A Means of Survival – Chapter 13 – Perfectly Fine, Thank You

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Chapter 13 – Perfectly Fine, Thank You

From Neville’s point of view, Ron Weasley had come out of the hospital worn out and off his feed a bit, but enough like himself that Neville figured he’d be okay by the end of the week.

Thus, he’d been a little surprised to discover that Ron had gone completely off his rocker by the next mealtime.

He hesitantly had asked if there was anything wrong that perhaps he could help with, but Ron had waved him off—several times, in fact. He had insisted emphatically that he was perfectly fine, thank you, and that he’d never felt better.

Neville, having grown up with a grandmother who was prone towards getting a little sloshed every weekend, holiday and random owl strike, knew that something deeper was going on with his friend than just some kind of crazy sugar high, like Seamus and Dean thought.

He vowed to keep a closer eye on the boy from then on out, like he had been forced to do with his Gran for most of his life.

…

Madam Pomfrey had been somewhat amused by Ron Weasley’s hesitant outrage over the sight of Mr. Potter sleeping on top of Severus in her infirmary. Honestly, it was almost as if the boy thought she was blind, in addition to being supposedly old and senile!

Old and senile only belong under one man’s description here at Hogwarts.

She snorted quietly to herself as she thought of the green feathered nuisance, as she had permanently renamed him in her head. Now, that was a blind, old and senile creature if ever she had seen one. She knew now that Minerva had obviously agreed with her assessment and also her solution to the problem. Minerva had even solidified—or, rather liquefied—her support by sending over two bottles of high grade Scotch that morning. Poppy had a feeling that the old man would retaliate in some form, but she vowed to be ready for him.

As for Mr. Weasley, she had sent him on his way after only making a token effort of keeping him there for breakfast. Really, they didn’t need any more sourpusses wandering the halls of Hogwarts. There were enough already in her firm, but undoubtedly correct opinion.

Besides, Mr. Potter had actually slept the entire night through without needing any more Dreamless Sleep added to his system. She’d always been wary of using too much of that stuff on her patients, especially the young delicate ones like him.

Remarkably, he seemed to do Severus some good as well. She knew that the young man would deny it wholeheartedly, but she was quite sure that he had smiled once or twice in the company of the young boy who was currently eating his lunch beside him.

Young Mr. Weasley had just been shook up over that crazy incident that had occurred in Lockhart’s classroom, she told herself.

And really, it made sense; Lockhart was the type who caused unintentional madness wherever he went. Unfortunately for everyone else, he wasn’t the type who could often fix the problems that he frequently caused.

She clucked quietly in his direction before going back to her work.

…

Harry was having a very odd week.

In fact, odd didn’t even begin to cover it.

Hysterically disturbing might work as a placeholder, but he’d have to find something more substantial if he really wanted to be serious about it.

His dreams were still wildly full of fingers and tongues that wrapped around his body and pulled him down until he was underwater and fighting for his life. Currently, he was having the dreams about four times a week. It was being to wear him down more than a little bit.

Plus, turning corners by himself on the way to his classes had apparently become enough to send him into wild crying fits that started and ended with no discernible patterns.

However, falling asleep on top of his potion’s master in the infirmary following a whacked out incident where said potion’s master had gotten injured in the process of saving his life yet again, didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest.

Given his new standards for oddness, Harry figured that something very disturbing indeed would have to occur in order to still pique his interest, let alone bother him.

He found that new thing that night after being released from Pomfrey’s care—finally!—shortly after flopping into bed.

“It’s dark in here?” Ron’s voice asked him bizarrely out of nowhere.

“Generally that’s how I like to sleep,” Harry said, silently groaning to himself at his answer. He had most definitely been spending too much time around Snape as of late. He thanked Merlin that Seamus and Dean were still down in the common room, and that Neville was passed out cold, if the sound of his loud snores were any indication.

“Oh. It looks light to me.” His friend said calmly before falling silent.

Harry lay quietly in the dark for a few more moments before sitting up with a grimace and stalking over to his best mate’s bed. Ron’s bed curtains were open and he was laying on his back, fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling with strangely bright eyes.

“Have you ever had the length of your legs checked?” Ron asked; flopping quickly over on his side and looking intently up at him.

Whatever Harry was expecting him to say, that wasn’t it.

“Excuse me?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes, trying to figure out if Ron was being serious or if he was just trying to pull one over on him.

“The time between the intervals of your footsteps isn’t the same.” Ron said matter-of-factly, before flopping back down to lay like he had been when Harry had first walked up on him.

In the interests of keeping his sanity from gaining any more holes, Harry decided not to pursue the conversation.

“I’m going back to bed. Why don’t you do the same?” Harry asked warily.

“I don’t much think you’d want me sleeping in there with you,” Ron answered with a straight face and those still strangely bright eyes.

“I meant that you go to sleep in your bed,” Harry said, exasperatedly.

“I tried already.”

“Yeah?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Didn’t take.” Ron said smoothly, crossing his hands behind his head.

“Why not do some homework then?” Harry asked, knowing that if there was anything that made Ron pass out, it was homework.

