Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Endurance	By : WinterRaven Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 29171 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of Harry Potter universe. I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Four
- 5-Five
- 6-Six
- 7-Seven
- 8-Eight
- 9-Nine
- 10-Ten
- 11-Eleven
- 12-Twelve
- 13-Thirteen
- 14-Fourteen
- 15-Fifteen
- 16-Sixteen
- 17-Seventeen
- 18-Eighteen
- 19-Nineteen
- 20-Twenty
- 21-Twenty-One
- 22-Twenty-Two
- 23-Twenty-Three
- 24-Twenty-Four
- 25-Twenty-Five
- 26-Twenty-Six
- 27-Twenty-Seven
- 28-Twenty-Eight
- 29-Twenty-Nine
- 30-Thirty
- 31-Thirty-One
- 32-Thirty-Two
- 33-Thirty-Three
- 34-Thirty-Four
- 35-Thirty-Five
- 36-Thirty-Six
- 37-Thirty-Seven
- 38-Thirty-Eight
- 5
- 6
- 7
Author’s Note: I’d like to take a moment to thank everyone who has read my story. I’d also like to thank unneeded for the reviews and comments! Enjoy the chapter.

Six

A frying pan on the hot stove; the flick of a wand; the hissing sound of the teakettle as water boiled; bread warming in the oven. Snape bustled in his kitchen, moving quickly, quietly, intent on feeding his daughter as soon as possible. He flicked his wand again and a basket of raw eggs appeared on the countertop. He grabbed three and cracked the insides into the hot pan. They sizzled, crisping.

Snape waved his wand again when everything was done and the breakfast foods rushed neatly into a small container. He bottled the tea in a canister and left his living quarters, making his way back to the hospital wing.

He thought perhaps she was awake now, unaware of what was happening upstairs…

As he approached the doors to the wing, however, he heard the soft, muffled sounds of sobs. He froze. His hand was outstretched toward the doorknob. He pressed his ear to the wood and heard the clearer sound of incoherent, wild wailing. Could something have happened to Potter?

Panicked, Snape dropped everything he was holding with a clatter and burst through the doors, wand outstretched, dark eyes scanning the room.

He was met with a bizarre sight. Promfrey, the person crying, was huddled over Harry who was awake and alive, sitting up in his bed. The boy looked thin and weary. Even from the doorway, Snape could see the clear outline of ribs and a spine poking through his white skin. But Harry was not paying attention to him. He and (with a jolt as Snape saw her) his daughter were staring at each other, as though transfixed. She stood at the edge of Harry’s bed, her chin upward in an almost haughty, defiant way. Behind her, a chair was toppled over on the ground.

“Poppy?” Snape said weakly, striding forward.

The mediwitch seemed to have registered the sound of her name because she slowly released Harry, wiping her streaming tears with her hand. The two adults stared at each other, Poppy by Harry’s bedside, Snape a few feet away, his face smooth and expressionless.

“He’s alive,” she whispered, smiling between leftover sobs.

Snape peered at Harry. The teenager was gawking at Snape with a mixture of horror, anger and confusion. Snape for once, was at a loss of what to say. Should he address Potter first? Or the girl? Should he take Poppy away so she could relax? But before he had to act on any of those decisions, there was the sound of swift footsteps behind him. Everyone in the wing turned toward the doorway. Albus Dumbledore, dressed in robes of palest blue, strode toward them as though he had been expecting Harry to awaken from the coma right at this very moment.

“Professor Dumbledore—?” Harry whispered, confused.

Dumbledore smiled softly down at Harry and with a quick flick of his wand, conjured enough squishy armchairs for himself, Snape, the girl and the mediwitch.

“Please, all of you. Sit,” Dumbledore said, indicating the chairs. He smiled at Harry once again and said, “With due time Harry, I will explain everything.”

