Poisonous Miracles by Flooney

"Harry," a soothing voice whispered in the side of his ear, warmth quivering up the back of his spine along with a tingle of uncertainty. It was familiar enough for him to decipher who it was. He cracked his eyes open and squinted them into narrow slits, comprehension not quite getting to him just yet. Barely able to make out what appeared to be a wavering white blob moving about in front of him, he ripped out a wild yawn and sighed blearily.

It was Madam Pomfrey, eagerly awaiting his awakening next to his bedside. And although he had to strain his ears to hear them, there were two other voices indistinctly chatting behind her. His hearing felt vague and blocked, but when he swallowed, they popped. It was then that he could hear them properly.

"The Headmaster would like to speak with you, Harry," she told him softly, turning her side to him for a second while she outstretched her hand to grab a hold of his glasses that were more-or-less resting on the small side table next to the bed. "Time to wake up, just for a little while though. You'll have to take your potions after, all right?" Patting his shoulder gently, Pomfrey gave him one of her rare smiles. "Then you can go back to sleep."

Harry suppressed a croaky groan in the back of his throat, swallowing heavily as sweat beaded across his forehead. He was in no mood whatsoever to go through an entire explanation of what went down in the Chamber of Secrets, at all. But then, he supposed, it would be better to get it over and done with so he wouldn't have to do it at a later date.

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore's voice sounded almost benign to his ears, soothing and oddly relaxing. Harry didn't even bother to question it anymore, he reckoned that the Headmaster simply had that effect on the people around him. It didn't make sense, true, but then again; this was the wizarding world. Practically nothing made sense anymore. He found himself unwillingly recalling Snape's short speech when he was addressing one of the Gryffindors in class one day, almost releasing a chuckle of amusement at the memory.

"The logic of the wizarding world is held together by duct tape and begins to unravel at the slightest bit of scrutiny."

That time, he did chuckle — though it sounded a lot more of a blown raspberry than a laugh. Apparently, it was loud enough to attract the attention of the three lingering adults that had now fully entered his small private cubicle. It was Dumbledore who he locked eyes with, an odd warmth enveloping him whole as he stared right back into those glittering cerulean eyes. He was still grinning weakly after his chuckles died down, but it was swept off of his face when the all-too-familiar telltale throb of his arm took over and was substituted with a wince.

His hand flew to the side of his right arm quickly, which only proved to deepen his grimace further. Poppy was the first to snappishly pull his hand away from the opening wound, a scowl — that was more directed towards his injury than at Harry — painted firmly over her face. He tried to shake her off, jerking his moderately mended arm around in the air frantically.

If he could just get her to— she tried to make a grab for his right arm again, a soaring pain stinging through his veins indicating the brush of her hands over the wound. If she could just— just stop. Stop. Stop!

"Stop! Go away, stop- stop touching— stop touching it!" He heaved laboriously, pushing himself closer towards the bedside that didn't have a meddling nurse bustling about. She was protesting, his ears could pick up that much, but he didn't care. Perspiration was soaking his face by now, and frankly, he just wanted to get some damn rest.

Professor Snape was still present within the vicinity, Harry noticed dully. He was standing just outside of his peripheral vision in the corner with Dumbledore, his darkened form sweeping up to his side with long and elegant strides. At first, Harry began to shuffle away from the Potions Master, preferring to deal with the vexatious nurse than the teacher that hated him. Even if they did have a somewhat civil conversation earlier with him (though Harry was still half asleep through it), he didn't dare to think that that resolved anything, let alone the bad blood between them.

“Mr Potter,” Severus drawled softly. “I highly recommend you to cease your incessant whining if you know what is good for you. Madam Pomfrey is not trying to attack you for heaven’s sake; she is trying to help you.” He raised an arm to grasp the boy’s shoulder gently, “Now if you could just—”

“GET OFF OF ME!” Harry made a move to jerk the hand on his shoulder off violently, which proved fatal in terms of remaining on the bed. The sheets beneath him were slipping away as they wrinkled, the bed creaking vehemently at the violent and abrupt movements. And before he knew what was even happening anymore, other than the distant sensation of falling, he felt a mellow pair of arms wrapping around his body. An arm was slithered around the back of his shoulder blades, with the other coasting below his calf and thigh in between.

