All the same, he didn't like the idea that Malfoy had been hovering around his potions.
And he liked even less the fact that Snape was obviously avoiding him like the plague.
Ron and Hermione came back several more times, mostly for short chats during which no-one dared mention Snape. Each evening, however, Hermione felt absolutely compelled to lecture Harry on all he'd missed in the last few weeks of classes, Potions included. Harry put up with it in good humour, though; he really did want to catch up, though it all seemed rather daunting, the things the students had moved on to while he'd been away. At least after a couple of hours of it she was willing for the three of them move on to another topic.
All the sixth-year Gryffindors stopped by to see him, and loads of the older and younger students, too. A fair number of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws visited, as well. Mostly the students came in groups of three or four, and stayed just a few minutes while Harry tried hard not to feel like he was some freak on display. He often wondered what he looked like, now. Madame Pomfrey had mentioned in passing that his eyes weren't bandaged because exposure to the air, and to normal variations of light as the day waxed and waned, would help with healing. He remembered the needles, vividly remembered the pain, and so he knew his face must have been utterly mangled. But nobody who came to see him gasped in shock, or even spoke in the stilted way people had when they tried to bear the unbearable, so he knew he couldn't look that bad. But surely he couldn't look normal, could he, not when Potions worked but half as well as they should?
There wasn't anyone he could ask, he realized. Every kindly soul who visited, even Ron and Hermione, would soften the truth with good will, or little white lies. So Harry didn't ask, though from time to time he still wondered.
With so many people coming by to see him, Harry got pretty good at opening cards he couldn't see. Thankfully, most of them were a benign version of Howlers, so pretty voices would chant, or sing, or sometimes positively chime messages at him. He got very good at unwrapping candies, sight unseen, and was just thankful that Fred and George weren't there to gift him with their strange ideas about what made a sweet fun.
There was no shortage of flowers beside his bed, mainly because a few of the Hufflepuff girls got pretty ridiculous and sent him self-propagating bouquets. By the second night, the room smelled like the greenhouses in full spring bloom, but when Harry complained a bit, Ron said the girls were sending the flowers because they liked Harry. When Harry said well sure they liked him, Ron and Hermione started giggling madly again. Then Hermione explained that Brenda and Strella and Halsey and Kat didn't just like him, they liked-him-liked-him. Harry said that was a stupid way to put it, and when Ron agreed, he got to listen to Ron and Hermione bicker over it.
Just to shock them into forgetting their argument, he unwrapped a Chocolate Frog and caught it before it could really go anywhere.
Ron seemed to be having a hard time talking, but finally he came out with, "Are you having us on, mate? Your vision's back!"
"Nah. Just seeker reflexes," Harry passed it off.
Suddenly feeling tired, he lay back and closed his eyes. He didn't want to ask, he really didn't, especially not in front of Ron, but he'd been waiting for two days for Hermione to bring it up, and she hadn't. Probably for the same reason: Ron.
But he couldn't wait any longer.
"Did you tell him?" Harry abruptly asked, brushing the Chocolate Frog wrapper off his bed.
Hermione didn't have to ask tell whom what? She knew. "Yes. Of course I told him."
She wasn't going to say anything more? She was going to make Harry drag it out of her? Well, fine then. "What did he say?"
Hermione's robes made a fluttering little noise. Harry's guess was that she'd bent down to retrieve the Chocolate Frog wrapper, to save the house-elves some work since the hospital floor wasn't spelled to eliminate its own messes. It couldn't be. Sometimes the Medi-Witch had to see just what foul substance a student's body had decided to produce.
"Hermione?"
"He didn't say anything, mate," Ron put in, sounding as though he was trying to be helpful. "I had to stay after to scrub cauldrons. Heard the whole thing."
"Liar," Harry accused, but without rancor. "Oh, not about the cauldrons; I'm sure that's true. But come on, how bad could it have been? You went up, and you said... well, what, exactly? How'd you put it?"
Hermione thought back to two days earlier. "'Sir. May I have a moment of your time? Harry asked me to pass on a message. He wants you to know that he's sorry.'"
"And think, she didn't even choke on it," Ron put in. "Just stood there, polite as you please, and gave him your message like you wanted."
Harry could appreciate, really appreciate, that Ron was trying to behave, so he overlooked the "choke" comment to simply press, "But what did he reply? Hermione?"
"Don't make me tell you," she begged.
Oh, Merlin. It's bad, then. Well, the way Harry figured it, he might as well know the worst. "Hermione," he chided, in exactly that tone she always used to get him to spill.
"Oh, all right," she grumbled, the candy wrapper making crinkling noises as she twisted it. "All right! So, I had just said, 'He wants you to know that he's sorry,' and Professor Snape looked straight down at me in that glaring way he has, and growled two words."
"Two words?"
Ron took over, and divulged, "Yeah, two words. Get. Out. That's all he said, Harry, I swear. Just, Get. Out."
"Shite," Harry swore out loud.
"Yeah," Ron agreed, evidently thinking Harry was calling Snape a shite. "And I didn't even do anything to be assigned cauldron duty, either."
"Not anything?"
"No--"
"Ron, you only glared at him like he was the devil's own spawn for two solid hours!" Hermione reminded him.
"It was my way of sticking up for Harry!"
Uh-oh. Harry could see the trend of the conversation, and he didn't like it. "That's it," he shortly announced, his nerves set on edge. Get. Out. What was that? "I'm really tired out. So I'll see you two tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Ron agreed.
"'Night, Harry," Hermione bid him, quietly leaning over to peck him on the cheek.
Harry flinched back a yard, almost knocking himself completely off the bed.
"Harry!"
"It's nothing," he insisted, levering himself back into a stable position.
"It's not nothing if you can't stand a simple touch!" Hermione exclaimed. "This is really serious!"
"You," Harry said in a hard tone, "do not know what I went through. I don't care what you heard eavesdropping, you do not know what it was like, you do not know what I suffered, and you do not know how I'm feeling now! And while I'm at it, you do not know what I think about Snape! Got that?"
"Harry, I wouldn't hurt you," Hermione exclaimed, her voice so close it scared him. "Not about Snape, or any of the rest of it. I'm your friend!"
"Then back the eff off!" Harry all but screamed, clawing panic starting to tear him apart inside. He didn't really think she'd touch him again; that wouldn't be like her, but the mere prospect was enough to shatter him.
He heard Hermione stepping backwards, trying to turn the storm into calm, her voice light and casual. "We'll see you again tomorrow, Harry."
"Yeah," Harry managed to grumble, already ashamed of himself. But he couldn't help it. Every time he had the slightest physical contact with anyone ---hell, even Madame Pomfrey who was doing nothing but taking good care of him--- he completely freaked out. And it was only getting worse, not better. The more time he had to think back to Samhain and remember, the crazier it made him. "Tomorrow, yeah."