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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Eight

Before leaving the room, Snape gave Harry a calming draught that would help him sleep. He did not want to pester the boy any longer, especially since there would be time to talk later. Now that he was certain Harry was in a better state of mind, he did not feel badly leaving him alone; in fact, the boy seemed to radiate that he needed his solitude. Harry swallowed the draught quickly and pulled himself into bed before thanking Snape profusely. Snape turned off the lights and closed the door softly behind him, only to suppress a yell of surprise as he turned back into the hallway.

It was her. She stood staring at Harry’s door with her big, black eyes.

“How long have you been there?” Snape whispered.

“A while,” was Elisha’s response.

There was a long silence between the two.

“He’s unwell,” she finally said. It was not a question, but a statement.

“I know.”

“He will get better.”

“Is that a fact?” Snape asked, now walking away from Harry’s door. He felt her eyes burning into him.

“Yes.”

She turned and left her father standing alone in the hallway. There was the distant sound of her door slamming. Snape scowled. He grew uneasy at her uncanny ability to know—to see right through any situation. Snape had that same gift himself as a superb Legilimens, but he mastered it, unlike her; her power was different, though stronger than his, it was unlearned and innate, crude.

Snape rubbed his eyes, suddenly overcome with exhaustion as he made his way to the dining area. Thinking he would finally have some of the dinner he prepared earlier, he stepped into the kitchen. He froze however—

“Hello, Severus.”

It was Dumbledore.

Snape’s lips pursed together.

“Am I going to be surprised by everyone in the castle tonight?” Snape asked sardonically.

Dumbledore smiled serenely. He was seated at the table dressed in a navy night robe and in between his hands was a mug of steaming hot chocolate. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a cup for Snape and pointed toward the seat opposite him. Snape sat down immediately, but did not touch the drink. The man surveyed Dumbledore with an annoyed expression.

“Let me guess why you’re here,” Snape started sourly.

“No need,” Dumbledore said after a sip of the chocolate. “It’s about Harry.”

“And how do you know what just happened?”

“Elisha.”

The two men stared at each other.

“Elisha?” Snape asked hollowly.

“Yes. She’s a superb nonverbal communicator,” Dumbledore said swiftly, pushing his cup aside. “Excellent telepath.”

Snape frowned.

“Why would she communicate with you about this?”

“I don’t think she meant to, Severus. You know she hasn’t been schooled. I imagine her abilities, while powerful, are not controlled.”

“You imagined correctly.”

“Well, that is a discussion for another time. To cut down a mightily long and somewhat dull story, I was in my study reviewing some documents for the upcoming school year, and I confess myself rather bored. I imagine my mind was opened a little more than usual—and that’s when I caught some glimpses of Elisha’s thoughts… They were disjointed but clear. She was frightened, I could feel it, and there was blood on a bathroom floor, Harry’s—”

“But she didn’t see that… She-she wasn’t present,” Snape whispered, putting his head in his hands.

“No, she didn’t have to physically witness it, but you know what she can do, Severus.”

Snape did not respond.

“How much more does she know?”

“Everything, I suppose. She and Harry have bonded.”

“So he will not be able to maintain his mental privacy from her?”

“I’m not sure,” Dumbledore replied, thinking hard. “I imagine she will try to cut off the connection, now that she’s seen his thoughts. She knows that Harry would want his thoughts to be his alone. She is not manipulative or cruel, just untrained.”

Snape mumbled something into his hands.

“What, Severus?” Dumbledore asked quietly.

“My fault,” Snape whispered.

Dumbledore frowned.

“Now what good does it do to blame yourself?”

“No good, but it is my fault,” Snape said, staring out the window now.

“She will be in school next year. She will learn, Severus. Do not focus too much on the past. You did what you thought was best for her.”

Snape continued to stare out the window, watching as the sun set rapidly beyond the Forbidden Forest, trying to wash away the guilt that threatened to consume him.

“Now back to Harry,” Dumbledore said. Snape turned to look at him. “Is he severely injured?”

