Harry gasped as his parents’ names unfurled themselves in his mind, and the dosing cup fell from his fingers. He didn’t hear it hit the floor, his entire world having been reduced to the two identities that had taken over his brain and the man who stood before him. Sick with shock, he couldn’t help locking his anxious gaze on his Potions Professor, visibly trembling as he tried to shape words—hell, even one single word would do!—but…

…what was he supposed to say? What could he say? Everything he was certain about had been upended with those two names that still reverberated through his head.

“W-w-why?” The single-syllable finally escaped his throat, just as he felt that he had been rendered mute. “Why!” It was all he could manage to say, a distillation of all the questions that he suddenly needed to be answered.

Overwhelmed—later he would wonder if this was the way Adam and Eve might have felt after eating the Apple; had their world shifted on its axis as alarmingly as his just did—he couldn’t help but collapse; shivering, the word falling repeatedly from his mouth as he rocked, hyperventilating, his eyes now squeezed shut and his fingers tightly gripping his hair, trying to stop his world from shattering.

He vaguely noticed something… someone… a presence standing over him; heard what might have been a voice uttering soothing words… urging him to calm down… to take a deep breath for Merlin’s sake! He couldn’t comprehend the words and so ignored them, continuing to hysterically choke out his question. He wanted to scream it but the attempt proved fruitless. Gasping, the whywhywhywhywhywhywhy kept pouring from him as a dark fog began to smother his mind. Unaware of anything else, not even the tears that poured from his eyes to soak his face, he gladly took refuge in it. He no longer felt the presence of anyone or anything else, there was only the darkness, a nice safe darkness, a refuge where he didn’t have to listen to himself sob and scream at the man that had shared the room with him—.

His father.

“..you knew!?”

He could recognize that the voice he heard was angry but not what it was saying. He wasn’t quite ready to step out of his mental refuge just yet, so the ability to distinguish meaning wasn’t quite available yet, the words not yet fully registering.

“I knew… She told me… —rus! She… —rusted m—!” He was vaguely pleased that he knew the second voice was female and somehow comfortingly familiar but he wasn’t capable of attaching an identity to it, that part of his mind still reluctant to give up its comfortable warm blanket of not-knowing.

“Why… not tell me!?” The first voice crescendo-ed, ringing through what seemed to be a large space. His curiosity lifted its head wanting to know—where was he?

“She.. me with her secret, Severus! I couldn’t betray her!” The second voice was insistent but remained soft. He was able to put a name to it this time. Ah, Madame Pomfrey… Poppy... always a voice of reason. Now that he’d identified her, he could smell the sharp, yet oddly comforting, disinfectant odor of the Infirmary… a scent that was remarkably similar to its mistress’ personality.

“Why not tell my boy, then? He had a right to know, and you kept it from him!” Harry winced at the angry tone, recognizing the speaker at last. Five words repeated themselves in his mind as the Infirmary fell silent. …my boy… right to know…?

His mind clearing with each passing moment, yet unwilling to open his eyes and make everything real, Harry couldn’t help silently asking: What about you, Snape? I’m your son; shouldn’t you have known all along? The silence deepened, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second. Finally he heard the sound of rustling robes followed by the creaking of a chair.

“Check to see if he’s all right.” Snape’s tone sounded… defeated?

Madame Pomfrey complied, putting her gentle palm against Harry’s forehead. He relaxed as he smelt her signature scent. She never wore perfume—he’d asked her once, during one of their meetings—but she always managed to smell like lavender and mint. He thought it an odd combination, but on her it seemed right. He inhaled deeply, letting the cool scents wrap themselves soothingly around his psyche.

“You smell nice.” Harry’s throat was dry but it didn’t prevent him from whispering the words as he finally pried his eyes open. Squinting in the light of the lamp over his bed, he had never been happier to see the Medi-Witch—not after the fight with Ron, not after each and every incident of self-harm, not even after each of his confrontations with the Dark Lord’s visions and other attacks. He had never thought that he should be this happy to see the Medi-Witch but he was and as he glanced over at his Potions Professor—his Father—he knew why.

He wanted her advice, but he didn’t need it.

He wanted her to talk to, but she wasn’t the only adult available to listen.

He wanted her shoulder to cry on, her office to sit in, her voice to listen to, but he didn’t need them now. He only wanted them.