This seemed to quell the boy, who had opened his mouth again to say something but stopped at the Headmaster’s words. Harry contented himself with reaching toward the nightstand and putting on his glasses. The room, which had been blurry, but seeable, came into such sharp focus that he could almost count the tears still running down Promfrey’s cheek. Harry glanced quickly over, aware that four pairs of eyes burned into him. Snape, who sat furthest away, in the shadows of Dumbledore, leaned back in his chair as though he wished nothing more than to be hidden; Promfrey who hiccupped slightly, looked cheerful and relieved all the same; Dumbledore, who sat nearest to Harry, edged forward in his chair, his thin arms crossed, his blue eyes running over Harry’s wan frame; and then there was the girl.

Harry noted she did not look much like Snape, but without a doubt had inherited his dark hair and pale skin (and the eyes, of course. Her eyes alone confirmed their relation). Her face was not as harsh as his—there were no deep lines or rough angles. She was young, Harry thought, perhaps his age or a little older, but seemed to carry a heavy weight upon her, as though an invisible burden stood on her shoulders. Harry’s heart gave a skip as he locked eyes with her again. Her eyes, he thought, had the most piercing of looks, more extreme than her father, almost as if it were her goal to bore deep holes into him. Her gaze made him extremely uncomfortable and he shifted in the bed, pulling the sheets up higher, suddenly aware that underneath the thin fabric, he was nude, exposed…

Harry’s heart exploded in his chest. If he was in the hospital wing, that meant he was at Hogwarts and if he were at the school, surely that meant someone had discovered what happened to him… Hot, prickly shame spread over Harry like water trickling down his skin. He felt his cheeks redden and attempted to master his nervous, trembling limbs, recalling at all once the horrors he had endured at the Dursleys…

“Why am I here?” he blurted without being able to stop himself.

Dumbledore peered at him from the top of his glasses. The old man sighed.

“After a worrisome silence from you,” Dumbledore said quietly. “I sent Severus to your residence in Little Whinging. There he discovered your condition and brought you back to Hogwarts.”

Harry gaped at him, mouth wide. Refusing to look at Snape, the boy asked in a shaky voice, “How long have I been here?”

“A little less than two weeks,” Dumbledore replied.

Two weeks? Harry felt sicker. Two weeks he had been lying in the hospital wing, useless and unconscious? Harry’s stomach lurched, hearing Dumbledore’s words in his head again. Severus… I sent Severus… He discovered your condition… Of all the people in the world, Harry would not have wanted Snape to see him in that state, his lowest, weakest, most vulnerable moment. Harry felt tears welling up in his eyes, pushing him past endurance and without warning he began sobbing wildly. The memories of his last few weeks with the Dursleys sprung into his mind, the brief image of his uncle’s leering, evil face, of the unendurable pain in his lower half, the sensation of being constricted, frightened, alone, of wanting nothing more than death so he could see Sirius again…

Without realizing it, the girl had pushed herself up from her seat, and with stunning agility, brushed past the surprised adults toward Harry. She embraced Harry against her bony chest, and the boy felt her warmth, her kindness so unlike her father’s. In her arms he cried, releasing his tormented thoughts. He wasn’t sure why he felt so comfortable with her, but he also snaked his thin arms around her chest. He felt her rest her chin softly on the top of his head.

The three adults sat in silence.

Snape’s fingernails were digging into the palms of his hands. He could not hide the blatant shock on his face, the confusion at the girl’s behavior toward Harry. He glanced over at Poppy, who was still smiling, as though she thought this behavior sweet; but he could not see Dumbledore, since he was seated behind the old man. He wondered if Dumbledore were as confused as he, or if he had somehow, expected this, wanted this to happen.

After minutes where the only sounds were Harry’s wild crying dying down, Dumbledore spoke up again. His voice was very gentle, Harry noted, gentle, not intrusive.

“Harry, you have suffered tremendously. I understand if you want to be alone for some time, to gather your thoughts and adjust to your surroundings.”

