofen. He stared at it for a moment, his fingers slowly curling into a fist as an unfamiliar emotion swept through him.

Feeling his chest constrict, he stalked back to his room, struggling to draw breath once more.

—-------------------------------------

Whatever fleeting sense of compassion Aunt Petunia had shown quickly vanished, leaving only a hollow, bitter aftertaste. Though rattled, Harry stopped caring. Why should he have expected her to act differently toward him now?

By now, he had long since realized the truth: while Vernon expressed his dislike openly, through shouts and bruising fists, Aunt Petunia simply allowed it to happen. She never lifted a finger to stop him, not once intervening when Vernon’s temper flared. She would only step in when Vernon crossed a line—when the blows threatened to leave marks too noticeable or when the noise might reach the neighbors—but she never prevented it. And her reprimands were half-hearted at best, more out of a sense of propriety than any real concern.

Maybe she was finally experiencing a taste of what Harry had endured his whole life. But so what? Harry's anger simmered beneath the surface. Why should he care if her face bore the evidence of Vernon’s temper? Why should he feel pity when she never offered him any?

She never hit him, at least not beyond the occasional slap when his “freakishness” got too much to handle. But she didn’t need to. Her indifference was worse. She stood by, silent and passive, while Vernon pounced. And when it came to the moments that truly mattered—when Harry was left hungry and alone, his stomach twisting with the sharp pangs of hunger—Petunia did nothing.

She never batted an eye when Harry sneaked scraps of food late at night, huddled over the leftovers like an animal, desperate to fill the aching void in his belly. She didn’t care when he drank water from the hose outside, gulping it down as fast as he could, always glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one caught him. His throat would burn from dehydration, but Aunt Petunia would sit inside, sipping her tea, watching Dudley shovel down his meals without a second thought.

Her silence, her cold detachment, felt worse than Vernon’s outbursts. With Vernon, at least Harry knew where he stood. But Petunia’s lack of action, her refusal to see him as anything other than a nuisance—it gnawed at him in ways he couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t that she was terrible. It was that she wasn’t anything at all.

He clenched his hands tightly, the muscles in his arms taut with tension as he stood over the stove, staring down at the eggs sputtering in the pan. His head throbbed, a dull, incessant ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. The room felt stifling, as though the walls were pressing in, suffocating him under the weight of it all.

But he wouldn’t let himself be overwhelmed. Not here.

The clatter of cutlery and the scrape of plates filled the air as the Dursleys sat around the kitchen table. Vernon, red-faced and in the middle of one of his morning rants, waved his fork in the air, specks of eggs flying off it as he punctuated each sentence with jabs.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with this country,” Vernon growled, his voice rising above the clinks and clatters. “Too many lazy fools getting promotions they don’t deserve! I’ve been at Grunnings for nearly twenty years, and that sniveling idiot Simmons gets the raise? It’s absurd, absolutely absurd!”

Harry, hunched over the stove and prodding at a half-cooked egg, kept his eyes down, hoping to avoid Vernon’s gaze. He was used to these outbursts by now—his uncle’s endless tirades about work, neighbors, and anything that dared inconvenience him. Usually, Harry let his mind drift during these dinners, pretending he was somewhere else, anywhere but here.

But tonight, something was different.

Vernon’s voice droned on, the usual blend of indignation and self-righteousness filling the room, but it was the absence of another sound that caught Harry’s attention. He glanced up, just for a second, across the table where Aunt Petunia sat.

Silent. Utterly silent.

Normally, Petunia would nod along with Vernon’s rants, offer the occasional “Oh, yes dear, that’s right,” or purse her lips in disapproval at the right moments. But tonight, she was stiff, her knuckles white as she gripped her fork. Her face was expressionless, eyes fixed on the table as though she were concentrating on a spot in the wood grain. It was as if she wasn’t really there at all.

“…and Simmons had the gall to ask me for advice!” Vernon’s voice barked. “Can you imagine? After stealing my promotion!”

Harry’s eyes flicked between his aunt and uncle, heart beating a little faster. Vernon didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. He was too wrapped up in his own anger. But Petunia—something was wrong.

Harry watched as she methodically cut into her food, though she wasn’t really eating. She took slow, deliberate bites, but the food barely made it past her lips before she pushed it around her plate again.

He swallowed hard, confusion creeping into his chest. Why wasn’t she saying anything? Why wasn’t she joining in, as she always did? It was unlike her to be so still, so quiet.

On the other side of the table, Dudley shifted in his seat, his small, piggy eyes darting from his father to his mother. He shoveled food into his mouth, but it was slower than usual. He had always been good at reading the moods in the house, especially when Vernon’s temper was flaring. His father hadn’t yelled at him directly, but Dudley wasn’t stupid. He noticed the harsher tone, the quicker rebukes, and the way Vernon’s eyes narrowed if someone mentioned anything the heavy man didn’t like.

Dudley could sense it–the tension, the anger that seemed to crackle in the air every time his father spoke. But what confused him more was his mother’s silence. Normally, Petunia would be fussing over him, asking if he wanted seconds or complaining about Harry. Now, she barely glanced up.

For Dudley, used to being coddled and doted on, this was unfamiliar territory. It unsettled him, even if he didn’t understand why.

For Harry, this shift gave him an increasingly aggressive uncle and cousin, both men seeing Harry as a scapegoat for their own issues.

…and of course, that’s all we need now, isn’t it?” Vernon huffed, his face purpling with every passing word. “Lazy people getting ahead while the rest of us work ourselves to the bone. Just like—”

He stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing as he glanced at Harry, who quickly dropped his gaze back to the stove. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air, the blame directed at Harry even without being said.

Petunia shifted slightly in her seat, her fork clinking gently against the plate. For a brief moment, Harry saw her face twitch—just the smallest flicker of something behind her eyes, something like fear or maybe regret.

Vernon continued, his words now more forceful, his gaze lingering on Harry. “This house runs on hard work. Not laziness, not—” He paused, his teeth grinding together. “Not freakishness.”

Harry felt the word cut into him like it always did, but his gaze was drawn to Petunia. Her hand trembled as she reached for her glass of water, and as she lifted it, Harry noticed the faint shadow of a bruise along the edge of her wrist, barely visible but there nonetheless. He stared at it, wondering how long it had been there, wondering how many times over the past few weeks she had sat like this—silent, tense, with eyes that never quite met his uncle’s.

She took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving the table, never acknowledging the conversation or Vernon’s growing fury.

Harry’s stomach turned, a strange, cold feeling crawling up his spine. It wasn’t sympathy, not exactly, but there was something unsettling about seeing his aunt like this. He was used to her scathing remarks, her sharp tongue always ready to criticize him. But this silence—it felt like something was breaking inside her. Or maybe, something had already broken.

He didn’t dare look at her for too long. He was afraid Vernon might notice.
“Boy!” Vernon’s voice snapped Harry out of his thoughts. He looked up to see his uncle glaring at him. “Are you even listening?”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry muttered, quickly averting his eyes.

Vernon grunted, satisfied, and turned back to his meal. But Harry kept sneaking glances at Petunia, her silence speaking louder than any of Vernon’s rants ever could.

For the first time, Harry wondered if she was trapped too.

Chapter Text

Harry scratched at the paper, quill poised over the rough parchment, trying to form the right words. He had already written two letters that week—both to Ron, both left unanswered. Each one seemed more desperate than the last. Every stroke of the quill made his frustration swell further, boiling just beneath his skin as ink smudged. He didn’t understand it—why weren’t they responding?

“Dear Ron,” he wrote, his hand trembling slightly as he paused again. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Is everything okay?”

There was a heavy weight in his chest, the pressure making it hard to breathe as he tried to keep the anger from seeping through. But before he could stop himself, the next words on the parchment were angry, venomous:

“Is it too hard to send me one bloody letter? After everything I’ve been through, I guess I’m not worth the time anymore, am I?”

His heart pounded as his emotions surged uncontrollably, the sharpness of his quill cutting into the parchment. He sat back, staring at the hateful words. He hadn’t meant to write that. He wasn’t like this. He clenched his jaw, furiously crumpling up the letter and throwing it against the wall. The ball of paper hit with a soft thud, rolling pathetically across the floor.

His fingers twitched, his frustration rising. The weight of the silence from Ron and Hermione pressed in on him, tightening his chest. Maybe they didn’t care anymore. Maybe no one did. He was alone in this little room, residing in a house not made to be his home, and the anger kept feeding off that isolation.

He had to get out of this room. The empty walls felt like they were closing in on him.

Shoving his chair back, Harry quickly grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the house. The moment the door closed behind him, he took a deep breath of the cool air, hoping it might calm him down. But the fury was still there, gnawing at him under his ribs, refusing to be soothed. He kicked at the gravel, hands stuffed deep into his pockets as he made his way down the street.

A flicker of movement caught his attention, and he looked up to see Dudley and his gang loitering near the park, obnoxiously laughing loudly about something. A familiar surge of irritation hit Harry. Dudley had been worse than usual—more aggressive, more prone to sneers and shoves. He didn’t know whether it was the stress in the house or something else, but it was clear Dudley was looking for someone to take it out on, and that someone was always Harry.

“Oi, Potter!” Dudley’s voice rang out, laced with its usual hostility. “Wandering out here by yourself? Got no friends left, have you?”

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He didn’t want to deal with this, not now. But Dudley’s words hit too close to home. No friends left. The resentment flared brighter, like a wildfire.

“Shut up, Dudley,” Harry muttered through gritted teeth, trying to walk past.

But Dudley wasn’t going to let it go. “Aww, what’s wrong? Freak can’t take a joke?”

Something inside Harry snapped. He whirled around, his body trembling with rage. “I said, shut up!”

There was a dangerous edge to his voice that made Dudley hesitate for just a moment, but the sneer quickly returned to his face. He stomped closer to Harry, staring down before smirking and asking in a low voice,“What are you going to do, Potter? Magic me? You’re not allowed to, remember?”

Harry’s vision blurred, his anger surging beyond control. The thought of what he could do to Dudley flickered through his mind, unbidden—things he hadn’t considered before, dark and twisted. He had power. He could make Dudley stop, make him afraid for once. His breath came in ragged bursts, and he felt a strange, sick thrill at the idea of it. Just one spell…

He raised his hand, fingers twitching as though they had a mind of their own.

Dudley took a step back, confused by the sudden intensity in Harry’s gaze. “What the hell are you doing?”

Harry blinked, his breath catching. What was he doing? The heat in his chest simmered, but it was laced with something colder now—fear. Fear of what he was becoming. He wasn’t like this. He couldn’t be like this. He dropped his hand, stepping back, suddenly feeling nauseous.

Dudley scowled, clearly unnerved. “Freak,” he muttered under his breath, but he backed away.

Harry stood there, heart pounding in his ears. He didn’t know how long he stayed frozen in place, but eventually, he turned and walked away, a bitter taste in his mouth.

                                                                                                                             ***

Dinner that evening was tense, the air thick with unspoken resentment. Harry sat at the table in a chair much too small, picking at his food, barely tasting it. Vernon’s booming voice filled the room, but Harry couldn’t focus on the words. His mind was still reeling from what had happened earlier. The darkness he had felt—the temptation to do something terrible. Was that really inside him?

“What is wrong with you, boy?!” Vernon’s angry shout broke through Harry’s thoughts. He looked up to find his uncle glaring at him, fists clenched on the table.

“Nothing,” Harry muttered, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Nothing? You’ve been acting like a bloody menace all summer! Walking around here with that sour look on your face, sulking like a spoiled brat!” Vernon’s face was reddening with anger. “I’ve had enough of it!”

Harry’s temper flared again, his hands gripping the edge of the table. His thoughts were spiraling out of control, the frustration, the isolation, the bitterness—it was all too much. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so miserable if this house wasn’t a fucking prison!” Harry snapped before he could stop himself.

Vernon’s eyes widened in fury, and he shot up from his chair, letting the furniture fall behind him. “You ungrateful little—”

“Why don’t you just admit it?” Harry interrupted, his voice rising with a sharp edge. “You’re taking your anger out on me because you’ve fucked up your own life. You’ve failed! You didn’t get that promotion because no one actually likes you! Too busy being a miserable, hateful man to realize you’ve alienated everyone around you.” Harry’s laugh was harsh, filled with bitterness. “And it’s not just at work, is it? You’ve failed here too. Your son’s a spoiled coward, and your wife can’t even stand to speak anymore. What kind of father are you? What kind of husband are you?” His words were like daggers, each one cutting deep, sharpening the air around them. “You hate me? Well, guess what? I hate you too.”

Vernon’s hand came down hard on the table, rattling the plates.

Harry braced himself for whatever came next. He could feel his heart racing, his pulse thrumming in his ears. But it wasn’t just fear anymore—it was anger. He felt it coursing through him, hot and uncontrollable, mixing with the deep loneliness that had been festering inside for weeks. His friends had abandoned him, the Dursleys treated him like dirt, and he didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Petunia standing by the sink, her back turned. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word throughout the entire argument.

“Look at her,” Harry muttered bitterly, his voice low but full of venom. “She won’t even defend you, Vernon. She won’t defend anyone. She just stands there, watching everything fall apart. You did this. You broke her.”

Vernon shot a glare at Petunia, but she didn’t respond, her hands mechanically scrubbing the dishes.

Harry’s chest tightened, his anger giving way to something sharper, more painful. “I hate you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I hate all of you.”

Vernon’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, his breath coming in furious puffs. He staggered over to Harry, grabbing the smaller man before driving his fist back.

Distantly, Harry heard Dudley scramble to leave the table, feet pounding as he went.

Distantly, Harry felt the brunt of his uncle’s blows, the weight of his reprimands as he slammed his fists towards Harry.

Over and over again he struck.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, limp and overcome with the unfairness of it all.

Cedric was dead and his friends had left him to rot in this house alone. Maybe this was his fault. Maybe the universe was punishing him for killing Cedric.

Maybe he really was fucked up inside.

He was becoming bad.

Soon, his uncle grew bored. His breathing turned labored, exhaustion eventually pulling him off Harry as his heavy body traveled down the hallway, his mouth undoubtedly spewing final bashes.

But Harry wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was staring at Petunia, who still hadn’t turned around. He felt something in him crack—something fragile and bitter that he had been holding onto for so long. “Do you even care?” Harry asked, his voice trembling with the weight of it, words slurred. “Do you hate me that much?”

For a brief moment, Petunia’s hand paused, but she still didn’t turn to face him.

The silence was deafening as Harry’s words hung in the air, unacknowledged and unanswered.

Harry laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “Of course, you don’t care. You never have.” He pushed his battered body off the floor, rising unsteadily to his feet. His eyes burned as he stared at her, his voice low but laced with venom. “You know, I can deal with Vernon. His shouting, his hatred. I’ve learned to live with it. But you?” He paused, swallowing hard. “You’re the one I really hate.”

His voice cracked, and he shook his head. “You just stood there, all these years, and let it happen. How could you?”

He clenched his fists, the pain in his chest growing sharper, tightening with each breath as the words he had buried for so long clawed their way out. “That day… when you handed me those pills,” he started, his voice low but trembling with a dark intensity. “I wish you’d just taken them yourself and left me there, in the hallway. At least then I wouldn’t have spent all this time wondering if–if, somehow, you actually felt something for me. At least then I could’ve kept going on without this stupid, childish hope in the back of my mind that you might finally care about me.

Harry’s voice broke, dropping to a whisper, heavy with a kind of sorrow he hadn’t let himself acknowledge until now. “But no–you couldn’t leave me alone.” His eyes blazed, the anger inside him smoldering, fueled by a force he didn’t fully understand. “Your best talent, your life’s work, has always been ignoring me, so why not add another layer of cruelty? You handed me those pills, only to shove me back into the same empty, neglected corner of your life.”

His vision clouded with unshed tears, but he didn’t let them fall. He couldn’t. Not now. “You know what the worst part is? I didn’t want to care. About you, about this house, about any of it. I was fine, fine being ignored, with shutting you out just like you shut me out. But you–” His voice wavered, almost desperate now, the darkness swirling around him like a storm. “But you just had to pull me in, just enough to make me think…to make me feel something. And then you threw me away. Again.”

He shook his head, a fresh wave of anger rising. “Why didn’t you just leave me alone? Why couldn’t you stay the same negligent, scornful woman you’ve always been? At least then I wouldn’t have had to deal with this…this lie that you cared, that you might have loved me!”

Harry’s voice dropped, the darkness in his tone almost palpable, like a shadow that stretched out and threatened to envelop everything around him. As he spoke, it was as if a piece of him was being pulled into the same void that had claimed his thoughts ever since Cedric’s death–his gaze boring into the back of Petunia’s head, as if willing her to feel even a fraction of the pain he did.

“My mom would’ve hated the person you turned out to be.”

Petunia’s hands, previously gripping the dish rag with a mechanical precision, now trembled visibly. She was frozen, her back still turned to Harry, but the sound of her breath, shallow and ragged, spoke volumes.

With one last resentful glance at the silent woman by the sink, Harry slowly walked out of the kitchen, his chest aching and his body trembling. He didn’t see the look Petunia finally gave him—one of grief, perhaps regret. He didn’t see the way her hands trembled as she dropped the dish rag back into the sink, as if the weight of his words was too much for her to bear.

He thought back to that night with the ibuprofen. For a fleeting moment, Petunia’s gesture had seemed to offer a hint of care, a fragile connection in their otherwise strained relationship. But now, any illusion of closeness had vanished, leaving only familiar distance. The harshness of his words and the weight of her silence pulled him deeper into himself.

If he heard the door to his room crack open, a bony figure lingering outside, he pretended he didn’t.

Chapter Text

Harry slowly awoke, the silence around him unnervingly loud. He squinted at the clock on his bedside table, its red digits glaring back at him; 11am. He reached over for his glasses, confused at the later hour. Normally, by this time, the sharp clanging of pots and pans or the heavy footsteps of his uncle would have jolted him awake, demanding that he start on breakfast. But the later time remained, and the house was still.

Pushing the covers off, Harry dragged himself out of bed, his limbs heavy with sleep, and wandered into the bathroom. The room was silent as well, no bustling sounds of the pipes or whirring of the fan. Nothing stood out besides the empty ibuprofen bottle on the counter.

Heading downstairs, the kitchen was bare, the usual smell of toast and the harsh rants of his uncle nowhere to be found. He frowned, walking into the living room and finding it equally vacant, the usual chaos of the morning replaced with an unnatural quiet.

The absence of the Dursleys felt strangely liberating. It was an odd sensation, to have the house all to himself. The lack of Vernon’s barking orders, Petunia’s cold glances, and Dudley’s incessant whining offered a rare, unspoken freedom. For the first time in weeks, he felt something resembling peace. With a cautious glance around, he seized the opportunity to make himself breakfast—eggs on toast, prepared with the utmost care and a meek portion size, not enough to anger Vernon should they return soon.

As he ate, Harry allowed himself the indulgence of sitting on the couch and watching television, something he hadn’t done in years. The flickering images distracted him, numbing the ever-present weight of isolation that hung over him like a shroud. He flicked through the channels, watching aimlessly, feeling more like a ghost in this house than ever before.

The minutes turned into hours. Harry had begun to relax, enjoying this brief pocket of solitude. But as the afternoon bled into the evening, the feeling began to wear off, replaced by an unsettling emotion in the pit of his stomach. Where were they?

He grew uneasy. They were never gone this long. His thoughts darkened as time stretched on, twisting his stomach into knots. What if they hadn’t come back because they didn’t want to? After everything that had happened between them, what if they had finally decided to leave him behind too, just like everyone else?

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Harry tried to push the worry aside, busying himself with menial tasks. He washed the dishes, wiped down the counters, anything to keep his mind off the gnawing anxiety creeping in. But the quiet of the house, once peaceful, now felt ominous.

Then, suddenly, the front door rattled.

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat, hope and dread swirling together as he rushed to the door, expecting the familiar scowl of his uncle or the cold, disapproving glare of his aunt. But when the door swung open, what met him was something far worse.

Vernon and Dudley stood on the doorstep, their faces pale and stricken.
Vernon’s eyes were red-rimmed, swollen with tears he’d barely held back, and Dudley looked almost small, his usual bluster gone, replaced with an unfamiliar vulnerability.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as his uncle’s face twisted with grief and rage, the sheer weight of it making his hands tremble at his sides. Vernon stepped forward, his voice a low, broken growl. “Petunia—she’s dead.”

Harry felt the world shift beneath his feet. His mind struggled to process the words. Dead? Aunt Petunia? He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe as Vernon’s gaze bore into him, filled with both fury and sorrow.

“And it’s your fault!” Vernon roared, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. His large frame shook with grief as he advanced toward Harry. “If it weren’t for you—if you hadn’t—she’d still be here!”

Harry staggered back, the accusation hitting him like a physical blow. How could this be happening? Petunia, the woman who had raised him out of cold obligation, who had almost never shown him an ounce of warmth—was gone. And Vernon was blaming him.

Dudley stood behind his father, silent, his face pale. He looked at Harry as if he didn’t know who he was anymore, torn between his own grief and the years of resentment he had been taught to harbor.

Vernon’s anger exploded. “You—you freak—you’ve ruined everything! All these years, you’ve been torturing her! Wearing her down with your cursed existence!” His voice cracked with anguish as he took another threatening step toward Harry.
“She was never the same after you came here. She was never happy again!”

“I didn’t—” Harry started, his voice hoarse, but Vernon cut him off.

“Don’t you dare speak!” Vernon bellowed. His chest heaved as he grabbed Harry by the front of his shirt, slamming him into the wall. Harry’s head snapped back, stars dancing in his vision as he struggled to stay upright. “You should’ve died with your parents! It would’ve been better for everyone!”

Harry gasped, the words slicing through him with a force he hadn’t expected. He blinked up at Vernon, barely able to see through the haze of pain and disbelief. He knew his uncle was mean, but somehow–hearing a man who has spewed lies to Harry his whole life, speak with a level of hidden truth, was a new level of cruelty.

Before he could even form a response, Vernon shoved him aside, and Harry stumbled back, hitting the floor hard. Vernon towered over him, trembling with rage, his face twisted with grief. “Pack your things. Now. I don’t want to see your face in this house again.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, his mind scrambling to keep up. Thrown out. For good.

“Dad,” Dudley’s voice, shaky and uncertain, broke through the air. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Don’t,” Vernon snapped, rounding on his son. “Not another word, Dudley. Not after what he’s done.”

Dudley fell silent, his eyes flicking between Harry and his father, torn between loyalty and doubt. Harry looked up at him, expecting the same contempt, but saw something new—confusion, maybe even guilt, but no hatred.

Harry’s chest ached. Was he actually feeling sorry for him?

Without a word, Harry pushed himself up from the floor, shaking as he stumbled toward the stairs. He moved like a ghost, grabbing his few belongings and stuffing them haphazardly into his trunk. The weight of the house pressed in on him, the walls suddenly too close, too suffocating.

As he packed, Harry tried to make sense of it all. His aunt was dead. He’d been thrown out of the only house he had ever known. And now, he was truly alone.

When he returned to the front door, Dudley was waiting for him, standing awkwardly by the threshold. “Harry,” Dudley muttered, his voice low, unsure. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t—I don’t know what to say.”

Harry’s eyes flickered toward his cousin, surprised. Dudley was hardly ever one for words, but now, wrapped up in his own grief, Dudley seemed to be struggling with something—something more than just the loss of his mother.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then, Dudley spoke again, his voice quiet, barely above a whisper. “Dad’s just angry, y’know? He... he blames you, but...” Dudley trailed off, fidgeting with his hands. “It’s not like it’s all your fault. Mum she–” He choked up then, bringing a chubby hand to his mouth.

Harry stared at him, thinking of the bony figure waiting by the door of his room last night, and he wondered if Petunia had known then. Perhaps peering into his room that night, acting as though a parent watching over her child, had brought her a sense of peace she could end with.

He thought of the empty ibuprofen bottle in the bathroom.

“I wish you’d just taken them yourself-”

Harry was unsure whether to feel relief or anger at the half-hearted attempt at reconciliation. Dudley, for all his faults, was hurting, just like Harry. But there was still a part of him—one that couldn’t quite let go of the resentment that had been ingrained in him all these years.

After a moment, Harry simply nodded. What else was there to say? With his trunk in hand, he stepped out of the house, leaving Dudley standing in the doorway, torn between loyalty to his father and the unspoken guilt that clung to him.

After leaving the Dursleys’ house behind, Harry wandered aimlessly for what felt like hours. His trunk dragged behind him, the weight of everything—his aunt’s death, Vernon’s cruel words, and Dudley’s conflicted expression—settling in his chest like a lead ball.

By the time Harry reached the Leaky Cauldron, night had fallen. The bustling inn was a stark contrast to the suffocating quiet of Privet Drive. People moved about, chatting, laughing, living their lives without the crushing weight of grief that had settled over Harry. He felt out of place, but it was the only place he could think of to go.

Tom, the innkeeper, greeted him with a toothless smile, unaware of the turmoil inside him. "Need a room for the night, lad?"

Harry nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak. His mind was still spinning, trying to process everything that had happened. After handing over a few coins, he was shown to a small, modest room upstairs, far removed from the bustling tavern below.

The room felt cold and empty, but it was better than the suffocating tension of Privet Drive. Harry collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Petunia was dead. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. As distant and cold as she had been, she was the last living connection he had to his mother. And now she was gone, and he had been cast out of the Dursley’s like a burden no one wanted to bear.

His mind whirled with questions he didn’t want to answer. Could Vernon be right? Was this his fault? No matter how hard he tried to push the thought away, it lingered, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.

The next few days passed in a blur. Harry barely left the small, drab room, too exhausted and numb to venture out into Diagon Alley. He ate little, spending most of his time staring out the window, watching the bustling streets below, feeling utterly disconnected from the world.

On the third day, the knock on his door startled him. Harry had expected Tom or one of the inn’s workers, perhaps coming to check on him after seeing how little he had been out. But when he opened the door, he found a very different figure waiting for him.

Severus Snape stood in the hallway, his dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of irritation and disdain. His black robes swirled around him as he stepped forward, his presence immediately filling the small room.

Harry’s stomach twisted into knots at the sight of his Potions Professor. “Professor Snape?” His voice cracked slightly, hoarse from days of silence.

Snape’s lip curled in his usual sneer. “Potter. Dumbledore sent me.”

Harry blinked, confused. “Why? What—”

Snape cut him off sharply, his tone clipped and impatient. “The wards around your relatives' home have failed. Completely.”

The words struck Harry like a physical blow. “The wards… failed?”

Snape raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with Harry’s confusion. “Yes, Potter, the wards. The magical protections that kept you safe from the Dark Lord. The one’s forged from your mother. Do try to keep up.”

Harry’s head spun. The wards were gone? That explained why Snape was here, but why hadn’t anyone said anything before? Why now?

Snape’s eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Dumbledore was concerned when the protections started flickering. I wasn’t. I assumed your relatives had simply had enough of their spoiled, golden boy and decided to take a well-deserved holiday. Now imagine my surprise when I overhear that the Harry Potter was staying at the Leaky Cauldron, away from his mourning relatives.”

Harry flinched at the jab, but Snape’s expression shifted—ever so slightly—as he took in Harry’s gaunt appearance, the dark circles under his eyes, and the slump of his shoulders. His sneer faltered, and for a moment, Snape seemed to be considering something. But just as quickly as it had appeared, the moment passed, and Snape’s mask of disdain snapped back into place.

“Pack your things,” Snape ordered, his voice regaining its sharp edge. “You’re coming with me. Dumbledore has arranged for you to stay under my protection for the time being.”

Harry’s heart sank at the thought of staying with Snape. Anywhere but Snape’s. But he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t stay at the Leaky Cauldron forever, and if the wards had truly failed, then he wasn’t safe here either.

“I’ll pack,” Harry muttered, turning away from Snape and gathering his belongings. As he did, he felt Snape’s eyes on him, watching his every move with a critical gaze.

Once Harry had thrown his few belongings back into his trunk, Snape led him out of the inn and onto the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the ground as they walked in silence. Harry kept his head down, still numb from the events of the past few days.

They reached the edge of Diagon Alley, where Snape stopped and glanced down at Harry, his face unreadable.

“We will be traveling by apparition,” Snape said brusquely, holding out his arm for Harry to take. “This will take us directly to my home. Do not lag behind.”

Before Harry could respond, Snape grabbed his arm, and with a sudden, wrenching pull, they were transported to an unfamiliar landscape. The world spun around Harry, and he landed hard on his feet, stumbling slightly as he tried to regain his balance.

It was a different twist from a portkey, but Harry still found himself burying the sensation of panic-filled nausea.

When the spinning stopped, Harry found himself standing in front of a small, dark house. It was an old, narrow building with ivy creeping up the stone walls, looking as though it had been forgotten by time.

“Welcome to Spinner’s End,” Snape said dryly, watching Harry with a raised eyebrow as he straightened himself. “I don’t expect much conversation, Potter, and I certainly don’t expect gratitude. But until the Headmaster decides on a more suitable arrangement, you will remain here. Understood?”

Harry nodded, too exhausted to argue. He followed Snape into the house, his mind still swirling with the weight of everything that had happened. Petunia’s death, Vernon’s hatred, and now this—the collapse of the wards and being forced to live with the man who had loathed him for years.

The inside of Snape’s house was just as cold and unwelcoming as the outside. The walls were lined with books, their spines faded and worn. The air smelled faintly of dust and potions, and the furniture was sparse, dark, and utilitarian.

Snape led him up a narrow staircase to a small, bare room. “You’ll stay here,” Snape said curtly, motioning toward the simple bed and dresser. “Do try not to destroy anything.”

Without another word, Snape turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Harry stood in the center of the room, staring at the door long after Snape had gone.

He felt utterly lost. He could not return to the Dursleys. His aunt was dead. The wards had failed. And now he was stuck in a house with Snape, the man who had hated him from the moment they met.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, Harry buried his face in his hands. How had everything fallen apart so quickly?

Chapter Text

Spinner’s End was not quite what Harry had imagined to be Snape’s home. Over the course of his four years at Hogwarts, there was always the understanding between the Gryffindors, and perhaps the entire student body, that wherever the potion’s master resided, would be as dark and bleak as the man himself. However, from what Harry had seen so far, Spinner’s End, though most definitely a bit out-dated and cold, was not the torture chamber his classmates had made it out to be. In fact, it could be described as more muggle-ish than an evil wizard's den.

Stepping out of his room, Harry paused in the doorway, glancing around the small space he had been assigned to. It wasn’t much—barely large enough to fit the narrow bed pushed against the wall and the rickety wardrobe standing in the corner. The walls were a deep blue, and the single window was covered with thick, dark curtains that blocked most of the sunlight from streaming in. There was an odd sense of isolation in the room, as if it had been long abandoned, and now, it belonged to him.

The air was slightly stale, carrying a faint musty smell. A few unpacked belongings lay on the floor at the foot of his bed, untouched since his arrival. He hadn’t felt like making the space his own; it didn’t feel like it ever could be.

A small desk sat against the opposite wall, its surface coated with a thin layer of dust. Harry glanced at the empty shelves above it, once holding books, perhaps, now forgotten and unused, much like the room itself. The ceiling was a bit low, and in the dim light, the corners of the room seemed to fold in on themselves, closing the space off from the rest of the house.

However, compared to the cupboard he had slept in for the first eleven years of his life—a cramped, suffocating space where the low ceiling barely allowed him to sit upright, and the only furniture was a thin, worn mattress and a dusty stack of books tucked in the corner—this room felt almost luxurious. It was far from cozy or welcoming, but at least here he had space to stretch his legs and breathe without feeling the walls closing in on him. The bleak second bedroom at the Dursleys, with its mismatched furniture and Dudley’s old broken toys, had always felt like a punishment rather than a sanctuary. But this, in contrast, met all his expectations. It was plain, yes, cold even, but after years of being treated like an intruder in his own home, the stark neutrality was a relief. There were no reminders of the Dursleys' spiteful neglect here, no hand-me-downs or half-broken shelves. Just space and solitude—things Harry had long since learned to appreciate.

With a deep breath, Harry turned away from the room, his footsteps soft on the creaky wooden floor. The hallway outside his door was narrow, dimly lit by the weak light filtering in from a small window at the end of the corridor. The walls were the same deep gray he had briefly seen downstairs, and the floorboards groaned under his weight with every step he took.

The upstairs of Spinner’s End was as neglected as his room. The banister, chipped and worn, led to a narrow staircase that creaked with every footfall as Harry descended. The house seemed to absorb sound, each creak swallowed by the oppressive quiet that hung over everything.

As he made his way downstairs, the temperature seemed to drop, and the air became heavier. The wooden steps gave way to a small landing that opened up into the downstairs rooms. The transition from the cramped upstairs to the slightly more open downstairs did little to ease the sense of confinement Harry had been feeling since he arrived.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, Harry stepped into a tiny sitting room—dark, enclosed, and furnished with threadbare furniture. A dim, candle-lit lamp hung from the ceiling, the walls covered in books, most of them bound in old black or brown leather. In the middle of the room lay a dark green sofa, an old armchair, and a rickety table grouped together under the light. There seemed to be no other doors besides the entrance where Harry stood. The space had the feel of a dark padded cell, giving off an air of neglect.

It seemed Snape didn’t frequent this area often, a fact Harry stored for later.

But where was Snape?

Venturing down a narrow hallway, Harry stifled his footsteps. He had always been good at making himself quiet, especially now, after everything. Eventually, he found the kitchen.

It was certainly larger than the sitting room, though just as dim. Dark green curtains hung heavily over each window, their color dull with age, casting a shadowy tint across the space. The walls were coated in that same gray wallpaper, faded in some areas but still just as dark, with faint watermarks creeping down certain corners where moisture had settled. The air was a bit stifling, the room needing to be aired. In the corner, a small, old-fashioned fridge hummed quietly, its surface shiny and textured, while dark granite countertops wrapped around the back of the room, their surface flecked with tiny chips of white. The only splash of life came from a single potted herb plant sitting on the windowsill, leaves slightly withered, as if forgotten.

At the center of the room stood a worn wooden table, its surface lightly scarred in some areas, as if someone had once carelessly set down a sharp knife. The legs were sturdy except for one, the far left leg propped up on a thin stack of old magazines to keep it from wobbling, and around the table sat wooden chairs, their cushioned seats slightly sagging in the middle. Everything about the room felt utilitarian, as if it existed only to serve its basic function–like Snape himself, Harry thought—and no more.

Glancing up, he froze.

Snape was sitting at the end of the table, a black mug in front of him and a beige parchment in his hand. His attire, though still unmistakably dark, had a subtle shift. Gone was the heavy, sweeping robe he usually wore at Hogwarts; instead, he was dressed in a fitted black blazer, its edges slightly frayed as if it had seen years of wear. Beneath, a simple charcoal-gray sweater clung to his thin frame, layered over a high-collared black shirt that added a touch of his usual intimidating style. His trousers, though dark like the rest of his attire, were more muggle in nature, made of cool linen rather than the sweeping fabrics Harry was accustomed to seeing him in. The overall effect made Snape appear no less imposing, yet there was something more grounded, more real, about his appearance. It was as if the man’s usual wizarding attire had been replaced with something more practical, yet it held onto the same brooding presence that Harry had come to associate with him.

Without looking up, Snape extended the paper toward Harry. “You’ll be doing these while you’re here,” he said, his voice as smooth and sharp as ever. “You may think you’re entitled to sit idle, but I assure you, that is not the case under my roof.”

Harry stayed frozen, unnerved at seeing the man in such a normal setting.
Sensing his hesitation, Snape sneered. “Any day now, Potter.”

Harry glanced at the paper, finding a list of chores. He was expecting something difficult or grueling, but as his eyes moved over the tasks, he almost laughed. Clean the kitchen. Tend to the garden. Dust the shelves. Wash the floors. Harry had grown up doing these chores—and worse—for as long as he could remember. This was nothing.

Harry looked back to the man at the end of the table, only to see an empty chair as footsteps rang out down the hall.

Snape really could be stealthy.

Without a word, Harry took the list and set to work, grateful for the distraction. He started with the shelves in the sitting room, his hands moving automatically, scrubbing, wiping, dusting, while his mind wandered to Aunt Petunia. The sharpness of her features, the way her lips had thinned in disapproval with every glance in his direction. The cold distance she had put between them in those last few weeks.

He thought about how she had died, the weight of it hanging over him, oppressive and thick.

Aunt Petunia always had high standards, demanding each surface gleam without a speck of dust in sight. He had learned her perfectionist ways early on, adapting her own ideas to his work, as any mistake, any surface with even a small smudge, meant punishment. Here, in Snape’s house, there was no one barking orders at him, no one to actively inspect his labor with a critical eye, no one to sabotage his chores, and yet, he still worked with the same precision, cleaning as if Aunt Petunia herself was watching.

He scrubbed harder, the image of her handing him the ibuprofen bottle that night flashing in his mind. For a brief moment, he’d thought she cared, that there was a sliver of warmth behind that mask of indifference she wore. But that had quickly gone.

Gone with her.

By the time he moved on to sweeping the floor, Harry’s thoughts drifted deeper into his memories. Aunt Petunia’s last days replayed in his mind like a broken record–the cold silence, her vacant stares, her refusal to speak. And now, she was gone, and there was no undoing the last time they spoke, the hatred he had felt toward her. The hatred he still feels.

His chest tightened with each stroke of the broom. Maybe if I had approached her differently, he thought bitterly, the self-loathing creeping into his veins like poison. Maybe if I hadn’t let out those words, she’d still be here.

Guilt gnawed at him, sharper than ever. That night, he had heard her footsteps outside his door, standing there in the hallway–waiting for something, or, maybe, finishing something. But he had turned away, burrowing his head deeper into his pillow without so much as a glance.

A lump formed in his throat, and he fought the urge to drop the broom and scream.

What was so bad about me, he thought, that she took one look at me that night and swallowed the rest of those pills?

At that moment, it had been so easy to blame her for everything. But now, with her gone, the weight of his own failures pressed down on him harder than ever. He wondered if it had been him all along, if he truly ruined everything he touched.

Anger surged inside him again, raw and searing. He gripped the broom handle tightly, his knuckles white as he tried to shove the ugly feeling down. But it was always there now, simmering beneath the surface. It had been there long before Petunia’s death–ever since Cedric, really—and it scared him.

He pressed a hand to his scar.

What if, after all that has happened, he was becoming bad.

Was this the darkness Voldemort had left in him?

Harry swallowed hard, pushing the thought aside. No, he wasn’t like him. He wouldn’t be. But still, the fear gnawed at him, creeping out during moments of quiet, shoving all other thoughts aside and consuming his being.

He tried to focus on the work, moving outside, the sun momentarily hidden under a cloud. The familiar motions of cleaning were supposed to calm him, but instead, they stirred up old feelings. His last few months with the Dursleys had been filled with resentment and guilt, always building, always festering.

What if Snape saw it too? The darkness.

He pulled the weeds out harder, trying to exorcize his thoughts, trying to convince himself that he was still in control. He had to be.

Hours passed, and Harry found himself staying outside, weeding the garden. The sun was high, beginning to tan his arms, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and back as he roughly pulled at the roots, his muscles working automatically. He checked his watch: 3pm. So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he worked right through lunch without realizing it, his mind clouded with thoughts of Aunt Petunia, the Dursleys, Cedric, and the fear that he might be something worse than angry.

Something dark.

After completing the garden work, hands sore and blistered, he wiped the sweat from his brow and found himself moving toward the shed in the far corner of the yard. Its roof slanted awkwardly, and ivy clung to the wooden slats, weaving in and out of the cracks. The shed had clearly seen better days–years, even–and there was something sad about how untouched it felt.

Opening the door with a soft creak, Harry stepped inside, greeted by the scent of damp wood and dust that had settled thickly in the corners. The air was cool and stale, the space cramped, with barely enough room to move around the clutter that filled it. A narrow table was attached to the side of a wall painted in a faded, chipped blue, its surface strewn with old boxes, scraps of parchment, and rusted tools, all seemingly forgotten. A small chair sat pushed up against the table, its legs crooked and one armrest broken, propped up against the mess as though it had been abandoned mid-use.

In the center of the shed hung a solitary lightbulb, its string dangling above Harry’s head like a forgotten relic. He reached up, pulling it tentatively, only to have the bulb flicker weakly before plunging the room into darkness once more. With a frustrated sigh, Harry’s gaze swept over the shelves lining the walls, barely visible in the dim light creeping in from the slightly open door. They were filled with dusty jars, their contents long since dried and forgotten, and old potion ingredients that seemed to have been for decades.

As his eyes scanned the small space, something in the back corner caught his attention. A small black box, half-hidden beneath a crumpled pile of old papers on a low, rickety table. It was simple, nondescript, but something about it tugged at him. Without thinking, he knelt, lifting the lid with cautious fingers.

Inside, to his surprise, was a picture frame. Dust caked the glass, and Harry wiped it away with his sleeve, revealing a faded photograph of a woman with bright orange hair standing beside a young man with a crooked nose and shoulder-length black hair. The image was old, its edges yellowed, but the figures were unmistakable. The man was undoubtedly a younger Snape, his expression more tender than Harry had ever seen, with none of the bitterness or coldness that had become synonymous with his features. But the woman—there was something about her. Something familiar.

Harry’s breath caught as he stared at her.