“No. I caught him before he could go too far.”

“And I expect you cleaned him up?”

“Yes.”

“Were there other marks?”

“Yes.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes.

“He has been self-injuring for some time, it seems,” Snape said. “There were scars underneath his bruises. They are hard to make out, but with a close enough look…”

“And how did you handle the situation?”

Snape raised his eyebrows.

“I think that should be kept between Potter and myself.”

Dumbledore nodded and said, “As you wish.”

Snape leaned back in his chair.

“Do you think you can handle two teenagers, Severus?” Dumbledore asked suddenly, his bright blue eyes flashing with concern.

“What?”

“Are you sure you want to continue to care for Harry now that he tried harming himself?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to?”

“You misunderstand me,” Dumbledore said. “I don’t think you suddenly would give up the responsibility, but perhaps, you would like some help?”

“No. I don’t need help,” Snape scoffed. “Is that why you came?”

“Partially. Also to ensure Harry was safe—”

“He is now. He’s sleeping. I gave him a draught.”

“Well then, Severus, I apologize for underestimating you.”

Dumbledore stood up from his seat, towering over Snape. He flicked his wand and the mugs of hot chocolate disappeared. The old man looked tired and weary in the soft light of dusk.

“I’ll be off then,” he said, pushing his chair in. “I trust Harry will be safe in your care.”

“Thank you,” Snape whispered.

Dumbledore turned to walk down the hallway but stopped halfway, lost in thought. He finally turned around to find Snape watching him, bemused and also exhausted.

“Send Elisha to my office tomorrow evening at eight,” Dumbledore said. “I will begin her training.”

“You don’t want to wait until the school year?” Snape asked, startled.

“No, no. Her uncontrolled exhibition tonight has proved to me we need to get a move on. She is extremely gifted, Severus, but as long as she is untrained, she is a danger to herself—” Snape opened his mouth to say something but Dumbledore cut him off with his imperial hand. “Don’t worry, Severus. She will learn quickly. I know it. Good night to you.”

Snape was resigned to sulking in his seat as the Headmaster left his quarters. The man put his head back in his hands and shut his eyes, his thoughts fluttering wildly, images of Harry crying, Elisha’s eyes, blood, disjointed words battering his brain. For hours, he sat alone, thinking, mulling over the day and only when a quick image of Lily’s smile swam before him, did he finally get up but he did not sleep. Instead, he tasked himself with repairing something important, something broken, something he knew that would give Harry back a bit of his happiness.

*

Bright sunlight poured in through the high windows, poking at closed eyes.

The thin boy turned over in the foreign bed, pulling squishy sheets up to his forehead. Teetering between sleep and lucidity, Harry blindly grabbed a pillow and curled up over it, squeezing it tight against his body. Harry snuggled in a warm ball for a few more minutes, trying to fight the urge to wake and open his eyes against the blazing light, but it was the remembrance of the night before that caused him to sit bolt upright.

He was quite alone in the small room, staring at the door opposite him. A harsh twinge of nervousness hit him right below his belly, making him feel as though there were butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He remembered Snape, their conversation, the scars on Snape’s arms… Harry pulled himself from the warm bed and grabbed his glasses.

Snape, it seemed, had fixed the room up so the nightstand was back in its rightful place, so that everything was quite organized once more. Slowly, Harry walked into the bathroom, glancing at the floor, but it was clear of his blood. The razor was also gone. Harry imagined Snape had taken all of the sharp objects away, and the boy could not blame him.

He washed his face and dried himself off, staring at himself in the mirror. Dull, reflected green eyes met his actual ones. The boy noted how sickly he looked, how pale his skin was, the dark circles underneath his eyes giving him the brief impression that he had been punched hard in the face. Harry sighed, quietly exiting the bathroom and bedroom. He stood in the empty hallway, the butterflies in his stomach growing ever more furious.

