Chapter 16

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I assure you, Potter, I do not kid," Snape drawls, his mouth setting into a thin line.

Harry gawks into the tall barrel in front of her, unable to keep her own jaw from dropping. Hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of dead horned toads line the inside of the enormous barrel. They're slimy and coated in a suspicious brown goo that emits a ghastly stench, and Snape expects her to disembowel all of them. Every single sodding toad. It's not fair!

"This is cruel and unusual."

"You stole from me," Snape reminds her with a raised brow. "You're fortunate enough to be able to tell the tale. Do not complain."

"How do you even disembowel a toad?"

"Very carefully," Snape retorts, looking particularly pleased with himself. "Rest assured, if you do it incorrectly, I have plenty more barrels for you to practice on."

"Can I wear gloves?"

"Do you have gloves?"

"No."

"Then no."

Fucking shit.

Under Snape's persistent glare, Harry cautiously dips one hand into the barrel. Immediately, her fingers are coated in the cold, greasy substance. Her nose scrunches in disgust. She clamps her hand around a solid mass and flops it onto the table. It makes a sloshing sound.

She stares down at the brown sludge coating her fingers. "What is this?"

"It's an embalming solution. It keeps the toads fresh."

Suddenly, the smell becomes overwhelming. Harry covers her nose with her hand, trying not to vomit. There is nothing fresh about that smell. "Why does it smell like that?" she coughs.

"The dead toads have been marinating for nearly a year. Most of their bodily fluids have been drawn out and merged with the liquid to create a sort of broth."

Harry balks and looks up at Snape with wide, horrified eyes. He stares evenly back at her.

"Put the organs in here," he says, gesturing to a deep bowl. "Throw the rest into the basin."

After a moment, she picks up the knife and places it against the stomach of the toad. The soft flesh gives easily beneath the blade, and soon she's staring into stale, bulbous innards. Something green seeps out of a worm-like structure, and a new putrid stench hits her nostrils.

"You've pierced the intestine. Throw it away," Snape drawls casually, as if intestine juice is perfectly normal.

Harry struggles to keep down the bile that burns the back of her throat. This has to be the grossest punishment that has ever existed, but she knows she shouldn't complain. After all, she does deserve to be punished. Without another word, she plunges her hand back into the barrel and starts again.

It doesn't take her long to get the hang of it, and soon, her nausea ebbs, though it never disappears completely. Merlin only knows what is trapped beneath her fingernails. She tries to wipe them off on her jeans, leaving ghastly streaks of green and brown.

Aunt Petunia would shit a brick if she saw that.

Harry feels her mouth curve into a smile.

"This is punishment, Potter. Do not look so happy, or I will be forced to come up with something more unpleasant for you to do," Snape calls from the other end of the table.

"Oh, I assure you, sir, I am perfectly miserable."

"Good."

She tosses another intestine into the bowl and peeks up at Snape. He's stirring the cauldron counterclockwise at a rapid pace, but he glances up at her every few seconds.

Harry turns her attention back to the scrambled toad in front of her, questions forming in her mind. Who knew horned toads were even magical? They'd never been listed as an ingredient in any potion that she'd read about. Maybe Snape would need it for the anti-cruciatus potion.

"Does your potion need horned toad intestines?" she asks.

"No."

Then why the hell am I doing this?

"Do any potions actually use horned-toad intestines?"

"A few, but it's a particularly rare ingredient."

Harry glances from her barrel to the six identical barrels that line the right wall of the room.

"Then why do you have so many barrels of them?"

"Very few wizards endeavor to procure the organs themselves. I can sell them back to the shop for more than I paid for them."

Fucking git.

"So, you're making money off of my misery. Isn't that kind of unethical?" she asks, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

"Not at all."

The next toad she grabs is missing an eye.

"Couldn't I just pay you the money?"

"That would be much less satisfying, and you would not learn your lesson."

She slices into another intestine and scowls before tossing the whole thing into the bin.

