Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Shards	By : MeLi Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 5215 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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by MeLi ( meli @ ringspells.com )
Harry needs a distraction from the pain of Sirius' death.

WARNINGS: Thoughts of suicide, some cutting, discovery of breathplay, enjoyment
of pain. - OotP Spoilers

DISCLAIMER: None of the Harry Potter Characters belong to
me. They're J. K. Rowling's. I make no money off this.

Written for Brigantia, part of the Merry Smutmas Secret Santa exchange.

*-*-*

Harry Potter was tired.

He was tired of living in a house where nobody liked him. Tired of not being
told what was happening in the world. Tired of the hypocrisy of the people around
him, who treated him like a child while expecting him to act like an adult and
kill the Dark Lord. Tired of losing the people he cared about, of people dying
because of him. Tired of everything that came with being the Boy Who Lived.

Tired of being a boy who lived when he had no reason to.

He'd been close to remedying that, but several things had made him think twice.

His parents' sacrifice, knowing they'd died for him to live.

His friends, who would be upset if he did anything of the kind.

Dumbledore showing him that damn prophesy, telling him he was the only one
capable of destroying the man that terrorized the Wizarding World.

All things that had made him think twice, but now that he thought about it,
he realized none of them had been what actually stopped him.

Even if he didn't kill himself, he'd die eventually, so the first reason wasn't
strong enough.

His friends would mourn his death and move on.

He didn't owe the Wizarding World anything, so they could go find another hero
to save them.

No, none of this had been what stopped him. It had been his Slytherin side,
self preservation too much a part of him.

Funny how the very part of himself he'd been trying to suppress since he became
aware of his being a Wizard was what stopped him killing himself; how this trait
that would never be associated with the Boy Who Lived was what prevented him
from becoming the boy who died. He would have laughed if he hadn't been so depressed.

Sighing, Harry took from his pocket a shard of glass from Sirius' mirror. For
the thousandth time that summer, he thought how he never used the mirror when
he had the chance and considered the different use he could give it now. For
the thousandth time, he discarded that option.

Laying back on his bed, he picked up the letter that had started his musings
and read it again.
Dear Harry,

I am writing to inform you that a memorial service for Sirius Black will
be held at Hogwarts on Sunday 28 July. As you know, your Godfather is still
thought to be a traitor by the Ministry, therefore the service must be secret
as to not alert them of our mourning. Failure to achieve secrecy would ensure
the Ministry thinking we are in league with Voldemort, which we must avoid at
all costs now that they finally believe us of his return. I am certain you understand
that your friends cannot be invited, for a large crowd to gather at Hogwarts
during the summer holidays would be highly suspicious.

Arrangements have been made to bring you safely to Hogwarts on 27 July; a small
party of members of the Order will be arriving at your home at noon. You will
return to your relatives' on August the first. I know you would rather stay
at Hogwarts or at the Weasleys', but I am sure you understand why this is not
possible.

I would appreciate it if you informed your relatives of this in advance.

I trust you are well.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry snorted. I trust you are well. For a man that was thought to
know everything that was going on, Dumbledore certainly only saw what he wanted.

With a sigh, Harry got up, put the glass back in his pocket and went downstairs
to tell his Uncle about the plans.

*-*-*

It was Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt that escorted Harry to Hogwarts. They
arrived at 4 Privet Drive exactly at noon on 27 July and flew with him a prudent
distance away from Little Whinging. There it was safe to use an unauthorized
portkey – if the Ministry sensed it, they wouldn't associate it to Harry.
As Dumbledore had said in his letter, the Order didn't want to draw the Ministry's
attention towards Hogwarts, which would certainly happen if they thought Harry
Potter was going to the school.

A sudden, powerful jerk behind his navel, colours spinning around him, the
ground vanishing beneath his feet before abruptly reappearing, and Harry was
standing in the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
his Firebolt in his hand and the two Aurors beside him.

Albus Dumbledore was descending the main staircase when they appeared.

"Ah, good. I see everything has gone as planned," he said as he approached
the newcomers. "Hello, Harry. How are you doing?"

"I'm here to assist a funeral. Not just any funeral but thatthe the closest
thing I've ever had to a father. How do you think I'm doing?" Harry said
sharply. Dumbledore just smiled sadly at him.

