Put That Manly Hand in Mine (I'm Just Sev)

Sirius had told him dying was quicker and easier than falling asleep. Harry wonders if the ghost of his godfather was lying to him to be placating, or if the man enthusiastically tortured himself every night before going to bed.

He wakes up with an egregiously splitting headache, barely managing to groan let alone peel his eyes open. And as soon as he does, he slams them back shut, because bright lights beaming from what must be a nearby window have no empathy and there’s a blasted ringing in his ears and why can’t life give him a moment to let him feel pleasant? Aunt Petunia once bought raffle tickets to get a free spa trip to Bali; that’s what the afterlife should be. An eternal spa. Maybe in Bali.

This is, Harry concludes, not in Bali. It’s either the worst reviewed spa of all time or it’s a hospital; Harry can smell the Hogwarts Hospital wing a mile away, giving Remus’ nose a run for his money on that front, and it takes him an embarrassing minute to realise that he’s in the Hogwarts Hospital wing.

Now his eyes practically slam open (the bloody lights are laughing at him, he can tell) as he sits up as gracefully as a drunk gazelle, instinctively reaching for his glasses next to him. He frowns when his hands only swipe cool air, and his frown deepens when he touches his eyelids and, once more, cannot feel the rim of his glasses.

Because his eyesight is fine. Good, even.

Internally, Harry scoffs; trust a wizarding war to finally rectify the Piss Poor Potter Problem of being as blind as a bloody bat (his alliteration is perfect- no damage to the head! Huzzah for the bare minimum!) but this worry is diminished as quickly as it came. Since with his newfound spectacular vision, he can see the wing in all its glory.

Like his eyesight, it’s fine. Great, even.

It’s as neat as he’s ever seen it. The beds across from him, though empty, are all made spotless in its lack of even a singular duvet crease, the pillows are plumped to perfection- even the bed rails are aligned in flawless order, and the floors are polished to the extent that Harry would gladly eat from the ground.

Hogwarts was in ruins not five minutes ago. The dead were splayed in the Great Hall, and bricks were scattered throughout the school from upstairs floors.

This is the afterlife? A tidy hospital wing? Where he doesn’t need glasses?

Ugh.

Harry runs a hand through his hair, wincing at both the movement (another injury, he sighs, feeling a bandage strapped on his forehead and a keening pain in his upper arm; honestly, he might just marry Poppy at this point considering his commitment to keeping her employed) and the grease he can feel on his fingers.

And speaking of his hair. It’s…grown.

Long.

Okay, he nods, then winces (because, ow, maybe his head is damaged, boo) and decides to compartmentalise what the actual fuck is going on. Hermione loves a list and, damn her, their year on the run has rubbed off her tendencies onto him. A list, okay, yeah, he can mentally list his predicament.

A: he’s dead.

Most likely, considering the last thing he remembers is the green light of Voldemort’s killing curse. Maybe he doesn’t need a list.

But then he’s also not feeling particularly dead? And the ringing in his ears is loud enough to imply that he’s very much alive. Do ghosts feel pain? He didn’t have enough time to ask them-

Don’t think about that, Harry, he shuts himself up. But if he’s dead, then maybe, maybe he’ll see the-

B: he’s not dead. Judging by the length and dirt of his hair, he could possibly have been in a magically induced coma? But for how long? And since when does a killing curse equate to Brief Nap Time? Killing curses, Harry has found, usually equate to Permanent Nap Time.

And he says usually, because Potter Luck. And also, because he’s Harry.

He digresses.

C: he’s gone insane and is hallucinating. Maybe he’s still in the Forbidden Forest. Maybe the Death Eaters are having fun with him.

Judging by the headache, and because he’s decided to be a raging optimist in the last two seconds, he’s leaning towards option B. He’ll take a coma over insanity and Death Eater Shenanigans any day.

Footsteps clack on the pristine ground just outside the ward, and Harry sighs a minute breath of relief, which, once again, becomes a wince. Damn wincing. Damn chest pain.

No time to dwell, though, not when his head snaps to the direction of the door opening, Poppy swiftly walking through in a way that is so efficient and self-assured and Poppy that Harry resists the urge to let out a sob of sheer relief.

It’s so good to see her not covered in Hogwarts’ ruins.

She even looks-

Different.

