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Harry was having a bad day.
Harry knew it was going to be a bad day from the start. He woke up that morning with a dull headache, a crick in his neck, and that awful, telltale feeling deep inside his gut. It pulsed and sloshed inside him, ugly and unkind. He hated the feeling, he hated how he recognized it, hated its familiarity.
Looking around, he noticed his dorm-mates were already up and about, robes on and book-bags in hand. Their soft chatter couldn’t reach his ears.
I should be getting up, too, he thought distantly.
He blinked once and the thought passed. He wanted to go back to sleep.
Harry shut his eyes forcibly and drew his covers up closer and tighter. He shifted to lay on his side, gaze avoiding the rising sun shining through the windows, ears trying not to focus on the chatter in the background. It was effective for a total of five minutes, before he heard footsteps nearing his four-poster.
“Oi, Harry,” came Ron’s voice.
Harry held his breath like it would make him go away.
“Best get started now, mate.”
No response.
“It’s time for breakfast, Harry,” Ron tried again.
Sighing, Harry rolled over sluggishly and blinked up at his friend. “Go on without me.”
“But you missed breakfast yesterday, too,” Ron pointed out, and Harry couldn’t help but notice the worry that his friend couldn’t quite filter out of his face, his voice. The deep-rooted feeling in his gut doubled. It felt like guilt, sloshing around in his chest unkindly. It felt like he was an ugly stain upending Ron’s morning.
He gulped, forcing his thoughts down, down, down. “Sorry, Ron, I’m just really tired,” he said, wishing his voice didn’t sound so plaintive, wishing Ron would take the hint and leave him alone.
Ron bit his lip. “Okay. But you’ll be in class, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harry turned over to the wall and pulled his covers up again. He kept his hands tight around the cloth.
“Alright, then. Er, see you later, mate,” Ron said, voice quieting as he walked away.
Harry tried to ignore the uncertainty in his tone. The room was quiet for a while, both boys breathing in silence, before the door clicked and Ron was gone.
Harry drifted back to sleep, distantly glad that Ron let the matter drop if even just for now. He didn’t deserve a friend like him. Not two hours later was when Harry woke up groggily—earlier than he would’ve liked, but late enough to miss his first class for sure. With a sigh, he reached blindly for his glasses and dragged himself out of bed.
“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed when he sat down for History of Magic. There was that familiar lilt to her voice it took when she was worried. Her hair looked even more frazzled than usual. Ron, two seats over, stared at him with furrowed brows. Harry’s head hurt. “Where have you been?”
“Slept in,” Harry said simply, blinking heavily. His eyelids felt like bricks.
“Feeling alright, Harry?” Ron asked, voice casual, but too light.
Harry could hear it, the apprehension and uncertainty, the way he didn’t know how to approach him. Then he and Hermione exchanged a glance, as if Harry couldn’t see. A tick of annoyance sparked up inside Harry, and he immediately felt guilty for it.
Harry nodded, making a show of setting down his book-bag to avoid their heavy eyes and knowing stares. “Just tired,” he said simply. He’s hoping to sleep his way through Binns’ lecture as well—no one would bat an eye at another student using History as a napping period.
“Maybe you should go see Madame Pomfrey,” Hermione suggested, voice dipping down to a whisper as Professor Binns entered the room like it mattered. “You look a bit ill, Harry.”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers. He took in her pursed lips, the tentativeness in her tone. Her kind, big eyes, earnest and honest. The ugly feeling in his chest sits heavy. She’s probably right—Harry rushed to get ready, not bothering to check himself in the mirror. If he looked as bad as he felt, he must look terrible.
“I’m fine, ‘Mione,” he said anyway, but he cast his eyes down, unable to bear looking at her worried face—her eyes—for a second longer. Fidgeting, he scratched at his wrist. “I’m just exhausted.”
Out of the corner of his eye, his friends shared another discreet look. Harry gripped the edge of his table harsher than necessary, nails dragging unkindly against the wood. He hated them, hated them for worrying so much when there was no need to worry—he hated himself for hating. He wanted to go back to bed.
Hermione opened her mouth, but Professor Binns cleared his throat and she shut it just as fast, turning back to her notebook and quill.
Ron on the other hand had no such qualms about whispering while a professor spoke. As Binns begins his lecture, he leaned in to speak to Harry. “Seriously, mate. You aren’t having, y’know, those nightmares again, are you?”
