The Proud Man's Contumely

Chapter 14

Harry woke to a noise like ringing metal, which he saw with his whole body, and which was of a colour that was not a colour but all colours at once without being white. All his senses had somehow become fused. The more he struggled to orient himself in one or the other, the more confused they became. It was only when he surrendered to it that the sensation bled away. Out of the bright, prismatic light, the darkened dimensions of a room carved their shape, and as his limbs slowly remembered how to move, Harry concentrated on the sound of someone whispering nearby and the resultant tinkle of glass moving against glass. Just out of Harry's range of vision, Dumbledore busied himself with repairing the destruction done to his office.

The office. Harry only then came to the realization he'd never left it. The dungeon cell where he'd met with Voldemort had only been an element of his own mind. It occurred to Harry that that probably meant something, symbolic and important. But he was in no mood to analyse such subtleties. He found he was draped, uncomfortably so, across Dumbledore's high-backed desk chair. From the angle his head rested against the crook of the armrest, Harry could clearly see the place where Phineas Nigellus' portrait ought to be. But the painting was gone, leaving a blaringly empty place on a wall so densely hung with portraits it otherwise seemed to be constructed from them. Harry stared at the spot, trying to muster some remorse for what he had done, but soon realized there was none in him to muster. That thought disturbed him far more than thought of act itself.

"Awake already?"

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder but did not bother to turn and look up at the Headmaster. Neither did he offer any apologies for the devastated room.

But then, the room wasn't devastated. Harry glanced around him as much as was possible without moving and noticed that everything had been set right. The shelves were, in comparison, somewhat bare, but to anyone unfamiliar with it, Dumbledore's office might not seem amiss in any way at all. After a silent moment, Dumbledore conjured a gurney, but Harry objected.

"I can walk." His voice sounded strange in his ears. Rough and hollow. Dumbledore didn't appear so certain, though nonetheless vanished the gurney and moved to help Harry sit up. Again, he would have none of it. Unaided, he pushed himself upright and then shakily to his feet, grasping the desk for support. Dumbledore looked concerned, but wary, and stood a step or so away from Harry. Close enough to catch him if he stumbled, but well out of Harry's reach. Did he think Harry volatile, like a bomb than might go off with the slightest mishandling? Remembering the cold rage that had ignited in him earlier, that erupted from him to lay waste to every fragile thing in sight, Harry wasn't so sure that wasn't the truth. He didn't know himself anymore, his limits, what he was capable of. Worse, he simply didn't care.

"Remus is waiting for you downstairs," Dumbledore offered gently. Of course. There had been a tragedy. Dumbledore was a busy man. He had people to placate, damage to control. To say Harry had been an inconvenience was a gross understatement. Harry sneered, then caught himself and shook those thoughts from his head. They weren't his, were they? Could Voldemort still be lurking somewhere in his head? Harry didn't think so. The loathing that accompanied that presence was gone. Or rather, the only loathing Harry felt now was for himself.

Harry took a step forward but faltered, falling easily into Dumbledore's arms. He must have been far weaker than he had thought. He allowed Dumbledore to half bear him, half guide him through the office toward the stair. They were moving steadily toward the lower floors before Harry finally dared to turn and look at the old man. His countenance was sombre, as Harry had often seen it . Though, no longer did the familiar expression seem benign. It looked like a mask, gentle but completely closed, masterfully concealing the firestorm of thought Harry knew to be raging behind. Harry sighed. It seemed he was to be left with no object of security. The reassurance he'd always felt at this man's very presence was utterly gone. The arm that supported him, though strong and steady, afford no comfort. It may as well have belonged to any faceless stranger. It may as well have been made of wood.

The gentle grind of stone on stone echoing up the narrow shaft mercifully lulled these thoughts from Harry's mind. He was so very tired of thinking. He just wanted to be, alone and undisturbed. But as they neared the lowest floor, the hypnotic sound of the stair was interrupted by a broken wail. Unlike Hermione's scream on the train, however, Harry had heard this sound before. Stepping out into the corridor, they were met by a sight that, had he been himself, would have taken the heart of Harry.

Remus and Charlie Weasley flanked Charlie's mother, her hair mussed as though she had been tearing at it and so distraught she could not stand on her own. The sight was made all the more pathetic by the respective shabbiness of her bastions. Mrs. Weasley's small chubby hand was clawing at Charlie's worn dragonhide coat and her face was buried in the fur lining, making it a mess where she rubbed her tear-soaked cheek into it. She seemed completely unaware of Remus who was stroking her back comfortingly. A disjointed murmuring drew Harry's gaze from the tableau and over to Mr. Weasley, who Harry found slumped against the stone sill of a nearby window. He was dishevelled, looking as though he'd slept in his clothes, and his expression was vague and distant, as though he didn't really know where he was.