The woman had a slight smile, her fire-like hair framing her face in soft waves, and her eyes—a vivid, familiar green—held a warmth that seemed to soften Snape’s usually stern features. A pang of recognition shot through Harry’s chest, and guilt followed swiftly behind.

Was this… his mom?

The thought was dizzying, too much to process. He had never imagined Snape connected to her in any way. Harry’s fingers trembled slightly as he snapped the lid shut, his heart pounding in his chest. He’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to. Something private.

Rising quickly, he backed out of the shed, the weight of the discovery gnawing at his insides. Why had Snape kept this hidden? What did it mean? Why hadn’t Snape ever mentioned knowing his mother?

Harry's mind raced, a whirlwind of confusion and anger threatening to spill over. The shed door creaked shut behind him as he stalked back toward the garden, but the image of the photograph lingered. It brought with it a surge of familiar, uncontrollable anger. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms as he struggled to control the emotions within him.

The darkness. It was always there, lurking, waiting for him to lose control. And with each passing moment, he wondered if he was becoming something he feared—a vessel for the same hatred that had killed the people he had lost.
B
ack in the garden, Harry yanked at the remaining weeds with renewed force, trying to shake the image from his mind.

By the time the sun began to dip outside the grimy window, Harry had finished every chore on Snape’s list, though his mind felt heavier than when he’d started. So much for a distraction.

He retreated back inside, not realizing how late it was until the scent of something cooking drifted through the house.

Snape was in the kitchen when Harry finally ventured in. The man barely looked at him, his hands busy adding vegetables to a pot.

“I trust you’ve finished?”

Though Harry wanted to question why the man didn’t just use his wand to do the work for him, he merely nodded, saying nothing. He wasn’t interested in a conversation.

Snape’s eyes flicked over him, and for a moment, Harry thought he saw something close to curiosity, or maybe suspicion, in his gaze. “You missed lunch.”

Harry blinked, unsure if this was an accusation or just an observation. He didn’t respond.

Snape’s voice took on a sterner edge. “While you may have grown accustomed to doing whatever you pleased at home,” he sneered, “you do not have free rein in this house. You will be present at every meal here. Is that clear?”

Harry’s jaw clenched, his hand balling into a fist at his side. The last thing he needed was another authority figure breathing down his neck, especially Snape, who still thought him spoiled, privileged–the “Golden Boy” who’d had everything handed to him. Who should’ve. His breath hitched, but the memory of Aunt Petunia’s silence and the bitter fight he’d had with Vernon kept his anger in check.

He didn’t need another confrontation. Not now. Not after…

He swallowed his irritation, forcing himself to nod again, even though part of him wanted to scream.

Snape watched him for a moment longer, clearly waiting for more of a reaction. When none came, he seemed almost puzzled by Harry’s silence. But he said nothing further and turned back toward the stove, his robes trailing behind him.

As Harry ate dinner that night, the food tasteless in his mouth, he felt the familiar weight of his emotions pressing down on him. His aunt’s death, the fallout with Vernon, the loss of everything familiar—it was all too much. But he couldn’t let it out. He couldn’t speak.

He sat quietly, barely touching his plate. Snape gave him a sideways glance, but nothing. Harry could feel the silence stretching between them, thick and heavy. But he didn’t care. He didn’t need another guardian, another person controlling his life.

The quiet in the room was suffocating, but Harry found it easier to stay silent, to keep everything locked inside.

Snape, seated across from him, seemed to notice Harry’s strange behavior. However, his eyes remained cold, and it was clear that he still saw Harry as the same spoiled child he’d always detested. Snape likely assumed this grief-stricken silence was temporary, that Harry would return to his usual, defiant self soon enough.

But Harry wasn’t that boy anymore. He wasn’t sure who he was.

All he knew was that the anger was still there, simmering, waiting for him to open his mouth, to just let it out, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it contained.

As they finished dinner, Snape cleared the table with a wave of his wand, pausing briefly, as if to say something.
Harry glanced up, waiting.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable, but no words left his mouth. After a long, tense moment, Snape turned and left the room in silence, leaving Harry alone with his tangled thoughts.

He exhaled shakily, the stillness around him settling like a heavy weight. Every time he thought of speaking—of letting something slip—it felt as though the storm inside him might break loose, flooding everything with the anger, the guilt, the pain he was desperately trying to contain. If he opened his mouth, if he let even one word out, he feared it would all spill out at once—the ugliness of his feelings, the darkness he didn’t understand but could feel lurking in the pit of his stomach.

So, he stayed silent.

The quiet felt safer, even as it pressed down on him, suffocating him. At least in the silence, the darkness stayed inside, locked away where it couldn't hurt anyone. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not with everything he was holding back, not when his anger was so close to the surface. What if he said something unforgivable? What if, like with Aunt Petunia, his words were the final blow?

Better to say nothing at all.

His body tensed, emotions boiling under his skin, but his mind was slowly retreating into the quiet—a quiet that felt familiar now. It reminded him of Aunt Petunia’s silence in those last days, that eerie, impenetrable stillness she had wrapped around herself, a barrier no one could breach.

And for the first time, Harry thought he might be starting to understand why she did it.

Maybe it was easier this way, to keep it all locked up.

Maybe silence was the only way to survive what was inside him.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape sat at the wooden table in the kitchen of Spinner’s End, nursing a steaming mug of black tea. The early morning light barely penetrated the dingy curtains hanging over the windows of his home, casting the space in a grayish gloom that matched his mood. His dark eyes flickered to the boy at the other end of the room—Harry Potter—who moved silently, almost like a ghost, sweeping the floor with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Snape took another sip of tea, his brow furrowing. For nearly a week, Potter had been like this, existing in the house but never really present. He moved through Spinner’s End as if he were more of a shadow than a person—never speaking, never asking questions, never breaking the unspoken tension between them. Snape, for his part, had welcomed the silence. The brat had always been just like his father, arrogant and reckless.

Lately, though, something had changed.

This Potter no longer resembled the spoiled, attention-seeking boy Snape had known at Hogwarts. Instead, he moved with a certain lethargy, as if the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. He had barely spoken since arriving at Spinner’s End, and when he did, it was in short, clipped sentences that hinted at the effort it took just to engage, as if holding his tongue was so tiresome, he’d rather not open his mouth at all.

Snape sneered into his cup. Good. Let the boy sulk. It’s probably just a temper tantrum. He can’t live as he pleases here—no more fame, no more fanfare. Just a taste of the real world.

But as much as Snape tried to dismiss it, something gnawed at him, something he couldn’t quite place.

The way Potter moved, his efficiency with the chores—Snape had thought the boy would botch even the simplest tasks, given his pampered upbringing. Instead, Harry completed each assignment with methodical precision. Yet every now and then, Snape noticed a slight wince or a hand going to Potter’s ribs, as if something still ached beneath the surface.

It was irritating. No—it was more than that. It reminded him of something, someone. A ghost of a memory that twisted in his chest whenever he looked too long at the boy.

Lily.

Snape closed his eyes briefly, forcing the thought away. He wouldn’t let this be about her. Not with Potter here, reminding him of what he had lost.

What he did.

His mind drifted to the conversation he had with Dumbledore nearly a week ago, when the wards around 4 Privet Drive had come crashing down. Dumbledore had insisted he retrieve Harry, a task Snape had fought against with every fiber of his being.

He had stood rigid in Dumbledore’s office, glaring at the headmaster’s calm, impenetrable expression. The room smelled of old parchment and lemon drops, the still space doing little to calm the storm brewing inside Snape.

"Why me?” he demanded, his voice cold and sharp. “Why must it always be me who deals with the Potter spawn?”

Dumbledore, infuriatingly calm, merely crossed his fingers upon his desk and gazed at Snape with that maddening twinkle of patience in his blue eyes. “Because you, Severus, have a special understanding of Harry’s situation. And because of your vow to Lily.”

Snape’s stomach twisted painfully at the mention of her name, but he refused to let it show. He clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself not to react. “He’s nothing like her,” Snape bit out.

“Perhaps not on the surface,” Dumbledore had replied softly, his eyes turning more serious. “But you must look closer. He has more of her in him than you think.”

Snape had sneered, refusing to let the words take root. He could feel the old wound tearing open, that persistent ache of regret, his failure. But before he could retort, Dumbledore’s expression shifted to something darker.

“Petunia Dursley is dead.”

For a moment, the room was deathly silent.

Petunia. The woman who had tormented Lily. Who had mocked her magic and taken advantage of her kindness. A sour taste filled Snape’s mouth at the thought of her. Despite being her sister, Petunia had despised Lily’s brilliance, her warmth. She had taken every chance to hurt her, to make her feel small like her. All the while, Lily continued to support her sister from afar, indifferent to the fact that Petunia wanted nothing to do with her.

“Dead?” Snape repeated, his voice flat.

Dumbledore gave a grave nod. “The cause is…under wraps.” His eyes flickered briefly with sorrow. “The family is in mourning, she passed early this morning.”

Snape remained silent.

“I know she caused Lily pain,” Dumbledore said, as though reading his thoughts. “But she was still family, the only family Harry had known. And now, with her death, he is without protection. The wards have fallen, and Harry’s safety is more vulnerable than ever.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said quietly, his tone softening. “I know what this means for you. But Lily loved her son. You needn’t love him, but you must keep him safe.”

Snape closed his eyes briefly, the familiar ache in his chest intensifying. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders tense with the weight of resignation. “I will take the boy.”

Dumbledore’s expression softened in approval. “Thank you, Severus. I know this is not easy.”

Snape’s gaze hardened once more, his resolve set in stone. He turned and swept out of the office without another word, the door closing behind him with a sharp click. The boy’s safety was paramount, of course. But that didn’t mean he had to like the brat.

Snape shook off the memory and focused on Harry again, who had now moved on to wiping down the countertops. The boy’s face was pale, his eyes shadowed with something far darker than just exhaustion.

Snape let out a quiet sigh. When he had first arrived at 4 Privet Drive, he hadn’t known what to expect. The neighborhood was as bland and unremarkable as the rest of the Muggle world, a series of identical houses lined up like tombstones. Knocking on the door, he had been greeted not by Harry, but by a pudgy, grief-stricken Dudley Dursley. The boy’s appearance had surprised him—his face pale and drawn. Nothing like the unruly boy Minerva had once ranted about years ago.

Dudley had barely said a word before dragging Snape outside, casting nervous glances at the house behind them.

“Where is Potter?” Snape had demanded, his impatience growing.

Dudley had shifted uncomfortably before stammering out a reply. “He’s… he’s not here. I don’t know where he is. But…don’t mention him inside. It’ll make things worse.”

Snape had been irritated, but something in the boy’s wide-eyed expression told him not to press further. He left quickly, his frustration mounting as he wondered where Potter had run off to. Of course, it was just like the boy to make things difficult.

Snape had eventually stumbled upon the Knight Bus, where the driver, Ernie, an elderly, gray-haired wizard who didn’t seem to have mastered the use of a steering wheel–the Knight bus had kept mounting the pavement but hitting nothing despite the extreme speed, the bus’ magic leading to lines of lampposts, mailboxes, and trash cans jumping out of its way as it approached and back into position once it had passed—had been all too happy to inform him that Potter had been taken to the Leaky Cauldron. The conversation with Ernie had been brief but annoying—between the man’s owl-like glasses and erratic driving, Snape had barely contained his irritation.

Arriving at the Leaky Cauldron, the bustling noise immediately grated on his nerves. Stepping into the dimly lit pub, his eyes flickered across the room, taking in the raucous laughter and idle chatter of witches and wizards alike, their faces illuminated by candlelight that flickered slightly in certain areas. The smell of stale ale and roasting meat hung thick in the air. Tom, the toothless innkeeper, stood behind the bar, wiping down a glass with a rag that seemed to be in dire need of replacing.

Snape’s lip curled slightly in distaste. He had little patience for public establishments like this one, and even less for the brash patrons who frequented them. He strode purposely toward the bar, his black robes billowing behind him, cutting through the crowd like a blade. Conversations dimmed as his figure passed, but Snape paid them no mind.

He only had one task: Finding Harry Potter.

As he approached, Tom glanced up, his expression shifting into a professional politeness. “Ah, Professor Snape! What can I do for you this evening?”

Snape’s tone was clipped. “I need information, Tom. Have you seen Harry Potter?”

Tom’s smile faltered slightly, and he hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “You know I can't go telling folk who's staying here. Confidentiality, you understand.”

Snape’s gaze bore into the innkeeper, who shifted uneasily under the intensity of the stare. Of course, he’d anticipated Tom’s response. While Tom’s loyalty to his patrons was admirable, it was also a nuisance. Snape leaned in slightly, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not asking you to break your precious confidentiality, Tom. Simply… think. Recall if you’ve seen someone who looks remarkably like his father—”
Snape didn’t need Legilimency to know that the mere mention of James Potter had stirred the old innkeeper’s memory. He could see it in the subtle twitch of Tom's eyes, the way his hand faltered as he continued wiping the glass. Tom’s mind was already wandering, replaying the moment Potter had checked in.

Snape seized the opportunity. Without a word, he delved into Tom’s thoughts, his mind slipping effortlessly into the memory. There it was—Potter’s arrival, weary and disheveled, making arrangements for a room. The flash of room number 11 as the boy received his key.

Withdrawing from Tom’s mind, Snape straightened. “That will do, Tom.” His voice was quiet, but it carried an unmistakable note of finality. He turned on his heel, leaving the innkeeper blinking in confusion.

Snape moved swiftly through the labyrinth of hallways, the dark, narrow corridors of the inn twisting like the coils of a snake. The creaking wooden floorboards under his black, square-toe boots only added to the inn's musty atmosphere. The lanterns hanging on the walls flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced with his every step.

As he walked, Snape’s mind raced. Petunia had passed, the wards around the Dursleys’ home had failed. And of course, Potter had fled. Typical.

He clenched his jaw, his annoyance deepening. Of all the places for the boy to hide, he had chosen the Leaky Cauldron, as if that were any safer. The thought of Harry’s recklessness stirred a fresh wave of frustration in Snape, but there was also something else—a feeling he quickly buried beneath layers of practiced detachment.

The door to room 11 stood at the end of the hallway. Snape stopped before it, his hand hovering for a brief moment before he knocked sharply.

The door creaked slightly as it swung open. Snape entered the room with his usual air of authority, eyes sweeping over the small space before landing on the figure of Harry Potter, standing before him, frozen in disbelief. Potter’s head snapped up at the intrusion, his eyes wide and red-rimmed, likely from a lack of sleep.

"Professor Snape?" The boy’s voice was hoarse, cracked from days of disuse.

Snape sneered, his dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of irritation and disdain as he quickly explained his reason for being here—how he was sent by a concerned Dumbledore, how the wards Lily had sacrificed her life over, failed.

Potter’s face had paled. With each word, his expression shifted into one of shock. "The wards… failed?" He had asked, blinking slowly as if he couldn’t comprehend what Snape was saying.

"Yes, Potter," Snape said, raising an eyebrow as though he couldn’t believe the boy’s inability to grasp something so basic. "The magical protections that kept you safe from the Dark Lord. The ones forged from your mother’s sacrifice. Do try to keep up."

Snape watched as Potter’s confusion deepened. His gaze faltered as he realized the gravity of the situation, the color draining further from his already gaunt face.

"I wasn’t concerned when the protections started flickering," Snape continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I assumed your relatives had simply had enough of their spoiled, golden boy and decided to take a well-deserved holiday. Imagine my surprise when I overheard that the famous Harry Potter was staying here, of all places, away from his mourning relatives."

Potter flinched at the comment, but Snape barely noticed. His dark eyes had taken in the full sight of the boy now—his slumped posture, the dark circles under his eyes, and the pale, drawn look to his face. For a brief moment, Snape had felt something stir inside him—something dangerously close to sympathy. But he had pushed it aside, focusing instead on his irritation.

"Pack your things," Snape ordered, his voice regaining its sharp edge. "You’re coming with me. Dumbledore has arranged for you to stay under my protection for the time being.”

Snape could see the way Potter’s face fell at the thought of staying with him, and inwardly, he reveled in the boy’s misery. But there was a deeper truth to all of this, one that neither he nor Potter were ready to confront just yet.

Snape had been tasked with keeping the boy alive, no matter the personal cost.

Potter mumbled something about packing, moving sluggishly as he gathered his few belongings. Snape crossed his arms, watching the boy carefully, his critical gaze never leaving him. It was clear that Potter had endured something—perhaps more than even he was willing to admit.

Once the boy had packed, Snape turned and led him out of the room, down the same winding hallways, and out into the evening air of Diagon Alley. Silence stretched between them as they walked, the sun casting long shadows over the cobbled streets.

Finally, at the edge of the alley, Snape stopped and glanced down at Potter, his face unreadable.

"We will be traveling by Apparition," he said briskly, holding out his arm for the boy to take. "This will take us directly to my home. Do not lag behind."

Harry had barely glanced at him, his eyes glazed over with a distant, haunted look. Snape had expected resistance, but there had been none. The boy simply stared forward, as if he had no fight left in him at all.

With that, Snape gripped Potter’s arm tightly, and in the blink of an eye, they were gone, leaving the Leaky Cauldron far behind.

Now, as Harry moved through the motions of his chores, Snape’s irritation fought with something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name. The boy had not spoken a word since that day at the Leaky Cauldron, and while Snape had welcomed the silence at first, it had begun to unsettle him.

What was Potter hiding behind that silence?

Perhaps he was plotting something. Hiding underneath this sad act to distract Snape from his real plans.

The boy was truly just like his father.

Snape watched as Harry finished wiping down the counters, his hand once again going to his ribs, wincing slightly. Something about the sight sent a jolt of unease through him.

In the back of his mind, a memory flickered—his mother, moving with the same quiet efficiency, hiding her pain behind a mask of stoicism. The memory unsettled him, and for a moment, he found himself wondering if Potter was more like her than he had ever imagined.

Snape stood abruptly, setting his mug down with a sharp clink. He wouldn’t dwell on this. Not when there were more pressing matters at hand.

But as he turned to leave the room, he couldn’t help but glance back at the boy—so small, so quiet, and yet so painfully familiar.

And for the first time in years, Severus Snape felt something dangerously close to pity.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was dimmer than usual, the usual hint of light filtered through dark curtains seemed stifled. Spinner’s End had always felt a bit damp and dark, but today, the skies, heavy with the promise of rain, enclosed the house in shadows.

Harry moved through his chores with practiced precision, his movements mechanical as he wiped down each granite countertop, pushing a deep yellow sponge forward and back. He was fully adapting into his vow of silence. Where it had once felt suffocating, it now enveloped him with a sense of comfort. Words were dangerous, a source of chaos that he couldn’t afford to unleash. Every time he thought of opening his mouth, he feared the words might spill out uncontrollably–dark and ugly things that he didn’t want to confront. So, the silence settled over him like a heavy cloak, muffling his world, and he was happy for it.

It was easier this way.

Finishing up in the kitchen, Harry wiped his hands on a towel, eyes darting to the closest window to him before grabbing the dark curtain that hung over it, askewing it slightly to let in what little light there was from the outside. It really was dark here. Without a word, he stepped out of the back door where the garden waited, the air thick with the earthy scent of damp soil. He felt a chill as the first drops of rain began to fall, sprinkling onto his worn shirt. He worked quickly, tending to the plants with a focus that felt more like a means of escape than a chore. The shed loomed ahead, its small wooden frame offering a strange comfort. Since he ventured in days ago, it had become his sanctuary, the slanted roof giving it both character and privacy, providing Harry with one place he could exist in without the weight of others’ expectations pressing down on him–the one place he could exist without fear of interruption. Inside those walls, it was as though the world and its horrors couldn’t touch him.

His mind wandered to the old photograph hidden within the shed, and he moved purposely toward it, pushing open the creaky door with a soft groan of wood. Inside was cluttered, smelling of damp earth and old wood, a comforting contrast to the cold, unfeeling interior of Snape’s home. He made his way to the small, black box in the corner. He kneeled, opening the container and pulling out the hidden photo of his mom and Snape, the worn edges familiar beneath his fingers. His mother’s face smiled back at him, and beside her, Snape’s strange, soft expression. Harry clutched the picture to his chest, closing his eyes as a wave of emotion surged through him. Would she be proud of him? The thought gnawed at him.

He tried to imagine what she might say if she saw him now. Would she be proud to call him her son, or would she look at him with the same disdain that Snape did?

If his parents could see him now, would they still love him?

He shoved the picture back into the box, a sudden bitterness rising in his throat. He didn’t deserve her smile, didn’t deserve to wonder what they’d think.

The rain had picked up by the time he returned to the house, a steady downpour drumming against the windows. His movements were quiet, footsteps light as he slipped in through the back door. The hallway was dimly lit, shadows flickering as the storm outside grew stronger. Harry headed for the stairs, to wash up and clear his thoughts.

He was halfway there when he heard voices–raised, angry, and one unmistakable in its low, controlled tone. The other, though, was unfamiliar, sharp and quick. He paused, heart thudding in his chest. He shouldn't listen, but he moved towards the sound anyways. Slowly, he edged down the hallway, the voices growing clearer with each step. He reached a closed door, a faint yellow, orange light seeping through the cracks, and pressed his ear against it.

“...I’m asking you, Severus, as his Godfather.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. Godfather?

Snape’s voice was tight with irritation. “I cannot take him in right now. There are other matters requiring my attention.”

Despite the risk, Harry cracked open the door just enough to see inside. The space looked to be a library, and was lit by the flow of a low fire, its warmth contrasting with the chill creeping into the house from the rainstorm outside. The room smelled of old books and burnt wood. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, well-furnished with leather-bound books that loomed in the flickering light from the fireplace. A small, green couch, two armchairs, and a washed out blue patterned rug surrounded the fireplace, casting long shadows on the walls. Through the small crack in the door, Harry saw two figures, the warm glow playing off them. Snape, his face tight with tension, was seated stiffly, clearly frustrated, his hands pressed against his temples as if trying to ward off a headache. Across from him stood Lucius Malfoy, his arms crossed and looking every bit the aristocrat in his tailored robes, his tall figure casting a sharp silhouette against the fire’s flow.

Harry stiffened.

Lucius was here? At Spinner’s End?

“You are his godfather, Severus.” Lucius was saying, his voice sharp and insistent. “It’s your duty to take him in.”

Harry furrowed his brows. Who? His mind raced, but before he could piece it together, Snape’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“I have other responsibilities, Lucius. This…complicates things.”

Lucius wasn’t giving up. “Narcissa and I are needed by the Dark Lord. We can't leave Draco unattended. He has no place else to go. You’re the only one we trust.”

At the mention of Voldemort’s name, Harry’s scar prickled with heat, the familiar burn flaring to life on his forehead. It was a sharp reminder, not just of the dark figure who had stolen his parents from him, but of something more recent, more agonizing.

Cedric.

The image came to him in an instant, as vivid as if it were happening all over again. The Triwizard Cup, the graveyard, Cedric’s lifeless body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Harry could almost hear the echo of the words that had ripped through the air—Avada Kedavra—that sharp flash of green light that had stolen Cedric's future in a single heartbeat. His chest tightened, the firelight blurring as guilt settled like a lead weight in his stomach.

It was his fault. If only he hadn’t insisted that they both take the cup. If only he’d been quicker, smarter, more prepared. He could still feel the cold marble tombstone of Tom Riddle Sr. 's grave beneath his hands from where he had been bound in that graveyard, helpless and bleeding, as Voldemort had risen from the cauldron, his body grotesquely forming before Harry's horrified gaze.

He had struggled, fought, but the spell cut into his skin, binding him there. Forced to watch as Wormtail approached with a knife. Harry could still feel the cold steel as it slashed his arm, his blood dripping down, mixing with the dirt beneath him.

His own blood had been used in the Dark Lord’s resurrection.

His blood. Cedric’s death. All because of him.

Harry's hands clenched at his sides, trembling slightly, his knuckles white against the fabric of his jeans. The guilt surged up again, swirling with a deep anger he didn’t know how to fully express—anger at Voldemort for what he had done, anger at himself for being too weak to stop it. Cedric’s empty, vacant eyes. Harry’s breath came in short, shallow bursts as guilt and anger bubbled up in his chest, threatening to consume his being. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, the fire’s crackling a distant murmur now, swallowed by the rush of emotions clawing at his insides.

His scar burned, a sharp, searing pain that prickled with heat–the constant reminder that Voldemort was never truly gone, and neither was the weight of his failures. He gasped quietly, the sound lost in the crackle of the fire, but his mind was far from the warmth of the room. He was back in the graveyard, Cedric's unseeing eyes staring up at the night sky, and no matter how much time passed, Harry knew that the guilt would never leave him.

Instinctively, his hand grasped the other, clenching tightly as he desperately tried to ground himself, thinking of that second before they had been whisked away to the graveyard, when Cedric had taken his hand in his.

When his hand had still been warm.

The peace before the storm.

Harry snapped his eyes back open, wondering when he had shut them, and focused on the other person Lucius mentioned.

Draco? The name sent a chill down Harry’s spine. Draco Malfoy? Staying here? His mind reeled, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Draco was going to stay here? With him?

He barely registered the rest of Lucius’s words, his heart pounding in his chest as a cold dread settled over him. Draco Malfoy, here at Spinner’s End. The summer had already been bad enough. Now he was expected to live with Malfoy under the same roof?

He blocked out the rest of the conversation, blood rushing in his ears as he stared blankly at the shadows cast by the fire. This couldn’t be happening.

The sound of movement in the room snapped Harry back to attention. He watched as Lucius moved toward the fireplace, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small, gray pouch. Harry knew what was coming before Lucius even spoke the words.

Floo powder.

Lucius threw a pinch of the shimmering powder into the flames, which roared to life in a brilliant green blaze. “I’ll bring Draco tomorrow,” Lucius said, stepping into the flames. “Expect us by morning.”

With a swirl of his robes, Lucius Malfoy disappeared, the fire crackling back to its normal hue. Harry watched as Snape remained sitting on the armchair, his posture stiff and unyielding.

Harry began to back away, his mind a whirlpool of jumbled thoughts. But before Harry could slip away unnoticed, Snape let out a great sigh, breaking the silence. “You may come out now, Potter,” he said, his voice laced with tired frustration.

Harry’s stomach dropped. He’d been caught.

Pushing the door open fully, Harry stepped into the room, bracing himself for a sharp reprimand as he tried to keep his face neutral, though he was certain his nerves were written all over it. Snape didn’t look at him immediately, his gaze fixed on the fire. His voice, when he spoke again, was low and weary.

“You truly have no sense of boundaries, do you?”

Harry swallowed, waiting for the tirade.

Snape turned to face him, his dark eyes narrowed with a mixture of disdain and resignation.

“You’ve the manners of a barnyard animal, Potter,” Snape said dryly, his voice cutting through the heavy air. “Listening behind doors… How Gryffindor of you.”

Harry braced himself for a harsher reprimand, but Snape didn’t seem to have the energy for it. His face, normally set in a sneer, looked tired, as though he’d already spent what little patience he had left.

“I assume, since you’ve heard the entire conversation, you already know what’s happening,” Snape continued, rubbing a hand over his temple as if to alleviate a headache. “Draco will be staying here.”

Harry felt cold. Malfoy. Here. It was too much to process.

“You will continue your chores,” Snape continued, his voice steady. “And if I so much as hear a word about you causing trouble with him, there will be consequences.”

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The thought of Draco Malfoy living under the same roof as him for the rest of the summer was almost too much to process. He felt a surge of dread, knowing full well that Malfoy would find every opportunity to make his life a living hell.

Without another word, Snape waved a hand dismissively, gesturing toward the door, clearly done with the conversation. “Go,” he said simply. “I’ve no desire to continue this any further.”

Harry turned and left the room, the creaky steps echoed under Harry’s weight, his thoughts swirling. Where would Draco sleep? Close to his room? Harry’s mind spiraled, imagining Draco barging in, demanding his room like Dudley had demanded everything growing up. It was like being shoved into the cupboard again—unseen, unwanted.

The rain had picked up by the time he reached his room, pelting against the window in sheets. The sound of it sliding down the glass felt like tears, a weight pressing down on him. He moved mechanically to the small bathroom next door. It was cramped, with a narrow sink and a chipped mirror above it. The tub was ancient, the porcelain worn. The shower head above it was steel, and the tiles on the floor were cracked, evidence of Spinner’s End’s long-neglected state.

He sighed heavily, tugging off his damp clothes, the fabric clinging to him from the lingering moisture from the rain outside. The cool air prickled his skin as he turned on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up. Steam quickly began to fill the small bathroom, the rhythmic pitter-patter of water against the porcelain providing him with a sense of calm.

As he stepped under the warm spray, Harry closed his eyes, letting the water wash away the remnants of the day–the dirt, the tension, the weight pressing on his chest. For a moment, everything was muted, and the world outside the bathroom ceased to exist. Here, under the cascade of water, there were no arguments, no unwelcome arrivals, no memories of graveyards.

After a quick rinse,—a habit he adapted from the Dursleys— he shut off the water and reached for a towel. The bathroom was thick with steam as he rubbed the towel through his hair and over his body before changing into his too big, too worn, hand-me-down t-shirt he used for night wear, trying to shake off the heaviness that lingered in his bones.

Moving to the mirror, Harry wiped away the steam from his quick rinse. His reflection stared back at him—tan skin that seemed to have grown paler, despite being outside daily. His eyes were dark and tired, the green less vibrant than they used to be. He looked thinner than he had in a long time. Eating had become a chore in itself, each bite feeling like an effort he didn’t want to make. His mouth stayed closed most of the time anyway. Silence was easier.

He pulled up his shirt, his eyes tracing the bruises covering his torso. They were in various stages of healing, purple and yellow against his skin, like the remnants of a storm that had passed but left its damage. His ribs stuck out more than before. The sight made him feel sick, the colors of his bruises over protruding bone reminding him too much of a familiar graveyard—still, cold, and lifeless.

Quickly, he pulled the shirt down, averting his gaze from the mirror. He couldn’t bear to look at himself anymore. The sight felt wrong, as though he was looking at someone else entirely.

Back in his room, the storm raged on, wind howling against the windows. He crawled into bed, the weight of the covers pulling him down. The rain still battered the house, but inside, the silence wrapped itself around him once more. Trapped. Harry burrowed deeper under the blankets, his hands clenching at the fabric. He already knew what kind of dreams awaited him tonight—dark and filled with shadows he couldn’t escape.

As the storm raged on outside, Harry’s thoughts drifted to Draco. Tomorrow, he would be here. Tomorrow, everything would change again. And once more, Harry would have to find a way to survive.

Chapter Text

The room was dimly lit, the flickering flames of torches casting long, ominous shadows over the black marble floors. The smell of decay hung in the air–something rotten and faintly metallic, like blood dried in the cracks of stone. The space was wide yet oppressive, as though the walls were those of a crypt, trapping everyone within.

His senses sharpened in a way that made Harry feel more alive, more powerful, than he’d ever felt before. The air in the room around him was stifling, heavy with the scent of burnt wood and damp stone. The dark magic seeping from the very walls filled his lungs, thick and acrid, like poison. His skin prickled, attuned to every breath, every slight movement, as if the world itself was holding its breath in fear of him.

Before him knelt Death Eaters. Their robes were thick, black as night, pooling around them as they hunched, faces hidden behind their masks. They were all but indistinguishable from one another, save for their trembling hands and the slight shifts of weight betraying their nerves. Even with their heads bowed in submission, Harry could feel their fear. It radiated off them like the heat of a dying fire. They were terrified, not just of their master’s wrath but of the uncertain future that loomed over them all.

Harry could feel the tightness in his chest, not from fear but from anticipation. He relished it. This was the power he had always sought—absolute control, the kind that made even the strongest of wizards quiver beneath his gaze.

"Rise," His voice echoed, cold and serpentine, curling around the room like a snake ready to strike. It was a voice that promised pain, and the Death Eaters knew it. Slowly, stiffly, they obeyed, rising to their feet with the sound of rustling fabric and the creak of leather boots on stone.

Harry surveyed the room, cold and calculating. His body felt impossibly tall and skeletal, his fingers long and spider-like, gripping his wand with a cruel certainty. The wand itself pulsed in his hand, a living extension of his will. Every movement was deliberate, every step a calculated display of dominance.

His gaze locked onto one of the Death Eaters, a man who had dared to waver in his loyalty. Harry could feel the heat of his fury building like a storm on the horizon. It surged through his veins, dark and terrible, until he could barely contain it. He wanted to lash out, to make an example of this pathetic excuse for a follower.

The man, still kneeling in the shadows, trembled. His cloak shifted, revealing a thin, sweat-drenched face beneath the mask. The man's pale skin was ghostly in the dim light, and his hands—clenched tightly in his lap—shook as though he could already feel the impending pain.

"You think you can defy me?" Harry hissed, his voice dripping with malice. The torches flickered, as if the very room responded to his anger. "You believed, for even a moment, that I could be defeated?"

The man opened his mouth to stammer an apology, but Harry’s wand was faster. A sharp flick of his wrist, and the Cruciatus Curse leaped from the tip of his wand, crackling through the air like lightning.

The scream that erupted from the man’s throat was pure agony, echoing off the stone walls. Harry could feel it—the surge of dark magic rushing through him, feeding off the man’s suffering. It was intoxicating. Every cry, every shudder of pain was a testament to his power, and Harry, trapped in this nightmare, could do nothing but feel the pleasure that surged through him.

The other Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably, the fear palpable in the room. Some turned their masked faces away, unable to witness the torture of their comrade, but they dared not move, dared not speak. The dark magic hung so thick in the air it was suffocating, pressing in on their lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

The man on the floor writhed, his body contorting in unnatural ways, but Harry did not relent. He stepped closer, his long, spindly fingers reaching out to grasp the man’s chin, lifting it so that their eyes met. Harry could feel the man’s terror, so visceral it tasted like copper on his tongue.

"Do you think you can hide from me?" Harry’s voice was soft now, a mockery of tenderness. His crimson eyes glinted with a sickening light. "Do you think I don’t know every thought that flickers through your pathetic mind?"

The man whimpered, tears streaming down his face, his body twitching under the continued assault of the curse. His fingers clawed at the ground, leaving deep scratches in the stone as he tried—and failed—to find any release from the pain.

With a cold, almost bored flick of his wrist, Harry lifted the curse. The man crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath, his body trembling uncontrollably. The room was deathly silent now, save for the sound of his ragged breathing.

Harry stood over him, a faint smile playing on his thin lips. The smell of fear permeated the air, mixing with the damp, musty scent of the old stone room. It was a smell Harry loved—fear and desperation.

"You will never doubt me again," he whispered, his voice barely more than a hiss. He turned away from the broken man, his robes swirling around him like a cloud of black smoke.

But there was one who had remained silent, even through all of this. A figure knelt further back, their head bowed but their posture rigid. They had not flinched, had not begged. It was this defiance—this quiet insolence—that drew Harry’s attention.

Slowly, he moved toward the figure, his every step deliberate. The other Death Eaters seemed to shrink away, as if the very air grew colder with each passing second. The silence in the room thickened, the tension mounting until it felt as though the stone walls themselves might crack under the weight of it.

The figure remained still, even as Harry loomed over them, his shadow falling long and dark across the floor. Curiosity overtook his mind, the dark thrill of discovering why this one had not begged for mercy.

He reached out, long fingers brushing against the edge of the figure’s cloak. The fabric was worn, coarse to the touch, and smelled faintly of sweat and damp earth. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Harry could sense the dark magic reaching out, probing, twisting through the figure’s mind like a serpent hunting its prey.

And there it was—doubt. Hidden deep within the layers of false loyalty, he found it. A flicker of doubt, of disbelief, that this figure had buried beneath years of servitude.

"You think I can be defeated?" Harry’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it was laced with venom. The figure flinched at the words, though they remained silent.

"Crucio!"

The curse hit with the force of a hurricane. The figure jerked violently, their body arching as the pain tore through them. This time, there was no scream, only a low, guttural moan that echoed in the cold, damp chamber. Harry’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight. He could feel their resistance breaking, could feel the pain taking over.

The other Death Eaters remained still, watching in terrified silence. Even beneath their masks, Harry could sense their unease, their fear. None dared speak, none dared move, for fear that his wrath would turn on them next.

When the figure finally collapsed, twitching and gasping for air, he withdrew the curse with a satisfied sigh. He turned to the rest of the Death Eaters, who flinched under his gaze.

"Let this be a reminder," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "You are mine. Your lives, your very thoughts, belong to me."

The room seemed to darken even more, as if the very shadows themselves recoiled from the intensity of Harry’s presence. The smell of fear and blood filled the air, mingling with the dampness and the faint, rotting stench of decay.

Harry’s eyes swept over the room, cold and calculating. He could almost taste it—his own dark satisfaction, the way he fed off their fear, their pain. This was what he lived for. This was his power.

And Harry was drowning in it.

Harry gasped for air, his body jerking awake, his scar throbbing, the pain blinding. He curled into himself, instinctively wrapping his arms tightly around his torso as his entire body trembled, sick with a cold sweat. The sharp metallic acne of blood filled his scenes, and he looked down in horror. Dark red droplets stained the covers, seeping into the fabric. He reached for his scar, the area inflamed and wet, its edges flared open.

For a long moment, he couldn’t move. His mind buzzed with conflicting sensations—the giddy, lingering joy from the dream still pulsing through him, the power, terror, and absolute dominance he held, making his heart race, but beneath it, a sickening nausea built.

And somewhere deep inside him, Harry felt a cold, creeping fear take root. Because a part of him had enjoyed it too.

He tried to stifle it, but laughter burst from him, maniacal and harsh. He hugged himself harder, biting down on his lip to muffle the sound, drawing blood, his body shaking. The laughter quickly turned hysterical, a desperate sound that echoed in the silence of the room. Then, just as abruptly as it had started, Harry clamped his mouth shut, bile rising in his throat. His stomach twisted violently.

For a long moment, he stayed still, head bowed, knees drawn up to his chest, listening to the storm that raged outside his window. The rain drummed a steady rhythm against the roof, sliding down in smooth streams that flowed off the building. Harry focused on it—the motion of the rain, the soft pitter-patter it made against the windowpane. He focused on anything other than the chaos in his mind. The fire still burning in his scar. The pounding in his skull. The blood on his hands.

His breathing started to slow, his body loosening just slightly when another burst of lightning flashed through the room. The bright light cut through the darkness, casting harsh shadows against the walls. It crackled in the air, making Harry's skin prickle with electricity. In that instant, the image of green light—Avada Kedavra—flashed through his mind, and he bolted from the bed, heart hammering.

The nausea overtook him as he reached the bathroom, barely managing to drop to his knees before he threw up. His forehead rested against the cold toilet seat, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as he dry heaved. He had forgotten dinner last night, too busy eavesdropping. Bile filled the toilet. His hands gripped the porcelain edge, knuckles white, as he fought to regain control. The cold tile under his palms helped ground him, but the images of the dream still danced behind his closed eyelids—flashes of torture, of gleeful cruelty, of—

Harry didn’t know how long he stayed like that, hunched over the toilet, his forehead pressed against it. Time seemed irrelevant, everything a blur of pain, confusion, and exhaustion.

The sound of the door creaking open broke the stillness. Harry flinched. He’d forgotten to lock it.

Snape stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light from the hallway. His dark eyes widened slightly as he took in the scene—Harry still curled up by the toilet, pale, trembling, with half-closed bloodshot-eyes. Harry braced himself for some scathing remark, but the silence stretched uncomfortably. He didn’t look up, didn’t want to meet Snape’s gaze.

The seconds dragged on, heavy and thick with unspoken words. Eventually, Harry forced himself to move, the effort making his limbs ache. He staggered to his feet, flush-faced and unsteady, flushing the toilet and walking the few paces to the sink to wash his hands, refusing to look up at the reflection in the mirror. He could feel Snape’s eyes boring into him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet them.

The water was cold against his skin, and Harry welcomed it, hoping it might snap him out of the fog clouding his mind. He scrubbed at his hands, the blood washing away in channels down the drain. Another flash of lightning cracked through the sky, illuminating the room for a split second. Harry flinched hard, his hand instinctively moving to his still-burning scar covered by his bangs before he remembered where he was.

He turned off the tap and moved toward the door, but when he glanced over, the doorway was empty. Snape had vanished.

Harry stared at the empty space, his chest tightening. Figures, he thought bitterly. Of course Snape would leave as soon as he sees what a mess the so-called Golden Boy really is.

Too tired to summon any real anger, Harry left the bathroom, his head buzzing with the remnants of the nightmare, the pain in his scar still a low throb. He had barely made it halfway to his room when a hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder.

Harry flinched violently, his breath catching as his body tensed in fear. He whipped around, his heart racing, but it was only Snape standing before him in the dimly lit hallway. His dark eyes narrowed, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. Harry opened his mouth to say something—to ask what Snape wanted—but the vow of silence he’d made to himself closed his throat. His mouth shut with a soft click, and he clenched his fists at his sides.

They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, neither of them moving or speaking. The tension in the air was thick and uncomfortable. Just as Harry began to turn away, intent on disappearing back into his room, Snape reached out and pressed something small and cool into Harry’s palm.

