"This one too," he said, wishing more than almost anything that he could avoid admitting it.
Snape's hair swayed as he nodded, his features impassive. Harry couldn't believe his father didn't care, but the way he was reacting . . . the way he was not reacting, actually, was beginning to be really worrisome. "Aren't you angry?" he asked as Snape set to work dabbing salve once more.
The man's black eyes flashed something as he looked up and met Harry's gaze. "I'm not pleased," he said, the words so dry they felt cutting. But not hurtful, which was odd. "However, I hardly think that what you need at the moment is more drama."
That made sense. Actually, it made so much sense that Harry felt himself nodding. "I . . . yeah. All right."
Snape finished treating Harry's other arm. This time, before capping the jar, he asked if Harry needed salve anywhere else. That question was almost harder to bear than all that had come before. Harry hung his head even as he shook it.
"Come, then," said Snape.
Harry scooped up his shirt from where he'd laid it on the counter, and followed his father out. He sort of expected they'd be going to Snape's office next, to talk, but the man stopped in the living room and turned to face Harry, who was shivering by then.
Snape frowned, and flicked his wand to cast some heating spells.
"Thanks," said Harry, his teeth chattering, but not with cold. Nerves, that was it. He moved the hand holding his bloodied top. "Um, I don't really want to put this back on. Clammy--" As he followed that thought through to its logical conclusion, his stomach seemed to sink right down to his toes. He whispered the rest of it. "But I d- d- don't want to go get something and wake Dr- Draco . . ."
"I'll lend you something." Snape disappeared down the hall before Harry could remember to tell him to put on some slippers. For a moment, Harry just stared after him, a little surprised that his father hadn't Accio'd whatever he had in mind. It dimly occurred to him that perhaps Snape's summoning charms were just as noisy as his own.
Realising he was still holding his bloody pyjama top, Harry shuddered. It was horrible and disgusting, proof of how badly he'd messed up. He wanted to banish it, but his wand was still up in the Tower, and it hardly seemed like a good time to start openly using wandless magic. Harry dropped the top to the floor and tried to pretend it wasn't there, staring up at him.
When Snape emerged, a soft grey jumper in his hands, he was no longer dressed for bed. He'd changed into black slacks and a dark green shirt, and he'd put on some shoes.
Harry took the jumper and slipped it over his head. It was too big for him and hung loose, but Harry didn't mind that, even if it did remind him of the kind of clothes he'd had to wear while growing up. This was different, now. Dudley's cast-off clothing had meant he was unwanted at home, but this . . . this meant he was loved.
Though he was pretty surprised Snape had a jumper like this to start with. It didn't quite seem his style.
"Molly Weasley," said his father when he mentioned it. His voice grew dry as he continued. "A belated Christmas present. I suspect I may be on her list from now on out."
"Yeah, I have a whole collection of jumpers. Gryffindor colours, mostly. I bet Draco will start getting them too, now. Only his will probably be green, I guess." Harry was aware he was babbling, but Snape didn't seem to be objecting. "Um, speaking of Draco, did he mention our row?"
Harry braced himself. He couldn't imagine what Draco might have said, but it wasn't likely to be flattering towards Harry.
"I could tell you must have rowed." Snape sighed. "Draco's mood was foul, to say the least."
Harry knew it wasn't very Slytherin to ask, but he couldn't help it; he had to know. "Did he tell you I'd flooed back to the Tower?"
Snape's frown reached his eyes. "I asked you not to do that. But to answer you, Draco merely said you'd gone back early. In fact, he all but implied that he'd walked you to the Tower."
Oh. So Draco hadn't badmouthed him to Snape. Harry felt bad now that he'd thought the opposite. In fact, he felt so bad that his arms started to itch something awful. He started rubbing his hands up and down his arms, the motion almost frantic.
Snape, he noticed after a moment, was staring.
"Itchy jumper," said Harry to excuse himself.
"I seriously doubt that." Snape waited a moment, his dark gaze steady on Harry, then finally spoke again. "Are you ready to talk about it, now?"
Harry tried to nod, but it came out more like a circular motion. Because he wasn't ready, not really. He needed to talk, but that didn't have anything to do with being prepared to. "Um . . ."
"Let's sit down," said Snape quietly, moving to seat himself on the couch.
Harry looked longingly back at the Floo. He wanted to go back up to the Tower and go to sleep and pretend he'd never come down here like this. Snape deserved better than a son who was so mental that he--
He couldn't even complete the thought. No wonder he couldn't start talking like his father obviously wished.
"I left my wand in the common room," he said, stepping towards the fireplace. "I . . . uh, I'll just go get it, all right?"
"It is absolutely not all right," said Snape in a harder voice. "I'll collect it for you after we've finished here. Until then, I'm certain no one will disturb it."
"I guess I'll get it when I go back up," Harry said dully. He felt defeated. Clearly, Snape was going to make him talk. No ifs, ands, or buts.
"You're mistaken if you think you're going back up." Snape shook his head as he spoke. "You can't return to your dormitory tonight, Harry. It's far too likely that you'll hurt yourself again."
Harry flinched. Apparently Snape didn't have any trouble putting Harry's problem into words.
"I . . . yeah." Harry flopped down onto the opposite end of the couch and tried to find some words of his own. "I . . . I came down here to talk, 'cause it seemed like it was just . . . getting out of hand, but . . ." He shrugged, uncomfortable.
"It's good you realise that it's got out of hand," Snape said slowly. "I hope you also understand, however, that there's no possible way something like this can be in hand. Yes?"
Harry opened his mouth, but it had gone so dry that he couldn't speak. Literally. He gave a shaky nod, instead.
Proving once again how perceptive he could be, Snape conjured him a glass of water and leaned forward to hand it to him.
Harry sipped some. He wanted to quaff the whole glass but even a little bit made him feel sort of queasy. Too much tension. He was starting to feel desperate. He'd been down here for who knows how long, and he still hadn't managed to say anything that mattered. And it was looking even less likely than before that he'd ever manage it.
"How did this start, Harry?" Snape quietly asked, plucking the glass from between his fingers and setting it down.
"I . . . uh, the snake pit, and fears, and I just wanted to be strong like you said--" Hearing how much like a nutter he sounded, Harry tried again. "I don't feel bad, see? And so I had to."
God, that wasn't any better.
"I can't!" he cried, balling his hands into fists. His fingernails dug into his palms. It wasn't quite like the needle, but it was something, at least. "I mean, I know how it started, but it's not going to make sense to anyone else, all right? Not even you! Because you've been through horrible, awful things in your life. I know you have. But you've never done something like this, have you?"