Harry’s head started to feel a bit fuzzy. He swam through his thoughts—swimming, swimming, and swimming—until they formed some semblance of a response. “No, it’s not that,” he said, thinking it might be true. He slept well. He was sleeping too much.
Ron didn’t budge. “You sure? If you need, you can always talk to—I mean, if you wanted, Snape could—”
“No,” Harry said before he could consider it.
“Surely he can help, can’t he?” Ron argued..
“I don’t need help,” he tried to muster up some passion, but his words came out flat. To go running to his guardian with such silly, pathetic misgivings, when he’s already so stressed and done so much for him… No, he couldn’t. “Really, it’s okay.”
Ron looked about ready to gear up a retort, but Hermione cut him off with an unsubtle nudge. The two of them fell silent, and Harry stared at his friends with that growing ache in his chest. Professor Binns continued to drone on, words like static to Harry’s ears. Harry settled into his seat and looked out the windows.
He blinked.
He was in the Great Hall, a plate full of a random assortment of food in front of him.
“Still not hungry, Harry?” Ron asked, face stuffed and voice muffled.
“Not really,” Harry said automatically. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, dull and far away. His arms itched and tingled, and he slowly lifted his hands to claw the feeling away.
Hermione’s insistent voice filled his ears. “You need to eat something,” she said, eyes flitting from Harry’s arms to his face. “You haven’t had anything all day.”
Harry wasn’t certain he’s paying complete attention. Just to appease her, he brought up a spoonful of food to his mouth and chewed. He wasn’t sure what it was or how it tasted. It felt like clay in his mouth but he ate it anyways, if only to see the small, pleased smile Hermione gave him.
His eyes wandered toward the Head Table.
Snape was in conversation with the professor next to him. What’s her name—Sydney? Sinistra? It didn’t matter. Snape looked relaxed. Lately he’s been in a good mood, Harry thought. He stared as the two professors spoke. His chest hurt, something heavy weighing it down.
He must have been staring for a bit too long. Snape caught his eye, raising a curious eyebrow. Startled, Harry averted his gaze and stared down at his plate.
“I feel sick,” he said suddenly.
Hermione jolted. “I—are you going to see Madame Pomfrey, then?”
“Think so,” Harry mumbled, getting to his feet unsteadily. His head pounded.
“I’ll go with you,” Ron was quick to say, gathering his stuff.
Harry shook his head, ignoring the way it throbbed, ached. “No, I’ll be okay. See you later,” he said in one breath, leaving as fast as he could without looking too conspicuous. He didn’t bother hanging back to hear what his friends had to say in response. He didn’t want to hear it.
He let his feet lead him down the spindling halls, his mind wandering as he went.
Obscurely, he wondered where his bag was, his books from this morning. Where had he left them? Where was he going? He glanced back, expecting to see Ron trailing behind him in an effort to catch up. There was no one there. Harry ignored the stupid, stupid hurt growing in his core. Did he decide Harry wasn’t worth running after? Have he and Hermione finally realized they would be better off without him after all? All he ever does is bring them down. What did he even do today? What good does he do for them? What is he doing?
Abruptly, he stopped walking, feet screeching to a halt.
He was in front of the Hospital Wing. Maybe he really should go talk to Madame Pomfrey. He’s not an idiot, he knew something was going on with him. As much as he wanted to act like nothing's wrong, he knew normal people weren’t supposed to be losing time like this, normal people don’t float through the day feeling like they’re outside of their own skin.
He shifted on his feet, wondering. It wasn’t exactly fun being this way, he considered, but what would going to the Hospital Wing do? Pomfrey would probably dote on him, scold him maybe. Toss a few potions at him. A temporary fix it would be. A mood stabilizing potion, a calming draught, a dosage of dreamless sleep. He frowned, an ugly feeling rising in him. Suddenly he felt angry.
He walked past.
That’s just about all I feel recently, Harry thought bitterly. Either he’s angry, or he’s nothing. He squared his jaw and walked down the hallway. Down, down, down. With each step, the more he felt like floating, drifting. Down, down, down he went, down spindling corridors and the castle’s never-ending stairs.
At some point, the anger he had felt earlier dulled down to a dim, heavy feeling in his gut. Present inside him, but buried deep, thrumming with energy. He needed it out. He needed to cleanse himself of the ugliness inside him. His arms burned, and he was surprised to see his hands frantically itching at the skin beneath his sleeves.