“Headache reliever,” Snape said in a low, terse voice before turning on his heel and stalking back down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Harry stood frozen in place, staring at the small vial in his hand. He was torn between shock and the unsettling familiarity of the situation, his mind flickering back to the time when Aunt Petunia had handed him a bottle of ibuprofen in that hallway. His breath hitched, and before he realized it, his grip tightened around the vial.

Anger welled up in him, sharp and sudden, though he wasn’t sure who or what it was directed at. His vision blurred momentarily, and he quickly pressed the back of his free hand to his eyes, pulling it back to find wetness there. He hadn’t even realized he’d started crying.

With a deep, shaky breath, Harry trudged back to his room. He downed the potion in one gulp and collapsed onto his bed. The storm still raged outside, and his bloodstained covers clung to his skin, but somehow, for the first time in a long while, he felt an odd sense of comfort.

He lay there in the dark, his scar searing with pain, his breath ragged and shallow. His entire body still, slick with cold sweat, the memory of sadistic pleasure still echoing in his mind.

Yet, somehow, sleep overtook him almost instantly.

—------------------------------------------------------------

The morning light crept in through the foggy windows, casting a dull glow over Harry’s room. He woke slowly, his mind muddled and sluggish, enjoying a rare moment of calm. The storm from last night had finally subsided, leaving the window panes wet but no longer assaulted by the pounding rain. The silence felt... peaceful. Harry stretched lazily before sliding out of bed, his motions light and unburdened.

Padding across the cold wooden floor to the bathroom, Harry slipped into his morning routine. He brushed his teeth, wrestled with his hair, splashed water on his face, and reached for the toilet seat—when something caught his eye. There, on the edge of the white porcelain, was a dried speck of blood. His breath hitched as the events of the previous night rushed back to him: the dream, the scar, the laughing.

Snape.

Harry stood frozen for a moment, nausea rising in his throat as he stared at the blood. He had dreamt of torturing people, of killing a follower, and worst of all, he remembered feeling happy. An overwhelming glee had taken over him, manic laughter spilling out uncontrollably. His heart beat faster. Was that him? Was that darkness inside him?

Was he becoming like Voldemort?

He swallowed hard, forcing the thoughts away. No, he told himself. It was just a nightmare—a sick, twisted dream brought on by stress. His head swam as he tried to suppress the shudder running through his body. It was fine. Everything was fine.

He finished quickly in the bathroom, the blood still lingering in his mind, before heading downstairs, his steps echoing softly on the creaky wood.

But then, as he began to descend, a new worry gnawed at him. What had Snape thought of him last night? Had he found Harry’s state pathetic? Was he going to ridicule him later? The idea made Harry’s stomach churn.

He thought of the headache reliever but quickly pushed the memory aside, thinking of Aunt Petunia.

Better to not focus on it at all.

He stopped midway down the stairs, exhaling shakily. Malfoy would be arriving today, and Harry couldn’t help but dread it. The silence of Spinner's End had become a strange comfort to him—something to expect, a reprieve from the chaos of the world. But now, it would be gone.

Clenching his fists, Harry closed his eyes briefly, bracing himself, the image of Snape’s wide eyes flickered in his mind, the way his hand had grasped his shoulder. He shook his head and continued down the stairs, relishing in these last few moments of quiet as he made his way toward the kitchen.

As he approached, he heard voices—voices that differed gratefully from the tense, insistent conversation he had stumbled upon yesterday. This conversation sounded….domestic.

Harry stepped into the kitchen and froze.

Draco Malfoy was seated at the wooden table, next to Snape, eating eggs and toast, a self-satisfied smirk stretching across his face as his cold blue eyes flicked up to meet Harry’s.

“Well, well,” Malfoy drawled, his voice laced with amusement. “Severus had informed me that you’d be here, Potter, but I assumed even the Golden Boy would arrive to breakfast on time.”

Harry’s gaze darted to the clock on the wall: 9:30. Shit. He was late. His stomach churned as he remembered Snape’s strict rules. No going into his room. No venturing into the potions lab. Meals at 9am sharp for breakfast, 12pm for lunch, and 6pm for dinner. And of course, the unspoken rule: Stay out of Snape’s way.

He swallowed thickly and glanced at Snape, who was watching him with a look Harry couldn’t quite place. His dark eyes flashed with something—disappointment? Annoyance?—before his lips curled into a sneer. "Do not just stand there with your mouth open, Potter," he snapped.

Malfoy sniggered, eyes glinting with malice. Harry, feeling like a deer caught in headlights, took a deep breath, bracing himself for the day. He walked over to the counter, grabbing the plate of eggs and toast that had been left for him. Without a word, he sat as far from Malfoy and Snape as possible, picking at his food with little enthusiasm.

As he picked and prodded at his toast, Malfoy launched into a monologue about his summer, boasting about his travels and the courses he was taking next year. Snape hummed in response, occasionally giving his opinion or shaking his head. Harry watched them out of the corner of his eye, feeling something cold and familiar creeping up his spine.

Jealousy.

He recognized that feeling. The way he used to sit at the Dursleys' kitchen table, watching them from the corner of his eye while they ate together, laughing and talking. A family. He’d sit there quietly, always on the outside, like a shadow looking in. A shadow that desperately wanted to know what it was like to be in the warmth of the sun.

Harry gripped his fork tighter, his knuckles whitening as the bitter feeling seeped deeper. His head dipped, his forehead nearly touching the table, as he missed the glance Snape sent his way. He was too preoccupied, waiting for Malfoy and Snape to finish so he could clear his plate and escape this one-sided breakfast.

Finally, Snape’s voice cut through Malfoy’s chattering. "I’ve divided up the chores for today," Snape said, sliding a piece of parchment across the table to both of them.

Harry’s heart sank as he glanced down at his list. It was longer than yesterday’s. His gaze shifted to Malfoy’s parchment—half the size of his. Of course.

Draco Malfoy, who had probably never done a chore in his life, immediately voiced his displeasure.

“This is ridiculous!” He huffed, his pale face turning red with indignation. “I’m not a house-elf! Why should I have to do chores like this? I’ve never—”

Harry tuned him out, a strange sort of amusement creeping up inside him. The idea of Dudley being handed a list of chores like this made him snort. The laugh slipped out before he could stop it.

Malfoy whipped around, his eyes flashing with anger. “Something funny, Potter?” he spat, rising to his feet.

But before the situation could escalate, Snape’s sharp voice cut through the tension. “Enough,” he barked, rising from the table. “This list is final.” Without another word, he stood, cleared his plate, and swept out of the kitchen, leaving Harry alone with an irate Draco Malfoy.

Harry sat still, his pulse quickening, waiting for Malfoy’s next move. The familiar weight of dread settled into his chest.

He already missed his silence.

Chapter Text

Malfoy sat at the kitchen table, his face twisted into a scowl as he grumbled about his list of chores, gripping the parchment and shoving it back on the table. The paper rustled harshly, a stark contrast to the stillness from the other end of the table. Harry, sitting opposite him, silently observed the growing frustration radiating from Malfoy, his face becoming more red with every task he read. Harry looked back to his own list, reveling in Malfoy's irritation as he muttered complaints under his breath, something about how ridiculous it was for someone of his standing to be doing such menial tasks. How this was house-elf work.

Without a word, Harry quietly rose from the table, taking his own list with him. His list, twice as long as Malfoy's–a fact that did not escape him as he crossed the room–weighed heavily in his hand. His half-eaten meal was dumped into the trash, the clatter of the plate echoed in the otherwise silent kitchen, a sharp contrast to Malfoy’s sulking presence. He rinsed his dish with practiced motions, feeling the cool water run over his fingers.

As he turned to leave the kitchen, planning to start dusting the small sitting room, he felt Malfoy’s gaze boring into him. Harry glanced over his shoulder. Malfoy sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised, staring up and down at Harry like he was some peculiar creature. Harry knew he didn’t look his best—paler than usual, dark circles under his eyes, his movements a little unsteady. The nightmare from last night still clung to him like a second skin, leaving him on edge and a little weak, his fingers trembling slightly from the nausea still simmering in his gut.

He instinctively tightened his grip on his list, determined to leave the room before Malfoy could say anything. But it was too late.

Malfoy scoffed, his lip curling with disdain. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as if settling in for a show, his expression smug. “You know," he began in his usual drawl, “Severus told me you'd be staying here. Told me to keep quiet about it. I do wonder the reason.” His voice took on a mocking tone. “Trouble in paradise, Potter?”

Harry gripped his list harder, his knuckles turning white as he fought to keep his composure. He wouldn’t let Malfoy get under his skin—not this time. Taking a slow, deep breath, Harry began to walk toward the doorway. He would not give Malfoy the satisfaction of a reaction.

But Malfoy wasn’t finished. His voice rang out again, taunting and vicious. “Why so quiet, Potter? What, did I hit a sore spot? Golden Boy's life not so golden at the moment?” He snickered, the sound grating in Harry’s ears like nails on a chalkboard.

Harry’s breath hitched, his emotions threatening to boil over, simmering and hard to ignore. But he forced himself to push them down, vision blurring as he tried to focus on something, anything other than Malfoy’s voice. He heard the ticking of the clock on the wall, the slow drip from the kitchen skink, and the scrape of a chair against the floorboards.

Would Snape blame him if the chair left a mark on the wood?

Harry wrapped himself in silence. Malfoy was still laughing, but it felt distant, muffled by the sounds Harry allowed himself to focus on, and for a moment, his method seemed to work. But then Malfoy's voice sliced through again, piercing the bubble of calm Harry had built around himself. “Too good for me, Potter? The Chosen One too good for normal people now? Answer me!"

Harry stopped in the doorway, his gaze on Malfoy, and considered the anger laced in those words, the volume of that last sentence. It wasn’t about the taunt anymore—Malfoy was just desperate for attention, bored, and frustrated. Harry suddenly understood. He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at Malfoy from the corner of his eye.

And then Harry laughed. Not loudly, not forcefully, just a quiet, breathy laugh that caught Malfoy off guard. This wasn’t about him. Malfoy was taunting him because he had nothing better to do. He wanted a reaction. Harry wasn’t going to give it to him.

Without another word, Harry walked out of the kitchen, leaving Malfoy standing there, anger radiating off him in waves, his plate still dirty on the table, and his chore list clenched tightly in his hand.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The sitting room was dimly lit by the weak afternoon light filtering through half-covered windows. Harry picked up an old rag he had taken from a kitchen drawer and began dusting the bookshelves and windowsill. The small amount of sunlight that did manage to stream through seemed to highlight every speck of dust that floated through the air. His movements were automatic, each stroke a welcome distraction from the heavy thoughts swirling in his mind. The room had an old, musty smell, and as he whipped the surfaces, he couldn’t help but notice the faded edges of the furniture, the old, cracked leather of an armchair, and the delicate porcelain figurines that seemed so out of place in Snape’s home.

As he wiped down the mantel, Harry glanced at the old, dusty family photos that adorned it. Snape’s parents, most likely. The room itself was somber, much like the rest of the house—dark wood furniture, the faint smell of old parchment lingering in the air. It was nothing like the bright, chaotic atmosphere of the Burrow, and the more time Harry spent in it, the more suffocating it felt.

Occasionally, Harry would cross paths with Malfoy, who was half-heartedly completing his own chores. Every time, Malfoy would throw a glare his way or mutter something under his breath. At one point, Malfoy muttered something about “commoners’ work” as Harry carried a broom through the hallway. But Harry didn’t respond. He just rolled his eyes and continued with his work. How someone could grow up so spoiled, with no chores, was beyond him. Harry laughed under his breath, amused as he pulled out weeds in the overgrown garden. Malfoy probably never even dressed himself—likely left that to a house elf.

By the time Harry finished weeding, the sun was beating down on his back, sweat sticking his shirt to his skin. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands, and glanced at the shed at the far end of the garden. His heart tugged as his gaze landed on it.

Before he could even stop himself, he wandered over, pushing the creaky door open and slipping inside. The air was cooler here, filled with the scent of wood and old metal tools, light filtering in through the cracks in the wooden walls. His eyes went straight to the small, black box hidden in the corner, the one containing the photo of his mum.

Harry’s heart ached. He wanted to open it, to see her face, to feel connected to her in some small way. But something held him back. If he opened it, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to close it again. It wasn’t just one of Snape’s private possessions anymore–it felt personal to Harry too. Thoughts of his mum swirled in his mind—It was like opening a door to all the questions he didn’t want to confront—whether his mum would be proud of him, what his life would be like if his parents were still alive, why Snape had this picture and didn’t tell him about it, how he knew his mum.

Harry stood in the shed for a long while, savoring the peace and privacy it offered. But eventually, he left the shelter and made his way back inside the house, the stone path cool beneath his feet. He hadn’t eaten lunch, but he didn’t feel hungry, not really.

Besides, Snape hadn’t eaten either, too busy locking himself inside his potion’s room.

He was such a hypocrite.

When he entered the kitchen, he was surprised to find Snape at the stove, stirring a large pot, his back to him. The rich smell of mushrooms filled the air, mingling with the scent of fresh herbs bubbling gently on the stove. Harry’s eyes flicked to Snape’s outfit—another strange muggle attire–dark trousers and a simple black jumper, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair, normally greasy and stringy, was tied back into a low ponytail, stray strands framing his face as he stirred the pot with precise movements.

Snape glanced over his shoulder. "Did you eat lunch?" he asked, his tone sharp, startling Harry.

Caught off guard, Harry hesitated before nodding quickly.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up early, as always, the way he had for years. It wasn’t the silence of Spinner’s End or the morning coldness that woke him, but the deep-rooted habit from the Dursleys. It was muscle memory now. The wooden bathroom door squeaked as he eased it open, the house still in that predawn quiet that always felt like a heavy blanket over everything. He got his routine done quickly, his movements methodical, avoiding the mirror’s reflection like he was avoiding a trap. The last thing he needed was to catch his own image this early in the day.

He hurried in bathroom because Malfoy would be awake soon, and the last thing he wanted was a repeat of a few days ago. His mind flashed back to that morning, to Malfoy’s smug smirk as he shut the bathroom door in Harry's face. Harry could still hear Malfoy’s off-tune singing from the shower as the minutes turned into almost an hour. He remembered banging his knuckles on the door, raw and red, but Malfoy ignored him, steam rolling from beneath the door as if to taunt him. When Malfoy finally emerged, hair impeccably dried and skin glowing as if he had spent a spa day rather than just a shower, Harry had only minutes to splash cold water on his face, brush his teeth, and rush downstairs before Snape could scowl at him for being late to breakfast.

The memory lingered like a bad taste in his mouth. Today, Harry managed to beat Malfoy, the clock flashing 6 AM as he finished up. He shuffled back to his room and leaned against the window frame, watching the inky darkness of the sky slowly fade. For a moment, the silence outside offered some sort of relief. Harry allowed himself a deep breath. The silence didn’t quite feel peaceful, but at least it was his own.

His thoughts wandered to Ron and Hermione. The familiar pang hit his chest, harder than he expected. He hadn’t heard from them in weeks, and the growing ache of abandonment gnawed at him. Maybe Ron’s family had gone on another vacation, somewhere far off where owls couldn’t reach. Maybe Hermione was knee-deep in her parents' dental practice, hands too tired from fixing teeth to pick up a quill. Or maybe, they simply didn’t want to talk to him anymore. Maybe, like everyone else, they blamed him for Cedric’s death. 

After all, who wanted to be friends with a murderer?

Harry blinked hard, his eyes stinging. He unclenched his fists and stared down at his palms. His nails had bitten deep into the flesh, little crescents of blood welling up. It was a sharp reminder of how tightly he held onto his anger, how much he sometimes depended on distractions from his dark thoughts. Lying back on the bed, he let the familiar numbness wash over him. The silence in the room was a bit suffocating, yet it was a relief—like the weight of the world was somehow muffled, his thoughts a slow, stagnant fog. He just existed in that moment, waiting for the house to wake up.

Malfoy stirred first. Harry could hear the soft thuds of feet against the creaky floorboards, followed by the bathroom door closing. Harry hears him, but the sound feels distant, like echoes in a tunnel. He listens, but the silence beneath it all is louder, pressing in from all sides, swallowing him whole. He stayed where he was, sinking deeper into the bed. He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there, staring at the ceiling, barely blinking. Lately, it felt like his body was heavier than it should be, like the mattress itself was pulling him down, blankets wrapping tighter, pinning him there. It was the kind of sinking feeling that made his chest tighten, not quite suffocation but close enough that he sometimes wondered if he was breathing at all. But he was. He always was.

But there was a strange tightness in his throat, like he couldn't quite catch his breath, no matter how much air he took in. There was a pressure, too, sitting on his ribs, heavy and pressing harder than the day before. It made his eyes droop, half-lidded, staring at nothing, blinking at odd intervals. His heart was beating sluggishly in his chest, as though it, too, had grown tired of keeping him alive. 

He couldn't tell how long he’d been lying there, staring at nothing, sinking into himself. Time stretched, losing all meaning, his mind drifting further away. He was drowning without water, suffocating with air, and sometimes, he felt there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

And so, he laid there for a while, waiting, sinking, and wondering if he’d ever find the strength to rise again.

Eventually, Harry forced himself to move. The shower was still running, but he knew Malfoy wasn’t inside anymore. Probably fussing with his hair or applying another face mask. He could almost picture it—Malfoy’s face covered in some ridiculous concoction, humming to himself as he preened in front of the mirror. Harry let out a small, bitter laugh at the thought. It was absurd, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined barging in just to watch Malfoy shriek in horror. But the humor didn’t last. The weight in his chest was still there.

He shuffled down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots he had memorized. It was a useful skill, one he had mastered under the Dursleys. Being invisible had been a matter of survival then. Here, it was just... habit.

As he reached the kitchen, he paused. Snape was already there, standing by the stove. His attire was an odd mixture of Muggle and wizard—a plain black jumper paired with dark trousers, but somehow still distinctly Snape. Harry’s eyes caught on the small radio sitting on the counter, soft music floating out. Jazz, maybe? It felt strange, almost intimate. The scene in front of him, Snape cooking eggs with music playing softly, seemed so domestic. For a brief, unguarded moment, Harry felt something tight in his chest. This wasn’t for him. He didn’t belong here.

Before he could retreat, Snape turned, his eyes sharp as ever. Harry froze, caught in the man’s gaze. His heart thudded hard against his ribs, that uncomfortable feeling growing with every second. This scene—the breakfast, the set table, the sound of music in the background—it wasn’t meant for him. He clenched his fists again, nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the sharp sting of pain.

But before he could leave, Malfoy’s footsteps echoed down the hall. He strode into the kitchen, brushing past Harry with an elbow to the ribs as if Harry didn’t exist. Harry glared at his back, watching Malfoy take his seat at the table with the same smugness he carried everywhere.

Breakfast was a blur. Malfoy was all animated excitement, practically vibrating with the thrill of whatever potion they would be brewing today. Harry, on the other hand, picked at his eggs, mashing them into unrecognizable mush. His appetite had long disappeared, but he went through the motions, waiting for Snape and Malfoy to finish so he could leave.

Malfoy was gloating again, going on about how lucky he was to spend the day brewing with Snape, while Harry would spend his day doing chores. The resentment twisted in Harry’s gut, but he kept his head down, pushing his plate away as he waited for his chance to escape.

When the meal was finally over, Harry made a show of clearing his plate, washing Malfoy’s discarded dish along with his own. Snape didn’t say anything, but Harry could feel the man’s eyes on him, a brief flicker of acknowledgment. It made something stir in Harry, a mix of anger and something deeper, something he didn’t want to examine too closely. Whatever it was, he shoved it down and set to work.

The sitting room was his first task. Dust clung to every surface, despite him cleaning daily, and the air still felt a bit stale and heavy. As Harry moved through the room, wiping down shelves and scrubbing the floor, he tried not to think. But his mind had other ideas. Every time he passed the closed door of the potions lab, he could hear Malfoy’s muffled laughter. It made his blood boil.

Hours passed, and Harry’s muscles ached from scrubbing. His hands were raw, his knuckles red and sore. When lunchtime came, Harry seized his moment. With Snape and Malfoy still locked away, he hurried to the kitchen, grabbing a plate from one of the dark countertops, the surface smooth and cold to the touch, and leaving out some bread to make it look like he had eaten. He didn’t have the energy to care about food, but the last thing he needed was Snape lecturing him about missed meals.

After placing the empty plate in the sink,  he stepped back to survey the scene, his brow furrowing as he studied the bread. It sat there, innocent and unassuming, but was it convincing enough? Should he actually take a slice? A flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Did Snape keep track of every slice? Harry shook his head at the absurdity of it. That would be insane, even for Snape.

As he contemplated the setup, the sound of footsteps caught his attention. He turned quickly, heart thudding in his chest, to see Snape and Malfoy framed in the doorway.

Snape’s gaze flicked over the scene—first to the bread on the counter, then to Harry, assessing, calculating. His expression was inscrutable, a mask of controlled indifference that Harry had come to expect. But it was Malfoy who broke the tension. He strode confidently into the kitchen, practically bouncing on his feet as he approached the fridge, declaring with a casual arrogance, “I’m starving after brewing for so long.” His voice was light, almost playful, but there was an edge to it, as if he wanted Harry to hear. Malfoy leaned against the fridge, the picture of casual ease, while Harry felt his insides knot.

Harry gritted his teeth, shaking off the wave of irritation that washed over him. The sight of Malfoy gloating, reveling in the knowledge that he wasn’t the one doing chores, sent a surge of anger coursing through him, sent him momentarily back to the Dursley’s. He inhaled deeply, the air thick with the smell of bread and something faintly acrid from Malfoy’s latest potion, before pushing open the back door and stepping outside.

The garden awaited him, a tangle of green and brown. As he knelt down, pulling at the weeds with a ferocity that surprised even him. He felt a strange mix of emotions boiling within him. Each weed he yanked felt like a release, a way to channel the anger that simmered just beneath the surface, his muscles burning as he tore the unwanted plants from the ground. 

But why was he so angry? He didn’t even like Snape. He hated the man, and yet the sight of Snape and Malfoy emerging from their hours together made his stomach tighten and his heart ache.

Harry wrestled with the confusion swirling in his mind. Why did it bother him so much? He felt childish, ridiculous even, caught up in feelings he couldn’t quite articulate. He didn’t need a parent; that time had passed long ago. He was fine, dammit!

With each weed he uprooted, he felt a little of the anger seep out, replaced by a sense of tiredness. But still, the tightness in his chest remained, as if something was lodged there, something he couldn’t quite grasp. He was alone in the garden, yet the tension from the kitchen lingered in the back of his mind, mingling with memories of longing and loss he had buried deep.

As he pulled and tugged at the stubborn weeds, his hands dirty and calloused, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a part of him still reaching for something he didn’t even know he wanted—a connection, a sense of belonging, perhaps? But he shoved those thoughts away, focusing instead on the task at hand, determined to drown out the noise in his head. He didn’t stop, not even when his vision blurred and his breath came in short, harsh bursts. His fingers were trembling by the time he finished, but the garden was immaculate.

As he wiped his hands on his jeans, Harry’s eyes drifted toward the shed. A flicker of something warm passed through him at the thought of his little sanctuary. He took a step toward it, eager for a moment of peace, but something was wrong.

The shed door was open. Someone was inside. 

Harry’s stomach dropped, a cold sense of dread washing over him. His heart stuttered in his chest, then began to race, thundering in his ears. He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat, his pulse drumming a frantic beat. His skin crawled with the sensation of trespass, of something out of place, of something wrong.  

He surged forward, his feet barely skimming the ground as he all but ran. The shed’s looming silhouette seemed darker, and Harry charged toward it, ignoring the twist in his gut, the whisper of dread growing louder in his mind. His hand pushed the creaking, old door open wider, and he stepped inside, squinting against the gloom.

There, hunched over a familiar black box, was Draco Malfoy. 

Harry’s breath hitched. He froze, the dim light casting Malfoy in sharp, ghostly outlines, his blonde hair pale and flickering like a mirage against the shadows. But all Harry could see was the box–the one place he was hiding something precious, something secret, where he’d tucked away the fragment he had left of his parents, of his mum. And Draco was holding it, was touching it.

Malfoy’s hands were wrapped around something–no, not just something–Harry’s vision zeroed in, narrowing like a predator’s. The picture. His mum’s picture.  

A surge of heat rose within him, bubbling up from somewhere deep, dark, and vast. He couldn't breathe. His chest felt tight, like his lungs were collapsing, strangled by something vicious, something unstoppable. Malfoy turned toward him, his expression both smug and curious, lips moving, saying something, but the words were muffled, distant, as if Harry’s world had narrowed down to a tunnel of noise.

He couldn’t hear anything.

The only thing he saw was the picture. The edges of it were yellowing, brittle from time, and yet, in Malfoy’s careless grasp, it looked vulnerable. It was bending. It was crumpling.

“So this is why you’re always in here,” Draco was saying, his voice sharp but distant, like it was coming from far away. His voice was dripping with mockery. “Hiding yourself away for hours. I saw you the other day—it was raining, but you—”

Harry couldn’t hear him. His mind was roaring, the darkness swirling up from deep inside, hot and suffocating. His chest felt tight, and his hands shook as his nails bit into his palms again. Something darker than anger was spreading through him, something he couldn’t name. It clawed its way up his spine, hiding beneath his fingertips, and for a moment, Harry felt like he might explode.

Why was he here? Why was he touching it? Touching her?

Harry's thoughts twisted, the tendrils of that dark thing inside him coiling tighter. He could feel it burrowing, curling beneath his ribs, digging in, setting something off, something electric, something alive. His fingers twitched, a jolt running through him, sparking beneath his skin. It was too much. It was all too much.

Draco’s face grew irritated, his brows knitting together as he glared. “Are you even listening to me, Potter?” His tone was sharp, biting, like he was above all this, like he wasn’t holding Harry’s mum. His fingers curled around the photograph again, tighter, the picture bending, folding under his grip, as if he had every right. As if he was—

Harry’s breath came in shallow gasps. His heart pounded against his ribcage, the pressure unbearable, something huge and unstoppable building inside him. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even think. He could only feel. Anger—no, more than anger—something deeper, darker, filling him, suffocating him. Malfoy’s smug grin twisted the knife deeper.

“This is one of Severus’s,” Draco continued, lifting the box slightly, that infuriating smirk still on his lips. “It’s private. You wouldn’t want him to know you’ve been going through his things, would you? He’d—”

Harry couldn’t breathe. His throat felt like it was closing, a boulder lodged inside it, blocking everything. His eyes were locked on the picture, on the way Draco’s grip seemed to tighten, careless, and all Harry could think was that Malfoy was hurting her. Hurting her. 

Malfoy was hurting his mum .

Something snapped. 

He couldn’t control the rage now, couldn’t stifle it, couldn’t stop the hurricane roaring to life in his chest. His breath came out in short, frantic gasps. He tried to speak, to shout, to demand the photograph back, but no sound escaped him.

His vision tunneled. He wasn’t in the shed anymore. He was back—back in the graveyard, back to that moment when he was helpless, bound, strapped to a tombstone, watching Voldemort rise again. Powerless. Useless. Helpless. Cedric had hit the ground so fast, the green light striking him, taking his life in an instant. He hadn’t been able to save him. He couldn’t save anyone. Not Cedric, not his parents. His mother’s scream echoed in his head. He was always too late, always too weak, always—

His mother’s face stared at him from the crumpled photograph, the smile soft, warm, alive. She was right there , but Harry couldn’t save her. Couldn’t save anyone.

The shed seemed to shake. He felt it, distantly, like an echo of reality breaking through the storm inside him. Draco’s voice hitched. He yelped, startled, but Harry was already moving, already reacting. His body launched forward before he could even process what he was doing, crashing into Draco, tackling him to the ground.

Harry didn’t think. All that mattered was the photograph. He needed to get it back. He needed to save it. Save her .

He lunged, his fist colliding with Malfoy’s jaw with a sickening crack.

The impact was hard. Draco’s back slammed into the wooden floor of the shed with a loud thud, and Harry’s weight pressed down on him, crushing him against the ground. His fists flew—wild, uncoordinated, desperate—connecting with anything they could reach. Draco’s arms came up, trying to block the blows, but Harry didn’t care. He didn’t see Draco. He only saw the crumpled picture, only saw that glimpse of his mum, bruised and bent, and all that mattered was getting it back.

“Potter—stop!” Draco’s voice was choked, panicked. “I don’t want to— I don’t want to fight you!”

Harry wasn’t listening. Couldn’t listen. His blood was roaring, the fire inside him consuming every rational thought. His hands flew, again and again, striking, clawing, desperate. Draco’s face twisted with fear, his eyes wide, lips trembling, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He felt Draco’s hands, trembling, come up to shield his face, his voice shaking, repeating over and over, “I don’t want to fight you, I don’t want to—”

Harry’s mind registered the words distantly, but the meaning didn’t sink in. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t care. All that mattered was the photograph. Where was it? Where was it?

He straddled Draco’s body, pinning him to the ground, panting heavily. His eyes scanned Draco’s hands, searching for the picture, but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t—

Harry opened his mouth, but the words lodged in his throat again. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t get anything past that suffocating boulder. His hands flew to his throat, fingers curling as if he could force the words out by sheer will.

But nothing. Only silence.

His hands clenched into fists, shaking with frustration, with rage, but when he looked down, all he saw was Draco—Draco, cowering beneath him, his face twisted in fear, his eyes wet, hands trembling.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Draco whispered again, his voice barely audible, almost pleading, his eyes locked on Harry’s, wide with something more than fear.

But Harry didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. His mind was a blur of fury, of helplessness, of grief. Everything was spiraling, out of control, and the only thing he wanted, the only thing he needed , was that picture.

Where was it?

His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The fire inside him burned hotter, hotter still, until he felt like he was going to explode. His vision blurred with the heat, with the pressure, with the rage.

He screamed, but the sound was trapped inside his mind, echoing in the silence, a raw, guttural scream that tore through him. He wanted to scream at Malfoy to stop, to give it back, to just— stop.

Harry’s mind was a storm. He screamed inside, a soundless, desperate cry that echoed in the empty spaces of his skull, reverberating, growing louder and louder until it was all he could hear. He screamed for the picture—for her . His mum’s face, crumpled and forgotten, was buried somewhere beneath Malfoy. His hands, the ones that were shaking now, trembled with the rage that had consumed him. He screamed for Malfoy to stop moving , to stop everything. Just stop .

The fire burned hotter, its embers sparking, igniting something fierce and wild inside him, pushing him toward the edge. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms so hard it hurt, but the pain barely registered. There was only the darkness, the anger, the fire. It consumed him, made him deaf. All he could feel was the need for this game to stop, for everything to stop.

Then hands. Cold, firm hands grabbed his shoulders, wrenching him backward, pulling him out of the flames and slamming him onto the ground. His back hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of him in a sharp, painful exhale. For a second, the world spun, his vision swimming in red and black, the fire still roaring in his mind. But then—

Snape.

Harry froze, mid-gasp, his heart skipping several beats as he looked up, blinking through the haze. There, crouched by Malfoy, was Snape. His face was pale, stark against the gloom of the shed, his eyes wide, shocked, almost terrified. The lines around his mouth were tighter than Harry had ever seen them, his lips pressed into a thin, colorless line. One hand was gripping Malfoy’s shoulder, holding him upright. The other was stretched out in front of him, palm out, a silent command, as if Snape were trying to ward off whatever invisible force had taken hold of the moment.

But that wasn’t what made Harry freeze.

It was Malfoy.

Malfoy wasn’t moving.

Harry’s heart stuttered, his chest tightening painfully as his eyes traveled to Malfoy’s face. He wasn’t breathing. His lips were parted, slack, his chest still. He was pale, the color draining rapidly from his skin, but then he was too pale. His lips were turning blue, the faintest tinge of violet creeping in, darkening with each second. His eyes—bloodshot, wide, and unfocused—were starting to flutter shut, his lashes trembling like they couldn’t bear to stay open.

No. No, this wasn’t happening.

Harry scrambled to his feet, mind still whirling, heart pounding so hard it hurt. His own breath was short, shallow, like he couldn’t get enough air. His lungs felt tight, compressed, like something was squeezing them from the inside. Malfoy was turning blue. His chest wasn’t moving.

Malfoy wasn’t breathing.

Harry’s throat burned, a desperate scream trapped inside him. He wanted to shout, to force the words from his chest, to make Malfoy breathe again, but nothing came out. His lips parted, trembling as if they could shape the word breathe, but it stuck in his throat, suffocated by the fire roaring inside him.

Malfoy’s body, lifeless and still, filled his vision. His pale face was tinged with blue, his chest unmoving. Harry’s breath came in short, sharp bursts, as if the air itself had turned against him.

Breathe, damn it! Breathe! The words echoed in his head, a silent mantra, but the fire raged too fiercely, overwhelming every thought, every instinct. His hands twitched, wanting to reach out and fix it, to undo the damage, to bring Malfoy back, but they hovered uselessly in the air, frozen in place.

But Malfoy didn’t breathe.

He kept opening his mouth and closing it, trying to force out his voice. But no sound came, only the crackling of that insidious fire devouring his senses, blurring the world around him. It felt like drowning, like he was back in the graveyard, helpless again, watching Cedric fall.

His chest tightened. He couldn’t breathe. Neither of them could. And yet, Malfoy was dying because of him. The fire in Harry’s mind twisted, consuming the desperate plea that wanted to escape.

Snape’s face had gone ashen, his dark eyes flicking from Malfoy’s limp body to Harry and back again. And then Snape turned—slowly, deliberately—his gaze locking onto Harry’s. Those eyes were blazing now, black fire burning in their depths, fury and something else—something terrifying—flickering in their depths. His mouth moved, but Harry couldn’t hear the words. He could only hear the roaring in his head, the crackling of the fire that hadn’t yet left him.

But Snape’s hands were shaking. He couldn’t hide it. His long fingers trembled as he reached into his robe, pulling out bottle after bottle, yanking corks out with frantic, jerky motions. He shoved them at Malfoy’s face, forcing potion after potion between his blue lips, his grip tightening on Draco’s shoulders, trying to keep him upright.

It wasn’t working.

Harry’s eyes were fixed on Malfoy’s chest. It still wasn’t moving. He was just—just there , limp, lifeless, like a ragdoll. His eyes, once so sharp with their usual haughty arrogance, were glassy now, dull, almost vacant. His skin had gone a ghastly shade of white, with those awful bluish patches spreading across his lips, his neck, creeping up toward his eyes.

Snape’s desperation only made the fire worse, every frantic motion a reflection of the chaos inside Harry’s mind. His body shuddered with the effort of trying to push out the words, but all that came was silence—raw and terrifying.

Harry couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t—

This is your fault.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes, hot and furious, but they spilled over before he could stop them. His breath hitched, but no air seemed to reach his lungs. He gasped, choking on the tightness in his throat, his vision blurring with tears and panic.

Snape’s hands moved frantically, but his sharp movements seemed distant, as if the entire world had pulled away. Harry’s vision blurred as tears fell unchecked, his body shaking under the weight of what he did and what he couldn’t do. He tried again, over and over, his thoughts crashing against the wall inside his throat. But nothing came out. 

You did this. You did this to him.

He tried to suck in a breath, but it was like he was drowning. His chest heaved, but nothing filled it. The fire was back—oh God, it was back, but it wasn’t burning with rage anymore. It burned with sorrow, deep and hollow, like it was devouring him from the inside out. He looked at Malfoy again—at his blue lips, his bloodshot eyes, his limp body—and it hit him all at once.

He’s dead.

The thought slammed into him, knocking him sideways. His legs buckled, his knees hitting the floor as his hands came up to clutch his head, his fingers digging into his scalp. He tried to scream, but it was stuck again, trapped, choking him from the inside. His mind was screaming, though. It was screaming so loud, louder than anything he had ever heard, louder than the fire, louder than the roaring.

Breathe, Malfoy! Breathe!

But Malfoy didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Harry’s body began to shake. His head throbbed, the pain slicing through his skull, but he couldn’t look away. His vision was swimming, dark spots creeping in from the edges, but he couldn’t look away from Malfoy. From the boy who looked so—

Dead.

Snape was still shoving potions down his throat, his hands frantic now, his normally stoic mask cracking, breaking, revealing the terror underneath. Snape was panicking. Harry could feel it, see it, hear it in the way Snape’s breath came faster, in the way his hands shook more violently with each failed attempt to get Malfoy to respond.

Malfoy wasn’t responding.

The darkness was closing in now. The fire was roaring louder, consuming him, filling him with a deep, crushing sorrow. Harry’s head swam, his thoughts spiraling out of control, racing too fast for him to keep up. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t—

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

But it was.

Snape’s voice was a blur in the background, his words frantic, urgent, but they didn’t make sense to Harry anymore. Nothing made sense. Nothing felt real. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t—

Harry felt his mind retreat, pulling back, retreating into the only place he could go, into the silence, into the fire, into the dark. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to vanish, to be alone, to go back to the quiet. He wished he hadn’t fought, wished he hadn’t done any of this, wished he could undo it all.

You ruin everything.

The thought hit him like a freight train, knocking all the air from his lungs. He could feel himself screaming, but no sound came out. The fire was burning hotter, his mind screaming louder, louder—

But then, out of nowhere, something shifted.

Malfoy twitched.

The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. Harry’s eyes snapped to his chest, watching, waiting.

Another twitch. Malfoy’s chest shuddered.

Then, slowly—painfully slowly—Malfoy’s chest began to rise. His lips parted, and Harry heard the faintest wheeze of air escaping his throat. A breath. A shallow, uneven breath.

Malfoy was breathing.

Harry watched, eyes wide, as Draco’s chest rose and fell, each breath shaky and strained, but they were breaths. Real breaths.

Snape was still crouched over him, still holding him up, his own breath coming out in shaky bursts now, his hands still trembling, but he was no longer frantic. He was no longer panicking.

Malfoy was alive.

And Harry—

His legs buckled. His vision swam, dark spots blotting out the edges of his sight, and the fire roared again, pulling him under, drowning him in its flames. The last thing he saw, before the world went dark, was Malfoy breathing—shallow, strained, but alive.

And then he thought of the picture.

He thought of his mum.

What would she think of him now?

The darkness swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Harry stirred awake slowly, fluttering his eyes open and closed, the stillness in the room almost disorientating. For a moment, he floated in that emptiness, savoring the quiet, the pause. He laid there, muscles relaxed, eyes barely open, lazily tracing the light filtering through the windows. The bed beneath him was softer than what he was used to at Privet Drive, softer even than his bed at Spinner’s End, and his body sunk into it in a way that felt almost… indulgent. A flicker of comfort, however brief. 

But as he closed his eyes again, fragments of yesterday began to surface—Malfoy’s face, blue, inhumanely pale, and twisted in pain, Snape’s panicked commands, and the stifling heat of fire—his peace shattered.

Malfoy. Bloodshot. Limp.

Dead.

Panic rose like bile in his throat.

Harry shot upright, his breath catching as the blanket twisted around his legs, trapping him. His chest tightened as if something was pressing hard against his lungs. He gripped the sheets with trembling hands, clutching them so tightly his knuckles turned white. His forehead throbbed, the lightning bolt scar feeling as though it had been set ablaze. He was frozen, eyes wide, heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.

Did he do that? 

He shoved Malfoy to the ground, left him gasping for air, the life choked from him. 

His mind flashed back to the sight of Snape kneeling beside Malfoy, his hand trembling and his usually stoic expression scared as he poured potion after potion down the boy’s throat. But strangely, seeing Snape’s panic wasn’t what terrified Harry, but his hand–outstretched, defensive, like a shield, like he was protecting Malfoy from something dangerous. 

From him.

The thought struck Harry like a blow to the gut, leaving him gasping. He tried to breathe, but each breath felt shallower than the last, as if the air around him had thickened, clogging his lungs. His chest heaved, vision blurred with the intensity of his panic, and that familiar simmering heat began to creep under his skin, the fire he had fought so hard to keep buried.

He had to stop it, had to control it. He couldn’t let it out again, not after what happened to Malfoy. But the more he tried to focus on breathing, the more he failed, his breaths too shallow, too fast. Each inhale brought a wave of nausea that churned in his stomach, rising until he thought he might be sick.

Breathe, he commanded himself. Just breathe!

But the command seemed impossible. 

Each plea brought him back to Mafloy’s lifeless body, his chest still and deflated. 

He couldn’t breathe, then.

Harry couldn’t breathe, now. 

He threw his head back against the pillow in frustration, gripping the blankets harder, willing the world to stop tilting, to stop spinning out of control. He tried to ground himself, but the more he struggled, the more distant he felt from his own body. His limbs tingled, going numb as if he was drifting far away from the present, as if the bed was sinking and swallowing him whole.

Harry didn’t notice the door creak open, nor did he hear the soft footsteps that entered the room. He was too lost, spiraling into a panic so deep that his senses had all but shut down. He barely registered the thin hands that gently gripped his own, though he realized with some horror that his fingers were locked in place, clenched so tightly around the sheets that they refused to budge.

Move, he told them, Open. But they wouldn’t.

The hands, warm and firm, moved up his body, gripping his shoulders with enough force to snap him back into the present. But Harry was too far gone. His vision swam with black spots, his heart pounding louder than any voice that tried to reach him. He felt the hands on his shoulders shake him, heard a voice saying something—was it breathe ?—but the words barely registered.

He was trying. He really was. Couldn’t they see that?