"What if I pay you double?"

"Shut up, Potter."

Harry shuts up. She plunges her arm back into the revolting pile of sludge and grabs another toad. The slimy bundle feels like gelatin in her fist, and it slips from her grasp, landing on the table with a splat. Cold, wet fluid smacks her squarely in the face. She clenches her eyes shut instinctively despite the protection that her glasses provide .

"Ugh," she squeaks, feeling the muck slide onto her upper lip. "Fucking gross!"

Snape snorts from across the table. The bastard fucking snorts.

'S'not funny," she shrieks at him, swiping blindly with her sleeve. Some of the liquid dribbles into her hair and down the front of her shirt. The smell is strong, so strong that she can actually taste it. She gags and stumbles backward.

"I disagree," Snape says, smirking.

It's so strange to see his teeth. Has he ever smiled before?

The man approaches and holds out a clean, white handkerchief to her. "Go and clean up. It's nearly time for lunch anyway."

The muck clings to her skin like snot. She manages to smear most of it on the cloth before handing it back to Snape. He backs away, looking aghast. The pure disgust on his face is enough to make her want to giggle.

"Keep it."

"You sure?" She asks, smirking slyly.

Snape rolls his eyes. "Go, Potter."

She goes, still grinning despite the vile smell stinging her nostrils.

Harry holds her breath and presses her face into the steady stream of water, allowing the warmth to flow across her cheeks and down her shoulders. It feels like silk against her skin. She breathes in deeply, allowing the floral scent of soap to encompass her. Her toes flutter playfully in the soft suds left behind from her shampoo. It's so warm, so pleasant, so safe.

Is this what happy feels like? It's been so long; she can scarcely remember. She only has these little blissful moments, these simple little specks of pleasure that remind her there is more to life than misery. But the glee she feels within the cloud of steam feels less heavy than before. She's lighter now, unrestrained. That must be because of the memory.

It's gone now, and she certainly doesn't miss it.

Harry runs her fingers through her long tresses, reveling in how smooth it feels beneath the water. She turns off the water and flicks her clean hair back over her shoulder, catching sight of the scarlet letters across her chest.

She knows why it's there. She knows he put it there. But she doesn't remember exactly how.

Well, he cut her. That's how. She knows that, but at the same time… She doesn't. It's hard for her to understand, even more difficult to try to explain, there's just a hole where her feelings used to be.

Memories are supposed to be connected to sensations, emotions, but hers are missing. It's as if she's never experienced them at all, she's simply read a summary of events from a book. Her own life is no longer hers.

That's disconcerting, and it separates her from herself. There's a before her, and an after her. She's different, new. But this is the new normal. She's just going to have to get used to it. And in the meantime, she can enjoy more little moments that aren't marred by trauma, like warm, sudsy showers and a soft, cozy bed and the funny look on Snape's face when she'd offered him that handkerchief. She can find more happy inside these walls. She smiles down at the soiled hanky before folding it carefully and tucking it into her pocket.

Yes. There's plenty of happy here.

After lunch, Harry strolls back to the potion's lab and picks up a new toad, not even waiting for Snape's commands. He looks slightly surprised to see her return, but he doesn't question it. He simply sends her an approving nod and continues to brew.

The rest of the afternoon passes rather quickly. The work is still tedious and gross, but it doesn't seem much like punishment anymore. Snape even lets her ask some questions without scowling. He's almost pleasant, which is weird because… Well, because it's Snape.

By the time supper rolls around, Harry is exhausted but in relatively high spirits. When Snape tells her that they'll be getting a wand and buying her school things the following day, she doesn't think much of it.

Several hours later, as she's lying in bed, it's the only thing she thinks about.

Harry squirms beneath the covers, curling herself into a tight ball. She'll be going to Diagon Alley. Tomorrow. There'll be other people, probably loads of people. She hasn't been in public for months. Public means strangers, and strangers are unpredictable, dangerous. Anxiety bubbles in her chest. She doesn't think she's ready. Not yet.