No response came from the boy, but he carefully pried himself from the girl. He looked up at her briefly. Her eyes were not so harsh up close, Harry thought. He saw a distinct ring of black surrounding her irises.

“I would like to stress, however,” Dumbledore continued, snapping Harry back to reality, “that I believe it imperative you and I have a discussion about the events of the past few weeks. There is much to tell you. We can do this when you are most comfortable.”

“I—yes. S-sure,” Harry stammered, uncertain if that moment of comfort would ever come.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder. The girl’s. She squeezed it slightly, as though transferring into him strength, encouragement. Harry felt the transformation in his chest; his heart rate slowed down, his breathing normalized. He felt a rush of energy, willing him to speak.

“We—we can do this now,” Harry whispered.

Another squeeze. Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up. Perhaps he was shocked (or admiring) of Harry’s sudden bravado but the boy couldn’t tell.

“Only if you are certain,” Dumbledore replied so softly Harry barely heard him.

“Headmaster!” It was Promfrey’s voice that interjected now. “Headmaster, he has just awoken from a terrible ordeal! Surely, you can’t allow him to speak now—”

“That, Poppy,” Dumbledore said, turning to her. “Is a decision I leave entirely to Harry.”

Harry watched the two adults. The happy smile that was on Promfrey’s face slipped slightly. She sat upright in her chair, her back as stiff as a board.

“Come now, Headmaster,” she continued, disapproving. “At least give the boy a day to be alone, some time to think.”

“Madame Promfrey,” Harry whispered. “If I don’t do this now—if I don’t get this over with—I… I don’t think I will be able to again.”

The mediwitch looked conflicted, sad, on the verge of tears once more. She stood from her seat and moved toward Harry.

“I have to respect that choice,” she responded, sighing. “I will be in my office until I am needed. When your conversation is over,” she turned to Dumbledore, “let me know. I will give him some more medicine.” She paused, scanning him up and down and clicking her tongue. “And food. Lots of it.”

Harry nodded, unable to verbalize his thanks. He felt a great lump forming in his throat, pressing against his voice box. He and the others watched the mediwitch walk away into her office. Her door closed with a reassuring click.

“I should leave too,” came the constrained voice of Snape.

The man tried to stand up but Dumbledore stopped him.

“No, Severus. You must stay. It is important Harry understands the full story.”

Snape pursed his lips together, gripping the edge of his seat tightly. Dumbledore turned to Harry.

“If you are comfortable with her here,” Dumbledore said, eyes pointing up toward the girl, “Elisha may stay. Or if you would prefer, she can leave.”

The girl nodded vigorously and whispered to the silent room, “Whatever Harry wants.”

Harry looked up at her again. Her jaw was clenched as if she too was incapable of speaking much. She looked pained, worried. Harry suddenly noted the dark circles underneath her eyes, as if she had not slept properly in quite some time.

“Stay,” Harry whispered.

He didn’t know why he said it or why Elisha made him feel as though everything would be okay. He wasn’t sure he would be able to continue if she weren’t near him; her being seemed to endow him with more strength than he would have had alone. She did not move from his side as Harry turned to face Dumbledore. The two stared at each other for some time before Dumbledore, clearing his throat, began.

“So, Harry. You are here, at Hogwarts. You are safe from anyone or anything that could want to hurt you," Dumbledore said quietly. “As I stated before, after a long silence from you, I thought it urgent to check how you were doing at Little Whinging… Your friends, Ron and Hermione, informed me that you had not responded to their frequent letters since being home for the summer holidays—”

“Do they know?” Harry blurted, unable to control himself. He felt the fear creeping up in his bones. “Do they know what happened?”

“No,” Dumbledore said simply. “They are aware that you are safe and with us at Hogwarts, but I did not give them details.” He paused. “I leave that up to you.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, looking down at the clean white sheets surrounding him. He was grateful he would at least be able to control when and how he told his two best friends…

“As I also mentioned before,” Dumbledore continued, “I sent Severus to check on you. Though I know you and Professor Snape have a tense relationship, I trust him immensely and would have put no one else at the task.”

