More Than Blood Shall Spill; Gift for k8matty!
Recipient: k8matty
Title: More Than Blood Shall Spill
Author: teganscrush
Beta: whymyzcal
Pairing/s: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Self-harm, mentions of blood (though not blood-play), non-con, underage Harry (he is 16).
Word Count: 5,240
Summary: When Harry loses his ability to feel, Snape steps in to show him the error of his ways.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Author's Notes: This story takes place after fifth year, up to the point of the return of Voldemort and the Battle of the Ministry. Non-canon after that point. k8matty, I hope this satisfies your request for Snape/Harry, self-harm and dubious consent. Thanks to my beta, D., who always pushes me to be a better writer.
More Than Blood Shall Spill
The smell of the blood is not the allure; it’s a metallic, coppery smell that still makes Harry feel more than a little sick at the first whiff. It’s the way the excess spills and swirls down the drain in the loo, the way it darkens to nearly black and cakes on his white skin, clinging until he scrubs it off -- the instant bold red always shocks him and he becomes hypnotized all over again as he watches the liquid drip from his veins.
Harry never consciously set out to hurt himself, the way some do (mostly girls, he has learned from careful eavesdropping). Girls do it deliberately from the start - they do it to fit in, to be part of a clique, to be as cool as the others they idolize. He doesn’t do it for those reasons. If his friends knew he hurt himself like this, they’d be horrified. They’d worry and watch him like a hawk, and drag him to the hospital wing, and then Madame Pomfrey would hover over him with her characteristically concerned look. He would feel terrible and it wouldn’t change anything, in the end.
Harry does this - the cutting, the slicing into his upper arm, thigh, anyplace that no one will see - deliberately. He does it with intent and a surprising amount of skill.
If he spent the same amount of time on his schoolwork, he might well rival Hermione for top-of-the-class status. But right now, school doesn’t matter to Harry. Nothing matters except the ritual and the pain and experiencing that pain. He cuts a little deeper every time, worries wounds that haven’t healed, pulls the skin off the older cuts to see the blood flow anew. He does this in lieu of going to class, going to lunch, going to dinner, even Quidditch practice. Slowly but surely, nothing else is beginning to matter.
The school staff confers amongst themselves as to whether they should intervene, force Harry to go to class, try to talk to him about what happened at the end of last term. They wonder if a psychiatric medi-witch or wizard is the answer. They appeal to Dumbledore, whose answers are either frustratingly vague or negative. This goes on for the first few months of term, and then they give up. Potter will come around or not, and everyone grieves in their own way, don’t they? Perhaps leaving him be is best. Harry hears these whispers everywhere he goes and has learned to ignore them
Hermione is not convinced; neither is Ginny. Together, they try everything they can think of to arouse Harry’s interest in … well, anything. He is polite, but he still brushes them off. He is similarly dismissive to Ron, who hates it but rather figures this is his payback for fifth year. He checks in on Harry but doesn’t pry, and he drags his sister and friend away when Harry gets that thousand-yard stare. Harry once heard Ron talking about him to his dorm-mates, hears Ron say that despite being held at wand-point by Death Eaters and watching his short, mostly-happy life pass before his eyes, that stare is still the scariest thing he’s ever experienced.
As the days go by, people finally get the picture: leave Harry alone. He’ll be back around when he’s ready, and besides, he did tangle with You-Know-Who last year and lose his godfather and all that. He deserves some peace and quiet.
So the staff watches him in class and his friends exchange worried glances, but they leave him alone. Until one staff member decides that Potter’s checking out is not acceptable and decides that damn it, he will get to Potter one way or the other
Despite his elevation to the position of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Snape realizes that there is less trust in him this term than ever before. Yes, he has at last managed the position he has wanted -- and actively pursued -- since his initial hiring, but the reappearance of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his attendant cadre of Death Eaters has once again cast suspicion on Snape and his allegiances, past and present. He ignores most of the looks, the whispers - and those are just from his colleagues, let alone the students, most of whom still view him with a healthy fear.
He has expected Potter to be difficult, to try and diminish him with his paltry Dumbledore’s Army-bred skills. He’s been ready to put Potter in his place once again, Chosen One or not. But the damnable boy doesn’t even deign to show up to his class, or any other, and Severus Snape will not be ignored.
~* ~
Moaning Myrtle thinks about the unexpected visit she has recently had, and wonders if it will help Harry at all. Myrtle had been extremely curious as to what Harry Potter was doing in her lair; he wasn’t brewing an illegal potion, and he wasn’t performing any forbidden acts. He simply came in, head down, shuffling along like every other boy, and went into the last cubicle - the one that was a little bigger than the others - and closed the door, locking it from the inside. He would stay there for a long time, sometimes all night, and then emerge looking even more tired than when he went in. He would stare at the floor, and then the door would bang shut, the noise echoing through the room. Occasionally Myrtle would go into the cubicle to look around, sometimes finding bits of blood or human skin. Both made her shudder.
Her curiosity was great enough to force her to actually answer Professor Snape when he came into her bathroom - and he was a boy! - asking if she had seen Harry. She told him all she knew, and then he was gone in a billow of robe and attitude. She didn’t like him, not at all. But she worried for Harry. All the ghosts of Hogwarts did. Maybe, somehow, this rude man could help Harry stop whatever he was doing before …
… before something bad happened.
~*~
When Potter doesn’t show up at the appointed class time, Snape seethes inwardly - that blasted ghost had been less than helpful, although the information about the traces of blood was somewhat interesting. He conducts class in his usual manner, and then, since it is a Wednesday and he is blessed with just one class of simpering idiots to instruct, he is free - free to do a bit of following Potter of his own.
The child is not at lunch, unsurprisingly, although his little friends are; he notices them casting about for Potter and then exchanging glances and going back to their food. Following them is a useless enterprise, he can see that, and so begins his own search[:] the Quidditch Pitch, the changing rooms, the Astronomy Tower, various alcoves and window seats. He searches these places thoroughly, hesitating briefly before entering Moaning Myrtle’s lair again - she is not a favorite of his, either.