Harry kept walking. For how long, he couldn’t tell. The hallways felt endless.
He blinked. He was inside Snape’s private quarters.
Oh, he’s going to be so livid once he finds out I’ve skipped class to sulk in my room, an obscure part of Harry fret. He shook his head, unable to even think about his guardian right now. It brought back the ugly, burning feeling inside his chest, and he needed it gone. Distantly, he wonders how he even got inside, if anyone saw him on the way here. He brushed the thoughts aside, concluding that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, not here, not now.
He dragged his feet to his room, a small yet quaint addition to Snape’s living quarters. An accommodation Dumbledore insisted upon when the guardianship was made official. A safe haven, now. An escape from himself.
Groggily, Harry plopped down onto his bed. He itched at his arm. It hurt. He let out a breath, and it was almost a sigh. It was almost like relief. He could feel after all. Not anger, not nothing. It hurts. He’s hurting. It felt something like a revelation. He dragged his nails deep across his skin, but his nails were dull. He needed something else, he needed more. He needed to prove to himself that he can feel. The world faded away as his vision tunneled.
Red.
Red seeped through his sheets, his clothes, his skin.
He blinked, and the red deepened, spreading.
Harry's hands trembled. He stared at the red encompassing him, eyes fixed and entranced. Distantly, he could feel the pain of it all throbbing through his body, but it was too far away for him to notice it.
What has he done?
He blinked again, his eyes sweeping through the room, trying to understand.
He looked back down at the red. His breath is coming out in pants, Harry realized. His hands were still shaking. He brought them up to inspect them, thinking something might be wrong. Red, red all over his hands, his arms. It was all he could see. It hurt, it burned. Harry watched the red flow—an enticing color, an enticing sight, ruby and bright on his skin. Something is wrong, Harry thought. He wondered if it was normal to be so red. He flexed his hands into fists and back. His fingers felt damp. I'm bleeding, he realized. Why am I bleeding?
His eyes searched the room again. This time he noticed everything was blurry. It shouldn't be. He had his glasses on, after all. Did he? Harry couldn’t tell. All he could feel was the burning pain on his arms. Red soaked through the bedsheets, deep, deep, deeper. He was still bleeding. What was he doing?
There—right there. A small pair of scissors on the floor. They were red, too. He reached down and winced at the pain shooting up in his arm, grabbing hold of the scissors. He held the scissors in hand and straightened them up to a line, blades forward. He inspected the scissors. He placed the blade next to his wrist. Red, red, red. A beautiful color. Harry's favorite. Gryffindor's color, he thought. He is a Gryffindor. He is brave, so brave. He is strong, and brave, and…
And he’s bleeding.
He blinked once, and the red on his sheets has become a dull brown. He must have lost his grip on the scissors because they had fallen onto the bed next to him. The red under his nails had darkened into a deep black. Harry's head swam. The red was gone, gone, gone, replaced with an ugly darkness. This is my color, Harry thought.
His eyes closed heavily, and his breaths began to sound like wheezes. His hand searched blindly for the scissors next to him, wincing when his fingers caught the blade. Harry grasped the small tool and held it tight. He hissed as it drew more blood, but he sighed happily at the sight of red oozing out of his skin. It hurt, and it hurt so good.
Footsteps.
Harry froze.
Did he lock the door?
Footsteps, louder this time. Near his room.
Of course I did, he thought frantically.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Harry?"
No, no, no, no. Not here, not now.
Harry stayed silent, breath held as his grip on the scissors tightened.
"Harry?" Professor Snape tried again. The turning of the door knob rattled the room, rattled Harry's head. Harry shut his eyes. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep, his guardian would go away. Maybe if he pretended hard enough, Harry would sink into the red.
Silence.
Harry let out a breath.
Then the door swung open. A strangled gasp escaped Harry’s mouth as loud thuds drew near.
"Harry!" Snape exclaimed. His clothes rustled as he drew closer to Harry's bed. He was still in his teaching robes. "What have you done?" he demands.
Harry stared at the wall, throat constricting. It was red, too. Snape had let him choose the color of his room all those months ago. He stared at the color now, thinking that the red on his skin looked much better.
"Harry, Harry," came Snape's voice. Harry thought it sounded worried. Snape shook his shoulder. Did Snape think he was dead? What would he do if he was? Would he mourn him? Harry was mourning. He was mourning and he was so, so red.
