Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you, absinthe, for your edits. :)
The Guests of Malfoy Manor

The following week was remarkably uneventful to the point of boredom.

Their daily routine hadn't changed. Wake up, do chores, eat breakfast, work for four hours and assist Snape in whatever he may need help with after an hour long lesson from the Professor. Only this time, their awkward conversations and forced greetings gradually fell into ignoring and even avoiding one another whenever possible. Harry didn't mind, though. He read, he wrote and learned that mathematics wasn't as easy as the first few topics, all while crossing the dates off the makeshift calendar drafted on the inner cover of the book, waiting for Dumble-bore's arrival.

And with every cross, Harry found that not everything was well with Snape.

Because If there was anything to complain about, it was Snape and the fact that he was driving Harry to a point of insanity.

Again.

Gone was the man whose presence he enjoyed in the garden and tolerated in the laboratory. Snape had steadily grown from teasing to giving monotone lectures (which only made Harry sleepy) to not even hearing him.

The smirks shifted into scowls when he thought Harry wasn't looking, or sneering at the sight of him when he knew Harry was looking, to nothing at all. Silence. Not a word spoken between them since the day after their argument, only small, vague sounds holding no emotion.

Harry tried to convince himself that he was making things up, that Snape was just as bad as he remembered. But even the Patels, who had visited with the arrival of the new stock to help, looked concerned. Snape had refused to tell them anything. Even when Professor Patel had asked him very, very quietly if there was anything he needed help with, to which Snape answered something Harry couldn't hear from the door he was hiding behind.

And all of this, of course, both confused and worried Harry. Because it wasn't just Snape's mood and tolerance of Harry that was in decline - it was his physical state as well. There was the fatigue; the tired, bloodshot eyes underlined by dark bags; the refusal of a bath while urging Harry to be clean; the trouble of waking up in the morning, needing Harry to knock on his door a few times.

Harry would have dared to say even his greasy hair was suffering, but of coure he never told it to his face, lest he murder Harry impulsively. This was yet another alarming change, being impulsive. And Harry was growing afraid.

Afraid that, among many things that Snape was forgetting these days, he'd forget his promise.

The early, early morning of the twelfth of August made everything worse.

Another nightmare had woken Harry. Sweaty and trembling, Harry took gulps of air, trying to steady his hands and body enough to stand up and open the window. Once that was done, and Harry's skin was tingling with the cold blowing through the window, he closed it and turned to the door for a drink in the kitchen, arm stinging with the scratching of his nails.

On his toes, he was just about to reach the pitcher when he smelled it - the burning, foggy smell of smoke. And not just any smoke.

Tobacco.

Harry's head immediately whirled to Snape's door. His heart drummed. His already dry throat burned.

It didn't stop him from approaching Snape's door, still afraid, ears still ringing.

His hand met with the wall beside the door, and creeping up, he pushed himself flat to its surface and stood very, very still.

There was no doubt about it. Snape was smoking. Odd. Harry didn't remember Snape smoking throughout his visit, and found it peculiar for him to choose this hour to do so. He was ready to go back to the pitcher, dismissing the matter entirely, when he heard something.

A sob.

A sob, which didn't stop. A sob which grew. And a sob which finally shifted into crying, wheezing and ugly sniffing. Wails, whimpers. Harry slammed a hand over his mouth in both surprise and fear of Snape hearing him, whose laments were muffled behind something, perhaps a pillow.

Harry felt like an intruder, a witness to his shed tears, an invader and violator of Snape's privacy, the only privacy he had with Harry around. And he did urge himself to move. To leave. Leave for the comfort of his room and forget the night had ever happened.

He stayed, all the same, one hand on the door. And only when both the smell of tobacco and Professor Snape's crying had ceased did Harry go back to his room.

That night, he didn't sleep much.

He didn't dare.

At the chime of the clock, Harry threw back the covers and dressed hurriedly. The room was tidied in a few short moments, with a cold, gentle breeze lifting the curtains. Harry shrugged on a jacket against the chill and made a short trip to the water closet ( after which he washed his hands with freezing water).

Once the potatoes and onions, which were very close to being harvested, were watered along with the ones in the pot, Harry rolled up his sleeves and cuffs and started pulling along the soil for any weeds. There were hardly any left, however, seeing as he had been working in the garden for the past week and moved onto the next chore. He had already washed the panes, and the water closet didn't require anything more, either. Very soon, Harry was back inside with a pleased smile, his hands freezing once again from washing them in the cold.

