drachenmina: (Default)
[personal profile] drachenmina
I bring you fic. It made me write it.

Title: Her Eyes
Author
: [livejournal.com profile] drachenmina
Rating: NC17
Word Count: ~18,000
Pairing(s)/character(s): Severus Snape/Harry Potter,
Summary: Post DH AU. Severus Snape is the only one who can heal the injuries inflicted on Harry by a vengeful Bellatrix Lestrange.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended
Warnings: Dark themes: mention of rape, torture and psychological damage. Possibly slightly gruesome. And whimsical.
AN: This started out as something rather self-indulgent – and has ended up equally so, but in a rather different way than I had imagined.
Huge thanks are due to the lovely [livejournal.com profile] gin_tonic for the beta, and to [livejournal.com profile] torino10154 for the read-through and reassurance! *hugs*






Day ?


Harry woke up painfully, wishing he could will himself back into unconsciousness. Draught of Living Death, that was what he needed. Or just death, maybe. Yeah, that would do it. He lay there for a while, not feeling there was much point in moving. But from the stench of it, he was lying in a pool of his own vomit – again – and his mouth and throat felt parched and raw, so with an effort that left him dry-retching once more, he pushed himself up onto shaking arms and into a sitting position. He’d try standing in a minute. Or crawling, maybe.

The last torture session had been a bastard, even by Bellatrix’s standards. In fact, at the time he hadn’t been sure he’d wake up at all – at least, not as himself; he’d really thought she wasn’t going to stop the Cruciatus until he was as mad as the Longbottoms. Was he sick to miss the times she just used to take him out, occasionally, to fuck him, casting Priapus on his prick and riding him, shrieking insanely? Not that it was exactly on his top ten list of Things I Like To Do In My Spare Time – the first time she’d done it, he’d thrown up afterwards, which had hacked her off no end. But it was better than the other stuff, with the curses and the knives and everything but the bloody kitchen sink. Harry supposed he wasn’t looking that fuckable any more, these days. Certainly that time she’d got Lestrange to –

Harry doubled up, dry-retching again. Fuck them. Anyway, Lestrange hadn’t seemed like he’d enjoyed it much. Harry gave a strange sound that was definitely a laugh, not a sob. Not like he could cry these days anyway, he thought, and then he really was laughing, but it hurt his throat too much so he forced himself to stop.

Right. Water. Bellatrix always left some after one of her sessions, because if he died of dehydration that’d be no fucking fun, would it? Harry started to crawl painfully around his cell, reaching his hands out as cautiously as he could. If he knocked the water over she’d make him wait for more. That’s if she even noticed, of course. Actually, that was probably the way it would end. She’d forget to give him water for a few days, and probably be really pissed off when she found him dead, fuck her.

Finding the cup, Harry brought it to cracked lips with shaking hands and forced himself to sip, not gulp, so it wouldn’t come straight back up. He wondered how long he’d been there. Weeks, probably, based on how thin he’d got, which was all he had to go on. He had no way of knowing when the days passed and no way of marking their passage anyway. He’d tried counting the times she fed him, but it was so bloody erratic he’d given up. It had been hard to keep track, anyway – he’d kept forgetting where he’d got to. He wondered if people were still looking for him, or if they’d given up. No – Ron wouldn’t give up, or Hermione. He was sure of it. Although if they thought he was dead already –

Harry hugged himself for a bit, until the shaking stopped. It was fucking cold in here and Bellatrix didn’t let him wear any clothes, fucking pervert. No. They wouldn’t give up. He was the Boy Who Fucking Lived, right? Snatched off the street by an escaped Death Eater on his way home from Auror Training. Fine fucking Auror he’d make. If he ever got out of here, he should probably resign. Which he’d have to, anyway, if they couldn’t fix –

Fuck it. They patched up Moody, didn’t they? They’d be able to fix him. They had to. Harry smiled to himself. He could go see the Dursleys, afterwards, and scare the shit out of them. They’d been calling him a freak for years, so they ought to be pleased to be finally proved right.

It had been the first thing she’d done, when she’d Ennervated him after the abduction, and he’d woken to find himself bound, wandless, totally helpless. And naked. She’d been pretty quick to get his kit off, too, the sick bitch. He’d looked at her: mad, spitting in his face, her beauty totally gone, and he’d been scared, yeah, but he hadn’t realised, then, how bad it really was to be in her power, when all she had left to live for was revenge for her Lord’s death.

And then she’d started taunting him. About his mudblood mother, about how he bore the signs of her taint in his eyes. And then she’d cursed him, and he’d felt the foulness of the Dark Magic even as his eyes were ripped from their sockets, and screaming in pain and anguish he’d still heard her laughter as she told him, there, you could pass for a pure-blood now, little Potter.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~




Day One


Harry was trying to remember the ingredients for the Draught of Peace. How much hellebore was needed? Too much, and you’d get a bit more peace than you’d bargained for, he remembered Snape sneering at them. Was Snape at peace, now? Was he with Harry’s mum? Could they see him, now – and if they could, why couldn’t they help him? Get a message to Trelawny, or one of the Hogwarts ghosts, or something? It probably didn’t work like that, though –

The door was opening. Harry’s gut clenched. No, it was too soon, he wasn’t ready -

“Potter?” It was a harsh whisper, not Bellatrix’s strident tones or Lestrange’s growl. “Can you walk?”

Stunned, Harry didn’t answer immediately.

“Can you walk?” the voice repeated, more impatiently this time.

“Think – think so.” Harry hauled himself painfully to his feet, his heart beating rapidly. Was this a rescue? Or maybe, just another cruel trick of Bellatrix’s? “Who is it?”

“My identity is unimportant. You are safe, now. I will take you somewhere you can be healed.” Still the voice was whispering. Was its owner afraid that Harry’s captors would walk in on them?

“The cell’s damped – can’t do magic here,” Harry warned in a low voice.

“No matter. Come.”