More rustling. A swish of wind in the air. Suddenly his sheets felt a lot cleaner. He lowered his eyes and found the bed devoid of red. Alarmed, Harry peered at his hand.
"No!" he yelled, eyes widening as he scrambled to sit up. "No, no, don't!"
Snape's eyes were wide, too. "Harry, what is the meaning of this—?"
Harry scooted as far away from him as he could, back thudding harshly against his red wall. He stared at his arms, skin marred and cuts angry—but gone was the red. He cried.
"No, no, why did you—? You—" he said, voice anguished.
"Harry," Snape said. He grabbed Harry's arms.
Harry screamed, flailing. He felt his hands connect with something hard, and Snape gasped, backing away.
Harry scratched at his cuts, breath harsh and eyes wild. It hurt like hell and he needed more. He needed to feel more.
Snape grabbed hold of his arms once more. "Harry, stop this at once—"
He cried out, pushing and kicking. This time, Snape didn’t budge.
"You're hurting me," Harry gasped out.
Snape released him immediately, eyes wider than Harry had ever seen before
Harry panted, the fight draining from his body. His ears were ringing. A faraway part of him noticed the small trickles of blood escaping the cuts on his arms.
"What have you done?" Snape asked again, in a hushed whisper now, as if a volume any louder would be too much.
Harry said nothing. He stared resolutely at the bloodied, reddened shirt his guardian wore—stained with his blood, his red. When Harry didn’t respond, Snape pulled out his wand.
"No, please don't," Harry croaked.
Snape quirked an eyebrow. He looked tired, Harry noted. "What?"
"Don't heal them," Harry whispered.
Snape pursed his lips. To any other student, he must have looked furious, but Harry knew he was only worried. "And why shouldn't I?" he asked just as quietly.
Tears slipped down Harry's face. "Just—just don't. Please, I need—I need—"
Snape narrowed his eyes. "You need?"
Harry sobbed. He nodded, hugging himself as he curled up. He couldn't bear to look at his professor. "I need it, you don't—understand. Please, please don't take them away, sir—"
Snape blinked, a little fast, a little wetly. “You need to be healed," he said anyway, almost apologetically.
Harry shook his head frantically. "No, no. Please, please," he begged, a mantra of small, quiet pleases filling the room like a never ending echo.
Snape's lips thinned into a straight line, eyes moving, as if searching Harry's very soul. Then he sighed and stood, leaving the room and leaving Harry stunned.
Harry hiccuped, relaxing into solitude. As the worst of his sobs subsided, he cried silently. Tears continued to flow down his cheeks, but he could hardly feel them anymore, just as he could hardly feel the bleeding cuts on his skin. He needed to rectify that. Fervently, he started to scratch at his arms once more, absentmindedly picking at his skin as he waited in silence. Waiting for what, he didn't know. He hardly knew anything these days.
Snape returned to the room, and Harry jumped. Floating behind him appeared to be an assortment of Muggle healing supplies—gauze, rubbing alcohol, antiseptic, and the like. Harry watched silently as the professor drew closer to him. He stood at the front of Harry's bed. With a swish of his hand, the medical supplies dropped to the bed.
"You will allow me to heal you," Snape said, voice afflicted with something Harry couldn't quite work out.
"No magic?" Harry whispered.
"None."
Harry blew out a breath. Still he drew his arms away from the professor, hiding his worst cuts from view.
"Harry," Snape said. "Please."
Harry stilled. Not once in his life had he ever heard his guardian say the word please.
Hesitantly, he held out an arm. He watched as Snape let out an almost indecipherable relieved sigh. The professor sat down at the edge of his bed and placed Harry's arm on his leg, grabbing a cotton ball and soaking it with rubbing alcohol. Harry peeked a glance at the supplies his professor had brought with him. It looked to be a random assortment of Muggle medical supplies. The man must have summoned everything he could without thinking too much of it, Harry thought. Guilt seeped into his bones.
"Quiet," Snape barked.
"Huh?" Harry mumbled. "I didn't say anything."
"I can hear your incessant thinking," Snape grumbled. He took a large cloth and laid it out on the bed.
"You don't even know what I was thinking of," he muttered.
"I have an idea," the professor shot back. He held the soaked cotton ball above his skin. "This will hurt," he warned.
"That's alright," Harry said quietly.
