Guilt
It was the smell of homemade food that made Harry want to curl back into the bedroom and never set foot outside it again.
It reminded him of spending the end of the summer with Ron's family—Mrs. Weasley preparing lunch in the kitchen while Ron, Ginny, and the twins played Quidditch with him in the backyard. The thought of it all was enough to make him sick to his stomach.
He helplessly dragged his feet down the stairs of Snape's weird old house and prayed for a quiet morning for once in his life.
He saw the man seated at the kitchen table, reading what Harry realised was the Daily Prophet, but just as he tried to catch a glimpse of the headline, Snape dramatically folded the paper in half and set it on the table next to his plate full of food. Unsure whether or not he was allowed to sit until invited, Harry caught a glimpse of his shoes and stared at them.
"Quit dawdling like an idiot, Potter, and sit down," the man exclaimed sharply.
Harry sighed, dragging himself toward the table, shoulders hunched. He sat down, his eyes now fixed on his plate rather than on the man across from him as he picked up his fork. All thoughts of a normal breakfast had long vanished.
The eggs were slightly overdone, the toast a little too crisp, but he didn’t dare complain. He just needed to get through this meal without drawing attention to himself.
As Harry looked up slowly, he saw Snape's long fingers wrapped around a cup of tea. Weird. Snape always looked like the type to drink plain black coffee, bitter from the tears of students he had made cry over the years.
He wasn’t eating, just watching—though whether he was watching Harry or lost in his own thoughts, Harry couldn’t tell. The silence was thick, pressing down on the room like a weighted charm.
"You're late," Snape finally said, his voice clipped but strangely not angry.
Harry swallowed. "I'm aware, sir. I'm sorry. I was a little disoriented by how unfamiliar everything is," he lied.
Snape made a noncommittal noise and returned his gaze to the newspaper beside him.
Harry took that as permission to eat in peace. Or as much peace as one could have with Snape in the room.
That is until Snape spoke again.
"Well?" his voice cut through the silence, "Eat."
Snape picked up his cup of coffee, eyes flicking briefly to Harry. Harry didn’t dare look up, just kept his eyes on the edge of the plate as if it might somehow make the room quieter, smaller... Less noticeable.
Harry reached for the fork, his hand unsteady, and speared a piece of toast. He raised it to his mouth but couldn’t bring himself to swallow. He chewed mechanically, the taste dry and overwhelming, each bite more difficult than the last. He felt like he was swallowing shards of glass. It was taking everything in him to keep from gagging.
He didn’t want to puke in front of Snape. He didn’t want Snape to notice how pathetic he was. So he forced another bite down, this one even harder than the last.
Snape’s eyes remained on him, watching. The silence stretched, and Harry could feel it pressing on him, suffocating him. Snape was observing him as if one would do when watching a poor animal stuck in a cage at the zoo. Clawing on the bars and desperately trying to escape. Like Harry was some sort of puzzle that needed solving.
"You're barely eating," Snape said, his tone low. "Are you trying to starve yourself, Potter?"
Who did the man think he was?
Harry’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to respond, even if the words barely came out. "No, sir."
Snape didn’t seem convinced. He set the coffee down with a soft clink, his gaze narrowing just slightly. "If you’re not hungry, then you can leave. I’m not interested in watching you waste away in front of me."
"I’m not wasting away, sir," Harry replied quickly, his voice whinier than he’d meant.
“Your eating habits are none of my concern, Potter. If you do not want to eat the food served to you, be my guest. I couldn't care less about your special wishes regarding food. But under no circumstances do I want The Headmaster at my throat when I return his Golden Girl in a more malnourished state than she already–”
Harry didn’t hear anything else. He stood up, his chair scratching hard against the wooden floor. He stormed upstairs to (not) his bedroom and slammed the door shut.
What in the hell possessed him to do that, Harry didn't know. He was in for it now.
He was pacing around the room and panic was slowly building up in his chest. Snape would come up any second and would hex him senseless, or do something even worse. Who knows what things Snape is capable of.
Harry stood in the centre of the room and waited for whatever was to become of him when the door would be banged open. Any moment now. He waited.
He hadn't even realised his back hit the wall by the window until he started sliding down against it and pulling his knees to his chest. Fear was swallowing him whole, it started squirming inside him like worms on moist soil. Tears were burning in his eyes and he felt like the most pathetic person on Earth.
He waited. No one came.
No one bothered him for the rest of the day and he finally fell asleep.
It was late at night, and Harry was laying in a bed that wasn't his, placed in the home of a man that hated his guts. It didn't matter that the feeling was mutual.
He was completely alone in all of this, everything was dawning on him, he felt as though he couldn't breathe, like was drowning, slowly but surely being pulled deeper with each passing moment. Harry was drowning and there was no one that could pull him back to the surface. Wrap him up in a blanket and take him somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. Harry was drowning and the only person that he knew for sure would've done that for him was dead, and Harry had blood on his hands. So much blood.
Every time he closed his eyes, he would be met with gray ones. They had a haunted look in them, lacking their usual spark. The one that was present every time they met in the corridors, every time they shared a laugh or exchanged a few words in passing. Every time they broke curfew and went to get some fresh air. Every time they kissed. That spark was gone now, swallowed by the darkness, and Harry could still hear the older boy’s voice in his head, clear as day, calling out to him as if begging for him to make it stop. But Harry couldn’t.
He gripped the sheets beneath him, knuckles white, holding onto something, anything, to keep him anchored. But it was no use. Cedric was dead, and Harry couldn't save him.
These thoughts kept spiralling in his head until they finally tired him and he fell into a restless slumber.