Harry’s been near the woman on enough accounts to know the little details that most sensible, rarely ill slash injured students definitely don’t: her left eye has more crow’s feet than her right (not that he’d ever tell her that, otherwise he’d leave the wing in worse condition) and that when her scowls are upturned, it’s actually a fond, albeit exasperated, grin.

There are no crowsfeet. And that’s definitely not a smile sent in his direction.

Is Poppy dead too?

He leans from B to A. A makes more sense right now.

(Can the ringing stop for one bloody second-)

“Good, you’re up,” she tells him, her tone much more professional than he’s become accustomed to, and before he can ask questions (am I dead? Awake from a coma? Delusional? All brilliant areas to dive into) she ploughs on. “You have two bruised ribs and a minor concussion. I have healed the cut in your arm, though do try not to overuse it in the coming week. That means minimal spell work. I have an assortment of potions for the concussion for you, but do not take them all at once. Understood?”

Harry blinks at her. A minor concussion? Bruised ribs and a cut arm are the least of his worries.

Option C is beginning to make more sense.

“What happened?” He asks instead, flinching at his voice- it sounds deeper, more grating- but he can’t focus on that right now. “Is everyone alright? Are Ron and Hermione-”

“Ron?” Poppy asks, eyeing him in the way Ron eyes Hermione during her House Elf rants. Detached interest.  

Harry wants to wave his arms in complete and utter frustration, but Merlin forbid he prevents the healing of his precious sliced arm. He practically snarls instead. This is getting ridiculous.

“Is everyone alright? I don’t underst-”

“Mr Snape, please calm down, unless you would like some Calming Dr-”

“Calm down?! Calm-”

Wait.

What.

Harry blinks slowly this time, halted in his steps yet fizzling with a different kind of energy. His heart is now pumping erratically, and through the haze of confusion, he can practically feel the words his organ is pounding.

“What did you call me?”

Poppy moves a step forward, what was once speculation now something clipped and impenetrably professional. Harry tries not to shake from trepidation.

The ringing continues.

“Are you having lapses in your memory, Mr Snape?” She asks, her tone leaving no room for comfort. Harry wouldn’t want it anyways.

Mr Snape. Mr Snape.

Ah, Option C. Barmy it is then.

“The head wound was not severe,” Poppy continues, tilting his head up swiftly, her grip softening ever so slightly after Harry’s flinch. She looks into his eyes- his eyes that don’t need glasses- and then inspects the rest of his face.

Is his nose larger? Are his lips thinner?

Where are Ron and Hermione-

“Are you feeling disoriented, Mr Sn-“

“May I have a mirror, Po- Madame Pomfrey? To inspect the cuts?” He asks, avoiding the sharp flare of panic that’s clogging his veins by the second, proceeded by the now routine wince. His voice…does sound different.

No. There’s just no way. Nope. No ta. He can’t be this far gone.

Why couldn’t it be Option A?

Harry’s so busy keeping his breathing under control that he almost falls off the bed when a mirror seemingly comes out of nowhere, Poppy’s steadying feeling like it’s miles away from where he really is. Harry has enough awareness to snatch the object before it can be taken from him and grips it hard enough to see his knuckles whiten. But when he brings it to his face, his whole body goes numb.

Significantly more youthful than the last he’d seen of the man, his scowl laxer and eyes less tight and cold, his neck smooth and unharmed-

Yep. That would, indeed, be the face of Professor Snape.

So there is, belatedly, an Option D. The more the merrier, he vaguely supposes.

This promptly leads to Harry throwing up next to his bedside. Damn ear ringing.

---

The next hour goes by very quickly, mostly ascribed to the Calming Draught shoved down his throat and the mechanical ushering of him-Snape- back into bed. Harry would be thankful for this, but he’s also either woken up from some magical surgery looking like Severus sodding Snape, has gone off the rails to the point of delusion in which he is living life as Severus sodding Snape, or he’s gone back in time and has shoved himself inside Severus, middle name Sodding, last name Snape. So. He’s not feeling thankful for much at the moment.

Poppy, for all she excels at healing, has managed to dupe herself into believing this frankly appalling reaction to- to whatever he’ll call this- be some kind of traumatic response to ‘the night before.’ Harry has no idea what this famous ‘night before’ she’s going on about is, and he’s too mentally exhausted to ask questions that would have Poppy becoming more concerned and, dare he think it, shrill, reality or not. He, therefore, quite wisely mind you, nods assuringly at her barrage of questions, pretends to sleep for the majority of the hour and tries not to scream Voldemort’s name and yell at him for not doing the courtesy of killing him properly.

