Portended Prophecies by WiCeBa

“Close your eyes, please.” Snape said with a careful calmness.

“But after, can you try talking with—”

“No.”

“Please?” Harry asked, curling his head to land solidly on Snape’s shoulder. The dark cloak blotted out light in a blissfully peaceful way. “Please try to talk with it!”

A nervous feeling begged Harry to stop asking, but a high voice urged him on as it swam through his thoughts. They blurred together into a discordant and ugly mess, leaving Harry struggling to tell which instinct was his own.

“No.” Snape said. He shook his head and his fingers tightened around Harry.

If Harry weren’t so used to Snape’s mannerisms surrounding stress, he might’ve interpreted his tightening hold as anger, or worse still, disapproval. Harry was well aware of what disapproval looked like on Snape, having suffered the weight of it during the last four years of school.

Snape had a grip like iron, and when he chose to use it, it left little room for miscommunication.

This line of thinking only led Harry toward more confusion, as he was sure Snape wouldn’t hurt him, not intentionally at least. Maybe his tightening fingers were an unconscious reaction?

Maybe he was more frightened than Harry?

“You’re flying on your broom.” Snape’s soft voice drifted through Harry’s thoughts. Harry found himself wondering if he truly had fallen asleep for a brief moment, but found it unlikely, given how tense he still felt.

Harry huffed and pressed his forehead against Snape. His scar hadn’t lit up in pain, but it hadn’t exactly been silent.

A thick band of pressure still circled his head intermittently.

He wished he’d argued and pushed Snape to interact with the angry voice, rather than giving in. Snape truly had calmed it down. Harry hadn’t considered what it might all be, or mean, but he couldn’t help wondering if the voice having calmed down had something to do with how Snape treated it.

An uncomfortable satisfaction curled through him and relished how concerned Snape was.

The feeling made Harry nauseas. He knew Snape cared about him. Snape had been open about it, and made sure Harry understood why he cared and why he deserved to be cared for. Snape spent ages explaining how help and care were reasonable things to want and ask for, but Harry had never been led to feel as if he were entitled to it.

Maybe he was entitled to it though?

Snape made it seem as if Harry deserved care solely by existing.

Was Harry entitled to care because he was a person, or because he was better than everyone else?

He tried to internally shake that thought off, as he was sure it didn’t belong to him. It was difficult to understand how a thought could come from his head and not belong to him. He was being illogical. He was the only person who could think in his head, therefore, it must be him creating the thought.

That didn’t align with having memories that weren’t his own though.

An old, dusty memory flickered through his mind and reminded him of a comment Mr Weasley’s made ages ago.

‘Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain.’

“You’re sailing through a cloudless sky.” Snape said.

“Starry sky.” Harry mumbled from where his face was pressed to Snape’s shoulder. “Flying at night’s loads more calming.”

“Starry sky, forgive me.” A hand disappeared from Harry’s side and began carding through his hair. “The Dog Star is no doubt bright, and you follow it at a lazy speed.”

The mental image was easy to build, and Harry quickly imagined a dense forest beneath him, similar to the one around Ms Eileen’s house. Pine trees grew tall and carpeted the ground in all directions. He wondered idly about the specks of light on the horizon, and if he’d consciously thought to include the market near Ms Eileen’s house, or if it fell into place, as if it’d always been there.

The closer he flew to it, the more he realized how smokey the woods were.

“It’s warm, and summery.” Snape continued.

Harry wasn’t sure if ‘summery’ was how he’d have described it. ‘Ablaze’ was a more accurate description. Hundreds of fires grew before Harry’s eyes, quickly followed by rubble, screams and bent and broken lifeless people.

The smoke ballooned upwards in dense, burnt clouds and coated his throat.

Harry wrenched backwards and coughed violently as the taste of a smoldering city bled into him. Sharp panic bit into him and pushed him to run away.

Snape jerked and caught him before he could bolt. His low voice warbled in Harry’s ears, urging him to take slower breaths.

