Harry awoke at some stage in the night needing to use the bathroom. He
quietly padded out of the door, pausing to look regretfully at Neville's
empty bed (The school had believed Neville would be better suited to a new
school, that was less magically taxing on it's students.) On his way back,
he paused to smile at his reflection in the mirror. Potions had actually
become something of a strong suit for him, and he had found a great
interest in the study of research. With Snape's help, he had formulated a
hair-taming potion, which flattened his unruly hair into less wild curls.
Of course, the potion hadn't been easy. Several questions had arisen - from
ingredients, where one concoction had given Harry green hair for two weeks
and another had given him a falsetto voice, which other pupils had found
very amusing, to method of taking the potion. Having ingested the potion
after Snape had deemed it safe, Harry had found that every hair on his body
had become poker straight, making him look like a woolly-mammoth. Snape had
almost died laughing.
Life was good. His magical powers were under better control, thanks to training with Dumbledore. Sirius and Lupin were both on speaking terms with him, although Harry was sad to think that their previous closeness had been destroyed. He trusted Snape with his life and beyond, but sometimes wished he had some fragment of his parents to clutch onto.
Realising how cold his feet were getting, he pulled himself from his thoughts and moved away towards the dormitory and his warm bed, a small smile gracing his lips as he thought proudly of how he could bear to look at himself in the mirror.
Life was good.
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Snape rubbed his forehead. He was starting to get a headache, it was almost midnight, and he had a huge pile of essays to mark. It would be considerably smaller if Granger could keep to the damn word limit. He had marked her down, because for all the information she had memorised she still did not UNDERSTAND. And that was what was giving him a headache. Why, why could the stupid little imbeciles not understand the process of potions? He was honestly beginning to despair.
His moods lifted a little when he saw Finnigan's essay, which was sloppily written on half a sheet of parchment. Pathetic. There was nothing so satisfying as writing that word in red ink all over someone else's writing. It made Snape feel powerful.
Thomas' wasn't too bad. Not that Snape would ever admit it. And then. . .well well, what a surprise. Harry had actually managed to keep to the word limit. Not that Snape would ever tell him, but Harry was student who could excel at Potions, given time. He understood; he saw the subtlety needed with the order of the ingredients. That hair potion he had invented should be patented, but even after all he knew about Harry, Snape was still reluctant to over-praise him.
Reading the essay, Snape found his forehead wrinkling in concentration, the headache and fatigue forgotten. Oh, the essay was brilliantly written; Snape himself couldn't have done better, and he was one of the top Potions Masters in Europe. It was the note attached to the parchment that was making him wonder. Quite simply, it said
"Idea for a variation on Draught of the Living Dead. Recipe as usual but add shredded aconite and a bezoar."
Snape couldn't for the life of him understand how that would work. Add the ingredients where? How much? Why? There were so many questions unanswered. And what would the changed recipe accomplish?
The more he tried to think, the more his head spun, until finally he fell asleep at his desk, the remaining essays ungraded.
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The next morning he had a stinking headache. He saw spots in front of his eyes, and felt nauseous the moment he got out of bed.
Oh Merlin, don't let me be ill NOW he groaned inwardly. It seemed like a very cruel irony that he had escaped poisoning by a hair's breadth in Voldemort's time, but was now coming down with some kind of disease.
His ruminations were disturbed by the need to vomit, and he staggered into the bathroom, nearly knocking himself out on the rim of the toilet as he threw up. He didn't hear the footsteps behind him and therefore nearly leapt out of his skin when someone's hands pulled his long hair out of the way. It would be Harry, of course. He was the only one who knew the password to Snape's rooms.
"I was going to ask how you're feeling" said Harry with a slight chuckle. "But I can see that the answer's fairly apparent. Professor Dumbledore asked me to come and tell you that lessons are cancelled."
"Why?" managed Snape weakly, before throwing up again. Harry rubbed his back soothingly.
"Some Hufflepuff second-year has got 'flu, and seems to have passed it on to virtually everyone in the school. Though I must admit, I thought you had a strong. . ."
"Don't say it" snarled Snape, the effect slightly ruined by him nearly fainting. Harry caught him.
"All those years I served under Voldemort" groaned Snape, "And the first thing that brings me down in 'flu. A Muggle disease, contracted from a BLOODY HUFFLEPUFF!"
Harry winced. Snape sounded seriously deranged.
"C'mon. You'll feel better for being in bed."
"Why aren't you ill?"
Snape knew how petulant he sounded. He didn't care.
"I'm the boy-who-lived. I have to be different, remember?"
This time it was Snape who winced at the bitterness in those words. He knew that some of Harry's scars, both physical and mental, would stay with him until the end of time. At that time, however, he didn't care. He felt ill.
Harry must be virtually carrying him. He certainly couldn't move. His legs felt like lead jelly, if such a thing existed. He was so busy contemplating the possibilities he didn't even notice Harry talking.
"Snape!"