He thought Option C was the worst-case scenario. He’s now praying to any deity that Option D is the no go, and Option C can run to him with open arms.

Okay, he straightens, after an hour is gone. Poppy’s popped off to Merlin knows where, and he’s gotten at least a good twenty per cent of the violent panic out of his system. He closes his eyes, considering. Time to think like Hermione.

He’ll entertain Option D, considering he has no other choice right about now. Poppy’s looking considerably younger and like he’s practically a stranger, Snape’s looking younger than even Harry, and Hogwarts is intact.

Option D:

Time travel.

It’s such a ludicrous option that Harry wants to shake his head until the thought tumbles out, and then he wants to take the thought, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it aggressively and repeatedly with his shoe. Alas. He’ll entertain the thought of time travel, since there’s not much else to do but lie here with only his exhausted mind for company. And though he’s a deeply paranoid individual, there is quite literally no reason for someone to kidnap him and make him believe he’s gone back in time to when Snape was practically prepubescent.

He freezes.

Snape…if- if this is time trav- he was in the same year as-

The door opens once more, and Harry breathes out in what he can only hope to resemble meditation, his eyes still clamped shut. Thank Merlin for Poppy still being Poppy, not allowing him to work himself into a frenzy. Panic levels remain stagnant. Huzzah.

“Good morning, my boy.”

Panic levels increase by two hundred per cent.

No. No fucking way.

He’d know that voice anywhere. He heard it in a pensieve not two hours ago. He heard it explain why Harry needed to die.

Harry laughs.

He laughs and laughs and laughs and grips his stomach from the frankly foreign sensation, hears himself laugh- hears Snape’s laughter- and it only makes him grip his diaphragm harder. He’s never heard Snape so much as chuckle- maybe if he’d hung round the man more often and watched him kick puppies or steal ice cream from children he’d be used to the sensation- but the sound makes him want to cry, too. Just a bit.

He doesn’t know how to feel about him. A few hours ago, he’d have only the most negative of monologues, but now, now that he knows why-

“Ah, the joys of youth. I admit, I am not sure what caused such a reaction. Perhaps I can decipher its meaning another day.”

Dumbledore sits primly on a chair that was certainly not there an hour ago, watching him with a pleasant, albeit slightly distant, gaze. He’s in his usual blinding colours- a pink hat matched with some purple patterned robes that reminds Harry of a hippie’s carpet- yet his hand is clear of curses and his hair is slightly shorter.

And he looks at Harry like they don’t know each other.

It stings. But Harry works past that, swallowing thickly.

“Headmaster,” he says, relieved when his voice doesn’t waver.

You’ve been raising him like a pig for slau-

“I don’t need to tell you why I’m here. Do I, my boy?”

Harry refrains from saying, you indeed, fucking do, my adult, but he clamps his teeth down on his tongue. The laughter is gone but the sadness is not, and the anger has always been a part of him. Instead, he breathes. And lies his arse off.

“No, Sir.”

Dumbledore inclines his head. “What you did last night was incredibly foolish and reckless. I know you are not completely at fault,” he continues, speaking as if he believes Harry will protest. He believes wrong; Harry has no idea what is going on and doesn’t think protesting will make the process smoother. Frankly, Dolores Umbridge could walk in here right now and snog Dumbledore senseless, and Harry would just go with it.

Option C is looking more beautiful by the second.

Dumbledore is now staring at him, and Harry has realised that, while picturing Dolores Umbridge sucking his dead Headmaster’s face, the apparently alive version has been talking at him for Merlin knows how long.

Harry stops himself from smacking his head. The ringing is still there, but he finds it’s actually a good anchor in this moment.

“Sorry, Headmaster. Could you repeat that?”

Dumbledore’s eyes don’t twinkle. “Remus Lupin,” Harry snaps to attention, “Is an upstanding student. Whatever your…qualms with his friends may be, it would be a highly intolerable situation should his secret be put in jeopardy. Should students find out of his condition, I would be disappointed. In you, Severus.”

Oh.

Oh.

Well. Much to unpack.

Is this about the night where…where Snape almost died? Where Sirius (Sirius) told Snape to go to the Shrieking Shack? Where Snape saw Remus transform?