"Molly dear, don't...don't cry. T'will be alright," he murmured to the floor in front of him, his back actually turned to his wife. "We'll come through this somehow. I imagine we'll...we'll..." He trailed off. Fred, standing close by his side, lay a hand on his shoulder and patted lightly. As long as he had known him, Harry had never seen the young man so forlorn. Harry found it almost frightening to see the normally grinning face completely devoid of its mischievous light. Mr. Weasley woke to the touch as if only just noticing Fred's approach, but when he lifted his head he didn't turn it to his son, but muttered to the empty air as though Fred stood before him and not behind.

"Jolly good that you're here. Yes. Your brothers should be here soon as well. But it's ruddy messy business, apparating cross countries. I imagine Bill will have to arrange a portkey, and Charlie-"

"Charlie's here, Dad," Fred reminded him gently. "He's arrived already. You spoke to him, remember?"

"Did I? Oh. Well. Where's your sister then? Where's Ginny? Doesn't she know what's happened? Oh, what if she doesn't. I...I don't know how we shall ever break it to her," he muttered sadly. "Such a delicate thing. Where's she got to then?"

Fred took a deep, patient breath. "She's in the infirmary, Dad. I told you. She's had a nasty bump on the head."

"Oh dear!"

"No, it's all right, Dad," he soothed. "She'll be fine. George is with her. George is watching over her until she wakes up."

Mr. Weasley sighed with relief and nodded slightly. "Good. Good," he mumbled, still to the floor. "Your brother would have liked that. He was always so protective of her. He'd have been with her himself, I'm sure, if he was...i-if he...." With that, Mr. Weasley couldn't say anymore and his voice faded into wheezing sobs, face falling into his hand. Fred patted his shoulder again, eyes scrunched shut with tears of his own. The utter sadness of the scene was so immense Harry couldn't take it all in. He could only watch, dumbstruck.

Bill was on his way, and George was with Ginny in the hospital wing. But that still left one Weasley unaccounted for. Harry scanned the corridor and spied Percy standing slumped and dejected by a torch column, his tear reddened eyes studying his distraught family members in turn. Timidly, he shuffled over to stand before Mr. Weasley.

"Father?"

Mr. Weasley seemed not to notice his son, only mumbled something incoherent. Though, Fred did raise a look to his brother, one decidedly less critical and more forgiving than Harry had seen him grace him with in quite some time. Percy swallowed and turned to shuffle over to his Mother, and reached out a hand as if he might lay it on her arm.

"Mother."

Mrs. Weasley woke to the address, eyes wide as in disbelief. She turned the look on Percy, never releasing Charlie's jacket. "Don't you call me that," she said shakily through her sobs. Percy shook his head in mild confusion.

"Mother, I don't-"

"This is your fault!" she cried. "Yours and that bungling bastard you worship, Cornelius Fudge. You let this happen!" Percy looked horrified.

"Now, Molly," Remus objected gently, scowling at her, but she paid no more attention to him than before.

"We told you!" she wailed on. "We told you You-Know-Who was back, but you ignored us...and got your brother killed! If that...that..." She balled her fist in Charlie's fur as though she meant to tear it out. She couldn't seem to find a name nasty enough for the former minister. "...If he had taken any precautions at all then, this would never have happened. Wanted to feel like big, important men did you?" she frowned, shaking her head. "You knew it all didn't you? Well how does it feel now? How do you like knowing you murdered your own brother?!"

"Mum," Percy whined, lips quivering, and started to timidly reach for her again.

"Don't you touch me!" she screeched. "You are no son of mine." It was almost a growl. At first, Percy was too stunned to do anything but stand and gape at her. Finally, he stumbled back, wounded to the core, and turned and fled some ways up the hall, away from his mother's venom. "You killed him!" she shouted after him, dissolving into complete hysterics. "You killed my boy!" Fred abandoned his father to help Remus and Charlie calm her. Mr. Weasley turned a dreamy, unfocused gaze over at the ruckus. Molly was only quieted when Bill came running down the corridor, giving a Percy an inquisitive glance as he passed him where he had sunk to his knees and now cried into his hands. Mrs. Weasley subdued instantly as her eldest son strode up to wrap her in a tight, protective embrace.