"Ten points from Gryffindor" he snapped, suddenly tired of Harry's cheerful demeanour. As he was looking sullenly at the bedclothes, he didn't notice the hurt look that flashed across Harry's face before it was quickly checked and replaced with the cheerful mask again.
"Dumbledore told me to look after you. Those were his specific orders, and I am obliged to carry them out. So stop moaning."
Deciding that he didn't really mind if Harry was mad with him, Snape unleashed his formidable tongue, the illness unlocking the barbs which he had hidden so well. He liked Harry, but everyone annoyed Severus Snape in some way, and Severus Snape always had something to say about those who annoyed him. Summoning the last of his strength, he reached up and grabbed Harry.
"I do not need you, with your sickening optimism and know-it-all attitude. I do not need molly-coddling, as you do. I require no human closeness, in fact I find it most tiresome. Now GET OUT!"
Harry felt like he had been punched - no, shot - in the stomach as he looked at Snape's face. The black eyes glittered malevolently, no trace of warmth in them now. Again, Harry hid his pain and turned away. Snape thought he'd gone, but he just went into the kitchen, and returned with a glass of water.
"You need to drink." He said shortly. Snape's temper rose, and he threw the glass of water at Harry, uncaring at the gasp that escaped the boy when the glass hit him full on in the face. There was blood. Stupid boy deserved it.
"Do not make me repeat myself, Potter. Get out, and get out now before I do something much less pleasant, like push your wand down your arrogant little throat. GO!"
Emotionlessly, Harry walked quickly to the door, wrenched it open savagely.
"Close the door behind you, Potter" drawled Snape, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head as Harry had the audacity to slam the damn thing so hard it cracked in the middle.
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Harry ran all the way up to his dorm. Everyone except Dean and Lavender from his year was ill, and had been confined to bed. He knew that if he fled to the dorm he would be heard by everyone, so he stopped, and went back to the bathroom. There, he allowed the tears to fall. It didn't help. He put a shatter-proof charm on the mirror, and began to hurl curses and hexes at it. That didn't help either. Looking into the mirror, he saw a long gash running down his cheek from where Snape had thrown the glass at him. And then, as if by magic, his eyes were drawn to a razor lying by one of the sinks. He mustn't - he shouldn't - he really shouldn't.
Why?
Snape had told him not to. But Snape hated him. Harry was no fool; he knew that such stinging words must have festered for some time. Unbidden bitterness welled up in him at the thought of Snape pretending to care, and only being annoyed and disgusted by him. Before he even knew what was happening, he saw blood trickling along his arm. Furious at his idiocy for cutting straight across his wrist, where anyone would see it, he slashed further up his arm, and sighed in relief as he felt the tension ebb away. Stupid, really, to imagine that he had ever been cured. . .
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
There you go. . .a small taster chapter of the sequel to Ill Words, called 'Lost'. Please tell me if you want me to continue. . .I really want feedback about what I should change, and what I should keep the same. I have a vague idea for a plot (yep, not all angst this time!)
Life was good. His magical powers were under better control, thanks to training with Dumbledore. Sirius and Lupin were both on speaking terms with him, although Harry was sad to think that their previous closeness had been destroyed. He trusted Snape with his life and beyond, but sometimes wished he had some fragment of his parents to clutch onto.
Realising how cold his feet were getting, he pulled himself from his thoughts and moved away towards the dormitory and his warm bed, a small smile gracing his lips as he thought proudly of how he could bear to look at himself in the mirror.
Life was good.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
Snape rubbed his forehead. He was starting to get a headache, it was almost midnight, and he had a huge pile of essays to mark. It would be considerably smaller if Granger could keep to the damn word limit. He had marked her down, because for all the information she had memorised she still did not UNDERSTAND. And that was what was giving him a headache. Why, why could the stupid little imbeciles not understand the process of potions? He was honestly beginning to despair.
His moods lifted a little when he saw Finnigan's essay, which was sloppily written on half a sheet of parchment. Pathetic. There was nothing so satisfying as writing that word in red ink all over someone else's writing. It made Snape feel powerful.
Thomas' wasn't too bad. Not that Snape would ever admit it. And then. . .well well, what a surprise. Harry had actually managed to keep to the word limit. Not that Snape would ever tell him, but Harry was student who could excel at Potions, given time. He understood; he saw the subtlety needed with the order of the ingredients. That hair potion he had invented should be patented, but even after all he knew about Harry, Snape was still reluctant to over-praise him.
Reading the essay, Snape found his forehead wrinkling in concentration, the headache and fatigue forgotten. Oh, the essay was brilliantly written; Snape himself couldn't have done better, and he was one of the top Potions Masters in Europe. It was the note attached to the parchment that was making him wonder. Quite simply, it said
"Idea for a variation on Draught of the Living Dead. Recipe as usual but add shredded aconite and a bezoar."
Snape couldn't for the life of him understand how that would work. Add the ingredients where? How much? Why? There were so many questions unanswered. And what would the changed recipe accomplish?
