Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight and Mercredi
Chapter 95: Telling Tales
http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.php?no=5036&chapter=95
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A Year Like None Other
by Aspen in the Sunlight
and Mercredi
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Chapter Ninety-Five:
Telling Tales
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Snape's quarters were cold and quiet when Harry whirled out of the fire and into the living room. Harry frowned at the silence; some part of him had been hoping that his father would sense him coming and rush out to meet him. Actually going to get Snape was harder, but since the Floo wasn't warded against Harry at all, no one had been alerted to his arrival.
Sighing, Harry dropped the envelope he was still clutching, and wrapped his fingers around his sleeve instead, just over the wound. Yuck. The fabric was damp and cold, and that wasn't even counting what it would look like once the lights down here were spelled on.
Harry shuddered and almost flooed right back to the Tower. How on earth was he going to face his father? What would he think when he saw Harry's blood-soaked sleeve? When he learned what Harry had done to himself?
Nothing for it, though. He either trusted Snape to help him, or he didn't; it was a simple as that.
And Harry trusted him, he really did.
One bracing breath, then two. At which point Harry realised he was still waiting for his father to come out and find him. But clearly, that wasn't going to happen.
It was up to Harry to decide if he wanted Snape's help enough to go and ask for it.
But that's just the problem, his father's voice echoed in his head. You don't ask!
But that's what this year had been all about, Harry suddenly sensed. Learning that he could ask. That he did have someone he could trust with anything. Even this.
His feet seemed to move on their own as Harry made his way to Snape's bedroom door. Then it was just a matter of knocking. To do that, he had to stop clutching his arm. Strange how hard it was to uncurl his fingers from his sleeve and raise his fist to the stout wood.
It suddenly occurred to him that he needed to be quiet. Because otherwise, he'd end up waking Draco as well as Snape. Drawing in another rush of air, Harry carefully rapped his knuckles against the door, three times in quick succession. Then he held his breath. And strained his ears.
Nothing. Not a whisper of sound, not even so much as a rustle. Harry was on the verge of panicking when the door abruptly swung open.
"Harry?" Snape squinted at him in the dim light emanating from the wall sconces above his bed. "I thought it must be Draco needing something. I didn't expect you back tonight."
Obviously, it was too dark for him to have noticed Harry's stained sleeve.
Harry bit his lip. Now that the moment was here, he didn't know how he was going to explain. Or even start.
"Uh . . . um . . ."
Snape had good instincts too. He could tell something was wrong. Reaching out, he laid a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "Come in and tell me about it."
That was enough to loosen Harry's tongue, but not because of the caring he could both hear and feel. It was more the fact that his arm still really hurt, In fact, the longer he stood there, almost frozen by both the chill air and his own reluctance, the more it throbbed.
"Y-- you don't have any healing salve in there, do you?" he half-gasped, all at once so close to tears that he felt instantly ashamed. Or maybe he felt ashamed for another reason entirely.
"Healing salve?" Snape reached into a fold in his dressing gown.
Harry knew what was coming, but he flinched all the same when his father's wand came into view and he heard the illumination charm. Harry squinted his eyes against the brightness. Or maybe, against the look sure to cross Snape's face when he saw just what Harry had been doing to himself.
Snape saw, all right, but he didn't understand. Or at least, not at first, when all he could see was a sleeve drenched in blood. With a harsh intake of breath, he snatched Harry's hand and shoved the fabric up past his elbow.
Harry couldn't help but look down then. His arm looked absolutely awful. Pin-pricked and festering. Bruised. And worst of all, the large puncture a few inches above his wrist, still oozing blood.
Harry felt sick just looking at it. He couldn't imagine how his father felt.
Snape said nothing for a long moment. He merely looked at Harry's arm, his dark eyes steady. After a moment that seemed to last forever, he searched Harry's face.
Harry looked away.
And then, his father spoke.
"You were right; you do need some salve. Let's get this seen to, and then we'll talk."
Talk. Harry didn't know how he could. No matter that his father already knew the truth. He did know. Harry could tell. He'd seen it in the man's eyes in that instant before Harry had looked away, mortified. He'd seen it all. Horror at the truth. Panic, quickly damped. And resolve to help him, whatever it might take.
"Come with me," said Snape calmly, placing his hand on Harry's shoulder again. One gentle nudge, and he was manoeuvring the boy towards his laboratory.
Harry felt dazed. Exhausted. Like he might trip over his own feet as they walked the short distance. Well, it was probably past two in the morning. That wasn't the problem though, and he knew it. He just didn't want to face what was coming.
Explanations.
But he couldn't explain really, could he? He knew why he'd transfigured that first needle, but trying to explain how it had got so far out of control . . . he understood it, but he didn't think anybody else could. There just weren't words for all the horrible thoughts that had been spinning through his head lately.
He started talking so he wouldn't even have to think about them. "Um, are we in your lab so you can brew me some salve? I thought you'd have some already made up."
"And so I do," said Snape, opening a cabinet mounted high on the wall. As he stretched an arm up to reach for something on the top shelf, his dressing gown was pulled up a bit, and Harry saw that his father's feet were bare.
A small detail, but somehow, it got to him. Harry gulped, feeling guilty. He could have waited until morning. He didn't have to drag his father out of bed at an hour like this, and in the dead cold of the dungeons at night.
"Some of those wounds are festering." Snape's voice was matter-of-fact. "You need more than a standard healing salve. But first I think you'd better take off that top, Harry."
Oh. He meant so that his arm could be properly cleaned, probably. Harry gave a shaky nod, his fingers moving to fumble over the buttons at the front of his pyjama top. He wasn't surprised when he saw Snape draw his wand, but it did startle him when the man merely used a soft Aguamenti to moisten a bit of cloth.
Snape began gently wiping the dried blood from Harry's skin.
"Can't you use magic?" asked Harry, wincing. It wasn't that it hurt so badly, though the one spot still did throb. It was more that he hated how long this was taking. The more time it took, the more guilty he felt about what he'd done to himself.
"Sometimes the direct method is best," murmured Snape as he continued working. When Harry's arm was clean, he opened a wide, squat jar and scooped out a portion of glistening olive-coloured goo. Harry wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell, which resembled both overripe cheese and strangely, toothpaste. Well, it could be worse. The stuff could be a potion he'd have to drink, instead of an ointment. He didn't say anything as his father dabbed the salve carefully against each mark on his arm, but when Snape moved as though to cap the jar, Harry gulped again, and twisted his right arm so the underside of it was visible.