"I'm sorry, Albus, but we need to go. Here are your things, Harry,"
said Kingsley as he handed Harry the bag in which the boy had put a few clothes
for the short time he'd be spending at Hogwarts.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry. Headmaster," Tonks said with a nod
right before she and Kingsley mounted their broomsticks and went out the open
front doors. It reminded Harry of the Weasley twins' famous departure. Had that
really been only a few months ago? It felt like a lifetime had passed.

"You'll be staying in Gryffindor Tower, Harry. The password is still Quidditch
King. I assume you are rather tired, portkeys tend to have that effect.
I'll be in my office if you want to talk," Dumbledore said, and he went
back up the stairs.

Harry was glad the Headmaster had left him alone. Being back at Hogwarts was
causing turmoil inside him and he needed time to think. He slowly made his way
to Gryffindor Tower.

*-*-*

Thinking wasn't such a good idea. It only made the idea of harming himself
more appealing. Emotional pain was easier to deal with if he could make it manifest
as physical pain. And all the scarlet in the room didn't help.

Frustrated, Harry started pacing the Common Room—which wasn't such a
good idea, either. He'd been sitting in the corner nearest the portrait entrance—the
furthest he managed to get into room—but now his steps brought him to
the fireplace, the thing he was avoiding the most. Because Sirius had appeared
more than once in that fireplace to talk to him, and knowing that would never
happen again... it hurt.

Harry looked down at his left hand when he felt a sharp sting in his palm.
The shard of glass from Sirius' mirror; without even realizing what he was doing,
he had got it out of his pocket and was holding it so tightly it had cut into
his skin.

The first cut. He'd finally cut, and it hadn't been intentional. The sight
and smell of his own blood was entrancing. It called to him. It made him want
to gash other parts of himself, parts that would provide more of the rich, burgundy
substance.

The pull was stronger than ever. Why not do it? It would be so easy...

But he couldn't. Not here. Not now. He wouldn't disrespect his Godfather's
memory.

Mustering all the self control he could, Harry wrapped a handkerchief around
his hand before getting his wand and spelling the glass clean. He then pushed
the hazardous thing to the bottom of his bag, willing temptation away.

*-*-*

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon flying. It was easier not to think when
he was on the air; he had other things to focus on. He concentrated on the broom
between his legs, firm and yielding at the same time; the wind rushing past
his ears, like a soft song intoned just for him; the ground, rapidly distancing
as he soared upwards only to approach even faster every time he dived.

And then there was the sky. The everlasting sky; something he could always
count on, which would always be there, never ending, for him to fly through.
It was something he could always be certain of; no matter what happened in his
life, no matter the changes and losses and threats, the sky would always be
there, inviting, welcoming; always safe in its vastness.

Up here it was easy to forget all that was hurting him. The pain dissipated
in the air or was left behind with the ground; he didn't care which. Here, he
was free of all ties, released from all expectations, liberated from all thoughts.

So Harry flew until dusk, when his tired body could take no more, and when
his feet touched the ground, his problems reclaimed his heart.

*-*-*

However hard he tried, Harry couldn't leave the piece of mirror behind when
he left Gryffindor Tower early the next day. He couldn't stand the idea of facing
his Godfather's funeral without the little comfort that having the thing in
his pocket gave him. That's how Harry found himself walking towards the Great
Hall of Hogwarts with his hand in his pocket, fidgeting with the cold, sharp
glass.

Entering the Great Hall was a shock. Harry didn't know what he had expected,
but the sight before him stopped him dead in his track just inside the doors.

The usual cheerfulness of the Great Hall was gone. So were the student tables,
in which place now lay lots of black cushions, and some kind of altar stood
where the head table used to be. A huge black standard hang above the altar,
the Black crest embroidered in gold right in the middle. A soft, ethereal music
could be heard in every corner of the room.

Dumbledore was sitting on one of the cushions, facing the altar, as were Lupin,
McGonagall and some other people Harry didn't recognize. It hit Harry then that
he knew nothing about what Wizarding traditions were when it came to memorial
services. Taking his hand out of his pocket, he approached Dumbledore as silently
as he could and sat down on the cushion next to him. Dumbledore turned to look
at him and smiled sadly.

"Hello, Harry. How are you doing?&q

That question again. The one Dumbledore already knew the answer to, but insisted
on asking anyway. Harry decided not to answer. Instead, he asked, "What
are we supposed to do? Pray?"

