"I’m on fire!" Harry yelled. "Snape, I’m on fire!"

"I can see that, Mr. Potter," Snape nodded thoughtfully, as if he was observing a potion that had gone wrong with no explanation.

"Snape, my whole body’s on fire."

"Don’t move, Potter. Just stay on the bed. How do you feel?"

"How do I feel?" Harry felt half-crazy as he stared at his teacher with wide eyes. "I’m on fire!"

"If you were really being burned, you would be screaming with pain. You’re not – just panicking. How do you feel?"

"Uh-uh – hot," Harry stared down at his body that was engulfed in orange, crackling flames.

"Do you feel like you’ve touched a hot pot? Or like you’ve stepped in a hothouse with all the hot air and concentrated heat on your skin? Or like you’ve been sunburned? Or slept with too many blankets?"

"The sunburn – the sunburn thing!" Harry cried out. "My skin is hot and itches, and it kinda hurts, but not too much, but I’m on fire. I’m on fire!"

"If anyone were to ever receive an award for making the most inane comments over and over again, it would be you, Potter," Snape sneered. "Just when I think you can’t get any stupider, I find a whole new level of idiocy I never knew existed."

Harry glared at him. "I am not stupid. You’re stupid."

"What I brilliant comeback," Snape smirked. "I would expect better from a four-year-old."

"You’re mean and nasty and cruel and spiteful," Harry shot at him. "No one likes you – no one wants to be around you, ever! And we all hate your clothes and your hair. And – and you’re horrible teacher!"

"Hitting me where it hurts – my teaching skills," Snape mocked at him.

"Yeah," Harry snarled, "I haven’t learned a thing from you in five years. All those hours in that rotting dungeon, a waste of time! And when I become king of the wizarding world or whatever you think I’m trying to be, the first thing that’s going is bloody potions! Anyone that tries to teach or make potions gets a one-way ticket to Azkaban!"

Snape looked like he was trying not to smirk which made Harry even angrier.

"Yeah, and you’re going to Azkaban as soon as I get off this bed and out of this ruddy house. I won’t stop until they lock you away for good, you sodding git!"

"Mr. Potter," Snape’s voice was irritatingly quiet, "you’re not on fire anymore."

Harry glanced down. The fire was gone, and he was lying on the bed in his pajamas as if nothing had happened. The room felt eerily quiet after the loud crackling of flames.

"What happened?" Harry asked in a scared, surprised voice.

"Exactly what I thought would happen," Snape said calmly, "or at least one of two things. I knew either you’d burn out the curse from the fireplace or you’d die."

"Those were the options?" Harry almost yelled.

"You didn’t die – you should be happy. Not to mention thanking me for not letting you burn to death."

Harry gave him a bewildered look.

"The potion, Potter! Really, sometimes I wonder how you manage to survive with such little brainpower. If the Dark Lord knew the idiot he was up against –"

"So the potion kept me from burning?" Harry interrupted, refusing to be called stupid one more time.

"Actually no, it sped up the burning process. I knew you would catch fire eventually because the Dark Lord did when he came through. However, it took him a full week to ignite, and it was not pleasant waiting in the least. I couldn’t imagine dealing with your whining and pleading for that long so I made a potion that would hurry things up while protecting your main organs. So when you caught fire, you’d burn yourself out and not harm yourself. You became more and more tired because the potion was speeding the process along, and your body was trying to keep up."

Harry stared at him uncertainly before managing to say, "Well – well, you should have told me."

"And have you worrying about catching fire for two days? I saw you before each task during the Tri-Wizard Tournament– you don’t do very well under pressure. You’re better flying by the seat of your pants. Worrying and fretting only gets you into mischief, as I’ve noticed many a time."

Snape’s parental tone made Harry cross his arms and glare at the edge of the bed. He hated the way Snape made him sound so childish and impulsive, like a four-year-old that couldn’t sit still for a single second without causing trouble.

"As for your disrespect –"

"I was on fire," Harry protested, looking up in alarm. "Whatever someone says when they’re on fire shouldn’t count."