He couldn’t understand where the taste had come from, as the only fires he had much experience with came from dragons or the floo. He couldn’t imagine anyone knowing how a burning city would taste, or smell for that matter.

Anger at his own persistent confusion bubbled through his chest.

The voice hissed a laugh and a hazily circled Harry’s head, tickling his ears as it bled into him.

“Harry?” Snape asked.

Harry sniffed and tried to imagine other pungent smells and tastes to wash out the ash, but nothing worked.

Snape whispered a spell and a glass of water appeared moments later.

He grabbed at the glass, but swallowed too quickly and coughed again as desperation shot through him. He wished he could shut the voice up. It reminded him too much of the basilisk’s murderous whispers from his second year, and the gruesome vision he’d had in his mum’s flat.

Bellatrix Lestrange’s bleeding eyes and twisted frame sent an oily, slick sort of pleasure through Harry.

He had no proof for how he knew who the voice and feelings belonged to. He’d thought about who they belonged to before, though he hadn’t directly expressed his opinion. It was both exceedingly obvious, and worrying enough for Harry to hold off until he was truly sure.

It was too frightening to ignore now.

“It’s Tom.” Harry coughed and slammed his eyes shut, hoping to chase the images away, but they flickered to life in the darkness, bright as daylight. “It’s not—they’re not my thoughts! He keeps thinking of London being bombed and of hurting people!”

“Breathe.” Snape said firmly. “You’re panicking and this is frightening, but you have to block it out.”

“It’s not working!” Harry snapped. His eyes burned as frustrated tears leaked out and phantom smoke stung as it clung to them. “I can’t calm down when it won’t go away!”

“Yes you can!” Snape’s thumb swept over Harry’s cheek. “Clear your mind—”

“IT WON’T LET ME!” Harry shouted.

He nearly tipped from Snape’s lap as the urge to scream tore through him. His fingers knotted into his hair and he pulled as hard as he could.

The tightening band of pressure throbbed and closed in around his forehead as searing pain burst through his scar. Harry tried to push it away, but he couldn’t find his hands. He couldn’t tell anymore where his head began and where it ended.

Blurry shapes rushed past his eyes at pitched and nauseating speeds. Memories he did and didn’t know collided into a sickening mess.

Aunt Petunia’s scissors snipped in his ears, and the taste of soap bubbled through his mouth. An old woman with a ragged, stuffed doll in her pocket begged Harry to leave Dudley alone. She tried to remind him that he and Dudley had more in common than he realized, as both of them were orphans, but that was laughably wrong. Harry was extraordinary and couldn’t be compared to Dudley.

That made no sense. Dudley’s parents were alive. Harry would’ve known if Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon had died, he was sure someone would’ve told him.

The rubble and ash he’d smelled earlier ballooned around him in a haze and Harry instinctively recited the rules for black outs during the Blitz.

He remembered taking a test on the rolling black outs and the Blitz in primary school, but he was fairly sure he hadn’t done very well. He knew he’d asked Aunt Petunia about it, but he could only remember how her dull gray hair had been coated in dust as she led Harry and Dudley out of their rooms toward a safer location.

Harry hadn’t had a room when he was that young though, he’d slept in the cupboard.

Uncle Vernon had been similarly unhelpful. He disliked learning about history, though he didn’t mind short documentaries on the aeroplanes and tactics used during the war, but he didn’t go looking for them either.

The only time he seemed to enjoy them was when he felt Harry needed a reminder of how much more comfortable Privet Drive was compared to sleeping at a military base.

Harry hadn’t been drafted, he was too young. There wasn’t a war going on either, at least not a muggle one. Harry couldn’t have been drafted.

It was 1995.

He tried to slowly inhale and catch the inconsistencies.

The strange differences were Tom’s. What didn’t belong to Harry must’ve belonged to Tom. Harry could easily remember how Tom begged his headmaster to allow him to stay at Hogwarts during the war, and he remembered Tom discussing his orphanage as well, which must’ve housed the elderly woman with grey hair.

Tom hadn’t been drafted because he was too young.