Snape's frown deepened. The rubbing alcohol stung, but Harry paid it little heed. It wasn't anything like how the scissors felt, but it was close enough. Harry breathed through his nose and closed his eyes.
"What have you done?" Snape breathed, his third time saying it now, probably staring at the horrid marks Harry inflicted onto his own body.
"Do we have to talk about it?" Harry asked softly, absentmindedly. He hissed when the cold liquid touched on one particularly deep gash.
"Yes," Snape's tone was clipped. "This must be addressed. What—Harry, what on Earth—...?"
The both of them fell silent. Harry waited with his eyes shut, listening as Snape sucked in a breath and then sighed.
"I had noticed that recently," Snape started, "Your mood had begun to take a turn for...you didn't..." Snape stopped, and the hand dabbing his skin with antiseptic stopped with him. "You haven't been yourself lately," he concluded after several seconds, continuing his ministrations.
Snape noticed. Because of course he did, nothing gets past the man, Harry thought bitterly, unfairly. He didn't know what to say. It eased him a bit to know at least his professor was feeling the same, if the way he stumbled over his words was any indicator. After a few bouts of silence, Snape continued, "I thought to myself that you would come speak to me when you felt ready," he said, unable to filter out the regret in his voice.
Harry shut his eyes tighter, wishing he could shut his ears, too.
"I realize now that I was horribly wrong," Snape said heavily. Harry felt the world standing still. Ever so rarely did anyone ever hear Professor Snape admit he was wrong. The man wiped his wounds with a dry cloth. "I should have never—never allowed for this to happen," he said firmly.
"'S not your fault," mumbled Harry.
"Nevertheless," his guardian insisted. "Nothing should have made you feel the—the need to do this to yourself. To hide it, no less."
"You couldn't have done anything," Harry muttered quietly, regretting the words as soon as they had left his mouth.
Snape became very quiet, working silently as he patched Harry up, wrapping bandages around his wounds. "Nevertheless," he repeated finally.
Tears pricked up in Harry's eyes. "I'm sorry."
"Do not," Snape's voice was harsh. "Do not apologize."
"Still," Harry croaked. "I'm a—I'm fucked up," he said pathetically as Snape lifted his other arm, limp and sore. "There's something wrong with me."
"There is nothing wrong with you," the professor murmured.
Harry whimpered, a weak and sorry sound. "I don't—even know what happened."
Silence again, for a minute or two.
"It was to my assumption," Snape spoke up, grabbing another cotton ball. "That you were doing—feeling better. Happier," he said.
"I was—I am," Harry protested, the words as weak as he felt. "Today, I just—I don't know. See, there's—something wrong with me!"
“I never want this to happen again,” Snape admits, and the honesty surprises both of them. He is frowning, eyes pinched like they are when he’s in pain. “Not this exactly. But…your unwillingness to speak to me. I am an option. I am here to care for you. When will you believe it?” He tries to hide it, Harry knows, but he’s spent enough time with the man to recognize the hurt he can’t quite filter out of his voice.
“It's not like that. Really! I know that, I believe it. I just…my brain doesn’t let me, sometimes. I didn’t want to…disappoint you.” Harry finishes lamely, voice breaking.
Snape's lips curl as his frown deepens. "We will speak to Madam Promfrey," he states resolutely, like he won’t take no for an answer.
Harry jolts, knocking an open bottle of antiseptic astray as he did. "What?" he says numbly.
"This is something out of my level of expertise," Snape murmurs, undeterred by the mess Harry made. He vanishes the spilled contents with a wave of his hand and simply corks open another bottle.
"This?" Harry repeats, suddenly angry, gesturing to himself. "Carting me off to someone else now? Can't—can't handle a nutcase?"
Snape tenses. "That is not at all what I said," voice hard. He takes several deep breaths before speaking once again. In a calmer voice he drawls, "Did I or did I not say we?"
Harry draws into himself, chagrined. Snape gives him a look.
"Do we really need to go?" Harry asks feebly.
Snape purses his lips. "Of course," he says with conviction. "As I said, this is a situation that must be dealt with by a professional hand. Truthfully, I should have alerted her the moment I saw you. She should be the one healing you this very second."
A pang of hurt sparks up in Harry's chest. "I'm not mental," he protests.
Snape raises an eyebrow. "I didn't say you were."
"You must think it. You're carting me off to—to a professional. That can deal with me," he spits out the words, feeling incredibly bitter.