But his body wouldn’t listen. His hands were frozen, his breathing ragged, skin slicked with sweat, and that familiar darkness was edging in again, threatening to swallow him whole. His muscles tensed painfully as he fought to stay conscious, but he could feel himself slipping.

A cool object was pressed against his lips, something firm and persistent, demanding entrance. He tried to open his mouth wider, but it was so hard, like his jaw was locked in place. The object pressed harder, and a liquid dripped into his mouth, sliding down his throat and spilling over his chin, wetting his clothes. He choked on the taste of it, worried he might finally throw up. But then—suddenly—his vision began to clear. The liquid soothed him, dulling the sharp edges of his panic.

His breath, once frantic, began to slow. He felt the weight of the hands grounding him, one resting on his shoulder, the other gently working to peel his fingers from the death grip they had on the blankets. It hurt—painful, sharp—but the sensation was grounding, tethering him to the present.

“Focus on my voice,” the voice said again, more clearly this time. “Feel my hand on your shoulder, my weight on your palms.”

The words filtered through the fog in his mind, and Harry latched onto them like a lifeline. He focused on the warmth of the hand on his shoulder, on the slow pressure of each finger being pried open, one at a time.

“Open your mouth as if you were to yawn. Hold it there… then slowly release.”

Harry obeyed, following the voice with desperate obedience. He yawned, feeling his body start to relax as he exhaled, and his fingers, stiff and aching, began to uncurl. One at a time. Slowly, painfully, but finally.

He tilted his head to the side, his cheek pressing into the figure beside him, seeking comfort. As his fingers finally released the sheets, a wave of exhaustion hit him so intensely that he trembled, the adrenaline leaving his body cold. A soft laugh escaped him—hollow and disbelieving. How could he be exhausted when he had just woken up?

He burrowed deeper into the warmth beside him, eyes fluttering closed as he sighed, his breath still too fast but gradually steadying. His hands, now free of the painful grip, lay limp, but he felt the other hands massaging the ache from his joints. The figure beside him shifted, and Harry felt a new wave of emotion wash over him, something so unfamiliar and overwhelming that tears began to pool in his eyes.

He let out a shaky breath, one tear sliding down his cheek as he nuzzled closer. The figure had moved onto the bed, and Harry could feel their weight pressed beside him, comforting in its solidity. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel alone.

He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He just wanted to stay here, curled up against the figure that had pulled him back from the brink. A small smile tugged at his lips. It felt… warm. Safe. But even as the warmth spread through his chest, exhaustion overwhelmed him, and his eyelids drooped.

The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was the sensation of those hands still holding his, grounding him in reality.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Harry woke again, he reached out instinctively, his hand grasping for the warmth of the figure that had been beside him, but the bed was empty. His heart gave a painful lurch. Had it all been a dream? Some fevered delusion his mind had conjured to comfort him?

His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, pushing himself up onto his elbows. The room was very bright with sunlight filtering in through a crack in the curtains, casting long, golden beams across the sterile white walls.

The room was unmistakably Madam Pomfrey's hospital wing. Even though the school was out for the summer, the familiar scent of antiseptic potions lingered in the air, and the tall windows were draped with the same heavy, translucent curtains creating long shadows against the morning light. The bed beside him was empty, the sheets smooth and unwrinkled. The room had an odd stillness to it, an emptiness that made Harry feel like he was intruding in a place meant for the sick and broken.

Why was he here?

Slowly, carefully, he began to peel the blankets back, wincing as his muscles protested. His body ached all over, hands stiff and sore. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold stone floor, when the sound of movement startled him.

He looked up sharply, twisting his head toward the chair next to his bed. 

There, sitting with his legs crossed, long black robes wrapping him with an air of authority, sat Snape. He looked…disheveled. His usual black robes hung loosely around him, wrinkled as if he hadn’t bothered to straighten them, and his hair was even more lank and untidy than usual. But it was his eyes that caught Harry’s attention. They were rimmed with dark shadows, bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept in days, worry etched into the lines of his face. His expression was cross, lips drawn in a deep frown. 

Harry’s breath hitched as panic crawled up from his gut.

He hates you, and now you’ve truly given him a reason for it.

Harry gulped, shoving his gaze back down on instinct. When Vernon was mad, it was best to shrink his presence as much as he could. 

“Draco is alive.”

Harry whipped his head back up, his breath pausing before resuming. 

Malfoy was ok. Relief flooded his system for a moment, but that relief dissolved when he met Snape’s furious faze. He knew Snape wasn’t finished.

The panic only grew. Snape looked livid–no, furious. And not just at Malfoy’s close brush with death. He was furious at Harry

He watched as Snape let out a slow sigh, bringing his hands to his forehead before setting them  back down, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.

“Nothing to say?” Snape drawled, his tone dangerously cold.

Harry stared at him, watching the way his chest rose and fell. He could physically feel Snape’s stare boring into him, suffocating his body. His fingers curled slightly into the blanket.

“You nearly killed him, and you sit here, silent ?!” Snape’s voice rose, fury finally breaking through the icy control he usually maintained.

Harry's breath hitched, nausea rolling through him in waves. He lowered his head again, his fingers  now digging into the sheets, the weight of Snape’s words crashing down on him like a ton of bricks.

Nearly killed him.

His mind reeled, fragments of the fight flashing through his mind. He remembered Malfoy’s smirk, the blazing fire, then Malfoy, limp and blue, lying on the ground. He had been dying, and it was because of him .

Snape’s chest was heaving now, his face twitching with barely contained anger. He was having trouble keeping control, and Harry wondered how long before he’d snap completely.

“Look at me!” Snape’s voice rang out like a whip, causing Harry to jump back, clenching the blanket tighter, flinching as pain shot through his hands.

Before he could react further, thin hands reached out, firmly but carefully pulling his fingers apart. Snape's touch was cold, methodical, yet oddly careful, a gentleness that contrasted with his biting tone.

His breath hitched, the sensation triggering a wave of familiarity that he didn’t want to acknowledge—couldn’t. Those hands….He clenched his teeth, shaking his head slightly to dispel the ridiculous thought from his mind. 

There was no way.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Frustration boiled within him. He wanted to ask what Snape was doing, why he was here when he should be locked away, punished for being such a freak , but no sound would emerge. His throat felt tight, the words lodged somewhere deep inside him, refusing to be spoken.

Snape’s black eyes bored into him, sharp, relentless, and searching for something. His hands left Harry’s sooner than Harry would like, and he found himself almost mourning the contact, even though it was from Snape.

Snape swiftly moved back toward the chair, crouching down and pulling something from underneath it. He turned back around and placed the object on the bed.

It was a whiteboard and marker.

Harry stared at it. He felt a warmth somewhere deep inside at the gesture, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, sinking dread. Snape was letting him communicate like this, which could only mean one thing—Snape was at his wits’ end.

He glanced up at Snape, who had returned to his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable once again.

Reluctantly, Harry picked up the whiteboard, feeling small under Snape’s unwavering gaze. He uncapped the marker and wrote the only thing he figured Snape wanted to hear.

I’m sorry.

He turned the board around, his hands slightly trembling. 

Snape’s jaw tightened. His eyes scanned the board for a long moment before he responded, his voice sharp. “You’re sorry?” He repeated, his tone clipped.

Harry’s heart sank. He hastily wiped the board clean with the eraser and scrawled out his next words.

I didn’t mean to.

Snape’s eyes flickered, dark and stormy as they met Harry’s. “You didn’t mean to ?” His voice was lower this time, more dangerous. His eyes bore into Harry’s, sharp and demanding.

Harry felt the frustration building up inside him, swelling until it was almost unbearable. He wanted to shout, to scream at Snape to stop with this ridiculous interrogation, to stop playing these mind games. Why couldn’t Snape just yell at him like Vernon did? Why couldn’t he just call Harry what he was—stupid, dangerous, bad—a freak.

He yanked the board back and scribbled furiously, his vision blurring with tears of frustration.

What do you want from me?

Harry slammed the board down on his lap, glaring at Snape through watery eyes, his breath ragged.

Snape’s face twisted, a flash of something—concern—crossing his features before his own frustration rose to match Harry’s. His voice came out like a lash.

“An explanation , Potter!” Snape barked, rising from his chair, his black robes billowing around him. “Why you’ve been moping around , depressed for weeks on end! Why you refuse to speak ! Why you’re nothing like the insufferable Golden Boy you’ve always been!”

Snape’s voice grew louder, the tension in the room palpable. “I don’t understand you! I thought you would’ve gotten over your mindless grief by now, but no—it’s gone on long enough, and now you’ve nearly killed Draco!”

Mindless grief? The words echoed in Harry’s head, and something snapped inside him. Was he not allowed to be upset? Was he not allowed to feel this way? He thought of Cedric, cold and dead. He thought of Aunt Petunia, silent and unmoving. He thought of Malfoy, lying limp because of him .

His anger boiled over, and with it, his magic surged. Snape was shoved back several inches, his eyes widening in surprise as the force hit him.

Harry grabbed the board again, hands shaking violently as he wrote, each letter jagged and harsh.

You know NOTHING! LEAVE ME ALONE!

He thrust the board out in front of him, glaring at Snape, his entire body trembling with fury.

Snape, who had steadied himself, looked at Harry, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, his face hardened again. “I cannot leave you alone, Potter,” Snape said, his voice low but firm. “Not anymore. You almost killed someone. I cannot ignore this.”

Harry’s breath came out in short, sharp bursts, his emotions swirling chaotically inside him. He ripped the cap off the marker again, barely able to control his shaking as he wrote the next sentence, pressing so hard that the marker squeaked against the board.

I didn’t ask to be different! I didn’t ask for any of this! I just want to be normal!

His hand froze for a second, the last word unfinished, the letters scrawled messily. Normal. He wanted to be normal. But that word felt so distant, almost foreign to him now, as if it belonged to another life entirely—a life he’d never had. The truth was, Harry had never known normal, had he?

Normal meant going home to a family that loved him. 

Normal meant making friends without having to worry if, by mere association, he had endangered them.

Normal meant waking up each day without bearing the weight of his parent’s deaths, of Cedric’s death, of Aunt Petunia’s death.

Normal meant a future not marked by war.

He was drowning in guilt, in the crushing weight of everything that had gone wrong because of him.

The anger, the frustration—it all simmered beneath the surface, but now something else was rising too: the suffocating weight of helplessness, the terrible truth that he would never be like other people. No matter how hard he tried. His life was nothing but a string of tragedies, one after another, and every single one of them, in some twisted way, seemed to lead back to him.

Cedric’s lifeless eyes flashed in his mind. Cedric’s body hitting the ground. Cedric dying because Harry had brought him to that graveyard.

Aunt Petunia, cold and silent at the kitchen table, was dead because of him too, wasn’t she? Because he couldn’t control his freakishness , because he was a burden, because every horrible thing in his life had bled into theirs.

And now Malfoy. Even Malfoy —his enemy, someone who deserved every hex he ever got—had almost died because of him. Because Harry’s magic had lashed out in a moment of fury.

Hell, Voldemort was back because of him. His parents were dead because of him. Everything. Every single piece of suffering in his life circled back to the same, suffocating conclusion: he was at the center of it all. He was the problem.

His chest felt like it was being crushed under the weight of it. His head spun with the sickening thoughts, the shame, the guilt. He blinked hard, trying to push back the tears that were threatening to spill over. 

Snape’s eyes narrowed as he read the messy scrawl, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Normal?” His voice was cold, dripping with disdain. “You’ll never be that, Potter. You need to get used to it.”

The words hit Harry like a physical blow, and for a moment, the fight left him. Tears burned at the back of his eyes, but he blinked them away furiously. He didn’t want Snape to see him cry, not now.

His throat tightened painfully, and he furiously tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he snatched the whiteboard, his movements frantic, and wiped it clean. His handwriting was jagged, almost illegible now, as he scribbled the next words with trembling hands.

You don’t understand.

Snape’s lips curled in a sneer. "I understand far more than you think, Potter," he muttered, standing back from the bed and crossing his arms, as if retreating to a more detached state. His voice was quieter, but no less sharp, and there was an edge to it that Harry couldn’t quite place.

Harry clenched his fists, the marker digging into his palm. He didn’t want to talk about this. He didn’t want to talk about any of it. Snape wasn’t going to understand—not really. Snape would just twist everything, turn it back on him. That’s what he always did.

He wiped the board again, this time with more force than necessary, the pressure in his chest building. His mind was racing, his thoughts spiraling out of control, but he refused to let it show. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t give Snape the satisfaction.

You don’t know anything about me.

Snape’s expression darkened, and for a moment, Harry thought he saw something flicker behind those cold eyes—something like recognition, or maybe even regret. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the familiar mask of disdain.

“You think you’re so unique?” Snape hissed, stepping closer. His voice lowered, as if he was trying to contain his own frustration. “You think you’re the only one who’s been burdened by things you didn’t ask for? Grow up, Potter.”

Harry’s pulse quickened, a wave of heat flooding his face. It wasn’t about growing up. It wasn’t about handling things better. It was about the fact that he was trapped in this life—this impossible, never-ending nightmare—and no matter what he did, he couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t fix anything.

But Snape wouldn’t get that. He never did.

I didn’t mean to. Harry scribbled, the words shaking on the board. I didn’t want him dead.

Snape’s eyes flashed dangerously, his lips curling into a sneer. “You didn’t mean to,” he spat, his voice low and full of venom. “Do you truly believe your intentions somehow absolve you of the result? Intention does not negate consequence, Potter.”

Harry flinched, the harshness of Snape’s tone hitting him like a physical blow. But he couldn’t argue. The words stuck in his throat, twisted around the guilt that had been festering there since that terrible night. He hadn’t meant for any of this. But it didn’t matter, did it?

He knew exactly what Snape was getting at. Cedric. Aunt Petunia. Even Voldemort. It was all tied to him, wasn’t it? He’d been trying to push it down, trying not to think about how much of it was his fault. But Snape’s words brought it all crashing back to the surface.

His throat tightened, but he refused to let it show. Instead, he wiped the board yet again, his hand moving slower this time as if the energy to fight was slipping away.

You think I wanted any of this?

Snape’s eyes bore into him, and for a moment, the sneer on his face faltered. There was something else there now—something unreadable, something almost like… understanding. But Snape, too, seemed to shake it off quickly, his expression hardening again.

“No one gets to choose their lot in life, Potter,” Snape said, though his voice was quieter now, almost begrudging. “But how you handle it—that’s where your actions matter.”

The accusation stung, but Harry wasn’t going to rise to it. Not this time. Instead, he clenched his jaw and wiped the board again, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. He couldn’t talk about this. He didn’t want to. Not with Snape. Not with anyone.

His hand hovered over the board, the marker shaking slightly in his grip. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things clawing at the back of his mind, desperate to escape. But the words wouldn’t come.

Finally, he scribbled something small, something almost pathetic compared to the storm inside him.

I just want it to stop.

Snape’s gaze flicked to the board, and something in his expression shifted—just for a second. His lips pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched, and his arms crossed over his chest as if he was trying to maintain his usual distance. But Harry could feel the change, like something had shifted between them without either of them acknowledging it.

“You think you’re the only one who wants it to stop?” Snape muttered, his voice quieter now, but still edged with frustration. His tone, however, was not as sharp as Harry expected. It was almost….brittle, like the man was holding something back.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sudden rawness in Snape’s voice. But before he could process it, Snape’s expression hardened again, and the walls went back up, just as high and impenetrable as before.

“I will not pity you,” Snape spat, his voice suddenly regaining its icy edge, as if reminding himself of his role. “If you think wallowing in self-misery will change anything, you’re even more of a fool than I thought.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. His chest grew heavy, and he too, found himself drawing up his own walls, keeping his face blank besides the light tremor of his lip, fingers gripping the whiteboard harder than necessary.

“Whether you like it or not, I can’t leave you alone now,” Snape said, his tone once again cold and detached. Whatever had flickered in his eyes for that brief moment–whatever human emotion had surfaced–was gone, buried under layers of bitterness and control. “You’re a danger to yourself, Potter, and to those around you. If you don’t get your emotions under control, this will end badly. For everyone.”

Harry looked away, the weight of Snape’s words pressing down on him. He wanted to argue. He wanted to push back. But deep down, he knew Snape was right. The chaos inside him was spiraling out of control. He didn’t know how to stop it, and that terrified him.

I don’t care, Harry wrote, though he didn’t believe it.

He didn’t care about what happened to him.

Snape’s eyes flicked to the board again, and for a moment, Harry thought he saw something like disappointment flash in his gaze. But Snape said nothing, just stood there, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest, watching him like he was waiting for something more.

But Harry had nothing left to give. He wiped the board one last time, his hand moving sluggishly as the last of his fight drained away. He didn’t have the energy to argue, to deflect, to push Snape away any further.

Snape stood there for a long moment, the tension thick in the air. Neither of them spoke, neither of them moved. But something had shifted between them—something unspoken, something neither of them would acknowledge.

Finally, Snape’s voice broke the silence, softer than before but still laced with warning.

“Get some rest, Potter. This isn’t over.”

And with that, Snape turned sharply and left, his robes billowing behind him. The door clicked shut, and Harry was left alone with his thoughts, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

He didn’t know what had just happened, but he knew that whatever it was, things weren’t the same anymore.

Chapter Text

The low murmur of voices filtered through the half-open door of the hospital wing. Harry, lying with his back to the bed, clutched the whiteboard close to his chest, staring blankly at the ceiling. His mind felt distant, detached, like he was floating above the conversation. He didn’t want to listen, but the words drifted in anyway.

“He won’t talk.” Snape’s voice was sharp, but quieter than usual. Not the sneering, biting tone Harry was used to. This was different. Strained. “I’ve tried, but he refuses. He just—writes.”

Madam Pomfrey responded, her voice softer, though Harry didn’t care to make out the words. He heard snippets— “emotional strain,” “trauma,” and “time” being tossed around like they were some kind of solution. None of it mattered to him.

He gripped the whiteboard tighter.

There was a pause, the kind that made Harry’s skin crawl, like something was being unsaid. Then Snape’s voice again, rougher this time, as if he was barely containing something. “I cannot get him to speak.”

“Severus, he’s been through more than any child should. He’s shutting down,” Pomfrey replied quietly, but firmly. “Give him space. He’ll talk when he’s ready.”

Harry blinked, his chest tightening briefly. Was it disappointment he heard in Snape’s voice? Anger? He didn’t know. Didn’t care, either. Let them talk all they wanted. Let them theorize and discuss. He was just so tired.

He let the words float above him, unconcerned, as his eyes slipped shut again.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sterile, herb-scented air of Madam Pomfrey’s office felt even less comforting than usual. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slouched, one hand absently gripping the whiteboard Snape had given him.  Across the room, Madam Pomfrey bustled around the room, moving between cabinets and jars, sorting potions with the same brisk efficiency she always had. Yet, despite her warmth and care, Harry sat back on the crisp white bed, his shoulders hunched and his head down, feeling disconnected, distant, like he was watching everything through a fog.

Snape stood nearby, arms crossed, his dark gaze flicking between Harry and the medi-witch. His usual frown was set deep, the line between his brows etched with more intensity than usual. Harry could feel his presence pressing on him, but he didn’t care. It was easier not to care.

Madam Pomfrey finally turned around, potion bottles clinking softly as she set them down on the small table by the bed. “Harry, dear,” she began, her voice gentle but firm, “I want you to take each once a day, preferably in the morning. They will help strengthen your magical core while it is recovering.”

Harry nodded slightly, clutching the small whiteboard, fingers gripping it tightly, stomach twisting uncomfortably. He had already been told, in bits and pieces, over the course of his stay—whispers of magical exhaustion, too much strain on his body and core. He’d expected that. It made sense, considering the fire that had consumed his vision during… everything. The way his magic had felt raw and dangerous, like it was spiraling out of control. That was fine. He could handle that.

He ignored the gnawing sense that something was wrong inside him. Something darker, more profound.

Pomfrey, however, wasn’t finished. “It was brought on by stress, mostly. But there’s another problem, one I’ve noticed before.” She hesitated, her gaze flickering briefly toward Snape before continuing. “You’re borderline malnourished, Harry.”

That caught his attention, just for a moment. He lifted his head slightly, noting the way Snape’s jaw tightened. Harry stared at the potions, wondering if Pomfrey had seen the same thing he did—the flash of something in Snape’s dark eyes. Anger.

But who was Snape angry at? Was it Harry himself? Harry’s chest tightened at the thought, but he quickly pushed it away. Maybe Snape was disappointed—disappointed that Harry couldn’t even take care of himself properly, that he’d let everything get this bad. He thought little of Harry before, but now he must truly think him pathetic.

 He could almost hear Snape’s voice echoing in his mind, a cruel taunt that made his insides twist: “- -you’re even more of a fool than I thought.”

Or maybe, just maybe, Snape was angry at himself. Angry that he hadn’t stopped it. That what had happened to Malfoy was both their fault. The thought should have stirred something in Harry—guilt, fear, something. But it didn’t. Not caring was so much easier.

Harry exhaled through his nose, his stomach sinking. He nodded but made no move to respond, instead lowering his gaze to the whiteboard, his hands too sluggish to scrawl out anything. He continued staring down, biting the inside of his cheek.

Snape’s voice broke the silence. “How long will it take him to recover?”

There it was. That bite in his tone, that controlled fury simmering beneath the surface. Harry almost smirked. Snape was angry, and Harry found he liked it. Liked that he had some control, something he could push. He gripped his whiteboard a little tighter, the cool plastic digging into his fingers.

“It’ll take some time,” Pomfrey replied, exchanging a look with Snape that Harry didn’t care to interpret. He didn’t care about much of anything right now. “Rest and proper nourishment will help.” She paused, glancing at Harry again. “You’ve been through a lot, Harry. You need to be careful.”

Harry lifted the whiteboard and scribbled a quick, disinterested, “Okay,” in block letters. He held it up briefly before dropping it back onto his lap. Pomfrey gave him a kind, patient smile, but Snape’s frown deepened.

Pomfrey gave him a knowing look. "It’s more than just “okay,” Mr. Potter. You need to take better care of yourself. Rest and proper meals—three a day." She shot a glance at Snape, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "I’ll give Severus a regimen for potions and supplements. You’ll need to take them regularly until your strength is back."

Harry swallowed thickly and nodded again. The whiteboard  felt heavier in his lap now. He glanced up briefly at Snape, who was watching him. Harry noticed the way Snape’s lip curled slightly, the way his eyes narrowed just a fraction with every half-hearted response Harry gave, jaw tightening. It was subtle, but it was there—a quiet, seething frustration building with each passive remark. And Harry was glad for it. He could feel Snape’s anger growing, and it felt like the only thing in his life he had any control over. A small victory. A quiet rebellion.

He wanted to push the man further.

“Severus,” Pomfrey said softly, almost as if she’d noticed the tension herself. She was always good at reading people, after all. There was something unspoken between them, a silent exchange that Harry didn’t bother to interpret. He simply stared down at his whiteboard, his marker hanging loosely from his fingers.

Pomfrey’s attention returned to Harry. “I’m discharging you,” she said gently but firmly. “But I don’t want to see you back here anytime soon, understand? You need to take better care of yourself. How you’ve managed to land yourself in the hospital wing before the school year’s even started is beyond me. You’ve got some kind of... Harry luck, I suppose.”

Harry inwardly scoffed. Harry luck. Right.

He forced a small nod, even though he had no real intention of following her advice. He liked Madam Pomfrey, always had, but what did it matter? None of it really mattered anymore.

Satisfied with the response, Pomfrey smiled, though there was a trace of worry in her eyes. “Alright, then. Off you go.”

Harry stood up, feeling the weight of exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He glanced once more at Pomfrey before turning to leave. As he passed Snape, he felt the man’s gaze boring into him, waiting for something—anything—that Harry wasn’t about to give.

Harry slid off the bed, feeling a little unsteady on his feet, and grabbed his whiteboard again. There was a question gnawing at him, one that he hadn’t dared ask until now. He wrote it out, pausing before holding it up for Pomfrey to see.

Does Dumbledore know I’m here?

Pomfrey’s warm expression faltered for just a second before she shook her head. "The Headmaster is… away at the moment. On holiday." She said it gently, but Harry caught the flicker of unease in her eyes. "He’s not to be disturbed right now."

Harry’s stomach lurched unpleasantly at the news. Dumbledore didn’t know? The man who always seemed to have his eyes on him, always a step ahead…wasn't even aware Harry was in the hospital wing, suffering from magical exhaustion?

Maybe it was for the best, one less person to bother.

Snape gave a barely perceptible huff at Pomfrey’s words but didn’t comment. Instead, he swept toward the door, his robes billowing as he beckoned Harry to follow. "Come, Potter. We’ve wasted enough time here."

Harry wordlessly followed Snape out, a cold knot tightening in his chest. He didn’t press the issue. It wasn’t like he had the energy to deal with Dumbledore’s absence right now anyway.

Madam Pomfrey's voice faded behind them as Snape guided Harry through the corridors of Hogwarts, the familiar stone walls closing in around them. The air was thick with an unsettling tension. Snape didn’t speak, though Harry could sense him watching from the corner of his eye, probably waiting for him to say something. Snape had been watching him like that more lately, waiting for him to crack. To finally spill something. But Harry didn’t. He kept his eyes forward, hands clutching his whiteboard tightly, his knuckles turning white against the smooth surface. He felt both relieved to be leaving the hospital wing and anxious about returning to Spinner's End.

As they reached Snape’s private office, Harry hesitated at the door. It was heavy and imposing, much like the man standing beside him. Snape didn’t spare a glance, opening the door with a flick of his wrist and ushering Harry inside. The office was dimly lit, the flickering light from the fireplace casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls, revealing shelves lined with books and potions ingredients. The scent of old parchment mingled with something sharper—an underlying hint of various herbs that made Harry’s stomach twist in a different way.

He watched as Snape moved around the room, retrieving a small, ornate box from one of the shelves. “Floo powder,” he explained, turning to face Harry, his expression inscrutable. “We’ll be using it to return to Spinner’s End.”

Harry nodded, though he felt a flutter of unease at the thought of traveling through the flames. The memory of the fire that had consumed his vision was still fresh in his mind, and he gripped the whiteboard tighter, focusing on the smooth surface as a grounding point.

Snape began to pour the fine, green powder into a small cauldron, and Harry's eyes followed his movements. The way Snape worked was almost mesmerizing; there was a precision to it, a control that Harry envied. He wondered if Snape ever lost himself in his work, the way Harry sometimes lost himself in his thoughts.

“Ready?” Snape asked, his brow furrowing slightly, a flicker of concern dancing across his features that Harry couldn’t quite decipher.

Harry nodded again, swallowing hard. He could feel Snape’s gaze on him, and for a moment, he was painfully aware of how much he wanted to say—how much he wanted to ask about Malfoy, about everything. But he felt a familiar weight settle in his chest, a silent vow to keep his thoughts to himself.

Without waiting for a word, Snape tossed the Floo powder into the cauldron. The flames erupted in a bright emerald green, licking the edges of the fireplace and casting flickering shadows across the room. Snape stepped forward, and after a moment's hesitation, Harry followed, stepping into the swirling fire.

Snape’s hand was firm on his shoulder as he stood inside, though the touch was brief, as if Snape wasn’t sure whether he was offering support or simply guiding him. The world around him shifted, the heat wrapping around his body like a suffocating blanket. He felt the familiar sensation of being pulled apart, stretched thin, before he landed in a heap on the cold, hard floor of Snape’s living room. He staggered to his feet, shaking off the disorientation, and glanced around the dimly lit space.

He found himself standing in the living room of Spinner’s End. The room looked the same as it had before: dark, the only light coming from the small, sputtering fire in the hearth, casting faint shadows across faded walls. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of dust and damp wood, carrying a faint undertone of old parchment and potion residue that clung to every surface.

The walls were lined with crooked, overstuffed bookshelves, each shelf sagging slightly under the weight of too many ancient books, their spines worn and cracked with age. The books seemed more like relics than items in current use, their covers dusted with neglect. The few that had seen recent use were piled on a small, worn table beside a low armchair, which was positioned near the fire, where it had been occupied not long ago.

But Harry’s eyes were drawn to a particular shelf near the corner of the room, the one that had been engulfed in shadows the night Snape and Lucius had argued. He remembered the movement vividly, the way the wooden surface had seemed almost swallowed by the dim light that flickered in the room, stark silhouettes dancing across the shelf.

He remembered how Lucius had stormed up to Snape that night, his steps sharp and full of purpose, the light from the fire barely able to keep up with the rapid shift of his robes. Lucius’s imposing figure had blocked the flickering light, and as he closed in on Snape, who had remained seated in the armchair, the shadows cast by their bodies had danced erratically across the bookshelf, consuming it in a murky blur of darkness.

With every step Lucius took, the shadows grew darker, longer, twisting unnervingly along the spines of the books. Harry had been frozen, watching as the two argued, Lucius’s pale face taunt with emerging fury, his voice sharp and insistent. “He has no place to go.” He had insisted, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. 

The shadow of Lucius’s raised hand had flickered against the shelves as he gestured angrily, casting jagged, violent shapes across the room. And then Snape had leaned forward, his own shadow seemingly eclipsing Lucius’s for a moment, his posture stiff, but his tone cold and controlled, meeting Lucius’s anger with unyielding calm. The bookshelf seemed to disappear entirely beneath the wavering darkness, their silhouettes wrestling for dominance in the flickering firelight.

Even now, the shelf remained as it had been that night, cluttered with mismatched books, but in Harry’s mind, it was still marked by the image of those twisting, overlapping shadows. 

The washed out blue patterned rug between the couch and the fireplace still bore faint scratches from where Lucius had at one point slammed his cane down, his frustration evident in the loud crack that had echoed through the room. The memory of that sound made Harry’s stomach twist uneasily. 

Above the fireplace hung a simple, tarnished mirror in a chipped wooden frame, its surface dim and speckled with age, like an eye that had seen too much and long since stopped caring. Harry caught his own reflection in it, paler and drawn. He too had stopped caring. 

To his left, the staircase loomed, narrow and steep, its wooden steps creaking even through the silence that filled the room. The railing, once polished, was scratched and worn, and reminded Harry of it every time he ventured upstairs, running his hands across the bumps and cracks. And it was there, at the foot of the stairs, where Malfoy stood.

Harry’s stomach twisted as they entered the hallway and spotted Malfoy standing by the staircase, pale and rigid. The last time Harry had seen him—really seen him—Malfoy had been on the floor of the shed, suffocating. His face had been blue, his eyes bloodshot, wide with panic under Harry’s magic, mouth open in a silent scream for air. Limp. Dying. Now, as he stood by the staircase, he seemed to have recovered—mostly. His skin was still paler, if possible, and though his clothes were neat, his blonde hair carefully combed back, there was something fragile about him. His eyes a bit wide, a faint tremor to his hands he was desperately trying to hide as he gripped the banister.

The moment their eyes met, Malfoy stiffened. His usual sneer, so familiar and instinctive, was absent, as if it had been stripped away along with the bluster Harry was used to. Instead, Malfoy’s gaze darted away, falling to the floor like a criminal caught in the act. He couldn’t look at Harry—wouldn’t. The boy who had once revealed in making Harry’s life miserable now avoided his eyes as if he were something dangerous, something monstrous. Something to be feared. 

A cold knot formed in Harry’s chest. He saw it, in that fleeting moment of eye contact—fear.

Even Malfoy was afraid of him now. 

The image of Malfoy’s blue face and terror-filled, bloodshot eyes flashed in Harry’s mind. The way he had choked on his own breath, struggled for air while Harry stood, wand still in his pocket, unable to stop what he had done. 

How easy it had been to take control, to dominate him. And now here Malfoy stood, stiff and rigid as if he expected Harry to lash out again at any moment, as though every glance at Harry reminded him of how close he had come to dying. 

The boy in front of him, shoulders tense, hands clenched tightly at his sides, eyes anywhere but Harry, wasn’t the same boy Harry had faced off against so many times before. This was someone different—someone who had seen something terrifying, and that something had been Harry.

His fingers curled tighter around the whiteboard, knuckles whitening as the urge to lash out rose within him. A dark part of him wanted to revel in it, to relish the power he held over Malfoy. He could see the fear in his eyes, could sense how vulnerable the other boy felt in that moment. 

But the moment passed, crumbling under the weight of Harry’s exhaustion. He didn’t have the energy to deal with this right now. The fear in Malfoy’s eyes, the tension in the air. He was too tired, too drained to confront the fact that someone else looked at him with that same wariness—the deep ache that came from realizing he was being avoided again, by another person. 

First his friends, now Malfoy. It felt like a punch to the gut, the reminder that everywhere he went, he made someone find a reason to stay away.

“Potter,” Malfoy finally muttered, his voice low, almost a whisper. But there was no venom in it, no sharpness. He looked down the hallway as if desperate to flee, his pale face betraying a flash of unease.

Harry didn’t bother to respond, not even with the whiteboard. What would be the point? He was too exhausted, too overwhelmed to even muster the words or the energy for a comeback.

Snape’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and impatient. “To your room, Potter,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. Malfoy flinched slightly at Snape’s voice but remained rooted to the spot, watching Harry warily, as if expecting him to explode at any moment.

Without a word, Harry tore his gaze from Malfoy and trudged toward the narrow staircase, his body felt heavy, mind numb. As he approached, he noticed Malfoy stiffen further, a flicker of fear crossing his pale face. It wasn't the usual disdainful sneer or cold arrogance Harry had come to expect; it was something different, more primal. Malfoy’s posture shifted instinctively, his body leaning away as if recoiling from a predator. His gaze darted to the floor, refusing to meet Harry’s, and his entire frame seemed tense, like he was bracing for impact.

Harry didn’t miss the way Malfoy shrank back as he neared, trying to press himself against the wall without actually moving. It was subtle—an unconscious gesture—but it sent a wave of sick realization through Harry. The distance Malfoy kept, the way his eyes flickered nervously between Harry and the floor, it reminded him of something. Something painfully familiar.

It was how Harry used to shield himself from Uncle Vernon.

The memory hit him with a cold, unsettling clarity. He remembered the feeling—the way his body would instinctively tense, his shoulders hunching in, trying to make himself as small and invisible as possible whenever Vernon’s temper flared. The way he’d avoid eye contact, fearing that any wrong move would set his uncle off. And now, Malfoy was doing the same thing to him. Avoiding him, shrinking away, like Harry was Vernon.

The comparison made Harry’s stomach churn with disgust. He felt a sick, twisting sensation in his chest, like a knot tightening. Was this who he’d become? Someone who made people flinch, made them cower and avoid his gaze the way he used to avoid Vernon’s?

He walked past Malfoy, and in that fleeting moment, the boy edged even further away, his back almost flush against the wall. The space between them seemed vast, yet suffocating, like a tangible reminder of the distance that had grown between who Harry thought he was and who he feared he might be becoming. It was unsettling, and for a brief, horrible moment, Harry felt the sharp stab of self-loathing cut through his numbness. He hated the thought of being anything like his uncle. It made him sick.

Malfoy wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t taunting Harry or drawing his wand. He was just… afraid. Like Harry had been so many times before.

And a part of Harry, the dark part that still burned with resentment and anger, wanted to ignore it, to relish in him cowering away. To let Malfoy feel the fear, to let him see what it was like to be on the other side. But another part, a quieter, more exhausted part of him, couldn’t stand it. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be the one people recoiled from.

His limbs felt heavy, too tired to confront the sickening ache in his gut. Too tired to deal with the guilt and the recognition. The fact that he was being avoided again—this time by someone who had once tormented him—should have felt satisfying, even vindicating. But it didn’t. It just felt hollow.

Snape didn’t follow as Harry began ascending the stairs, though he could feel his presence, his watchful gaze lingering. Let him watch. Harry didn’t care anymore. Let Snape see whatever he wanted to see. It didn’t matter.

Each step felt heavier than the last, the narrow staircase stretching out before him like an endless climb. Behind him, Malfoy remained frozen by the banister, keeping his distance, still refusing to meet Harry’s eyes. The way he flinched, the way he shifted his body away—it all left a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth.

Because for a moment, in Malfoy’s quiet retreat, Harry saw too much of himself. And it made him sick.

When he finally reached the door to his room, Harry pushed it open with more force than necessary,  collapsing onto the bed without even bothering to remove his shoes, staring blankly at the ceiling. The walls felt closer than ever, pressing in on him, but Harry welcomed it. It was better than Malfoy’s accusatory, terrified eyes. Better than Snape’s disapproving presence.

His limbs were leaden, the exhaustion weighing him down until all he could do was lie there, breathing in the musty air of Spinner’s End. 

His whiteboard slipped from his fingers, clattering softly to the floor. Harry didn’t bother to pick it up. Instead, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, the events of the past days swirling in his mind like a chaotic storm.

He didn’t know how much time passed. Hours? Minutes? It didn’t matter. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made Harry’s thoughts feel loud in his head, thoughts he didn’t want to confront.

For a while, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of Snape moving around downstairs. The house felt too still. He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, but a sudden knock startled him out of his daze.

He sat up slowly, blinking as the fog in his mind cleared just enough to hear the soft shuffle outside. There was another knock, gentler this time.

Harry dragged himself off the bed, blinking blearily, and opened the door. The hallway was empty. But on the floor, just outside his door, sat two notebooks and a folded piece of parchment on top of the stack.

Confused, he bent down, picking them up with a tired frown. Sitting back on the bed, he unfolded the parchment and stared at the sharp, precise handwriting.

One is a normal notebook. The other is a two-way notebook with me. Stop bottling everything up, Potter. It’s tiresome. Use it.

The handwriting was unmistakably Snape’s—sharp and precise, just like the man himself. Harry stared at the words, feeling a strange twist in his chest. He picked up the two notebooks, inspecting them. Both seemed plain, unmarked. One was burgundy, the other a deep green. He wondered which was which.

Harry’s eyes flicked between the note and the notebooks in his lap. 

His birthday.

Harry let out a shaky breath, the realization settling like a heavy stone in his chest. He hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t expected anything. His friends had forgotten—or maybe they were ignoring him, still refusing to answer his letters—no letters, no owls, no acknowledgement at all. 

It wasn’t a birthday present. At least, Snape hadn’t said so. There had been no card, no “Happy Birthday, Potter,” nothing at all to suggest that Snape even knew what day it was. 

But Snape… Snape had given him something .

Whether it was intentional or not didn’t seem to matter anymore. 

The absurdity of it all hit him then, and despite everything, a laugh, short and incredulous, escaped him. He clapped  a hand over his mouth, but the laughter wouldn’t stop. Of all people, it was Snape who had given him something, Snape who did something, when everyone else had forgotten or perhaps ignored him.

He knew he was being ridiculous. It wasn’t a gift. There was no way Snape had thought of his birthday, not deliberately. The man probably hadn’t even known, just left the notebooks as a practical solution to his silence. But Harry’s mind was grasping at it, twisting the gesture into something else, something more—because he needed it to be more. 

Harry clutched the notebooks tighter, his throat constricting as the laugh died out, and he blinked back the sudden sting of tears. He wasn’t going to cry. Not over this. But the warmth in his chest was there, undeniable, mingling with the ache of everything else.

Snape had gotten him something. His friends hadn’t even written.

That thought alone made something inside Harry crack just a little bit. He laid back down, the notebooks pressed tightly against his chest as his eyes drifted shut. The house creaked softly around him, but for the first time in days, the silence felt just a little less oppressive.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry let himself cry. 

Chapter Text

The sun had long risen by the time Harry opened his eyes, his room blindingly bright when he woke up, long golden beams casted through the gaps in his curtains, giving life to the worn floorboards. His room felt stuffy, the air heavy from the heat of the day, and as he stirred in bed, he realized it was far later than he thought. He blinked, the weight of sleep still clinging to him, pressing him deeper into the mattress as turned his head to the clock on his bedside table.

11:15.

Harry let out a slow breath. He had missed breakfast, and there had been no furious knocking on his door, no yelling from Snape. It seemed the man hadn’t bothered to come near his room at all, the upstairs quiet. Maybe the visit to Madam Pomfrey’s had used up what little effort Snape had to put into Harry’s wellbeing. 

Harry stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling as the minutes slipped into hours, letting the day drift by outside his window while he remained still, trapped in an unchanging haze of exhaustion and anger. His body felt heavy, and he wasn’t sure if it was just fatigue. The sun climbed higher, burning into his room with a warmth that only seemed to deepen his discomfort. He was too warm, and too tightly buried under the blankets, yet he couldn’t move, couldn't wake himself up. 

His mind drifted to the day before. He pictured Malfoy again—cowering, backing up against the wall in poorly hidden terror. His hands trembling as though bracing for Harry to strike again, to finish the job. To kill him . Harry felt his stomach churn as he thought of that moment, the way he had almost enjoyed watching Malfoy squirm, the surge of control he felt seeing fear in the other boy's eyes. The way he had recoiled, body tense, clinging to the banister for dear life. For a second, Harry hadn’t just wanted him to hurt. He had wanted him to suffer. 

It felt monstrous. 