He’d been through the Blitz though, and Harry could see how terrified he’d been, but only for himself. He hadn’t felt an ounce of compassion toward any of the people. He hadn’t spared a single kind thought for them. The fear Harry’d felt upon seeing the lifeless people stemmed from a deep fear of his own death, and how little he’d accomplished at that time. The muggles didn’t grasp the greatness of who walked among them, nor how much more worthy of their attention Tom was.

He wasn’t worthy of their attention. He was a psychotic mass-murderer.

Harry’s scar flared at that thought. It settled into a low, prickling ache and only seemed to grow more dull as time went on. The whorl of memories and thoughts slowed with it, leaving Harry forcing his sticky, sore eyes open in order to see what was going on.

The room tilted to the left for a brief moment before slowly rocking back to the right.

An odd trail of light raced over Snape’s shoulder, and Harry idly watched as it ran down Snape’s chest and toward the floor before bolting up the opposite side. It didn’t look harmful, whatever it was.

The room tilted left again and Harry belatedly realized Snape was slowly rocking.

He was whispering something as well. A long string of complicated Latin, which Harry picked apart to mean something along the lines of protection, or shield, or maybe guard.

Hermione would probably have been better at guessing it. She’d found a spell to help Harry with his ribbons earlier. He’d forgotten about it in between Umbridge’s meeting and Tom’s memories.

A faint thrill of excitement trickled through him after realizing he hadn’t had a murderous thought in the last few seconds.

He leant away and blinked lazily around the room. The chaos swarming his thoughts hadn’t touched the sitting room, which made sense, seeing as it was all in Harry’s mind, but he somehow still expected for it to have leaked from him and wreaked havoc on the peaceful room.

Snape’s rhythmic chant stopped, dropping them into an uncomfortable silence.

“I think it’s gone.” Harry said with a whisper. “But I don’t think—” His train of thought dissipated into thin air as he considered how Snape might react if Harry told him about how he felt.

Harry didn’t often disagree with Snape, at least not after August.

He didn’t believe clearing his mind made Tom go away though, because he hadn’t cleared his mind. In fact, he was more inclined to believe the little light trailing over them had something to do with it.

He couldn’t be sure, however, as he didn’t know how long it’d been around for.

He wished Snape had tried to interact with Tom. Although, it was Tom, so Harry could easily understand why Snape had firmly said ‘no’, but in that same vein, it wasn’t Voldemort who’d been sharing his feelings.

It was Voldemort as well. Tom and Voldemort were one person.

“What if he knows you’re helping me now?”

Snape’s pale face drained to a grey colour. “If he knew, he’d be quite up front about it.” He said before gesturing to the dark mark hiding beneath his sleeve. “I believe I’d be well aware of his displeasure.”

“What if he knows and is hiding it?” Harry asked.

“My knowledge of his inner circle and plans, and Albus’s knowledge of his past and methods would make me a poor person to leave alive, Harry.” Snape said in a soft, careful voice.

“Not if he thought he could use you.” Harry said as a throb pulsed from his scar.

Snape shook his head. “There are no uses worth what I may tell.”

Harry disagreed once more, though his scar didn’t react this time. He couldn’t help imagining Voldemort’s overinflated narcissism allowing for Snape to share his secrets, seeing as he could easily turn the situation around to make Snape look wrong.

However, Snape still knew secrets concerning upcoming plans.

Voldemort might just as easily have lied about those plans though.

“I wish you’d talked with him.” Harry finally said. He tried to reach upwards to rub his forehead, but found his arms trapped by Ms Eileen’s knit cover. “We might’ve learned what was going on.”

“Or we might’ve opened you up to more attacks.” Snape said slowly. “We might’ve opened Hogwarts up to be attacked. We might’ve alerted the Dark Lord to your awareness of what this is—”

“What is it?” Harry asked as he fussed with the knit cover. His scar prickled again, but settled quickly.

Snape slowly blinked as his lips thinned and displeasure flashed across his face. “I don’t know.”

“Neither do I!” Harry snapped. “Don’t you think I should be allowed to question myself?”