"What am I going to do?" she moaned into Bill's lapel. "My baby's gone. My baby..."

Harry was speechless. He'd never been a part of a family. He'd never realized just how close the Weasleys were, how deeply they must be hurting now. Harry watched the scene like he was at a cinema, as if strangely detached from it. His heart ached for the family the players portrayed. Harry's heart ached for himself that no one would ever grieve that way for him. It ached until it burst, and all feeling slowly bled away from him. He felt cold, though the air was warm. The icy seeds of resentment had been sown in his bleeding heart. They had cauterised it.

When the situation with Mrs. Weasley was resolved, Remus finally had the opportunity to catch sight of Harry and Dumbledore waiting with respectful silence to be noticed. With one last glance at the distraught family to reassure himself he was no longer needed, Remus strode over to them. The look he bestowed on Harry as he approached was one of deepest sympathy and concern, and his eyes crinkled just so at the corners, punctuating the feeling conveyed in his clear amber eyes. It made Harry shiver. Remus opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't seem to find the proper words. There were no proper words really. So he only wet his lips, as if drawing back the unspoken sentiment in favour of a warm embrace. For some reason, despite the circumstances, Phineas' words woke in Harry's ears.

"Nancy. Bestial. Faggot."

"We were lovers, Harry."

"He ruined my lineage and now I imagine he'll want to ruin your father's."

"Because Sirius is dead you can't touch me? Because he's dead you can't look at me?"

Remus' eyes on him back in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place.

Harry wrenched away from Remus' embrace, a bit more violently than he had intended. Remus didn't try to conceal the hurt on his face as Harry shied again when he reached out to him a second time for a milder contact. Harry turned his head sheepishly, almost ashamed of himself, but was unrelenting in his determination that the man would not touch him.

"Remus, would you?" Dumbledore asked tactfully. "I really must," he elaborated, gesturing toward the gathering down the hall. Remus, though still distracted by the exchange with Harry, pulled is questioning gaze from Harry's face long enough to nod vaguely at Dumbledore. "Yes, of course." Dumbledore released Harry, and when satisfied the youth could stand on his own, strode swiftly over to the Weasleys.

"Well," Remus said softly, cautiously, still visibly shaken by Harry's rejection. "Let's get you to the hospital wing, shall we?"

"No," Harry said plainly. He didn't want to be surrounded by more weeping, wounded people. Besides, he wasn't hurt, just tired, and weakly he told Remus so.

"I'll see you to your dormitory then," Remus offered understandingly. Harry shook his head. He didn't want to see his roommates either, didn't think he could bear the sight of Ron's empty bed next to his. Remus, patient but at a lose, shook his head slightly. "Where would you go then, Harry?" The gentle affection in his voice made Harry wince.

He didn't know where he wanted to go, or where he could go. But he knew he couldn't stand here in the hallway all evening. He had to make his decision quickly though, as the Weasleys were approaching en mass, shepherded by Dumbledore toward his office. Harry simply could not bare to speak with any of them. Panic and despair blossomed in him. He didn't have it in him to figure this one out, he didn't have the will to. He only wanted to stand and do nothing and have things somehow work themselves out without him making any kind of effort at all. If only he could be so fortunate. Something stirred in the shadows to Harry's left.

There stood Professor Snape, rigid as ever, but, surprisingly, not so severe. He looked down on Harry with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. It was neither pitying nor mocking, which almost made Harry dread what the man seemed about to say even more. But his fear was soon replaced with surprise.

"Follow me," was all Snape said in a low, mild tone before turning to glide down the corridor. Neither Harry nor Remus questioned him. The timbre of his voice had cast a sort of spell on Harry's muscles, so that they carried him forward with no regard for Harry's own wishes. He was so weak he was surprised he even still stood, yet there he was, moving after Snape, pulled down the corridors as if on a leash. Remus' hand hovered near Harry's back, propelling him forward as surely as Snape pulled him. Harry was grateful for it though. Like magnets turned at wrong ends, Harry's reluctance of Remus touch, his own stubborn determination, helped steady him more surely than if Remus had actually held him.

