If he wanted to go through with this, he didn't have any choice but to render himself helpless, but that didn't mean he had to like it.
"I will fight for you, if it comes to that," Snape solemnly promised.
"Don't leave me," Harry heard himself beg, and cringed.
"I would not."
Harry nodded, strangely reassured, but before he could say much else, the surgical team was coming in. A few preliminaries, during which Snape took off Harry's glasses to pocket them. Then Harry saw a needle after all; something was being injected into the tube that had been fed into a vein in his arm. He jerked slightly, though the needle hadn't touched him, and felt a hand suddenly clasp his fingers in a warm, secure grip, a grip that promised it would be there as long as he needed it. It helped focus him, helped him remember that he wasn't alone with the Muggle doctors. There was someone here who understood, who would help him if things went horribly wrong.
A sensation of unbearable sleepiness began to wash over him. Harry closed his eyes, barely feeling it when a mask was put over his mouth and nose, when he started to breathe in something cooler and moister than usual.
And still that hand held his, an anchor he could cling to, though his fingers were losing all grip.
Harry's last thought before he went under was, Well, what do you know? Maybe Snape doesn't stink at this as much as I thought.
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The next thing he knew, vague voices were bouncing off the walls all around him, and he couldn't open his eyes. He couldn't move, either, but it seemed like less than half of him even wanted to, so he wasn't bothered.
Snatches of conversation revolved around him, drifting in and out of reach, some force outside himself pulling them closer, and then away. Harry was vaguely reminded of a trip to Brighton when he was little, the waves lapping the shore, Dudley running in and out of the water, splashing Harry until he cried. Chips, Harry suddenly thought, his mind veering off. Really good chips. With vinegar . . . Tincture of Anatase is in no way similar to vinegar, Mr Potter . . . but no, Mr Potter is my father, isn't he? . . . wait, do I have a father?
Suddenly feeling distressed, Harry made a little whimpering noise.
He heard footsteps approach, and this time it seemed his ears could reach out and grasp snippets of speech, disconnected ones that took a while to make sense, though he could tell by then that it was Remus' beautifully calm voice talking. Remus, and someone else.
"They said four hours . . ."
"Too long . . . been days . . ."
" . . .wish he would wake up . . ."
"Remus," Harry managed to surface enough to croak. He didn't want Remus to be worried about him; he was awake, now. Well, sort of. It seemed like he went right back to sleep after saying the name, though he could still hear and feel through his slumber. A hand stroked the hair back from his forehead, then somebody was washing his face, though a cleansing spell would have done just as well, surely . . . but the water felt good, so very good. Warm, and lightly scented, easing him right back into sleep.
Harry drifted under and dreamed of a long-haired witch crooning lullabies to a tiny, dark-haired baby.
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"Harry," a voice came again, this time each sound distinct, like his hearing was amplified instead of muddled.
Harry blinked, then felt his eyelids start to ache. The sensation spreading, he realised that his whole body throbbed with low-level pain. Ignoring it, he blinked again, then managed to keep his eyes open. The world wavered before his eyes like ripples of heat across a windswept landscape. Harry stared at it, not seeing the room he was in or the corridor beyond the open door. All he saw was Remus, looking a bit less-defined than usual, but still recognizable.
"Hey, Remus," he groaned, squinting a bit. How long had it been since he'd really got to talk to Remus?
Remus pulled a chair close to the bed and laid a hand on Harry's forehead. "No fever," he commented, but when he went to pull his fingers away, Harry awkwardly caught hold of them and sighed, intertwining their fingers as he pulled Remus' hand to rest beside him on the bed. Why was it so blasted hard to move his own arm? No matter, he felt ever so much better now that he had Remus.
"Why would I have a fever?" he thought to ask, though the question seemed nonsensical. He wasn't even sure he'd really heard right.
"You had one for hours," Remus explained, flexing his fingers, but Harry tightened his own so the man couldn't get free. But why would Remus want to pull away? Remus had never been reluctant to offer him comfort, before. Maybe Remus was mad about what had happened to Sirius? No, that couldn't be it. That short note he'd got hadn't been angry at all. At least, he didn't think so . . .
Remus' quiet words came back to him, then . . . You had one for ours . . . But the words didn't make sense.
"Ours?" Harry echoed, his brow furling. "Our what? Oh, you mean our study sessions?" A hazy expression somewhere between a frown and confusion settled on his features. "I feel really bad, Remus."
"What is it?" Remus sharply questioned, leaning closer. "You slept forty hours when they said it would be four. You could be having yet more complications--"
"Huh?" was all Harry could make of that. "No, I feel bad about our study sessions, silly," he chided. "I don't think I ever thanked you. Hmm, maybe I did. Seems like I can't remember, but third year's a long time ago. Or was it second year I had you for Defence?"
Next to him, Remus stiffened as though quite surprised by the question, but then he slowly nodded. "It was third year when you . . . ah, had me for Defence, Harry," he replied in a voice that sounded somehow off. Amused? No, not amused, more like bemused, Harry thought. "And I'm quite sure you must have thanked me."
"Nobody else ever tutored me, Remus. Nobody. Not once, not ever." Harry said, pushing up a bit groggily. It hurt, but so did lying prone.
Remus seemed to frown at that, which befuddled Harry until he figured out Remus had noticed that he needed the bed adjusted. The man pulled his wand from inside his warm vest and spelled the mattress to tilt slightly upwards.
"Ahhh," Harry moaned, stretching out his back against the incline. Wasn't that just like Remus to be so attentive and considerate? "Mmm. Thanks, Remus. I feel loads better, now."
He looked at Remus again, this time noticing that he was sort of funny looking. Blurry. Hmm, the whole room was blurry. It didn't occur to him to ask for his glasses, though, or even realise that he usually wore them. Actually, the blur was sort of nice, he thought. It matched the fuzzy feeling in his brain.
"Do you like lemonade?" he asked, clear out of the blue.
"Too sweet," Remus answered, sounding as though he was having rather a hard time not chuckling. "Would you like some, Harry? Are you thirsty?"
But Harry's thoughts had already gone sailing past that. "Do you think the house-elves have a thing against citrus? Say, remember the chocolate? That was really strange."
It looked like Remus blinked to Harry, but things were so bleary, he couldn't be sure. "The chocolate your cousin gave you?"
"No, the chocolate you gave me, silly," Harry said, squeezing Remus' fingers. It was so good to talk to him. He could tell Remus anything. "On the train. You know, after the Dementor nearly got me. Did I thank you for the chocolate? Anyway, it was . . . really strange."