“You wouldn’t be questioning yourself—”

“It’s coming from my head!” Harry said as he tried again to shove at Ms Eileen’s cover. “What if it’s him trying to break through my thoughts?!”

“He would need direct eye contact to do that.” Snape said in a carefully calm voice. He pulled at the blanket, loosening it enough for Harry to pull free. “Anything else would be long distance and the potency of it would be incredibly subdued, due to that distance.”

“Well he succeeded, distance or not.” Harry said. He shivered and debated tugging the blanket over himself once more, but he didn’t fancy being stuck beneath it.

He wanted to leave.

He didn’t want to be in Snape’s chambers, or Hogwarts, or anywhere Voldemort might be able to reach him.

The urge to scream built through him once more, both at every horrible thing that’d happened lately and at Snape’s calm reaction to it. He didn’t want Snape to be angry with him, but he also wanted something other than calm acceptance.

Harry felt as if his head had been tossed into a blender and mashed together with Tom Riddle’s. It wasn’t as if Tom was a sound or logical person either!

“Harry—”

“You could’ve at least tried to talk with it!” Harry said as he awkwardly climbed down from Snape’s lap. “You’ve done it before!” He sniffled.

“I’m not entertaining that line of thinking.” Snape said as a firm line creased his forehead. His dark eyes sharpened and Harry saw a spark of something almost reproachful. “I think it would be dangerous for you to try as well and I don’t want you interacting with it.”

“It’s my head!” Harry said, barely resisting the urge to shout. “How can I not talk with it!?”

“Please Harry, clearing your mind and focusing on your own thoughts is all—”

“It doesn’t work!” Harry snapped. “I can’t clear my head when it’s full of smoke and dead people!” He twisted on his heel and shuddered as his scar flared.

“Harry!”

Harry bolted from the sitting room, tripping on uncoordinated feet as he aimed for Snape’s bedroom. The thought of staying out in the sitting room made him feel as if bugs were crawling over his skin. He didn’t want to deal with this anymore.

He couldn’t deal with anything anymore.

He slid into the bedroom and slammed the door shut before throwing himself against it. Everything on him ached in a heavy, uncomfortable way. Harry couldn’t tell if he’d lost time like he had at Grimmauld Place or if he’d actually fallen into a mess of thoughts that weren’t entirely his own.

Harry twisted around and froze as he caught sight of the closet. It was larger than his cupboard in Privet Drive, he could see that from where he leant against the door.

The cupboard in Privet Drive had never made Harry feel better though, neither had the closet in Grimmauld Place.

Soft footsteps echoed from the short hallway, but stopped short before opening the door.

Harry blinked through his anger and realized, with a growing sense of horror that he’d screamed and slammed the door in Snape’s chambers.

He’d shouted in Snape’s face and ran away.

Screaming, running, and slamming doors was something Dudley did.

He shivered and swallowed heavily.

Snape might hate him.

Ron’s voice whispered in his ears and reminded him of how easily Snape could abandon him back on the Dursley’s front porch.

He wanted to run out and scream an apology. He could tidy the house or organize things just the way Aunt Petunia liked. Snape wasn’t Aunt Petunia though and Harry couldn’t attribute things she approved of to things Snape would approve of.

The necklace hummed, warming solidly against his chest, but it didn’t help.

He wanted to cry.

He wasn’t sure how to make things better, or if he even wanted to make them better at the moment. He wanted for Snape to have talked with the Tom in Harry’s head, that way, they’d might have learnt if he was the same Tom who’d been reborn last spring.

Snape had made a good point, but Harry felt he didn’t understand how difficult it was to endure out Tom’s emotions.

There was no doubt the experience was horrifying, and in hindsight, Harry could easily see how distinct Tom’s emotions were from his own, but it hadn’t been so simple at the time. Snape seemed to understand that, but he hadn’t considered Harry’s idea.

He’s always considered Harry’s ideas.

Now he might be considering how quickly to get rid of him.

The crack in Harry’s soul split open, though he tried to ignore it. He’d brought this on himself and no amount of begging or pleading would change Snape’s mind. Aunt Petunia had drilled that into Harry ages ago.

