Chapter 7
Harry anxiously ran his fingers through his unruly hair as he accepted the school schedule from Professor Severus Snape. The professor’s glare felt painfully familiar, echoing memories of Aunt Petunia’s disapproving looks, sending a chill down his spine.
Snape wore a constant scowl on his gaunt face, in stark contrast to his meticulously tailored robes that billowed like storm clouds as he moved. He seemed immaculate in every way, except for his perpetually greasy hair, which only amplified Harry's unease.
As Snape distributed schedules to the upper-year Slytherins, the knot of anxiety in Harry’s stomach tightened further. He felt the weight of expectations pressing down on him—expectations that reminded him of the harsh judgment he often received at home. Summoning what little courage he had, he decided to speak up. “It’s strange how someone who looks so clean cut has greasy hair.”
His voice rang out louder than intended in the quiet corridor, drawing Snape’s attention. The professor turned, eyebrow arched in thinly veiled contempt.
“Hand those out, will you?” Snape instructed a Slytherin student, then turned his cold gaze back on Harry. “Well, Boy,” he began, his tone slicing through the air like a sharp knife.
Harry’s heart raced, and he instinctively looked down, his cheeks flushing as he felt the familiar weight of shame. The floor suddenly became the most interesting sight.
“If you must know,” Snape continued, the harshness in his voice sending a jolt of fear through Harry, “it’s polite to look someone in the eye when they’re speaking to you.”
With effort, Harry raised his head to meet Snape’s gaze, but his stomach flipped, and he felt the flutter of panic as he remembered countless times when he had been belittled. “A potion can have disastrous effects if not handled with care,” Snape warned.
Draco Malfoy chimed in, smirking. “You mean to say potions can ruin my hair?” He delivered the line with exaggerated horror, delighting in the attention.
Snape’s scowl deepened, his dark eyes flashing with irritation. “Potions can do far worse than ruin your hair. I consider myself fortunate that it was only my hair that suffered,” he snapped, making it clear that he was insulted.
Draco gasped, clutching his hair dramatically as if Snape’s words had genuinely terrified him.
Suddenly, Snape raised his hand, and Harry flinched reflexively, stumbling backward into Fred, who was watching the scene with a mix of amusement and concern. Harry instinctively raised his hands, bracing for a harsh reprimand that he feared was coming.
To his surprise, Snape merely touched his wand to Harry’s schedule, casting him an incredulous look before marking the Potions time slot. “Be prepared for class, Potter, Malfoy. Or else.” With that, he turned sharply and strode away, robes swirling ominously behind him.
The Weasley twins exchanged glances, Fred breaking into a grin. “There’s no way that story about his hair is true,” he said, elbowing George.
“Well, I’m not taking any chances with my looks!” Draco retorted, his tone indignant but his bravado masking his uncertainty.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Harry examined his school schedule, his hands trembling slightly. “Do you... do you need a wand for Transfiguration?” he asked, his voice wavering.
“Potter, dear,” Fred replied with mock seriousness, “this is a magic school. You need a wand for everything—unless you want your hair to end up like Snape’s!”
With a resigned groan, Harry leaned against the wall, his stomach twisted in knots. It was the first day of classes, and anxiety surged through him like a tidal wave. The prospect of facing new subjects and the judgmental stares of his peers felt overwhelming. He was still grappling with the shadows of his past, constantly aware that beneath the surface of magic lay the remnants of a painful home life. Today was supposed to mark a new beginning, but all he felt was the weight of uncertainty and the burden of expectations that loomed heavily over him.
—
The hallways buzzed with whispers and glances, and though no one said his name, Harry could feel it: they were talking about him.
He walked beside Ron and Draco, his legs already aching from the morning’s chaos. After breakfast, the three of them had set off to find their first class, but Hogwarts was a maze—twisting staircases, moving halls, talking portraits. It wasn’t just confusing; it was exhausting.
“So,” Ron said casually, squinting at a hallway that looked exactly like the last four. “What do you think we’ll do in McGonagall’s class today?”
