Harry grimaced, wishing Ron wouldn’t keep bringing it up. It was bad enough that he kept thinking about the whole matter. Snape made it sound like every weekday he was expected to go to the man’s office and talk about his problems. He had already gone on enough about stuff. Harry wasn’t about to let his guard down like that again. Snape hadn’t been as horrible as he could have been, but he was probably just waiting for the right opportunity to make Harry miserable. There wasn’t any other reason for him to require that Harry spend half his time in the man’s office.
Ron and Hermione had questioned him over and over but Harry had just said he wasn’t sure what Snape was up to. He didn’t like keeping secrets from his friends but he hadn’t wanted to tell them what Snape and him had discussed. He flushed, awkwardly tugging at the ripped hem of his enormous jumper. He couldn’t believe he had told Snape about the Dursleys not feeding him.
“I don’t get it, why would Snape – “ Ron began again, his freckled face screwed up in confusion only to have Hermione interrupt, her quill scratching rapidly over her parchment.
“Harry doesn’t know why, Ron. Could you please concentrate on your essay instead of talking? I’ve already had to re-write this paragraph twice.”
“Look Hermione, I’m not taking a vow of silence just because you’ve got twice the course load as the rest of us,” Ron pointed out irritably,
Harry stood up from his armchair as Hermione opened her mouth, “I’m going for a walk,” he muttered, too tense to deal with another argument between Ron and Hermione.
He should’ve kept his mouth shut when Snape had asked. Telling always made things worse. He’d learned that lesson at the Dursleys enough times as it was. Harry shuddered, too caught up in his thoughts to notice Oliver Wood near the portrait hole until the Gryffindor keeper caught him by the arm. The sudden movement jolted fear through Harry and he jerked away, stumbling and immediately pressing his back against the stone wall opposite the seventh year, thin hands lifting automatically in front of him to ward of incoming blows.
“You alright, Harry?” Wood asked, eyebrows raised. Swallowing, Harry nodded, feeling his face heat with embarrassment. He quickly crossed his arms over his chest to hide the fact he was still trembling with reflexive terror.
“Great,” Wood said, distracted, “listen, we don’t need to waste time waiting for tryouts, I say we get in the air as soon as possible. Practice is always harder when there’s less daylight and colder weather.”
“Yeah,” Harry responded, trying to force himself to think about Quidditch and not how dizzy and exhausted he suddenly felt now that the adrenaline was seeping away. A stab of hunger shot through him but he clenched his teeth, pushing aside the physical discomfort. He hadn’t wanted to eat any of the delicious food the Great Hall had at dinner, certainly not after his pathetic confessions to Snape.
“This year’s our year, Harry!” Wood enthused, his eyes gleaming with that maniac light that Quidditch always brought out in him, “we’ll get that Cup for sure this time!” Harry nodded and mustered a grin, tensing to avoid flinching as Wood clapped him hard on the shoulder, “Excellent, see you at evening practice then.”
“Right,” Harry said automatically, before suddenly freezing, remembering Snape’s stupid detentions. “Uh, wait, Wood…I might be a bit late for practice on weekdays, I have to see Snape after my last class all week.”
“But the Cup!” Wood exclaimed in horror before his face suddenly darkened, “Snape’s sabotaging us, that’s what he’s doing! He’s never gotten past Gryffindor taking the House Cup two years ago and now he’s trying to prevent one of my best players from –“
“I’ll try to talk to him about it,” Harry offered, hating the idea but too on edge to deal with Wood’s ranting about their chances for the Quidditch Cup for the next several minutes.
“You do that,” Wood responded firmly, “make him see reason Harry. Bias toward Slytherin is one thing when it comes to grades but it’s beyond the pale for Snape to mess with Quidditch.”
“You want to be excused from your evening appointments with me so that you can fly around on a broom after class?” Snape intoned slowly, his expression making it clear just how idiotic he thought Harry’s request was.
Harry shifted uncomfortably, tugging on the sleeve of his school robe. Charms class was due to start in a half-hour but for now he was stuck in the first of his ‘appointments’ with Snape. Regardless of how the man had phrased it the other day, they certainly seemed like detentions. Snape had already berated him for not eating, told him he needed to concentrate better in class, and was now looking at Harry as if Harry has suggested something too monumentally stupid to dignify discussing.
Harry stared down at his battered shoes, grateful his uniform cloak was long enough to cover most of the ugliness of Dudley’s old trainers. Snape’s office was cold and dimly lit and the jars of floating things didn’t do anything for the hollow pain in his stomach. He could feel Snape’s dark eyes on him but he didn’t look up, mumbling to the floor instead.