He was swift in his sweeping as well, and at the end of a few short hours, he had a small meal of potatoes laid out on the table.

The clock showed the exact time the two shared breakfast.

Stifling a yawn, Harry studied his work with a small, beaming smile. For once, glad for the hours spent in… her kitchen, Harry turned to the shut door of Professor Snape.

Harry had expected the man to wake up during his cooking. He hadn't made much noise, but Professor Snape had sensitive hearing and vision to accompany his stealthy walk. Nonetheless, glad for the lack of disturbances, Harry walked towards the door, pressed a hand to it and took a deep breath, and knocked.

No answer.

Once, twice. Again,not even a sound. Growing worried, Harry cleared his throat and this time tried his voice.

"Professor Snape?" he called, knocking once again, "Sir, it's time to wake up, sir."

Dead quiet.

"Professor Snape, please wake up, sir. It's past six o'clock."

He was ready to open the door in fear for the silent man when he finally did hear something. A groan, the lazy ruffling of bedsheets, and finally the shuffling slap of naked, approaching feet. Harry held his breath as a lock was turned and Snape yanked the door open.

He looked worse than Harry remembered.

Dark shadows under his eyes, skin paler than snow, sallow coloured cheeks.

Harry only barely stopped himself from gaping.

"What is it, Potter?" he spat, or tried to, anyway. His usually silky voice came out in a gruffy slur, and his narrow eyes followed Harry's fingers towards the clock.

"It's past six, sir. And I-I have breakfast ready."

"It is my duty to make breakfast."

"I know, sir. I woke up early, today, saw that you weren't up, and decided to make breakfast when you wouldn't answer my earlier calls."

Professor Snape's eyes fell on the table, and then back at Harry. The lines around his eyes eased, and the robes hugging his tense body fell easily down his bony shoulders.

"I didn't answer you earlier summons?"

Harry stared at the space between Professor Snape's eyes and shook his head, "No, sir. You did not."

With a hum, Professor Snape slid past him. Grabbing a plate, he returned back to the door. Before closing it, however, he pointed a finger at Harry, "Continue on your schedule. No customers are to collect their orders until I come down. Leave the washing up to me."

The door slammed in his face, rattling the walls, and Harry blinked.

The breath he was holding came out as a mixture of nerves and relief. Collecting himself from where he had slipped down to the floor, he ate his breakfast quickly and immediately after made his way to the laboratory.

Professor Snape joined him downstairs just as Harry turned the page to a new chapter in Alice in Wonderland.

He didn't look much better. The black circles under his eyes weren't gone, and his thin frame looked skeletal under his loose clothing. Harry pulled his gaze away from the man when Professor Snape looked his way.

"No house visit today, sir?" Harry asked, still not lifting his head.

"No," And with a swift turn, Professor Snape was back to work - sleeves down, back bent.

A slow rumble echoed above them. Though far in distance, it was still very worrying. Harry looked up for Snape's reaction from the other side of the table.

He hadn't even looked up.

There wasn't much light today. Only a grey filter passed above the sun, clouds thick in the sky. Harry shivered, wishing for the jacket he left upstairs. Twirling the pencil between his fingers, he considered whether asking permission was worth interrupting Professor Snape.

The answer was a clear no, when Professor Snape started tipping a very thin jar over the scale, eyes narrowed in concentration. So Harry, without scraping the chair on the floor, So Harry, without scraping the chair on the floor, tip-toed around the table so as not to disturb Professor Snape

There were no customers when Harry walked out into the shop, and only a few people on the street. Harry walked behind the counter, going upstairs to the parlor, only to see with concerned confusion that Professor Snape hadn't washed up after all.

A look at the door behind him told him Professor Snape wasn't intending to finish the job, either. With a shrug, Harry noted where his jacket was stranded behind his chair and cleared the morning dishes, propping them in the shelves after a wash.

Back downstairs, Professor Snape didn't acknowledge him. His hands smoothly moved from jar to tool to herb, bringing them together in fluid movements, all while ignoring Harry.