"No. Originally, funerals were meant to be sacrifice offerings to ensure
the soul of the lost one would rest in peace. Time broke that ritual and tradition
became gathering around the altar to show respect for the deceased and mark
their passing."

As Dumbledore explained, Harry saw one of the Wizards he didn't know get up
and leave, which prompted another question.

"How long are we supposed to stay? Should I leave soon?" Harry wished
the answer was yes. The ambience of the room was oppressing and Harry felt his
fingers twitch towards his pocket.

"That is up to you. There's no determined length of time to stay. Some
stay only for a few minutes, some spend the whole day. The respect you show
does not depend on how long you stay, but on the fact that you came. You stay
as long you feel right."

Harry looked back at the altar, and the standard above it. From this distance
he noticed something he hadn't seen from the door: there were words on the Black
crest. Toujours pur. He recalled seeing them on the tapestry with the Black
family tree at 12 Grimmauld Place. Always pure, Hermione had translated. Remembering
how Sirius' name had been erased from that tapestry, Harry felt anger rising
inside.

"Why did you hang a banner with the Black family crest on it?" he
asked Dumbledore accusingly but trying to keep his voice down.

"It's tradition," Dumbledore said, seeing the fury in Harry's eyes,
hoping the boy would understand.

"Tradition!" Harry's voice was gradually rising. "I don't care
about tradition! I wouldn't care if it was the bloody law! Sirius wouldn't
have liked—" he stopped short when he noticed a dark figure enter
the room. Snape. His anger swelled as he turned to his professor.

"What are you doing here?" he almost yelled. His hand was
grabbing at his pocket obsessively. "You never cared about him, you're
probably glad he's dead!"

"Harry, that's enough," Lupin said firmly before Snape could answer.
"Silencio!" he added when Harry opened his mouth to reply. "You
will come with me," Seizing Harry's arm, he dragged him out of the room
and into a chamber off the Entrance Hall.

"I will not let you disrespect my best friend's memory," Lupin said
after removing the silencing charm.

"I disrespect Sirius' memory?" Harry asked disbelievingly.
"What about Snape! He comes here—"

"Severus is not the one who started screaming the place off!" Lupin
cut him off.

"He never cared for Sirius!" Harry bellowed.

"However he felt about Sirius in life doesn't allow you to stop him from
coming to his funeral!" Lupin bawled back.

"But it does! It's his fault Sirius is dead!"

"It is not! When will you realize that it's not?!" Lupin's anger
was starting to peak.

"It is! If he hadn't stopped the Occlumency lessons, if he'd been faster
to contact Dumbledore after I talked to Kreacher, none of this would have happened!
Sirius would be alive! It's his fault!"

"If anyone's to blame, it's you!" the werewolf inside him roared.

Lupin's eyes widened when he realized what he had said. He saw the emotions
flicker in Harry's face, the shock and pain and realization and remembrance
and determination. He wanted to apologize, to correct himself, but Harry was
out of the room before he could open his mouth.

Lupin moved to the door, about to call Harry back, but was frozen in place
by Snape's angry glare. The man called him a thoughtless lunatic before chasing
after Harry, leaving Lupin standing immobile in the doorway.

*-*-*

Harry ran. He ran blindly, not caring where his feet took him. He ran out the
front doors and down the steps, across the grounds and towards the Forbidden
Forest. He ran along the edge of the forest until Hogwarts could no longer be
seen behind him; until the pain in his chest became too much and his legs gave
out.

Harry knelt on the grass near the forest, breathing hard. He raised a hand
to dry his cheeks from the tears he didn't remember shedding, the other retrieving
the shard of glass from his pocket. It wasn't just a piece of broken mirror.
It was a solution.

It was absolution.

Physical manifestation of emotional pain.

He couldn't deny himself anymore. He needed punishment. Not dying, no. Dying
wouldn't be enough. Dying would put an end to his pain and he didn't deserve
that--not after what Lupin had said, what he had just realized he himself believed.
The piece of glass wouldn't take his life. Only it would. It already had. It
was what had got him this far. If not the glass itself, then what it represented.

Why had Lupin said that? If Lupin had just kept it inside, Harry would still
be blaming Snape. It was easier to deal with than feeling the guilt inside.
By blaming Snape, Harry had got this far without cutting. Oh, he had felt the
need, the all consuming need, but he had been able to stop. Now...