“Did it.” Ron answered quickly.

“Today’s?” Harry asked with some surprise.

“All of it.” Ron replied.

“Wait.” Harry felt that he had to ask from the way that Ron had said those words. “When you say all of it, what do you mean?”

“I did all the subjects.” Ron said simply.

“For the week?!?” Harry asked, squeaking a bit in amazement.

“For the month,” Ron said coolly.

“No joke?” Harry asked, unsure of how much he should just believe at face value.

“Seriously,” Ron said, turning and staring intently at him.

“What about doing next month’s?” He asked, slightly in shock.

“Can’t—Christmas holidays,” Ron answered in that same clipped tone.

“So,” Harry fought himself for control of his remaining sanity, but felt it to be a losing—if not already lost—battle. “I guess you’re bored then?”

“As a dingbat,” came the monotone reply.

“Well, you could always do my homework too.” Harry said, jokingly.

“Actually,” Ron answered, sounding intrigued, “that’s a pretty good idea.” Then he fell silent again, obviously deep in some kind of thought.

Harry stifled a yawn and decided that he could at least go and lay back down while Ron thought.

And if I get lucky, maybe I’ll fall asleep before he talks again.

It was a nice idea while it lasted.

“It’d have to be in your handwriting, wouldn’t it.” Ron said, not really asking, when he finally spoke again, a few moments later.

“And my voice,” Harry mumbled sleepily, unsure of where this was going exactly.

“Right.” Ron said. He sounded strangely excited for someone who had never given homework a second thought, let alone extra thought.

And then Harry fell asleep, completely dead to the world, unaware that by that next morning, Ron had figured out how to copy his handwriting exactly, complete even for its mistakes.

His life was quickly turning hysterically disturbing, alongside everyone else’s.

…

By the time that Thursday rolled around, Snape was back to his regular routine of grousing, being bitchy, and generally filling all of the rooms he passed through with his own brand of dark snarkiness. He knew that even without the added joy of his being injured earlier that week, that this week’s second year Gryffindor/Slytherin class was bound to be more interesting than usual, for the simple reason that Draco Malfoy was coming back to class.

He was most interested in seeing how Ms. Granger reacted to his return, given their last notorious interaction. He had felt it best for all involved if he gave her a warning about the boy’s imminent return, however he had not told her exactly when that return would be. He felt that a partial surprise would keep her on her toes, and that’s what he had told her too. Privately however, he was looking forwards to seeing just how she would react this time.

He had been fighting the urge to smile ever since waking up and discovering the boy sitting quietly beside his bedside, especially after finding out his reason for doing so.

Most of the children he was forced to teach seemed to approach life in the misguided assumption that the world owed them something. He had found in his years of teaching that students had rarely thanked him for anything, unless they were trying to get away with something. But hearing the son of his hated enemy say thank you to him, after sitting by his bed for Merlin only knew how long, had left a different feeling awake in Severus’s heart. He felt certain that the feeling in his heart was responsible for his invitation that the boy climb up into his arms for the second time in as many days.

Few people had ever given a damn about Severus Snape. Poppy, with all of her years of wisdom, was one of those few. In fact, she was likely one of the only ones still alive, at least in their part of the world.

Strangely enough, her isolation as one of the only people who cared about him was beginning to come to an end, as the Potter child had slowly started insinuating himself in Severus’s dark existence as well.

It was all so very odd. He had barely done anything for this strange boy; the boy who should have, by all rights, been disgusted with his very existence. Yet, his pathetic efforts at comforting the frightened child seemed to have been enough, possibly more than enough. Severus found himself wondering what kind of people had raised the boy not to expect anything from anyone.

Certainly not anything good, anyway, he had thought menacingly.

The boy was and had continued to be profoundly grateful for all that he received from Severus. It was a state of living which no one should have been forced to live in, as far as he was concerned. Although his own mother had died when he had been very young, he could still remember her kindness to him. The few memories he had of her had often sustained him later, while trying to survive the hardness that was his bullying menace of a father.

The child’s parents had died when he had been less than two years old. It was highly unlikely that he had any memories, let alone pleasant ones, about them whatsoever. In addition, from what he had observed thus far, it seemed that whatever creatures had raised the child had gone and done their best to make him as miserable as was possible.

The thought that someone had tried to hurt the boy like that made him almost ill with rage; especially now, as he had begun realizing just how tender and loving the boy truly was, even to him. It made him amazed to think that Lily’s inherent kindness was present in her child, even though the boy had little to no connection to his dead mother’s presence.

He felt that he simply could not permit the boy’s so-called “caretakers” to slowly beat the kindness out of him, like his father had done him. He simply could not allow it to come to pass.

The sadness brought on from his earlier thoughts that day continued to ache in him even after the beginning of his second years’ Gryffindor/Slytherin Thursday afternoon potions class; before being squashed far down into the infinitesimal cracks in the cold stone dungeon floor beneath his angrily pacing feet. In its place, he felt only a dry cold fury; unfortunately an all too familiar emotion for him.