Harry followed suit not long after, immersed in his books and slowly declining stock of chalk, but still was the only one to hear the chime of the bell from above the laboratory. Looking at Professor Snape and finding him too immersed in his chopping of herbs, Harry closed his book.

Professor Snape didn't seem to notice the constant looks Harry was giving over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs towards the shop.

"Ah!" a man said as Harry appeared behind from the door, putting a hand into his very large bag, "And I was worried no one was in the shop."

"Can I help you, sir?" Harry asked cautiously, eyeing the scruffy man's clothes, which were made to resemble a formal uniform. The man held up a finger, scratching his beard and rummaging through the bag again before pulling something out with an air of triumph.

He walked up to Harry, placing the letter on the counter, "Here ya are, Mr Snape."

"Oh, uh, I'm not-"

"No payment needed," the man said, holding up a hand and shouldering his bag, "You have a good day, lad. Or as good as today's gonna get."

And with that, the bell rang behind the man as he left, leaving behind a white envelope on the counter with very fancy handwriting.

Harry lifted the envelope, and with a final look at the darkening street, made his way downstairs.

Professor Snape still didn't acknowledge him. So Harry dropped the letter on top of the piles of papers, throwing a final look at the envelope and reading part of the address, 'Malfoy Manor' before going past to sit on his chair.

It was when Harry closed his book that Professor Snape stopped working of his own accord, and not because Harry ushered him upstairs to tend to the customers he wasn't able to. Harry stretched his arms above his head, his back arching on the chair, stifling a yawn. Snape looked up from the jar he had lidded, the glass scraping on the wood as it was dismissed to the side.

"Oh, sir," Harry stood, holding up a hand when Snape turned to walk towards the stairs, "You received a letter."

Professor Snape halted on his tracks, a hand disappointedly slipping down the rails, "From whom?" he asked, quiet and firm, not turning around.

"I don't know. But it writes… Ma-Malfoy? Is that how you pronounce it?"

Harry looked up from the letter when there came no response, and stepped back at the look on Professor Snape's face. How anyone already pale beyond health could lose their remaining colour, Harry didn't know, but the professor was proving it could be done. He clumsily tore into the letter, eyes skimming the lines furiously.

Harry thought the man would faint, and prepared himself to catch him should it prove necessary. It wasn't. His thin fingers curled around the edge of the table, pulling the skin above his knuckles taut. Harry couldn't see Professor Snape's face behind his curtain of black hair, but he did notice the small tremors of his arms, and took that as the signal to fetch the Professor a glass of water.

The rumbling of thunder followed him up the stairs, and the rain joined in, gently rolling down the glass panes when Harry returned downstairs.

Thankfully, Professor Snape was sitting down, head on the back of the chair and eyes lost in the rain. Timidly, Harry placed the cup in front of Professor Snape, silently praying death didn't come to collect the soul of the Professor.

It didn't. Professor Snape pushed himself up from his sprawled form, gripped the glass and downed it in a few gulps.

Lightning flashed above; the rolling thunder a reminder of more rain to come.

Harry rubbed his fingers together, looking up and through the panes to the grey sky, "Sir, are you alright?"

Professor Snape gripped the glass tighter in his hand, "I will be alright," he said in a voice entirely unconvincing, webbed with lies that even Harry could see.

"Would you like some tea?"

Professor Snape lifted tired eyes lined with signs of age and lack of sleep. Harry offered a smile, nudging the leg of the chair with his foot, "I won't burn down your kitchen."

"It's not my-" Professor Snape shut his lips, taking uneven breaths, " Some tea would be… appreciated."

Harry nodded, once again climbing up the metal stairs, this time with straining legs.

It took him two trips to get the kettle and cups downstairs, so he was pleased to see that Professor Snape (who looked to have regained some colour) had placed the kettle over the fireplace to boil when he returned from the second trip.

Soon enough, there were two cups of hot, steaming tea on the table. Harry cupped his using the sleeves of his shirt, arms and chin resting on the table while he blew into the cup and tipped it to take a sip.

"I've never had tea before," he said, watching the steam rise from the light coloured tea, a sweet aftertaste lingering on his tongue, "Well, I did once, but I don't think it counts."

Professor Snape placed his own cup down, arms crossed over the table, more relaxed then Harry had seen in days. He didn't answer, which sat well with Harry, as he didn't feel up to explaining the exact circumstances to Professor Snape.