Both Snape and Harry sat rigid. Harry was clenching his fists together, unaware that Snape was doing the same. Both the man and the boy were extremely nervous.

“Severus found you in deplorable conditions,” Dumbledore whispered. Harry felt the tears welling in his eyes again. “But he took you—and your possessions—and brought you here to safety. Madame Promfrey has tended to you since.”

Harry nodded, now staring up at the ceiling to avoid Dumbledore’s eyes.

“Now Harry,” Dumbledore said, softer still. “I must ask you some questions.”

The boy nodded again, looking anywhere but Dumbledore. He blinked and a fresh wave of tears streamed down his cheeks. Harry’s eyes darted around the room again, pausing briefly on Snape, who studied Harry with an impassive expression.

“Whenever you’re ready, Harry,” Dumbledore encouraged.

Harry took a deep breath, looked at Elisha, at her muted smile said, “I’m ready.”

“When did it start?”

“As—as soon as I got back to Privet Drive,” Harry whispered, his voice trembling.

“How did it start?”

“My uncle… he—he attacked me the second day I was home. He didn’t give me much of an explanation why. H-he’s always resented me living with his family.” Harry paused, catching his breath again. “H-he hit me—he dragged me to my room… My aunt tried helping me afterward. She fed me and stuff but… But it got worse.”

“Go on,” Dumbledore whispered, sitting forward in his chair. It seemed he would almost fall off it.

Harry paused, remembering suddenly the scissors, their sharpness, how they pierced his skin and gave him temporary respite. He debated quickly whether or not he should mention his new cutting habit, but thought better of it. At least, for now, he would keep that secret to himself.

“It was a few days after,” he said finally. “They left me alone. But, then… then my uncle came back and—and…” Harry bit back another sob. “He tied me to my bed, he lowered—”

“Enough!”

Harry, surprised, stopped mid-sentence. He wasn’t sure if he would have been able to go on, but the harsh yell halted him without thinking twice. It wasn’t Dumbledore who had spoken either, but Snape. The man was now standing, his chest rising and falling as though he had run a race. His teeth were bared unpleasantly, like a cornered animal.

“That’s enough,” he whispered.

Harry sputtered but did not respond. Dumbledore stood up from his seat as well, surveying Harry before turning to Snape. There was a long silence between the two men.

“I need Harry to finish his story,” Dumbledore whispered. His voice was calm and even, but held traces of impatience.

“No,” Snape snarled. “We can all surmise what happened to him afterward. I won’t hear any more of it. Neither will she.” Snape jerked his head in Elisha’s direction, giving the impression that he suffered from a tick.

Dumbledore sighed.

“Severus,” he began, but the look on Snape’s face silenced him immediately. It was a look Harry had never seen before—certainly, he had witnessed the fury (how many times had he and Snape argued?) but this was different. Yes, Snape was angry, but there was another layer to his rage. This was not pure spite. Harry, however, found it hard to believe Snape could care about him, if that’s what his outburst was. To him, the thought was laugable.

“Potter,” Snape said, turning his eyes to Harry. “You will be staying with me. I have an extra room in my quarters. I put—you will find your possessions there.”

“Oh,” was all Harry said.

“Now come,” Snape said to his daughter. His voice was soft, threatening.

She did not protest but let go of Harry reluctantly. She gave him one last glance before exiting the hospital wing. Snape remained.

“Albus, I’d like to speak to you. Alone. In my office,” Snape said.

Dumbledore sighed again.

“As you wish,” he responded.

The Headmaster turned back to Harry.

“We will continue this conversation another day, Harry. For now, I will call Madame Promfrey back to you. She will give you the medicine you need, and some food. Then I ask—when you’re ready—that you come to Professor Snape’s quarters.”

“O-okay,” Harry said shakily.