Harry walked shakily towards the voice, feeling absurdly conscious of his nudity. A hand grasped his arm, and led him out through the door, whereupon his – what, rescuer? – enfolded him in an embrace, and Apparated them both away. Harry staggered on arrival, feeling nauseous.

“Here. Sit down.” The whisperer helped Harry to a soft chair – no, sofa.

“Probably making a right mess of your furniture,” Harry mumbled, feeling faint.

“I believe a simple Scourgify is not beyond my capabilities,” his rescuer muttered in a deeply sarcastic tone.

Harry’s head spun. “Snape?” he asked, disbelievingly, and fainted.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Waking up, Harry tried to take stock of his surroundings without letting on that he was awake. Not that he knew if there was anyone watching. He was on a bed, he thought. Straining his ears, he could hear… traffic? He was in a Muggle area? He couldn’t hear anyone moving around or breathing helpfully loudly, so in the end he thought, bugger it, and started to feel around with his hands.

He was lying on a bed. And he seemed to have some clothes on. Jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt. He wondered who they belonged to – and then he remembered: Snape. He’d been so sure, for just a split second, that it was him – but that was daft, wasn’t it? He’d seen the bloke die. But then, why didn’t whoever it was want to tell Harry who he was? Well, hopefully he could find the bloke and ask him. Sitting up cautiously, Harry had to wait a few minutes for his head to stop spinning. Someone had tied a blindfold around his eyes – a thick, heavy one. Well, he supposed he probably looked pretty gross, with his eyeless sockets…

Wrapping his arms around himself, Harry willed the shaking to stop and tried not to make a sound, although a few whimpers escaped. Fuck this. Fuck Bellatrix. He would not give in. Drawing in a ragged breath, he forced himself to uncurl, and swung his feet to the ground.

And heard the door open.

“Potter. You should not be up.” The whisperer again. At least Harry assumed it was the same man – one whisper sounded pretty much like another, didn’t it?

“Snape? Is it you?”

“I told you, my identity – “

“Is unimportant. Yeah, I know. So why the fuck can’t you just tell me it?” Harry was ashamed to hear his voice breaking on the last sentence. God, Snape was going to think he was just a whining child. Just like he always did.

“Potter. You need rest. Get back on the bed and I will bring you food and drink.”

Feeling utterly helpless, Harry complied.

Snape – if it was him – wasn’t long. Harry heard things being put on a table by the bed and then the whispering voice was saying, “Put out your hand and I will give you a drink. It is not hot.”

Harry took the drink with both hands, afraid he might drop it otherwise, and sipped it gratefully. When he made to put it down, the whisperer guided his hand to the table, and then placed a plate on his lap. “A cheese sandwich. I will prepare a hot meal later.”

Harry ate slowly, and had to give up halfway through. “Sorry. Can’t manage any more.”

“It is to be expected. Now, I have some potions for you to drink.”

“OK, now I know you’re Snape. It’s all right if you are – I mean, it’d be pretty bloody fantastic if you are, actually. And bloody impressive, what with all the bleeding to death I saw you do. If you’re him. And I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t want me to. Or you could Obliviate me, or something.”

There was a heavy sigh. “Potter.” Still the whisper. “You will be here for some time. Obliviation will not be an option – not if you wish to retain what little sense you possess.”

Harry grinned. That was just so bloody Snapish it wasn’t true. Then he realised what the man had said. “I’m going to be here a while? Why? Why not just, I dunno, put me in a taxi to St Mungo’s?” There was an unpleasant sensation in Harry’s stomach as he finished saying this. Was he still, actually, a prisoner?

“Potter, do you wish to regain your sight?”

It was the last thing he’d expected Snape to say. “That’s – that’s not possible, Snape. I haven’t,” Harry could feel the panic bubbling up in him and tried desperately to force it down. “I haven’t got any eyes.” He’d said it. Harry let out a harsh breath, and jumped like a nervous Kneazle when a hand landed on his arm, presumably in an attempt at comfort. It withdrew, hastily.

“Potter, there is a potion I can prepare which, if taken every day for a month, should restore your eyes.”

“What? Really? Wait – why didn’t Mad-Eye Moody use it then, when he lost his eye?”

“Because, Potter, it is Dark Magic. St Mungo’s will not give you this potion. If you wish, I can despatch you there – but you will be blind for the rest of your life.”

“But, I could get magic eyes, right? Like Mad-Eye?” OK, so he’d look like a right weirdo and never be able to go around Muggles again, but at least he’d be able to see.

“Potter, that is not an option. Moody’s magical eye relied upon the sight in his remaining eye.”

“So you’re saying it’s this Dark potion of yours or I’ll go blind?” Harry was feeling faint again and was glad he was still on the bed. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been relying on the idea of getting magical eyes. God, why was he so fucking weak? The hand moved hesitantly to his arm again and this time Harry didn’t flinch. It was comforting, to be touched – like that. “OK. I mean, if you’ll do this for me, that’s – wait, you said it was Dark. How Dark – I mean, no one’s going to have to die or anything for this, are they?”

“It rates, I believe, somewhat lower than an Unforgivable, so no, Potter, no one will have to die.”

“That’s – that’s good. And, um, thanks. For doing this, and for rescuing me, and…” Fuck, fuck, he was shaking again.

“Potter, drink this.” The tones were commanding, and Harry took the mug unquestioningly and drank the contents as quickly as he could. At once, he started to feel less frantic.

“Calming draught?” he asked, with a wan smile.

“Indeed. Now, you must drink this one also, which is a Healing Draught,” and he handed Harry another mug, “and I must get to work on the Occuli permuto potion. Now, try to rest, Potter.”

It wasn’t until the man was out of the room that Harry realised Snape had said all of this in his normal voice.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~




The next time Harry woke up, he felt a moment’s horrible panic, thinking it had all been a dream and he was back in Bellatrix’s dungeon. As he forced himself to calm down, reminding himself he was in clothes and on a bed, he realised that physically, he was feeling a lot better. Weak, but better. He wondered what time it was. Snape had said something about hot food - which he hadn’t had in fuck knew how long – but maybe, if Harry had been asleep, he hadn’t wanted to wake him. Only one way to find out for sure. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood up, feeling triumphant when his head swam only a little. Moving slowly so as not to bump into things too hard, he carefully felt his way with his bare feet until he came to a wall, then moved round it until he reached the door. Easy.