It was that damnable Weasley boy’s fault. The boy had dared to ignore his presence, even here in his domain. Like his earlier memories had reminded him, it had been the same story for most of his earlier life, but here, in his classroom, it was a behavior that he would no longer stand for. Most students still tried ignoring him, of course, but very few ever actually succeeded. And the thought that the redhead boy, of all people—a term he was using very loosely in that boy’s case—thought he could get around Severus Snape just like that!??

It was entirely too infuriating an idea even to contemplate, let alone believe or see.

And so it had seemed fitting for him to be paired with Draco. It had made perfect sense, really. Draco was an example of how not to act. Surely even Weasley would be able to see that. Surely.

…

“Wow, Snape must really hate you,” Draco said, laughing when Weasley was forced to partner with him.

“Why do you think that?” Weasley asked absentmindedly, his mind not really on the class so much, but rather his second hit of Fless that he and Blaise were taking following class.

“Weasel, I’m Slytherin’s newest leper,” Draco said, still cackling somewhat madly, from Ron’s point of view.

Fless or not, two can play at this game, Ron thought cockily.

“So I heard that you’re changing your name.” Ron answered, aware that his classmates had suddenly leaned in ever so imperceptibly around them.

“Weasel, do not start with me,” Draco said, suddenly deathly calm.

“What’d you say it was Blaise?” Ron said, leaning over to the boy who was sitting barely an arm’s length away, his face plastered with a grin almost as grotesque as Ron’s.

“No wait,” Ron said, holding up a hand, “I remember.”

Draco was shooting death glares at the red haired boy who was sitting there with the stupid grin; seemingly unaware of the mortal danger he was putting himself in.

“Draconena? No, that’s not quite right. That sounds more like a bad dance from the 90s.” He paused for the expected laughter and was not disappointed.

Snape had stepped into his office for something shortly after telling Weasley to move, and was currently listening to all that was going on, thanks to a spell on the door that amplified all of the classroom activities. Internally he felt somewhat justified, but his outwards face was absolutely blank.

“Weasel, I swear you’re going to wish you were dead if you shut the fuck up,” Draco said menacingly, pulling his wand and whispering the last two words so that only Ron could hear.

Suddenly Ron found that he was tired of taking Malfoy spit crap at him and his family. Fless had helped him realize a great many things, and that was one of them. He wasn’t going to play nice around people anymore; screw who they were. They didn’t give a damn whom he was, did they? How did they know that he wasn’t going to pull his wand and do something nasty like Malfoy obviously was going to be doing soon enough to him?

They didn’t.

They didn’t know.

He wanted to laugh with the relief that the realization had brought him, but he didn’t want to be distracted lest Malfoy try something.

“I heard that your daddy was going to make you change your last name so that your freakishness wasn’t even connected with him anymore,” Weasley whispered coldly as he grabbed the front of Malfoy’s robes and pulled him in to glare into his frightened little eyes.

Then, with a strength only known to Fless users, he bodily lifted Malfoy off of his feet and heaved him in an arc over their empty cauldron onto the cold stone floor on the other side.

When Malfoy hit the ground, he hit hard, but when he tried to sit up, he did so with a groan. Within seconds, Malfoy was once more in Ron’s larger, and obviously angry, hands. He had lifted him up once more, only this time he was holding him up, just looking at him, as his hands tightened around his neck.

“Try begging me for mercy,” Ron suggested with a soft malice in his voice unlike anything anyone had ever heard from him.

Malfoy made a gargling sound deep in his throat and looked around the room in a panic. Millicent Bulstrode was purposely looking through her backpack in an obvious effort to keep from looking at him. Pansy was cleaning her fingernails idly, while Crabbe and Goyle were arm wrestling intently with one another; beside them, Nott was passed out cold in the back row like always. Blaise was still grinning at the sight of a Gryffindor holding the life of Draco Malfoy, the former prince of the dungeons, in his hands.

Of all the people in the room to speak up, no one had really expected to hear Harry’s voice break through the silence.

“Ron?” Harry’s voice asked uncertainly.

When Ron didn’t answer, Harry spoke again.

“Ron? I think you’ve made your point. You should just drop him now, okay?”

“Drop him now huh?” Ron turned and asked his friend with eyes that gleamed with harmful intent.

“Yeah,” Harry said very quietly. “Just let him go.”

Ron looked back at Malfoy, back at the boy who had helped tear his life apart. Draco’s eyes pleaded silently with him from within his purplish-red countenance.

“Why not,” Ron said, so softly that only Malfoy and Snape could hear.

And so he opened his fists and just dropped him straight down. Malfoy landed hard and was shortly thereafter joined by a fiery eyed, white lipped Snape.

Soon Malfoy was choking up great long streams of blood tinged bile, so Ron figured he hadn’t hurt him too badly. In the quiet mayhem that followed Malfoy’s release and Snape’s reentry into the classroom, Ron had headed to the back of the classroom where Blaise was standing, so they could take their second hit of the week. Somehow they both knew that they would likely have little opportunity to see one another after class, if indeed there was any after.