"There's no pain inside," Harry protested, though in a certain sense, that wasn't true.
"There will be, once the Helasbreath elixir I put in your lemonade wears off."
Harry nodded, weary. Not so very long ago, the idea that Snape had slipped him something would have been positively gruesome. Now, he just couldn't bring himself to be concerned about it. Ron would say he was a nutter, but then again, Ron didn't know Snape.
And Harry barely knew him, but he did know enough. "Thank you," he said, laying back down. "For all of it, staying with me through the operation, being here with me, now. For the potion, for . . ." He didn't know what else to say.
"You're very careful to thank people, aren't you?" Snape observed, rising to his feet and brushing lint from Remus' wool trousers. "You don't need to thank me, Harry."
Then, as if ill at ease with what he had just said, he briskly announced, "I'll summon someone to see to you. In the meantime, if you feel up to it, you might catch up on some schoolwork."
Following his glance, Harry noticed his books piled on the night table. He hardly felt like studying, but maybe it would take his mind off everything else. As Snape departed, Harry pulled Transfigurations: Sixth Year Theory and Cases from the pile and began to read.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"One would think you hadn't eaten in four days," Snape lightly commented when Harry polished off his second dinner tray.
"Yeah, well I haven't," Harry returned, then wondered at his teacher's smirk. "Have I?"
"I couldn't let you starve, could I?"
"Once you would have," Harry mused, then realised that wasn't true. Even first year, Snape had been looking out for him, protecting him when Quirrell hexed his broom, for instance. He'd been merciless with criticism, and had acted for all the world as though he'd like nothing better than to see Harry dead, but when it came right down to it, they'd been on the same side, even way back then. "So you spelled something into my stomach?" he reasoned.
"Pumpkin juice," Snape quipped, then quirked a grin at Harry's expression. "No, of course not. It was a nutritive potion, very light, but enough to keep you alive indefinitely." He shrugged. "No one knew how long it would be before you regained consciousness."
"Well, I'm fine now," Harry announced, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand up. Hmm, fine might be a slight overstatement; he was a tad unsteady on his feet. However, it was nothing that he couldn't handle. "All I need is a phone. I don't suppose St. Mungo's has one?"
"A . . . phone," Snape echoed, nonplussed.
"Yeah, to call Uncle Vernon," Harry explained, and when Snape still looked blank, exclaimed, "Could be wizards do things differently, I don't know. But I have to find out about the funeral. Maybe we should just make our way back to Privet Drive."
"I didn't think you would care to go to any funeral," Snape cautiously offered.
"Well, you thought wrong," Harry retorted, feeling defensive, miserable, and vulnerable all at once. All in all, it was a dreadful combination. "It's the decent thing to do, and before you start going off about how Gryffindor loyalty is utter rot, think about our objective here. I'm not likely to get on Dudley's good side after this, but he certainly won't agree to any warding if I skive off his mother's funeral. Though . . ." Another thought occurred to him. "When did she pass on, anyway? I suppose the funeral might have come and gone while I was out of it."
"She died the day before yesterday," Snape offered.
"So, I wouldn't have missed it, not yet."
"Likely not. Though we can still excuse any absence by saying that you were too ill to come."
"No."
"Harry--"
"No."
"All right," Snape acquiesced. "I will endeavour to locate a phone, since I do not recommend you return to Privet Drive without talking to your family, first. Your uncle is too volatile."
Harry didn't know how his professor had managed, but the man was back in a few minutes, proffering a slim, silver mobile. Harry had never used one. It took him some time to realise that there was never going to be a dialling tone, and a little longer to figure out that he had to turn it on.
After he heard another phone ringing, he whispered over to Snape, "Would you mind?" and more or less waved him from the room. Snape didn't leave, although he did step away, toward the warded doors.
Harry took a deep breath and braced himself to weather Uncle Vernon's wrath, but it was Dudley who picked up the receiver.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Dudley, who'd obviously been blubbering, Harry thought. He could barely make his cousin out.
"Oh, H-- Harry," he sobbed. "It's awful, awful. D-- Did you hear, did they tell you?"
"Yeah, they told me," Harry softly replied. "I'm sorry, Dudley. I know it doesn't help, but I'm really, really sorry."
"D-- Dad thinks you did it on pur-- pur-- purpose!" Dudley said, his tone somewhere between a screech and a moan. "Said you can't come home, Harry. Ev-- Ev-- Ever!"
Some gulping noises ensued, and then it seemed that Dudley had managed to get himself more in hand.
Harry had more or less assumed that Vernon would refuse to take him again; that not just the wards, but his only home outside of Hogwarts was well and truly lost. It surprised him a bit that Dudley sounded so regretful, but Harry chalked that up to general emotional devastation. It occurred to him that if you had to have your mother die, maybe it wasn't so bad having it happen when you were only one year old, and couldn't understand the loss.
"Can you tell me when the funeral is?" Harry asked. "And where?"
"Ooooh, you'd better not come, Harry," Dudley urged, his voice insistent. "I mean it. Dad's going to kill you."
"Well, you know he always says things like that," Harry murmured. "To me, at least."
"Yeah. I used to think it was funny. I'm sorry about that. But now . . ." Dudley gulped again, and began talking quickly, as though he'd heard someone coming. "You haven't seen him. He's got this look in his eyes. It's scary, Harry. Don't come, all right? Don't come."
"Dudley--"
"I've got to go," his cousin yelped. "Don't call again! But . . . well, you can write me. I'd like that, if you didn't use an owl. Bye!"
The line went dead. Harry stared at the phone for a while before remembering to turn it off. When Snape came back over, Harry said, "I don't think Dudley hates me," but his voice sounded dead. "That won't be enough to keep my mother's sacrifice active, will it? I mean, if Uncle Vernon won't have me in his house, there's no place to ward."
"I think we should return to Hogwarts," Snape announced. "The sooner, the better. I can see to anything else you need as you recover."
"No," Harry said again, trying to figure out why the idea filled him with such distress. "Don't you see? I . . . I don't know if my parents even had a funeral. I can't just go off and act like nothing's happened. I can't pretend that it's nothing to do with me that Aunt Petunia died!"
When Snape still looked reluctant, Harry pressed, "We'll stand at the back, all right? We'll just sort of lurk . . . out of sight. But I have to go, Professor. I just have to."
"When and where?" Snape sighed, taking the phone and slipping it into Remus' vest pocket.
"Dudley didn't say." Harry didn't think his cousin would say, either, even if he rang back. "Get me some papers from Surrey, then. There'll be an announcement."
Snape stared.
"Don't want to help?" Harry sniped, worried he'd miss it after all if Snape remained so intractable. "Fine. I'll wander around Muggle London looking for Surrey papers, myself. I'll yell if I see Voldemort, how does that sound?"