Aware that he was breathing much too quickly now, Harry forced himself to calm down so he wouldn’t hyperventilate, and felt for the door handle. He could do this. There was nothing to be afraid of – he was with Snape now, and Snape had always looked after him, hadn’t he? Repeating this to himself, Harry opened the door and stepped through.

“Potter! What the hell are you doing up?”

Fuck fuck fuck….

“Potter.” The voice was softer now. “Get up, Potter. I… did not mean to startle you. Come on.” Harry felt a hand under his arm, helping him out of the protective huddle he’d fallen into on the carpet. God, he was so fucking useless!

“Come on, Potter. You wish to come downstairs for supper? Three paces. The stairs are on your left. There is a handrail to your right – here. Thirteen steps down, and turn left at the bottom.” Snape kept up his soothing commentary all the time he was leading Harry down the stairs and into another room. The kitchen? It smelt of food, anyway, and there was a tiled floor, cold under Harry’s feet. Snape led him to a table, and pulled a chair out noisily. Harry sat down thankfully, not sure his legs would have held up much longer. Why did he have to be so bloody weak?

“I hope you like stew, Potter, as that is all that is on offer.” The bristly tone was back, and Harry was grateful for it.

“Got to be better than what I’ve been eating lately,” he managed, with a small attempt at a smile.

Snape snorted. “From the look of you, I’m surprised to hear that they were feeding you at all.”

“Yeah, well, there wasn’t a right lot of it. Scraps. Mouldy bread, sometimes. And she’d just chuck it in my cell and I’d have to go looking for it, so sometimes it was covered in dirt before I got it.” Harry was proud of himself for saying all that with no sign of weakness.

Snape dumped a plate down in front of him and handed him a fork. “Eat. But no more than your stomach can handle. I have no wish to be cleaning up after you later.”

“S’pose you must have done that already,” Harry commented, his mouth full of stew. Bloody hell, that tasted good. “I mean, you must have cleaned me up, ‘cos I’m not half as smelly as I ought to be. Are these your clothes, by the way? ‘Cos I really can’t imagine you in jogging bottoms. This is really good, you know.”

“Potter, your manners are appalling. Cease babbling and concentrate on eating.”

“Sorry. Aren’t you eating, though?”

“I have already eaten.”

“Oh. Is it late, then?”

“It is approaching ten o’clock. At night.”

“Oh. Um, how long have I been, well, missing?”

“Approximately six weeks.”

“Fuck!”

“Language, Mr Potter.”

“Bollocks! We’re not at school now!”

“No, Mr Potter, we are in my home, and I should expect you to conduct yourself with a little respect for your host.”

“Sorry. Um, where is here? I mean, I assume it’s not Spinner’s End, or someone would have noticed you’re alive by now?”

“Correct. The location is – “

“Unimportant, I get it.” Harry grinned, then turned serious as a thought struck him. “Um, we ought to send Ron and Hermione an owl, or something. To let them know I’m alive – they must be worried sick.”

“No, Potter. There will be no communication with your friends or with anyone else. I have built a new life here – I will not have it jeopardised so that you may chat with your school friends!”

“But Snape – look, we don’t have to tell them where I am. Just tell them I’m alive, and safe, that’s all.”

“Any means of communication is susceptible to betraying its source. I will not take that risk. If your friends are so very concerned about you, you may wish to ponder why, in six weeks, they did nothing to aid you!”

Harry put down his fork. He’d lost his appetite. Probably had enough to eat anyway. “Right. No owls. Got it. Think I’ll go back to my room, now. Thanks for supper.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood, wishing he’d paid more attention to the route here, memorised steps or something. Bugger it, how bloody big could Snape’s house be? He’d find his room eventually.

“Other way!” Snape’s exasperated tones followed him out of the door.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~




Harry lay on his bed, feeling weary but unable to sleep – big surprise there, seeing as he’d apparently been asleep for most of the day. Why hadn’t anyone come and found him? If he’d been that bloody difficult to find, how come Snape had managed it? Had they just assumed he was dead and it wasn’t worth looking? And why hadn’t Snape thought the same thing? After all, it wasn’t like he needed to keep Harry alive to kill off Voldemort any more. Didn’t anyone else care about him? Although he couldn’t imagine Snape actually caring for Harry. He must have done it for his mum, Harry thought.

But if it had been Ron, or Hermione, who’d gone missing, Harry would never have rested until he’d found them, got them back safely. Was Ron really so pissed off about Harry splitting up with Ginny that he couldn’t be arsed whether he lived or died? And Hermione would have to take his side, now they were engaged… No. They cared. He was sure they did. Didn’t they? Desperately wishing there was something, anything he could do to distract himself, Harry tossed and turned on his bed restlessly. Then he told himself he was an ungrateful bastard – did he want to be back in the dungeon with a nice bit of torture to pass the time?

Eventually, he heard Snape come up the stairs. He waited a moment, indecisive, then got up. Finding the door much more quickly this time, he went out onto the landing.

“Snape?”

“Yes, Potter?” Snape’s voice sounded tired.

“Um, can I ask you a question?”

“Can it not – oh, very well. One question.”

Harry felt guilty. Snape had probably been working hard on the potion for his eyes. “It’s OK. It’s nothing. I’ll just – “

“Potter, it is clearly not nothing. I have said that you may ask – now ask.”

“Well, I just – how did you know where to find me? And no one else did? Because they must have looked, at least a bit, when I first disappeared – “

“Potter, I was a Death Eater. There is a whole host of locations known to me that Bellatrix might have used to hold you. It was simply a matter of elimination.”

“Must’ve been a lot if it took you six weeks.”

There was a silence.

“How – how long did it take you? Snape?” There was a hollow feeling in Harry’s stomach.

