"As it turned out, I could not have," Snape quietly returned, pushing aside his plate as though his own appetite was faulty as well. "You saw him in the lab. Even after I'd proven he must have brewed the poison, he was still intent on claiming the elves were the ones who put it to use. The only reason he finally gave up his lies was to stop me from displaying to you the spectacle of him tainting the fairy cakes."
Well, that was true enough, Harry thought, but it didn't make him feel much better. He crossed his arms as he sat there, and glared across the table at his father.
"Harry, I regret that scene at dinner last night, more than you can know. But I felt I had no choice. I had to know if Draco's loyalty to himself would exceed his loyalty to you."
"Oh..." Harry's arms relaxed a bit. "I thought you were just trying to make him confess."
"That was important, certainly, but far more vital was the question of whether he would protect his secret at the cost of your well-being."
Harry leaned on the table then, and met his father's gaze. "And if he had?"
Snape frowned. "I don't know. I'm exceedingly grateful it didn't come to that. I can only say that had Draco not acted to shield you from the Venetimorica, I would probably believe he could not be rehabilitated."
"I'm glad he stopped me," Harry whispered. "But for all that, he's... more messed up than I thought, I guess."
"Yes, I believe he is." Snape nodded, the motion sharp, as though it pained him to admit it. Or maybe what hurt was his realisation that he should have gotten Draco some professional help a long time ago.
Harry finished up his orange juice. " I didn't know there were wizard therapists, really. I guess I thought when you bought that Muggle book after Samhain, it must mean that wizards weren't writing about adolescent trauma." He smiled a little. "Because I remember what you said about the leukaemia book the Dursleys had. It didn't seem like you had a whole lot of respect for Muggle writers. But I figure Draco's therapist must be a wizard, right? Otherwise Draco won't really be able to talk freely, and some of his problems won't make very good sense... what?"
Snape cleared his throat. "There aren't a great many wizard therapists, Harry, but I did manage to find a highly-regarded squib psychiatrist who specialises in adolescents, actually." He paused, almost as if he was waiting for Harry to come to some realisation, and when Harry said nothing, went on, "Arabella Figg recommended her."
"Arabella Figg..." Harry nodded. "Oh. You're talking about Dudley's therapist, aren't you? What was her name... Marta? Marsha?"
"Dr. Marsha Goode."
"Good?" Harry couldn't help but chuckle. Well, maybe it was an omen. Steyne had been a nasty piece of work, so Goode had to work out all right, didn't she?
"You don't have any qualms about the matter?"
Harry didn't see why he should. "Well, she worked wonders with Dudley, didn't she? Say, is Dudley still seeing her?"
Snape's expression went slightly sour. "I inquired about that myself and was treated to a lengthy lecture on ethics and confidentiality." His gaze locked onto Harry's. "I mention qualms, however, because the good doctor would like to meet with you as well."
Confused, Harry just shrugged. "Yeah, you mentioned that. But I'm happy to help Draco. Whatever he needs."
Snape cleared his throat. "That's all well and good, but I suspect what Dr. Goode has in mind is to discuss the likelihood of your needing therapy of your own."
Oh. Harry suddenly felt like he'd taken a Bludger to the stomach. "You said I was messed up too. Do you think I need... uh..."
"Harry, Dr. Goode has spent over a year counselling Dudley. I'm certain she's heard some rather distressing anecdotes about how you were treated as a child. She also reads the Prophet, and has long been aware of your special place in the wizarding world. It's little wonder if she questions how well you are coping with the juxtaposition of so many different sources of stress."
"You mean she thinks I must be a basket case," Harry dryly interpreted that. "But I hardly care what she thinks. What do you think? That's what matters to me."
"I think..." Snape regarded him for a long moment. "You have dealt remarkably well with your travesty of a childhood and all that has happened since."
Inexplicably, Harry felt tears pooling in his eyes, because he didn't deserve praise like that. He wasn't dealing with Sirius' death well, because he wasn't dealing with it, full stop. He tried not to think about his godfather, ever. It was just too horribly painful, even if it did Sirius a disservice.
When it came to Sirius, Harry knew, he wasn't brave at all. Or Gryffindor. And Sirius would probably be disappointed in him.
Snatching out his wand, Harry cleared away all their dishes and said they'd better go outside again and help Draco.
Snape said nothing in reply.
"Coming?" Harry pressed, glancing back.
Snape's dark eyes glimmered as slowly nodded.
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After an afternoon spent working on construction, with very little progress to show for it, Harry felt pretty fed up. "There are easier ways of building, you know," he told his father and brother. "Why don't we go into the nearest town and buy some bricks to make the floor? It can't be that hard to mix up mortar and glue them together--"
"If you'd had any sort of proper wizarding upbringing," Draco began to drawl in his most superior tones, "then you'd know, wouldn't you--"
"That sounds remarkably like baiting to me," interrupted Snape in a level voice.
The blond boy abruptly fell silent. "Sorry," he said after a moment, glancing quickly at Harry. "I'll work on not saying things like that. Anyway, maybe you could get your dark powers working here and do the whole floor with one spell?"
Harry didn't think he'd heard the last about his Muggle-raised heritage, but if Draco was going to try to curtail his rude comments, that was something, at least. "I'm a bit worried I might cover the whole meadow in granite if I'm not careful."
"Delimit an area before you begin." Draco shrugged.
"I still haven't figured out the Parseltongue for give-me-granite, let alone give-me-just some," Harry pointed out. Complaining wasn't going to get it done, though, so Harry started talking once more to Sals.
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When it was time for dinner, Snape took his grandfather's wand away from Draco. That was just as well, Harry thought. Venetimorica could cause delusions; there was no telling what Draco might cast under its influence.
Snape asked Harry to see to their meal, which basically meant fishing things out of their magic crates. While Harry did that, Snape went into the bedroom with Draco. Probably they were talking about the poison and what Draco could expect, though Harry couldn't see a whole lot of sense in that discussion. He was positive Draco had researched the matter thoroughly and knew exactly what he was in for.
Draco didn't come out for dinner; Snape said the other boy was too tired and had decided to rest.
"It's starting then," Harry whispered, looking out the window at the setting sun. He shoved away his meal. "That's it. I can't eat."
"You didn't eat much lunch," said Snape as he began twirling cream-flecked fettuccine around his fork.
"So?"
"The best thing you can do for your brother is stay strong yourself. It's likely to be a long, difficult night."
"And day, and possibly another night." Harry stabbed at his own noodles and then half-heartedly ate some. "Fine. I know you're right."
The Potions Master poured water from a carafe into two of the crystal goblets Harry had found in a crate. The third one sat empty at Draco's place, just staring at Harry until he couldn't stand it. Grabbing the carafe, he poured a measure out for Draco as well. Stupid, pointless gesture and he knew it, but he didn't like the feeling that Draco was being left out.