But he still wanted to talk, for some reason he didn't understand - wanted to share, and see what Professor Snape had to say about the event.

But he took another sip, and slumped lazily on the table, smiling into his arm at the sound of the rain, the heat settling on his skin, "What kind of tea is this?

"Chamomile, I believe," Professor Snape said, turning the cup in his hands, "Mr Weasley brought it as a gift from Egypt."

"Mr Weasley? When?"

"While you were engaged with the younger Mr Weasley," he said, tilting his cup back for a sip.

Harry frowned, "I didn't notice."

"I don't believe that's an issue," he said, standing up and walking over to the fireplace, pouring himself another. Harry struggled to keep his eyes open, the sound of pouring water mingled with those of rain and thunder, gently coaxing them closed. Stifling a yawn, he huddled his head closer in his arms, the heat behind him a warm blanket over his shoulders.

"Is the letter from Dumble-roar?" said Harry sleepily, stifling a yawn, "Is he… coming then?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore," said Professor Snape from somewhere above him with a fırm voice. Harry felt a presence around him, and then fingers prying the cup from his hands.

"Yeah…" Harry mumbled, his eyes finally closing, his world muffled behind the sleep that was calling for him, "Dumble-bore…"

And then, there came silence.

Harry was at Patel's house early the next day, his limbs still sore from having slept bent over the table.

Harry scratched out the 13th number on the inside cover of his book, swinging his legs mindlessly as he worked through multiplication problems. Both Patel's were somewhere in the house, excusing their absence by saying they had to pack for a small trip, and that they would join him very soon.

Harry didn't mind, and happily drank his milk and ate his cookies (not cinnamon), almost finishing the plate by the time he closed his book. Picking up a cookie, he stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, chewing as he walked out the kitchen and into the living room.

After a long fifteen minutes, Professor Patel finally came back, rubbing her hands down her skirt, "I'm sorry, Harry. I said I had nothing to do, but I didn't know you'd be coming in the morning."

Harry straightened up, "It's fine, Professor."

She smiled, taking a seat and sighing tiredly before straightening up, "So, did anything happen this week?"

Harry thought for a moment, then shook his head, "Nothing very… important."

"Anything you'd like to share?"

Harry then remembered the tea he drank with Professor Snape, and the memory he wanted to share at that moment. Taking a deep breath, Harry searched for any sign on Professor Patel's face that showed she didn't want to hear anything he had to say. He didn't see anything, only a small smile.

Harry took another breath.

"We drank tea yesterday afternoon," he said shyly, looking down, the words raising the beat of his heart.

"Oh, very nice. What did you drink?"

"I don't remember the name, something starting with a 'k' sound. But it reminded me of something that happened. Can I-" he brushed his bangs down, "-Would you like to hear it?"

She nodded, joining her hands on her lap, and Harry thought the smile on her lips was met with some relief, "Please."

Harry nodded along with her, rubbing his hands together, "The first time I drank tea, I… I stole some from my aunt, after she and her friend drank some and I was taking it to the kitchen. I liked it."

She nodded, "I myself don't like tea, but I have a similar memory, of trying a sip from my mother's cup," then, her eyes dropped to the ground, and her smile faltered before returning a little strained, a little forced, "I burnt my tongue."

"Is that why you don't like it?"

"Turkish tea is very bitter, and I didn't give myself the opportunity to taste anything else. Very odd, considering my mother had ample flavors for me to drink from."

"Oh," Harry said dryly, placing his hands down on the sofa and scratching the fabric, "I think you should try this one. It's very sweet."

Her forced smile eased into something softer, brighter, and Harry could see some of her teeth through her parted lips, "I will ask Professor Snape for a sample."

Silence.

Unlike yesterday, there was no rain, but the sky was the murky grey Harry was accustomed to, and even enjoyed. Mud made it hard to walk, and rain would often have them sick, back when he was with Edwin. But now? Harry hoped (not prayed, because he couldn't see the stars, and he still believed it was the reason behind his unanswered prayer) that he would always have a warm house to watch the rain fall. And Harry couldn't help but let his gaze wander towards the window, eyes squinting to look past the blur of his vision. He did it again. The light, cold and dim, falling across his face.

"Harry, do you have trouble with your vision?"