“Two weeks. Potter, you had been gone three weeks before the Ministry allowed your disappearance to be made public. And I confess I… was not eager to expose myself to the risk of discovery.”

“Oh.” If the emptiness inside him carried on getting worse, would it eventually swallow him up? “She tortured me, you know. A – a lot. And one time she got Lestrange to – it doesn’t matter.” So even Snape hadn’t been sure he was worth saving. Harry stumbled a bit on the way back to his room.

“Potter. You must understand that I thought it highly unlikely you were still alive by the time I knew of your abduction. Bellatrix has never been noted for her restraint. I would have laid money on you having been dead within a week.”

Harry’s smile felt funny. “Think she hated me too much for that.”

“Apparently so, Potter. Now, try to get some rest – or, if you cannot, at least allow me mine. I have made all the preparations I can, and tomorrow I need to start brewing your potion.”

“Right. Goodnight, Snape. And thanks,” Harry added, but it was lost in the sound of the door closing.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Day Two


The next morning – at least Harry assumed it was morning – he was awoken by Snape. “Potter, it will do you good to resume normal hours. I will expect you down for breakfast in fifteen minutes.”

Muttering under his breath at the man for one minute telling him to get some rest and the next minute exhorting him to get up, Harry complied. He wasn’t actually sure what he was supposed to do with the fifteen minutes he’d been granted – he’d slept in his clothes, so he didn’t have to dress. Hmm. Maybe he could do with a wash, though. He’d sort of got out of the habit, lately, and he smelt so much better than he had done that he hadn’t really thought about it, but Snape was probably sitting around with a clothes-peg on that enormous nose of his. But… that meant finding a bathroom, and a towel, and maybe some clean clothes… he’d do it after breakfast, he decided.

He ended up finding the bathroom anyway, as he needed to piss for the first time since he’d got here. Must be getting rehydrated, anyway, which had to be a good thing. It was a bit embarrassing sitting down to pee, like a girl – but it’d be worse if he sprayed all over Snape’s bathroom because he couldn’t see where he was aiming. Anyway, his legs were still a bit shaky.

Once he’d washed his hands, Harry headed downstairs, remembering Snape’s commentary of the night before. Thirteen steps, turn left. Couple of paces to the kitchen. Harry felt his way cautiously until he’d reached the table, and sat down.

“Well done, Potter. Breakfast will be ready directly.”

Harry grinned. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that to me, you know.”

“I should bloody well hope so. I’m not a house-elf.” Snape grumbled.

“Not the breakfast! Well done. You never used to say anything nice about me.”

“Potter, the Dark Lord – “

“Yeah, yeah, spies everywhere, I know.” He bit his lip. “I can’t imagine living under that kind of pressure, you know. For ages I wanted to go find that bloody Resurrection Stone and call you up so I could say I was sorry, you know, for giving you such a hard time. And all the time you were looking after me.” He laughed shortly. “Bit like now, really.”

“Breakfast.” Snape slammed a plate down in front of him in a way that Harry thought spoke volumes about how he really, really didn’t want to talk about it.

“Um, Snape? What is it?” Harry asked after a moment. “Not so keen on surprises, these days.”

“Egg on toast. Scrambled.”

“Got any HP?”

“This isn’t a bloody greasy spoon, Potter.” Nevertheless, he opened a cupboard and thrust a bottle into Harry’s hand, then seemed to think better of it and grabbed it back again. “How much?” he asked, with a martyred air.

“Just a bit on the side, please,” Harry said politely.

“And you will find it how?”

Bugger. “Point taken. OK, just a bit all over, but not too much.”

Clearly Snape had as delicate a touch with the sauce bottle as he did with his potions, Harry thought, as he savoured the taste of real, decent, hot food for the first time in ages. OK, he’d had the stew last night as well, but to be honest he’d been a bit out of it then. He felt a lot clearer-headed this morning. Harry wasn’t sure that was such a good thing, thinking about it. Thinking about what had happened to him…

“Potter! Is the food not up to your usual standards?” Snape’s sharp voice brought him back to the present with a start. Harry fumbled to pick up his fork again from where he’d dropped it on his plate, managing to get his fingers all eggy. Mm, and HP-saucy too, he thought as he licked them clean. “For heaven’s sake, Potter!” Snape muttered, and grabbing his hand, wiped it with a cloth. His hands were surprisingly gentle, which made Harry feel a bit weird, so he turned his attention back to his food after mumbling an apology.

“Tea.” Harry took the mug gratefully, although he wasn’t actually that keen on tea in the mornings, usually. Snape had put two sugars in, though, which helped.

“I will go and fetch your potion. It should have cooled sufficiently by now.”

“You’ve brewed it already? It’s a quick one, then?” Harry was surprised.

“Comparatively speaking, yes. A little under four hours, start to finish. But it must be brewed freshly every day.”

“You’ve been up four hours already? What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock.” A rush of air, more than any sounds, told Harry that Snape had left the kitchen. He returned soon afterwards and handed Harry yet another mug.

“What happened to all the goblets?” Harry asked, knowing he was stalling.

“When in Rome, Potter. Now drink.”

Tempted to act the innocent and say, what, we’re in Rome? I’ve always wanted to see the Colosseum, Harry’s amusement was cut short by the reflection that if this potion didn’t work, he never bloody would see it. Steeling himself, he drank the potion down. It tasted vile, and he tried not to gag. Gently, Snape took the mug from his hands and passed him his tea to wash the taste away.

He had to ask, though. “Snape?” he began hesitantly, “is – is this going to work?”

“Potter, as I am sure you realise, this is a potion I have never had occasion to brew before, and my only authority is a proscribed text written over two hundred years ago. However, I have generally had good results from this source, and I see no reason why we should not be optimistic.”

Harry bit his lip. “It’s just – maybe it’s too long since I, I was b-blinded?” He cursed under his breath. Dammit, why did he have so much bloody trouble saying it? “It’s – it was the first thing she did. After I was captured and they took me back to that place.” He swallowed, but dammit, he was going to say this if it fucking killed him. “She made some – comments – about my Mum, and said I’d look just like a pureblood if I didn’t have her eyes. Then she – took them.” Harry stopped, feeling nauseous, but fiercely proud that he’d managed to tell the story.