Everything seemed quite deserted. He passed by Snape’s study only to find it empty. A quick glance at a giant grandfather clock told him it was only six in the morning. Certain that no one could be awake at this hour, Harry walked with slightly more confidence into the dining area but stopped short once he came to the doorway.

Snape stood, with his bare back to him, bustling over the stove. He was nearly nude except for a pair of gauzy black sleeping trousers. Harry watched, slightly open mouthed, as Snape reached up to an overhead cabinet; the thin, sinewy muscles in his arms contracted, tightened, as his hand grabbed a pan. The butterflies in Harry’s stomach twinged harder, but not because of nervousness…

Wondering what the hell was wrong with him, Harry opened his mouth to alert Snape of his presence but stopped when he caught sight of the man’s scars. They weren’t just on his forearms. With a jolt, Harry noted ridges near his ribcage, going down his side. There were seemingly hundreds of systematic, long scars, viciously implanted onto Snape’s skin. Harry could not help the tiny gasp of surprise that left him.

Snape turned around faster than Harry expected, wand extended, his black eyes scanning the room quickly.

“Oh!” Snape said, catching sight of the frightened boy in the doorway. They stared at each other for a moment before Snape realized he was practically naked. He flicked his wand toward his own body immediately and he was magically wrapped in a black bathrobe.

“My apologies,” Snape said, putting his wand down on the counter near the stove. He eyed Harry curiously. “Instinctive reaction.”

“Er…” Harry said.

“Please, have a seat,” Snape said quietly, indicating the empty dining table. “I didn’t realize you were such an early riser.”

“Neither did I,” Harry said truthfully.

Snape gave Harry a soft smile. The boy stared in confusion, wondering if he had ever seen Snape smile before.

“Hungry?” Snape asked.

Harry nodded.

“Everything will be ready in a few minutes.”

Snape turned his back to Harry again and busied himself over the stove. Soon, the enticing smell of bacon and eggs wafted towards Harry’s nose. The boy felt the butterflies in his stomach disappear, soon replaced by ravaging, loud hunger. A few minutes later, Snape turned off the stove and divided the food equally on to two plates. Using his wand again, Snape levitated the plates, utensils, glasses and a pitcher of cold pumpkin juice toward the table. He took a seat opposite Harry.

The room was silent but for the tinkle of utensils against the china plates or the sound of chewing and swallowing. In between bites, Snape surveyed the boy, noting how thin he was; he wanted to ensure the boy ate as much as possible, that Harry could regain his health. He wanted the boy to trust him and he hoped that the simple act of cooking would show Harry he was serious about being civil.

As Harry cut into his last piece of bacon, he began wondering nervously when Snape would broach the events of the evening before. He foolishly hoped that the man had forgotten but Harry knew they would have to talk about his cutting, his problems, his worries in more depth sooner rather than later. Though he didn’t want to talk, he also was torn with the urge to get the conversation over with. The thoughts suddenly ruined Harry’s appetite and he put his fork down.

He looked up at Snape.

“I—I want to talk about last night.”

Snape looked at Harry with a mixture of surprise and somberness.

“Are you sure?” Snape asked, also putting his fork down.

Harry nodded, unsure of how to begin.

“Last night wasn’t the first time I did that,” the boy confessed.

“I know,” Snape whispered. “Why did you do it last night?”

“I-I had a nightmare.”

“Did it involve anyone in particular?” Snape asked quietly, knowing the answer already.

“Yes,” Harry whispered, feeling the familiar lump tensing his throat, so when he next spoke, his voice was croaky. “Sirius was in it… and… my uncle—” Harry stopped himself and took a deep breath, controlling the fear and tears that threatened to break forth.

But a sudden thought overtook the boy.

“Do you know what happened to him—my uncle—after you found me?” Harry asked Snape.

“He was caught,” Snape said, a flicker of triumph in his beetle black eyes.

“Caught?”

“By the Muggle authorities. Dumbledore alerted them of his crimes but did not tell the Wizarding world to protect your privacy. The only people who know what happened are here in this castle.”