Harry left the window to look at Professor Patel, giving a shy nod in response, "Yes. When I look into far distances, everything gets blurry."

"And up close?" she asked, looking up at the clock on the wall. Harry's response was a simple shrug.

"I don't think so."

"Professor Snape said he would come back close to six…" Professor Patel mumbled to herself, rubbing her chin, her sentence left unfinished. Harry, though, had a small idea on where the sentence was going, and hoped he was right in what he was assuming when Professor Patel excused herself for a moment to speak with her brother.

It took ten minutes, and when she came back, she was securing her scarf down with a pin, a small smile on her face, "Grab your coat."

As her father used to buy glasses himself, in the recent years, Professor Patel knew of someone called an 'optician', which Harry had never heard of before, but learned that they sold glasses and spectacles. And that alone put a smile on his lips, one that not even the jacket buttoned up to his chin could hide. (It was cold, Professor Patel had argued, forcing him to button all of them while not wearing any coat herself.) Not even the ugly stares at the end of their almost hour-long walk would dampen his mood.

They arrived outside a shop, one with a sign worn with time and with letters Harry couldn't read in the few seconds he had, but imagined one of them had to spell 'optician'.

Then, they entered, Harry right behind Professor Patel, because he really didn't know what to expect from an 'optician'.

"Mr Fahr?" Professor Patel timidly called into the shop, a hand on Harry's shoulder steering him to the counter. Harry took that moment to look around the shop, which didn't resemble any other he had seen. There were no boxes like in Mr Ollivanders, no jars like at the apothecary, and no books lining the shelves - only a counter in a very small and very dust-free space, with a door beside it.

"You know, Professor," Harry said shyly, looking at the door as though a monster would spring out of it at any given minute, "I never said this on the road, but glasses must be expensive and I don't have-"

Professor Patel squeezed his shoulder gently, yet firmly and opened her mouth to reply when the door opened.

There came no monster. Instead, a tall, lean man with thick white hair and what looked to be a single round glass over his one eye walked into the room.

"Good afternoon," the man said in a gruff voice, unfamiliarly accented, his eyes falling on first Professor Patel, then Harry, "I wasn't expecting to see you so soon, Ms. But the eye runs in the family, I suppose."

"Not yet, Mr Fahr," said Professor Patel, motioning Harry with her free hand, "I have brought you another customer."

"Even younger, it seems," said Mr Fahr, unamused, adjusting the glass over his eye while he stared Harry down, making him look away, "Follow me."

Mr Fahr led them both past the door he had entered, walkıing to a chair in the corner of the new room they had entered. Beside it, was a cabinet, brown in colour and angular in shape, holding rows of small circles, similar to the one Mr Fahr was wearing. The man gestured to the chair, and Professor Patel gave Harry a little nudge, retreating to a corner to watch.

Mr Fahr worked without conversation. He asked what he could see and what he could not, how long he struggled with his vision, and finally pulled up a chart with letters and asked him to read after confirming he was literate.

Harry didn't manage to read much, nothing, really, with the chart a blur of black shapes.

That's when Mr Fahr moved to the 'lenses' on the cabinet. He tried many of them, sometimes worsening his vision, and sometimes making it better until it came to a particular lense on his right eye that made Harry gasp.

The room lit up in colour and quality both.

"Ah," Mr Fahr said dryly, with a hint of pride, "Found him."

He then closed Harry's right eye, repeating the process until the second gasp, which wasn't any softer than the previous. Mr Fahr took the lens away, scribbled some things down on his notebook and told Harry he could stand up. After measuring his head for frames, he sent them on their way, asking them to return in seven to ten days.

It had happened so fast, Harry couldn't even comprehend when they had walked outside.

"Am I…" he said carefully, biting his lip, afraid that if he acknowledged it now, the spectacles wouldn't be his, "Was that all real?"

"You getting glasses? Of course," Professor Patel said, taking him by the shoulder once more, "I'm not cruel enough to lie to you about this."

"But why? I mean, thank you, Professor. Thank you so much. But I just-" he felt his ears heat up, and flattened his hair down over them in case Professor Patel notices, "-I didn't make you feel…"

"Obligated?" Professor Patel suggested. Harry looked at her with a raised brow, and she continued, "Forced, you mean? No. If it makes you feel any better, it's the beginning of the Islamic holy months tomorrow, and we're encouraged to do good even more than usual during it."