Now he wouldn't stop. He had no reason to stop. He only needed to make sure
the cut wasn't lethal.

Taking a deep breath, Harry got to his feet and leaned against a tree. He would
only cut as long as he could stand. Slaying was not an option. If he felt the
need to sit, it would mean he was getting too close to dying, and it would be
time to stop.

He lifted his left sleeve and gazed at his bare arm. The skin in the inside
of his forearm was pale, smooth, vulnerable. Slowly, he raised his right hand
and pressed the sharp edge of the glass against his flesh. Slowly, he slid the
object across the fragile skin. Slowly, drawing out the moment. Slowly. Reverently.

He hissed as the glass cut through his skin--the sting was more intense than
he had expected. Immediately little droplets of blood surfaced, and Harry cut
again, hard, deep, opening the wound further. Blood was welling rapidly now,
his perfect skin marred by the thick red liquid. He watched, enthralled, as
the rivulets spread and drops fell to the ground. His forearm was throbbing
painfully. Beautifully.

Suddenly the sight of the blood wasn't enough--not even when added to the severe
pang he was feeling. He needed to see the wound itself, the source of both blood
and pain. He brought his arm to his lips and licked the cut clean, the iron-like
taste overwhelming his senses. This was what his blood tasted like. The taste
of his life and his pain and his torment and salvation. Quickly he took his
arm away to see the gash. The flesh around the cut, reddened and swollen, was
visible for a moment before blood veiled it again.

Harry lifted the glass to make a new cut but a hand around his wrist stopped
him. He looked up into the stern face of Severus Snape. The man raised his wand
and pointed it at Harry's wound, murmuring a spell that stopped the flow of
blood and tickled Harry's sensitized skin. He then addressed Harry in the calmest
tone Harry had ever heard him use.

"I want you to listen to me, and listen carefully. I do not know what
you think you are doing, but you will not, under any circumstances, play with
your life like this again. I do not care what that werewolf said; no fault lays
upon you for your godfather's death. You did not force him to go to the ministry,
nor was it you who cast the curse that caused him to fall through the veil.
You should not punish yourself for happenings that were beyond your control.
Do I make myself clear?"

Harry just stared at Snape, trying to understand how it was possible that the
man who was supposed to be his friend had practically accused him of murder,
and the man who was supposed to hate him was telling him it was not his fault--and
he was doing so after Harry had blamed him. He wasn't sure he believed
what Snape was telling him, but he knew the man wouldn't let him go unless he
acquiesced. Still, he couldn't bring himself to do so. Who did the man think
he was, telling him what he could and could not do?

After a long moment of neither saying a thing, he saw Snape's eyes narrow and
heard him mutter a short incantation.

"Do not forget what I have just said," Snape told him before releasing
his wrist and walking away.

Harry sagged back against the tree and plunged to the ground. He took a shaky
breath before looking back at his left arm. He placed the smeared glass back
in his pocket, took out the same handkerchief he'd used on his hand the day
before, and pressed it gently against the wound, cleaning away the sticky blood.
Once he had removed as much as he could, he rested his elbows on his bent knees
and dropped his head to his hands, sighing.

Harry hadn't known the man was following him when he ran out of the castle.
He hadn't even known Snape was listening when Lupin... If anyone's to blame,
it's you.

Trying to gather enough strength to walk, Harry put the hankie away and got
up, starting his journey back to the castle. His thoughts circled Snape's words
over and over again. What did the man care what he did with his body? It was
his body. If he wanted to damage it, he was free to do so. Hell, if he wanted
to mutilate it, then so be it. The man had no right to tell him what he could
and could not do. No right to tell him not to cut.

But that wasn't what Snape had said, was it? The message was different. Snape
hadn't stopped him before he started cutting. He'd waited. He'd let him cut.
Twice.

Don't play with your life. Not body; life. Cut if you will, just make sure
you understand what you're doing, why you're doing it. Not for punishment; you
did nothing that deserves punishment. For comfort.

Probably Snape hadn't meant it like this, but Harry could take his message
whichever way he wanted. Snape had spoken the words and Harry could interpret
them as he wished. And he wished them to mean he could cut as long as he didn't
overdo it. Cut to soothe. Cut to deal. Just don't cut to kill. Don't cut to
punish.