“That’ll be the East Wing, third corridor to the left, Potter,” Snape said curtly.

With a last glance at Harry, Snape swept from the hospital wing, slamming the door behind him. Harry gaped at where he previously stood. Dumbledore looked downtrodden and upset.

“Poppy!” he called. The mediwitch emerged from her office a moment after. “Harry is in your care now, but I ask you let him go to Snape’s quarters when you are finished.”

The mediwitch’s lips pursed together, as though knowing better than to verbally respond. She gave a curt nod.

“And Harry,” Dumbledore said, turning back to him. “We will talk again. Soon.”

Harry did not respond as the Headmaster left the wing. The boy barely noticed the mediwitch bustling around him, examining his throat, ears, eyes, checking his skin for marks, clucking disapprovingly at the bruises on Harry’s arms that didn’t seem to want to fade. Harry was momentarily grateful that she did not notice his scars, the deep, precise lines hidden within the bruises but his mind was on other things—Snape.

Why had the man acted that way? Harry thought as Promfrey forced him to drink burning potion. Was Snape just as upset as he? Could he not control himself any longer?

Someone’s words forced Harry away from his thoughts. He looked up, dazed, to find Madame Promfrey looking at him, her hands on her hips. She reminded Harry briefly of Mrs. Weasley.

“Well?” she said.

“Er—”

“I said you need to eat, dear,” she repeated.

“Oh. Right.”

“Yes,” Promfrey continued, waving her wand so that countless bottles floated behind her. “I’m afraid if you don’t eat something right away you’ll just disappear. And we can’t have that now, can we?”

Harry could only smile.

*

Severus stomped furiously into his office, slamming around piles of books and jars full of pickled creatures suspended in various liquids. He did not care that a jar flung off a shelf and onto the ground. Instead, he reeled on Dumbledore, who entered not long after him.

“Explain yourself,” Snape snarled.

“What is there to explain, Severus?” Dumbledore responded, not bothering to bite back impatience and annoyance.

“How can you ask the boy all of those questions? Moments after he’s woken—”

Dumbledore closed his eyes.

“Once again, Severus, you give me the impression you care far more for Harry than you want to admit.”

Snape did not respond.

“You know why I had to question him,” the Headmaster continued, sitting down at a chair near Snape’s empty desk. “I needed to hear firsthand what happened to him. I needed the boy to say those things out loud, not only so I could understand, so we could understand, but more importantly, so he could understand. He needs to remember, recite and begin the process of recovery.”

“As much as I agree with you,” Snape whispered, pacing his office as though his shoes were on fire. “I think he needs time.”

“Time for what, Severus?”

“Time for—for some privacy!” Snape shouted, rounding on Dumbledore again. “He needs to process these things alone before blurting them out to you—to us! And having Elisha there! The two do not know each other. It isn’t appropriate—”

“They seem to be building a strong connection already,” Dumbledore responded serenely.

Snape looked sour.

“Be that as it may,” he said, sitting down at the chair behind his desk, so he faced Dumbledore. “She should not hear those things.”

“Is she fragile, Severus? Can she not handle it?”

“I—no, she cannot.”

There was a long pause between the two men.

“She has been alone for too long,” Snape whispered, breaking eye contact with Dumbledore.

“All the more reason why she seems to be reaching out to Harry. I don’t think either of us have any right to stop her from doing so, especially when Harry seemed to draw strength from her today. You did notice that, I presume?”

“Of course,” Snape muttered, recalling very clearly Elisha and Harry’s figures together, her hand on his shoulder.

“I think you and I can both agree then, that she was not merely giving Harry symbolic encouragement by putting her hand on his shoulder… She was giving him strength, passing it through from herself to him.”

Snape stared at Dumbledore.

“You know what the girl can do, Severus.”

“Do you think that’s why he spoke?” Snape asked in a small voice.

