Panting and half-unconscious from the wounds he had sustained, Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore’s ‘Golden Boy’ and fifteen-year-old savior of the wizarding world, pressed himself against the stone wall of Lord Voldemort’s fortress in the Black Forest of Scandinavia.

Although location was the last thing on his mind right now.

His wand was gone, tossed aside and rendered useless by a spell the demon in front of him had cast. Death would come for him at any moment, but he would face it with courage and fight ‘til the end. As he had been taught.

Voldemort---once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle---sneered, his lips curled back in a vicious, disgusting snarl. An insane gleam lit his eyes. Oh, he was going to enjoy this! An extremely troublesome Death Eater dead and now that dratted Potter brat would be no more than a mere page in history.

A dark figure crouched in the shadows not very far away, his entirely black ensemble combined with his black hair and dirtied, bleeding skin, working perfectly to conceal him from the eyes of the two combatants.

He had watched their every move, their every traded curse. While he winced and worried each and every time Potter was hit by a curse, more often than not *dangerous* curses, he could hardly enter into the duel in his state. And *especially* not when the duel was as intense as the one which had played out before him, fearing what it would cost Potter.

The fifteen-year-old had fought admirably, and from Severus Snape, that observation spoke volumes. He was well-pleased with how far the boy had progressed from the beginning of Second Year. Exponentially. And he intended to remark on it to Potter when and *if* he received the chance.

But unless the teenager pulled off a miracle, right now that chance seemed slim to none.

He, however, might be able to provide Potter with that miracle.

So he waited, every muscle in his body tensed. His own vicious wounds screamed at him, but Severus ignored them.

Of all the times to attack, Voldemort had to attack the week before Christmas. That initial attack had been three days ago today. Potter had been taken the first day and Severus had chased after him, tried to find him.

He had *not* known it was a trap.

During the first half of the school year, he had been teaching the boy Occulmency, the process of invading another’s mind and learning how to fend *off* those attacks. Potter had proven extraordinarily adept at it, throwing the Hogwarts Potions Master out of his mind the first evening of ‘remedial potions’ when he normally should not have been able to do so until at *least* two or three months later. When asked about it, the teenager had explained that he had learned meditation over the summer in order to break free of nightmares, thus avoiding what he had termed ‘unpleasant consequences.’

They had worked together to build up Potter’s shields, strengthen them, and turn them invisible. He had also taught the boy how to sort through both his *own* memories and another’s. Trust had formed between them---it *had* to, considering what you were allowing your Occulmency partner to be privy to.

What Severus had not told him was that, having seen just how ghastly a life he had been forced to live and, more importantly, seeing and experiencing it from *Potter’s* perspective, his entire view of the Boy-Who-Lived had changed---*dramatically*. Knowing how much Potter hated his fame, hated the pity, hated the stigma and title attached to him, understanding how much he wished for a loving family, how much he wished to be normal, Severus had found himself, inevitably, warming up to the boy.

Potter only knew there was trust and respect between them, and Severus had observed how much even those two, seemingly insignificant, things had meant to the teenager. The young Gryffindor did *not* know that Severus, in fact, had come to *care* about him. The Potions Master, however, sometimes wondered if Potter did not see straight through his act, nor detected the Professor’s attitude softening towards him.

The child was clever, and intelligent, no doubt about that.

And Voldemort, too, was intelligent. Wily. He, at least, had somehow found out about Severus’s changed attitude toward the Boy-Who-Lived, and set a trap in response.

Severus had walked right into it.

The Head of Slytherin House snapped back into the present as the Dark Lord raised the wand.

Potter braced himself, meeting Voldemort eye-to-eye, unflinching. “No matter what you do,” the teenager advised the demon, voice deadly soft, “No matter whom you kill or what you win, someone will *always* oppose you.”

Severus could have wept at the teenager’s bravery. Two utterly foreign emotions surged abruptly in his heart: pride…and love.

*Love*? Had this child *truly* wormed his way so deep into Severus’s heart?

Apparently so, considering what he was willing to give up for him.

“Crucio engorgio!” was cried and launched.

Potter did not move; he remained undaunted.

Severus, however, gathered all the strength he could muster. Wandless and in no shape to counter such a huge curse, he threw himself headlong into the bloated Unforgivable.

It smashed into him with all the gentleness of a tsunami, sending him flying backwards towards a very startled, very unprepared Potter.

“WHAT?!” was barked by an enraged Voldemort.

Harry cried out as the Potions Master crashed down beside him on the hard, stone floor. “Professor!” he shouted, torn between joy…and utter horror. He had not wanted this! He had not wanted yet another sacrificing themselves for him, *particularly* not one he had grown so attached to!

