He was on his own in this, and it had to be that way, Harry sensed. But that was all right, because he was going to solve it.
"Lumos!" he shouted again, his arm flung out in a straight, determined line, his stance something he might normally use in a duel.
"Maybe that's enough for right now," Draco said, coming in and spelling on the lights he'd extinguished for Harry earlier.
"Ten more minutes," Harry said without turning around. "Get rid of the lights again."
He heard Draco give a sigh. "You're leaving me all alone out there with the Weasl---" With a groan, Draco started over. "That is, your good friend Ronald has seen fit to inflict his presence on us yet again. Perhaps you could be so gracious as to help me entertain him?"
"Yeah, perhaps I could," Harry drawled, ignoring the sarcasm. "In ten minutes. You'll survive until then."
Draco sighed again, but then he whispered a command to the lights and shut the door.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Over dinner a couple of nights later, Harry held his fork with stiff fingers and forcibly stopped himself from wincing with every bite. He didn't particularly want anybody to notice how much his hands were hurting.
Snape did notice, though. "Harry. That's the fourth time you've tried to spear the same stalk of asparagus. What's wrong?"
Harry shook his head to say it was nothing, and when his father kept staring at him, passed it off with, "Oh, you know, I maybe overdid it on the essays earlier today. Got a bit of writer's cramp, I think."
Draco's gaze shot to his at that, his silver eyes frankly disbelieving, and Harry almost flinched, thinking that the Slytherin boy would surely chime in that Harry hadn't done a bit of schoolwork that day.
Draco said nothing though, and Harry didn't know why. Brotherly loyalty, perhaps? Hmm, that wasn't a very Slytherin explanation. Maybe it was as simple as the other boy wanting something to blackmail him with. Harry felt a little bit bad, thinking such dark thoughts about Draco, but on the other hand... well, it was Draco.
It was Ron who chimed in something, actually. "Would writer's cramp make your hands so... um, red?"
"They aren't red!" Harry denied. True, they were perhaps a bit more reddish than usual, but he hardly wanted Snape deciding to give them a closer look.
"Hmm," Snape only said, and resumed eating his own marinated asparagus as he began to question them about their latest topics in Transfiguration.
After dinner was over, Harry got his books from his room and launched into his assignments. The stack was depressingly tall, but how could it not be, when he'd spent the last few days practicing spells instead of keeping up? Unfortunately, most of what he had to do wasn't reading; he had some essays to catch up on. Not what he wanted to do with his fingers practically screaming with pain... but, oh well.
He scratched out his name at the top of a sheet of parchment, longing for the good old days when he had Draco's magical quill to use. Biting his lip as he went on, he managed to sloppily write out the title: Transfigurationate Ethics. That much done, it was all he could do not to go soak his hands in some cool water or something.
Snape sat down right beside him and glanced at his work. "Perhaps Ethical Issues in Transfiguration would be a better title," he lightly remarked. "I don't believe transfigurationate is actually a word."
Harry knew it wasn't, but he'd been trying to avoid writing anything longer. It would be bad enough getting through the rest of the essay with his hands in this state, and honestly, McGonagall wouldn't mark him down for a made-up word, would she? She never had graded their essays anywhere near as hard as Snape. "It'll be all right," he said, his tone shorter than he had intended. Well, pain would do that.
Snape leaned close to him and spoke quietly against his ear. "Harry, your hands are obviously giving you a good deal of trouble. It's been too long since we spelled them. Let me help you."
"No thanks," Harry answered. "I'll be fine." With Gryffindor determination, he resumed writing out his essay, his breathing going jerky and uneven the longer he kept on. After a while he couldn't keep it up. Sighing as quietly as he could, he dropped his quill, spattering ink on the table, and stretched out his fingers.
A series of cracking noises interrupted the silence in the room as bones and tendons popped back into their proper places.
Snape had been marking papers for the past few minutes, but at that, his patience evaporated. Glaring a bit at Harry, he indicated with a crooked finger that the boy should join him over on the couch. Harry went reluctantly, not looking forward to the conversation at all.
Ron, he noticed, was watching the interchange carefully. At that, Harry nearly gave another heavy sigh. He didn't want his friend to see him in conflict with Snape... but there was probably no avoiding it.
Once Harry had settled onto a cushion, holding himself tensely on the edge of the couch, Snape took the initiative and challenged, "So. What is the matter? Your hands are evidently in agony but you don't wish help?"
Harry grimaced. Couldn't he have talked low enough for Ron not to hear? "I'm trying to get my magic back, all right?" he hissed. "I'm really trying, this time. What if the pain is the magic trying to get out? I can't very well just block it, can I?"
"That's precisely why we've used a spell rather than a potion. The spell doesn't block anything; it enchants your fingers to believe the pain isn't real. I thought you understood that."
"Yeah, I do," Harry admitted. "But I thought, just in case... you know, what's a little pain? It's nothing like Cruciatus, after all."
Snape made a low growling noise. "The fact that you have suffered horrible curses before does not render you immune to pain, Harry. Stretch out your hands for me."
Harry hid them behind his back. A childish reaction, to be sure, but he didn't want Snape to go all fatherly and do what he thought best no matter what Harry thought about it.
"Harry, I merely wish to examine them," Snape announced, glowering a bit.
"Promise," Harry entreated.
Snape was glowering more than a bit when he returned, "The mere request is both offensive and infantile, but yes, Harry. I promise."
Ignoring the snark, Harry whipped his hands out and thrust them toward Snape.
The Potions Master lost his haughty attitude as he took his son's fingers in his and lightly massaged each digit. The touch was careful in the extreme, but Harry still pulled in a harsh breath. "My apologies," Snape murmured, though he still kept on. "A magical examination now, I should think," he added in the same low tone.
Harry trusted him enough that when the man pulled his wand, he left his hands out in plain view.
Snape was frowning by the end. "The pain is only going to get worse if you don't let me help you, Harry," he pronounced. "I think your joints will become even more stiff, as well. If you are determined to suffer this, I will say no more, but..." he lowered his voice. "Gryffindor bravery is quite admirable at times, but this is more like foolhardiness. You will soon be unable to move your fingers at all at this rate, and I doubt that will be conducive to your endless wand practice."
"You told him," Harry complained, glaring at Draco.
"Your hands told me," Snape corrected, one thumb tapping against the chafed, red place on Harry's palm. "This used to be quite callused."
"Sorry, Draco," Harry sighed, pulling his hands back to his lap. "I guess I shouldn't have let myself get so far out of practice," he admitted. "Well. If I won't be able to hold my wand with stiff fingers, I guess you'd better spell my hands, after all."