She is not about, it would seem, but Snape stays quiet, beside the door, and after a bit he hears a bit of innocuous scraping along the stone at the far end of the room. He draws close, his steps inaudible until he stops beside the closed stall door. A tattered and burnt-looking trainer peeps out from underneath and, taking a silent breath, Snape flings open the door to look down at a haunted-looking Potter, hands covered in blood, some still dripping onto his ratty jeans from the truly nasty-looking slice across his stomach.
For one of the first times in his life, Snape doesn’t know what to say. He has never encountered anything like this before, has never concerned himself much with his students, save Draco, and nothing in his experience has prepared him for this sight. This is no spell, no hex or curse; this is deliberate self-harm.
Potter hasn’t moved, just turned his eyes downward again, and Snape, hating this, hating Potter, can only stare down at him before stooping and taking Potter’s wrist, turning it over roughly and prying the sharp blade from Potter’s palm. He looks at it in disgust before throwing it into the nearest sink and then pulling Potter up; the boy weighs nearly nothing. The boy tries to wrest himself away from the hard grasp, but can’t. Snape is stronger than he looks and Potter is no match for him.
Snape wraps his own handkerchief around Potter’s leaking wrists, and then pulls the t-shirt down over the scar on his stomach. The hooded sweatshirt is zipped up and Potter is pulled along bodily by Snape, who arranges his expression into one that suggests dark things. Those who encounter them in the hallway give them a wide berth.
In Snape’s private quarters, Potter is not pushed so much as thrown onto the settee while Snape glowers down at him. He wants to yell at him, slap him across the face, demand an explanation, possibly curse him into oblivion. This, this is what Lily died protecting? This blood-soaked, hollow boy who looks more miserably blank than any human being should, is her legacy?
He’ll be damned if it is.
Snape shrugs off his heavy outer robe, summons several vials and bottles to his side, and then orders Potter to strip. Potter looks up at him in disbelief, and Snape is absurdly glad to see some affect there. “Strip? As in take off all my clothes?”
Snape raises a brow. “Why, Potter, you have learned from Granger, haven’t you? Has she made you read a dictionary? For that is the definition of strip: ‘to take off all down to the base level.’ Do it - now.”
Potter hesitates and Snape grows even more impatient. “Are you deaf as well as stupid? Take off your bloody clothes!” He means it literally, and Potter obeys, taking off his outer shirt, then pulling off his stained t-shirt. Snape watches and has to school himself not to express any emotion at all when he sees what Potter has done to himself. The trousers come off reluctantly, very much so, and when Potter is standing in his boxer shorts - held at the waist with a safety pin, how charmingly Muggle - he lets out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
“Come into the light, Potter.” Snape’s voice is not kind -- it is seldom kind -- but it is not harsh, either. Potter does, closing his eyes while Snape looks him over, his dark eyes betraying nothing. Potter has scarred himself as definitively as Riddle had: marks on his arms above the elbow, just above where a pushed-up sleeve would end. His stomach is crisscrossed with red and pale white stripes, new and old scars. The one he’d been digging at is a deep purple - it hasn’t been allowed to heal. Potter’s upper thighs show signs of more abuse and Snape pushes up the hem of the boxers to where dark tendrils of hair can barely be seen as Harry squirms.
He lets the fabric go; it falls in baggy folds around Potter’s legs as Potter waits for the inevitable torrent of abuse he is clearly sure will begin at any moment - but Snape does not oblige him. Instead, he wipes squares of cotton cloths saturated with Suturing solution over Potter’s half-healed marks and scars. Some begin to fade, to close, to disappear into Potter’s skin like they never existed at all. He jerks away, a look of horror and anger in his eyes.
“You have no right!” Potter’s voice is shaky and hoarse, unused. “Those are mine and you have no right to touch them!”
Snape sets down his bottle and drops the cloth on the settee. “You’re correct, Potter. Technically, I have no right. I had no right to inquire about you, follow you, bring you here or clean your wounds. However, I have a veiled interest in you not killing yourself in either slow and steady or big and showy ways, as does the rest of our world.”
He has gotten the worst of it; the stomach wound will take more than a simple salve, but it has stopped bleeding, and other than being weak, Potter seems none the worse for it. Snape rises and goes to his closet, removing a robe - green, yes, and a remnant of bygone days, but it will fit Potter. “Your clothes are an utter disgrace, and you smell like one of Aberforth Dumbledore’s goats. You will go into the loo and clean yourself properly, put this robe on, and eat something of substance. When I am satisfied, then, and only then, will you be allowed to return to your quarters, where you will read your assignments so as to be ready for classes tomorrow.”
Harry is glaring at him. Snape stares back. “Do you hear me, Potter?”
Lily’s eyes had snapped like that once, and despite himself, he is drawn to them, though he’s sure none of it shows on his face. Potter turns and, like the teenager he unquestionably is, slams the door behind him. Snape waits till he hears running water and splashing. He hopes Potter isn’t stupid enough to try and fool him. He has a late lunch brought, and is placidly sipping tea laced with brandy when Potter emerges, damp and smelling fresher, at least. The robe fits him well, and he thumps down into the chair across from Snape.
“Happy?”
“Ecstatic. Eat.”
Potter doesn’t want to give in, but Snape can hear the boy’s stomach growling.
“What did you put in this?” Potter is sniffing at his tea.
“Brandy. Of course it is poisoned, because after all, I wasted my afternoon on patching you up and cleaning you just to see you drop dead. That was my plan all along, you see; clever of you to deduce it.” Snape continues sipping his tea, grateful for the warmth of the brandy flowing down into his stomach and spreading outwards.
There is a snort, or an approximation of one, and Potter begins to eat, demolishing the food in true Weasley style. It’s all in the company you keep, Snape thinks wryly.
When Potter has finished the food and possibly taken a bite of tray, Snape hands him a small glass containing more brandy, watching while Potter studies it carefully.
“Trust me, boy, it’s better than whatever rubbish Finnigan has conjured; your palate will thank you. Drink up, but sip. ‘Chugging’ that, as it were, would lay you out flat.”