Draco sniffed. “Probably just go over classroom rules. Nothing interesting.”
“I hope we do cool spells,” Ron added, his voice more hopeful than confident.
Harry didn’t answer. He was too focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to limp too visibly. Every step sent a dull ache through his legs, but he kept going—because stopping felt more dangerous.
“Ron, are you sure we’re going the right way?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
“Uh… not really.” Ron looked around. “But I think we passed this suit of armor already…”
“You think?” Draco said, exasperated. “Who decided you’d lead anyway?”
Ron shrugged. “I didn’t hear you coming up with a better plan.”
Harry tuned them out. Their bickering was a welcome distraction, but it couldn’t mask the deep throb building in his legs or the tightness in his chest. He was falling behind now. He hated that.
He used to be fast. That had been the one thing he had. Fast enough to dodge Dudley’s punches, to outrun Vernon’s wrath. Fast enough to disappear when he wasn’t wanted—which was most of the time.
Now every step felt like betrayal. His own body was working against him.
Draco suddenly perked up. “It’s just up these stairs. I’m sure of it this time.”
Harry stared at the staircase. It stretched upwards like a mountain.
He had already climbed this one. Maybe twice. He couldn’t remember anymore. He couldn’t feel much beyond the burn in his calves and the dragging weight in his legs.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
“What?” Ron asked, glancing back.
“I can’t do another staircase.” Harry’s voice cracked. “How am I supposed to go up and down these stupid things all day with these—these stupid, useless legs?”
But even as the words left his mouth, he started up the steps anyway—because giving up wasn’t an option. It never had been.
His knees buckled. He fell forward into Draco, who caught him clumsily.
“I’m sorry,” Harry gasped. “I’m sorry, Draco.”
Draco steadied him. “It’s Malfoy. And it’s… it’s fine. Really.”
Harry tried again to stand, but his legs refused to hold him.
“I can’t,” he said again, voice shaking. “I can’t put weight on it.”
Draco’s brows pulled together. “Have the medi-witches done anything for you?”
“Medi-witches?”
“Like Muggle doctors,” Ron supplied.
“Oh.” Harry blinked. “I’ve never been to the doctors.”
“Like… ever?” Draco said, his voice sharp.
“No.”
Draco looked furious. Not just annoyed—furious. But Harry didn’t know why.
“You’ve had a limp your whole life and no one took you to a doctor?”
“I haven’t had it my whole life,” Harry said, frowning. “It started after I got my Hogwarts letter. My aunt and uncle weren’t happy about it, so they locked me in my room for a month or so. When they let me out, my legs weren’t the same. I’m sure it’ll go away. It’s only been a few days.”
There was a silence that stretched a little too long. Ron and Draco both looked stricken.
“Oh, but don’t worry,” Harry said quickly. “They let me out to use the bathroom. I got food most days. So it’s really fine. This is just temporary.”
“Harry—” Ron started, but didn’t seem to know what else to say.
Harry could feel the weight of what he’d just admitted. He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn't meant for anyone to hear. He could feel something bubbling up inside—tight and heavy and hot.
He tried again to climb.
He collapsed again.
“It’s fine,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “The sheets here are soft.” His voice was barely a whisper now. His cheeks were wet, but he wasn’t sure when the tears had started.
“It’s fine. It’s fine,” he murmured, over and over.
But it wasn’t. Not the pain in his legs, not the way his chest ached, not the sinking suspicion that maybe—maybe this wouldn’t go away.
And for a second, he hated Hogwarts.
Not because it was cruel, like the Dursleys. But because it had let him hope. It had made him believe he’d finally found a place where he might belong—where he could start over, be someone new.
But now, sitting on the cold stone floor, Harry realized something awful.
It wasn’t the first time he felt like this.
He had spent his whole life not belonging. In cupboards. In classrooms. In crowds of laughing children who never looked his way. And now, even here, in the most magical place in the world, nothing had changed.
The robes were different. The stares were sharper. But the loneliness? That was exactly the same.