Dumbledore was hurrying to Snape’s side, his eyes brimming with concern as he steadied his hands around the abnormally light child, not quite touching him but close enough to catch him if he were to somehow slip from Snape’s grasp. There was a small proportion of Harry that thought that Dumbledore was too disgusted to even touch him, afraid that he might be contagious. And that hurt. But he knew that he was wrong, or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself. After all, the man had come to visit him; that had to account for something, right?

Or maybe he just came for an explanation, a sour voice piped up. Maybe he doesn’t care- hell, he might have just come to keep up his appearances. Make sure his little Golden Boy wasn’t going to die, make sure his pawn-

“Harry?” Dumbledore said softly, his voice so distraught that Harry couldn’t help but sniffle quietly. He looked up from where his head was now being cradled, purposely ignoring the fact that his entire body was trembling by now, staring up into those beseeching eyes of the Headmaster. Just by looking, seeing, with his own two eyes, he saw everything that he had desired when he was younger — that he still coveted for even now.

Genuine solicitude.

And it took all he had not to break down right then and there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered modestly, wanting desperately to simply curl up into an indestructible ball in the warmth of the arms that held him. They were firm in keeping him close to the professor’s chest, he noticed detachedly, a small voice in the back of his head screaming for him to put as much distance between him and Snape. Instead, however, he decided for once to side with the other voice, the more comprehensive one.

You. Are. Safe.

Albus was, as anyone would expect; worried. Terrifyingly so. He had taken heed of the thorough explanations of Ronald and Ginny Weasley, seeing as they were upon the first two to have awakened from their unconscious states in the chambers below. The details were, in all matters, gruesome to say the least. When they had heard that Harry was still recovering in one of the hospital beds, it was Ron who had tried to run up to his bedside before ramming straight into Poppy.

Eventually, after a firm holding of the distressed Weasley that was nearly in hysterics for thinking his friend was dead, the witch was able to usher the redhead back to his bed with his sister. Of course, that didn’t stop him from popping up near Harry’s bed every night.

As for Severus, Albus contemplated pensively with a small smile, he seemed ambivalent. He knew that the dour man probably had his mind reeling at the seams at having ‘the Potter brat’ in such close quarters with his person. His countenance was blank, but his eyes were flooded with conflicting emotions. They narrowed and twitched as they stared at the quivering boy he was still holding in his arms, a twinge of something foreign finding its way through his mental barriers.

“Severus,” Albus planted a hand on the man’s shoulder, effectively cutting him away from his ruminations. His head snapped in the direction of the Headmaster, eyeing him up warily before looking away to the boy again. He opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut, thinking better of it.

Severus gave a small and involuntarily gentle nudge, “Harry.” The name rolled off the tip of his tongue and he contrived to hold himself from blurting Potter out at the end, cutting off the initial habit. He spared a side-glance towards Albus and nearly scowled at the look he was given. His eyes had that particular sparkle in them again, a disgustingly optimistic one, something he absolutely loathed.

And Albus did indeed know that full well.

Senile old man.

As for the boy who was now in a much more relaxed and quiescent state, the trembling having been subsided while enveloped in the warmth Severus’ cloaks offered, he was now curiously looking up at the Headmaster who was waving the flustering nurse to her office with the promise of going to fetch her as soon as they were done or if she was needed.

With a gentle smile gracing his features, Dumbledore turned back towards Harry, eyes still sparkling with reassurance. “Harry,” he spoke softly. “Dear boy, I believe that I- no, we, as the school, owe you our sincere gratitude for ridding us of the unfortunate calamity of the Chamber of Secrets.”