Harry obliges, surprisingly enough, taking a sip. He seems to understand that something is coming and is steeling himself. Snape is studying Potter out of the corner of his eye while ostensibly examining the cracks in the water-stained ceiling; he could fix them, yes, but he rather likes them. After a long moment, he turns his eyes back to Harry. “I would think,” he says slowly, “that the goal after such an experience as the Veil would be to not feel; not feel even more.”
Potter stops, his tumbler midway to his mouth, and then takes another tentative sip; he must suspect that Snape is going to trap him.
“It would seem that way, yes.” His tone is noncommittal, and Snape watches him take a heftier drink this time.
“It would. So then I am forced to ask, as any thinking person should, why you would engage in pastimes that, in addition to being roundly stupid, also cause pain, which, if I’m not mistaken, would force you to feel. It seems rather counterproductive to me.”
“It’s none of your concern, Professor, so why you should be thinking on this subject at all?” Potter has set down his glass, primed for an argument. He still looks miserable, but not blank, and if Snape plays his cards correctly, the misery will turn to feistiness, then anger, and then, possibly, to rage. Potter is filled with rage, Snape knows. In this way, they are far more alike than different.
“I wouldn’t say that it’s none of my concern, Potter.” He is relaxed, glass held loosely in his hand. “When a student misses class, misses meals, is uncommunicative and surly - surlier than usual, I should add - and is showing himself to be a danger to himself, if not to others, then regardless of my personal reluctance to get involved, it is my business.”
“I’m fine,” Potter says through clenched teeth. “I’m not hurting anyone else, I’m not interfering with others. What I do is my concern, and mine alone.”
“How I wish that were the case.” Snape sets down his tumbler of brandy, watching it catch the light. “If it were just you, I would gladly and with much thanks indeed, leave you alone. But as I mentioned before, this Chosen One business is troublesome. It implies that you need to be whole and unscathed in order to fulfill your destiny and all that claptrap. Don’t blame me, blame the world.”
He moves to the edge of his seat, facing Potter, sitting on the edge of his seat. “It’s no secret that I bear you no love, Potter. I consider you more of a problem than you are worth and believe that you have more of James Potter’s traits than your mother’s, and as you saw in your chance glimpse into my mind last year, your father and I had an unpleasant history. However …” He pauses and rubs his face. “What you lived through last year is a terrible thing. Black meant a great deal to you, and you, in turn, have not handled your grief responsibly. Instead of honoring his memory by working to become the best person, wizard, or weapon that you can be, you have spent your time in isolation, slashing the only body you have to ribbons.” He leans back. “It seems remarkably stupid to me.”
Potter’s lip curls. “That you find me stupid is not exactly news to me, Professor.”
“Nor should it be; you’re not the sharpest tack in the box, as they say, but you are bright enough to know that what you’re doing won’t help. It won’t.”
“You don’t know anything about what I’m doing or what it means! Your whole ‘feeling pain’ comment was a shot in the dark and you know it.” The boy’s feet are moving back and forth, a nervous jiggling that Snape has always found exceedingly annoying.
“Perhaps, but I’ve hit a nerve, haven’t I?” Snape picks up his brandy and swirls it before taking a deep swallow, ignoring his own advice. “You are either channeling your mental pain into physical, or worse, you managed to shut yourself down so completely that you even frightened yourself and now draw blood to remember how to feel. Which one is it, Potter?”
Potter bites his lip and doesn’t answer, and while Snape is not a patient man, brandy helps, and he is willing to wait - for a bit.
The silence stretches long, annoyingly so.
“Retreat is a coward’s measure, Potter.” Snape’s voice is quiet. “Hiding from pain is cowardly, and it will linger far longer than it should. Facing your pain is the only way to banish it - what you are doing is a stopgap, no more, no less. Blood spilled will not bring Black back. It will not restore your parents to life. It will only weaken you in a time when you cannot be weak. You are giving in to weakness - do you think the Dark Lord won’t know? Do you think He will not exult and rejoice that his own destiny grows stronger while yours falls into darkness?”
Potter is taking short, shallow breaths; the older man can tell that he hates that he is hearing Snape, that his words are making sense, that they, in fact, mirror his own deepest self’s words to him, the ones that echo in his mind as he draws the blade across his skin. All the blood he has shed will not silence them. Potter is an open book, and Snape can watch his emotions scroll across that open face. Occlumency is nearly unnecessary in Potter’s case - one need only to observe to know all that is worth knowing.
“I try to imagine that the blood is the pain,” he whispers. “Sometimes I think that if I cut myself enough times, cut deep enough, spill enough blood, then maybe the pain will go with it. Sometimes I feel nothing, and then I hope that feeling something, even the sting and burn of the cut, will help me to remember how to feel. It’s either all or nothing. I can’t balance them.”
Snape knows that Potter will not say he was scared - but he didn’t have to. He knows Snape can tell. He watches the boy wait for the words, the sharp, harsh words that Snape will surely unleash on him any second. Potter waits a long moment, staring at the floor, but the words never come. He finally looks up, and Snape is once again staring at the ceiling, mapping the cracks, stains, bulges. He does this for a long time.
When he finally speaks, he can tell it is not what Potter expects. “You will stay here tonight,” Snape says softly. “You may have my bed - and worry not, the sheets are clean - and you will have a restful night’s sleep, away from snoring Weasleys and drooling Longbottoms. The bedroom is through there,” he inclines his head towards a closed door at the far end of the room, “and it is time for you to rest, and let your body heal.”
Potter opens his mouth, probably to protest that Snape hasn’t understood anything that he’s said, but Snape holds up a hand. “I have heard all that you’ve said and much more that you haven’t seen fit to share; however valid your emotions may be, your body still needs to rest in preparation for you to slash and violate it another day. Now go.”
Potter stands, and Snape can feel the boy’s frustration in thinking that he hasn’t explained, hasn’t made the impression he meant to make, and then thinks with disgust that he doesn’t care what Snape thinks of him. With that no doubt righteous indignation in mind, he stalks off to the bedroom, shutting the door rather harder than he means to.
