Harry breathed the smell in deeply, and relaxed still further.
It came to him that Snape hadn't let go of his hands. Harry flexed his fingers, but not to free them. He just wanted to feel that the grip was really there, that he was awake now, and no longer in that half-dreaming state he'd come to know so well in Devon.
Madame Pomfrey began chastising in her high, sing-song voice, "Has no-one any sense? That magic he just let loose! Let him go, Severus! The boy can't bear so much as a finger applying salve--"
"But look, Poppy," Dumbledore's soft voice interrupted. "Look at him."
Even without sight, Harry could tell she was, that she was staring. Hating the sensation prickling at the back of his neck, he rolled until he could hide his face against the side of Snape's torso, burrowing his cheek against the man's soft shirt. Cotton... well-worn, well-washed cotton, the weave fuzzy with age. It would be black, he thought, and long-sleeved to hide the Dark Mark. Frowning, Harry shifted closer to his teacher, wondering what was going to happen to Snape now that Voldemort's harsh summons would have to be ignored.
"This is not how trauma recovery proceeds," Madame Pomfrey was still insisting. "I am a trained Medi-Witch, as you well know! Severus may have had the best of intentions, but he was present at the events, participated in them. And now Mr. Potter is clinging to him; Albus, this is not healthy for the boy--"
Thankfully, that was all Harry heard. Her voice faded down the corridor where Dumbledore had--gently but firmly, no doubt--led her.
As soon as her protests faded off, Snape slid an arm beneath Harry's shoulders and effortlessly drew him up so the boy could rest a cheek against his chest. Good thing, thought Harry. He'd almost started to suffocate there, with his face pressed in against his teacher's side.
For a long time after that, Harry lay silent, just soaking in the feeling of someone who would sit quietly with him, someone whose presence didn't make him feel like he had to put on a show of being cheerful and brave. He wasn't brave, not now; he was afraid to so much as speak. Or maybe it was a case of being confused, of not knowing what to say, or how to say it, even. Madame Pomfrey had a point, after all. Snape had been there, had helped hurt him, or at least, allowed others to. But he hadn't had much option; Harry understood that, when he could rise above the memory of the staggering pain, and think about things rationally. Samhain... that wasn't who Snape really was. That had been a feint.
Afterwards... that was what mattered.
Afterwards, when Harry had lain dazed and half-conscious, unable to recall or remember much of what he'd suffered during Samhain. Snape had held him and held him, hour past hour just like this, sitting beside him, holding his hands, letting Harry lean into his strength and draw from it. His body remembered that, recognized the comfort, he thought. His body knew, just like the thinking part of his mind, that Snape was no threat. Strangely, his teacher's touch was the only one he could bear, but more than that, it was a touch he wanted. Craved, even. Now that he was being held, he realized it was like getting water after an eternity of thirst. But perhaps that wasn't so strange, after all. Snape's touch was the one thing that stood apart from the horror, because Harry had been given so much of it then, all he could want, really, in that time before he'd woken up. Before he'd realized he was supposed to be afraid.
It was Snape who finally broke the silence enveloping them.
"Better now, Harry?"
Harry gave a jerky nod, his cheek brushing against the hard little buttons on Snape's shirt. He wanted to ask so many things, but every one of them sounded stupid even to him. Do you have to hate me now? You aren't really going to stop making my potion, are you? Why did you have to be the one to hold me down while they tormented me.... He cast about for something better to start off with, something that wouldn't have Snape sneering at him and going back to Mr. Potter.
"Um, Professor? What was that terrible smell?"
Snape's chest moved up and down in a slow, calming rhythm as he breathed. "Sight Restorative Potion. I believe you're familiar with it."
"Oh, yeah." Harry shuddered, thinking he'd almost rather stay blind that drink that dead licorice flavor twice each day. He didn't say that, though. Some frightened part of him couldn't bear the thought that Snape didn't like him, not really, not anymore. He'd move away if Harry said something insulting, wouldn't he? And Harry needed to be held, even if his teacher was only here because he'd thrown a screaming fit. "Smelling it was worse than drinking it," he settled for explaining.
"It would be," Snape remarked, easing one hand from Harry's and bringing it up to rest it very gently against the back of the boy's head. His fingers wove themselves through the strands, but other than that, didn't move. "You're sensitized to it because it's in your system. It took me a moment to realize; nobody else could detect the smell at all."
"You were making it, again?"
"I was spilling it, you idiot child," Snape softly replied, pulling his head a little bit more snugly against him as he said it. It came to Harry then, that strange as it might seem, when Snape said that phrase he meant it... affectionately. It was sad, in a way, as though Snape hadn't ever had anyone he could care about, and didn't really know how it was supposed to work.
Though come to think of it, this slow hug where he could feel the man's heartbeat through the slightly fuzzy fabric of shirt.... this was pretty good. If it lasted. That was the part that worried Harry. What if Snape was only being nice to him because he so obviously needed it? Because if he didn't, Harry's wild magic might lash out again?
"I spilled it all over me when Albus connected the Floo to my laboratory, and I heard you," Snape went on, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. Not even angry, and when had Snape ever not been angry over a potions accident? It was odd, but Harry lost track of the strangeness as his teacher talked on. "Poppy should have let me know at once that you wanted me, but I don't think she realized you were screaming my name as a summons." He paused. "Was it a nightmare, Harry?"
Harry nodded, a desperate little sob catching in his chest, somewhere near his heart. "Should be used to them," he muttered, feeling cowardly and ashamed, by then. He was glad Snape had gotten there, and helped him stop those awful, uncontrollable surges of violent magic, of course, but still, he'd been having bad dreams for years and years.
"These aren't your usual nightmares, I expect," Snape returned, sighing, his fingers moving downward until they rested on Harry's nape. He began to rub the pads of his fingers there, in slow, tiny circles that made the boy's tense shoulders loosen and finally droop. "Samhain, yes?"
Harry shook his head and muttered something unintelligible, his shoulders tautening again, but then Snape said very slowly, as though it was being dragged from him, "I have nightmares about it, as well."
Harry brought his cheek up, wishing he could see his teacher's expression. "Really?"
This time there was no pause before the admission. "Yes."
They sat a while in silence after that, probably because, Harry thought, neither one of them needed to detail out loud just what was in their dreams. They knew.
"Do you need me to say how sorry I am, Harry?" Snape abruptly demanded, his voice gone cold.
"Sorry I have nightmares?" Harry said without thinking, but then his mind caught up. "Or sorry because you were um.... there, with them?" Helping them, he almost said, but didn't.