Hearing the fear and concern in his student’s voice, Severus gave a small, sardonic smile, paying no heed to the potent curse currently ravaging his body. Apparently, the boy had come to care for his Potions Master as much as the Potions Master had come to care for him.

Harry dragged himself closer to the man and gently hefted the Professor’s shaking form into his arms, completely ignoring Voldemort. He leaned close, peering into the Head of Slytherin’s obsidian eyes; they were bright with pain. “S-Sir?” he queried, voice harsh with his own pain and exhaustion, shaking slightly.

He had *never* expected this. Sure, there was respect and even trust between them, but he had not *once* thought that the Potions Master would take a curse like that for him.

Although there *was* an instance when he did wonder what the Potions Master truly felt about him…

(Flashback, mid-October)

Harry stumbled along Hogwarts’s dim corridors without any real idea of where he was headed. His mind was hazed with pain and he clutched one bleeding hand tightly to his chest.

The Boy-Who-Lived had survived detention with Dolores Umbridge (the new DADA professor)---barely. It had seemed really pretty harmless at first, one hundred times writing “I will not tell lies” on a piece of parchment.

Then he made quite an unpleasant discovery---as he wrote, the quill wrote on him. In blood. His *own* blood. And by Merlin---it *hurt*!

Cradling his wounded hand, Harry blindly continued on his way, swiftly becoming dizzy from blood loss and pain. /If Umbridge were a little more careful,/ the boy mused bitterly, /then she’d have made it so that the cuts healed up before anyone saw me. Or better yet, healed after every period./

Understandably, his train of thought was not the most pleasant of things. Nor did it remain very coherent for long.

He did not notice as his path brought him closer to the dungeons, not until---

“Oof,” someone grunted softly.

Harry was mildly shocked to find himself colliding with a broad, black-cloth-covered chest.

Then: “Potter,” growled.

Harry immediately jumped back six inches and quickly glanced up at the towering, black-clad form of Severus Snape. “I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stuttered, weaving on his feet.

The Potions Master, who previously had been scowling down at the boy, now frowned slightly at how obviously unsteady his student was.

Misinterpreting the look, Harry hastened to explain, “I-I was just heading t-to my dormitory…from my detention w-with Professor Umbridge.”

Severus frowned even more at the mention of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. “I was unaware that your dormitory was located in the dungeons, Potter.”

The boy blinked confusedly at him before glancing around, for the first time noticing their surroundings. “Oh,” he mumbled.

Concern crept into Severus’s eyes. Potter did not notice it, too dazed really to make sense of expressions. He had never known his student to be so disoriented before and that, although he would never admit, concerned him to no end.

Then he noticed Potter turning to head towards Gryffindor Tower. “I-I think I’ll head…back now. G-G’night, P-Professor,” this said shakily.

The teenager took one faltering step…and promptly toppled over backwards. Only lightning quick reflexes on Severus’s part saved him a nasty fall.

The Potions Professor surged forward, catching Potter as the fifteen-year-old collapsed into his arms. “Easy,” he murmured. Then, “I believe, Mr. Potter, that you shall be spending tonight with me.”

All the response Harry managed was an incoherent grunt and a startled gasp as his Professor carefully swung him up into his arms. Once held, Harry found, to his great surprise, that this was actually…well…soothing.

Only then did Severus catch a glimpse of Potter’s hand. A horrified gasp was torn from his lips. “What on earth *happened* to you, Potter?!” he demanded.

“Umbridge,” was all Harry managed to ground out.

He missed the protective fire which flashed in the eyes of the Potions Master. “*She* did this to you? In detention?” hissed out through anger-clenched teeth. Again, the boy missed the deadly softness of his teacher’s voice.

No, right now he was too preoccupied with the pain and wondering why in the world (or worlds) Professor Snape’s arms had suddenly tightened around him as they began to briskly walk towards the older wizard’s private quarters. He would never have thought the man to be of the gentle sort, but something in his manner was different than normal. Then again, ever since they had *started* with the extra lessons, the Potions Professor had sometimes acted downright nice towards Harry. In a Snape-ish sort of way.

The teenager sighed. He did not know what to think. One minute the man was sneering at him and the next he acted…protective, almost.

Not knowing the boy’s current train of thought, Severus—unsure what to think himself—merely stepped up his pace, holding his student securely. Within five minutes of finding Potter in the hall to the dungeons they had arrived at Severus’s quarters.