Snape listens to Harry slide into the bed, hears him grumbling to himself, and when the lamp goes out and there is silence, he sighs. He has always known that Potter is a pain in the arse, an entitled brat, a showoff, but he never thought him a coward. He’s not sure he likes this new image of Potter. He’s not sure he can stomach Potter’s weakness.
The scars disgusted him; he would never think of scarring himself, imperfect specimen though he might be. One is only ever given one body, and without that body in peak form, one is lessened, diminished. Yet, he understands Potter’s reasons. In his own way, he even sympathizes because he knows what it feels like to want to bury emotion where it can no longer hurt you - where it can no longer matter. Loving Lily had taught him all about pain and loss.
He makes his bed on the worn couch - he has slept here many a night when the brandy took him, and he always emerges none the worse for the wear. He settles under an ancient blanket, Slytherin silver and green, and closes his eyes.
For what seems like hours, there is no sound save the dripping of moisture from the eaves and the nearly inaudible sounds of an ancient building settling and sighing. Snape knows these noises well, and they lull him into welcome blackness.
But the moans wake him, force him upright and reaching for his wand as he stands - if this is a bloody ghost, they’ll wish they were dead all over again. But the sounds are coming from behind the heavy oak door. He pauses, waiting for assurance that these are unhappy moans and that Potter has not woken him with teenage pastimes. But the moans soon become interspersed with mumbles and broken words, and Snape sighs and enters the bedroom softly.
Potter has destroyed his bed, the sheets tumbled half off, the blankets in a puddle on the floor, and the boy himself is curled into a ball, rocking and muttering to himself. Snape stands beside the bed for a moment, and then, against his better judgment, picks up the blankets, pulls the sheets up over Potter, and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Potter,” he says softly, but there is no response. “Potter!” he repeats, sharper now, and The boy sits up, his eyes blank and unfocused. Snape sets his wand down and chances putting a hand on Potter’s shoulder; he dislikes touching people, but for Lily’s sake, he will bend his personal rules - a bit.
The hand makes Potter jump and he blinks, his eyes clearing, and he mutters something about a bad dream. He gets up, drinks a cup of water, then comes back to bed, pulling up the covers with a muttered “Thanks.”
Snape lets him be, but the second time he is woken, the hand on Potter’s shoulder is rougher, accompanied by a little shake. And the third time, Snape is not gentle at all but grips Potter’s shoulder, hard, and demands to know what manner of nightmare he is having that compels him to wake Snape over and over. Potter mumbles something about bad dreams, Black, Riddle, and fountains that move.
After the fourth time, he makes his bed on a lounge in his bedroom, the better to watch Potter in his sleep. He considers a Sleeping Draught but curiosity has overcome him and he abandons sleep for the night. The fifth time Potter wakes in a tangle of sheets, Snape does something he has never considered in his wildest dreams - he slides in beside Potter, much to the boy’s evident horror.
Potter sputters something about how sick this is, how he could have Snape fired, and goes on at length until his eyelids droop and his head turns on the pillow, soft breaths finally signalling sleep]. Snape makes sure that no part of his body is touching Potter’s while he waits for the inevitable waking. No wonder the boy looks more and more exhausted every day.
The fifth waking comes near the break of dawn, and Snape is ready for it this time; the method he has come up with is rather unorthodox and Potter will sputter, but it is the most effective way to deal with nightmares based around not feeling anything.
When Potter starts to twist and mumble, Snape - discreetly clad in thick pyjama bottoms and a nightshirt - curls himself around Potter and holds him. He wraps his arms around him, encasing Potter solidly and simply holds on. It is all he means to do.
Potter quiets quickly, far more quickly than the previous times, and Snape relaxes his arms, but does not let go. Potter’s head is nestled under his chin and his heat is intense; the boy is bare-chested, clad only in those wretched boxers. He feels small and slight in Snape’s arms.
It would be wrong to take advantage of such vulnerability; Snape knows this. It would reinforce Potter’s objections; it would be exploiting a student in a weak moment. But this is all that is left of Lily - this child, no matter how objectionable he is while awake, is the only reminder he has of the one person he has managed to love in this lifetime. So he holds Potter a little closer than he should and buries his face in his hair, rubbing his cheek against the thick, coarse locks, and breathes him in. Still, Potter sleeps, only turning a little in Snape’s embrace, sighing to himself.
Snape bends his head and chances a brief, light brush of lips across the back of Potter’s neck, soft skin dusted with pale down, and then draws his lips up Potter’s neck to breathe softly on the shell of his ear.
He traces the dusky shell with his tongue next, and Potter stirs again, moving his head on the pillow and turning his face towards Snape. With such a palette in front of him, any inhibition he might have felt disappears, and he slides one arm free and props himself up so he is looking down at Potter. Slowly, he runs his tongue over each black brow, then along the lash line, while Potter whimpers, the dreams beginning anew.
When the boy begins to gasp, his lips opening as he tries to breathe, Snape covers them with his own, taking Potter’s breath and whatever innocence he may have left in one hard, needy kiss.
~*~
The staff notices that Harry still looks tired, wan, as though sleep were not a luxury he permits himself. He is still absent from class more often than not, and when McGonagall asks Snape if there is anything he could do, perhaps a potion to allow the boy to sleep, Snape merely shrugs and says that whatever burden Potter is bearing, he bears it alone.
He still patches Potter up, sometimes slapping away the hand that tries to stop him. Twice, Potter has struck him as he smoothed salve on the stomach wound, and Snape retaliates quickly, pinning his hands and leaning in to whisper into that pink ear just exactly what he plans to do to Potter that night. The boy quiets immediately, staring at him with wide eyes behind those ridiculous glasses.
Sometimes Potter fights back, kicks him, turns his back on him, even spits or bites, but he does each thing only once, for retribution is swift and decisive. Then Potter will turn back, cowed, staring at Snape with a mixture of hate and need. Snape is satisfied that he is teaching Potter every day what it means to feel, counteracting the pain the boy inflicts upon himself. He is teaching him that one cannot run away from the pain, that it must be experienced and dealt with, however one chooses to do so.
He has not stopped Potter’s pain, but he has assuaged his own; it is the last gift of a shadow of his past, for he, too, now remembers what it is like to feel.