“I’m going to get Professor Snape,” Draco said abruptly. His voice was tight. He looked shaken, pale. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared down the corridor.
Ron sat beside Harry silently. There was nothing to say. Not really.
Harry didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want pity.
He just wanted to feel like he belonged.
But he didn’t. Not here. Not anywhere.
The hallway was too quiet. Ron’s and Draco’s footsteps faded around the corner, and Harry was left alone under the weight of Snape’s shadow.
“You. Up.”
Harry didn’t move.
Snape stepped closer, his voice a thin blade. “Unless you plan to remain sprawled across the corridor like some tragic emblem of Gryffindor melodrama, I suggest you stand.”
“I’m not in Gryffindor,” Harry muttered, bracing his hand against the cold stone. “And I’m not being dramatic. I just—”
“Collapsed?” Snape offered, tone clipped and disinterested. “Forgive me, I must have missed the grand performance.”
“I didn’t collapse,” Harry bit out, trying to push himself up. His arms shook. His legs wouldn’t obey. The rage came first, then the shame. “I just—needed a minute.”
“Mm. Of course.” Snape folded his arms. “How very convenient.”
Harry forced himself upright anyway, legs trembling, breath shallow. “I’m fine.”
Snape said nothing for a moment. Then, quietly: “Are you.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
Harry glared at him. “Yeah. I’m fine. I don’t need anything.”
Snape’s eyes swept over him—sweat at the temples, hands clenching the borrowed fabric of robes too fine to be his. “Interesting wardrobe choice.”
Harry looked away. “Mine didn’t fit.”
“No?” Snape’s voice was soft now, edged with something that might’ve been curiosity if it weren’t so cold. “How unfortunate. And where, pray tell, are your school things? Or did your relatives simply forget to equip you with the basics of magical education?”
Harry’s fists clenched. “They didn’t tell me what I’d need.”
Snape tilted his head slightly. “No list. No wand. No robes. No sense. And now—no strength to stand. Remarkable.”
“Shut up,” Harry snapped. His voice cracked. “I don’t need this from you.”
“No,” Snape said evenly. “What you need is clearly much more complicated.”
Harry flinched at that, but the anger was already boiling over. “What do you want from me?” he spat. “I get it. You think I’m pathetic. You think I don’t belong here. That I’m weak.”
Snape’s expression didn’t flicker. “You said it, Potter. Not me.”
“You don’t know me!” Harry shouted. “You don’t know anything about what it was like!”
The words exploded out before he could stop them. He froze.
Snape’s eyes didn’t soften. But his silence changed—he was listening now.
Harry swallowed, throat burning. “I didn’t have anywhere to walk. I didn’t have anything. And even then—” His voice dropped to a mutter. “Even then, they didn’t want me to go.”
There. It was out. Not the full truth. But enough to sting.
Snape’s tone didn’t shift, but his words came slower. “So. You arrived unprepared. Dressed in another boy’s robes. Without books. Without a wand. Without so much as the strength to stand upright. And you call that fine.”
“I said shut up.”
Snape took a step forward. Not looming—measured. “Why are you still pretending this is normal?”
“Because if I don’t pretend,” Harry hissed, “then I have to feel it. And I don’t want to.”
There was a pause. Just a second too long.
Snape’s voice, when it returned, was quiet. Deadly. “Then you’ll feel it anyway. Just slower.”
Harry’s breath hitched. His vision swam.
“You are not fine,” Snape continued. “And you will not continue staggering through this castle like a half-dead shadow. You will go to the hospital wing. You will get help.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
“I don’t need your orders!” Harry yelled, voice cracking again. “I don’t need anyone to fix me. I don’t need you.”
Snape stared at him, unreadable.
Then: “You’re right.”
Harry blinked.
“You don’t need me,” Snape said coldly. “But you will not survive here if you keep lying to yourself.”
Harry didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He stood there shaking, breath ragged.
Snape turned, robes snapping behind him as he strode away.
He didn’t say, Follow me.
But Harry did.
Eventually