He coughed around his clogged throat and tried to breathe before realizing he’d begun to sob.

He’d ruined everything over one argument.

A shiver broke over him again and he wished he’d just stayed near Snape. He wished he had something warm to bundle into and as he wished he hadn’t been stuck in his school uniform.

He curled into himself against the door and tucked his face into his knees.

Snape should’ve come into his room by now, and he would have to kick Harry out sooner or later.

Bitterness washed over him when he realized that Snape was likely waiting to give Harry the antidote and return him to his proper age. Snape likely wouldn’t want to continue their after lessons meetings, no matter how much Harry had looked forward to them, and Harry wasn’t sure how their trade would work going forward.

Maybe he’d sneak down to Snape’s office at odd hours and beg for help.

He sniffled again and tried to keep quiet.

No one liked to hear children crying. Aunt Petunia had drilled that lesson into Harry as well.

——

It felt as if he’d sat, curled against Snape’s bedroom door for hours. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard Snape’s footsteps leave, though he’d struggled to hear anything after he’d begun to cry.

He rubbed his eyes and tried to find a clock. It was too dark to see in the room, but Harry couldn’t bear to disrupt the silence with anything.

Old worries launched through his thoughts, pushing him to notice what floorboards seemed noisy and how best to sneak around Snape’s bedroom. The only method he really had to tell time at the moment was the window in the corner of the room.

Wispy moonlight drifted through the window, but was too faint to to reach the floor or truly brighten the room.

He sniffled and tried to scratch the itchy tear stains from his cheeks.

It wasn’t fair for Harry to stay in Snape’s bedroom. He should apologize, and face the consequences of what he’d done. Prolonging it was only adding to his nervousness. He wasn’t sure about what he should do

His fingers wound into the hem of his shirt and he tried to summon an ounce of courage. The peace in the dark bedroom wouldn’t last forever.

Harry reached up and twisted the antique knob open before pulling the door open a smidge.

All the lights were still on.

A shudder rattled over Harry, but he shoved it down and tip toed out of the bedroom. Snape must’ve left at some point, because he wasn’t in the hallway. The cabinets from the kitchenette blanketed the hallway with a dark shadow, and Harry took a short moment to try and search for where Snape might be.

He thought Snape would’ve returned to his desk.

He slipped past the kitchenette as quietly as he could before jerking backwards as he caught sight of Snape’s feet draped over the arm of his sofa.

He worried suddenly if it was truly too late to be awake. Snape should’ve been at his desk, leaving scathing notes on essays rather than laying on the sofa. Harry tossed a look at the stack of unmarked homework on the desk and struggled to imagine Snape having ignored it during Harry’s episode. The stack didn’t look as if it’d shrunk since he’d last seen it though.

Maybe he’d marked everything and just replaced the marked work with a new stack before deciding if it was too late to continue?

Why hadn’t he transfigured the sofa into a bed then, like he’d done in his mum’s flat and Ms Eileen’s house?

Harry took great care in his steps as he maneuvered himself closer to the kitchenette. He made it to the small corner near the desk before he finally had a full view of the sitting room.

Snape looked as miserable as Harry felt. Both of his arms were stretched out and lay crossed over his eyes as if he were asleep, which made Harry wonder if he might be able to sneak past him before he remembered he still needed the antidote. Stark lines deepened near his mouth in a bitter, resentful expression and his long fingers were knotted into his hair.

That only made Harry feel worse. He didn’t fancy waking him up if he were asleep.

Snape didn’t deserve to sleep on the sofa, especially not when he looked this upset and his bed went unused. It was a very comfortable bed as well, though Harry chased that thought away with a quick reminder to himself about where he now stood with Snape.

How would Harry go about waking Snape up without angering him?

Should he even try to wake him up? In August, he’d normally just run into Ms Eileen’s sitting room and gently shake him awake, if he’d ever stayed asleep for longer than Harry. Snape often slept too lightly to even need someone to wake him up though.

Maybe he was awake now?