Title: More Than Blood Shall Spill
Author: teganscrush
Beta: whymyzcal
Pairing/s: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Self-harm, mentions of blood (though not blood-play), non-con, underage Harry (he is 16).
Word Count: 5,240
Summary: When Harry loses his ability to feel, Snape steps in to show him the error of his ways.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Author's Notes: This story takes place after fifth year, up to the point of the return of Voldemort and the Battle of the Ministry. Non-canon after that point. k8matty, I hope this satisfies your request for Snape/Harry, self-harm and dubious consent. Thanks to my beta, D., who always pushes me to be a better writer.
More Than Blood Shall Spill
The smell of the blood is not the allure; it’s a metallic, coppery smell that still makes Harry feel more than a little sick at the first whiff. It’s the way the excess spills and swirls down the drain in the loo, the way it darkens to nearly black and cakes on his white skin, clinging until he scrubs it off -- the instant bold red always shocks him and he becomes hypnotized all over again as he watches the liquid drip from his veins.
Harry never consciously set out to hurt himself, the way some do (mostly girls, he has learned from careful eavesdropping). Girls do it deliberately from the start - they do it to fit in, to be part of a clique, to be as cool as the others they idolize. He doesn’t do it for those reasons. If his friends knew he hurt himself like this, they’d be horrified. They’d worry and watch him like a hawk, and drag him to the hospital wing, and then Madame Pomfrey would hover over him with her characteristically concerned look. He would feel terrible and it wouldn’t change anything, in the end.
Harry does this - the cutting, the slicing into his upper arm, thigh, anyplace that no one will see - deliberately. He does it with intent and a surprising amount of skill.
If he spent the same amount of time on his schoolwork, he might well rival Hermione for top-of-the-class status. But right now, school doesn’t matter to Harry. Nothing matters except the ritual and the pain and experiencing that pain. He cuts a little deeper every time, worries wounds that haven’t healed, pulls the skin off the older cuts to see the blood flow anew. He does this in lieu of going to class, going to lunch, going to dinner, even Quidditch practice. Slowly but surely, nothing else is beginning to matter.
The school staff confers amongst themselves as to whether they should intervene, force Harry to go to class, try to talk to him about what happened at the end of last term. They wonder if a psychiatric medi-witch or wizard is the answer. They appeal to Dumbledore, whose answers are either frustratingly vague or negative. This goes on for the first few months of term, and then they give up. Potter will come around or not, and everyone grieves in their own way, don’t they? Perhaps leaving him be is best. Harry hears these whispers everywhere he goes and has learned to ignore them
Hermione is not convinced; neither is Ginny. Together, they try everything they can think of to arouse Harry’s interest in … well, anything. He is polite, but he still brushes them off. He is similarly dismissive to Ron, who hates it but rather figures this is his payback for fifth year. He checks in on Harry but doesn’t pry, and he drags his sister and friend away when Harry gets that thousand-yard stare. Harry once heard Ron talking about him to his dorm-mates, hears Ron say that despite being held at wand-point by Death Eaters and watching his short, mostly-happy life pass before his eyes, that stare is still the scariest thing he’s ever experienced.
As the days go by, people finally get the picture: leave Harry alone. He’ll be back around when he’s ready, and besides, he did tangle with You-Know-Who last year and lose his godfather and all that. He deserves some peace and quiet.
So the staff watches him in class and his friends exchange worried glances, but they leave him alone. Until one staff member decides that Potter’s checking out is not acceptable and decides that damn it, he will get to Potter one way or the other
Despite his elevation to the position of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Snape realizes that there is less trust in him this term than ever before. Yes, he has at last managed the position he has wanted -- and actively pursued -- since his initial hiring, but the reappearance of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his attendant cadre of Death Eaters has once again cast suspicion on Snape and his allegiances, past and present. He ignores most of the looks, the whispers - and those are just from his colleagues, let alone the students, most of whom still view him with a healthy fear.
He has expected Potter to be difficult, to try and diminish him with his paltry Dumbledore’s Army-bred skills. He’s been ready to put Potter in his place once again, Chosen One or not. But the damnable boy doesn’t even deign to show up to his class, or any other, and Severus Snape will not be ignored.
~* ~
Moaning Myrtle thinks about the unexpected visit she has recently had, and wonders if it will help Harry at all. Myrtle had been extremely curious as to what Harry Potter was doing in her lair; he wasn’t brewing an illegal potion, and he wasn’t performing any forbidden acts. He simply came in, head down, shuffling along like every other boy, and went into the last cubicle - the one that was a little bigger than the others - and closed the door, locking it from the inside. He would stay there for a long time, sometimes all night, and then emerge looking even more tired than when he went in. He would stare at the floor, and then the door would bang shut, the noise echoing through the room. Occasionally Myrtle would go into the cubicle to look around, sometimes finding bits of blood or human skin. Both made her shudder.
Her curiosity was great enough to force her to actually answer Professor Snape when he came into her bathroom - and he was a boy! - asking if she had seen Harry. She told him all she knew, and then he was gone in a billow of robe and attitude. She didn’t like him, not at all. But she worried for Harry. All the ghosts of Hogwarts did. Maybe, somehow, this rude man could help Harry stop whatever he was doing before …
… before something bad happened.
~*~
When Potter doesn’t show up at the appointed class time, Snape seethes inwardly - that blasted ghost had been less than helpful, although the information about the traces of blood was somewhat interesting. He conducts class in his usual manner, and then, since it is a Wednesday and he is blessed with just one class of simpering idiots to instruct, he is free - free to do a bit of following Potter of his own.
The child is not at lunch, unsurprisingly, although his little friends are; he notices them casting about for Potter and then exchanging glances and going back to their food. Following them is a useless enterprise, he can see that, and so begins his own search[:] the Quidditch Pitch, the changing rooms, the Astronomy Tower, various alcoves and window seats. He searches these places thoroughly, hesitating briefly before entering Moaning Myrtle’s lair again - she is not a favorite of his, either.