“Harry.” Startled, Harry spun round to face Snape. That was the first time he’d called him by his first name. “I am confident that the length of time since your injury is irrelevant. You should not be concerned on this score. Now, I have work to do.”

Right. So Harry would have to… make his own entertainment. Learn to weave baskets, or tune pianos, or whatever else it was blind people did. Right.



Remembering he’d wanted a wash, Harry made his way up to the bathroom again. He discovered both a bathtub and a separate shower cubicle, which was frankly a bit posher than he’d expected of Snape. He hesitated, trying to choose between them. But should he take the blindfold off to shower? Maybe his… eyes needed to be kept covered up until they were completely healed.

Deciding it wasn’t worth risking ruining his eyesight or getting a bollocking from Snape, Harry set the bath taps running. He’d found towels on the rail and he reckoned that if Snape had been that bothered about sharing towels with him, he’d have told Harry which one to use. Right. So now he just had to get his kit off.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Harry wasn’t sure how much later it was that Snape came upstairs and knocked on the door. “Potter? Are you all right in there?”

“’M fine,” Harry mumbled. He was fine. It was quite comfortable here, and Snape had told him to rest.

“You’ve been in there for over an hour.”

“’M fine. Go away.”

“Potter, I’m coming in.” The door opened. There was a silence, then Snape said, not unkindly, “Potter, when one has run a bath, it is customary to at some point undress and get in.”

“’S OK. ‘M not that dirty.”

“Potter, I will cast a heating charm on the water. Would it help if I stayed?”

“Mm. Sorry.” Harry uncurled from his little huddle on the carpet, and awkwardly took his shirt off.

“I can fetch you clean clothes if you like,” Snape offered.

“’S all right.” Harry was buggered if he wanted to feel even more pathetically grateful than he was already, just for Snape staying there. “Are they your clothes? Because you never said,” he muttered. If he kept Snape talking he’d know he was still there.

“Yes, Potter, they are my clothes.”

“Black?” Harry gritted his teeth and pulled off his trousers.

“Yes.”

“Are all your clothes black?” Underpants now. Fuck, he was naked in front of Snape. Again. Harry fought the urge to giggle.

“Not all of them, Potter. I have no desire to be mistaken for a gothic punk or an undertaker.”

“So what other colours do you have?” Harry felt for the bathtub, and climbed in awkwardly.

“Grey. And dark blue.”

“Not green?”

“No, Potter, and neither do I sleep in sheets decorated with little snakes.”

“You’ve shattered all my childhood illusions, you know.”

“About bloody time. I take it you require no assistance washing?”

“Don’t go - ” Bugger, that sounded pathetic.

“Potter, Bellatrix and her husband are quite dead. I incinerated the corpses myself. You are safe, here.”

“You… tore your soul for me?” Harry was rubbing the soap all over his body. It was a big enough bar that if he was careful, he didn’t have to touch his skin at all.

“Potter, one does not tear one’s soul when exterminating vermin.”

“She really was mad, you know.”

“I know, Potter.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Thinking about things later, Harry realised that he hadn’t been quite as clear-headed as he’d thought (which might, or might not, have been due to Snape surreptitiously slipping him potions) as the day seemed to pass in a sort of blur of sarcastic comments and sweet tea, ending with him being despatched off to bed at what Snape told him was ten o’clock, but Harry reckoned was quite likely nearer six. Shortly after he’d gone up, there was a knock on his door.

“Potter, I have brought you some pyjamas. Sleeping in your clothes is a bad habit that will cease forthwith.”

“Oh. Are they green, with little snakes on?”

“Would it make you feel more comfortable if they were?”

“Yeah – you know, childhood illusions and all that.”

“Then yes, Potter, they are green with little snakes on. In silver. Now strip.”

“Are they really yours, by the way? Because, if they are, how come they fit me? I mean, you’ve always been way taller than me, so how come I don’t have to roll the legs up and the sleeves aren’t down by my ankles?”

“Clearly, Potter, you are not quite as runtish as you used to be.”

“You think I’ve grown? I wouldn’t have thought being shut in a dungeon and starved would be very good for that.”

“Be that as it may, you are now only a few inches shorter than me.”

“Really? Are you sure you didn’t use to, um, wear lifts or something? Just, you know, to up the intimidation quotient?”

“Potter, stop sniggering. High heeled boots are perfectly acceptable everyday wear for a wizard.”



~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~





Day Four


Come on!”

Startled, Harry fumbled his way into the living room, where he realised he could hear – a football match?

“You’re watching football? On telly?”

“Forgive me, Potter, if I do not spend the entirety of every day pandering to your whims.”

“Right. But – football?”

“Ahhh! You big bloody nancy, it’s supposed to go in the goal!”

OK, it was official then. Harry had clearly gone insane, because there was no way he could actually be listening to Snape getting worked up about a football match. Still, as the delusion appeared to be continuing, he might as well humour it. “So, who’s playing?”

“It’s a Championship match – why don’t you name all the teams currently in the Championship and I’ll tell you if they’re on?” Snape retorted, unnecessarily nastily, in Harry’s opinion.

“Um, Liverpool?” he hazarded.

“As I thought. Head too full of Quidditch to pay attention to your national sport. Liverpool is a Premiership team, Potter. The teams currently playing are Blackpool and Preston North End.”

“Oh. So which team do you support?”

“Blackpool. For my sins, which are evidently many.”

“Are they winning?”

“Potter, we are talking about Blackpool. Clearly they are not winning. Dammit, pass, you imbecile!”

“Did you go to football matches when you were a kid, then?”

“For a working-class lad in the North whose father was neither absent nor dead, it was scarcely avoidable in those days.”

“Your dad used to take you? I thought – well – “

“That he beat me regularly and the only respite I got was when he turned his attentions to my mother? Potter, you know nothing about my childhood; kindly do not make assumptions.”