“Oliver Wood asked me to ask you if – “
“No.”
Harry’s head shot up in surprise at the abrupt response, “Er, Sir?” he said, confused at the studying look Snape was giving him. The potions master raised a dark eyebrow, his black eyes gleaming in the flickering light of candles that floated around the edges of the room.
“No, I will not allow you to skip out of these sessions simply for your own amusement,” Snape hissed, his mouth twisting in a scowl, “if I had my way you wouldn’t be flying at all.”
“What?” Harry demanded, “why?”
He was too angry to care that he was being disrespectful, or that Snape was still glaring. Snape couldn’t ban him from Quidditch, he couldn’t. Harry would go to McGonagall or Dumbledore, but then… Snape would likely tell them about Harry not eating, about what Harry had said the other day. Harry stared at the man, his green eyes large behind his broken glasses. His heart rate increased almost painfully, his breath leaving him sharply. No, this was between Snape and him, he had to find out what Snape’s motive was and try to fix it on his own.
“What did I do?” He asked, his voice suddenly quiet and tired. Snape watched him for a long moment, pale face impassive, his long black hair falling forward slightly as he inclined his head toward the stiff-backed chair across from his desk.
“Sit down,”
Harry stood his ground, trembling but determined not to back down. This was just like the Dursleys, he had to make it clear that Snape’s threats wouldn’t get to him, that whatever the man did, it wouldn’t break him.
“I have to be in Charms soon, Sir,” he said with forced politeness. Snape shook his head, the mask-like expression of his face slipping enough to display irritation and something unfamiliar to Harry.
“I know when you have to be in Charms, now sit down.” The Potions Master instructed firmly, and the part of Harry that instinctively responded to orders when in danger sat before he could find the courage to rebel. For a long time they looked at one another. Harry didn’t know whether he was still angry or just really exhausted. He was breathing hard as if he’d been running and he could feel a trickle of sweat slide down his brow despite the cold of the room. Snape was watching him closely, and Harry looked away, glaring at the floor, bony hands gripping his thin thighs, trying to hide the way he was shaking.
“You seem to be under the impression that I wish to punish you in some way.” Snape’s low voice echoed slightly in the room, startling Harry after the long moments of silence.
Harry shook his head at the fact that Snape actually sounded confused that Harry thought him unfair, “you basically have me in detention twice a day and you just said that you’d try to stop me from playing Quidditch.” He muttered bitterly.
Now it was Snape’s turn to shake his head, a line appeared between his brows, “I already told you, these are not detentions. They are a way for us to discuss a number of matters involving your wellbeing,” he snapped, dark eyes flashing above his hooked nose, “on the same note I hardly think it wise to allow you to fly a broom when you haven’t been eating.”
All the fight went out of Harry at that, his shoulders slumping. So, Snape was going to hold this over his head, whatever Harry had told him about the Dursleys would be used against him. He should have kept quiet, should have found some other way of explaining why he couldn’t stand eating food so lovingly prepared. Snape sighed, pushing a hand through his long unwashed hair. Harry looked up, startled at such a display of emotion from the man. Snape no longer appeared agitated, only deep in thought.
“I am not trying to punish you for your poor health, Harry,” he stated quietly, “but strenuous exercise can be life-threatening to those with eating disorders.”
The shock of Snape addressing him by his first name was too much for Harry to really take in. He stared at the Potions Master, uncertain suddenly of everything.
“I – I don’t have a eating disorder.” He protested softly, ducking his head instinctively when Snape shifted a hand along the edge of his desk. The tall man stilled, then continued slowly reaching toward a sheaf of parchment on his desk and his quill. Harry flushed,
“You and I both know otherwise, Mr. Potter, which is why you will continue to come here twice a day so that you at least will eat then.” Snape spoke, his tone sharp but without malice, “You need not confide in me beyond what is necessary, if you do not wish to, but I will not have you starve if I can do something about it.” He wrote something on the piece of parchment and it vanished with an audible crack.
A very strange thought was taking shape in Harry’s mind. Snape really wasn’t trying to manipulate him, or humiliate him, or hurt him. He’d offered to help Harry, he’d even called him ‘Harry’ instead of ‘Potter’ or ‘Boy’ like the Dursleys did. Snape hadn’t outright said anything and it was probably too dangerous to get his hopes up, but it sounded almost like Snape actually cared about what happened to him.