Snape expected Harry to break into a smile, to show some sign of relief that his abuser had been caught and apprehended, but the boy showed no outward emotion of any sort. His face remained impassive, worried almost. Harry was privately grateful that Dumbledore told as little people close to him as possible, and certainly grateful that no one in his world knew what happened. He felt a slight twinge of closure.

Snape cleared his throat.

“Do you harm yourself because of what he did to you?” Snape asked.

“Partly…”

“And the other part?”

Harry sighed.

“Because of Sirius. Because of guilt.”

A pained expression crossed Snape’s face; Harry, surprised to see that emotion in Snape, blinked furiously and looked away from the man.

“How long have you been doing this?” Snape asked.

“Since the start of the summer.”

Snape’s eyes traveled over the bruises on Harry’s arms to the wounds underneath. The boy, though not aware Snape was looking at him, took his exposed arms off the table and folded his hands in his lap.

“Why do you do it?” Snape said.

Harry looked back up at him.

“Probably for the same reasons you did,” Harry whispered. “It’s…it’s a distraction, mostly. Temporary but effective. When I do it, I only have to focus on the physical pain, nothing else. Sometimes I feel like I deserve it—I deserve to understand the pain of everyone around me.”

“There are other ways to deal with that urge,” Snape said, trying to keep his voice calm and even. The boy’s words struck a chord within him, and the man could not help but feel empathy—Harry’s reasons for self-harm were the exact same as his own.

“Are there?” Harry asked, with a trace of disbelief in his voice. “Well, there must be… You-you stopped, didn’t you?”

Snape blinked.

“Yes.”

There was a long pause between them.

“How?” Harry asked.

Snape knew the boy’s question was innocent; he knew Harry did not mean to pry or prod, but the man felt his heart rate spike, unsure of how to answer. He certainly knew how he stopped, but how to tell Harry? The boy seemed to realize the deeply personal nature of his question and immediately began sputtering an apology.

“Don’t apologize,” Snape said. “If you really want to know...” He took a breath. “Your mother helped me.”

Harry stared, dumbfounded.

“What?”

“She talked me through it, very much like I am with you,” Snape said simply.

There was a finality in his voice that stopped Harry from asking any more questions.

Snape composed himself. “Now,” he said gently. “If you ever feel like harming yourself again, I urge you to come to me. We’ve both gone through this and frankly, it is worse when you’re alone. When you’re alone you start to convince yourself of things that aren’t true.”

Harry nodded.

“So step one to recovery is important—talking about how you feel. But step two is equally as vital. You must continue doing things you love,” Snape said. “For example, I know you enjoy Quidditch. Perhaps it would be good for you to have a ride around the Quidditch pitch, get a little exercise.”

Harry felt a sudden elation at the idea; he had almost forgotten about flying and how it gave him that same feeling of distraction that he searched for in cutting.

“Yeah… I think I’ll do that,” Harry said finally.

Snape smiled slightly.

“You’ll find your broom and clothes in your trunk,” the man said as Harry stood up. “If you’d like, I can walk with you down to the pitch or—”

“I’d like that,” Harry said in a small voice.

“Well then, meet me here when you’re ready.”

“Okay…”

Harry made to turn around, thinking of how a shower was in order, but Snape called him back. Snape flicked his wand and one of the cabinet drawers opened. Out of it zoomed a gleaming mahogany wand. Harry’s mended wand landed in Snape’s free hand. The man stood up and extended it to Harry. He took it with amazement and shock.

He stared at Snape with a bewildered expression.

“But…” Harry whispered. “It was broken…”

“I fixed it last night.”

Harry looked up at Snape, tears in his green eyes. He wanted to say so much, he wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. He wanted to hug Snape, to tell him how much this wand meant to him, how grateful he was, how all those years of resentment were melted away in two nights, how Harry would be so alone without him…

“Thank you,” was all Harry could choke out. “Thank you.”