"How long is it?" Harry asked, instinctively holding the fabric on her arm when they had to cross a street, and tightening his hold when he noticed a woman glaring at them from under her hat.

"Three months," she answered on the other side and, until they reached the Patel household, Harry asked all sorts of questions on what these three months were, what they did and why.

But when they reached the neighbourhood and walked up to the door, Professor Patel paused at the lock, and turned around, "Harry, will you do me a favour?"

"Oh, sure."

"For now, don't say anything to Professor Snape, alright?"

"Why not?" Harry asked following her inside and down the hall (after taking off his shoes) and into the kitchen, where he greeted Mr Patel with a smile before he stopped in his step, smile falling, "Wait, will he get angry?"

"At you, no," she shook her head, rolling up her sleeves and reaching above the cabinets over the counter for plates, "At me? I'm afraid he might."

"But you bought me glasses!" he exclaimed, almost dropping the plates Professor Patel had given him, "Everything was so bright when I put them on, even for a few seconds," he grinned, setting the plates down and coming back for the cutlery, "Thank you again, Professor Patel. You didn't have to do that."

"Ahmed said he'd pay half the price, so I am not entirely to blame," Professor Patel said, running a hand down the side of Mr Ahmed's hair and face.

Mr Patel dismissed her hand with a shake of his head, turning to face Harry instead with a grin, "It wasn't much, Harry, truly. Come now-" he pulled him gently by the arm to the counter, pointing at the pot, "-let me pass on my culinary knowledge to someone who can't poison me with it."

That earned Mr Patel a sharp flick on the back of the head, which only caused him and Harry to erupt with laughter.


Snape, who had come to fetch Harry, almost faltered in his step at the door.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't know how else to explain it to you, Professor Snape," said Professor Patel, crossing her arms over her chest, a timid frown on her lips and looking down at Snape, "Tomorrow is Rajab- I mean, the start of the three holy months. I can't turn down the invitation now, I've already declined far too many times," she smiled nervously at Harry, and Harry nervously smiled back before continuing to watch Snape.

Professor Snape, who looked like he had already surrendered his soul, placed a hand on his forehead and pulled his hair back, looking between Harry and Professor Patel and back again.

"Can't you- Three months is hardly less time, Professor-"

"Tomorrow is the first day, in addition to a Friday, Professor. We were invited for iftar- I mean, to break the fast and spend a few days," Professor Patel cut him off, perhaps a little sharply, and Harry looked at Professor Snape to see if that had gotten a reaction from him.

It hadn't.

For some reason, that made Harry very uneasy.

Professor Patel's frown eased, and her hands dropped to grip the door, "I'm sorry, Professor Snape. Truly. But this is a very inconvenient time, and Harry cannot stay for a few days."

Harry saw Professor Snape clench both hands into fists, before giving a small nod, "Have a good trip, Professor," he said very dryly, a hint of venom in his voice and turned around, storming down the street.

Harry gave Professor Patel an apologetic smile and a small wave, rushing to catch up to Professor Snape.

Harry thought he knew what to do when he caught Professor Snape in a foul mood, once they were back in the shop and the door was closed behind him loudly and sharply, rattling the glass.

The lock snick-ed instantly, and Harry shrunk in on himself, watching Professor Snape pace the length of the room from the corner. Cheeks flushed, he spat words beyond Harry's comprehension.

Ten minutes later, Professor Snape placed his hands on the counter, back hunched over the wood with small, unhidden tremors.

"Mr Potter."

"Yes sir?" Harry asked, shoulders tense.

"You are not in possession of a bag, correct?"

Harry swallowed thickly, "No, sir."

Snape nodded, pushing away from the counter and joining his hands behind his back.

Harry thought he was trying to keep calm

Harry also thought he wasn't doing a good job.

"We will have to share then," Professor Snape said, and Harry blinked, taking some steps forward.

"I'm sorry sir?" Harry said, unsure, eyes narrowed as Professor Snape pulled open the door, rushing up the stairs, Harry finding it very hard to keep up with him, "Why would we need to share a bag?"

Professor Snape didn't answer. Instead, he slammed his door shut right as Harry stepped closer, almost catching his fingers.