“Perhaps. I think Harry had the desire to speak up but without her there, he would not have been able to. Without her touch, her powers, he perhaps would have stayed mute for quite some time.”

“All the more reason why we should wait then,” Snape said.

“I see your logic, Severus,” Dumbledore said, his voice strained. “I do very much, but I will have to ask you not to lose your temper with me next time.”

“I—I have been doing that a lot lately.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, not bothering to repress a slight smile. “Yes, you have.”

“Albus—”

“No need to apologize. I understand Elisha is an added burden to your usual load. But know I have everyone’s best interests at heart.”

“I know, Albus. I know.”

*

Promfrey released Harry after another few hours, much fussing and extraordinary amounts of force-feeding. She conjured a fresh pair of underwear and clothing for him. Harry put everything on and thanked her profusely for caring for him. As he left the hospital wing, he promised over and over that he would visit her first thing the next morning for more medicine and another check-up.

But Harry was on his own now. He walked slowly through the Hogwarts corridors, still soaking in the fact that he was here and not at the Dursleys. So many questions ran through his head: Where were they now? Had Vernon been reported? Caught? Did his aunt or cousin have any idea what had happened to him? When Harry reached the third floor corridor, his pace began to slow. He was nervous about encountering Snape, unsure of what to say or do around him. Sooner than he would have liked, he stood outside of where Snape instructed him to be. A handsome wooden door was in front of his eyes, with the initials SS carved into its middle. Harry knocked.

The door opened and he was face to face with Snape.

The man looked down at Harry, impassive as ever.

“Come in,” he said.

Harry obeyed immediately, setting foot inside of a vast foyer. Immediately, he was surprised by the space, assuming it would carry the usual gloominess Harry associated with his Potions professor. He expected dark walls, perhaps decorations of silver and green to represent Slytherin House, but there was nothing of the sort. The space was clear and light, not constricted with heavy or dark furniture. A small chandelier hung above them, throwing a soft glow about the place.

Snape closed the door and then said without pretense, “Follow me.”

The boy walked behind the man, down the main hallway, passing two closed doors before turning left. They were in a small, but lovely kitchen and dining area. Snape turned toward Harry and pointed toward another hallway.

“Your room is that way,” Snape said. “You will find everything you need there. Except your wand. I have it.”

Harry blinked, having even forgot about that.

“It’s broken,” Snape continued. “But it can be mended.”

Harry nodded. The two looked at each other.

“Well, to your room then,” Snape said.

He turned from the kitchen and down the other hallway. Snape led him past another open room—a sitting room and study area—full of big, high windows, sunlight, squishy sofas, books and a large desk. Snape stopped at the end of the hall and opened the last door. Harry peered inside briefly and saw his trunk lying at the foot of a large bed. The room also had high, arching windows and a circular rug.

“So this is where you will remain for the rest of the summer,” Snape said. “The door to your left leads to a bathroom. My room is also down this hall, across from the study…”

“Okay,” Harry whispered, unsure of what else to say. He began fidgeting with his fingernails.

“Potter…” Harry’s eyes shot up into Snape’s. “I understand if you are still upset but… I—I want you to know, you can trust me.”

Harry stared.

“I can?”

“Yes,” Snape said firmly.

Harry looked away.

“If you’re hungry, dinner will be ready in an hour.”

And with that, Snape turned on his heel, leaving a bewildered Harry behind but the boy wasn’t hungry at all. He walked into his room, his room, peered around it again, took in the rich navy color of the duvet, the soft maroon of the rug. Dusk was coming around the grounds, sending in deep purple light. Harry’s room was small, but cozy.