“But – your memories – the way you spoke about him - ”

“Potter, I was a teenager. Name me one teenager who actually likes and admires his parents.”

“Well…”

“And orphans do not count. For God’s sake, man, don’t give it away! Dammit!”

“So… your dad was all right, then, was he?”

“He was a narrow-minded bigot of low intelligence who blamed the world for his own shortcomings and thought the answer to all of life’s problems was to be found in a pint glass.”

“But you said – “

“For heaven’s sake, Potter, I am trying to watch the match! Pass it – yes – oh, bloody hell!”

Harry wandered off to see if he could manage to make a cup of tea without scalding himself this time.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~




Day Seven


Harry reckoned he had the house pretty well mapped out now. There were four bedrooms – again, a bit posh for Snape, although two of them were bare, without a stick of furniture, just some boxes of books in the smaller of the two that Snape presumably hadn’t got around to shelving. Downstairs, there was a decent-sized kitchen, a living room, a separate dining room (which they never ate in, Snape seeming to prefer the kitchen table) and a downstairs loo, which had a small bookshelf in. Was that because Snape wasn’t married? Aunt Petunia had always moaned at Uncle Vernon when he took the paper to read in the loo, saying it was common.

Harry amused himself by trying to guess what might be Snape’s idea of suitable toilet reading material. There was a small book that Harry was convinced was exactly the same size and shape of Dudley’s 101 Uses for a Dead Cat, which Harry reckoned would probably suit Snape’s sense of humour, especially the way McGonagall had treated him in his year as headmaster. There was also a small collection of slim paperbacks that in Harry’s view were a dead ringer for Reader’s Digest. He’d never actually seen them in anyone’s house before and had formed a vague theory that they were some bizarre magical literary life form, whose natural habitat was dentists’ waiting rooms.

Of course, he could always ask Snape what the books were, but he strongly suspected Snape would just say they were potions journals and then remove them entirely. One thing was bugging him however, and he broached the subject to Snape over lunch. “How come you could afford this place?”

“Really, Potter. My miraculous escape from death and covert disappearance from the Wizarding World you can accept without question, yet you find my possession of a modest home inexplicable?”

“Well, the other stuff was probably down to potions, and I know you’re good at that crap –“

“Excuse me whilst I blush profusely at the fulsomeness of your praise.”

“ – but, from what I saw in your memories, it didn’t look like your family had a lot of money. And I know you didn’t sell Spinner’s End.”

“And obviously, Albus had me working for him for twenty years for little more than my board and lodging and a promise not to send me to Azkaban if I was good?”

“Yeah, well, I reckon they can’t have paid teachers that much – look at all the trouble he had getting anyone to take the DADA position!”

“The natural reluctance of any sane wizard to be in the same room as a dozen cocksure adolescents firing off hexes they can barely comprehend playing, of course, no part in the matter.”

“So how come you always wanted the post?”

“Clearly, Potter, I have a death wish. As, I am beginning to suspect, do you.”

Harry grinned and carried on trying to eat his beans on toast. Beans could be tricky little bastards when you couldn’t see what you were doing. He heard the distinctive rustle of a newspaper, which he thought was a bit inconsiderate. Snape might at least read out loud.

“So, have you got a garden?” Harry asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Is it big?”

Rustle. “Of average size.”

“Does it have gnomes?”

Annoyed rustle. “No.”

“Knarls?”

“No.”

“Can I go out in it?”

“If you keep wandering around, I’m sure you’ll find the door eventually.”

“Git. Will you take me?”

“If I do, will you cease this asinine questioning?”

“Probably not. But it’s worth a try.”

After Snape had cleared away the plates – Harry as usual feeling bad about not offering to help, but equally certain Snape would have no patience with his fumbling efforts – they set off gardenwards.

“There is a step down from the door, Potter.”

Harry paused, suddenly nervous.

“Potter?”

“I – just haven’t been outside. Since. You know.”

“If it helps, Potter, the first thing I did when I moved in was to plant on all sides a magically enhanced variety of Leylandii. No one can see in.”

“Your neighbours must love you.”

“I also placed defensive charms upon the property. Any Muggles attempting to come round to complain suddenly remember an urgent need to see a doctor about an embarrassing bladder infection.”

“Bastard. Don’t the doctors round here think it’s funny, all the people from this street turning up with imaginary bladder infections?”

“Potter, what on Earth makes you think the infections are imaginary?”

“Seriously evil bastard. So what’s the garden like? Wish I could see it.”

“Believe me, Potter, you’re not missing much. Careful here, the ground is rather rough.”

“You know, I always imagined your garden – if you had one, I mean – would be all neat rows of potions ingredients, carefully tended.”

“Potter, since Herbology is one of the few areas where idiots like Longbottom may safely be of use, it would be unwise to deprive them of employment and possibly divert their attention to more dangerous matters.”

“Hey, at least Neville didn’t get beaten by a bloody snake!”

“Ah, yes. Neville Longbottom, hero of the hour. I confess I did him an injustice – apparently he is capable of recognising a sword if you hit him over the head with it hard enough.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~




Day Nine


“Snape? I’m bored.”

“I’m sorry if the standards of entertainment in this house are not what you are used to. Perhaps you would like me to tell dirty jokes? Recite scurrilous limericks?”

“Well, it’s not like I can read a book, is it? And the telly’s no good when you can’t see what’s going on.”

“You may, if you wish, listen to the radio.”

“Thanks.”

“Please, don’t mention it.”



“Um, were you planning on telling me where it is? Or did you reckon it’d be funnier to watch me fumbling around for it?”

There was an exasperated sigh. “Kitchen counter – wait, I’ll get it. You’d only end up with third degree burns from trying to tune one of the saucepans into Radio One.”

“So it’s not a wizarding radio, then?”

“As I have no wish to torment my ears with the inane squawking of that harpy popularly known as Celestina Warbeck, no, Potter, it is not.”