Harry crept closer, keeping his footsteps light, though he wondered if he should just return to Snape’s bedroom.

Snape sniffed and one of his arms dropped to land on his stomach. Harry jerked to a stop as one of Snape’s eyes slipped open and began slowly tracking over the furniture before landing on Harry.

Harry’s fingers tightened into the hem of his shirt as Snape blinked twice at him. An almost nervous look flashed across his eyes too quickly for Harry to name before he sat up.

It sat oddly in Snape, and Harry was unsure of why he’d be nervous, given how Harry had been the one to shout and slam the door.

Neither seemed willing to break the tense, heavy silence either, despite how desperately Harry wished one of them would. He wasn’t sure how to begin apologizing, as he’d never been successful at it with the Dursleys. They’d always hated him though, and Harry’d never had to guess where he stood.

Snape slowly climbed to his feet, making Harry trip backwards and bounce off of the desk after having backed into it.

“How do you feel?” Snape asked after a long moment.

Harry half considered running back into the bedroom, as he didn’t want to think about how he felt anymore. He didn’t want anyone to wonder how he felt either. He’d never been great at dodging Snape’s questions either, nor was there much use in outright lying. Snape always saw through lies.

“I-I’m,” Harry stammered. ‘Awful’, was the correct way to explain how he felt. ‘Miserable’ could work as well, though it didn’t encapsulate the way everything on him ached and itched. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” He said instead. The urge to cry and beg Snape to not leave him with the Dursleys shot through him, but he stoutly ignored it. Begging had never helped with Aunt Petunia, nor did Harry think it would work with Snape.

Snape shook his head and slowly lowered himself down onto his knees. “I don’t appreciate being shouted at, but your apology is accepted.” He said as the nervous look Harry’d seen earlier flickered behind his eyes once more. “In the future—”

Harry shook his head furiously before blanching and wishing he’d just stayed still.

Snape paused. The distance between them screamed an added awkwardness, given how quietly they’d spoken.

“Will you let me help you clean up?” Snape asked.

Harry stared dumbly for a minute at the twist in conversation before looking over himself. He didn’t think he looked dreadful, a bit wrinkled and uncomfortable, but not as if he needed help.

“You scratched your forehead, quite a lot.” Snape said as he glanced toward Harry’s scar. “I imagine it hurts.”

“But,” Harry started as he traced a finger gently over the sore cuts. It did hurt, though Harry hadn’t realized it. “I thought you’d, erm,” He tried to force himself to explain how he felt. In Sirius’s family library, Snape had mentioned being unable to help Harry if he didn’t know what Harry needed help with. “I didn’t-I didn’t want you to get rid of me.” He choked.

Snape’s shoulders stooped as he leveraged himself to his feet with the help of the coffee table. “I promised to help you,” He said as he telegraphed his movement well ahead of time before stepping closer. “And I will always try.”

“But you didn’t promise to deal with stuff like-like this.” Harry said with a miserable wave at his forehead.

“But I did promise to help you.” Snape said in a soft voice. “And regardless of what the issue may be, I will still continue to do so.” He added as he leant down and held his hands out for Harry.

Harry blinked at his open palms and tried to reorganize his thoughts quickly, so he wouldn’t be repeating stupid thoughts and questions.

“Additionally,” Snape started as Harry let go of his hem and reached upwards. “I’m proud of you.”

Snape’s hands slipped beneath Harry’s arms and they made a short walk toward the bathroom.

“Though I wouldn’t appreciate a repeat of the volume from tonight’s argument, I’m glad you were able to comfortably express your anger.” Snape said as he settled Harry onto the countertop and found a washcloth. “At least for a short while.”

Harry flinched after spotting his reflection.

He hadn’t just scratched his forehead, he’d clawed at it. His scar stood out starkly against his skin and small droplets of blood dripped from the inflamed edges. His cheeks were stained over with tears, and the collar on his jumper was ragged from where he’d wiped his nose.

He looked far too much like he’d sobbed in Snape’s bedroom for hours, which, while true, wasn’t how he’d wanted to appear when he’d apologized.