After closing the door, he flung himself onto the bed, and lay down, staring up at the ceiling. He ran the day’s events through his mind, replaying like frayed movie reels. He couldn’t believe he ended up here—not only in Hogwarts but with Snape of all people. Snape… Why was Snape being suddenly civil to Harry? And what was with his daughter? How come Harry had never seen her or heard of her? The thoughts and questions ravaged Harry’s brain. As the sun sank down lower, Harry felt himself becoming sleepy. It was not his intention to sleep but he felt it whisk over him, so warm, so inviting…

He found himself back at the Durlseys, at Privet Drive, stuck up in his old bedroom. But he was not tied down to his bed, he was not constrained in any way. He couldn’t hear anyone else in the house. He was alone… Or so he thought until his bedroom door opened.

Heart hammering wildly, Harry turned toward the door, expecting to see his uncle. A surprise met him. It was Sirius! His handsome godfather strode into the room, arms stretched wide as if expecting a hug. The man smiled at Harry, beamed down at him. Harry jumped toward him, ready to embrace the man he thought he lost forever but Sirius suddenly held up a large hand to stop him.

“No, Harry, you can’t,” Sirius whispered.

“What? Why?”

All Harry wanted was a hug, a bit of affection, to be close to the man he viewed as a father, the man he missed so much…

“You can’t because you killed me Harry,” Sirius snarled, advancing forward toward his godson.

Harry gasped. No, he didn’t kill him… This couldn’t be…

“I hate you Harry,” Sirius spat viciously, still advancing on the frightened boy.

Harry felt his back collide with a wall and he was pinned.

“You deserve all the pain you get,” Sirius said. And with a harsh, sudden flash of bright light, Sirius was gone. Harry quickly held his hands up to his eyes to shield himself from the flood of light as he began to sob. Harry pulled his hands down and looked up. He screamed.

Vernon Dursley stood where Sirius had been, smiling a demented smile. With ease, he grabbed Harry, dragged him to the bed and tied him down. Harry kicked and cried with all of his might but he could not escape. Panic flooded the boy, as his uncle loomed over him.

Harry wailed as his uncle lowered himself onto his body—

The boy bolted upright, sweating and shaking violently. He looked around where he was wildly, only to remember he was no longer at Privet Drive, and safe within the walls of Hogwarts, safe within Snape’s quarters. Harry felt himself burn with guilt, remembering clearly Sirius’ face in the dream…

He threw himself from the bed, swinging his legs as he went. His foot collided with the nightstand next to his bed and sent it crashing to the floor with loud clunks and slams. Harry cursed himself but did not pick up the mess. He tumbled into the bathroom, fumbling for a light. He rushed to the sink and turned the taps on, running warm water over his sweating face. The water felt refreshing against his skin, calming Harry. The boy turned the taps off and looked around for a drying towel but did not see one. He opened the drawer underneath the sink and shuffled the contents around, unaware of the amount of noise he made in the process, but as he was about to close it, something shiny caught his eye.

Harry pulled the razor from the drawer and held it in the air.

He brought the edge to his finger and made a slight cut. He sighed as the familiar redness began to flow. The thoughts of Sirius came back to him, his godfather’s face haunting him. He placed the blade against his bruised wrist, slammed his eyes shut and contained a moan of pain as his skin sliced open.

Harry did not register the sounds coming from the bedroom. Snape had heard the nightstand crashing down from the kitchen and had entered the room to investigate. The man saw the light on in the bathroom, noted the door was ajar.

Snape wondered what had happened, since the room, having been so neat not long ago, was suddenly so messy. The sheets had been mussed, as though the boy were thrashing about, and the nightstand was spread on the ground. Without thinking twice, Snape moved forward to the bathroom and pushed the door open.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he screamed.

Snape lunged at the boy, who was about to take another swipe at his bleeding arm.

Harry didn’t struggle. He was too overcome with shock to register what just happened. But the thoughts started to process themselves. Harry glanced from Snape’s hands up into his face, into his eyes, those black, entrancing, livid eyes. The look of pure rage on Snape’s face extinguished any coherent thought passing in Harry’s mind. Panic took over and coursed through Harry's veins.

I’ve been caught, was all Harry could think.

I’ve been caught.

TBC
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Endurance