But Snape will be there with her. Snape will keep her safe. He'll make sure that nothing bad happens to her. Right?

Too many gawdy signs hang across too many shining windows and over too many doors of the too many shops that they pass. All of them are bright. She squints. Too bright. With incredibly vibrant colors that make her stomach churn. The blinding reds and blues and yellows seem to reach out and caress her.

The voices are everywhere. Raucous. Shrill. Piercing. She can barely remember what silence is like. Someone laughs in the distance, their voice ringing out like bells over the crowd, and Harry tenses involuntarily, her head whirling to locate the source.

"Keep moving," Snape says smoothly, not looking at her. His low drawl sounds strange coming from Remus's thin lips.

Harry paces faster, struggling to keep up with Snape's long strides. She stumbles and is only narrowly saved from faceplanting onto the cobblestone street by the strong arm that darts out to steady her.

"Tie your shoes," Snape says calmly, releasing her arm.

Harry glances down, only now noticing the dirty, threadbare strings on her trainers flailing behind her. She bends down in the center of the street, much too conscious of the people moving in all directions around her. Are they watching her? Her fingers carefully weave one lace around the other. The strings are terribly ratty and weak. If she tugs too hard, they will surely snap.

As soon as she clambers to her feet, they are moving again, quickly approaching the bank at the end of the street.

Once inside, the atmosphere changes. There's a deliberate sense of urgency in the air. Goblins rush about, shuffling papers and counting coins. They do not notice her. They do not notice anyone.

Harry staggers backward to avoid colliding with one. There's so many of them. So many people in the bank too. Why must there be so many people?

Remus's kind eyes meet Harry's. "Remember to breathe, Potter," Snape's voice whispers.

She nods up at him, sucking in a breath.

He leads her to a counter, where an equally aloof goblin greets them. His eyes are hollow and merciless. Snape does all the talking, and soon she's standing at the door to a vault, her vault.

It's larger than she remembers with antiques, heirlooms, and coins piled nearly to the ceiling. There's so much, but none of it feels like hers, not really. She doesn't deserve it. Even so, she needs money to pay for her school things. Harry shovels galleons and sickles and knuts into a bag, not bothering to count them.

When she turns, Snape is standing off to the side, drinking from his hip flask and the goblin is behind her, smiling mechanically with rows of triangular teeth. He holds out a silver box to her. Inside are two wands. She recognizes the smaller of the two. Willow. 10 ¼ inches. She'd seen her mother waving it in a photo. Harry reaches for it and her hand trembles ever so slightly. Hope swells in her chest. Her thin fingers curl around it and angle it upwards. She holds her breath, waiting for the wand to give her a signal. Please. Please. Please. It doesn't. She exhales and sullenly places it back in the box.

Her tense body grows colder. Even her mum's wand doesn't want her.

Harry reaches for her father's wand next. She grasps it firmly and holds it up without any real interest. Then it glows in her palm. A familiar warmth spreads through her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. The wand has accepted her.

Even so, a bitter numbness creeps under her skin. Why does she bond with his but not hers? She has her father's wild hair and bad eyesight. She has his affinity for flying and interest in quidditch. Even her patronus is a clone of her father's. And that's fine. That's not a problem. But is she not at all like her mother? Do they not share any similarities?

"Let's go, Potter. I don't have all day," Snape spits. His tone is sharp, much sharper than necessary. She glances up at him, feeling confused and disappointed. Remus has never worn a frown so severe. He catches her staring at him and scowls viciously.

What did I do?

Harry curls in on herself, wishing she'd just collapse already.

They don't spend much time in any of the shops. After entering each one, Snape walks promptly up to the clerk and spouts off the items that she needs, rather rudely in Harry's opinion. Then he digs into Harry's bag of coins and slams them down on the counter. They don't browse or waste any time. They simply get in and get out. Harry doesn't mind. All she wants is to curl up in bed and go to sleep.