That seemed to have aroused a little more tension in the boy, Albus noticed with a barely concealed pained look. Basing off of the thorough explanations of Ronald and Ginny Weasley, he could only imagine the kind of trauma the boy before him had suffered through. He was only thankful that it didn’t have to be passed on to the others, though, the Weasley boy had bared witness to the carcass of the mighty basilisk when the search party was launched. Which was the precise moment he fainted into oblivion.

Harry’s grip on his professor’s robes tightened considerably at the mention of the chambers, knuckles turning a pale white as a vague memory was pelted through his vision, eyes glazing over. Long, slender fingers adjusted their position behind the back of his head, softly kneading through the tangled strands of hair. It was then that his grasp slowly began to uncurl, the slightest dose of colour returning to his pallid cheeks and eyes. He didn’t even realise the tears that had been running down the sides of his face, only knowing that his sight was blurry.

“I am sorry, Harry,” Dumbledore continued, the brim of his eyes turning watery as he steadied himself to remain composed. It was proving more challenging than he had incipiently thought. Snape’s thoughtful gaze never left the boy’s body, a myriad of ruminations of his own whirling in the core of his obsidian eyes. “So, so sorry,” he took two long paces forth and crumpled to his knees beside the two of them, weakly reaching out and taking Harry’s debilitated hand into his own.

There wasn’t much else to say then, and they allowed the silence to take over willingly, each of the three caught up with their most present considerations. However, the mental activity appeared to have taken too long because it was then that Madam Pomfrey decided to grace them with her eager presence.

“I do believe that you have burdened my patient long enough,” she announced sharply, though her expression softened when she noticed the fragile boy laying limply in the arms of the supposed man thought to be incapable of concern and all sense of tenderness. She had her arms crossed over each other on her chest, her frown still firmly in place before mellowing into a thin line that twitched suspiciously upwards when the Potions Master turned to look at her.

Dumbledore was the first to reply, tentatively pulling himself off of the hospital floor with the unsettling creaks and snaps of his bones cracking back into place. “I am afraid that you are indeed correct, Poppy. We have... overused our stay,” he said, voice cracking slightly with a croak as he covered his mouth with the palm of his hand, running it down to stroke his bed absent-mindedly. He turned to look at Harry again, lips straightening into a firm line as he refrained himself from instinctively reaching out to the boy again.

“Severus,” he approached the unusually detached ex-Death Eater slowly, slinking an elderly hand around his shoulder to prompt him up. Harry’s eyelids were drooping to the point where he was probably already asleep, his hands still holding onto his professor’s robes like they were a lifeline.

And initially, for a bleak moment, Albus felt that they were.

The man in question broke his gaze away from the dozing boy he held in his arms, his posture straightening rigidly that Albus feared that he might have popped a few bones. His face was impassive, dormant almost, but he nodded, all the same, to show that he understood the unsaid request. It was a quaint sight to witness, really. For a man of his particular reputation, he was especially considerate with the boy; a student he quite frequently claimed to have no care or concern about. Of course, he never claimed that he personally loathed the boy — not directly at least.

With the second-year tucked in (Poppy very nearly gaped at the unexpected action) within the warm folds of the sheets, Severus drew himself to his full height and took a moment to stare down at the small child. There was no animosity in his eyes, there was no scowl, no glower, no indignant demeanour— just a silent, contemplating look. When Harry began to stir, that was when he chose to look away, locking eyes with Albus before smoothly sweeping them to look over his shoulder at the wall blankly as he strode to his side.

“Pr’fessor Dumbledore,” Harry croaked abruptly, the current occupants of the room all turning their attention back to him at once. Snape turned around but was intently studying the opposing wall with sudden great interest, showing that he was listening to the conversation at hand, but deliberately avoiding eye contact with the boy speaking. He had broken character one too many times already.

Distance yourself, Severus, Snape reminded himself.

“Yes, Harry?” Albus asked softly, taking a step closer towards the bedside.

“Do I have to go back to the Dursleys?” His enquiry was desperate and filled with dread, and Albus took in every little detail of his expression. Harry’s eyes had promptly snapped open when a disconcerting realisation settled into the back of his mind, trepidation and even fear ingrained in them. He was biting his lip rather harshly as well, hard enough to maybe draw blood if he kept it up.