His thoughts drifted further, unbidden, to the graveyard. Voldemort’s low, cold voice, the flash of that murderous green, and the way his own screams had echoed as the Dark Lord’s smile grew wider. He thought of that dream from a week ago, when his scar had burst open, and he found himself as Voldemort, torturing someone with that same twisted glee. Pain was amusing to Voldemort, pleasurable, and now— now —Harry couldn’t shake the sickening thought that maybe some dark part of him had felt the same perverse rush when Draco was pinned beneath him, suffering, dying. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shove the thoughts away, but they clung to him like a second skin. It was too much, and with a trembling, desperate breath, Harry buried it. All of it. Drowned his thoughts in silence, the same silence that had surrounded him for weeks now. It was safer not to think. Easier not to feel. 

He felt a bit hollow, but it was just a bit easier to breathe.

The sun crept higher outside, but Harry stayed unmoving, watching as it climbed, then slowly began its descent. His eyes flickered back to the clock.

3:10.

The echo of Madam Pomfrey’s stern voice drifted through his mind again, reminding Snape to keep him on a strict potion regime, to make sure he ate all his meals. Clearly, Snape had forgotten. Or maybe he hadn’t, just didn’t care. Maybe he was already tired of dealing with Harry. Everyone got tired of him eventually. 

Harry turned over in bed, tugging the blankets closer, tighter around him. The world outside continued its steady march forward, but he felt utterly still, buried deep in place, like a corpse. 

Sometimes he wondered if he was really living. 

The familiar weight of despair settled over him like an old, unwanted friend. He should’ve been used to it by now, but it never got easier.

His knee brushed something hard under the blanket, interrupting his thoughts. Curiosity pierced through his fog as he pulled the covers back and found the two notebooks Snape had given him. He picked up the burgundy one first, flipping through its blank pages until his hand brushed against the small pen tucked neatly into the binding. It felt strange in his hand—too formal, too stiff for something as simple as writing.

Harry sighed, tossing it aside, and opened the dark green notebook next. He expected more blank pages. Instead, in the top left corner, written in Snape’s meticulous, spidery handwriting, was a single question:

Why aren’t you eating?

Harry stared at it for a moment, blinking as though the words might disappear if he looked long enough. They didn’t. Snape had written to him—-that morning, perhaps, after noticing his absence at breakfast. Or maybe after lunch.

He imagined Snape sitting at the table, irritated by Harry’s refusal to show up. Maybe he’d scowled at Malfoy, terrifying him even more. Harry couldn’t help but smirk at the image. Snape was likely fuming, wondering why the “Golden Boy” couldn’t follow simple rules, begrudgingly writing only because of Madam Pomfrey, and being left with no response. For once, Harry was glad to have stayed in bed.

He twirled the pen between his finger tips, feeling a strange surge of satisfaction. Good. Let him be irritated. Let him fume. This was something he could control. Snape was watching him, waiting for a response—and Harry could deny it. He could ignore it, make Snape more angry. It was petty, but it was something . And right now, Harry felt like he had nothing else.

But then, that darkness inside him, the one that had been simmering since Voldemort's return, that had been gnawing away at his thoughts, burning his being in the shed, that had been whispering ever since Malfoy’s flinch, grew louder. He wanted to push back, to fight, to control. With a rush of defiance, he pressed the pen to the paper and scrawled out a reply.

Why do you care?

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the page. He expected an immediate response, a biting retort from Snape telling him not to be difficult. But as the minutes stretched on with nothing, Harry’s irritation grew.

He didn’t know why, but he wanted Snape to respond—needed him to. Deep down, he craved the fight. He wanted to make Snape lose his composure, to see the man scowl and spit venomous remarks. Anything to provoke him.

But there was nothing.

He slammed the notebook shut and threw it to the side, the sound of it hitting the floor far more satisfying than it should have been. Why give him the stupid notebook if he wasn’t going to answer? He could feel the anger seething just below the surface, and he needed a way to let it out, clenching his fists tightly beneath the blanket. If Snape thought he could force Harry to eat or take his potions, he was wrong. If Snape pushed, Harry would shove back, hard. 

Harry heard footsteps outside his door, then a knock. He didn’t answer. A pause, then the door creaked open.

Snape’s familiar silhouette filled the doorway, his face as unreadable as ever. “You missed breakfast. And lunch.”

Harry didn’t move, didn’t even look at him. He stayed in bed, making a show of pulling the blankets tighter around him, pointedly ignoring Snape’s presence.

Snape's voice was sharp, though controlled. "You will get out of that bed, Potter."

Harry turned his head slightly, meeting Snape’s gaze with a look of deliberate indifference. He raised an eyebrow as if to say Make me.

Snape’s expression darkened. "I am not going to stand idly by while you conjoin with your bed. Madam Pomfrey instructed a regimen for your health, and I will not have you making things worse by—"

Harry grabbed the whiteboard from the floor, scribbling furiously:

Why do you care?

He shoved the board toward Snape, his hand trembling with barely contained rage. Snape’s eyes flicked over the words, his lips curling in annoyance.

"You think I enjoy this? Having to play nursemaid to the great Harry Potter?" Snape sneered, but there was something undercutting his tone—something more than his usual derision. "If you starve yourself to death under my watch, I will be the one held accountable. So yes, Potter, I care. I care because I refuse to have your pathetic self-destruction on my conscience."

Harry huffed a bitter laugh, the anger bubbling up, twisting his stomach. Typical Snape. He didn’t care —he just didn’t want to get in trouble. Didn’t want the Golden Boy to become some tragedy on his record. 

Maybe I should, he wrote quickly, before Snape could even finish his sentence. Maybe I should starve.

Snape's eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t be a fool, Potter.”

Harry felt a spark of satisfaction at the anger in Snape’s voice, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel real. He wanted more—he wanted to see Snape lose it completely. He wanted to push him until he snapped, until Harry could at least feel like he had power over something in his life.

Harry shrugged. He sat up in bed now, staring straight at Snape, daring him to respond.

"You’ve done nothing but mope about," Snape said, stepping further into the room, his frustration palpable. "Whatever happened with Malfoy wasn’t just a schoolyard squabble.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. The image of Malfoy’s terrified face flashed before his eyes. He clenched his fists beneath the blanket again, the marker digging painfully into his palm.

"Tell me," Snape pressed. "Why did you attack him?"

Harry froze. His throat tightened as a sharp spike of guilt shot through him. His chest burned, stomach twisting violently. He thought of his mum's photo—the one bent and bruised in the scuffle, crumpled somewhere in the shed—and the way Snape had hidden everything about her. 

Hid her from him.

Harry’s hand shook as he wrote a single word: No.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “You will not hide from this, Potter. Whatever is going on in that thick skull of yours is affecting more than just you.”

Harry’s breathing quickened. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t speak . All he could think about was that anger, the boiling rage in his chest, the dark part of him that was growing, threatening to take over.

His fingers curled around the marker, nails digging into his palm so hard it drew blood. He wanted to scream, to shout at the man in front of him, to demand answers, but his voice was gone. His breath came in shallow gasps, and for a long moment, the room felt like it was closing in on him. 

He thought of his mum’s creased face, abandoned in the shed. How disappointed she must be in him.

Ask your questions, he scrawled slowly, a tremor running through his hand. But don’t expect an answer.

Snape’s jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching. His dark eyes, usually so impassive, burned with frustration and something else—something Harry couldn’t quite place. “You will get up, and you will eat dinner." He stepped back toward the door, casting a final glance at Harry. “I will not permit you to wallow in grief, nor will I allow you to hide from the world indefinitely. We will speak of this again. I won’t allow you to vanish into this… pathetic shell you seem so intent on becoming.”

He turned sharply, his robes billowing behind him as he crossed the threshold. But before he closed the door, Snape paused, casting one final glance over his shoulder. His voice dropped, almost too quiet to hear, but laced with a dark, unrelenting promise. 

“I know all too well where this path leads, Potter. And I will not let you follow it to the end.”

He lingered for a second more, mouth closing shut sharply, eyes widening as if he had said too much, before the door slammed behind him, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

Harry sat in his bed, pulse thudding in his ears. 

What would Snape know about this?  

The anger flared again, but so did the exhaustion—the crushing fatigue of feeling too much and too little all at once. 

He glared at the green notebook still sitting on the bed, Snape’s spidery handwriting staring back at him, and without thinking, he grabbed his private one—the burgundy notebook.

He hesitated, then wrote two words at the top of the page: Harry’s Journal.

The notebook snapped shut, and Harry buried himself beneath the blankets again, pushing everything—his anger, his guilt, Snape—away. 

Sometimes, he wondered if being a corpse was better than being this. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The kitchen was a graveyard of tension. Every sound, from the soft clatter of cutlery to the faint scrape of shoes against the floor, seemed unnaturally loud in the heavy silence. Harry stood in the doorway, taking in the sight of Malfoy and Snape already seated at the table. His limbs felt leaden, like they were weighed down by invisible chains, but Snape had let him know, coldly and with more than a hint of command, that skipping dinner wasn’t an option. 

The reminder of Madam Pomfrey’s stern instructions and Snape’s uncharacteristic last words had been enough to push Harry from his bed, though the idea of facing both Snape and Malfoy was less than appealing.

Harry dragged himself forward, his muscles stiff from having stayed in bed most of the day. As he reached the table, he sank into his usual chair—furthest from the other two—the scrape of the wood against the floor sounding loudly. Malfoy barely glanced up, sitting stiffly at the table, his eyes darting between Harry’s hands and his plate, avoiding Harry’s gaze at all costs. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, and the tension in his shoulders was palpable. It was obvious—the way Malfoy shifted uncomfortably, how his eyes flickered away the moment they even brushed against Harry’s figure. He was nervous.

Harry almost felt bad—almost—but the sight of him squirming fed that dark satisfaction once again. 

He didn’t know exactly when he’d started craving that—the dark satisfaction of seeing Malfoy squirm, seeing Snape’s lip curl in frustration. But lately, it seemed to be the only thing Harry had left to grasp onto, to control .

Snape’s eyes were sharper tonight, more focused on Harry than usual, as if he was studying every movement, every breath. His eyes weren’t just observing Harry—they were dissecting him, peeling back the layers as if trying to find something beneath the surface. The scrutiny made Harry’s skin prickle, and he hunched over his plate, forcing a piece of bread into his mouth without tasting it.

The meal was quiet. Unbearably quiet.

Harry bit down harder on the bread. He didn’t want to eat. His stomach was a tangled mess of knots, the very idea of food making him nauseous. But the alternative—refusing—was a confrontation he didn’t have the energy for right now. Not yet. He’d pick his moment. He’d push Snape just enough to crack that icy facade. Later.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw the slight tremble of Malfoy’s hand as he picked at his own food. He could almost feel the anxiety radiating off him in waves, the tightness in Malfoy’s shoulders betraying the calm mask he was trying to wear. Harry might’ve pitied him once. Now, all he could think of was how satisfying it would be to push him just a little more, to see him break like a brittle twig.

The silence stretched on, a palpable thing that pressed against them all, suffocating the room in its unbearable stillness. Harry could feel it seeping into his bones, heavy and stifling. Every breath felt like a burden. 

Snape finally broke the silence with a deliberate, clipped motion, sliding a small vial across the table toward Harry. The dark potion inside swirled ominously, and Harry could feel Snape’s eyes on him, waiting for him to react.

"Your potion," Snape said tersely. His voice was like a blade, sharp and cold. "Drink it."

Harry’s fingers closed around the vial, feeling the cool glass against his skin. He stared at it for a moment, rolling it slowly between his palms, considering. He could feel Snape’s eyes on him, narrowing slightly, waiting for him to defy the command. For a brief moment, Harry considered not drinking it, just to provoke him, just to watch that cold exterior crack again, to feel power over him.

He considered throwing it across the room, just to hear the satisfying sound of glass shattering, to see Snape’s face explode in anger. He wanted that. He wanted to make Snape lose control. 

But another thought crept in—what would happen if he did? He thought of how Vernon would react, his massive hands curling into fists, his voice rising in a furious roar. Vernon would have lunged at him, cornering him with malice in his eyes, demanding at first why he had done such a thing, before abandoning the notion all together, using the moment to release his pent up anger onto Harry, his seemingly everlasting and longstanding hate. He never really did need a reason for hurting him. The very thought of it sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. The uncertainty of Snape's reaction gnawed at him; would Snape explode like Vernon, or would he be cold and calculated, a storm hidden beneath the surface?

He wanted to see what Snape would do. What he would do to him.

But instead, he downed it in one gulp, setting the vial back down with more force than necessary. The sharp clink of glass against wood echoed through the kitchen. Malfoy flinched back, just a bit, but Harry wasn’t focused on him at the moment. He could sense Snape’s irritation, even though the man remained outwardly calm. There was a sharpness to the silence that hadn’t been there before.

“Good,” Snape said, though the word felt more like a warning than praise. “Perhaps you’ve not entirely lost your sense of self-preservation, after all.”

Harry didn’t respond. He stared at his half-eaten bowl of stew, pushing it around with his spoon. The taste didn’t register. Nothing did. He wasn’t hungry—not for food, anyway. 

“As of tomorrow,” Snape continued, his tone businesslike, detached, “we will be preparing for the start of the term. You and Draco will both dedicate time to your summer assignments. You have a month. I will not tolerate any delays or half-assed work.”

The last bit was undoubtedly directed at Harry. He ignored the jab, eyes flickering to Malfoy, who looked just as thrilled by the news as Harry felt. His face was pale, eyes wide with a mixture of dread and resignation. 

Harry inwardly sighed. More time sitting in forced proximity with Snape and Malfoy—just what he needed.

“We’ll be going to Diagon Alley tomorrow for supplies,” Snape continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Quills, parchment, textbooks. You will both be adequately prepared by the start of term. I will see to it.”

Harry said nothing, focusing on the half-eaten plate in front of him. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even an order. It was simply a fact. Snape would see to it because that’s what he did–controlled everything. He could feel Snape’s eyes still on him. They were always there now, lurking in the silence like a shadow.

Harry’s hand trembled slightly as he set the spoon down. He hadn’t eaten much—half his bowl of stew at most—and he could feel Snape’s eyes narrowing at the fact. 

“That’s all you’re going to eat?” Snape’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it, the calm before the storm.

Harry didn’t answer, didn’t even look up. He could feel the anger building inside him again, that dark, sick feeling creeping in at the edges of his mind. 

“You will eat more tomorrow,” Snape said, the quiet menace unmistakable. “Or I will spell it into you myself. You may find that I am not as indulgent as you imagine.”

There was no escaping the finality in Snape’s words. It was a threat—a promise—and Harry knew he wasn’t bluffing. But instead of feeling fear, he felt something else—a surge of reckless anger.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. The sound echoed in the room, sharp and jarring. Snape’s eyes followed him, but Harry ignored them, heading back to his room. He could feel the tension still thrumming in the air behind him, Snape’s controlled frustration just waiting to boil over.

But Harry wasn’t done yet. 

Let him be angry. Let him seethe.

Harry wasn’t finished pushing.

As he climbed the stairs, he could feel the darkness creeping at the edges of his mind, that growing familiar, sick feeling. And, for the first time, he welcomed it—just a bit. 

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered weakly through the curtains of Harry’s small room at Spinner’s End. It was a murky gray, casting long shadows on the worn furniture and the notebook lying open on his lap. His quill hovered above the parchment, dripping ink onto the corner of the page, trembling slightly as he fought to put his feelings into words. The notebook was one of the few things in Spinner’s End that felt like his. It wasn’t the two-way notebook that Snape had given him for their weird, reluctant, exchanges—it was just his. 

But even here, alone in his room, in the privacy of his own mind, Harry struggled to articulate the seething anger that seemed to burn in his chest constantly now. 

His thoughts were a storm, swirling in every direction, impossible to pin down. 

I’m angry all the time.

The quill scratched aimlessly across the page. It was a blunt, stark sentence. But it didn’t feel like enough. Didn’t capture the weight of it—the fury, the resentment that had grown over the last few weeks. He scowled and scratched it out, leaving a dark blotch on the parchment.

I’m so angry, he wrote. At everything. At everyone. I can’t stop it. Can’t help it. It just keeps building, and I feel like–

The scratch of the quill felt too loud in the small, dark room. He paused, staring at the words. The whole situation was absurd. Was this what it felt like to lose control? 

I think there’s something wrong with me.

His hand stilled, eyes unfocused. There was something dark inside him, festering like an open wound. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t explain it, but it was there, heavy and suffocating, lurking beneath his skin, waiting to lash out, waiting for a reason. 

Worse, it didn’t feel like just his anymore. 

Sometimes, he could feel it—the cold, almost unnatural hatred creeping through his mind, amplifying every ugly thought he had. But then again, maybe the darkness had always been there. Waiting.

The knock at the door startled him, and he slammed the notebook shut. Snape’s voice came from the other side, as harsh and impatient as ever. “Get dressed, Potter. We are leaving in ten minutes.”

Harry’s hand twitched. His fingers tightened around the quill, contemplating whether he could snap it in half. What would Snape do? Yell at him? Harry could take that. He wanted that. He grabbed the burgundy journal instead, sliding it beneath his pillow before pushing himself up. The old creak of the bed frame was oddly satisfying as he leaned over to grab his whiteboard from the bedside table. 

He hadn’t spoken in weeks now. It was purposeful–the silence–but more often, it had come too easily, as if second nature. Sometimes, he found himself suffocated under his inability to speak. At first, he’d clung to it for control. But now, it felt like something more sinister, something he couldn’t break even if he tried. 

And deep down, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

It was better this way. His mind was a storm, full of roiling anger and chaos, but his throat—the part of him that should be screaming, should be lasing out , had closed itself, trapping the dangerous words before they could ever escape. And maybe, that was a good thing. 

Dragging on his cloak, Harry trudged through his door and down the stairs, the fabric heavy against his shoulders. His stomach twisted unpleasantly, a knot of emotions tightening in his chest with every step, winding itself tighter and tighter until it felt like it might choke him. 

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palm. He was glad his throat had closed up. 

“I wish you’d just taken them yourself–”  

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. 

The tension hit him the moment he reached the bottom. It hung in the air of the dimly lit living room, thick and oppressive. Harry could almost taste it—like the bitter tang of metal on his tongue.

Snape stood by the door, dressed in his usual black attire, his posture rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest. His dark eyes flicked briefly toward Harry, a quick glance that gave nothing away. Snape’s expression was inscrutable, cold as ever, but there was something about the way his fingers twitched at the edge of his sleeves that made Harry wonder what the man was thinking. Was he annoyed? Or perhaps just tired of this charade, of playing babysitter to two boys he could barely stand.

But Snape said nothing. Instead, his gaze shifted toward Malfoy, who was standing stiffly by the fireplace, his back as straight as a board, like he was trying too hard not to show any sign of weakness. Malfoy’s pale skin was even paler than usual, his face devoid of its usual sneer. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes—usually so full of haughty disdain—were downcast, avoiding both Harry and Snape.

Harry’s eyes lingered on him for a moment. He thought back to the Shed. When Malfoy had been trembling under the weight of Harry’s fury, his body shrinking back in fear. Now, that same twisted feeling of satisfaction fluttered in Harry’s chest. He didn’t know if it was the darkness inside him, the one that had surged through him that time, unchecked and powerful, but there was still something undeniably satisfying about seeing Draco Malfoy so thoroughly shaken, his usual arrogance dulled into something closer to apprehension.

Malfoy shifted under his gaze, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of his cloak. When Harry’s eyes finally met his, Draco quickly looked away, his lips pressing together as if holding back an unspoken thought. The silence between them crackled, charged with unspoken tension.

“Let’s get this over with,” Snape muttered, already sounding impatient. His tone was clipped, as though every moment spent with the two of them was an ordeal. He stepped toward the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder. With a swift, irritated gesture, Snape held out his arm toward Harry.

Harry blinked in surprise but didn’t hesitate. He hated Flooing on his own—it was always disorienting and rough—and now, without his voice, he was even more inept, the task now impossible alone.

He stepped closer to Snape, reluctantly gripping the man's arm. The fabric of Snape's sleeve was stiff beneath his fingers, as aversive as the man himself. Harry didn’t look at him—he didn't want to see whatever judgment or irritation might be in those black eyes—but he felt the tension in Snape’s muscles, the subtle stiffness in his posture that said he wasn’t exactly thrilled about this arrangement either.

Snape’s arm tensed as he threw the Floo powder into the flames, which roared to life in a swirl of green.

“Diagon Alley,” Snape barked, his voice sharp and commanding.

And with that, they stepped into the fire together.

The rush of heat was followed immediately by the dizzying whirl of the Floo Network. The world spun around them in a blur of green and black, twisting and contorting Harry’s vision, and for a few agonizing seconds, Harry felt weightless, helpless, torn from the ground uncontrollably as he hurtled through the magical flames.

His grip on Snape’s arm tightened involuntarily, his fingers digging into the man’s sleeve, the only tether he had to reality in the chaos of the Floo journey. But his mind was already slipping, conjoining with the spinning madness. 

He could feel it, prickling under his bones, the violent lurch that had flung him and Cedric into the graveyard. The cold, damp air pressing against skin. Cedric’s lifeless body sprawled on the ground. Voldemort’s high, cruel laughter echoing through the night. 

His stomach lurched uncomfortably, nausea settling in like it always did as he remembered the feel of the ground vanishing beneath his feet that night—the same gut-wrenching sensation of being spun out of control, dragged unwillingly toward something horrific. The Floo flames roared around him, but in his mind, it was still that brief moment, still the cyclonic winds of the Portkey, the terror as he landed in a place that was most definitely not Hogwarts. 

His heartbeat quickened, pounding in his ears, his grip on Snape’s arm becoming a lifeline. He tried to shake the memory away, to force himself back to the present, but the familiar lurch of his stomach and the violent carousel wouldn’t let him go. It was too similar. Too much like—

He found himself begging then, silently and full of desperate compulsion, his hands beginning to shake, breath too shallow. 

Not again. Please, not again.

For a split second, Harry was convinced that when the spinning stopped, he would find himself back there—in that graveyard, facing Cedric’s lifeless body, facing Voldemort, facing death all over again. 

But then, with a jarring thud, it was over.

The world solidified around him in an instant, the rush of the Floo flames vanishing, replaced by a bustling noise outside. Harry stumbled out of the hearth in Diagon Alley, the nausea still clinging to him like a fog, his heart racing in his chest. His hand slipped from Snape’s arm, releasing his grip quickly as if the touch had burned him. He straightened up as fast as he could, brushing the soot from his cloak, his legs trembling slightly beneath him. 

His throat tightened, hands still trembling slightly from the intensity of the memory. But he swallowed hard, forcing the feeling back down, locking it away behind the wall he had built around himself. 

Remembering his grip on the other man, he felt a flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks, though he didn’t quite know why. He hadn’t had a choice.

Snape, on the other hand, seemed entirely unbothered, his expression just as stoic as before, though his sharp gaze flicked briefly toward Harry, a flicker of something deeper passed through his dark eyes, before turning back to the busy street. “You might want to compose yourself, Potter,” he said, his voice low and laced with a twinge of something else, something Harry couldn’t quite grasp. “We are not here to attract attention.”

As Harry took a steadying breath, he felt an odd comfort in Snape’s gruffness. It was a strange thing to use for support, but at that moment, it was enough to help him regain his footing. Malfoy was already standing nearby, his own cloak dusted with soot, though he seemed more preoccupied with smoothing out his hair than anything else.

Diagon Alley was bustling with life, busy with witches and wizards making preparations for the new school year, bodies darting between shops. The sunlight overhead was bright, casting warm rays across the cobbled street. Vendors shouted their wares, the sweet scent of cauldron cakes mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed potions filled the air. For a moment, he found himself captivated by the vividness of it all. The chatter and laughter of families filled the narrow spaces, contrasting starkly with the cold tension that enveloped their little trio. Harry kept his whiteboard tucked under his arm, slightly embarrassed of it. 

But he still wouldn’t speak. Not that he wanted to. Or maybe even could. The less he said, the less had to deal with. 

The less he caused. 

As they walked, Harry’s eyes darted to the various families around them, children tugging at their parents, eager to rush into Flourish and Blotts or Quality Quidditch Supplies. The scenes seemed foreign to him—so normal, so distant. He hadn’t had that. He never would. His hands clenched involuntarily.

Snape, as usual, wasted no time. “Stay close,” he ordered, his voice low but firm. “We have a lot to get through.” 

Malfoy nodded obediently, though there was an edge of reluctance in his movements. Harry didn’t react at all. He wasn’t in the mood to follow orders, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue either. The sooner they got this over with, the better.

As they made their way down the busy street, Snape led the way with his usual brisk, no-nonsense pace. Malfoy trailed behind, his gaze flicking between shops and vendors, but the usual arrogance was noticeably absent from his demeanor. He seemed smaller somehow, quieter, like the weight of something unseen was pressing down on him.

Harry walked silently beside them, his fingers tightening around the whiteboard he carried under his arm. He hadn’t used it much. What was the point? Snape barely wanted to look at him, and Malfoy—well, it wasn’t like they had anything worth saying to each other anyway.

It wasn’t long before they reached Flourish and Blotts. Snape pushed the door open with a swift motion, and the familiar chime of the bell greeted them. Inside, the smell of parchment and ink filled the air, shelves towering with books on every subject imaginable. The sight of Hogwarts textbooks lining the walls stirred something faintly nostalgic in Harry. Afterall, Hogwarts had been his first, real home. 

“Your booklists,” Snape said, handing each of them a piece of parchment. 

Harry took the list without a word, his eyes scanning the familiar titles. Advanced Potion-Making, The Dark Arts: Defensive Techniques, Ancient Runes of the Forgotten World–books that once might have excited him. Now, they felt like weights, another thing he had to do. 

Harry remained silent, but his anger smoldered beneath the surface. Every time Malfoy’s pale eyes lingered too long, Harry’s hand twitched. His magic had been feeling off lately—more volatile, more raw. Sometimes he could feel it simmering under his skin, like a live wire, waiting to snap.

Malfoy had apparently begun to forget about their violent exchange a week earlier. As Snape barked orders at them to gather their required texts, noticeably keeping a constant, watchful eye on Harry, Malfoy seemed to recover some of his usual swagger, smirking as he drifted to the shelves to pick out his books, occasionally glancing over at Harry as though daring him to react. 

As Harry made his way down one of the aisles, he felt Malfoy’s presence nearby. The blond boy was moving slowly, his fingers running absentmindedly over the spines of the books, his expression distant. Harry watched him out of the corner of his eyes, noting the slight tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his posture. He was trying to act like his usual self, but it was clear that something was off. 

Then, without warning, the Old Malfoy seemed to resurface as he strolled over with a sneer, his voice low and mocking, holding a particularly thick book on advanced potion-making. 

“I doubt you’ll even need this, Potter,” Malfoy said airily, “though, with Snape practically hovering over you like some watchdog, maybe you’ll scrape by.”

Harry stiffened, his fingers curling into fists. He glanced at Malfoy, his pale eyes gleaming with malice. It was almost as if Malfoy had forgotten everything that had transpired between them. The thought made Harry want to lash out, to make Malfoy feel that same fear again, but he held back. This time. 

Harry shot him a glare, writing a quick, sharp reply on the whiteboard before thrusting it in Malfoy’s direction. Shut up.

Malfoy paused, taken aback for a moment, but the arrogance returned swiftly. “What’s the matter, Potter? Can’t take a joke?” He scoffed, flipping open the book. “You should know by now that half-bloods like you don’t get far in the world. At least not without—”

Malfoy’s words were cut off as Harry’s magic flared up suddenly. The shelf beside them rattled violently, books tumbling to the floor. Malfoy jumped back, face paling, seemingly remembering—too late—just what Harry had done to him before.

For a moment, Harry didn’t move. His eyes locked on Draco’s, his fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to do it again. The surge of power, the control, the look of fear in Malfoy’s eyes—it was intoxicating.

But then Snape’s voice cut through the tension, cold and biting. “Enough.”

Both boys froze, Snape’s authority settling like a heavy blanket over the scene. Snape’s eyes flickered between them, his expression unreadable, though Harry could sense the irritation rolling off him and something deeper. 

Malfoy, still shaken, took a step back, swallowing hard. “I-I didn’t mean—”

“Get your books,” Snape snapped, turning away with a frustrated swish of his cloak. “Both of you.”

Harry let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His magic simmered down, but the anger, the darkness, still pulsed beneath the surface. He glared at Draco, who quickly averted his eyes, the earlier bravado melting away as he hurried off toward the register, clearly rattled.

As Harry stood there, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction mingled with unease. The darkness inside him seemed to be with him almost all the time now, responding to the anger that fueled it, and he couldn’t help but wonder how far he could let it go. He caught Snape’s gaze, noting the slight crease of his brows, his eyes darkening as that same strange expression passed across his face, one Harry had seen at times in the hospital wing, and for a brief moment, Harry felt exposed, as if Snape could see through the thick wall of silence he had built around himself. 

Snape’s expression hardened, his features carefully composing, but Harry could sense something was off. He seemed…troubled. 

It was so unlike Snape it freaked him out a bit. 

With an involuntary shiver, Harry turned away, following Malfoy toward the register. 

The rest of the trip was strained, with Snape keeping a tight grip on them, his sharp eyes cutting through every interaction. His presence loomed over constantly, making it impossible for Harry and Draco to exchange even a word without his noticing. His gaze seemed most fixated on Harry, whose silence had grown heavier, darker with each step. He was like a hawk watching for any sign of weakness or rebellion.

It unnerved Harry.

They trudged through various shops—revisiting Flourish and Blotts and a few other places—gathering quills, parchment, additional books, etc. They then visited the apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Snape asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry and Malfoy, Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glitter-black beetle eyes at five Knuts a scoop.

His gaze trailed toward the back, where the more dangerous potions were kept; shelves lined with vials and jars containing liquids that shimmered and swirled in eerie patterns. Harry, contrary to popular belief, knew enough about potions to recognize the danger that lurked there, but something in him–a dark, persistent whisper–urged him closer. His fingers itched as he stood transfixed, curling around the handle of his whiteboard, which hung loosely at his side.

Without thinking, Harry drifted toward one vial in particular, half-hidden behind others. It was a small, unassuming bottle filled with a clear, water-like liquid that pulsed faintly, as though it had a life of its own. The label was faded, but Harry could just make out the words: Draught of Living Death.

He stared at it for a moment, the world shrinking until there was only him and the vial. His fingers twitched toward it, the temptation curling around him like a vine. What would it feel like to slip into dreamless sleep? To have everything—his anger, his guilt, the constant ache of loss—simply…stop?

Would he even notice it? 

Maybe it would be peaceful.

Just as his hand reached the edge of the shelf, the quiet sound of fabric rustling behind him sent a chill up his spine. Before his fingers could even brush the glass, a firm hand clamped down on his wrist, yanking him back. 

“Potter,” Snape’s voice was low, not sharp, but laced with an odd tension. It was enough to stop Harry in his tracks, his pulse spiking in his ears. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Harry looked up, startled, meeting Snape’s gaze. He expected the usual sneer, the cold disdain, but what he found instead was something… unsettled. Snape’s black eyes flickered between Harry’s face and the vial he had nearly touched, and for a brief moment, the faintest trace of something like concern flashed across his features. It was gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual guarded expression.

Snape let go of Harry’s wrist, his hand lingering in the air for just a second too long before it fell back to his side. He glanced once more at the vial—his eyes catching the label—but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he cleared his throat and spoke in a voice that was carefully measured, as though they were both going to pretend nothing had happened.

“You shouldn’t go grabbing things blindly, Potter,” Snape muttered, the edge of his voice returning, but softer than usual. “Especially not in a place like this.”

Harry stared at him, his pulse still racing. For a moment, he wondered if Snape knew what he had been thinking, if he’d somehow seen the darkness hovering just below the surface. But the Potions Master was already looking away, pretending the incident hadn’t rattled him. Harry swallowed, his throat tight, and nodded curtly, writing nothing on his whiteboard. There was nothing to say.

Snape, however, hesitated for a fraction of a second longer than usual. His eyes flicked back to the vial once more—this time lingering on the label—but, in an almost deliberate motion, he turned away, ignoring it completely.

Neither of them spoke about what had just happened.

Harry followed Snape back toward the front of the shop, his shoulders tense, his mind swirling with thoughts he couldn’t fully grasp. Snape hadn’t berated him, hadn’t snapped in his usual way. And though he pretended otherwise, Harry could sense that something had shifted. Snape wasn’t as cold and detached as he had once seemed, but Harry couldn’t tell if that made him feel better or worse.

As they neared the counter, Harry caught sight of a stack of Daily Prophets displayed near the door. From the distance, the headlines were a blur, but he knew instinctively that they weren’t good. His name was probably splashed across the front page again, accusing him of things he couldn’t even begin to refute. He thought of Rita Skeeter, how she had disregarded everything in that cramped interview, writing about him with little accuracy. His stomach twisted, but he didn’t move any closer. He didn’t need to see the details; the lies were already loud enough in his head.

He yanked the hood of his cloak further down over his face, tugging his bangs forward to hide the scar that still marked him as something he wasn’t sure he could be. The shopkeeper behind the counter gave them a polite nod, but Harry didn’t return it. He just wanted to get out of there, away from the lingering darkness, the potions, the headlines—everything.

They stopped for lunch in a quiet corner of Diagon Alley, at a small café tucked between shops. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. The atmosphere was warmer here, softer, but Harry felt no relief. He sat across from Snape and Draco at a small, wooden table, the smell of baked bread and roasted meats wafting from the kitchen. It should have been comforting, but Harry’s appetite had evaporated long ago.

Malfoy, meanwhile, had somehow, once again regained some of his swagger. The close quarters with Snape seemed to put him at ease, and he chattered about various things, mostly potion-related, as if the tension from earlier had never existed. As if some dark part of Harry didn’t relish in the pain he had inflicted, in the fear he saw. As if Harry wasn’t beginning to act on it. Every so often, he cast glances at Snape, eager for approval, though Snape only responded with curt nods or the occasional grunt of acknowledgment.

Harry barely noticed. His mind was still elsewhere, back in the apothecary, lingering on that vial of Draught of Living Death, on Snape’s reaction—or lack of one. His food arrived, a plate of something warm and hearty, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to touch it. The weight in his chest pressed harder, making even the thought of eating unbearable.

Snape noticed, of course. His dark eyes flicked to Harry’s plate, then back to Harry’s face, irritation tightening his features. “Eat, Potter,” he ordered, though the usual venom in his tone was absent, replaced by something more controlled, more watchful. “You’ve barely touched a thing all day.”

Harry’s fingers twitched, and for a moment, he thought about writing a response on his whiteboard—something sarcastic, something to push Snape away. But he didn’t. Instead, he just stared down at the food, the steam rising in gentle curls, his stomach turning with every second that passed.

Snape’s jaw clenched. Harry could feel the impatience radiating off him, but before he could press further, Malfoy interrupted.

“Severus,” Malfoy began, his voice lighter than it had been all morning, “I was thinking… would it be possible to start working on more advanced potions this year? Father says—”

Snape cut him off with a raised hand. “Your father’s ambitions are not the concern right now, Draco,” he said, though his voice was curt, quickly dismissing Malfoy’s thoughts. “You’ll continue with your current curriculum, and we will see how you progress.”

Malfoy, seemingly undeterred, leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s just… I thought maybe, with everything going on, we could—”

“Enough, Draco.” Snape’s voice was firm, though Harry noticed the smallest trace of weariness there.

Malfoy, sensing he had pushed his limits, leaned back in his chair, his demeanor shifting quickly from eager to sullen. He cast a quick glance at Harry, who hadn’t moved, and for a moment, his eyes burned with something bitter—resentment, envy. It wasn’t subtle, either; the glare Malfoy shot in Harry’s direction was sharp, his lips pressed into a thin line, as if blaming Harry for occupying Snape’s attention. 

Harry still hadn’t touched his food. He stared at his plate, his hands laying limp in his lap. Snape’s gaze once again fell on him, darker now. 

Malfoy noticed the shift immediately, his resentment flaring up once more. With every second that passed, the silence between the three of them seemed to stretch on uncomfortably, thickening the air in the small café.

“Potter,” Snape said, his voice quieter this time, but still carrying that same weight. “You need to eat.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, his fingers wrapping tighter around the edge of the whiteboard in his lap. He scrawled a few words on it, his writing sharp and jagged.

I’m not hungry.

Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line, his patience visibly fraying. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “This isn’t a choice, Potter.”

For a moment, Harry considered pushing the plate away entirely, but something in Snape’s eyes gave him pause. There was more to the man’s frustration than mere annoyance. Beneath the cold exterior, there was something else, something that almost, once again, resembled concern. It confused Harry, made his anger swirl uneasily, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do.

But the darkness was still there, lurking in the background, a constant presence that both fueled him and weighed him down. He picked up his fork for the first time that evening, and pushed it through his food absently, glancing away, fixing his gaze on the street beyond the café, where witches and wizards bustled about their day, oblivious to the storm raging inside him.

Snape, still watching him closely, let out a quiet, controlled breath. He didn’t press the issue any further, but Harry could tell that this wasn’t over.

Lunch passed in strained silence, with Malfoy filling the gaps with idle chatter about potions and upcoming lessons. Harry remained quiet, his thoughts spiraling in a thousand directions, the food on his plate growing cold and largely untouched. He kept his eyes away from the stack of Daily Prophets sitting at a nearby kiosk, refusing to look any closer.

When they finally left the café, the tension followed them, heavy and unspoken. Harry kept his head down, the familiar ache of guilt settling deep in his chest, even as Snape walked just a few steps ahead, his shoulders rigid and his steps slow.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time they finished shopping, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets. Harry trailed a few steps behind Snape and Malfoy, his thoughts swirling. He felt disconnected from everything around him—the shops, the people, the world itself. It was like he was watching everything through a fog, distant and numb.

As they passed by a small, bustling café, Harry’s eyes caught on a family sitting by the window. A mother, a father, and two young children, all laughing and sharing plates of food. The sight twisted something inside him. He looked away quickly, but the image lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, he wondered what it would be like—to be part of something like that. A family. Something whole. But the thought slipped away as quickly as it came, swallowed by the darkness inside him.

And in its place, the anger surged again, coiling through him like a shadow ready to consume. 

Harry’s steps slowed as they neared the Floo station. He thought of his mum, crumpled and alone, somewhere in that old shed. He hadn’t looked for her—not since that day. 

A hollow ache opened up in his chest, but it was quickly devoured by something sharper, something darker. His eyes flickered to Snape’s back. Snape, who thought he understood everything. Snape, who thought he could control him. 

The anger pulsed stronger, more dangerous, wrapping around Harry like a cloak. Snape be damned. His mum’s picture was his . No one else’s. And he would get it back, no matter what. 

Snape’s voice called through his thoughts, an order to move forward. But Harry barely registered it, his gaze fixed on the emerald flames flickering in the Floo station ahead. His mind had already moved beyond Diagon Alley, beyond Spinner’s End, to the slanted shed where she waited for him.

With one glance at the fading sunlight and the still somewhat busy street around him, Harry stepped forward, gripping Snape’s arm with more force than necessary. The flames flared around them, swallowing them whole, but Harry’s mind was locked on that shed, on the picture, on the twisted resolve growing inside him. 

He wouldn't let anyone take her away from him again. 

Chapter Text

The sun was setting when Harry and Snape whirled into the living room of Spinner’s End, their feet landing with a thud. An orange hue enveloped the space, a warm light cascading onto the many books on crooked, wooden shelves. Harry felt Snape moving away, and he released his grip on the other, ignoring the way his hands ached at the loss. He watched as Snape and Malfoy stepped further away towards the door, speaking in low murmurs, but Harry wasn’t really paying attention. 

Somewhere in the shed where he once had sought solace, she lay. He had left her there, his mind so far away, trapped in Snape’s dark, cramped house and the coldness that settled into his bones when he should have thought of her. 

Harry barely heard Snape’s curt instructions to unpack the things they’d bought in Diagon Alley. The words bounced off him, meaningless, as his hands balled at his sides. 

She had loved him and he left her. 

As Snape moved to his study, distracted by Malfoy’s incessant chatter, Harry slipped up the stairs and towards his room, putting away his supplies with a detached sense of duty. His hands moved with precision, unpacking books, quills, and potions ingredients, but his mind remained locked on the shed, and what he planned to do later that night.

Dinner was no different. He barely touched his plate, moving the food around in small circles, occasionally glancing at Snape who seemed to be watching him closely, an act going unnoticed from Malfoy who would switch from his chattering to Snape to glaring at Harry when he would gain little to no response. Harry ignored the stares. He ignored the way he had changed their dinner routine—how, before, they would sit, talk, and appear to enjoy each other’s presence. Not anymore. He ignored how Malfoy began growing visibly upset at the lack of attention from Snape. He ignored the way he seemed to ruin everything. 

He had bigger plans tonight. 

His ribs still ached from the Dursleys. Wizards healed fast, he knew this fact well. The bruises hadn’t been visible for days. If so, Madam Pomfrey would have caught it and asked him. Maybe it was some kind of phantom ache, a reminder of how shit his life was. However, the pain that had been simmering under his shirt since he was kicked out barely registered through the fog of anger swirling inside him. The anger that had been growing since Aunt Petunia’s death. Since Cedric’s death. Since his letters to Ron and Hermione remained unanswered. Since everything had gone wrong. 

Since he ruined. Everything. 

The feeling that had crept over him in recent days, dark and insidious, was becoming harder to ignore. It whispered to him now, curling around his thoughts, burrowing into his mind, telling him it didn’t matter what Snape wanted, or what anyone else wanted. He wanted. That picture was his. It was his mum. Not Snape’s. No one else could understand how much he needed it. Needed her.