He understood it now. Snape's words had been rational where Lupin's had been
passionate. Logical steps. It's not your fault. Heated thoughts. You killed
him. Lupin was affected by his friend's death. Snape wasn't. He could detach
himself from the events. He was objective. Furthermore, Snape didn't like him,
and he wouldn't lie to him to make him feel better.

Harry repeated this in his mind, trying to convince himself it was true. It
wasn't his fault. He needn't punish himself. The task wasn't easy; Lupin's words
had struck a nerve. Thoughts he hadn't known he had, feelings he hadn't known
he possessed had been woken inside him and repressing them again seemed almost
impossible.

As he climbed the steps to the castle, he decided it didn't matter what he
believed. Whether he thought he was responsible for Sirius' death or not, the
outcome would be the same. He would cut again, because it was his way of dealing
with the pain. If he meant it as a punishment or not was irrelevant.

Pressing his hand against his right pocket, he hastened his pace, heading to
Gryffindor Tower. The Common Room would be deserted, like most of the castle
was this time of year, and would give him the feeling of security being outside
lacked.

Upon reaching his destination, Harry took out the glass again and spelled it
clean. Lying against a wall near the portrait entrance, he lifted his left sleeve
once more, ready to cut, but hesitated when a trickle of magic ran through his
body. He looked at the piece of mirror and shook his head.

The glass had almost made contact with his skin when Snape climbed through
the portrait hole and stormed up to him. Harry didn't have time to utter a word
before the man was grabbing him by the throat and pushing him harshly against
the wall. Unable to breathe, Harry looked helplessly at Snape's face. The black
eyes were blazing with fury.

"I think I made it pretty clear I will not have you doing this again,"
the man spat at him.

Harry didn't know what to do. He couldn't talk with Snape choking him. Even
if he could, he wouldn't know what to say. Stop choking me? No, he didn't really
want Snape to stop. The lack of air made him light-headed. The lack of control
was exhilarating. The whole situation was arousing.

His eyes widened as realization hit him. He was getting hard. For the first
time in the past month he was feeling something other than pain. Arousal was
seeping through his veins, overtaking his body and mind. He had found something
else to numb the constant ache in his heart.

The lack of air made his eyes roll back and he lowered his eyelids. Suddenly,
Snape released his throat and he took a deep breath. He felt the man's body
pressing him against the wall, heard him whisper in his ear.

"You see? There are other ways."

Harry opened his eyes as Snape's leg came between his, a strong thigh pushing
against his hardening prick.

"I know what you want, and I can give it to you; and I will give it to
you because it’s what I want, too."

He looked down when he felt Snape's nimble fingers pry the shard of glass away
from his hand, then looked back up to stare into Snape's intense gaze.

"You want to cut me."

It made sense in a strange sort of way. Snape didn't want Harry to cut himself
but he never said anything about Harry being cut by someone else. But Snape
shook his head.

"No." He let the glass fall to the floor, where it shattered. "I
want to own you."

The kiss was as brutal as it was brief. All too soon Snape pulled back to look
searchingly into Harry's eyes. When Harry got tired of waiting for Snape to
find whatever he was looking for, he leaned forward to capture Snape's lips
in another violent kiss at the same time he grabbed Snape's hand and brought
it back to his throat.

It was easy to lose himself in the kiss. Snape was kissing back with a force
that let Harry know he was being claimed. Snape's hand closed around Harry's
throat again, and strangely, Harry didn't want to fight. He didn't need to fight,
because this time, what he craved was not wrong; what he wanted and what was
wanted from him were, for once, the same thing.

Unable to inhale, there was an unnatural stillness to Harry's mouth even as
it worked frantically against Snape's. His hands rose to the professor's robes
and tried to undo the uncountable buttons with a clumsiness born of the lack
of air as well as the arousal.

Harry was about to faint when Snape finally released his throat. He tore his
mouth away from his professor's, taking deep gulps of air. He rested his head
against the hard stone wall, waiting for the sparks dancing before his eyes
to vanish, and stayed like that for a while, leaning against the wall, breathing
hard, hands fisted in Snape's partly opened robes. The long fingers that had
been choking him a minute before were now working on the fastenings of his robes,
eager to divest him, fervent to get to the skin underneath.

When his brain received enough oxygen to start functioning properly again,
Harry grabbed Snape's head and roughly brought their mouths back together. He
didn't want to think, he just wanted to do as he felt and go where things took
him, no premeditation whatsoever. As his tongue invaded Snape's mouth, his hands
resumed the task of getting the man's robes open and off as soon as possible.