The rest of the students had already packed, including the Weasley’s and Granger girl. They would be leaving on the Hogwarts Express through Hogsmeade and back to London tomorrow, and Harry very well wasn’t capable of moving up from his bed, let alone the Hospital Wing with his present injuries. It would most likely take at least a week as the bare minimum for him to be able to perambulate the castle again, maybe longer. The venom was working its way through his body, and even Fawkes couldn’t completely heal the wound on the boy’s right arm; which was ultimately unheard of. Poppy had told Albus something of Harry having a weak immune system when they were discussing his wounds in her office on the night of the attack and rescue, which was worrying in itself. To add to that, he had to find a place for the boy to stay for the summer holidays.

Albus opened his mouth, allowing it to hang open for a few reflective seconds before speaking. “That is… hm,” he furrowed his brows, looking away to the ground and thought to himself. This is the second time he’s asked that, Albus noted grimly, recalling the boy’s earlier request last year to remain back at Hogwarts for the summer holidays. “There have been certain… ah, issues that have arisen in regards to your relatives. Nothing to worry about though," he added quickly. "However, I have a question of my own to ask of you; do you wish to return to your relatives?” He tried to be careful around his words, picking them out gingerly. If he did this correctly, he may be able to uncover something. And what was it that he was expecting to uncover? He didn’t know- he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to know, but it was what he needed to know.

Harry shook his head violently, a spark of something nearly foreign rekindling in his heart— hope. It was a hopeless and desperate kind of hope, for sure, but it was there.

"No," he all but whispered, his voice rasped with urgency, uncaring of how childish he was acting. Snape’s gaze flicked down towards the twelve-year-old, a calculating look on his face with his eyes swirling with emotions he didn’t even know he still had. "Please."

That was all that Albus needed to hear, and what was sure to follow was a proper investigation of just what it was exactly that frightened the child to his very core of the idea of returning to his relatives.

Clearly, Arabella hadn't been as observant as he'd had hoped. He could only hope that it wasn’t done on purpose, lest the matters become more complicated depending on the severity of the situation.

Albus spared a glance towards his trusted spy, noticing the slight furrow of his brow as his gaze had found itself back on Harry. To see the man showing this much emotion (as little as it may have appeared was) made him wonder if he was finally beginning to widen his perspective, maybe coming to see Harry for who he was instead of whose father sired him.

Time was a fickle thing, and yet it was the only thing that could determine the future. And he hoped dearly that it actually did its job right for once.

"All right," Albus conceded gently, in what he hoped appeared to be a placating gesture, as he realised that the child had begun to hyperventilate. "You will stay here, for the time being."

The fear that had stung his eyes diminished and converted into what could only be defined as genuine gratitude, a modest and timid smile splitting across his lips. The hope that had once been stinging in his chest had sprouted back in full force, his vigorous green eyes flushing with renewed life as well as a few splashes of colour returning to his pallor.

Albus felt a sharp pang of guilt that weighed itself on his shoulders. There were many possibilities that could have led to the boy changing so fast. What did they do to you, my boy?

"Thank— thank you," Harry breathed deeply, extracting a shuddering exhale through his nose. "Thank you…"

Severus shuffled uncomfortably at his side, a subtle and discreet nudge clandestinely pressing against the side of his robes. Albus threw a small gesture for him to wait a little longer, giving Poppy the same look as he neared closer towards the bed again.

"Harry, for your living arrangements during the summer—” Albus suppressed a disheartened look at the troubled frown that took over the boy’s face, almost as if he was anticipating the opportunity to stay at Hogwarts a while longer was about to be snatched away from him. Which was, but exchanged for a better option. “—I am willing to give you the alternative of attending a summer camp. No charge.”

At first, there was nothing but silence as Harry tried to process the information through his head. And finally, when it got through:

He beamed the widest smile he’d ever worn.