Snape seemed to waver, and Harry wondered if he would over his teacher’s knees in a moment, being punished for threatening to have Snape tossed in Azkaban.

"Don’t let it happen again," Snape warned.

Harry bit his tongue before he could retort "What? The disrespect or catching fire?" There was no need to test his luck.

"All right," Snape reached for the black bag one last time, but this time removed a green potion, "drink this and see if you can go back to sleep."

"More sleep?" Harry was incredulous as he swallowed the potion. It wasn’t too bad, kind of like peppermint and cinnamon. "I’ve done nothing but sleep since I got here."

"Potter, you just caught fire a few minutes ago. I want you to take it easy until I’m sure you’ve fully recovered. So, lie back against the pillows and stay still." When Harry glared at him, Snape raised an eyebrow. "I can always stun you if you think that will help you mind me better."

"But I’m tired of staying in bed," Harry knew he was whining, but he felt justified in his complaint. It was odd to have someone other than Madame Pomfrey worry about his health. His confusion grew as Snape plumped up the pillows before pushing Harry back on them and feeling his forehead with his palm. Harry felt an odd flutter in his stomach. Was this what it felt like to have a parent fuss over you when you were sick? Snape could be – no, he was creepy and evil and mean, not good parent material at all.

"You’re not warm," Snape announced, his tone implying that Harry had finally done something right. "I daresay your fever broke. Try to relax for a bit, don’t think about anything – go on to sleep. I’ll come up later tonight and stretch your muscles so you don’t get too stiff.

"Yeah, on a torture rack," Harry muttered as he turned on his side.

"As you wish, Mr. Potter," Snape gave a mock bow of his head before closing the curtains again and leaving the room.

Harry lay in the dark, trying to fall asleep, but was really too wound up about what had just taken place. He had burst into flames. Surely, that wasn’t a good thing. And Snape had known all about it the whole time and probably been thinking Hmm, is the Brat-Who-Lived going to die or become a human furnace? Either way, I’m sure to have some fun watching him suffer! Evil prat.

Yet, it was a little relieving to have someone else care about him and look out for his well-being. Harry began mentally checking off the people who had cared for him. The Dursleys – well, that wasn’t really caring, but they had seen that he reached eleven without dying of hunger so that had to count for something. McGonagall – but she had to see to all the members of her house and he was just one of many. Dumbledore – though Harry sometimes wondered if the old wizard only liked him because he was destined to save the world, and after last year being so cold and distant . . .

Harry sniffed suddenly, his eyes hurting. He quickly went on to the next person. Hagrid – now, Hagrid was someone who cared about him. A little rough, definitely not a safe person, but Harry could trust Hagrid as long as the caretaker didn’t have any ferocious animals around. And there was Lupin, who had taught him how to ward off dementors though the teacher had turned into a werewolf later and tried to eat Harry, but that wasn’t really Lupin’s fault. And the Weasleys – though they had seven children of their own and troubles enough to deal with. And lastly Sirius –

Harry swallowed painfully. Sirius had invited him to live with him once the man was cleared, but Harry could not help remembering how distracted and – and unfeeling Sirius had been the whole time Harry had stayed at Grimauld Place. No, wait – Sirius had been busy and Harry had been cleaning, which come to think of it had been completely a waste of his time. Harry had proven himself time and time again in the face of evil only to be locked up at his relatives’ house and then turned into a cleaning house elf? It was so unfair, completely unfair for Sirius to let his only godson suffer.

Holding onto the edge of the covers, Harry waited for anger to sweep over him. He liked the feeling at times – it drove him forward and gave him something to care about instead of feeling empty. But no anger came. Instead, a wave of helplessness coupled with sadness bore down on him, and Harry found himself starting to cry.

What a baby! his mind screamed at him, but his emotions wouldn’t listen. His face scrunched up painfully, and his eyes were burning, and then tears were rolling down his face. He had never felt so miserable and distraught in his whole life.

Get a grip, get a grip! some rational part of him pleaded, but he couldn’t listen. No on cared about him, he was all alone, no one would ever love him, who would want to love him? He was a horrible person, an awful boy that everyone hated.