His rough appearance only left him feeling more shocked that Snape still wanted to help him.

“Needing space to sort out your anger is normal, however,” Snape started as he ran the cloth under the sink before brushing it over Harry’s face and chasing away the uncomfortable stickiness his meltdown had left behind. “What do you think you could’ve done differently?”

Snape handed the cloth to Harry as he turned to search through the bathroom cupboard.

“Erm,” Harry sniffled and rubbed at his nose with the cloth. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what he should’ve done differently. He hadn’t wanted to stay in Snape’s sitting room, nor had he wanted to argue any longer. “Not shouted?” He asked.

Snape nodded. “That would’ve been a good decision.” He said as he unscrewed the lid on a small jar.

“But you kept saying you wouldn’t talk with him.”

Long fingers swept over Harry’s forehead as he dabbed an ointment over the cuts. “Regardless, do you think shouting would’ve encouraged me to talk with him?”

Harry blinked blankly as his thoughts made a slow, stupid circle around what Snape had said. before he shook his head ‘no’. “Probably not.”

“No, probably not.” Snape said as he set the small jar down.

“I don't want Dumbledore to try and talk with it.”

“I don’t want that either.” Snape said as he held his hand out for the cloth. “But I do not believe any good can come from interacting with the Dark Lord.”

Harry disagreed and shook his head ‘no’. “But you’ve done it before, and you know what he’s like, you know him really well.”

“No one knows him.” Snape said. “He creates who he wants others to see.” He added as he flicked his wand and dried Harry’s collar before collecting Harry once more. “To that end, I spoke with Mother this evening.”

Harry looked upwards and his heart plunged into his stomach at what Ms Eileen likely thought of his melt down.

“She went to school with the Dark Lord.” Snape said. “She’s agreed to sort through her memories of him at that time and to offer any help she can.”

“She did?!” Harry asked.

“She was several years below him, but they were both in Slytherin.” Snape said. “She may be able to offer us insight into the memories, and if they’re true or not.”

Harry nodded wildly. He hadn’t considered how anyone could’ve attended Hogwarts with Tom. It felt too much like a locked space that had been suspended in time.

“She also sent your stuffed dog through the floo and requested that you write to her soon, she misses you.” Snape said as he returned to the sitting room and plucked the stuffed animal up from where it’d been hiding near the fireplace.

“Oh.” Harry said as he tucked it close against his chest.

“She says the house is far too quiet now.”

Harry wondered if this was what children normally experienced after meltdowns. Harry rarely saw Aunt Petunia and Dudley apologize openly, and more often than not, Aunt Petunia just gave Dudley what he’d asked for. If she truly put her foot down, Dudley usually just screamed or hid until he’d calmed down and the two would move on.

A sour feeling spilled through Harry when he realized he’d acted similarly to Dudley by hiding, but Snape had also said that wasn’t a horrible reaction.

He supposed that even Dudley would have some reasonable coping methods.

“It’s now quite late, and I think you might be more tired than you realize.”

Harry blinked upwards and nodded as his head dropped onto Snape’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure he’d felt quite this exhausted in a while, though he knew he’d been overdue for some kind of outward reaction to every horrible event that’d happened in the last week.

Snape stepped quickly toward his bedroom and sent several warming charms over the bed before pulling out a pair of pyjamas for Harry. He disappeared while Harry changed but appeared shortly after and helped tuck him in.

Harry still worried about what would happen with Umbridge, but he decided to ignore her while he slept. He could bother with her in the morning. She knew Harry was aware of the gagging curse now, though she had no way of knowing that Snape, Sirius and Lupin knew as well.

The spell Hermione’d found earlier in the evening flashed through his thoughts and he looked upwards once more.

“In the morning, will you help me and Ron and Hermione with a spell to stop the ribbons?”

Snape nodded before brushing a finger slowly over Harry’s nose. “Starry sky at night.” He whispered as Harry’s eyes drifted shut. “Dog Star above.” He added before the stuffed animal appeared in Harry’s arms.