As he got ready for bed, Harry pictured where he might find her. Would she be stuck halfway beneath the floorboards? Or would she be laying deathly still in a corner, neglected. The more he thought about it, the more his anger grew, a searing heat that pooled in his chest, fueling that darker part of him. He still hadn’t spoken a word at Spinner’s End, and he knew that Snape was growing more impatient with him. Harry could feel the man’s frustration, but it didn’t matter. He wondered what Snape would do if he figured out Harry’s plans. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but her. 

Hours passed. The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of floorboards or the rustle of wind outside. When Harry finally deemed it late enough that both Snape and Draco had to be asleep, he slipped out of bed. His heart raced as he quietly grabbed his wand, stuffing it into his back pocket. He moved with stealth, years of sneaking around Privet Drive and Hogwarts coming in handy now. His steps were soft, barely audible against the creaky old floor of Spinner’s End as he climbed down the stairs and into the hallway.

The corridor was narrow and shadowed, but he knew the way well enough by now. His heart pounded in his ears, his breath quickening with each step. He felt almost giddy, getting her back. 

He reached the kitchen, moving towards the back door leading outside, glancing back briefly to make sure he was still alone. His footsteps felt unnaturally loud as he stepped past the garden, the cool air biting at his skin. The shed loomed at the end of the yard, a dark silhouette in the pale moonlight. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with the latch, but he didn’t pause. There was no hesitation in him, no second guessing. He felt an uncontrollable urge pushing him forward. 

His thoughts, however, were spiraling. That familiar darkness creeping in like the night sky at dusk. Maybe she didn’t want to see him. Maybe she was mad at him for abandoning her. Maybe she didn’t love him anymore. 

But he let those thoughts wash over him. He wanted to be selfish, he had to have the picture, no matter what. 

Inside, the shed was dark and damp. Everything was just as he left it. But as he stepped forward, Harry was pulled back, his mind flooding with vivid, violent images.

He could see Malfoy in front of him, sprawled out on the floor, pale and bloodied. The anger—no, the hatred —, he had felt that night, burning through him like an all consuming wildfire, came rushing back with a force that nearly knocked him off balance. He remembered how Malfoy crumpled, how he trembled in fear, eyes glassy with tears as Harry stood above him. The twisted thrill that had surged through him as he realized the damage he had done. The way he wanted to keep going, to make Malfoy suffer more, to make him squirm, to push him right to the edge of death—and maybe even beyond. 

Now, standing in the doorway of the shed, Harry could still feel it—the same dark flame burning just beneath the surface. The feeling barely flickered in his mind before being swallowed by a deeper, gnawing need. He was so close. So close to having her back. His heart pounded as he wrenched the door open further, rusted hinges creaking loudly in the night. 

Harry felt his breath hitch in his throat as his eyes scanned the inside. The small space was in disarray, clutter from the shelves knocked over and furniture askew. He thought again of Malfoy on the ground, how hard Harry had hit him, the force whipping him into the wall, shelves jolting, his body sliding down. 

But none of it mattered now. He needed to find her. 

He stepped in further, his breath quickening, hands shaking as he began tearing through the shed. Boxes were shoved aside, old tools clattered to the floor, anything in his path was discarded with barely a thought. Desperation gnawed at him, a frantic edge creeping into his movements as he searched. The box where she had been—where he knew she had been hidden, safe before Malfoy—was still empty. His heart pounded painfully against his ribs.

Panic started to cloud his mind. Where was she? His mum’s picture— her smile —he needed to see it, to hold onto it. Hold onto her. 

He ripped another box off the ground, breathing harshly, but again, nothing. His chest felt tight, like he couldn’t breathe, like the walls of the shed were closing in on him. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, and his hands shook as he threw aside another box.

The air felt thick, heavy with his anger and frustration. He couldn’t find her. His mum . He was failing. His throat burned as he swallowed back the panic, but it was there, creeping closer with every second that passed without finding her.

And then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw it. 

A small, worn paper, flipped onto its back, edges yellowed and partially covered in dirt by the wall near the door. For a moment, Harry’s heart stopped. He felt a surge of relief so strong it made him dizzy. He stumbled toward it, dropping to his knees and reaching for the picture with trembling hands. His fingers brushed the edge of the frame, and there she was—his mum, smiling up at him from the faded photograph.

He held the picture close to his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. She was here. He was holding her, and she was alive.

He hadn’t saved her then, but by Merlin, he was going to keep her now. This time, no one would take her away.

And then, before he could even stand, the shed door creaked open again. 

Harry whipped around, clutching her tighter against him, his heart racing. 

“Potter.” Snape’s voice was low, dangerous. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Harry glared at him, his body tensing, gripping his mum closer to his chest, hands shaking with barely-contained rage. 

At the motion, Snape’s sharp gaze slid downward, towards her. Her face was hidden in Harry’s chest, but it seemed Snape was more familiar with the photograph than he thought. Snape’s eyes widened, and he took a quick, shallow inhale as his hands visibly clenched at his sides. 

“That picture—” Snape stepped closer, his face hardening and furious, eyes never leaving where she was clutched desperately in Harry’s hands, “---belongs to me.”

Harry’s grip tightened further. His heart hammered in his chest, the dark flame inside him growing hotter, more consuming, more seeking. He could feel it now—the same feeling he had felt with Malfoy, swirling inside him, begging to be unleashed. 

He shook his head, slowly, stiffly, but filled with an icy determination. 

Snape’s eyes sparked to life, taking a menacing step forward, his gaze still fixed to Harry’s clenched fist around the photo. “You have no right to that picture. Give it to me.”

No right? She was all he had left . Something inside Harry snapped. The darkness flared, filling his veins with a cold, burning rage. He felt his magic pulse around him, raw and wild, and he didn’t bother reaching for the wand in his pocket. He didn’t need it. The anger was enough. 

He glared at the man in front of him, body trembling. His mind buzzed, a hot, angry pulse that quickened with every second. 

Snape took another step closer, his body oddly still, like he was holding something back, something dangerous. “Give. It. To. Me.”

Harry’s throat constricted. He wanted to demand that she was his. All he had left . But his voice failed. Again. Instead, his hands trembled harder, and a sickening, living heat ran through his veins. 

There was no voice guiding him—nothing as clear as words in his head. But the anger, the bloodlust, felt alien. It felt controlling. It coiled through him, feeding on his grief, amplifying every raw edge of his pain. He could feel it surging, swelling, pressing against the walls of his chest, hiding inside the crevices of his ribs, dark and corrosive, filling up the hollow spaces. 

Make him suffer.

It was a whispering echo inside his own anger, pushing at the boundaries of his control. He wanted to make Snape feel what he was feeling, make him understand the hurt , the betrayal —the loss.

He didn’t get why Snape wanted the picture so bad. Why he was trying to take her away from him. It wasn’t fair. 

His magic surged, crackling in the air around him, and Harry’s eyes bore into Snape's, the intensity of it like a physical force. He didn’t know what was happening, but something inside him reached —a force, invisible yet palpable, lasing out like a storm. His vision darkened at the edges as he unknowingly and violently forced his way into Snape’s mind. 

He was somewhere warm, sunlit, and full of life. It took a second for Harry to realize what he was seeing—Snape’s memory, so vivid, and so disorienting it made him feel like an intruder. He was in the middle of a grassy field, with large, vibrant sunflowers sticking out of the ground every other patch. He recognized the location from the picture, and he found himself quickly turning his head towards the sound of children laughing, and there she was. His mum.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. She looked even younger than she did in the picture, probably only eight or nine, with long, fiery red hair flowing behind her as she ran through the field, laughing. She was chasing after a dark haired boy whose smile, though smaller than the girls, did not deter from the pure happiness that enveloped him. It took Harry a moment to recognize him—Snape. 

Harry’s heart twisted. He’d gathered that they were childhood friends from the photo, but seeing it, seeing them together, was completely different.  Lily, his mum , was so carefree and full of light, and there was Snape, his face uncharacteristically softened, eyes filled with something close to admiration as he twisted his head to watch her run behind. 

They stopped at the edge of a creek, where Lily knelt down, her hand hovering above the water. Her concentration was intense as she stared into the ripples, and with a flick of her wrist, the water rose up, shimmering in the sunlight.

Snape’s eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant, Lily,” he said, his voice light and unburdened, the voice of a boy who hadn’t yet become the man Harry knew.

Harry felt his heart clench. His mum had shared this with Snape—this magic, this joy —and Snape had cared for her. It was undeniable. The way he looked at her, the way he stood close to her as if she was his entire world. Why hadn’t Snape ever told him? All the years of bitter cruelty—and Snape had this in his past. Had her. 

The scene shifted again, and Harry’s stomach dropped.

Now, they were older. Gone was the childlike, care-free expression. Lily stood with her arms crossed, her expression strained, her green eyes flashing with a mix of hurt and anger. Snape stood in front of her, younger but already hardened by bitterness. 

“You called me a Mudblood.” She whispered, her voice breaking with hurt. 

Snape flinched, regret flashing in his dark eyes. “It was a mistake. You don’t understand–”

Lily’s face twisted, her lips trembling as if she was fighting to keep her composure, her eyes glistening with tears. “You’ve chosen them , Severus! You think I don’t see it?” Her voice wavered, full of pain, full of betrayal. 

“I’m not one of them , Lily! You know me!” Snape’s voice broke, raw and pleading, but there was an edge to it, the kind Harry recognized too well—the defensiveness laced with cruelty.

“Severus, I can’t—” Her voice broke, and she stepped back from him. “I can’t follow you down this path.”

Snape reached for her, his hand trembling. “Don’t do this. Lily, please, I’m trying—”

“You’re not” she whispered, shaking her head and pushing his hand away. “You’re choosing them over me.”

The connection snapped violently, and Harry staggered back, gasping for breath. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind reeling from the flood of Snape’s emotions, reeling from the memory he hadn’t meant to see. His grip tightened around the photograph, his mother’s face staring back at him, but now it felt different. The darkness inside him writhed, his rage bubbling dangerously close to the surface, but there was something else there too—something more painful than anger. Grief. A grief that wasn’t his own.

Snape’s voice, strained, low, and furious , cut through the silence. “How dare you.”

But Harry wasn’t listening. He couldn’t shake the image of his mum’s face—her devastated expression as she looked at Snape, her eyes desperately searching for her friend but only finding Snape who had betrayed her. 

He hurt her. Snape hurt his mum. 

He wanted to scream, to lash out, to break something— someone. 

“Give me the picture, Potter!” Snape’s voice roared out, voice bellowing in the small shed. The force of it shook Harry to his core, but he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. His mind was drowning, swirling with thoughts so dark, so terrible, they almost didn’t feel like his own. 

Harry frantically shook his head. No . Snape couldn’t do this. He couldn’t take her away from him. Not Now. Not when he had just gotten her back. 

Snape moved forward, but Harry was already retreating into himself, into the storm inside his mind, the picture clutched to his chest like a lifeline. His breathing quickened, his pulse pounding in his ears, and the desire to lash out, to hurt Snape, gnawed at him with relentless force. He could physically feel a simmering burn pressing against his skin, demanding and dark. 

And then the thoughts came, cutting through the haze like shards of glass. 

Make him suffer. 

The force whispered, curling around his heart, insidious and cold.

He deserves to suffer.

The air between them grew thicker, denser. Harry could feel his magic rising, uncontrollable, feeding off the anger and grief like a fire being stoked. But it wasn’t just his anger anymore—it was something foreign, darker, like a shadow looming over him, feeding him thoughts that made his skin crawl. 

Break him. He’s nothing. A coward. 

The voice pulsed in rhythm with his own thoughts, twisting them until he couldn’t tell where his end and it began. It was vicious, seething with contempt, telling him to hurt, to break, to kill.

His vision blurred as the world narrowed to the man in front of him. Snape. The man who had hurt his mum. The man who had made her cry. 

Snape’s face was a mask of wariness now, no longer just cold disdain. He saw something in Harry that worried him. That he recognized. 

Harry’s body stiffened as the urge to strike surged within him. He could feel his magic, wild and unstable, reaching out, begging for release. The anger twisted into something deeper, more dangerous. He wanted to hurt Snape, make him feel every bit of the pain he was carrying.

His throat was tight, locked, but his mind screamed, You hurt her. You made her cry.

Snape’s black eyes widened, and Harry could see the flicker of grief and fear beneath.

He could feel it rising, the same sick, twisted pleasure he had felt in his dream—the dream where he was Voldemort. But this wasn’t a dream. This was real. And the darkness was here, gnawing at the edges of his mind, consuming him, pulling him under. 

It felt as though a shadow was crawling up his spine, thick and suffocating, clawing its way through him, aching, demanding, begging. It was as though he was starving , and without realizing it, Harry’s fingers twitched, and the air around Snape shifted. It was subtle at first, a strange ripple, like a chill running through the room. Then it happened. He could feel the blood within Snape’s veins, the way it pulsed, and, without fully understanding what he was doing, he pulled. It was slight—a tug, as though he was wrenching it to a slow, gradual, stop in the palm of his hands. 

And the most peculiar thing happened. Snape’s breath halted. Not in the way one might pause to think or out of shock—it stopped. His pale skin, already ghostly pale in the dim light of the shed, suddenly took on a strange, bluish tinge, much like the hue Harry had seen wash over Malfoy. A sharp chill seemed to pass through the room, the air thickening as if infused with something unnatural. 

Snape’s hand flew instinctively to his chest, grasping at the fabric of his dark coat as though trying to wrench something free. His fingers curled, clutching at his sternum, his black eyes widening as if searching for air that simply wasn’t there. His lips parted, but no sound escaped.

A strange tremor rippled through Snape’s body as he took a staggering step back, the movement clumsy, as if his legs were struggling to respond. 

For the briefest moment, Harry saw it: fear. True, undiluted fear, flashing across Snape’s face.

A small part of Harry wondered what would happen if he just kept pulling, kept tugging at that threat of life he was gripping so tightly. Would Snape collapse, like Malfoy had? Would he fall to his knees, gasping for breath?

Would he die?

Snape’s lips parted again as the thought danced across Harry’s mind, and this time, a faint, ragged gasp tore from him. It was raw, a sound full of strain and desperation. He was struggling to breathe. His chest heaved in shallow, futile attempts to draw air, but the grip Harry had on him would not relent. 

“Potter,” Snape finally managed, his voice barely a rasp, strained with pain. His eyes locked onto Harry’s, dark and glinting with something between fury and terror. “Don’t—”

But his words faltered as Harry’s hold flickered. 

The shadow darkened around him, as if solidifying, growing heavier, almost sentient. Harry could feel it crawling toward Snape, twisting and reaching for him. But he couldn’t fully control it, didn’t understand it.

And yet, Harry didn’t want to stop.

His body felt electrified, every nerve alive, his magic thrumming. He could feel Snape’s pulse, faint but insistent, drumming inside Harry’s own skull. The power twisted, coiled tighter, and with it, a strange, faint, and unnatural pull on Snape’s very life force. 

It was subtle but undeniable. 

It was intoxicating. 

He wanted to hurt Snape, and this dark, creeping force was feeding on that desire, amplifying it. 

Snape’s face twitched, a barely controlled wince passing across his features. His fingers were still clutching at his chest, and Harry could see the pulse of his blood, faint but insistent, thrumming beneath the surface of Snape’s skin. It was there, just within reach, waiting to be taken, and Harry’s magic responded to it. It wanted more

“Potter,” he rasped again, the word catching in his throat. This time, his voice carried a warning, low and laced with urgency. “Stop. You—don’t understand what you’re doing.”

But Harry couldn’t stop. His magic was slipping further out of control, and even as he tried to pull it back, to rein it in, it only surged in response, and Harry didn’t know if he wanted to stop.

“You can’t control it, can you?” Snape’s voice was hoarse, but there was a strange softness to it, a quiet resignation. “You’re on the edge, and you don’t even know what’s waiting for you on the other side.”

Harry wanted Snape to shut up. He could shut him up. It would be so easy —all Harry had to do was reach out and pull. 

Snape’s expression hardened again. “Potter,” he growled, his voice regaining a fraction of its usual sharpness despite the strain, “Do not—”

Harry drifted back to the memory, at his mum’s heartbreak. He wondered if Snape had begged for forgiveness then. 

Would he beg now?

That dark fire surged again, but he didn’t pay it mind. He didn’t care. All he could see was Snape, the man who had hurt her, who stood now with that cold, guarded look on his face as if nothing mattered to him. 

As if Lily hadn’t mattered.

“You hurt my mum.” Harry’s voice finally burst out in a ragged whisper, trembling with fury, before his throat tightened again, cutting him off.

Snape froze for a second, the words hanging in the air between them. It was the first time Harry had spoken in weeks—since everything had fallen apart. But Harry didn’t feel any sense of control or relief. His chest still heaved with the effort to contain his magic, and his voice felt strangled, as if it had already betrayed him by uttering those few words.

“I loved her.” Snape muttered, almost too low to be heard. 

The words hit Harry like a slap. He didn’t care about Snape’s so-called love. It wasn’t enough. He still hurt her. His chest heaved with the effort of holding back the torrent of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. All he felt was hate, an all consuming, burning, rage. He hated the man in front of him. 

He could feel the darkness creeping in, twisting his thoughts. It whispered to him, wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing tighter and tighter until he could barely breathe. He was going to hurt Snape, make him feel the same pain, the same loss. Make him feel her pain. His magic pulsed beneath his skin. 

Snape took another step forward, more carefully this time, his voice low and biting. “This isn’t what Lily would want.”

Harry’s grip on the photograph tightened, and the anger flared again, dangerously close to the surface. She’s mine. You don’t get to speak for her. He didn’t need words to communicate the venom in his mind; the connection between them—the raw force of the magic that had poured out—was enough.

Suddenly, Harry’s thoughts poured from him, not through words, but through his magic. The emotion surged from his mind into Snape’s, and with it came a silent scream of she’s mine—my mum.

Snape flinched as if struck, but held his ground. His dark eyes looked sad, just for a moment, a rare flicker of vulnerability. But Harry wasn’t ready to let go.

His chest heaved, breath coming in ragged gasps, his magic seeming to shake the very foundation of the shed. Snape’s voice broke through the chaos again, strained, but no less sharp. “You wish to kill me, Potter? Is that what you want?”

Snape’s voice rose, shaky and full of fury. “Will it ease your suffering? To descend into this madness? Or will you merely become the very thing that killed your parents! Tell me, do you wish to stand in the Dark Lord’s place? To embrace his power, his cruelty? Is that your wish?!”

Snape’s voice seemed to slice through Harry’s defenses, tearing down the walls he had built around himself. His body shook as he tried to hold it in, but it was no use. The darkness was too much, the pain too deep. 

Snape took another cautious step forward, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “You want to kill me?” He repeated, voice quieter but no less dangerous. His black eyes bore into Harry’s, sharp and unyielding. “Do it, then. Strike me down.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel his magic, surging forward at his fingertips, begging for release. He wanted to do it. He was going to do it. He was going to kill him. The dark presence coursing through his veins howled in agreement, rising to meet the hate that was flooding every corner of his mind. 

But then Snape’s voice came again, colder this time, dripping with disdain. “You think she would want this, Potter? Do you think this is what Lily would have wanted for you? Go on, then. Follow the footsteps of the man who murdered her. Become the very thing she died protecting you from.”

The words hit Harry like a slap. He wasn’t like Voldemort. He wasn’t. 

He thought of the dark pleasure that threatened to consume him when saw fear flicker across Snape’s face. He thought of Malfoy, darting his eyes down from his, scared to even look at Harry. He thought of his parent’s, dead, killed by dark magic. And here he was, wanting to hurt people with it. 

 Just like Voldemort.

His throat tightened. This was wrong. He wasn’t like him. He couldn’t be.

He took a slow, shuddering breath and forced himself to look around the shed, his gaze sweeping over the scene in front of him as if he were seeing it for the first time. It was dark, the faint moonlight barely cutting through the grime on the windows, casting everything in a cold, eerie glow. The air felt thick, oppressive, almost as if the darkness itself was alive, curling around him, watching him. His heart hammered in his chest, every beat heavy with dread.

The ground beneath him was littered with scattered tools, overturned jars, bits of broken glass reflecting the pale light like shards of ice. It reminded him too much of the dream, the one where he had stood in Voldemort’s skin—that sick, twisted dream where everything had been just as dark, just as suffocating, just as violent. His pulse quickened as the memories clawed their way back to the surface, vivid and horrifying.

The room in the dream had been cold, too. But it wasn’t just the chill of the air—it was the coldness inside, that deep, gnawing emptiness, as if every shred of warmth, every spark of humanity had been ripped away. He had felt it then, in the dream, as he had stood in Voldemort’s body, looking down at his own hands. Not his hands. Voldemort’s hands. Pale, skeletal fingers, twitching with hunger for destruction, for pain. 

He was so hungry. 

He glanced down at his own hands now—his own fingers, trembling slightly as they hovered over the picture of his mum. They were still his hands, weren’t they? Not like Voldemort’s. But the magic that had coursed through them just moments ago had felt wrong, twisted, too much like his.

In the dream, he had been surrounded by distant chaos—objects broken, thrown aside, like the aftermath of some silent storm. The room had reeked of decay, of death, and the power in his veins had been intoxicating. But it wasn’t his power. It was Voldemort’s. Cold, dark, suffocating. And now, looking around the shed, Harry realized with a sinking horror that his violence, his anger, seemed to mirror Voldemort’s.

He could almost see it—the version of himself he had become in the dream—standing here, in this very room, pale and monstrous, with eyes that glowed red in the darkness, filled with nothing but malice. The cold certainty of Voldemort’s hatred, his need to destroy, to punish, had been so clear, so consuming, so borderline pleasuring. In the dream, it had felt natural, easy, like breathing—like he had always been meant to hold that kind of power.

And now, standing in the shed, the air still crackling with the aftermath of his outburst, it felt so terribly close, so terrifyingly real.

His breath hitched, and for a moment, Harry swore he could see himself, standing in Voldemort’s place, hands raised, poised to kill. It was the same feeling he had felt earlier, that creeping certainty that the monster wasn’t just in Voldemort—it was in him, too. It was part of him. Lurking, waiting for the chance to rise again.

He could still feel the dark magic curling around him, whispering in the corners of his mind. You could be like him. You could be great . The thought twisted inside him, making his stomach churn. He could almost feel Voldemort’s presence, as if it were a shadow behind him, watching, waiting for him to give in.

The darkness inside him recoiled, curling back into the shadows, though the temptation still lingered, still whispered in his ear. But it was weaker now, like a fire that had been doused with water, smoldering but no longer consuming. 

Harry’s gaze returned to the picture in his hands, his visions swimming as he stared at his mum’s face, her eyes so full of warmth, of love. And suddenly, everything in him ached for her. 

“I just…” Harry’s voice broke, raw, worn, and barely a whisper. His lips trembled as he struggled to get the words out. 

“I just want my mum.”

The words came out like a plea, barely above a whisper, but the vulnerability in them was shattering. His vision blurred with tears as the last of his strength gave way. He couldn’t hold it back anymore. He didn’t care about Snape’s betrayal, didn’t care about anything. He just wanted her back.

Before he could even process it, Snape’s arms were around him. The moment was so unexpected, so sudden, that Harry stiffened in shock. Snape wasn’t forcing him, wasn't demanding the photograph back. He was simply… there, holding Harry in the cold, darkened shed.

The dark magic in the air stuttered, faltered, and Harry felt the tension in his chest begin to unravel. The anger didn’t disappear, but it loosened its grip, retreating as the exhaustion of the confrontation settled into his bones.

“She wouldn’t want this,” Snape murmured, his voice low and hoarse, as if the words were being wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. “Lily wouldn’t want you to carry this. Let it go.”

Harry collapsed against Snape, shaking with quiet sobs. The photograph was still clutched tightly in his hands, his body trembling as the last remnants of his magic flickered out. His throat tightened again, choking him as silence took him once more. 

But Snape didn’t pull away. He held him, letting Harry fall apart in his arms. He didn’t offer any hollow reassurances, didn’t force Harry to say more.

He just…stayed.

Chapter Text

Harry wasn’t sure how long he remained crumpled on the floor. He should’ve felt vulnerable, exposed, with his cheek resting against the scratchy fabric of Snape’s old jumper, but he didn’t. The warmth of Snape’s arms enveloped his senses. It was a foreign sensation—a paradox of comfort and restraint. And yet, Harry felt overcome with an odd sense of safety. The shed seemed to breathe with them, the air thick and unmoving, like it was too afraid of shattering the moment. Snape’s embrace was stiff, hesitant, and awkward. It lacked the instinctual fluidity that came with practice, but that was precisely what made it bearable. The man was clearly uncertain of what to do. Yet, he seemed determined to hold onto the mess that was Harry Potter. 

It was strangely grounding, that hesitation—Snape, of all people, not knowing what to say or how to act. Attempting instead of doing. It was funny. 

Harry’s mind raced, grasping at the madness of it all. Here he was, wrapped up in the arms of his Professor who loathed him and living with both him and Malfoy, someone who also hated Harry and vice versa. His friends were nowhere to be found. Cedric was still dead, and so was his aunt. It was laughable—almost painfully so. Harry tried to suppress the chuckle rising in his throat, but it came out as a dry, trembling noise, his shoulders shaking until Snape’s arms stiffened further around him.

Did Snape think he’d lost it? Was he now realizing Harry wasn’t his father? That he was in fact his own person? Or was he considering that maybe, just maybe, Harry wasn’t merely an annoying child but a boy teetering on the edge of killing. 

Of killing him.

Was he scared, then?

Did he now see Harry as dark?

Was he dark, now?

His laughs quickly died out, shoulders growing still by the grim awareness of what he had almost done.

He had been about to murder Snape, pull at that beating pulse in his veins, grab and tug until the man was a heap on the floor like Harry currently was. 

He wasn’t sure who had been the real monster moments ago—himself or the dark presence that slithered into his thoughts. 

Maybe he was that dark presence. 

He had almost—

“Lily–-” Harry nearly flinched at the sound of his mum’s name on Snape’s lips, and he clutched the picture further into his chest. Snape shifted, clearing his throat, the familiar authority of his voice struggling to take root. He began reluctantly, as if uncertain where to start. “---your mother had a….rather unrelenting habit of scaling every tree within reach, regardless of how perilous the height.”

Harry, feeling disoriented by the sudden shift in conversation, blinked up at Snape, the haze in his mind lifting ever so slightly. Snape’s eyes were far away, tracing something in the shadows of the shed. 

He wasn’t speaking to Harry, not really. And yet, Harry found himself listening anyway. 

“I tried to convince her to stop—she never listened.” His voice held a curious softness, distant yet clear, the story a memory he seemed to recount to himself rather than to Harry. “She’d laugh and tell me I was too fearful, that I would never conquer anything if I stayed rooted to the ground forever.”

A faint image formed in Harry’s mind: a little girl with red hair and a bright, carefree laugh. For a moment, he could almost hear her teasing voice, could almost feel the warmth of her presence. 

“She’d tell me that time and time again, even when she scraped her knees bloody.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he listened, something in Snape’s voice piercing through his exhaustion. He stayed quiet, waiting, not daring to interrupt. There was something about the way Snape spoke about his mum, like he was tracing each word carefully, treading softly through the fragile pieces of his own past. 

Harry felt like a child, just for a moment. Borderline sat in Snape’s lap, and looking around dark clothing at the older man’s face with his full attention, eyes blinking away his tiredness.

He wanted to hear more about his mum. 

Snape still wasn’t looking his way though, his gaze never wavering from the corner in the shed.“Once, she had climbed so high she found herself stuck, calling for me to help her down.” There was a brief, bitter chuckle that didn't reach Snape’s eyes. “I climbed up after her but as I reached out with my hand, my foot slipped. There was a crack, and the branch broke. In my panic, I let go of her hand and—-” he paused, swallowing hard, “and found myself on the ground, alone. When I regained my senses and looked up, she was standing there, laughing—floating an inch above the ground.”

Harry tried to imagine that–his mum laughing. But it seemed impossible, that carefree image quickly drowned under her loss. 

After a few moments, Snape’s voice turned colder, almost resigned. “I never could reach her in the end.”

There was a heavy silence that followed. Snape’s shoulders were tense, his breathing slightly uneven, like he’d just laid something deeply personal at Harry’s feet and didn’t know how it had gotten there. It wasn’t an explanation for the years of torment Snape had inflicted—it wasn’t even an apology. But it was something real, something Harry had never known and should’ve—could’ve— and Harry felt the words like an ache, something sharp lodged beneath his ribs.

He didn’t know how to respond, or if he even could. He was so tired. Tired of anger, tired of grief, tired of not understanding why his life was this way. 

Almost instinctively, Harry reached out—not physically, but somewhere deeper, in a place he hadn’t fully grasped yet. He felt the edges of Snape’s words, something raw beneath the coldness, and he clung to it, desperate for answers.

Why didn’t you tell me you knew her?

Snape stiffened, clearly startled by another unexpected intrusion of Harry’s voice in his mind. The grip around Harry’s shoulders tightened, his breath catching in what was most likely alarm as he pulled himself from the memory. For a moment, Harry thought Snape might push him away. But it passed, and Snape seemed to gather himself, releasing a slow exhale. 

“It’s….complicated.” Snape replied through gritted teeth. 

Complicated for me or for you?

Snape’s grip tightened again, his eyes darkening. “Lily…she was—” He struggled to find the words, his voice tight and guarded. “Your mother was a reminder of what I lost—a good I hurt through my own selfish choices.”

Harry’s breath hitched, and Snape’s expression shifted, a flash of guilt crossing his features. He felt Snape’s mind tense against his own, and he somehow knew that the man was fortifying his defenses, closing the door to whatever truth lay beyond. 

You hurt her.

It was an accusation—bitter, aching, and cold. But Harry was so tired, and he wasn’t sure how sharp his bite was anymore. 

Snape looked away further, as if shielding himself from the jab. 

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice harsh. “I did.”

Harry wanted to scream at him, to move off his position on the floor and rage against the injustice of it all. But he was too drained, too weary of the anger, too spent to let that darkness crawl out again, fearful of being unable to reel it in. So he stayed silent, letting Snape’s words hang in the air. 

“Why have you been so quiet?” Snape’s voice was almost too soft—too borderline caring. It caught Harry off guard, and he looked up to find Snape’s eyes fixed on him, searching for something. Harry bristled, a spark of resentment building, and his thoughts turned sharp. 

Why now? Why did he care now?

Why do you hate me?

Snape blinked, taken aback. But Harry wasn’t done. 

Is it my skin? Harry’s thoughts spat with venom. His voice shook, the bitterness rising like bile. My hair? My glasses?

“Potter–” Snape’s tone was tight, almost a warning.

My face, right? Harry pressed, voice taut, pushing through the hurt that tightened in his chest. That’s it. You can’t stand the sight of me because I look like him.

Snape froze, his body going still as though the words had locked him in place. His gaze was fixed firmly on Harry, and yet, Harry wondered if he was seeing him at all. 

You hate me because I have his face. You always have. 

Snape grew stricken and lowered his gaze. Harry wondered if he had realized it, then. The unfairness. The cruelty. Blaming Harry for something he had no control over, blaming him for existing as a means of blaming her for not choosing him.  

What’s it like, Professor? Harry continued, his mind a mocking whisper, relentless and full of bite. Being so pathetic. Blaming me because you lost her. 

The silence that followed was thick, aching. Harry could feel his own heartbeat in his ears, could hear his harsh breaths, and a small part of him wanted to take the words back. To forget about this whole exchange. To go back to sleep and hope that morning would never come. Another part of him wanted to drive them deeper, to shove and tug at the other man like a child throwing a tantrum, see how long it would take to shatter whatever cold resolve Snape kept buried beneath his composure. 

I’m glad she cut ties with you. Harry added, voice breaking slightly but pressing on, feeding into that part of him that thinks he deserves to throw a tantrum, deserves to be mean. 

You didn't deserve to be her friend. 

Something in Snape’s face broke then—a flinch, his features twisting as if Harry’s words had finally pierced whatever shield he’d held onto, as if the words had been hovering outside said shield for years, there but kept at distance, and now were in his face: bitter and real.

I hate you .

The shed felt suffocating, walls closing in as his frustration clawed its way out, looking for something to break. To throw something against the wall. To hurt someone. Anything. To make Snape look at him , to acknowledge him. He wanted Snape to look him in the eye and see Harry as something real and not the ghost of James Potter. 

He snapped, and in one furious motion, he brought his fist out of the confines of Snape’s arms against the wall. The shed rattled, tools and supplies shaking on their shelves. 

Look at me! His voice was a shout inside the other’s head, cracking with desperation. Why won’t you look at me?! Why don’t you see me?! Why does no one see me?! 

His thoughts seemed to choke off in a jumble of hysterics but Harry didn't care. 

What was-

Was I not goo-

I can’t–

Control-

I Hate you all!

Silence echoed in response, and Harry’s mind swirled with anguish as Snape’s arms tightened around him. 

“Does it feel good?” Snape’s voice was cold, deliberate, cutting through the haze. “Letting it out.”

Harry stared, struggling to catch his breath, words halting. 

“What are you blaming yourself for?” Snape’s tone shifted, less an accusation, more something else, something Harry couldn’t quite grasp.

Harry’s thoughts flared up again, harsher and more chaotic than ever. What are you talking about?!

“I am aware of your anger,—” Snape paused, his gaze never wavering from Harry’s. “But tell me this—at whom, exactly, is it directed?”

You! I’m angry at you! The thoughts poured out like a flood. I am angry at Malfoy and his stupid, pretentious attitude! I am angry at Dumbledore! He was supposed to protect me! Hogwarts is supposed to be safe! It never is! His breathing became more erratic, words tumbling out with no restraint. 

I am angry at my friends! Friends are supposed to be there for one another and they have not sent me one letter!! Not one! His fists shook, clenched so tight against Snape’s chest he could feel his nails breaking skin. Cedric got himself killed just by being my friend! He wanted to take the cup together! He was just being a good person, and he died!

Harry was shaking now, his thoughts an uncontrollable, painful storm. 

My parents—they had me, and they’re dead! They were supposed to be here! How could they do that? How could they die? They were supposed to keep me safe, but they’re not, they can’t! And I’ve never felt safe! Not once! And Aunt Petunia—she…. His voice cracked, unable to contain the bitter remorse. She’s gone because I said…because I was—It’s all my fault–

“Harry.” Snape’s voice cut in, grounding, his hand suddenly gripping Harry’s shoulder, as if anchoring him. 

Harry’s gaze lifted, started by the first name, and in that brief, vulnerable moment, his thoughts whispered. Would my parents….would they be ashamed of me?

Snape’s expression tightened, sorrow and something like regret tracing faint lines across his face. His grip was gentle but firm. “No,” he said quietly. “They would not be ashamed of you”

I’ve ruined so many people’s lives. Cedric. My parents. Aunt Petunia. They’re all gone because of me. His thoughts scattered, became quiet.  

It would be better If I’d never existed. 

Snape froze again but kept his grip firm, unwavering, and for some reason, Harry found himself desperate to decipher his reaction. 

Maybe, to see if someone cared. 

Snape’s face grew still, unreadable, and his gaze was steady, piercing. “You are not to blame, Harry,” he said, voice quiet but final. “Not for your parents, not for Cedric. Their deaths were not the work of a child, but the result of a madman’s quest for power. None of this can be laid at your feet. None . While I do not know what transpired with your Aunt—”

Exactly. You don’t. You don’t know what I did. 

“Then enlighten me.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to answer. He didn’t even know if he had an answer anymore. But the warmth of Snape’s embrace was oddly grounding and so, so painfully foreign , that for some inexplicable reason, Harry felt safe enough to try. 

My aunt —his voice faltered in Snape’s mind, and he tried again. It’s my fault.

Snape’s brow furrowed. “Your fault?” He repeated slowly. “What, precisely, are you blaming yourself for?”

Harry’s vision blurred, and he had to blink several times to clear it. The words felt like lead in his chest, suffocating him. He could feel them just under his skin, on the tips of his teeth, under his tongue, but he couldn’t hold them in any longer. He couldn’t keep it all locked away. It was too much.

Aunt Petunia killed herself. 

Snape’s breath hitched, and Harry felt the older man freeze against him. He began to brace himself,  expecting Snape to pull away, to let go in disgust, but instead, Snape’s grip tightened, almost instinctual. 

Almost understanding.

Harry realized it was the first time he had set it out loud. 

What she had done. What he had caused . 

Snape’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Do you know,” he began softly, almost as if testing the waters, “the worst part about grief?”

Harry didn’t respond, didn’t move. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to.

“It’s not the loss,” Snape continued, voice still a bit hesitant, but firmer now. “It’s not the tears. It’s not even the endless pity from people who have no idea what to say to you.”

He paused, his arms still rigid, as if holding Harry was a task that demanded every ounce of his strength.

“It’s the silence,” Snape murmured, almost to himself. “The moments when it's just you and your thoughts, and you become acutely aware of that hole inside you. Empty, yet all consuming. You find yourself alone. With your anger, your guilt, your grief—all of it festering. And it eats away at you, until there’s nothing left but that hole. 

Harry felt Snape’s words vibrating through the fabric between them, felt their weight settle over him. He clenched his fists, trying to ignore the other man. He had expected a lecture, or perhaps a sharp retort about his stupidity. 

But Snape wasn’t lecturing.

And Harry was so tired. 

And Snape really sounded like he understood .

And, for some reason, understanding was all Harry wanted.

He felt the words forming in his mind before he could stop them.

Why are you telling me this?

Snape’s eyes flickered, a flash of something raw and vulnerable before his expression closed off again. “Because Harry," he replied quietly, “someone should have told me.”

The sound of his own name from Snape’s mouth again caught Harry off guard. He wasn’t used to hearing it like that—not from Snape. The usual sarcasm or disdain was absent, so was “Potter.” It left Harry unnervingly vulnerable, unsure of how to respond. For a split second, he felt a strange warmth, an odd comfort that he couldn’t reconcile with the man in front of him. 

He kept quiet, letting the changing dynamic settle thickly between them. 

They stayed there for a few moments longer, neither moving, until Snape released a long, slow breath and finally let go. He leaned back, putting a bit of distance between them, as if sensing Harry needed some space to comprehend it all. But Harry remained where he was, his back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up defensively.

He ignored how his body seemed to mourn the contact.

Snape turned slightly, adjusting himself to sit more comfortably, and Harry realized that he wasn’t planning to leave. He wondered, distantly, how long Snape intended to stay here, in this old shed filled with ghosts and memories neither of them were willing to let go of.

“After my mother took her life,” Snape began, his voice low, almost conversational, “I spent the better part of my youth convincing myself it was my fault.”

Harry glanced up, startled. He didn’t expect Snape to keep talking—let alone to again share something so personal. But, like before, Snape wasn’t looking at him; his eyes were fixed on some faraway point, his hands resting loosely in his lap.

It seemed he too needed some space to comprehend it all. 

“I thought,” Snape continued, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “that if I had been a better son, a better person, she might have stayed. I was so certain that my inadequacy drove her away—that I wasn’t worth fighting for.”

The confession hung heavy in the air between them, like dust specks in sunlight.

“But the thing is, Potter,” Snape’s voice took on a sharper edge, as if he were daring Harry to argue, “you cannot shoulder the blame for someone else’s choices. My mother’s decision was never a reflection of my worth; it was hers alone. It wasn’t my fault. And it wasn’t yours, either.”

Harry looked away, his chest tightening. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to think about Aunt Petunia—about Cedric—about everything he had lost.

You don’t know that. You don’t know what happened.

“Perhaps I don’t,” Snape acknowledged, his tone matter-of-fact. “But I know what it feels like to be angry at the world for its cruelty. I know what it’s like to want to lash out—to hurt someone, anyone—just to deflect the pain elsewhere. To bite at the hand that feeds.”

Harry felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block them out, but Snape’s voice was relentless.

“You believe yourself a monster,” Snape continued, his voice devoid of judgment. “You fear that if you open your mouth, all of that rage and guilt will pour out, destroying everything in its wake. And so, you stay silent. You bury it deep, convincing yourself that if you do not confront it, it will not consume you.”

Harry’s breathing was ragged now, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t want to listen, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

“You’re not a monster, Harry,” Snape said quietly. “You’re a boy who has lost more than anyone should ever have to lose. But you are not immune to consumption. And this act—suffocating under the pretense of silence—will endanger both yourself and those around you.”

Harry’s eyes burned, and he felt his defenses crumbling. He tried to hold on, to keep everything locked away, but the words were too heavy, too real. He couldn’t breathe.

Snape seemed to sense his breaking point, and his voice softened again, becoming almost unbearably gentle. “I’m not asking you to forgive yourself,” he said, his eyes meeting Harry’s, seeing instead of looking for the first time. “But you need to stop blaming yourself for things that were never your fault.” 

Harry felt something inside him snap, a dam breaking beneath the weight of Snape’s words. The anger, the grief, the guilt—it all came rushing out, and he couldn’t stop it. He projected desperately, the words spilling into Snape’s mind like a rush of wind.

It’s all my fault. 

I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save Cedric. I couldn’t save any of them. 

I killed them all.