That’s it, the sensible voice told him. You’re crazy now. You’ve just won a first-class ticket to St. Mungo’s. Room 543 – Mr. Harry James Potter, admitted for hysterical tears and excessive crying. If you’d like to see Mr. Potter, please look through the window where you can see that he is still crying. Four months now, and we have to keep him hydrated or he’ll cry himself to death from lack of water.

Harry sat up in bed, wrapped his arms around his knees, and buried his head in the crook of his right arm. He could feel his tears dampen the sleeve of his pajama shirt, and his whole body shook with sobs. He remembered a Muggle book where the girl had enlarged herself, cried, then gotten shrunken, and nearly drowned in a sea of her own tears. Harry hoped that would happen to him so he might put an end to it all. No one cared about him anyway. He nearly choked with the force of his wails.

"I thought I told you not to think and to go to sleep!" a tight voice sounded from the doorway.

Harry looked up, and from a glaze of tears he could see a black form coming towards him. Maybe it was a dementor who would suck out his soul, which wouldn’t be much of a treat for the dementor because Harry was such a low-down, horrible, pathetic, miserable, little person.

Harry felt a hand grip the back of his neck, and then a cloth swiped over his face, wiping his tears away with a little more force than Harry would like.

"Blow," Snape instructed, holding the handkerchief over Harry’s nose. Harry did so, and Snape wiped briskly.

"What’s h-happening to me?" Harry wailed, completely and utterly despondent. He gestured wildly to the tears that continued to stream down his cheeks.

"Just what I expected," Snape said, still dabbing tears away in a professional manner as if he were accustomed to drying teenager’s tears on a regular basis. "The potion I gave you works faster with your emotions. I made you angry while you were on fire so you burned it quicker. However, most of your anger burnt out as well, leaving you feeling vulnerable and upset. I was hoping that you might fall asleep before you had an absolute breakdown, but that didn’t work." He sighed in resignation.

This new information did nothing to cheer Harry up; if anything, it made him feel more miserable than ever. He was just a lost little boy in a big scary world where everyone wanted to hurt him, and he couldn’t protect himself.

"Now, Potter," Snape pushed him back on the pillows. "Why don’t you try to think of something a bit – happy," Snape seemed to have trouble with the last word.

Harry blinked. "Like what?" How could he ever think of anything pleasant with Snape standing over him and his feelings running haywire?

Snape rolled his eyes. "Come on, Potter, there must be something that make you feel good, that you enjoy."

"Fl-flying," Harry sniffed, trying to stop the tears still leaking out.

For a moment, Snape looked like he was going to make a snide comment, but he merely swallowed and said, "All right, you like to fly. Some people aren’t good at it, but you are, not surprising considering your fath – but no, you like flying. I suppose you mean at Quidditch."

Harry nodded, biting his lip to stifle a sob. "Y-yes, but other times, too. It helps me relax. You’re up high, you-you know, and everything looks so small. If it’s that small, it can’t be such a big deal."

"Interesting perception. What else do you like?"

Harry considered. He wanted to keep crying, but he could not think and cry at the same time. "I like hanging out with Ron and Hermione, I like talking to them at night in the common room where we’re not in class or around a lot of people."

"All right, that’s sounds fun," Snape had trouble saying that word as well. "So flying and friends - lovely. I think you also like those chocolate frogs that leap around and are general nuisances."

"I like wizard candy," Harry nodded. The tears had stopped coming, but he still felt lonely and empty.

Snape reached into his robes, but Harry didn’t see him pull anything out. The man rubbed his hands together quickly before asking, "Now, let’s talk about things you don’t like exactly, but you’re glad when you succeed."

"Huh?" Harry squinted in confusion.

"Like studying for a class you don’t enjoy, but you’re happy when you receive a high grade."

Harry nodded again. "Sometimes, I like having to work for stuff. If everything came easy, I wouldn’t like it."

Harry felt something warm pressed against his own cold hand. For a moment, he wanted to jerk away, but the warmth soon spread over his hand and up his arm. He enjoyed the soothing sensation and held the warm thing even tighter.