“Hey, this is a CD player too! What CDs do you have?”

Snape dumped a pile of CD cases on the table in front of Harry with a clatter. “I foresee you spending many happy hours finding out.





“Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes, trace the strange – “

“Potter, kindly refrain from singing along to Bowie. I would prefer not to have my favourite music ruined for me by the recollection of your tuneless warbling.”

“That’s Bowie? I haven’t heard much of his stuff. Hey, he’s actually still alive, isn’t he?”

“Very droll, Potter.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~




Day Eleven


It was, Snape had informed him grudgingly, around four o’clock in the afternoon. “You know what would be good?” Harry said brightly, gulping his tea.

“I can hardly wait for you to enlighten me.”

“Choccy biccies. You know, to dunk in the tea. Can you get some, next time you go shopping?”

“Certainly, Potter. Any other requests? Champagne? Caviar? Sweeties?”

Harry froze.

“Potter?”

Harry put his teacup down, banging it on the saucer with suddenly shaky hands.

“Potter!”

“Um, it’s just, um… when do you go shopping? Because you haven’t, since I’ve been here, but we keep getting fresh stuff and I haven’t heard the bloody Ocado man turning up in his little van and you’re hiding from the wizarding world so they haven’t been flooing it in, and I don’t even think you have a floo anyway as I’m bloody certain I walked into a gas fire and – ”

“Potter! There is a 24 hour Tesco’s down the road. I… shop there while you are asleep.”

“Asleep? You go while I’m, I’m asleep? And you just fucking leave me here on my own without a fucking wand and I’d be fucking useless anyway even if I did fucking have one, because where the fuck would I fucking point it, and anyone could get in and do, do whatever the fuck they fucking liked to me – “

“Potter. Potter! Calm yourself. You are perfectly safe. They are dead. Oh, for – shh, Harry. They are dead, and you are safe. The house is warded. No one will hurt you, I promise.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Day Thirteen


Unable to sleep, again, Harry was fed up with staying in his room. He dithered a bit, wondering if Snape would approve, then thought sod it, it wasn’t likely there’d be any neighbours around to see him – if Snape was in bed, it had to be pretty late. He opened the door as quietly as he could, and padded softly downstairs. Edging carefully through the kitchen, he opened the back door and sat down on the step. It was a cool night, just a hint of dampness in the air.

He’d been sat there for quite a while before he heard footsteps. “Potter, what are you doing out here?”

“Looking at the stars.”

“You cannot see them.”

“So it doesn’t matter if it’s cloudy then, does it? Anyway, I know they’re there. Wish I’d paid a bit more attention in Astronomy now, though.”

Snape sighed, and sat down on the step beside him. “Over your head and to the right is Orion, the hunter, recognisable by his sword belt, which if you follow the line of downwards will take you, should you for some unaccountable reason wish to go there, to the Dog Star - ”

“Sirius!” Harry grinned.

“Moving swiftly away from that over-bright excuse for a star, if you were to observe closely, you would be able to make out Orion’s bow, with which he is shooting at Taurus, the bull. If we look above his head, we may see Castor and Pollux, the twins – I assume you know which constellation they occur in?”

“Gemini. I’m not totally thick, you know.”

“That has yet to be proved to my satisfaction. So, moving in the same direction, the next two constellations are?”

“Easy. Cancer and Leo – my birth-sign.”

“Hmm. A birth-sign renowned for arrogance and risk-taking.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never believed in any of that stuff, you know.” Harry smiled, then gave a short laugh as he felt a few drops of drizzly rain. “It is cloudy, isn’t it? You can’t see them any more than I can!”

“Perhaps not. But unlike you, I do know which stars should be visible tonight.”

“Fair enough.” Harry was silent a moment then, since the thought was uppermost in his mind, decided he might as well ask. “What are you wearing? I mean, you were in bed, right?”

Snape sighed heavily, but Harry thought it sounded a little exaggerated, and he still answered. “Potter, I realise you have little to divert your attention, but your obsession with my attire is becoming a little unsettling. If you must know, I have on a pair of pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown.”

“Black?”

“Grey.”

“Thanks. I just – I just like to be able to have a picture of you in my head when we’re talking, you know? Because otherwise, all I see is you in your teaching robes at Hogwarts, and that picture’s too wrapped up with how I felt about you at the time – or else, I see you, you know, dead, at least I thought you were, and that’s a bit creepy when we’re sitting here having a conversation.”

“I see.” Snape seemed to think a moment, then abruptly came out with, “My hair is shorter, now.”

“Really? How short? Is it like, short short, or just trimmed a bit?”

“It is… quite short. More of a Muggle style.”

“Can I feel it?” Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Snape drew in breath sharply, as if to give a curt refusal, but instead paused, and grudgingly conceded, “If you must.”

Hesitantly, not wanting to poke Snape in the eye, Harry raised a hand to where he thought Snape’s head was. He could feel Snape stiffen as Harry touched his face, but surprisingly, not move out of reach. Sure of his bearings now, Harry moved his hand over Snape’s head, marvelling at what he felt. “Bloody hell, Snape, that’s short! It must be shorter than mine, now!” He grinned suddenly. “Doesn’t feel greasy, either! Does it suit you? I mean, I’m trying to imagine how you look with it, but it’s hard.”

“Potter, I did not cut my hair for reasons of vanity.”

About to drop his hands from Snape’s head, Harry hesitated. If he asked, would Snape let him feel his face? Just to… make certain it was him? Or… maybe he should just do it anyway, without asking? Tentatively, he moved his hand across Snape’s cheek. It felt rough, as if Snape needed a shave, and Snape gave a sharp intake of breath but said nothing. More confident now, Harry brought his hand around to trace over that unmistakeable nose, the thin lips – abruptly he felt his wrist clamped by a long-fingered hand. “Enough.” Snape’s voice was hoarse, Harry noted distractedly, most of his attention taken up by the shocking fact that he was half-hard. From touching Snape’s face. Appalled, Harry wrenched his hand away and scrambled to his feet.