*

The steaming shower water washed over Harry. He ran his hands through his greasy, dirty hair, fumbling around the sides of the bathtub for shampoo. He grasped an unmarked clear bottle and poured some of the soapy substance out; the boy caught faint notes of sandalwood and ginger and as he slathered the soap on his skin, he wondered if Snape had made this himself…

Snape.

The scars on Snape’s arms. The man’s advice. The repaired wand. His empathy. He knew, really knew what Harry was going through. The boy could have never guessed that Snape could hold so much emotion, kindness, understanding. Everything he had seen of the man in the past two days contradicted years of what he thought he knew. Harry wondered if this was what Snape was truly like, if his snarky coldness was just a façade to stop everyone from getting to know his true self…

Snape. And Harry’s mother. Harry wondered if they had been friends. The boy took comfort in knowing that she had helped him, and he wondered how—How did she find out? What did they talk about? So many questions flooded Harry’s head but something suddenly distracted him—

Sinewy muscles, bare arms, a bare back before him.

With a jolt, Harry forced the thoughts out of his head but the more he tried to will it away, the stronger the images came back.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Harry thought, feeling slightly disgusted with himself for briefly fantasizing about Snape’s body. How could he even think that way about the man who had saved his life? About the man who had known his mother, perhaps even been friends with her? But a little voice in the back of his mind pushed through – Do I find him…attractive?

The boy turned off the taps after washing the soap off his body, irked by his musings. Harry had always been confused about his sexuality, but after the events of the summer, after his abuse he wondered how on earth he could find any male attractive, let alone Snape. Frustrated, Harry dried himself off and walked back into his bedroom. He changed into mismatched clothes and opened his trunk to pull out his broom but stopped suddenly.

The Firebolt. It glittered innocently up at him, seemingly brand new… Sirius had given him that broom. Harry held himself up with the edges of his trunk, breathing deeply, trying to stop the despair from taking over.

Snape’s voice came into his mind—that he was not alone, that he could go to the man any time he needed to, that it was necessary he do things he loved…And flying was certainly one of those things. For the first time in weeks, Harry was able to push past the pain of losing Sirius on his own—it was difficult and took much time, but the boy thought of his godfather, trying to remember his smiling face. Would Sirius want him to suffer like this?

He grabbed the broom with new resolve, trembling slightly.

No, Sirius would not want him to suffer. All he ever wanted was for Harry to be happy.

*

Harry met Snape back in the dining area, his wand tucked safely in his back pocket, his broom by his side. The man had dressed himself in all black clothing, a simple jacket, sweater and pants. When Harry stepped into the room, Snape was staring out of the window, but the man turned to him. He clutched a small, leather bound book in his big hands.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

Harry nodded.

They made their way from Snape’s quarters in silence, trekking through the castle corridors and finally out the front entrance. The dazzling sunlight hit Harry’s face, warming his skin, his bones. The morning was crisp and clear, perfect flying conditions. When they reached the pitch, Snape pointed over at a distant oak tree.

“I’ll be over there,” the man said. “Going to do some reading. If you need me, you know where to look.”

Harry nodded and he watched Snape walk away but his attention reverted immediately to the task at hand. Without hesitation, Harry mounted his broom and kicked off hard from the soft ground.

The wind whipped at his sides and stung his face, but it was as though it had blown away all the harsh, depressing, uneasy thoughts that plagued him. For the first time that summer, for the first time in weeks, perhaps even that year, Harry felt free. He felt as though his heart would explode in his chest from sheer happiness and pleasure, from the ease at which he began to circle the pitch. He was flying again! How wonderful an experience, how beautiful the scenery, the calm.

Harry happily flew around the pitch, not knowing that Snape was watching him below with a smile on his face. The boy flew around the pitch in laps, swerving through the goalposts.

What neither Harry nor Snape realized, however, was that they weren’t alone. Someone else was flying around the pitch too.

TBC

Author's Note: Reviews are always appreciated! Thanks!
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Endurance