“You’re wrong,” Snape replied, his voice trembling with something Harry couldn’t identify. “You can’t save everyone, Harry. No one can.”

But I should’ve—

“No,” Snape cut him off, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’re not responsible for the choices others make, or the lives others lose. You can only control your own actions—your own choices. And I know you well enough to say that you always try to do what’s right, even when it’s not easy. Even if it harms you.”

Harry shook his head, unable to accept it. He didn’t want to accept it. 

You don’t know me.

“You have your mother’s ambition.” Snape went on, his eyes tracing that invisible outline in the corner again. “And contrary to popular belief, it was not James Potter who gave you your reckless capacity for self-sacrifice. That, too, came from Lily. Her fierce determination to protect those she loved—even at great cost—lives in you.” He paused, his expression shifting as if he was piecing together the final strands of a puzzle. “So does her guilt, her temper, her stubbornness. Even her tendency to starve herself when she was angry or upset.” He fixed Harry with a knowing look. 

Harry swallowed hard, feeling a mix of discomfort and longing.

“When I look at you,” Snape continued, his voice, normally sharp and precise, softened into something nearly gentle, but still firm. “I see your mother. Always. She’s there in your nose and your eyes, in your expression, in your frustration, and in the sharp set of your chin. You are every bit of Lily as you are yourself.”

Snape paused again, and for a moment, it seemed as if he was choosing his next words with great care. “I often find myself angry when I look at you because I do see James. I see him with her . I see what I lost.”

“Your mother once told me,” Snape continued, his voice distant again, “that people aren’t defined by their mistakes, but by how they choose to move forward from them. And I—”

Snape stopped and turned his head back towards Harry. 

"I’ve failed your mother, and I’ve failed you. For that, Harry, I apologize.”

Snape took a measured breath whilst Harry seemed to lose his entirely. 

“Lily believed in you. She loved you.” Snape said softly. “She would want you to forgive yourself.” 

Harry felt tears prick at his eyes, and he blinked furiously, clutching the picture of his mum closer to his chest as he tried to hold them back. But he couldn’t. Not anymore.

He felt like such a cry-baby.

The words were a lifeline, and Harry felt himself reaching out, clinging to them as the storm inside him began to subside.

It’s not your fault.

Snape’s voice echoed in his mind, over and over, until the darkness began to recede.

It’s not your fault.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry let himself believe it.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harry awoke uncomfortably warm and confused. He was in his bed with the covers folded almost deliberately over his body. His room was bathed in a soft light, and for a moment, he just laid there, his muscles heavy and mind still halfway wrapped in sleep. He slowly reached over for his glasses and, blinking with clear vision, he turned his head and squinted at the clock on the nightstand. The red numbers blurred momentarily before settling into focus. 

10:40 a.m.

His heart seized and Harry shot up, sheets rustling as he scrambled to sit upright. He hadn’t meant to sleep in. Panic started clawing at his insides, images of Uncle Vernon’s looming figure rushing back, of Aunt Petunia’s sharp reprimands for being lazy, of Snape barging in, an angry lecture and berate—

Snape. 

The events of the previous night washed over him in disjointed flashes. 

Harry’s breath hitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shove the memories back into the far corners of his mind. 

But they refused to stay buried. He saw Snape’s face—his features set in an expression of anger, fear, and…guilt? What was he guilty about? Snape had stared at the picture that had been clutched in Harry’s hands, at his mum,  and he looked so—-

He remembered the sheer desperation to hold onto that picture, and the anger—no, not just anger. Rage. A seething, consuming rage that had burned so hot the embers had threatened to swallow him whole. 

And, Oh, Merlin, had Snape carried him inside? 

But then he saw it—the burgundy notebook left open on the nightstand, its spine creased and the pages splayed out. In Snape’s familiar, spidery script, there were words written with deliberate precision:

You are permitted to sleep in—your world will not crumble to ruin. However, should you find yourself compelled to panic, by all means, return to your bed and feign productivity.

Harry stared at the handwriting, trying to grasp onto the dry humor in Snape’s note, but it was hard. Not just because of Snape’s odd, almost Victorian way of speaking, but because—-

He almost killed him. 

He had tried .

And—Oh, God—Aunt Petunia.  

He hadn’t meant to blurt that out. 

Why had he done that? What was wrong with him?

Was he so un-used to any kind of comfort that he would let everything out with a mere hug?

Was he that pathetic? 

But Snape hadn’t judged him. 

Instead, Harry had seen a glimpse of something raw in Snape’s eyes last night, something that he wasn’t used to seeing in someone who had always seemed so impenetrable. 

No, Snape didn’t judge him. 

And Harry didn’t know what to do with that. How to feel. 

Snape had told him it wasn’t his fault. Harry had believed it then. Just in that moment. 

But now, in the stark light of day, that feeling of being understood seemed so far away, so foreign. 

It was quickly being buried under years of torment by the older man. 

Harry reached up and absently rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the stiffness there slowly ebb away. He let out a slow breath, trying to ground himself.

The thought of facing Snape again made his stomach churn, but he couldn’t stay hidden away in his room forever. He dragged his feet over the edge of the bed and slipped out of the room, moving cautiously. The house was quiet, almost like it was watching him. Waiting. 

He crept downstairs, making sure to avoid the creaky portions of each step. As he passed the living room, he was met with a figure in the corner of his eye, and he hesitated in the doorway, pulse hammering in his ears. 

Snape was seated on the couch, slightly hunched over and quill moving over parchment in a steady, practiced rhythm. A mug steamed beside him. His expression was focused, features stern in the morning light.

Harry stood there, trying to gather the courage to step forward, but all he could think about was the way Snape had looked at him last night and what he had said.

It’s not your fault

Without lifting his gaze, Snape’s voice sliced through the silence. “It’s rude to stare.”

Harry stiffened, his heart lurching. It took every ounce of willpower not to turn and bolt from the room. Instead, he stayed rooted to the spot, trying to quell the rising panic. How long had Snape known he was there? Snape had always been hyper-aware of his surroundings. Or maybe Harry had just become that predictable.

Snape’s quill paused for a split second, seeming to read his mind. He slowly looked up, raising an eyebrow. “You are not as subtle as you think,” He said, his voice strict and composed, as if last night had never happened. 

Harry felt a surge of frustration at Snape’s apparent nonchalance. How could the other man just sit there, after everything? After he almost—

“What, precisely, would you like me to do?” Snape continued, turning the parchment over with deliberate precision. 

Harry froze, face flushing with embarrassment. He didn’t realize he had been projecting. 

Snape set down his quill and leaned back slightly, regarding Harry with a level gaze. “Dwell on the events of last night indefinitely? Or perhaps continuously remind you of what transpired?” 

Harry shifted his gaze down to his shoes, unsure of how to respond. 

Snape seemed to study him for a long moment before he spoke again. “We cannot change what happened,” he said, his voice quieter, less biting. “But what we can do is ensure it does not happen again.”

Harry lifted his head up, meeting Snape’s gaze. The man didn’t seem angry, but Harry had seen plenty of how fast the feeling could emerge. Maybe Snape was hiding it? Waiting for the right moment to strike, feigning normalcy when everything was but. 

Uncle Vernon did that sometimes too. 

He hoped the anger would be swift and blunt. He hated when it was left to simmer. 

“There are methods,” Snape continued, watching him closely. “Disciplines designed to prevent such incidents. To master your emotions and shield your mind from external intrusion or influence.”

External intrusion..? What did Snape mean by that? 

What Methods?

Snape inclined his head, his gaze never leaving Harry’s face. “Not spells,” he clarified, his voice taking on that familiar lecturing tone. “A discipline known as Occlumency.” He paused, setting his quill down on the table. “It involves clearing one’s mind, suppressing your emotions and thoughts. Occlumency is a defense, a means of preventing others from accessing your mind without your consent. It also serves to discipline and strengthen your mental defenses, allowing you to better control your emotions and impulses. It is an obscure branch of magic, but highly useful, especially for you.”

Why?

“The Dark Lord is infamous in Legilimency.” Snape replied, “Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked easily—weak peo—” he paused again, taking a breath before continuing, “---they stand no chance against his powers. He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease.”

Harry felt his throat tighten. He thought of that foreign darkness, that terrible, cold voice that had seeped into his mind when he grew too angry to properly think. A chill ran down his spin, and he felt a surge of fear gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. 

Was that…?

Harry’s thoughts slipped out before he could stop them and he flinched inwardly. 

Snape was silent, probably waiting for Harry to finish his thought. But Harry wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He hadn’t even meant to let that slip out and he felt another wave of fear at the vulnerability of it, how easily he had almost exposed himself. 

 “Occlumency requires discipline and focus,” Snape’s voice broke through the silence, unnervingly sharp yet measured. His eyes however, were calculating, most likely pulling apart Harry’s half-thought. “It is not an easy task, nor is it without its… challenges. But given your unique situation, it would be prudent to consider.”

Do you think that Voldemor—-

“The Dark Lord” Snape interrupted with a glare. 

Harry sighed, deciding this was not the fight he wanted today. 

Do you think that the Dark Lord would want to be in my mind?

Snape didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied Harry with a piercing intensity, as if trying to figure out a hidden truth. Harry shuddered, wondering if he had his own suspicions.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low. 

“There is a possibility,” Snape admitted, his tone unusually cautious. “The Dark Lord’s influence is insidious. Given your history—” he hesitated, searching for the right words, “—and your connection to him, it is not beyond reason to believe that he might attempt to exploit your vulnerabilities.”

Harry felt cold all over. The fear was coiling around his chest, making it hard to breathe. So it was him? His mind was racing, frantic. When he loses control, it’s him —

As if sensing his panic, Snape cut in sharply. “The possibility is not a given. But if you do not learn to master your emotions, to shield your mind, then you leave yourself open to the possibility of his influence.”

Harry’s hands were trembling. He didn’t want to believe it—to think that somewhere, deep inside his mind, Voldemort was amplifying his inherent darkness, twisting to his advantage. 

But what other explanation was there?

Harry tried to project a reply, but his fear and hesitation muddled them. He didn’t want to go through with it, didn’t want to open his mind to Snape or face whatever truths might be lurking there. But he couldn’t ignore the fear that Voldemort was in his mind, poisoning his thoughts, persuading his magic to kill . 

To become just like him .

He felt nauseous.

He gave a small, reluctant nod, forcing himself to project the words clearly.

Okay. I’ll try it.

Snape inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Very well,” he replied, his tone brisk once more. “We will begin tomorrow.”

Harry felt a knot form in his chest. He wanted to go back to his room and—- how did Snape state it----feign productivity?

“There are leftovers in the kitchen,” Snape continued. “You will eat. And I expect you to join Draco in completing your summer assignments at the table. I will be checking your progress.”

The mention of Malfoy and doing summer work in the same room made Harry’s stomach twist unpleasantly, but he nodded again. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice—Snape’s tone left little room for argument. 

As he turned to leave, Snape spoke again, stopping him in his tracks. “Harry” he began, and Harry glanced back, startled. 

His voice was different this time—lower, less guarded, almost uncertain. Harry was caught off guard by the shift and—-“Harry”?

When did that….happen?

He thought back to the night before—

“–Harry, I apologize.”

It’s not your fault

Oh. 

Snape seemed to weigh his words carefully before speaking slowly. “I… do not presume to understand the full extent of your situation, nor would I dare to imply that I do.” He paused, his fingers curling slightly, almost as if he were bracing himself. “But if you find yourself in need of… counsel, or if you require assistance beyond the scope of our lessons—” He inhaled sharply, his tone becoming slightly clipped. “—I am… available.”

Harry blinked, not quite sure if he had heard correctly.

There was an awkwardness to the words, an unfamiliarity in Snape’s voice that almost sounded like sincerity. Harry stared at him, caught between skepticism and something warmer that he didn’t want to name.

Swallowing hard, Harry nodded once again. He wasn’t sure if it was the right response, but it was all he had. 

Snape’s expression remained stern, but there was a slight relaxation in his posture—a barely perceptible shift that Harry wouldn’t have noticed a few weeks ago. “You are dismissed.”

Harry left the room and headed to the kitchen, where the sounds of Malfoy’s quill scratching against parchment drifted through the air, mixing with the faint clink of cutlery. Malfoy glanced up as Harry entered, his expression guarded and wary.

Harry felt the familiar knot of tension in his chest tighten, but he forced himself to move forward. He took a plate from the counter and sat down at the opposite end of the table, trying to ignore Malfoy’s piercing gaze.

The silence was thick, the air heavy with tension. 

Harry quickly began to count down the days until September 1st. 

Chapter Text

Except for the occasional scrape of quills against parchment, the kitchen was quiet. Harry and Malfoy sat at their usual places—opposite ends of the wooden table—-their schoolwork spread out before them, with both already looking disgruntled at the arrangement. 

Harry wondered, sitting on a worn cushion and trying his best to silence his breathing, if this was some form of entertainment for Snape—-or, worse, some sort of punishment. 

Two hours ago, when Harry had first been told to work on his summer assignments at the table with Malfoy, it had been tolerable. Questionable, but tolerable. 

However, that at-ease feeling quickly wore off, leaving only the annoyance of forced proximity. 

Now, with his half-finished plate disregarded to his far right, the remnants of food long gone cold, Harry was suddenly reminded of the very empty desk in his bedroom.

But he knew Snape’s orders were non-negotiable. 

He could practically imagine Snape leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, giving them both a look that could only be interpreted as expectant. His posture would give off an air of that annoying, authoritative, almost egotistical confidence he held often in class, his eyes fixed on them with that all too familiar smirk. His voice would be smooth, laced with barely concealed amusement as he would open his mouth, saying something on the lines of “You have desks in your rooms, yet I would prefer you to complete your assignments here.” He would state it cooly, relishing in the pain he was causing them, relishing in the control . “Use this time to sharpen your minds—Merlin knows one of you needs to—” he’d shoot a nasty look towards him before continuing, “---and your ability to tolerate each other.”

Malfoy would then scoff, muttering, “Tolerate Potter?” with a sneer. “Sure.” He’d spat. To which Harry would find himself glaring in response, only for Snape to give him a warning look. He’d probably be called out on it too. 

Harry continued writing, thinking of that empty desk in his room. Thinking of an equally empty desk in Malfoy’s. Thinking of everything that had led him to this point. Thinking of that stupid essay prompt staring up at him from his paper: Create twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making.

He had managed to scrape together about seven inches, mostly repeating what he knew about moonstone’s uses in Draught of Peace and Amortentia. The problem was the technical details. He was supposed to explain why moonstone worked as a stabilizer and how its properties reacted with other ingredients. 

His eyes drifted across the table to Malfoy, who was sitting with annoyingly straight posture, scribbling away at what looked to be at least nine inches of neat, well-organized notes. 

Before Harry could look away, Malfoy’s gaze snapped up. His lips curled into a smirk as he met Harry’s eyes. “Having trouble, Potter?”

Harry immediately looked down, pretending to be absorbed in his notes, flipping the pages of his potions book in frustration. Really, how was he expected to know this?

Malfoy let out an exaggerated huff. “Still playing the silent act, I see. You know, I’d expect that even a child could ask for help if it were so utterly lost. Unless, of course, it’s too proud or— too cowardly.”

Harry’s grip on his quill tightened. Was Malfoy still trying to bait him? After everything? 

And yet, despite everything , the temptation to snap back was almost overwhelming. 

Malfoy continued on, his attention back on his own parchment. “Funny, I always thought you were brave. And here you are, too afraid to admit you’re lost. You’d think being the Chosen One would at least exempt you from being a complete idiot.”

Harry took a deep breath, glancing at his potions book as he considered hurling it across the table. But he forced the feeling down. It wouldn’t do any good to let his emotions get the best of him. Again. 

He let his focus shift back to Malfoy. Beneath the insults, there was something different in Malfoy’s tone. Less venom, perhaps. Almost as if he were going through the familiar motions, testing Harry’s boundaries but not crossing them. And Malfoy, for his part, still seemed unable to hold Harry’s gaze for long, looking away after a moment whenever their eyes met. 

He seemed to be speaking for a….conversation? 

Was he trying to banter with him?

Were they bantering?

He returned to his essay, trying to ignore the awkward tension hanging between them. Minutes passed, and the silence seemed to stretch on forever, each of them pointedly ignoring the other’s presence. Every so often, Harry would steal a glance at Malfoy, only to see him furiously scribbling away, his brow furrowed in concentration.

But the silence didn’t last. Soon enough, Malfoy spoke up again, his tone sharp but still lacking the venom it once held. “Honestly, Potter, if you’re struggling with your essay, it wouldn’t kill you to ask for help.”

Harry didn’t respond, not willing to give him the satisfaction. But Malfoy continued, undeterred. “You probably don’t even understand what moonstone does in half the potions Snape’s asked us to list, do you?”

Annoyed, Harry wrote on his whiteboard, Why do you care?

Malfoy hesitated, the usual smirk absent from his face. “I don’t,” he muttered, looking back down at his work. “But I’d rather not waste my time sitting here with someone who’s too thick-headed to even try to learn.”

Despite himself, Harry felt a small flicker of satisfaction. Malfoy was clearly frustrated, unable to rile him up in the way he’d hoped. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get through the next few minutes without snapping.

However, he let his gaze drift back to his essay, still barely at 7 inches. He looked to Malfoy who was back to writing diligently. 

Was he serious about it? 

Did he mean—

Oh, to hell with it. 

He grabbed his whiteboard again, ignoring the way Malfoy’s head snapped back towards him. 

Are you serious? 

“Serious about what?” Draco drawled, wanting Harry to say it, to admit he needed Malfoy’s help. 

The blonde was far too happy about this. 

You know about what.

“I’m not sure I do. Could you clarify?”

Harry took three controlled breaths before responding. 

Will you help me or not Malfoy?

Malfoy smiled at that, his gaze flickering between the whiteboard and Harry, a satisfied smirk settling on his features. 

“If you so insist” He replied, sticking his hand out towards Harry. 

Harry looked at the hand, pulling his eyebrows together. What was he doing?

Malfoy rolled his eyes but kept his hand stretched out, huffing out, “I need to review what you’ve written before I can actually help.”

Oh. Feeling his face heat up, Harry quickly pushed his paper towards Malfoy, ignoring the other and staring down at the table. How embarrassing. 

Malfoy glanced down at Harry’s parchment with a hint of a smirk still playing on his lips, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. “How have you survived four years at Hogwarts writing like this? I can barely make out the first few words.”

Harry gritted his teeth, quickly writing out a response. He knew this would be a bad idea. 

Do you know the difference between talking and annoying?

Malfoy’s mouth twitched. “You know, being snarky doesn’t make up for incompetence.”

Harry rolled his eyes, going back to ignoring the blonde. Malfoy snorted, but didn’t retort. Instead, he took Harry’s parchment, his eyes scanning the messy writing with a critical eye. “You’ve got half of these preparations wrong. Here—-” He tapped his quill near the middle of Harry’s essay. “For the Draught of Peace, you still need to grind your powdered moonstone into a uniform powdered mixture with your porcupine quills. Even if it seems redundant, moonstone, while among some of the milder gemstones used in potions, can still have numerous harmful effects. Powdered moonstone helps bring the body into alignment, particularly chemicals in the brain, increasing the ability of the body and mind to relax and find “peace”. If you are able to expand more on its effect on the body as well as the potion, you would be able to quickly add a few more inches to the parchment. Also—”

As Malfoy continued to point out the shortcomings of his essay, Harry’s mind drifted to another person who would lecture him like this—-bossy and detailed. Hermione was a force of nature. Someone who seemed to always be world’s above him in intellect, and yet always determined to come back to earth to help him understand. To help both him and Ron. 

Hermione would sit with them by the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, making a show of the fact that she had already completed her homework, complaining about the hour but never leaving them. The flames in the fireplace would burn smaller and smaller and she’d still be there. Most of the time she would fill the space with her very common and very opinionated rants about everyone and everything at Hogwarts that put her on edge. How the far left sink in the girls bathroom always dripped, how that was a show of privilege and ignorance in a way because it was a waste of water, and how no one had come to fix it yet despite the many letters she had sent to Filch. 

Other times, she would sit quietly on the couch, reading up on next week’s lectures or going over her already revised homework. She would be so quiet in those moments, her presence so small and yet so felt because she was there.

That was why, tuning out the rest of Malfoy’s lecture, Harry found himself so hurt by the fact that she wasn’t there. Not now. Not all summer. 

Neither her nor Ron were there. 

They were both so far from being there that Harry found himself wondering, for the first time since first year, what they were doing. Without him. And his chest felt just a bit constricted at the fact that he didn’t know. 

Were they having the time of their life? The best summer ever? Were they so happy to be free of him and all his problems?

Was he a problem?

But it didn’t matter. Not really. 

He just wanted them there again.

Malfoy broke him out of his thoughts, pushing the paper back towards Harry, scoffing. “To disregard grinding it out because it is already powdered? Snape would rip you apart for even suggesting it.”

Harry sighed, not really sure what he was talking about before making a note, realizing that Malfoy’s critiques were, irritatingly enough, helpful. Still, he wasn’t about to let him think he was impressed.

Why do you care what Snape thinks of my work?

Malfoy’s expression flickered. He shrugged, looking back to his own parchment. “Maybe I just don’t want to be associated with an idiot,” he muttered, his voice uncharacteristically low. “Bad enough I’m already stuck here with you.”

For a moment, Harry considered replying with some biting retort about Malfoy’s arrogance, but instead, he found himself focusing on that word.

Stuck. 

It looped in his mind like a mantra, digging in deeper with every repetition. He stared at the scrawled words on his parchment, but they blurred and twisted under the weight of the thought.

Everyone seemed to be stuck with him. 

Ron and Hermione—they didn’t say it, but sometimes Harry wondered if they ever saw him like he was a burden they felt obligated to carry. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. Their tether to a war they never wanted to fight. 

Maybe not responding to his letters was their attempt at being unstuck from him.

It would hurt, but he wouldn’t blame them. 

Meanwhile, the Dursleys had always been stuck with him. They made that painfully clear every single day of his childhood. 

And now, Snape. Harry clenched his jaw. Snape didn’t even bother to hide it. 

And Harry himself—he was stuck.

He was always stuck .

Malfoy couldn’t even begin to understand being stuck .

Harry’s jaw clenched as he scribbled furiously on his whiteboard and held it up: Nobody’s keeping you here, Malfoy.

Malfoy’s gaze flickered over the message, his jaw tightening. His hands, flat against the table, curled into fists as he leaned forward, his shadow stretching over the table in the dim light. He looked down, almost as if he hadn’t expected Harry to respond. “Right. Just thought you’d be off somewhere playing hero, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. Better than playing lackey to a psychopath, he wrote, raising the board for Malfoy to read.

The color drained from Malfoy’s face.

“You think I have a choice?” he snapped, his voice rising, shoulders slumping ever so slightly that Harry couldn’t tell if he was bracing for a blow or if a weight seemed to be pressing down on him. “You don’t know anything, Potter!”

Harry scoffed. 

“You don’t!” Malfoy shouted, hands moving around wildly. “Nobody does! Nobody will!” He stood abruptly, the scrape of his chair harsh against the floor. “Merlin, what more do you want! You can get whatever you want at school but not here! You can’t just—”

Malfoy paused, his breathing hard. 

“You don’t get to take this from me too!”

Take what?!

“You know!” Malfoy continued. “You know what you’re doing!”

Harry didn’t know when he had started standing too. His magic buzzed faintly under his skin, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

  What the fuck are you talking about?!

“You’re trying to take him away from me! He’s my godfather! Not yours! Yours is a fugitive! Gone! He’s gone, Potter! Leave Severus alone!”

This is all about Snape?!

“Yes….! No! You don't get it! It’s not just that! It’s you managing to get whatever you want! Well you can’t! Not here!”

Malfoy’s chest was heaving, his breaths quick and shallow as he stared at Harry with a borderline manic look, eyes wide and hysterical. 

Harry stepped closer, keeping eye contact as he held up the whiteboard again, his hands shaking with barely hidden fury.

Contrary to popular belief, Malfoy, I don’t just get whatever I want. 

Malfoy scoffed and Harry felt his composure crack. 

You think you know everything. You sit there on your high horse, sticking your head up as if the rest of us are so below you. You don’t know shit Malfoy. I didn’t ask to be here either.

“Then leave! You don’t—You’re not supposed to be here! You don’t belong here! Go back to your stupid relatives! You’re not wanted here!”

Harry felt his breath falter at the mention of the Durselys. Malfoy didn’t know. He couldn’t. Snape wouldn’t. He still wasn’t on good terms with the man but there was no way he would have run off to tell Harry’s secrets to Malfoy, not after what he had shared about himself. 

Would he?

Harry fists shook. 

Malfoy was right. He didn’t belong here, so why should Snape keep his secret?

He didn’t seem to belong anywhere. 

Harry’s chest ached at the thought, and without realizing it, he stalked forward, his body reacting before his mind could. 

His hand shot out, shoving Malfoy backward

Malfoy stumbled but recovered, his face pale but his eyes blazing, as if he had been waiting for a fight—needed it like Harry seemed to need. He shoved Harry back, harder this time, and Harry’s ribs collided with the edge of the table.

The pain was fleeting, eclipsed by the growing storm inside him. Harry lunged again, his hand grabbing the front of Malfoy’s shirt. The movement was too fast, too furious, and Malfoy froze. For a moment, Harry saw it—the flicker of fear in his eyes, the way his hands trembled as he raised them defensively in front of his throat. 

Malfoy’s voice dropped to a whisper, shaky and uneven. “You’re not going to…” His words trailed off, his eyes darting to Harry’s hand and then back to his face.

The memory slammed into Harry like a tidal wave. Malfoy’s pale face, his panicked gasps, his desperate cries as Harry’s anger spiraled out of control. The magic that had roared through him then, wild and dark and unrelenting.

And so, so tempting. 

Harry froze, his hand still gripping Malfoy’s shirt.

The air between them shifted. Malfoy wrenched himself free, stumbling backward until his back hit the wall. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his eyes wide and haunted, hands wrapping around his neck, as if making sure he was still breathing—-that he still could. 

Harry was still frozen, watching the scene before him as a wave of disgust coursed through him. 

Malfoy’s eyes were still glued to his, like a wounded animal watching, waiting. 

Waiting to see what Harry would do to him, and Harry felt himself grow sick, nausea curling uncomfortably in his gut. 

Before he could take a step back, to show Malfoy that he wasn’t a monster, that he wasn’t going to…to kill him. To show that he was just Harry, a low voice interrupted. 

“What is going on?”

They both turned towards the doorway of the kitchen. Snape stood in the entrance, dark eyes moving around, assessing the scene before him. He looked angry, the vein in his forehead pulsing. The silence stretched on as he stood there, and with each passing second, Snape seemed to grow angrier. 

“I said,” He snapped, gaze fixed on the two of them, “what is going on?”

When neither responded, he stalked forward, footsteps light against the floor despite the clear irritation radiating off him. 

“Are the two of you so incapable of being civil that you cannot remain in the same space for more than an hour without a brawl?!”

Malfoy seemed to gather what little courage he had and spoke up. 

“He started it.” He muttered, glancing up at Snape before looking back down. 

“He started it?” Snape repeated, twisting his head a bit to the side and drawing his brows together in exasperation before his face hardened once more as he moved his gaze from Malfoy to Harry. “I didn’t realize I had two children residing here.”

Harry ignored the taunt but Malfoy flinched visibly. 

“Do I truly have to supervise the two of you like toddlers? Is that what this is? A crèche masquerading as my house?” Snape took another step forward, his dark clothing encasing him like a storm cloud. “Sit. Both of you.”

Neither boy moved immediately, but the sheer force of Snape’s glare was enough to spur them into action. Malfoy scrambled to the nearest chair at the table, still avoiding Harry’s gaze, while Harry moved stiffly, his limbs heavy with residual anger and shame. 

He hated how out of control he seemed to be with everything. 

Snape sat at the head of the table, his eyes boring into both of them as he conjured a cup of tea with a flick of his wand. 

None of them spoke, and for a time, the only sound in the room was the occasional clink of Snape’s tea cup against the saucer. 

Snape’s patience finally snapped. He set his cup down with deliberate force, the clang reverberating in the quiet.

“This…silent brooding, this childish refusal to address what has clearly become a problem—-” His voice rose slightly before he reined it back, his tone sharp and biting. “It ends now.”

Both boys glanced at him. 

“You will communicate,” Snape continued. “And not with fists. You are not animals. Speak. Both of you.”

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably, his hand gripping the edge of the table. “There’s nothing to say,” he muttered. 

Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the way Snape’s eyes snapped towards him. 

“Nothing to say?” Snape echoed mockingly, his brows lifting and gaze still on Harry. “I find that entirely doubtful. You both appear to have much to say. In fact, you seem to be resorting to physicality because you have too much to say. Am I correct?”

Harry clenched his fists under the table, his jaw tight. Screw Snape and his stupid ability to see things as they were. 

“He–” Malfoy exhaled shakily, his voice breaking the silence.

“Continue.” Snape pressed.

Malfoy’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “I just don’t understand why he’s here.” He paused, his voice becoming angry. “He shouldn’t be here.”

“And why is that?”

Malfoy glared, staying silent.

“Use your words.” 

“He’s just not supposed to be here!” Malfoy snapped, his hands clenched in fists above the table. “At school, it’s all Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that. Even at—” He hesitated, his eyes darting toward Snape before dropping to the table, his voice low. “And fine, whatever. But here? This is supposed to be different. It’s not supposed to be about him.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard.

Snape kept his gaze fixed on Malfoy, his voice a sigh. “You’re upset because you feel overlooked.”

Malfoy nodded, small and quick. “My parents—” he said, his voice quiet but brittle. “I can’t…I can’t go home. And now I’m here, and it’s like I don’t….It’s like—”

He shook his head, growing visibly angry. “It’s not fair!” He shouted, his fists slamming against the table. 

Snape leaned back in his chair, his gaze heavy. “Draco, your parent’s choice—” He cut off, hands digging into the skin in between his eyes. “You are not invisible here. Neither of you are.” He glanced between them. “Having two teenagers under one roof can be very….stress inducing. I am not the best person equipped for this…and I find myself messing up most of the time.” His dark eyes seemed to bore into Harry before he turned back to Malfoy.  “But I will not allow either of you to monopolize my attention—or each other’s peace of mind. Do you understand?”

Malfoy looked down, his fists still clenched on top of the table. Harry nodded slightly, unsure if he even believed Snape’s words but unwilling to argue. 

But he wanted to. 

He wanted to call Snape out on all of his bullshit. 

Wanted to put up a fight. 

But he couldn’t. 

Fighting was the only thing he seemed to be able to do, and he was still doing that wrong. 

Instead, he swallowed it all down, the effort like forcing himself to swallow shards of glass. His chest ached, ribs protesting the strain as he exhaled shakily, chanting to himself once again that the person Malfoy cowered from wasn’t him. That Malfoy didn’t just back away from him as if Harry were some kind of monster resurfaced. That Harry’s stomach churned with only a nauseating mixture of guilt and frustration. That he didn’t feel just a bit satisfied. And that, somewhere, deep inside him, he didn’t want to be the one doing the pushing. 

He was fine only pushing back. 

And yet, in that dark place in his mind, he wanted to push. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the feeling away. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t him. 

“Harry.” A voice startled his thoughts, and he snapped his eyes open, chest heaving. 

When did he stop breathing?

“Harry?” The voice repeated, and he turned towards it, finding Snape staring at him. 

He shakily reached towards his whiteboard, feeling out of sorts. 

But before he could make a grab for it, an arm reached across the table, stopping him. He flinched back at the contact, jerking away a safe distance so he could peer into Snape’s eyes with enough space that he felt just a bit comfortable with him being here. 

However, looking across the table, he was met with those dark eyes, creased and searching. 

Snape looked sad. 

Are you alright?

Harry flinched back again, not expecting Snape to be inside his head. He turned his head sideways, looking towards Malfoy who was watching the exchange with confusion. He glanced back at Snape, who had still not taken his eyes off him. 

Fine . He sent back, feigning as much nonchalance as he could. 

Snape narrowed his eyes, not believing him.

Harry glared at the table, folding his arms across his chest. Trying to show that he didn’t care what Snape thought while also stifling the part of him that seemed to want to cry at the question. It was stupid. That part of him, childish and full of pathetic, wishful thinking, was supposed to be gone. 

Should be. 

Uncle Vernon, face red and fist full of Harry’s shirt, had made sure of it. 

He had yelled, screamed himself horse while Harry, no older than seven, bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. The sobs caught in his chest, his small frame trembling and throat raw from holding them back. 

Aunt Petunia, standing behind Vernon, always behind , had made sure of it. 

She had looked down on him, arms crossed and stiff. “He just wants attention,” she said sharply. “Ignore him and he’ll stop.”

Harry, young and shaken, had looked up at his aunt, voice desperate and cracked, barely audible under his Uncle’s harsh breaths, and had tried to reason.

“I’m not—” he wept, wanting them to understand that this was just a misunderstanding. He wasn’t crying for attention. He just wanted—

The thought dissolved as Vernon grabbed a fistful of his hair and shoved him back down. 

And Harry, clinging to the thin threads of the living room carpet, had made sure of it then. 

Wishful thinking was stupid. 

He glanced back up at Snape and was met with dark eyes. 

Anything you would like to say?

He scowled. No.

Snape’s brow twitched. 

“Why are you staring at each other like that?”

The question seemed to draw Snape’s focus away from Harry and onto Malfoy who had inched forward in his seat, his eyes furrowed and harsh. 

“It is nothing.” Snape said before he stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I will review what you have written later.” He sighed. “For now, since it remains clear the two of you seem incapable of existing in the same room without bickering or glaring at each other like petulant toddlers, we are going to do a different activity, one that will undoubtedly force you to act like civilized human beings.” 

Harry frowned, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t like where this was going. 

“You will brew a potion together, under my strict supervision.” His dark eyes flashed. “Consider this an exercise in cooperation. And If I hear so much as one insult—-” he turned to Draco—-“or see one fist raised—” he turned to Harry—“I will not hesitate to extend this activity into a daily exercise.”

Malfoy groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

Snape’s glare silenced him. 

“Ridiculous,” Snape said, his voice hardening dangerously, “is precisely what this feud of yours has become. Now, move.”

Reluctantly, the two boys shuffled out of their seats and moved towards the locked door at the end of the hall. 

                                                                                                                               ***

The lab was as cold and oppressive as Snape’s room at Hogwarts, lit dimly by old-fashioned torches that cast shifting shadows on the walls. The faint scent of powdered moonstone and crushed Sopophorous beans was thick and stifling in the otherwise small space. Harry sat stiffly on one side of the workstation, arms crossed, while Malfoy meticulously laid out the ingredients as though he were in class. 

Snape, after writing out the instructions on a giant chalkboard and declaring they would be brewing The Strengthening Solution, had remained seated by a small desk in the front of the room where he could easily supervise them.

Malfoy set about stirring the cauldron which was currently filled mostly of salamander blood, a turquoise color that shimmered and swirled. “We may not be getting a grade for this but do try not to mess up, Potter,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible if Harry had not been standing so close to him, counting his stirs.

Harry barely looked up, not wanting Snape to catch them bickering. Instead, he slid over his whiteboard to rest between them where it was concealed by the aged cauldron. He scrawled with quick, sharp strokes. Focus on your own work, Malfoy . 

Malfoy glanced at the board, his lip curling. 

Harry wiped the board clean, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He kept his gaze on the stirring rod circling the edges of the pot, the movements precise but rigid, annoyance bleeding into every flick of the pale wrist. When it was his turn to add the powdered Griffin claw, he measured carefully, trying his best to follow the instructions and squinting when the board would blur and his glasses would fail. 

The potion seemed fairly simple enough, but as Harry began to work, a gnawing discomfort began to grow in his chest. 

The first problem arose as he peeled the shrivelfig. His knife slipped on the waxy surface, leaving uneven chunks instead of clean strips. The book said precision was key, and Harry winced as the chunks dropped into the cauldron with a soft plop. The liquid darkened, shifting from pale blue to a muddy gray.

“Great start, Potter,” Malfoy sneered.

Harry clenched his jaw, refusing to even look at the boy beside him.

Malfoy snorted and turned back to his work.

Harry tried to steady his breathing as he picked up the next ingredient: powdered bicorn horn. The powder clung to his fingers as he measured it out, and as he leaned over the cauldron to add it, he noticed the faint shimmer of the potion again—a ripple that didn’t match the gentle boil the flame should have produced.

He hesitated, trying to pick the correct time to add in the ingredient, but he grew overwhelmed by the way the mixture seemed to have a rhythm he couldn’t understand, and he dropped it in frustration. The second the powder hit the liquid, the cauldron let out a soft hiss, and a faint glow pulsed through the potion, like the heartbeat of something alive. Harry recoiled slightly, his stomach twisting.

“Merlin, Potter, what did you do?” Malfoy demanded, leaning over to peer into the cauldron.

Harry quickly shook his head, grabbing the whiteboard. Nothing! I followed the instructions!

Malfoy scowled. “Looks like it’s about to explode. You better fix it before Snape notices.”

Harry turned back to the cauldron, gripping the stirring rod tightly. The potion had started swirling on its own, the liquid pulling in tiny, unnatural spirals as if communicating that Harry had fucked up. He felt a strange pull in return, a faint hum in the back of his mind that he couldn’t place but couldn’t ignore either.

The more he stirred, the worse it became. The spoon felt heavier in his hand, the liquid sluggish and resistant to his movements, rhythm so far out of his reach he wasn’t even sure it was coherent anymore. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he forced the potion to mix, his arms aching with the effort.

“Stop manhandling it,” Malfoy snapped. “You’re just making it worse.”

Harry gritted his teeth, the muscles in his hand cramping as he tried to stir more gently. But the potion seemed to resist him, pushing back against his attempts to control it.

A hissing sound began to emerge as bubbles rose to the surface, and the color shifted again—this time to an eerie, deep purple that seemed to glower at him. 

Malfoy backed away from the table. “That is not supposed to happen.”

Harry’s grip slipped, and the rod clattered into the cauldron, sending a splash of the angry liquid onto the table. 

“Pot–Harry!”

Snape’s voice cut through the tension like a whip. He swept across the room and stopped in front of their station. His eyes narrowed at the potion, which seemed to deflate and lose its shimmer. 

“What,” he demanded, his tone deadly calm, “is this?”

Harry continued to stare down at the sad mixture on the table. It seemed to ooze disappointment at him and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed in himself. 

He just couldn’t understand that rhythm. 

Why couldn’t he do anything right?

“Har–” Snape tried again but was interrupted. 

I’m sorry.

Snape blinked, his black eyes boring into Harry’s. 

What did you do? He asked, making a show of pointing to the whiteboard still laying by the cauldron. Harry looked to Malfoy, clearly still a bit shaken by the strange potion reaction. Right. He couldn’t just have a conversation with Snape via his weird mind magic, not with Malfoy standing there, who was so afraid of being left out. He felt a spark of anger at that, though he didn’t understand why. 

He grabbed the whiteboard, scribbling out a response. 

I followed the instructions but I couldn’t catch the rhythm.

Snape’s sharp brow arched. “The rhythm?”

Harry winced at the incredulity in his tone. Malfoy, still hovering a step back from the table, crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

“What are you on about, Potter?” Malfoy sneered. “It’s a potion, not a waltz.”

I mean— Harry began to write, his strokes hesitant. It felt like it had a pulse . He paused, trying to figure out how to get them to understand. Like it wanted me to stir a certain way. But I couldn’t do it, it was beating too fast. 

There was silence. Snape’s expression froze somewhere between disbelief and suspicion. Malfoy stared at the whiteboard, his face screwed up in confusion. 

“You’re saying,” Malfoy began slowly, “that the potion was talking to you?”

Harry erased his words quickly, frustration bubbling in his chest. Not talking. More like…resisting.

“Resisting,” Malfoy echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Maybe it's resisting because you’re rubbish at brewing.”

“Enough,” Snape barked, silencing Malfoy with a withering look. He turned his full attention to Harry, his dark eyes scrutinizing him like he was a perplexing puzzle.

“Explain,” Snape demanded, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “What exactly did you feel?”

Harry hesitated again. How could he explain something he barely understood himself? He fidgeted with the marker, then slowly wrote. It wasn’t smooth. The potion felt—- He erased and re-wrote, struggling to put it into words— I messed up putting in the powdered bicorn horn so it wanted me to stir differently. But I messed that up too.

Snape’s frown deepened. “Potions do not “want,” Harry.” His voice was flat, but there was a flicker of something behind his words—curiosity, perhaps. 

Maybe not. But it felt like it did. 

Malfoy scoffed, but his usual smirk was absent. “You’re barmy. Potions don’t feel anything.”

Snape, however and much to Harry’s relief, didn’t immediately dismiss his claim. He crossed his arms and stared at the cauldron, now full of a deflated mess of sludge. 

“Show me,” Snape said abruptly. 

Harry blinked. 

“You claim to sense a “pulse.” Very well,” Snape said. “Start again. Follow the steps exactly as before. But this time”----his eyes narrowed—--“tell me when you feel this so-called rhythm.”