“I’d – I’d better go. Go to bed,” he blurted out, and fumbled his way back inside and to the stairs, almost falling over a chair in the kitchen as he did so. Once in his room, he lugged the bed over to block the door and sank down in a corner, hugging himself and trembling. God, this was sick. Snape had rescued him, was looking after him like a father – and here Harry was, perving over him. What the fuck had Bellatrix done to him? Stifling a sob, Harry curled up on the floor, still hugging himself.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~




Day Fourteen


Harry woke up stiff and miserable. His dreams had… not been very nice. Pretty crappy, actually. He didn’t want to face Snape, but he knew he needed to eat, drink, and take his potion, so he steeled himself to pull the bed away from the door and go downstairs.

“Potter?” Harry jumped at Snape’s voice. “There is food and drink on the kitchen table. I will bring your potion directly.” The air currents told Harry that Snape had left and he groped his way to the table and sat down, carefully feeling for his breakfast, although uncertain he would be able to eat any of it.

He’d barely managed a few mouthfuls of tepid, sweet tea before Snape was back. Harry heard him pull out a chair and sit down at the table.

“Potter. Your potion.” As he handed the mug to Harry, their fingers touched, and Harry was unable to control his involuntary flinch, nearly dropping the mug.

There was a horrible scrape as Snape’s chair was shoved roughly back on the tiles. “Damn you, Potter, I am not a monster! The mere existence of a… reaction to your culpably naïve flirtation last night does not mean that I am about to force myself upon you!”

What? What the fuck was he talking about? Why would he even want - ? “I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t mean to – they fucked me up, all right? I’m not even – I mean, I wasn’t – “ There was a wall against his back, although he didn’t remember getting up from the table. Harry felt pathetically grateful for its support, and sank down it to sit huddled on the floor. He was sick, fucked up, and he knew it, and Snape knew it –

“Potter.” The voice was softer now, although still pretty pissed off, if Harry was any judge. He heard Snape take a deep breath. “You have not eaten. You will return to the table and eat your breakfast and take your potion. Is that understood?”

“Yeah,” Harry managed, shakily. It was a relief to have Snape telling him what to do. He got up, hating the way his limbs were shaking, and found his chair again. He still wasn’t sure he could eat, so he fumbled for a mug.

“That is your potion, Potter. It would be better if you ate first.”

“Right.” The mug was taken from his hands, and replaced with another. Harry felt absurdly grateful as he gulped the lukewarm tea.

Snape started speaking again, his voice sounding strained. “Potter, I reiterate: you are in no danger from me. I am, I can assure you, quite capable of controlling any… reaction I may experience to your proximity.”

There was that word again. “Reaction? I don’t – I mean, what reaction?”

There was an appalled silence. “It appears I may have misinterpreted your distress, Potter. I took it to be distaste at my…” he paused, although Harry couldn’t work out why, “my inappropriate arousal last night.”

“You? But you’re not – you loved my mum!”

“Not… in the way you seem to imagine.” Snape sighed, heavily. “I had thought my inclinations to be common knowledge. God knows your father and his merry band used to taunt me about it often enough. I confess myself amazed that your godfather did not take great delight in passing it on.” His voice was bitter.

Harry didn’t know what to say. Snape was queer – and had been aroused last night? By Harry… touching him? Touching his face? Oh, God. But he wouldn’t – no, he’d said he wouldn’t. And – Harry could trust him, he knew that. Letting out a shuddering breath, Harry reached for his knife and fork, hoping that would stop Snape asking any questions he really didn’t want to answer.






“Potter.” Harry had been half-heartedly chasing a bit of cold bacon round his plate for a good five minutes, so he wasn’t surprised Snape had decided he’d finished. “Your potion. And now, kindly explain to me precisely what you were so upset about.”

“It’s – private, all right?”

“No, Potter, it is not all right. You exhibited extreme signs of distress and trauma. As I am, at present, responsible for your care I submit that it is highly important for me to know what has caused this reaction.”

“Stop saying that!”

“What?”

“Re – reaction.” Harry was feeling sick and wished he hadn’t eaten so much. God, Snape would be pissed off with him if he chucked up his potion.

“Ah. I see.”

“Do you? Nice to know someone does.”

“For heaven’s sake, Potter, it is merely a figure of speech! I meant, I believe I understand now. You were also not… unmoved by last night’s proximity.”

He didn’t have to sound so bloody smug about it, Harry thought. “I’m not gay! I mean, I wasn’t! Not… before. She made… she made Lestrange… look, I’m not going to bloody say it, all right? Use your fucking imagination!” Stumbling away from the table, Harry misjudged the doorway and slammed his shoulder painfully into the frame. Stifling a sob, he headed for the stairs.

“Potter! Harry. Wait.” Harry flinched as a hand gently clasped his uninjured shoulder. It didn’t move away. “Your confusion is understandable. I… did not realise that their abuse of you had taken that form. But being raped cannot make you a homosexual.”

“Maybe – maybe it wasn’t him, then. It was her. She put me off girls, or something, I don’t know – “ Snape sat beside him on the stairs. When had he sat down? Harry couldn’t remember.

“Harry, you are… who you are. No amount of abuse can make you what you are not.”

Harry let out a breath. It wasn’t his fault it sounded like a sob. “Read that somewhere, did you?”

“That, Potter, would be the advantage of occasionally opening a book, yes.”

“Git.”

“So I have been frequently informed. Now, I believe you have some sleep to catch up on.”

Harry let himself be led up the stairs, and this time, if he dreamt, he didn’t remember it when he woke up again.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~





Part Two

Date: 2008-08-24 09:04 pm (UTC)
ext_22602: Dream For A Better Tomorrow (Default)
From: [identity profile] twicet.livejournal.com
Hi I have commented at the end. Just to say I hope it is alright to friend you, if not please do let me know.

Profile

drachenmina: (Default)
drachenmina

August 2015

S M T W T F S
      1
2345678
9101112131415
161718192021 22
23242526272829
3031     

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 10th, 2025 06:37 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios