Walk the Shadows

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Severus was beside himself. More than a week had passed with no change from the young Gryffindor. Severus had fed him, given him potions and tea to drink, had Scourgified him and vanished waste from his bladder with a wave of a wand. The wand was a back-up he kept for emergencies, since his own was still at that loathsome manor. He'd made sure the boy was comfortable in the bed at night and during the mornings, when Severus was preparing potions for Harry and for the school infirmary, and he had propped the boy up on the couch in the main room during the afternoons, in front of the fire, as he'd seemed to like in Topsham.

Because Harry was so unresponsive, Severus could not even be sure the eye treatment had worked. Though he'd given the boy several more doses of the potion he'd developed, he had no idea if the boy could see yet. But Harry stared at the fire each afternoon, almost unblinking, and seemingly mesmerized by the flames. So he had high hopes, for that at least.

Harry's mouth moved betimes, but no sound ever came out. Except once, and Severus still winced at the recollection. Days ago, while the boy was propped on the couch in front of the fireplace, Severus had been reading a new potions journal article aloud, hoping at least the sound of his voice would eventually stir some reaction, when he'd distinctly heard hissing. More than anything else, it reminded him of that damned Parseltongue, which had given the boy so much trouble in his second year. But it only lasted a second, and afterwards, when he'd risen and gone to the boy, and crouched in front of him, only to meet blank eyes, he wasn't sure he'd heard it at all.

If he had made any noise at all, Harry had since gone back to silence.

Which was why he was so completely gobsmacked when they were in their customary places one afternoon, Harry on the couch, and he on a winged chair, reading aloud from a Wizarding history magazine, when a small voice said, 'Please, some water?'

Severus almost dropped his journal. Indeed, he fumbled it in his hands as he hurried to put it down, even as he leapt to his feet. 'Harry?' he asked, peering at the boy.

Green eyes looked back at him tiredly, and the spark in them was more dampened than he had ever seen it – except perhaps that night after Cedric Diggory died – but it was there.

'Can you see me?'

Harry blinked heavy eyes, but nodded. 'Blurry.'

'Your glasses,' Severus looked around, finding the horrid NHS frames on the table beside him. 'Here, let me,' he continued as the boy struggled to free his hands from the cocooning quilt, and settled the glasses on Harry's nose. 'Better?'

'Yes, sir.' His tone was hesitant, and softer than a whisper. If these dungeons weren't so naturally quiet, Severus would never have heard.

In a trice, he conjured a small glass of water, and waited for Harry to get his hands free to take it. The boy's hands still trembled as he accepted the drink, but not nearly like they had in the infirmary, just the faintest of tremors, really. The new post-Cruciatus potion he'd developed, this one for prolonged exposure, was working swimmingly, it appeared. He'd have to send a sample along to St. Mungo's.

Harry sipped at the water, the first independent thing he'd done since their incarceration, and Severus watched him with a strange sense of satisfaction.

When the boy had drunk almost half the glass, he stopped and closed his eyes again.

Severus took the glass from him and banished it to the kitchens. 'Harry?' he said again. 'Anything else I can get you?'

'M'tired, Professor,' the boy said and did not open his eyes again, though he did pull the quilt closer and hunch himself inside it. 'Just tired.'

Well.

It was a start.

TBC . . .

*Chapter 12*: Chapter 12

Walk the Shadows -- Chapter 12

By jharad17

Disclaimer: None of this is mine. I'm playing in someone else's pond. She's rich, I'm not.

Previously:

'M'tired, Professor,' the boy said and did not open his eyes again, though he did pull the quilt closer and hunch himself inside it. 'Just tired.'

Well.

It was a start.

From the comfort of the couch, Harry watched, through heavily lidded eyes, as the professor stalked about his chambers with the grace normally associated with felines. He and the other Gryffindors often referred to Snape as the Greasy Git, or the Big Bat of the Dungeons, but in truth, he was neither batlike, or terribly gittish . . . was gittish a word? Harry thought it over for a while, glad to give his mind something to focus on that wasn't Snape or Snape's-quarters related.

After due consideration, he decided gittish should be a word, if it wasn't already, and Hermione, who seemed to dislike made up words immensely, since she couldn't find them in any book, would just have to get over it.

He still had no idea why he was in Snape's quarters, and at Hogwarts either, for that matter. Snape hadn't