Harry hesitated but relented under Snape’s intense gaze. He had never seen the man look so interested in something before. He reset the cauldron and ingredients, beginning to wipe the table clean before the mess was vanished. He looked back towards Snape who had his wand out, nodding at him to continue. His hands still shook slightly, and he was acutely aware of Malfoy hovering nearby, watching with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. 

As he worked, he began to feel it again—the strange pull, faint at first but growing stronger with each step. He squinted at the board to add the right amount of pomegranate juice, the step having previously been Malfoy’s task, but when it was time to add the powdered bicorn horn, the pull became almost overwhelming.

He paused, glancing at Snape. 

“There,” Harry said, pointing to the cauldron. 

Snape leaned in, his expression unreadable. “What do you feel?”

It’s beating fast? Kinda like it’s pulling, Harry wrote. Like it’s telling me not to rush.

Snape’s lips thinned. “Stir as you think it wants you to.”

Harry swallowed hard and gripped the stirring rod, moving it through the potion with slower, deliberate turns, focusing on controlling his breaths as though he were breathing with the potion, trying to match the beating of his heart with its pulse. His movements began to feel less stiff, and with each careful turn, the resistance lessened, and the potion began to shimmer faintly. 

The sensation in Harry’s chest deepened—-a strange, hollow pull, like a thread connecting him to the potion. He didn’t just stir it; he felt it. The way it shifted, the faint alive-ness within it, like parts of a whole waiting for his guidance. 

The air grew heavier, charged with something Harry couldn’t name but recognized all too well. 

It felt just like the shed. 

The memory struck him with the force of a Bludger. He remembered the cold, burning fury when he had discovered Malfoy there, the way he’d felt his anger lash out like an extension of himself. How Malfoy had crumpled, gasping for air and clutching at his throat as if Harry had snuffed out the very breath in his lungs. How he had almost done the same to Snape. How he could have also stopped Snape’s breath, his heart, his very life. How he was dangerous—because in those moments, it had felt so easy to kill. 

All he had to do was tug at the raw pull—a pulse. 

But it wasn’t the familiarity that scared him the most. 

It was the fact that he had felt this familiar force just now and knew that Voldemort had nothing to do with it. 

It wasn’t a whisper in his head or an intense, foreign blood lust. No, this darkness—the beat he had just felt in the potion, the rhythm that answered to him—wasn’t external. 

It was him. 

His hands trembled at the cauldron’s edge, and for a brief second, the world felt like it was spinning away from him. 

Maybe Voldemort had been there, those nights, in his head, feeding into the darkest parts of himself. 

But at this moment, Harry knew with chilling clarity that it didn’t matter. Voldemort hadn’t created this. 

This was his. 

The darkness wasn’t something foreign that he could fight or escape. 

It was him.

He was dark. 

He froze, the stirring rod slipping in his grip. 

No. 

The potion rippled uneasily, its surface breaking into small, nervous waves. 

“Potter!” Malfoy yelled, his voice high-pitched with alarm. “Don’t stop now! It’s going to—”

The potion flared, the shimmer dimming to a sickly gray before it began to bubble violently. 

Not again. 

Harry closed his eyes, the pulse of the potion pounding against his senses. He couldn’t let it spiral out of control. But the more he tried to calm it, the stronger the pull became, like it was dragging him into its depths. 

Harry.

Snape’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he desperately looked towards him. 

I can’t control it. It’s too much like—I can’t do it.

Explain. His voice echoed, clipped and sharp.

It feels like before, Harry thought, his mental voice shaky. In the shed. When…when Malfoy couldn’t breathe. 

The faintest flicker of something passed through Snape’s eyes. 

And when you were there too , Harry added. It’s the same. Like I’m….pulling something out of it. Or it’s pulling me in. 

Snape’s response was instant, his expression shifting into a composed mask. Normally, this detached demeanor would irritate Harry, but now it gave him an unexpected sense of reassurance—a steady anchor in the chaos that seemed to define his life. And you stopped stirring because….?

I panicked.

Idiot boy. The thought was harsh, but there was no venom in it. Only urgency. Focus. Do not fight it. Just Feel. 

His grip on the stirring rod faltered, as the erratic pulse of the potion beneath him flared, wild and untamed. Feel? It was as though the cauldron itself was living, breathing, beating, mirroring Harry's chest, his own life force. How could he just feel? He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to stop, willing himself to be better, stronger—-

I don’t want to be like this. The thought spilled from his mind before he could stop it. 

Snape’s eyes seemed to soften then, ever so slightly. And yet, here we are. 

The words were blunt, almost cruel, but they grounded Harry in a way nothing else could, and he almost smiled at the response. Trust Snape to say something so truthfully harsh to something so vulnerable. 

He exhaled shakily, gripping the stirring rod again. “Just feel,” Snape had said. He closed his eyes, and instead of grasping for control, he leaned into it, letting the beat wash over him. He felt it—the hollow ache of it, the chaotic pulse, the life it seemed to hold—-and he let it move through him. 

He moved the rod slowly, deliberately, feeling the connection between himself and the potion begin to settle. The pulse softened, quieted, its erratic rhythm aligning with his movements. 

“Merlin,” Malfoy muttered. 

Snape said nothing for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the cauldron. When Harry finished the step, felt like he could finally breathe , the potion had transformed into a smooth, silvery liquid, its surface calming until it shimmered, and without even looking at the correct result detailed at the end of the instructions on the chalkboard, he knew it was right. 

Snape stepped forward, his sharp gaze flickering between Harry and the cauldron. His expression was unreadable, but his lips pressured into a thin line, a sure sign he was deep in thought. 

You did it.

The thought rang clear in Harry’s mind. Snape’s tone in his head was calm, steady, like the faintest thread of approval. 

He lowered the stirring rod, his hands trembling as he set it aside. His chest ached, the hollow pull still lingering like an aftertaste. He turned back towards Snape.

“You will explain,” Snape said aloud now, his tone commanding and for some reason so different from when he was in his head. 

Harry shook his head, grabbing the whiteboard. He scrawled quickly . It felt like before. Like I wasn’t just stirring. It was pulling at me. Or I was pulling at it. It wanted me to do what you— He paused, glancing at Malfoy who was sitting silently beside him. He didn’t know about his weird mind magic with Snape, and Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted him to. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

His gaze flickered back to Snape, whose sharp eyes narrowed as they scanned the unfinished sentence. Harry bit his lip, gripping the marker tighter. 

It wanted me to feel. 

Malfoy’s brows knitted together in confusion. “What the bloody hell are you on about? Potions don’t pull or feel anything!”

Harry ignored him, looking up at Snape, hoping the man would understand.

“What did it feel like, Harry?” Snape asked slowly, his voice almost soft.

Harry paused, searching for the right words. Finally, he wrote: Like I was holding its life in my hands.

Chapter Text

The room was silent. 

Snape seemed to be in shock, eyes wide and contemplating. Malfoy didn’t seem to be faring any better. He was standing next to Harry, who was still seated on the wooden chair, with his eyebrows pinched. He looked to be a mix of confused and nervous. 

“What do you mean, ‘holding its life’”? 

Harry looked up, finding the motion difficult. It was like his energy had been sucked out of him. He felt drained, tired, and too, too done with feeling like he was different. 

Instead of writing out a response, he let his hands slip to his lap and shrugged, wondering if, somehow and suddenly, he could gain the ability to drift away. Where didn’t matter. Just anywhere but here. 

“Don’t go from us now.” Snape’s voice broke through the fog. It wasn’t sharp, nor gentle; it was somewhere in between, tight with restraint. 

Harry’s head snapped up despite himself, looking up at the man that seemed to sense everything about him. 

Maybe he always had. 

A wave of anger coursed through him at the thought. Like a knife piercing through the muscle of his heart, twisting and turning with deliberate force. 

Maybe Snape had always had this innate ability to just know. But he just…didn’t care enough to want to understand. 

Or maybe— maybe —he was just starting to care now. But for Harry, who had gone so many years without any care, the act was so foreign, so unlike the man before him, that it felt cruel because it was too late. He was too late. 

Harry didn’t need care. He just needed to be fixed. 

It wasn’t so much that it was alive—- He began, trying to remember that familiar beat. More like, I could feel its rhythm. It’s existence.

Snape leaned forward slightly, his gaze calculating. “Has this feeling occurred before?”

Harry hesitated, thinking back to the disaster that potion class often was for him. I think so. But I’ve never really thought about it this way before. Or felt it this strongly. He looked up, catching Snape’s piercing eyes before glancing back down. Potions has always been ....hard. But not like this.

He glanced at Malfoy who seemed to have tilted his face away from Harry. His grip on the marker tightened. It’s always been loud in Potions for me. The class rivalry and the obvious—- He snuck a quick look at Snape who seemed to understand where this was going, his expression just a bit guilty. He picked his next word with hesitance, avoiding the man beside him. tension. I guess it’s just hard to concentrate. 

Harry thought back to his past years of potions. Slytherins on one side, Gryffindors on the other. Snape glaring at him. The Slytherins glaring at him. Hell, even some Gryffindors had glared at him last year when the “Potter Stinks” badges had begun circulating and the obvious outrage that came with his name being pulled from the Goblet.

As if it was his fault.

I think I’ve always associated it as just another difficulty I had to overcome. I mean, I’m really bad at potions. I didn’t think my hearing or I guess, feeling whatever this is made any difference. 

“Made any difference?!” Snape growled, digging his hands into the spot of skin between his eyes. “This makes a world of difference!” He began to pace, footsteps hard against the floorboards. If the situation were any different and Harry didn’t know the man beside him to be so cold and mean, he could almost picture Snape as throwing a tantrum. 

“To feel!” He turned towards Harry. “Whilst everyone else was struggling with basic reading  comprehension, you mean to inform me that you were struggling with interaction! With feeling !” He repeated, gesturing wildly like a madman. 

Harry nodded. Merlin, Snape’s black, soulless eyes looked like they wanted to hurl something at him. Why was this such a big deal?

“Why didn’t you think to mention anything?!”

Harry thought back to that dreadful classroom. He scowled. Was Snape being serious?

I’m sorry sir, I hadn’t realized we were conversing regularly. 

Snape’s jaw flexed, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “Regardless of how often we speak, Harry, I’m still your professor. Why wouldn’t you think this to be a concern? Or at least a matter to be brought to my attention?!”

Oh I don’t know, maybe because— Harry scrawled out furiously— regardless of how civil our conversation could have ever been, you’d have never taken my so-called concern seriously! How dare Snape even suggest that he would have been in any way helpful. Not to him. Not to the “Chosen One.”

Not to James Potter’s son.

“Don’t pull that with me, I’m still an educator! I would have—”

Like fuck you would! Harry interrupted, shoving the board at the other for good measure. 

Snape’s eyes simultaneously widened and darkened. “Language!” He barked, pushing the board back towards Harry.

No! I won’t! Not when you are being a hypocrite and a pretentious ass! He ignored Malfoy’s gasp from his left. Let him see. Hell, this was directed at him too. You never cared nor would you! I could have told you I was seeing bloody ghosts in the cauldron and you would have laughed! Or worse, failed me! Don’t act like you care about anything I do or say just because you have to now! Because I’m under your roof!

Snape’s face hardened into a mask of barely-contained fury. “Do not presume to know what I would have done,” he said slowly, his voice dangerously cold. “And do not assume that your childish inability to communicate excuses my negligence.”

Childish. The word struck something deep in Harry’s chest. He didn’t feel like a child—hadn’t in years. He didn’t even know if he was supposed to have ever been one. Sometimes, he felt both big and small, and each time the feeling would pass, it would be one or the other that would suffocate him. Like his body and mind weren’t synched and he was always left uncomfortable in his skin.

But he wasn’t childish. Not anymore. He’d left that part of himself behind somewhere between his cupboard and Cedric’s lifeless eyes in the graveyard. 

So you admit it was negligence.

He stared at the man to his right, chest heaving. It was negligence. Harry knew it. And it seemed Snape knew too, his body growing still and eyes retreating from him. 

Harry remembered then, being a second year and sitting in that cold, unfortunately familiar dungeon after the stupid duel between him and Malfoy. He had his head hung low, his dark fringe covering his eyes, blocking him from the way everyone in the class seemed to look at him—seemed scared of him. 

He was so stupid then. 

But how could he have known? That speaking to snakes wasn’t normal. That being a parselmouth wasn’t a good thing. That trying to save Justin’s life would result in whispers and being shunned wherever he went. 

He’d tried— tried so hard —to pretend he didn’t hear them. Tried to focus on Ron nudging his shoulder, telling him they were all being dumb. “Ignore it,” he said. Pretend that the muttered words didn’t sting. That the way people tried extra hard to not be near him, to not be near the dangerous and evil heir of Slytherin, didn’t make him not want to leave his bed each morning. 

It had been unbearable, the way people looked at him— acted around him. Hogwarts had always felt like home—until it didn’t. 

“Slytherin’s heir.”

“Knew he was trouble.”

“Bet he talks to snakes all the time.”

He could still see himself at his desk, head practically in his cauldron. His hands had been trembling, his fingers clumsy, and the whispers had buzzed all around him like flies. He’d fought the tears prickling at his eyes, swallowing them down because crying was a sign of weakness and Harry Potter couldn’t be weak. 

He was so stupid then. But he was also so young. 

And secretly, he thinks that should’ve excused him, just a bit.

But being Harry Potter, at any age, meant he couldn’t afford to be stupid, to be “young,” because to be young was to be stupid. And he had bigger things ahead of him. 

He had stirred too quickly, the potion frothing over slightly, earning him a sneer from Snape as he swept by. 

Hogwarts was supposed to be his safe place, he chanted.

He wasn’t supposed to be seen as bad here.

The whispers grew louder, harsher. Harry felt his hands shake harder, the spoon beginning to clatter against the cauldron’s edge. For a split second, he thought Snape was going to stop it all. The professor had paused by his station, his dark gaze fixed on him. Harry thought— maybe, just maybe —Snape would snap at the class to leave him alone. Put an end to the looks, the fear, the constant, suffocating judgment and just tell them they were being ridiculous, that Harry wasn't anything more than what they already knew: a Gryffindor, a student, just… Harry.

Instead, Snape’s voice cut through the room, low and clipped. “Do stop dilly-dallying, Potter. If you’re incapable of following even the most basic instructions, you’ll be scrubbing cauldrons until curfew.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. The whispers didn’t stop. If anything, they grew worse, emboldened by Snape’s disdain. He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to stare at the potion below, even as his vision blurred and lip quivered. 

That was it. No defense. No reprieve. Just a cold, detached dismissal. 

And now, Snape was standing in front of him, just like before, but unlike before, his brows were furrowed in something Harry might have mistaken for guilt if he didn’t know better. Malfoy shifted awkwardly beside him, his pale face turned away as if he couldn’t bear to witness another confrontation. 

Harry’s breath hitched. You didn’t stop them, he wrote shakily, his hand barely steady enough to form the letters. You never stopped them.

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What are you talking about?” 

Harry’s hand flew across the board again, the words jagged and uneven. Second year. Everyone thought I was Slytherin’s heir. I sat there, listening to them whisper, call me a monster. And you just stood there. You didn’t care. You never cared. 

The room went silent, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. Snape’s face was unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

You didn’t do anything! Harry’s hand slammed the board back onto the table, his writing nearly denting the surface. You stood there and let it happen!

Snape’s jaw tightened. “You mistake inaction for indifference,” he said evenly. “You think I had the power to shield you from every stare, every mutter? That I could somehow wave my wand and erase the consequences of your actions?”

Harry glared at him, his chest heaving because it was all unbearably unfair. He didn’t know what he had done wrong. Not then. How could he have?

You could have tried. But you didn’t. And now you’re pretending like you care about what happens to me? Why? Because Dumbledore told you to?

Snape’s face darkened. “Enough,” he said sharply. But Harry didn’t care. Why should he? 

You don’t get it. You’ll never get it. I wasn’t struggling with the potions. I was struggling with everything.

Snape’s breath faltered but he said nothing in response. 

Harry began to shift his head away, his heart hammering in his chest. He shouldn’t have said anything. What difference would it have made? He wrapped his arms tightly around himself. It was stupid. Why had he—-

A low voice interrupted his thoughts, and despite himself, he snapped his head towards it. 

“I—” Snape began, his expression uncharacteristic. He looked almost vividly…..regretful. 

“I am beginning to see that now.”

Harry stared at the other, eyes wide and in disbelief. He subconsciously tilted his ears towards Snape, wondering if he had heard him right. 

Malfoy, who had been silent until then, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Me too.” His eyes widened as if he hadn’t meant to speak. “I mean..” He crossed his hands against his chest defensively. “What happened back then, it wasn’t really…um…fair.”

Harry scoffed. No shit.

Whatever. He wrote, gritting his teeth. It doesn’t matter now.

It didn’t matter then. 

I think— he continued, erasing his previous writing—- I know when me hearing whatever it is really started. 

He looked up at Snape who seemed to study him for a moment. “When?” he asked quietly. He looked to be struggling with not continuing the prior conversation, dark eyes boring into Harry.

In the graveyard. When our wands connected. 

He didn’t need to look at Snape to know he had stilled, Malfoy too.

His hands trembled slightly against the board. 

“Priori Incantatem,” Snape murmured, his eyes wide and knowing. 

Harry nodded. Dumbledore had called it that too. After—-

After he told him that magic could not bring back the dead. 

His breath hitched as the room around him seemed to dissolve into darkness, the air suddenly so cold and so painstakingly familiar that he struggled to draw in oxygen. 

He heard the laughter first, echoing through the room like a living, malevolent force. A sick smell followed, the scent of earth and decay filling his nostrils. He knew he was still sitting on the wooden seat, could feel the hard structure beneath him, but he was suddenly overcome with the suffocating fear that if he let his feet onto the ground, if he moved even an inch, he would sink into damp soil and find himself surrounded by tombstones. 

He was frozen, his mind stuck between two vastly different locations, and body struggling to figure out which was which. 

Struggling to figure out which one was real.

“Bow to death, Harry…”

No. He couldn’t be here. This wasn’t—

A gold thread of light connected their wands. Voldemort’s smile faltered, like a grotesque monster that had somehow acquired human expression.

It had come alive between them, vibrating with an unearthly hum, the wands locked in a seemingly terrible, sentient battle. And then the screams—his hands desperate to cover his ears—-the inhuman shrieks of a phoenix song filled the air, rising and falling in a twisted, beautiful symphony. 

The pulse of energy, heartbeats that weren't his, surged through the golden thread, going into his wand and subsequently him . He felt as though the song was inside him instead of just around him. It had been like nothing he’d ever felt—-alive but wrong, warm yet cold, as if life itself were being unraveled and rewoven in the space between them. 

And then they came.

A shadow of a hand blossomed out of the tip of the wand, a larger shadow following—-Cedric. 

His mouth was open, surprise etched onto face. Like he couldn’t believe he was dead. Harry wanted to reach for him then, wanted to let go of his wand that seemed consumed by a fiery life, and pull Cedric behind him, against him—- anywhere but next to Voldemort. He wanted to tell him he was sorry, so, so sorry that he had caused this, that he was dead all because of Harry—-

Another shadow began to emerge. An older man whom Harry recognized from a vision he had when staying with the Weasley’s last summer during the World Cup. He was an innocent muggle gardener that had been unknowingly eavesdropping on Voldemort and was subsequently killed when discovered. His wrinkled face was lined with confusion and horror. He had stumbled from Voldemort’s wand, looking around wildly before whispering, “ He killed me … .he killed me..”

Then came a middle-aged woman, her face contorted with fear and pain. She didn’t speak, but her wide, panicked eyes burned into Harry’s mind, her silence somehow louder than any scream.

And then, through the haze of tears and terror, came the two he had always desperately wanted to see. 

But never like this. 

His parents. 

Lily emerged first, followed by James. Their faces aglow with the strange light of the incantation. It was cruel. They looked just as they had in his photo album Hagrid had gotten him at the end of first year: young, vibrant, and alive. 

His breath hitched as his mum’s green eyes, so much like his own, locked onto his. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice soft and steady despite the chaos around them. Her smile seemed to shine through the surrounding brightness. And despite the circumstance, Harry found himself smiling back. He felt small then, so much like the child he was supposed to be—-smiling up at his mum without a concern in the world. 

He was so happy.

She spoke again, her voice still a whisper, and Harry clung to her speech like a newborn. 

“Let go. You’re ready, let go.”

Her words sunk into his mind with ease before twisting fiercely when he finally, really heard them. 

“No,” Harry muttered aloud, shaking his head violently. What was she saying? She was standing before him. She was here. Why would he go anywhere else?

His father spoke then, his voice firm but kind. “We’ll hold him off, Harry. You need to run. We’re so proud of you, son.”

He watched in horror as the group shook their heads in agreement.

No. No. No. 

What were they saying?!

He stared at them desperately, hopelessly. “No!” He yelled, tears gathering in his eyes. He couldn’t leave. Not now. Not ever . Not when he could see how he shared the same smile lines with his dad when he talked, or how the slight crease below his mum’s eyes seemed perfectly etched onto his own skin, or how everyone around him needed to stop saying he looked like one parent or the other because he was standing here, in this graveyard full of death , staring at his world and he looked like both of them. 

He was their child. And they wanted him to leave. 

How could they do that?!

Despair coursed through him. And suddenly, he had the overwhelming urge to just give up. To let go of his wand, of this life so full of unfair-ness and pain, and sink to his knees and let Voldemort kill him. He wanted to die in the hopes that his parents would comfort him. Maybe then, when his body was consumed by the damp earth below his feet, soil eating away like it did to them, he would finally be with them.

“I can’t—” He tried again, voice raw, wet, and full of need. 

“Go, Harry,” she urged again, her voice filled with urgency and love. 

He didn’t want to let them go. He couldn’t. But as he loosened his grip on his wand, the thread beginning to break, a voice, so achingly familiar, so young and desperate, shouted out. “ Harry—-” He turned his head, his eyes blurry with tears, and found Cedric, who had stepped beside his parents. “Harry, take my body back, will you?” His sad, stormy eyes looked as mournful as Harry felt. “ Take my body back to my parents…”

The lump in Harry’s throat was suffocating, his eyes flickering from his parents to Cedric, chest tight with grief. He nodded, choking on the words he couldn’t say. The sight of Cedric’s face, pale, lifeless, and cast away in the graveyard, shot through his heart like a dagger. 

Before he could utter another word, to say “ Goodbye” or “ I’m sorry” or even “ I love you ”----- anything , the energy between the wands began to dissolve as the group—no— ghosts closed in on Voldemort. 

A mix of shouts and yells were heard, the loudest being the old man, who seemed to get right up in front of Voldemort’s face. “Is that right? Lord, is it? Well, I don’t think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn ‘round and face me like a man, why don’t you?”

Harry took an unsteady step back, and against every want and need in him, he quickly pulled his wand away from Voldemort’s and ran.

And then they were gone.

The graveyard dissolved into chaos as Harry stumbled back to the Portkey, clutching Cedric’s lifeless body and stumbling ever so slightly as he forced his gaze ahead, desperate to keep the image of an alive, or whatever he had been, Cedric in his head. Voldemort’s screams of rage had followed him, cold and sharp, slicing through his very soul. 

Harry stumbled again, his knees buckling, and he braced himself for the hard earth to hit him. However, instead of cold soil, a warm hand collided with his face. The room came back into focus, but the pulse—-that strange, rhythm—-remained, vibrating faintly in his chest. He realized his hands were shaking violently, his knuckles white as he gripped the chair. 

He blinked rapidly, trying to remember where he was—or, where, he supposes, he had been the whole time. 

A shout brought him out of his daze. 

“I cannot believe you!” 

He flinched back, awareness slowly seeping in.

“Well you staring at him wasn’t doing anything!”

“I wasn’t simply staring, Draco!” The voice growled. 

Wait. Draco?

Shaking his head, he took in his surroundings. He was still on the chair, perched on the very edge. In front of him, Snape and Malfoy were locked in a heated exchange, their voices blending into a single droning buzz. 

His breath came shaky and shallow, and his face stung where Malfoy’s hand had collided with it. The sting was sharp, but not sharp enough to distract him from the memory lingering behind his eyes, vivid and raw, like a fresh wound.

The pulse in his chest beat with ferocity, a deep, primal rhythm that made him feel like he hadn’t really left that bright bubble of light and incantation.

For one terrifying second, as the ghosts seemed to vanish into nothing, he had felt alive , more alive than he ever had before. And it haunted him. 

“Harry!”

The sharpness in Snape's voice jolted him. He looked up just in time to see Malfoy stepping half a step back, arms crossed, his face a mask of frustration. His right cheek began to feel quite hot, and he glared at the blond, who stared back with an air of accomplishment. 

Harry rubbed his face and slumped back into the chair, blinking against the mental fog. His mind was sluggish, but something was nagging at the edge of his awareness. Wasn’t simply staring?  Slowly, he turned his head toward Snape. He reached for the blackboard beside him and scribbled two words: 

You saw.

Snape’s dark eyes flicked to the board. He inclined his head slightly, his face impassive. “I did.”

Malfoy frowned and looked between them, confused. “Saw what?”

Harry raised the board again, his handwriting messier this time. 

Everything. 

Snape’s expression didn’t change. In fact, he looked like Harry was stating the obvious. But there was a slight tension in his brows, like he wasn’t sure what Harry’s reaction would be. 

You were Occululding or whatever. 

Snape’s lips twitched. “Your spelling is atrocious.”

Harry glared, erasing the first portion of the sentence and leaving only “whatever” on the board for Snape to stare at, which he did—dark eyes unimpressed. 

Normally, an invasion of his privacy without his consent would leave in an outrage. But he was too tired, too drained to argue about privacy. He slumped further into the chair. You felt it then, didn’t you?

Snape shook his head. Harry narrowed his eyes, confused. 

But you were Occuluding?

“No,” Snape said, his voice heavy with exasperation. “I was not Occluding. I was using Legilimency, which allows me to view one’s memories. It does not, however, let me feel what one is feeling.” 

Oh. Harry exhaled slowly.

So you just saw, then?

“Yes.” Snape drawled, growing frustrated at having to repeat himself.

Harry held his breath. On one hand, he was relieved. He didn’t have to recount that night in full detail, didn't have to relive it again. On the other hand, the feeling aspect was the whole problem. He was still going to have to talk about it—the ghosts, the pulse of life and death that had coursed through him, consumed him. 

“The pulse,” Snape started, his voice low and steady. “The sensation during the Priori Incantatem, how similar was it to the rhythm in the Potion earlier?”

Definitely similar, but also different. The Potion’s one felt kinda weaker, less alive almost?

Snape’s brows furrowed slightly. “And this sensation—you’ve felt it before, but not to this degree?”

Harry nodded. 

Snape had this weird look on his face, where Harry wasn’t sure if he was in deep thought, or if had already ventured past thinking and was growing troubled with his findings. 

What is it? 

Snape didn’t answer immediately. His weird gaze remained fixed on Harry. “The events in the graveyard,” he said slowly, “may have strengthened an initial connection.”

“Connection to what?” Malfoy asked, eyes switching between Harry and Snape.

Snape didn’t answer right away, staring at the whiteboard before speaking. 

“Death.”

The room seemed to grow colder. Malfoy’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his pale face growing even paler. 

“Wait,” Malfoy said finally, his voice trembling slightly. “You’re saying he’s—what, connected to death? Like…..necromancy?”

Harry flinched at the word, his gaze darting to Snape, searching for confirmation. He didn’t really understand what necromancy was, only that it was a Dark Art of the worst kind. So dark, that wizards who excelled in the matter, or even had somewhat of a grasp at it, were cast aside from society, were deemed entirely dark themselves. The last famous necromancer—--or, infamous rather—-was Grindelwald, who Dumbledore defeated personally. Which meant if….if that ….was what he was doing, or was inside him…what did that make him? His stomach churned at the thought. 

Snape’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer directly. “The Killing Curse is a spell of pure death magic. It interacts with nothing—-not shields, not barriers—-save for one exception: the night the Dark Lord was vanquished by your mother. Lily’s protective charm was a spell of love, of life, cast with the deepest intent to preserve. The clash between the two could have had numerous implications.”

Malfoy took a step back. “You mean this has been in him since he was a baby? Since You-Know-Who—” He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening. “And then, you’re saying, in the graveyard…”

“The Priori Incantatem,” Snape said evenly. “When the wands connected, it acted as a conduit. The souls that emerged were not merely echoes; they were tied to the very essence of life and death. It may have amplified what was already latent within Harry.”

Malfoy stared at Harry like he was seeing him for the first time. “So… what? He can control death now?”

Harry’s grip on the marker tightened, and he wrote furiously:

No. Don’t want to.

The words were underlined twice, the marker nearly snapping in his hand.

“Harry,” Snape said, his voice firm but not unkind. “No one is suggesting you do. Or that you even can.”

Malfoy, however, didn’t look convinced. “But if he can … Merlin, Severus. Do you know what that means?”

Snape shot him a warning look, and Malfoy fell silent, though his unease was palpable.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, the exhaustion returning in full force. He didn’t want to think about what it meant, didn’t want to acknowledge the possibilities Malfoy was hinting at. All he wanted was for this conversation to stop.

I’m tired, he said in Snape’s mind, his voice faint and strained. Can we stop talking about this?

Snape took a moment to respond.  It’s normal to feel upset in this circumstance. 

Harry opened his eyes, glancing at Snape. The man’s dark eyes bore into him. 

Normal?  Harry shot back, his words laced with venom. Don’t tell me what’s normal. 

Snape’s expression turned colder, his dark eyes narrowing. 

I was attempting—

I’m fine, Harry interrupted, tone curt and hard. He didn’t give a shit about what Snape was attempting to do. Pity doesn’t suit you. Drop it.

The older man stiffened, his expression hardening instantly, like a door slamming shut. Whatever faint trace of vulnerability he’d shown was replaced by the cold, impenetrable mask Harry had grown to associate with him. 

For a moment, it seemed as though he might press the issue or even berate Harry for interrupting him, but then he inclined his head ever so slightly, retreating from the connection. 

“We’ll continue later,” he said, his tone clipped and devoid of warmth. 

Malfoy opened his mouth to protest, but one glare from Snape silenced him.

As Harry stood shakily, Malfoy muttered under his breath, “I still say it’s necromancy.”

Harry paused but didn’t respond.

                                                                                                                            ***

Harry had been writing when he went unresponsive. His hand stilling against the board, shoulders growing rigid as a glassy, faraway look over took his too-bright green eyes. 

Snape’s jaw tightened, his mind going over every basic training course Hogwarts faculty members were subjected to before each school year. The sessions were often tedious, aimed at preparing teachers for the so-called “complex realities” of their student’s lives. There were basic modules: how to handle disruptive behavior, channel adolescent angst productively, or refocus inattentive students. There were challenges that came with teaching, that very well being the job, especially in a school like Hogwarts. 

But then there were the sessions that Snape took far more seriously—ones designed to equip teachers to recognize the subtler signs of trouble. How to identify the mental and physical scars left by neglect or abuse, the small cues of a student suffering from mental turmoil, or even the warning signs of trauma triggers. He had been dismissive of most of his colleagues’ ability to apply such knowledge, as he had witnessed numerous instances where a Head of House had been completely ignorant to one of their student’s struggles. It was appalling. So, he had paid close attention himself. Not because he intended to coddle students but because he seemed to be the only one who noticed, especially when a good majority was from his Slytherins. Perhaps it was easier to see something amiss when he had been the amiss-ed for so long.

And now, facing Harry, the boy he had loathed for years, Snape recognized the signs as clearly as if they were written on a blackboard. The very clear picture of struggle made him angry. He had dismissed Harry as arrogant, undisciplined, a living mirror of James Potter’s worst traits. But standing here, seeing the eerily familiar, vacant, glassy expression in his eyes, Snape once again was forced to confront his own obliviousness. It was becoming a common theme the last few weeks: Realizing how wrong he had been about Harry. He had seen this look before. In fact, he had seen many of Harry’s troubling looks before—-in his own reflection, in his own experience. He’d even seen them in those annual training modules which he silently vowed to take seriously. And yet, he had been so utterly unserious about someone struggling right before him. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Draco’s voice broke through his inner monologue. The boy’s face was twisted in what looked like concern as he glanced between Harry and himself. 

“Be quiet, Draco,” Snape snapped, his voice full of misplaced anger. He took a steadying breath, his mind racing. Something was wrong and he needed to act. He owed Harry at least that. 

Without hesitation, Snape stepped closer to the teenager sitting on the chair, his dark eyes locking onto the boy’s vacant stare. He raised his wand subtly, muttering, “Legilimens.”

The world around him shifted violently, and he found himself standing in a graveyard. The air was damp, heavy with the metallic tang of blood. The ground beneath his shoes was soft, sodden from recent rain. To his left, he spotted a large marble gravestone bearing the name “Tom Riddle.” The Riddle family were buried there—--Thomas, his wife Mary, and their son Tom Riddle Sr.—--murdered by a sixteen year old Tom Riddle. Nearby, an enormous cauldron loomed, its dark contents simmering and unattended. A dagger, glinting faintly in the moonlight, lay discarded in the grass, alongside a golden Trophy cup that Snape recognized as the disguised Portkey acquired at the end of the final task of the Triwizard Tournament. To its side was a body lying front side up, eyes vacant and blonde hair still on the grass. 

Cedric Diggory. 

Snape turned away from the teen. He couldn’t focus on him. 

Then, just ahead, he saw him. The Dark Lord. His new snake-like features were grotesque, his pale, waxy skin stretched unnaturally over his skull. Red eyes burned with a sadistic glee as he raised his wand. His lipless mouth twisted into an inhuman grin, a high-pitched laughter ringing through the graveyard. 

He looked every bit the monster as he was inwardly. 

And there, not far from the monster, was Harry.

Snape’s breath hitched as he took in the boy’s appearance. Harry’s left arm hung limply at his side, blood dripping steadily from a long, jagged wound. He was visibly shaking, tremors encasing his small frame and his face was pale, drawn, his wide green eyes filled with terror. The sight looked so wrong. A boy facing a grown man, or whatever Voldemort had become. 

For a moment, Snape could do nothing but stare as a strange emotion clawed its way into his chest, seeming to tear at him from the inside. 

Voldemort’s grin widened, his mouth seeming to crack at the edges as he gleefully demanded a duel. His figure, despite being several steps away, loomed over Harry’s, whose trembling hand raised a wand in response. 

Anger burned through Snape like a wildfire. The feeling was strange. The sight was vile. Voldemort was toying with him, taking pleasure from tormenting a child. Snape was suddenly overcome with wanting to drag Harry away from this very dangerous, sadistic figure. And yet he could do nothing but watch as Harry shakily lifted his wand. 

The air between their wands crackled, the connection between them sparking with a vibrant, golden light. 

Shared twin cores from the same Phoenix. 

The light pulsed and shifted, growing brighter and brighter, illuminating a bubble around them that seemed alive. Harry’s face glowed, and despite the very rare phenomenon, Snape couldn’t look away from him. His brows were creased, jaw clenched, and lips scrunched like a deep frown he couldn’t control. His head was tilted down, shoulders heaving, and Snape noticed, his fists clenching despite himself, that he seemed to be struggling with just standing up. 

He looked so very afraid. 

He tore himself from the sight, finding the motion surprisingly difficult, as figures began emerging from Voldemort’s wand. He watched Cedric emerge first, his face full of surprise and anguish. And again, he found his gaze drifting back to Harry. He began to notice, as another figure came forth—-this time being an old man with stringy hair whom Snape didn’t recognize—-that Harry’s quick, harsh breathes seemed to become in sync with the pulsing light. In fact, not only did Harry seem more in tune with his surroundings, he also appeared to be glowing brighter than Voldemort, his face an unearthly shade of gold as his feet began to hover just above the ground. 

The next figure, Snape did recognize. Bertha Jorkins. She had been a few years ahead of him at Hogwarts, and even then, she had been an insufferable girl—nosy to the point of recklessness and utterly devoid of common sense. Her tendency to meddle in matters that didn’t concern her often landed her in trouble, including one particularly memorable incident that brought her before Dumbledore himself. 

That she had somehow clawed her way into a Ministry position afterward was nothing short of baffling, though perhaps it spoke more to the Ministry’s standards than to any hidden competence on her part. She’d ended up in the Department of Magical Games and Sports—-hardly a prestigious post—and a few years later suffered a suspicious “accident” that left her permanently addled. Her extreme forgetfulness became a source of ridicule amongst the Ministry, and though Snape had never bothered to confirm the details, he had long suspected that her visit to Crouch Sr.’s estate had something to do with it. Crouch’s skill with memory charms was well-known, and Bertha’s penchant for prying into secrets she didn’t understand would have made her an easy target. 

She had vanished completely the year before, allegedly while on holiday in Albania. As Snape watched her emerge, her former irritating chatter was nowhere to be found, replaced by silent fear. 

And then, James Potter appeared. 

Snape’s breath caught. He barely had time to register the man’s presence before Lily followed. 

Immediately, his gaze locked onto her. She looked radiant, even in this spectral form. Her fiery red hair framed her face as her emerald eyes took in her surroundings. Snape couldn’t look away. He watched as she smiled down at her son, her expression soft and projecting an image so different from the pain she must be feeling. 

He felt a pang in his heart. How many nights had he dreamed of seeing her again? How many times had he wished—stupidly, selfishly—to explain, to beg for her forgiveness, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it?

She had always been too good for him. And now she was here, and it was worse than any dream, worse than any nightmare. Because she was dead. 

He wanted to reach out, to tell her how sorry he was, how much he regretted everything, how it wasn’t worth it because he got her killed. But then, as if sensing his presence—an impossibility, he told himself—Lily’s gaze shifted. She looked directly at him. 

He froze, heart pounding in his chest. Realistically, he knew this wasn’t part of the memory. His heightened emotions must have resulted in a lack of mental control, altering what Harry’s mind recalled. He stared at her, breath caught in his throat. He needed to control himself, needed to fortify his walls. Letting his emotions get the best of him—it was reckless, dangerous, and—-and her gaze wasn’t one of hatred. Though he deserved nothing less. No, her eyes were filled with something else entirely. Grief. Grief so vast it threatened to consume him. She was looking at him, as though trying to convey every ounce of pain she felt from the scene before her. As if trying to convey that Lily Potter, or Lily Evans rather, was in mourning because she was dead with James and her son was alive with no one. 

Somehow, this gaze was worse than the expected anger. She looked at him like she wanted him to know that none of it mattered anymore, not the mistakes, not the betrayals. All that mattered was her son and that he wasn’t alone anymore. Couldn’t be. 

She looked like she needed him to understand that. 

He took a step forward, desperate to hold onto this moment despite the ache in his chest and the mantra of  “this isn’t real” flying through his head. But she turned away. Her right hand was clenched tightly around the back of James’s shirt, hidden from Harry as she spoke to him when suddenly, the light around them flickered. Snape’s head snapped towards Harry who seemed to be loosening his grip on his wand. Fear gripped through him like a vice. What was he doing? Was he trying to get himself killed? He moved without thinking, without wondering why he was being overtaken by such an urge, his legs aching to close the distance, to stop this foolish child. But before he could reach him, Harry’s fists clenched, his gaze locking onto Cedric. Snape watched as the boy’s head shook back and forth violently, body growing visibly distressed. Cedric was still speaking, urging him on, when finally, Harry seemed to comply. 

The spectral forms charged Voldemort then, buying Harry precious seconds. The boy darted forward, dragging Cedric’s lifeless body with him. Snape’s eyes stayed on the flickering remnants of the incantation, the echoes of the dead fading into nothingness. Lily’s form, the last to appear and now the last to go, disappeared with one hand clutching James’s and the other waving wildly around Voldemort’s face. 

Snape’s throat tightened. The spell collapsed, Voldemort’s scream ripping through the graveyard as Harry stumbled hard, nearly falling, and Snape surged forward. He needed to wake the boy, to pull him out of this memory before it consumed him entirely. But the ground beneath him trembled violently, and before he could act, the scene shattered. 

He exited Harry’s mind quickly and was met with the image of Draco standing beside him, one hand outstretched, a vivid red mark blooming across Harry’s cheek. 

                                                                                                                              ***

After Harry left the room, Snape remained standing, staring at the empty doorway.

He thought of Lily again. 

Her love for Harry was visceral, written in every line of her face, every slight tremble of her voice when she spoke to him. She had clearly wanted nothing more than to throw herself at her son, to shield him with a body she no longer possessed. Instead, she had stood there, ethereal and painfully resolute, her hand clenching the back of James Potter’s shirt as though anchoring herself to the last shred of strength she had left. 

She was in agony and yet she still stood tall, smiling so softly as if the pain was nothing because she got to be with son. 

Again and again, he had failed her. And he was failing her now because he couldn’t bring himself to lower his walls, couldn’t allow himself to be vulnerable, couldn’t overcome that deep, rotting fear that had been with him since he was a boy hiding in the shadowed corners of Spinner’s End. Vulnerability was a wound he could never risk exposing. And he was continuously failing Harry because of it. 

Lily had been the opposite. She had loved effortlessly, unguardedly. Her love for her friends, for her family, for that insufferable, arrogant James Potter had been unshakable. And for Harry—her love had been nothing less than fierce, a flame that burned brighter than any magic Snape had ever encountered. 

And somehow, incomprehensibly, she had loved him.

At least, she had once. 

But he knew, feeling a searing heat begin to crawl up from the very muscle of his left arm, that it was a love he could never deserve.