He came out fifteen minutes later, the sudden opening of the door making Harry jump from his seat. He was about to ask Professor Snape what was going on, but couldn't stop him on his way to Harry's room, leaving him to helplessly watch Professor Snape open his bag of folded clothes and place them beside the clothes Harry had on the chair in the room.

"Put your clothes in here, Potter. Neatly," he said dismissively, walking past him in a whirl of cold air and headed towards the staircase, "I have more to pack."

Harry didn't ask him what. Copying the methods Professor Snape had used, he packed the small amount of clothes he had into the bag, still confused as to why the Professor was insisting he pack now, as though they were going on a-

Harry's hand froze on the shirt he was folding, the sleeve falling from his grip. He turned around, half-expecting the Professor to be standing in the door frame, a smirk on his face as he said, "Figured it out have you, Potter?"

Professor Snape was going on a trip. To this Malfoy character, judging by the letter that arrived yesterday, and his plans of leaving Harry with Professor Patel were ruined because they were going on a little trip of their own. And even if Harry couldn't understand, as he closed the luggage bag with a thud, he knew that Professor Snape going pale for something like this wasn't to be taken lightly.

He pulled the bag up, his back arching backwards under the weight. The parlor floor creaked threateningly as he dropped it to the floor, rubbing his back.

Professor Snape arrived long after Harry was done, his head resting on the sofa, the room illuminated with candlelight. Without a word, Professor Snape slipped into the kitchen, wiping his hands on the towel hung by the chair. Harry could hear the cutting of bread, the chopping of vegetables, and something being stirred aggressively.

"The potatoes chose the best time to be ready," Professor Snape muttered darkly, walking past Harry towards the fireplace and hanging the pot, using the fire from the candle to set the logs alight.

"I'm not supposed to come, am I?" Harry asked into the darkness, playing with the loose threads of the sofa, "That's why you wanted to leave me with Professor Patel."

Professor Snape scoffed, leaving the vegetables to cook and walking back to the kitchen where came the noises of a paper bag, water being poured and something being stirred before Professor Snape was back, holding a bowl in his hand along with a… brush.

"You have a brush?" Harry asked, sitting up straight.

"Among many things, apparently," Professor Snape answered, sitting very close to Harry, making him scoot back on the couch, "Lift up the hair over your scar."

"Wait, what?"

Professor Snape sighed, tilting the bowl to show him a dark, cream textured paste, "The colour is only temporary, but enough to help disguise the scar."

"Why do I need to hide my scar?" Harry asked, a hand over his forehead, "I didn't need to do that before."

"I've never had to look after a boy that fell down the chimney, either, but here we are."

"Yes, well-" Harry's mind suddenly stuck on the chimney, and he had to turn to look at it, his eyes going wide, "Hang on. You said the flue was damaged!"

Professor Snape lifted his fringe, far gentler than Harry expected, and warmer than he wanted, but the paste cool on his skin.

"You'll find the general population relies on routine lies," Professor Snape muttered, lifting the brush after a few strokes, "And mine was hardly any worse."

"I still don't like it."

Professor Snape smirked, placing the brush down inside the bowl, "I imagine you wouldn't."

Before Harry could touch his forehead, Snape slapped his hand out of the way and used something to hold his hair back.

Something which was a hair clip.

"That is not funny," Harry said in a low voice, running his fingers over the metal embroidery.

"You'll find I'm not joking, when I finish talking."

And then he told him about Lucius Malfoy, how dangerous a man he was, and exactly why he shouldn't know Harry's real identity.

Harry found it a lot more troubling falling asleep that night, even with a full stomach.

Chapter End Notes:
Just a note, because I didn't know how else to allude it into the text: Rajab, Shaban and Ramadan are three Holy Months in which Muslims worship Allah more often than the rest of the year, specifically in Ramadan.

There is a separate four months of the year, called the Haram Months, which include Rajab, and are also sacred, but for different reasons. I don't want to get in too much detail, but here is an extract of a passage:

"But such was the honor and reverence of the Sacred House in Makkah, that all the Arab tribes unanimously accepted and regarded the three months of the Hajj, namely Dhul-Qaadah, Dhul-Hijjah, and Muharram and the month of Rajab dedicated for Umrah (a type of worship) as absolutely sacred wherein any type of war or aggression was absolutely prohibited and treated as a sacrilege."

Again, sorry for any possible confusion. ^^'

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