"You like reading," Snape continued, oblivious to Harry’s new feeling.

"Yeah, but not as much as Hermione. She remembers everything, and she reads faster than I do." Harry picked up the warm object in one hand. He admired the look of it before feeling it with both hands. Yes, skin covering muscle and bone.

"She is quite the know-it-all," Snape observed.

Harry frowned a little as he traced a blood vein over the object with his finger. "She’s helped me in a lot of classes. Funny though, you would have thought we’d be in the same boat, neither of us knowing anything about magic before we came to Hogwarts. But she knows everything. Ron doesn’t, and they fight, but they always make up."

"Do they?"

Feeling very relaxed, Harry turned the hand over and looked at the nails. They were short and clean though slightly stained with potions. How did you get potions off your hands? Were they like Easter egg dye, which wore off after time?

"They must make up," Harry decided finally, "because they were friends when I left school. Fights are so stupid most of the time, you know? You call names and chuck things, but at the end, you’re still mates."

"Quite the philosophizer today," Snape commented.

Harry held the hand up to his – the other hand was bigger than his own hand. Harry tried stretching out his fingers as far as they would go, but they did not reach the tips of the man’s hand.

"I’m so short," Harry complained.

"That’s not unusual. Usually boys grow later in life," Snape said, not a hint of emotion in his tone.

"I hope I grow taller," Harry placed the hand palm down on his chest, enjoying the warm feeling that pulsating through it. He was beginning to get tired though he was supposed to be upset about something. What was he so sad about? Well, it didn’t matter for now. He yawned. Snape was still beside him.

"Just close your eyes and keep talking," the potions master advised. "I’m still listening to your mindless chatter."

"Mindless chatter," Harry repeated as his eyes fluttered closed. "Mindless chatter, bindless patter – hey, they rhyme. Hindless smatter, timeless clatter, shineless . . ."

He drifted off, a faint smile playing around his lips.

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. He removed his hand from Harry’s chest, hoping the last bit of calming lotion had rubbed into Potter’s hands. Really the boy must be quite distraught if he didn’t realize he was holding his hated professor’s hand while he blathered on and on about his friends. Stupid boy.

Snape pulled the covers up, careful not wake the brat and start other sob-session. If it was not one thing, it was another with Potter. Must he always cause trouble, on the lookout for mischief all the time?

Snape pursed his lips together tightly. A perfect summer wasted. He was looking forward to two months of peace and quiet, long days spent reading and brewing without any children to disturb him, and now Potter, the very worst boy he could have imagined spending the summer with, was left on his hands. All the teachers he had owled agreed that Potter should stay where he was, and Dumbledore – short-sighted fool – had urged him to take advantage of the situation.

"Really, Severus," Dumbledore’s face had said from the fire in Snape’s office, "knowing what you do about the curses of Snapdragon Manor, Harry is much safer in your hands than anyone else’s. I’ll check back in a few days to see how you’re getting along. This would be an excellent time to get to know the boy. After all that has happened to him, I think that you are the best person –"

Snape had ended the conversation then and set his fireplace back to right.

And now he was stuck with a distraught, upset, thoroughly-disobedient Potter whose entire being promised defiance and trouble for likely the whole summer.

Snape let out his breath in a huff. He should have let the boy to cry himself to sleep.

Harry twitched in his sleep and mumbled something incoherent. Snape felt the boy’s forehead and cheeks again. They were cool – still no sign of fever. Well, that was one blessing in a torrent of misfortunes. Really, Potter never did anything halfway, did he?

Once sure that the brat would not wake again, Snape left the room and headed down to his study. He loved the somber brown walls, the tidy shelves lined with books, and the huge desk where he could design new potions without interruption. This was his retreat, his solace from the world, and he loved to spend hours here, all alone with a strong drink and pleasant reading. Here, it would have been easy to ignore the fact that he had an irritating houseguest asleep upstairs with no place to go. Snape could have buried himself in a book, and let the evening drag on for Potter would probably sleep until the morning now that he had been properly bedded.