She is not about, it would seem, but Snape stays quiet, beside the door, and after a bit he hears a bit of innocuous scraping along the stone at the far end of the room. He draws close, his steps inaudible until he stops beside the closed stall door. A tattered and burnt-looking trainer peeps out from underneath and, taking a silent breath, Snape flings open the door to look down at a haunted-looking Potter, hands covered in blood, some still dripping onto his ratty jeans from the truly nasty-looking slice across his stomach.
For one of the first times in his life, Snape doesn’t know what to say. He has never encountered anything like this before, has never concerned himself much with his students, save Draco, and nothing in his experience has prepared him for this sight. This is no spell, no hex or curse; this is deliberate self-harm.
Potter hasn’t moved, just turned his eyes downward again, and Snape, hating this, hating Potter, can only stare down at him before stooping and taking Potter’s wrist, turning it over roughly and prying the sharp blade from Potter’s palm. He looks at it in disgust before throwing it into the nearest sink and then pulling Potter up; the boy weighs nearly nothing. The boy tries to wrest himself away from the hard grasp, but can’t. Snape is stronger than he looks and Potter is no match for him.
Snape wraps his own handkerchief around Potter’s leaking wrists, and then pulls the t-shirt down over the scar on his stomach. The hooded sweatshirt is zipped up and Potter is pulled along bodily by Snape, who arranges his expression into one that suggests dark things. Those who encounter them in the hallway give them a wide berth.
In Snape’s private quarters, Potter is not pushed so much as thrown onto the settee while Snape glowers down at him. He wants to yell at him, slap him across the face, demand an explanation, possibly curse him into oblivion. This, this is what Lily died protecting? This blood-soaked, hollow boy who looks more miserably blank than any human being should, is her legacy?
He’ll be damned if it is.
Snape shrugs off his heavy outer robe, summons several vials and bottles to his side, and then orders Potter to strip. Potter looks up at him in disbelief, and Snape is absurdly glad to see some affect there. “Strip? As in take off all my clothes?”
Snape raises a brow. “Why, Potter, you have learned from Granger, haven’t you? Has she made you read a dictionary? For that is the definition of strip: ‘to take off all down to the base level.’ Do it - now.”
Potter hesitates and Snape grows even more impatient. “Are you deaf as well as stupid? Take off your bloody clothes!” He means it literally, and Potter obeys, taking off his outer shirt, then pulling off his stained t-shirt. Snape watches and has to school himself not to express any emotion at all when he sees what Potter has done to himself. The trousers come off reluctantly, very much so, and when Potter is standing in his boxer shorts - held at the waist with a safety pin, how charmingly Muggle - he lets out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
“Come into the light, Potter.” Snape’s voice is not kind -- it is seldom kind -- but it is not harsh, either. Potter does, closing his eyes while Snape looks him over, his dark eyes betraying nothing. Potter has scarred himself as definitively as Riddle had: marks on his arms above the elbow, just above where a pushed-up sleeve would end. His stomach is crisscrossed with red and pale white stripes, new and old scars. The one he’d been digging at is a deep purple - it hasn’t been allowed to heal. Potter’s upper thighs show signs of more abuse and Snape pushes up the hem of the boxers to where dark tendrils of hair can barely be seen as Harry squirms.
He lets the fabric go; it falls in baggy folds around Potter’s legs as Potter waits for the inevitable torrent of abuse he is clearly sure will begin at any moment - but Snape does not oblige him. Instead, he wipes squares of cotton cloths saturated with Suturing solution over Potter’s half-healed marks and scars. Some begin to fade, to close, to disappear into Potter’s skin like they never existed at all. He jerks away, a look of horror and anger in his eyes.
“You have no right!” Potter’s voice is shaky and hoarse, unused. “Those are mine and you have no right to touch them!”
Snape sets down his bottle and drops the cloth on the settee. “You’re correct, Potter. Technically, I have no right. I had no right to inquire about you, follow you, bring you here or clean your wounds. However, I have a veiled interest in you not killing yourself in either slow and steady or big and showy ways, as does the rest of our world.”
He has gotten the worst of it; the stomach wound will take more than a simple salve, but it has stopped bleeding, and other than being weak, Potter seems none the worse for it. Snape rises and goes to his closet, removing a robe - green, yes, and a remnant of bygone days, but it will fit Potter. “Your clothes are an utter disgrace, and you smell like one of Aberforth Dumbledore’s goats. You will go into the loo and clean yourself properly, put this robe on, and eat something of substance. When I am satisfied, then, and only then, will you be allowed to return to your quarters, where you will read your assignments so as to be ready for classes tomorrow.”
Harry is glaring at him. Snape stares back. “Do you hear me, Potter?”
Lily’s eyes had snapped like that once, and despite himself, he is drawn to them, though he’s sure none of it shows on his face. Potter turns and, like the teenager he unquestionably is, slams the door behind him. Snape waits till he hears running water and splashing. He hopes Potter isn’t stupid enough to try and fool him. He has a late lunch brought, and is placidly sipping tea laced with brandy when Potter emerges, damp and smelling fresher, at least. The robe fits him well, and he thumps down into the chair across from Snape.
“Happy?”
“Ecstatic. Eat.”
Potter doesn’t want to give in, but Snape can hear the boy’s stomach growling.
“What did you put in this?” Potter is sniffing at his tea.
“Brandy. Of course it is poisoned, because after all, I wasted my afternoon on patching you up and cleaning you just to see you drop dead. That was my plan all along, you see; clever of you to deduce it.” Snape continues sipping his tea, grateful for the warmth of the brandy flowing down into his stomach and spreading outwards.
There is a snort, or an approximation of one, and Potter begins to eat, demolishing the food in true Weasley style. It’s all in the company you keep, Snape thinks wryly.
When Potter has finished the food and possibly taken a bite of tray, Snape hands him a small glass containing more brandy, watching while Potter studies it carefully.
“Trust me, boy, it’s better than whatever rubbish Finnigan has conjured; your palate will thank you. Drink up, but sip. ‘Chugging’ that, as it were, would lay you out flat.”