Most people don't seem to recognize her, but those who do stare with suspicion. When they pass, she keeps her eyes cast down, trying to position her hair over her scar. Her feet totter clumsily over uneven cobblestone. She frowns, noticing that one of her shoes has come untied again. There is no time to tie it though. Snape is moving even quicker than earlier, not even bothering to wait for her to catch up anymore.

She must have done something to irritate him, but she doesn't know what. They'd been getting along so well yesterday. For a moment, she'd thought that maybe he didn't really hate her, maybe a part of him actually didn't mind her company at all. It had felt good.

She should have known that it wouldn't last.

After maneuvering around a mother with a young child, Harry spots Snape several yards ahead. She jogs toward him, not wanting to lose him in the crowd. Her foot catches on a loose string and she stumbles forward again, clipping Snape with her elbow. He doesn't catch her this time.

Instead, he curses and turns on her with blazing eyes. His gaze flashes down at her shoes.

"Potter," he growls. "If you cannot manage to tie a simple knot, then take off those ruddy shoes and walk barefoot!"

"I'm sorry!"

Heat rises in her face, and she wants to scream with frustration. Her stomach roils painfully as she crouches down beside the angry professor, and her fingers fumble clumsily with the strings. She yanks them securely, and half of the lace breaks free and lays limp in her fist. She sighs, tossing it and tucking the other lace down into her shoe. It pokes uncomfortably against her ankle.

At Flourish and Blotts, Harry hangs back near the door while Snape grumbles at the clerk behind the counter. She doesn't want to be near the man right now, not when he's in such a foul mood. Why the bloody hell is he so mad?

She leans against the wall and fidgets absentmindedly with her father's wand. Despite it being the same length and nearly the same shape as her old wand, it feels foreign in her hands. Maybe it's the texture.

"Harriet Potter, just the girl I've been looking for." A blonde woman in an obnoxious magenta suit sidles up next to her, throwing an arm around her shoulder. Harry can't help but flinch under her touch.

It's Rita Skeeter. Gross. As usual, she has a photographer with her. It's the same man from the tournament, looking sullen and lugging around an oversized camera.

"I heard you were in Diagon Alley today, and I just had to get a few quotes for my upcoming story," she trills excitedly.

Harry slips out from under the woman's arm, disturbing a few of her tight, blonde curls. "I'm sorry, I have to go."

"This will only take a moment." Skeeter grabs her thin wrist and snaps at the cameraman. Harry squirms as a bright flash lights up the store. All the eyes in the shop turn to stare at them. So many eyes.

"What really happened during the third task?"

Harry doesn't answer. The question sends her mind whirling, because she knows, but she doesn't know. Her subconscious reaches for missing details. Eyes pierce her skin.

"Why are you lying about You-Know-Who? How did Cedric Diggory really die?"

Cedric. Yes, Cedric had died. It had been her fault. But… But… No, that's all she knew.

The questions just keep coming. Harry tries to pull her arm away, but Skeeter won't let go. Her grip is almost painful.

She can feel the panic rising in her chest. The questions bounce wildly in her head. She can practically feel the synapses in her brain trying to connect, trying to find memories. But the memories just aren't there. They aren't there!

Harry struggles to breathe. She needs to get away. She needs to get out of here.

"Unhand her," a deep voice growls. Snape stomps over to them, ripping her away from the reporter. Harry feels his warm hand settle firmly on her shoulder. She relaxes under his grip.

"Ah, Remus Lupin," Skeeter simpers with false kindness. "Nice to see you."

"We have to be going," Snape says, steering Harry toward the door.

"I only have a few questions," the woman blurts. "The people deserve to know the truth!"

The truth! They already know the truth. Why is it Harry's problem if they refuse to believe it? She turns back to the woman, her panic morphing into anger. How dare she?

"The truth is that Voldemort is back. And if you're too stupid to believe that, then that's your own damn problem!" That's all she can get out before Snape steps between them and pushes her out the door.

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