“Why does it matter to you?” Harry asked quickly, needing to know. Snape didn’t ask him what he was talking about, but instead regarded Harry with that steady look he had given the boy a few days ago in his office.
“Why doesn’t it, to you?” Snape replied simply.
Harry swallowed, suddenly horribly aware that it was difficult to breathe past the lump in his throat, that if he spoke he might even cry. His hands twisted helplessly in the fabric of his robe.
“I don’t know.” He finally whispered hoarsely.
Snape didn’t say anything. A tray of unbuttered toast popped into existence at the man’s elbow and a glass of water. Snape edged them toward Harry. Harry stared at the food, unsure of what to do or say.
“Pain cannot be healed instantly, Harry,” Snape said in a surprisingly gentle tone, “regardless of what magic is used. I will not punish you for not eating, I ask only that you stop punishing yourself.”
Harry looked at the man, seeking some sort of reassurance in Snape’s solemn gaze. He took a shaky breath and let it out. Slowly, he reached for a piece of toast.
The next few days passed quicker than expected. Soon enough, Harry got used to waking early and heading towards Snape’s office and then stopping by after his last class. The man was still a bit abrasive in Potions, but he’d stopped treating Harry so unfairly in front of everyone and even Ron had commented half-way through the first month that Snape wasn’t being ‘as big of a git as usual’. Harry had shrugged in response.
He still hadn’t told Hermione and Ron much about his appointments with Snape. They had assumed the meetings were really horrible detentions and Harry got used to seeing sympathy on their faces every time he headed off to Snape’s office. He didn’t know how to explain to his friends that Snape wasn’t really that bad, or that the man was somehow now counseling him. Snape and him hadn’t really talked much about Harry’s homelife yet, Snape seemed to be waiting for when Harry was ready and that could be forever, as far as Harry was concerned.
Harry let out a sigh, gripping his Nimbus 2000 as he wandered down to the Quidditch pitch. Wood had been furious that Harry was unable to make evening practices on time but relented when Harry caught the snitch every single time that they trained. Harry grinned as he neared the pitch, the setting sun catching the red of Weasley hair as Fred or George (it was too far away to tell), blocked a quaffle by throwing himself half off his broom in a purely reckless save.
Snape hadn’t been thrilled at Harry attending nightly practices but had not forbidden it, insisting only that Harry ‘use his brain and not overexert himself.” He had repaired the frames of Harry’s glasses and then made him go to Madam Pomfrey to get the lenses altered so that they would be closer to whatever Harry’s prescription would have been in the muggle world. All necessary so that Harry wouldn’t ‘confuse a bludger for a quaffle’ as Snape put it.
Harry shook his head, smiling slightly. It almost seemed as if Snape hadn’t banned Harry from Quidditch because he knew it made Harry happy to fly. It was weird to think that the professor actually cared about him but over the last week, Harry had seen proof of that. Snape had not pushed him to talk about things, although he had quietly insisted Harry eat something and in the safety of the potion’s office, Harry found that his aversion to food had mostly disappeared. He still wasn’t comfortable eating in the Great Hall, but Snape and him were working on it.
With a nod to Angelina who zoomed past to throw another quaffle, Harry mounted his broom, taking to the sky with a burst of enthusiasm. He waited, watching the toss of practice quaffles between chasers. Fred and George taking turns acting as keeper while Wood flew around, shouting instructions and plays for them to try out. Harry didn’t have anything to do for the first part, as he was a seeker and Wood was training part of the team in a new move that the Ballycastle Bats chasers had won a game with over the summer.
Harry’s mind wandered back to that evening’s meeting with Snape. He’d spent nearly an hour there doing his homework, but Snape was surprisingly helpful when it came to answering Harry’s questions about classwork. There had been a bit of a standoff between them for a few minutes when Snape had broached the subject of his ‘eating disorder’. Harry scowled. He wished Snape would stop saying that. He knew a little of it was true, but he didn’t want to discuss it. Snape had let him argue for awhile and Harry had to concede that the potions master was right about some things, but it wasn’t like Harry hated food, he just didn’t have an appetite. That wasn’t anything for Snape to make a big deal about, besides, he’d already started eating some in the man’s office.
“Harry, we need a seeker here for this new diversion tactic,” Wood yelled, and Harry swooped toward him, wind streaking through his hair, his heart light in his chest, all thoughts of Snape’s ‘detentions’ firmly pushed aside.