Harry obliges, surprisingly enough, taking a sip. He seems to understand that something is coming and is steeling himself. Snape is studying Potter out of the corner of his eye while ostensibly examining the cracks in the water-stained ceiling; he could fix them, yes, but he rather likes them. After a long moment, he turns his eyes back to Harry. “I would think,” he says slowly, “that the goal after such an experience as the Veil would be to not feel; not feel even more.”
Potter stops, his tumbler midway to his mouth, and then takes another tentative sip; he must suspect that Snape is going to trap him.
“It would seem that way, yes.” His tone is noncommittal, and Snape watches him take a heftier drink this time.
“It would. So then I am forced to ask, as any thinking person should, why you would engage in pastimes that, in addition to being roundly stupid, also cause pain, which, if I’m not mistaken, would force you to feel. It seems rather counterproductive to me.”
“It’s none of your concern, Professor, so why you should be thinking on this subject at all?” Potter has set down his glass, primed for an argument. He still looks miserable, but not blank, and if Snape plays his cards correctly, the misery will turn to feistiness, then anger, and then, possibly, to rage. Potter is filled with rage, Snape knows. In this way, they are far more alike than different.
“I wouldn’t say that it’s none of my concern, Potter.” He is relaxed, glass held loosely in his hand. “When a student misses class, misses meals, is uncommunicative and surly - surlier than usual, I should add - and is showing himself to be a danger to himself, if not to others, then regardless of my personal reluctance to get involved, it is my business.”
“I’m fine,” Potter says through clenched teeth. “I’m not hurting anyone else, I’m not interfering with others. What I do is my concern, and mine alone.”
“How I wish that were the case.” Snape sets down his tumbler of brandy, watching it catch the light. “If it were just you, I would gladly and with much thanks indeed, leave you alone. But as I mentioned before, this Chosen One business is troublesome. It implies that you need to be whole and unscathed in order to fulfill your destiny and all that claptrap. Don’t blame me, blame the world.”
He moves to the edge of his seat, facing Potter, sitting on the edge of his seat. “It’s no secret that I bear you no love, Potter. I consider you more of a problem than you are worth and believe that you have more of James Potter’s traits than your mother’s, and as you saw in your chance glimpse into my mind last year, your father and I had an unpleasant history. However …” He pauses and rubs his face. “What you lived through last year is a terrible thing. Black meant a great deal to you, and you, in turn, have not handled your grief responsibly. Instead of honoring his memory by working to become the best person, wizard, or weapon that you can be, you have spent your time in isolation, slashing the only body you have to ribbons.” He leans back. “It seems remarkably stupid to me.”
Potter’s lip curls. “That you find me stupid is not exactly news to me, Professor.”
“Nor should it be; you’re not the sharpest tack in the box, as they say, but you are bright enough to know that what you’re doing won’t help. It won’t.”
“You don’t know anything about what I’m doing or what it means! Your whole ‘feeling pain’ comment was a shot in the dark and you know it.” The boy’s feet are moving back and forth, a nervous jiggling that Snape has always found exceedingly annoying.
“Perhaps, but I’ve hit a nerve, haven’t I?” Snape picks up his brandy and swirls it before taking a deep swallow, ignoring his own advice. “You are either channeling your mental pain into physical, or worse, you managed to shut yourself down so completely that you even frightened yourself and now draw blood to remember how to feel. Which one is it, Potter?”
Potter bites his lip and doesn’t answer, and while Snape is not a patient man, brandy helps, and he is willing to wait - for a bit.
The silence stretches long, annoyingly so.
“Retreat is a coward’s measure, Potter.” Snape’s voice is quiet. “Hiding from pain is cowardly, and it will linger far longer than it should. Facing your pain is the only way to banish it - what you are doing is a stopgap, no more, no less. Blood spilled will not bring Black back. It will not restore your parents to life. It will only weaken you in a time when you cannot be weak. You are giving in to weakness - do you think the Dark Lord won’t know? Do you think He will not exult and rejoice that his own destiny grows stronger while yours falls into darkness?”
Potter is taking short, shallow breaths; the older man can tell that he hates that he is hearing Snape, that his words are making sense, that they, in fact, mirror his own deepest self’s words to him, the ones that echo in his mind as he draws the blade across his skin. All the blood he has shed will not silence them. Potter is an open book, and Snape can watch his emotions scroll across that open face. Occlumency is nearly unnecessary in Potter’s case - one need only to observe to know all that is worth knowing.
“I try to imagine that the blood is the pain,” he whispers. “Sometimes I think that if I cut myself enough times, cut deep enough, spill enough blood, then maybe the pain will go with it. Sometimes I feel nothing, and then I hope that feeling something, even the sting and burn of the cut, will help me to remember how to feel. It’s either all or nothing. I can’t balance them.”
Snape knows that Potter will not say he was scared - but he didn’t have to. He knows Snape can tell. He watches the boy wait for the words, the sharp, harsh words that Snape will surely unleash on him any second. Potter waits a long moment, staring at the floor, but the words never come. He finally looks up, and Snape is once again staring at the ceiling, mapping the cracks, stains, bulges. He does this for a long time.
When he finally speaks, he can tell it is not what Potter expects. “You will stay here tonight,” Snape says softly. “You may have my bed - and worry not, the sheets are clean - and you will have a restful night’s sleep, away from snoring Weasleys and drooling Longbottoms. The bedroom is through there,” he inclines his head towards a closed door at the far end of the room, “and it is time for you to rest, and let your body heal.”
Potter opens his mouth, probably to protest that Snape hasn’t understood anything that he’s said, but Snape holds up a hand. “I have heard all that you’ve said and much more that you haven’t seen fit to share; however valid your emotions may be, your body still needs to rest in preparation for you to slash and violate it another day. Now go.”
Potter stands, and Snape can feel the boy’s frustration in thinking that he hasn’t explained, hasn’t made the impression he meant to make, and then thinks with disgust that he doesn’t care what Snape thinks of him. With that no doubt righteous indignation in mind, he stalks off to the bedroom, shutting the door rather harder than he means to.