And Remus! Remus-

(Remus in the Great Hall, his arms dangling by his sides-)

“Should his condition be made known, I would have no choice but to take further action and expel you, my boy. I think we can both agree that that would be a horrible predicament for us both.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone Remus is a werewolf!” Harry snaps, incensed. Then remembers what his face currently looks like and hushes his tone. “I mean- I wouldn’t do that to someone, is all.”

Dumbledore goes back to staring at him. His expression betrays nothing, which actually stings more than blatant mistrust. He spent so much time with the man, but he never really knew him, did he? And- if this is real, even if it isn’t- he knows that Dumbledore would never let him.

The silence stretches for a little while. Harry avoids eye contact like his life depends on it, seeing as if this is, insanely, Option D, he’s not having anyone look into his mind, especially a master Legilimencer.

Sod that.

“Your parents have been notified of tonight’s occurrence,” is what Dumbledore says, when it’s clear Harry’s not going to budge, and Harry perks up before he clocks that he means Snape's parents. Honestly, Harry is still surprised he has them. Assumed he lived in a coffin during the holidays. Anywho, Harry has decided to let the rest of the conversation be handled by the older man. Harry is fundamentally a stubborn bastard at heart, and too much is going on in his head, asides from the ringing, for him to focus on being threatened by either the illusion or younger form of his dead ex-mentor. He honestly just wants to shrivel up into a ball and never speak to anyone again. 

Alas.

“....and what will be done to prevent similar situations occur again. For now, I will let you rest. But perhaps, if I find that you are not as sincere as you would seem, there may be…more measures, to ensure your silence.”

Well. That sounds unethical. Then again, upon review, Dumbledore might not have ever been a very ethical man.

He’s gone as quickly as he came, like he wanted to get that little chat over with as quickly as possible in the first place. Harry wonders how he ever laughed to begin with, in the resounding silence.

---

Finding his room is genuinely more difficult than a Wizard’s Chess game against Ron.

Luckily Dumbledore had told Poppy to tell him the Slytherin password, on accounts of a ‘shaky mind’- the comment actually hit a bit too close to home, eye-twinkling-maybe-not-dead-bastard- but he had to cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself in order to go in and scan every bloody room that had a missing occupant. Truly, at this point Harry would sleep on the floor of any bed next to some poor bloke, but he doesn’t see the ramifications of that being in his favour. Luckily again, Slytherins are boring tossers who stay in after curfew, so by the time he does find a spare bed, he’s quite certain it’s his.

How lucky Harry is, truly.

Unluckily, one of his roommates (who he couldn’t name if there was a wand to his head) stirs. His face is scrunched up, and Harry idly wonders if it’s because he’s been roused or if that’s how his features have decided to naturally align.

He's being petty, sure. It's been a long day, and he's fairly certain students are supposed to be waking up soon, meaning his eyes will shut then fly open at a record breaking speed. Such luck.

“So?” The boy asks when he spots Harry, blinking sleep from his eyes and looking at him expectantly. Harry’s used to that look, but it’s usually presented to him in more desperate earnest. While this is less overwhelming, it feels like he’s being mocked.

“So what?” Harry grumbles, swiping a hand over his face. He almost hisses when he remembers the bandage on his forehead, though he’d rather have a couple of scrapes to that incessant ringing in his ears.

“So what the fuck happened to you, Snivellus?” The boy coos. Harry actually finds a small part of himself happy at the blatant disrespect in his tone. He needs someone to be angry at right now that isn’t himself. Blow off some steam when the need arises.

“Mind your own business. I’m going to bed.”

Harry ignores the raised eyebrows at the barb, throwing himself onto the only empty bed and deflating like an already thin balloon. He distantly remembers Hermione telling him that horrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time, Harry, and maybe tomorrow he’ll work himself up into a frenzy over a stupid comment, and maybe tomorrow he’ll freak out over all the implications of what being here (or hallucinating being here) might entail, but he’s tired, and he hasn’t slept in what feels like years, and he’s either imagining being Snape or is Snape. So, respectfully to Hermione, he’s going to do what he wants for now. Banish all the other pesky reminders from his mind, or at least try to.

But it’s the one stray thought, the cream of the crop, the cherry on top, that makes him gasp in melancholy and subsequent despair-

He can’t even have a wank.