The more he tried to think, the more his head spun, until finally he fell asleep at his desk, the remaining essays ungraded.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()() ()()()
The next morning he had a stinking headache. He saw spots in front of his eyes, and felt nauseous the moment he got out of bed.
Oh Merlin, don't let me be ill NOW he groaned inwardly. It seemed like a very cruel irony that he had escaped poisoning by a hair's breadth in Voldemort's time, but was now coming down with some kind of disease.
His ruminations were disturbed by the need to vomit, and he staggered into the bathroom, nearly knocking himself out on the rim of the toilet as he threw up. He didn't hear the footsteps behind him and therefore nearly leapt out of his skin when someone's hands pulled his long hair out of the way. It would be Harry, of course. He was the only one who knew the password to Snape's rooms.
"I was going to ask how you're feeling" said Harry with a slight chuckle. "But I can see that the answer's fairly apparent. Professor Dumbledore asked me to come and tell you that lessons are cancelled."
"Why?" managed Snape weakly, before throwing up again. Harry rubbed his back soothingly.
"Some Hufflepuff second-year has got 'flu, and seems to have passed it on to virtually everyone in the school. Though I must admit, I thought you had a strong. . ."
"Don't say it" snarled Snape, the effect slightly ruined by him nearly fainting. Harry caught him.
"All those years I served under Voldemort" groaned Snape, "And the first thing that brings me down in 'flu. A Muggle disease, contracted from a BLOODY HUFFLEPUFF!"
Harry winced. Snape sounded seriously deranged.
"C'mon. You'll feel better for being in bed."
"Why aren't you ill?"
Snape knew how petulant he sounded. He didn't care.
"I'm the boy-who-lived. I have to be different, remember?"
This time it was Snape who winced at the bitterness in those words. He knew that some of Harry's scars, both physical and mental, would stay with him until the end of time. At that time, however, he didn't care. He felt ill.
Harry must be virtually carrying him. He certainly couldn't move. His legs felt like lead jelly, if such a thing existed. He was so busy contemplating the possibilities he didn't even notice Harry talking.
"Snape!"
"Ten points from Gryffindor" he snapped, suddenly tired of Harry's cheerful demeanour. As he was looking sullenly at the bedclothes, he didn't notice the hurt look that flashed across Harry's face before it was quickly checked and replaced with the cheerful mask again.
"Dumbledore told me to look after you. Those were his specific orders, and I am obliged to carry them out. So stop moaning."
Deciding that he didn't really mind if Harry was mad with him, Snape unleashed his formidable tongue, the illness unlocking the barbs which he had hidden so well. He liked Harry, but everyone annoyed Severus Snape in some way, and Severus Snape always had something to say about those who annoyed him. Summoning the last of his strength, he reached up and grabbed Harry.
"I do not need you, with your sickening optimism and know-it-all attitude. I do not need molly-coddling, as you do. I require no human closeness, in fact I find it most tiresome. Now GET OUT!"
Harry felt like he had been punched - no, shot - in the stomach as he looked at Snape's face. The black eyes glittered malevolently, no trace of warmth in them now. Again, Harry hid his pain and turned away. Snape thought he'd gone, but he just went into the kitchen, and returned with a glass of water.
"You need to drink." He said shortly. Snape's temper rose, and he threw the glass of water at Harry, uncaring at the gasp that escaped the boy when the glass hit him full on in the face. There was blood. Stupid boy deserved it.
"Do not make me repeat myself, Potter. Get out, and get out now before I do something much less pleasant, like push your wand down your arrogant little throat. GO!"
Emotionlessly, Harry walked quickly to the door, wrenched it open savagely.
"Close the door behind you, Potter" drawled Snape, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head as Harry had the audacity to slam the damn thing so hard it cracked in the middle.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
Harry ran all the way up to his dorm. Everyone except Dean and Lavender from his year was ill, and had been confined to bed. He knew that if he fled to the dorm he would be heard by everyone, so he stopped, and went back to the bathroom. There, he allowed the tears to fall. It didn't help. He put a shatter-proof charm on the mirror, and began to hurl curses and hexes at it. That didn't help either. Looking into the mirror, he saw a long gash running down his cheek from where Snape had thrown the glass at him. And then, as if by magic, his eyes were drawn to a razor lying by one of the sinks. He mustn't - he shouldn't - he really shouldn't.
Why?
Snape had told him not to. But Snape hated him. Harry was no fool; he knew that such stinging words must have festered for some time. Unbidden bitterness welled up in him at the thought of Snape pretending to care, and only being annoyed and disgusted by him. Before he even knew what was happening, he saw blood trickling along his arm. Furious at his idiocy for cutting straight across his wrist, where anyone would see it, he slashed further up his arm, and sighed in relief as he felt the tension ebb away. Stupid, really, to imagine that he had ever been cured. . .
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
There you go. . .a small taster chapter of the sequel to Ill Words, called 'Lost'. Please tell me if you want me to continue. . .I really want feedback about what I should change, and what I should keep the same. I have a vague idea for a plot (yep, not all angst this time!)