Snape listens to Harry slide into the bed, hears him grumbling to himself, and when the lamp goes out and there is silence, he sighs. He has always known that Potter is a pain in the arse, an entitled brat, a showoff, but he never thought him a coward. He’s not sure he likes this new image of Potter. He’s not sure he can stomach Potter’s weakness.
The scars disgusted him; he would never think of scarring himself, imperfect specimen though he might be. One is only ever given one body, and without that body in peak form, one is lessened, diminished. Yet, he understands Potter’s reasons. In his own way, he even sympathizes because he knows what it feels like to want to bury emotion where it can no longer hurt you - where it can no longer matter. Loving Lily had taught him all about pain and loss.
He makes his bed on the worn couch - he has slept here many a night when the brandy took him, and he always emerges none the worse for the wear. He settles under an ancient blanket, Slytherin silver and green, and closes his eyes.
For what seems like hours, there is no sound save the dripping of moisture from the eaves and the nearly inaudible sounds of an ancient building settling and sighing. Snape knows these noises well, and they lull him into welcome blackness.
But the moans wake him, force him upright and reaching for his wand as he stands - if this is a bloody ghost, they’ll wish they were dead all over again. But the sounds are coming from behind the heavy oak door. He pauses, waiting for assurance that these are unhappy moans and that Potter has not woken him with teenage pastimes. But the moans soon become interspersed with mumbles and broken words, and Snape sighs and enters the bedroom softly.
Potter has destroyed his bed, the sheets tumbled half off, the blankets in a puddle on the floor, and the boy himself is curled into a ball, rocking and muttering to himself. Snape stands beside the bed for a moment, and then, against his better judgment, picks up the blankets, pulls the sheets up over Potter, and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Potter,” he says softly, but there is no response. “Potter!” he repeats, sharper now, and The boy sits up, his eyes blank and unfocused. Snape sets his wand down and chances putting a hand on Potter’s shoulder; he dislikes touching people, but for Lily’s sake, he will bend his personal rules - a bit.
The hand makes Potter jump and he blinks, his eyes clearing, and he mutters something about a bad dream. He gets up, drinks a cup of water, then comes back to bed, pulling up the covers with a muttered “Thanks.”
Snape lets him be, but the second time he is woken, the hand on Potter’s shoulder is rougher, accompanied by a little shake. And the third time, Snape is not gentle at all but grips Potter’s shoulder, hard, and demands to know what manner of nightmare he is having that compels him to wake Snape over and over. Potter mumbles something about bad dreams, Black, Riddle, and fountains that move.
After the fourth time, he makes his bed on a lounge in his bedroom, the better to watch Potter in his sleep. He considers a Sleeping Draught but curiosity has overcome him and he abandons sleep for the night. The fifth time Potter wakes in a tangle of sheets, Snape does something he has never considered in his wildest dreams - he slides in beside Potter, much to the boy’s evident horror.
Potter sputters something about how sick this is, how he could have Snape fired, and goes on at length until his eyelids droop and his head turns on the pillow, soft breaths finally signalling sleep]. Snape makes sure that no part of his body is touching Potter’s while he waits for the inevitable waking. No wonder the boy looks more and more exhausted every day.
The fifth waking comes near the break of dawn, and Snape is ready for it this time; the method he has come up with is rather unorthodox and Potter will sputter, but it is the most effective way to deal with nightmares based around not feeling anything.
When Potter starts to twist and mumble, Snape - discreetly clad in thick pyjama bottoms and a nightshirt - curls himself around Potter and holds him. He wraps his arms around him, encasing Potter solidly and simply holds on. It is all he means to do.
Potter quiets quickly, far more quickly than the previous times, and Snape relaxes his arms, but does not let go. Potter’s head is nestled under his chin and his heat is intense; the boy is bare-chested, clad only in those wretched boxers. He feels small and slight in Snape’s arms.
It would be wrong to take advantage of such vulnerability; Snape knows this. It would reinforce Potter’s objections; it would be exploiting a student in a weak moment. But this is all that is left of Lily - this child, no matter how objectionable he is while awake, is the only reminder he has of the one person he has managed to love in this lifetime. So he holds Potter a little closer than he should and buries his face in his hair, rubbing his cheek against the thick, coarse locks, and breathes him in. Still, Potter sleeps, only turning a little in Snape’s embrace, sighing to himself.
Snape bends his head and chances a brief, light brush of lips across the back of Potter’s neck, soft skin dusted with pale down, and then draws his lips up Potter’s neck to breathe softly on the shell of his ear.
He traces the dusky shell with his tongue next, and Potter stirs again, moving his head on the pillow and turning his face towards Snape. With such a palette in front of him, any inhibition he might have felt disappears, and he slides one arm free and props himself up so he is looking down at Potter. Slowly, he runs his tongue over each black brow, then along the lash line, while Potter whimpers, the dreams beginning anew.
When the boy begins to gasp, his lips opening as he tries to breathe, Snape covers them with his own, taking Potter’s breath and whatever innocence he may have left in one hard, needy kiss.
~*~
The staff notices that Harry still looks tired, wan, as though sleep were not a luxury he permits himself. He is still absent from class more often than not, and when McGonagall asks Snape if there is anything he could do, perhaps a potion to allow the boy to sleep, Snape merely shrugs and says that whatever burden Potter is bearing, he bears it alone.
He still patches Potter up, sometimes slapping away the hand that tries to stop him. Twice, Potter has struck him as he smoothed salve on the stomach wound, and Snape retaliates quickly, pinning his hands and leaning in to whisper into that pink ear just exactly what he plans to do to Potter that night. The boy quiets immediately, staring at him with wide eyes behind those ridiculous glasses.
Sometimes Potter fights back, kicks him, turns his back on him, even spits or bites, but he does each thing only once, for retribution is swift and decisive. Then Potter will turn back, cowed, staring at Snape with a mixture of hate and need. Snape is satisfied that he is teaching Potter every day what it means to feel, counteracting the pain the boy inflicts upon himself. He is teaching him that one cannot run away from the pain, that it must be experienced and dealt with, however one chooses to do so.
He has not stopped Potter’s pain, but he has assuaged his own; it is the last gift of a shadow of his past, for he, too, now remembers what it is like to feel.