Harry was strangely grateful for all of it, really. He was so content to be lead, to exist for a moment in the absence of any kind of decision, that they were well within the dungeons before he even took note of their surroundings or wondered on their destination. Snape's classroom lay at the edge of the dungeons, and Harry had only ventured further into them on one occasion. But it seemed that had already moved well past the Slytherin common room. Glancing about him in some state slightly more neutral than curiosity, Harry wondered vaguely how the Slytherins ever managed to navigate this labyrinth. There were no portraits on the walls, no suits of armour or statues. Each shadowed and sinister passage looked the same. Harry was lost. He realized with a strange kind of cool acceptance that he now relied entirely on the man before him and his seeming intrinsic knowledge of this place. Snape moved smoothly through the corridors, never vacillating on which turn to make or when. Harry tried to follow Snape with as much confidence as the man exuded himself, but eventually decided it best not to think on it at all. Never mind the route. Just follow. Don't lose sight of the billowing, swishing figure. Though, Harry couldn't help thinking. He couldn't stop himself from musing about how perfectly suited Snape was this environment. It was as oppressive and mysterious and as subtly dangerous as he was. Though somehow, just at the moment, neither bothered Harry. This place suited his mood. Dark places were good for dark thoughts and dark moods. And the way Harry was feeling now, he thought he might not care to see the sun ever again.

Finally, Snape halted before a depression in the corridor wall, identical to several they had passed already, and cast an uneasy glance at Harry as though loathe to reveal too much to him. Harry tried to express, with his unfocused, half-lidded stare, that he couldn't care less about Snape's secrets and only wanted to reach the end of their little quest before he collapsed. Still, Snape regarded him a few moments more before delivering the password in a rushed, unintelligible whisper. As though the stones had been mist stirred aside by a breath of wind, a door appeared in the depression. Snape tapped it once with his wand and it fell open without a sound, and he strode inside as though it was simply understood the two should follow.

Harry was slightly hesitant to step over the threshold. It was fairly obvious that they were in Snape's private quarters, but why in blazes? Harry was suddenly not quite so apathetic, but left off wondering why he's been brought here to take in his surroundings. Snape's rooms looked much as Harry might have imagined them, should he have previously given them any thought at all. The sitting room (if it could really be considered that, seeing as there were no chairs but one wooden stool and it stood before the desk in the corner) was plain. Utterly. The only signs of inhabitancy were the few neat stacks of parchments on the desktop beside the recently lit lamp. There was a small bookshelf packed with very old, very well read books, but most of the titles were impossible to read for the thick layer of dust that covered all but a few of them. There wasn't even a rug on the stone floor. It was bare except for the well travelled paths worn into the stones that led from the door to the desk, and from the desk to one of the doors leading from the sitting room, which Harry guessed to be Snape's bedroom. There was no cosy chair by the fireplace, and the fireplace itself looked as though it had never been used, though a jar of floo powder did sit on the mantle. Seeing the empty hearth somehow made Harry cold.

Remus radiated heat near Harry's elbow, but that heat Harry was avoiding, and he moved aside to let Remus through the door. He passed Harry and moved to the centre of the room, appearing either very familiar with the place or completely uninterested. He regarded Snape with a gentle question in his eyes, but the man ignored him and spoke to Harry.

"This way," he prompted curtly, opening one of the two doors (Harry suspected the third to be a closet) leading from the room. This door was not the one the worn paths lead to, and so curiosity (or was it spite?) turned Harry's gaze to the other. It was open only a crack, but Harry spied several heavy locks, all of which latched from the inside. Paranoid much, Snape? Snape followed Harry's gaze and swiftly strode over to shut the other door with a snap, casting Harry a sharp look.

"This way," he repeated, his voice almost threatening, as he moved back to Harry's door and pushed it open further.

"Is that your bedroom, then?" Harry asked waving a finger at the door with the locks.

"And just how many bedrooms do you think I have here in 'Snape Manor'?" Snape clipped and rolled his eyes. Harry was confused. Snape waved his wand impatiently and a lamp ignited in the room, revealing a bed and nightstand. Remus nodded his head, urging Harry forward.

This new room was as plain as the other. White sheets shone under a dull grey wool blanket. It appeared Snape expected Harry stay here, to sleep here, in his quarters. In his bed. In this cell, and Harry couldn't decide if the man was being generous or punishing.

"But where will you sleep?" Harry asked, eyeing the small bed.

"You ask as though you care, Mr. Potter," Snape replied wryly, and disappeared. He returned momentarily bearing a small vial, which he pushed in Harry's hand. "Drink this." Before Harry could even inquire what it was, Snape had already left again. Harry turned in time to catch a glimpse of Remus giving him a concerned but reassuring look before Snape shut the door between them with an echoing clank not unlike that of prison bars.