However, Snape pulled out a parchment and a charmed pen and nodded to the pen. It sprung upright as rushed to the parchment and scribbled out the words Potter’s Hourly Schedule. Perhaps that was a bit severe. The words disappeared to be replaced with Harry Potter’s Daily Schedule. That should do nicely though Dumbledore would probably preferred Precious Harry’s Suggested Schedule, Not to Be Taken too Seriously and Open to Any Changes or some other nonsense.

Snape leaned back in his chair, considering for a moment. Potter needed something constructive – there was no doubt about that, but if the boy was kept on too rigid a task, Snape was sure to hear sighing, complaining, and tears along with pathetic pouting and loud tantrums. Fine, a balance would be important.

Thirty-five minutes later, Snape read over the final draft of the schedule

7:00 – Wake up, bathe, dress, tidy up

8:00 – Breakfast

8:30 – Brisk walk around the garden (other exercising as well?)

10:30 – Studying quietly in library

12:30 – Lunch

1:00 – Playing outside (perhaps flying under strict guidelines?)

3:00 – Resting or reading on bed for a quiet time

4:30 – Free time as long as there’s no noise

6:30 – Supper

7:30 – Studying or reading

9:00 – Getting ready for bed

10:00 – Lights out

A lovely, tidy schedule with neatness and preciseness. Potter would not make it through one day. By lunchtime, he would be chopping at the bit to explore the manor, climb over the stone wall, pound up and down the stairs, and shout in that loud voice that made Snape want to cut out his tongue. He could just see the brat’s indignant look at having his time managed. "Resting on my bed? You’re out of your mind. And I’m not going to bed at ten. I don’t start my nightly wanderings until one or two in the morning. Study? It’s summertime!"

Maybe there was some incentive he could use to get Potter to mind. "Boy, if you don’t do every last thing I tell you, you won’t leave your room for a month and I’ll burn your broomstick." No, too harsh. Potter would be sobbing in seconds. "Harry dearest, follow our little schedule, and it will be all lemondrops and lollipops at mealtimes for our sweetest boy." Snape thought he would be sick. "Now, Potter, I know you’re used to floundering around all summer, but I’m getting you on a good schedule so you don’t idle away your days. This is a good outline to start with, and if it needs changing, I will adjust it as I see fit. Your job is to stick to it as best you can without arguing or complaining. And I mean it." Yes, that was the right tone for the boy.

And it wasn’t as if he were asking a lot from the boy. After all, Potter would probably be doing those things anyway without a schedule, but having an outline gave order to the day and didn’t leave the boy a lot of time to wander aimless and find any naughtiness to get into.

Of course, Potter would make mistakes. As McGonagall, Dumbledore, and every other blasted professor in the school reminded him, children do make mistakes in spite of Snape’s firm objection for leniency. Perhaps there should be a little breathing room for the summer. Too tight a control, and you crush the life right out of them, though Snape though the brat could do with a little crushing. Checks and balances would be the thing he needed. A way to tell if Potter was simply being human (yes, Snape did admit that the Boy-Who-Insisted-On-Living-And-Causing-Trouble was human after all). And he wouldn’t expect Potter to act perfect. Knowing Potter, there were sure to be a few skipped meals in favorite of flying, late bedtimes, and excessive noise in general. But blatant disobedience could not be tolerated, either. Potter needed guidelines and disciplines. Between his worthless relatives and indulgent godfather, Potter had not had a lot of regularity in his life, no one to depend on through the good times and the bad, to keep him on task, and to see that he didn’t get himself into too much trouble.

That meant that Snape had to be that person.

The potions master grimaced, thinking he would rather teach a whole year of Neville Longbottoms than becoming Potter’s blasted rock of stability. Really, was there anyone else who would like to take the role? Anyone at all?

And what about punishments? Should he keep threatening to spank the boy? Time-outs? Pulling his ears? No supper, go straight to bed? Maybe creative things, like no talking for a day or hanging Potter from the ceiling by his ankles? Most likely, Snape would have to find a balance in punishments as well, seeing that Potter knew he had done wrong and showed the right amount of regret without absolutely loss of spirit.

Snape let out his breath in frustration as he leaned back in his chair. It was going to be a very long summer.