A deep sigh. "No one is carting you off to anyone anywhere," the man says tiredly as he puts away the medical supplies.
“I don’t want some temporary fix.” The words burst out before Harry could stop it, angry and big. “I don’t want some potions thrown at me to make me feel happy.”
The reason why he didn’t stop by Madam Pomfrey’s earlier himself now at the forefront of his mind, he seethed. It was disorienting, feeling so many emotions rise within him at once after a full day of feeling almost nothing.
Snape says nothing, and as Harry’s anger fades his nervousness increases tenfold. He’s just about ready to speak up again when the professor clears his throat. “Your friends approached me once classes ended,” he says quietly.
Harry blinks, surprised not only at the change of subject but also the man’s words. Shame arose in him. He doesn’t deserve Ron and Hermione. “What did they say?”
“You have been distant, apathetic,” Snape says by way of answering. “Oversleeping. Not eating.” There’s something to his tone of voice, something bitter and upset. Harry feels a surge of guilt and embarrassment, and he draws into himself once again.
“I’m really sorry,” Harry is quick to say. Before Snape could tell him off again for apologizing, he hurries on, “I should’ve talked to you, I know. Even Ron said—but I didn’t—I just couldn’t today. I just couldn’t do anything, it’s like I’ve been wading through fog all day…” his voice trails off.
“Am I to believe this is a one-time occurrence?” asks Snape, not accusatory, but firm. He hales, like he was bracing himself. Quieter, he says, “You have been out of sorts all week. Something in particular happened, I presume. However, regrettably, I…I was under the assumption that, like many things, it too would pass.”
Harry bites his lip, unsure of how to respond. Must his professor always speak in riddles? He ducks his head, afraid of looking into the man’s eyes. “Nothing happened, not really. It just…started. Dunno, I guess I've been feeling really weird lately, but today…today was bad. The worst.”
Snape once again was silent, the only tell that he was even in the room being his almost indecipherable breathing. Harry peeks out from his fringe, and sees the man had one eyebrow upturned, as if to say Go on?
Harry averts his gaze again. “I get…hazy, I guess. I dunno.” He drew his knees up to his chest, feeling horribly exposed. “Like I’m watching myself move. I’m seeing things, hearing them, but not really. And I—I lose time. I’m in one place, I blink, and then I’m in another. And—and I can deal with it normally, yeah? It’s okay. But today—today was bad.” It all comes out in a rush, in one big breath, like now that he’s started, he couldn’t stop.
He continues, in a choked voice, “Everything was so quiet. And I didn’t—I don’t know what’s happening. How much time I’ve lost. I just wanted—needed to feel something.” He stared at his arms, fully bandaged and covered. He stares, boring holes into his skin, like he can see the cuts through the bandages.
“Harry,” Snape breathes, and the single word is enough to send Harry over the edge.
“Sorry,” Harry chokes out. “Sorry, I’m so sorry—”
He is engulfed suddenly in Snape’s arms.
Harry’s breath hitches, and he doesn’t dare to breathe. It’s warm, a bit stiff and uncomfortable, as hugs with his guardian tend to be, but arms cradle him like he is precious and worthy and he can’t help but sink into it. Harry reaches out and grabs onto whatever cloth he can get ahold of, gripping tight and fiercely, like he’s afraid Snape might disappear. Then a sob is choked out of him. And another. And suddenly he is crying into the man’s shoulder, sobs wracking his entire body. If Snape is at all uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it. Harry feels a hand soothingly rubbing at his back and he cries a bit harder. He’s crying again, but it’s not the same as before. Now, it feels like release. Cathartic.
“You will be okay,” Snape said, voice thick. “It's okay. Shh. ”
“Yeah?” Harry croaked.
“Yes,” Snape promised, holding the boy tighter. “We will weather this as we have similarly before.”
Harry shut his eyes as he took a shuddering breath, the words falling over him like a soothing blanket. Here, in this moment, in this warm embrace, he allowed himself to believe him.
When arms extricate themselves and deep breaths are taken, his guardian looked at him with a steady eye. "Better?"
Harry wiped his face. "Yeah," he croaked and cleared his throat. "Yeah, yes. Thanks. Sorry."
Snape gave him another look, fonder than he probably meant it to be. "Dinner now, I think."
Harry looked up at him, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips. "Okay."
“Now, as for the classes you've missed today…” Snape started as they made their way to the dining table.
Harry groaned.