And then both their robes were off, and Harry's shirt was lifted over his head,
and he was pressed to the wall again but this time he could feel the warm skin
on Snape's chest against his own in contrast to the cold wall against his back
and it was nice. So nice. Nothing was nice lately, and it was weird
to describe what they were doing as nice, but that's what it was, that's
how it felt, and he was thinking too much again, and he wasn't because Snape's
hand was in his trousers, touching and stroking and so good.

It took a moment for Harry to realize that he probably should be touching Snape
too, give as good as you get and all that, and by the time he thought of doing
so Snape had already got rid of their clothes -- how he managed that without
a pause in his stroking was beyond Harry, but he suspected a charm was involved.
He took a minute to look at the man in front of him. Pale skin all over, just
as sallow as his face; bony frame, forearms the most muscular part of his body
due to the long hours spent stirring potions; hair greasy as always. No way
to get further from conventional attractiveness, yet Harry's hard on did not
diminish one bit. If only, Snape's looks only made him more real somehow, and
that was what Harry needed.

Snape turned Harry over then, leaving him facing the wall. Harry's legs were
nudged apart and the hand that had been stroking him was now caressing his balls
and further up, rubbing against his entrance, cool and slick --what had Snape
done, spit on them?-- fingers breaching him. Harry stopped counting when the
third digit entered him, focusing instead on the feeling they generated inside
of him, whimpering every time the brushed just. that. spot. So good. Almost
too good.

He never knew he could feel like this, so turned on that nothing in the world
mattered besides his body and the man behind him and please, don't let the pleasure
stop, never stop. But those fingers were retreating, leaving him empty and desperate
and he wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, it wasn't fair, Snape couldn't take
those amazing fingers away, not yet -- oh. All right, so removing the fingers
was a good idea if it meant Snape's cock would be able to get in, Harry was
willing to concede that. But it wasn't getting in -- why wasn't it getting in?
Why was Snape just standing still, breathing raggedly near Harry's ear, his
cock just barely rubbing against Harry's relaxed opening?

"In," Harry whispered between pants, pushing against the wall with
his palms, trying to get Snape in, damnit. But Snape's grip on his
hips was strong, and he couldn't move. "In, now, in!"

"It will hurt," was all Snape said, but Harry didn't care, not now,
when the need was so great it was almost overwhelming, and Snape was still.
not. moving.

Suddenly Snape thrust forward as his hands pulled Harry backwards, and it was
true, it did hurt, it burned, but it was a good burn, wonderful, and he felt
full and complete in more ways than he could understand. It was like flying,
and as it happened when he was flying, worries had no room in his mind. Except
here he was on the ground, and he never felt like this on the ground, not even
when cutting, and it was strange and it was scary and it was incredible.

And then, before H had had time to adjust to the intrusion, Snape was moving
inside him, erratically rocking back and forth, hitting that blissful spot every
few thrusts and it was perfect, the burn and the stretch and the fullness, and
Snape was reaching around him now, stroking him in the same uneven rhythm with
which his hips slapped Harry's arse, stroking harshly, stroking beautifully.
Perfect.

It wasn't long before Harry was coming, coming harder than he ever had, and
soon Snape was coming too, coming with him, coming in him, and the
sensations were too much, too much, and the world blackened around Harry as
his orgasm receded.

Harry was lying on the couch when he came to, partly covered with his robe.
Looking up, he saw Snape already dressed and lacing up his boots. He didn't
know what to say. He cleared his throat, letting Snape know consciousness had
reclaimed him, but stayed silent otherwise.

Snape moved towards the couch and kneeled in front of Harry. He placed a finger
below Harry's chin and lifted his face, gently, so gently that it contrasted
terribly with his previous actions -- with all his actions, actually.

"Look at me," he said when Harry kept his eyes down. He stayed like
that for a while, gaze locked with Harry's, as if he could see all of Harry's
thoughts written in his eyes. After a moment his expression changed, though
it was such a minimal change Harry thought maybe he had imagined it, and he
said, "You'll live."

It was just a comment made in a voice that carried no particular force behind
it, yet Harry heard the warning behind it. And Harry knew that he would. As
long as he had this, as long as Snape kept him flying grounded, he would.

End

*-*-*
- 1
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