A portrait of Salazar Slytherin graced the entrance. The man in the painting nodded gravely to the current Head of his House and the man’s charge.

“Phoenix,” Severus spoke firmly and quickly, giving the password to his private chambers.

“You may enter,” the portrait conceded, swinging open.

Severus dashed through the threshold and the portrait swung back into place behind him. “Lumos,” he muttered. His rooms lit. To the child in his arms he murmured, “You would do well to remember that password, Potter.” He strode quickly through his quarters to his bedroom.

Too exhausted and dizzy to fathom *exactly* what such an offer spoke of, Harry merely nodded and rested his head against Severus’s chest.

The Potions Master paused, still, in spite of what they had been through, rather shocked by Potter’s obvious declaration of trust. “Potter?”

Harry nodded again, but did not speak. The man’s voice rumbled soothingly in his ear.

“Potter,” Severus advised him again, once more starting to walk. “I need you to stay awake.”

Harry’s eyes were starting to grow heavy. In some distant corner of his mind, he knew the Potions Master was right…but he was so tired! His eyelids started to slip shut.

“HARRY!”

The alarmed cry coupled with the utterly unexpected usage of his first name caused the young Gryffindor to snap his eyes open. The vivid concern in Severus’s---it was all right to think of him as “Severus” now, wasn’t it?---coal black eyes blazed at him.

Harry’s heart rate sped up. Was it as he hoped? Did the Head of Slytherin actually care about him?

Then he blinked and the look was gone, pulled beneath the mask of neutrality Severus usually wore.

However, “Stay awake,” was all the man growled, none of the snide remarks as everyday routine would have it. *If* that was everyday routine for Severus, and as of right now, the teen was not so sure.

The Potions Professor strode swiftly through all his rooms until he reached his bed chamber. Once there he laid the boy on his bed with a gentleness that took Harry *completely* by surprise.

“Try to stay awake, Potter,” Severus murmured gruffly, resting the back of his hand lightly against the young Gryffindor’s cheeks and forehead before turning and heading towards his private potions storeroom.

Harry watched him go and sighed once the man left. So, he was “Potter” again. He wondered if he ought to inform the Head of Slytherin that he had succeeded in being the only person in the entirety of Hogwarts---aside from Headmaster Dumbledore---that could so thoroughly befuddle him. Then again, he had probably *learned* that from the Headmaster.

Gazing up at the ceiling, trying hard to ignore the pounding pain infiltrating his mind and trying hard to resist the urge to shut his eyes against it, Harry let his thoughts wander, eventually choosing to focus on the memories he had of the recent months. For a while now Severus had been teaching him how to pry through another’s mind as well as sort through their memories like photo albums. Needless to say, the memories Severus allowed him to be privy to were *rarely* happy. At the very least, they certainly explained why the man had initially turned to the Dark Side. At first---once or twice---he had considered requesting that Severus show him happier memories, but, as he found out soon enough…there were not any.

That day, the day he had reached that conclusion, his entire perspective on the Potions Professor quickly and drastically had begun to change. After that particular “remedial potions” lesson, he had gone straight to the Astronomy Tower…and cried. He had cried for the innocents killed, cried for those they left behind, cried for the pain and the anguish and the grief that followed in murder’s and war’s wake; cried for the years of torment and suffering, cried for the lives never lived, cried for the life Severus never *had*…The tears had never seemed to stop, but they did eventually. All things had to end one day.

Harry had come to an important decision that evening. He would meet Destiny head on---not for the fame he had always hated, but for the chance to set those people *free*, for the hope that no more would have to suffer like Severus, for *Severus* at last to be free.

A wistful smile flitted across Harry’s face as he came back to himself. He doubted the man knew the true extent of his care, *if * he was even aware of it at all, and Harry did not plan on telling him.

That had been the subject of many recent arguments with fellow Gryffindors---Ron and Hermione especially. Unsurprisingly, the two were *dreadfully* suspicious of Severus, even going so far as to walk Harry to the Potions Classroom and back any chance they received. Of course, they knew nothing of Severus’s role in this war and Harry would not tell them. It was not that he did not trust them, nor even that *Severus* did not trust them, but were he to tell them, there was always, *always* the chance that someone could overhear the three of them discussing and Harry intended to protect Severus as long and as well as he possibly could.

A sardonic smile, not too unlike the Head of Slytherin’s, took the place of the wistful one. Had he known Harry’s thoughts at this moment, Severus would probably scoff at them, but that was simply how the boy felt. Somehow, in some way, the Potions Master had come to mean as much to Harry as Ron and Hermione did, and that was saying a lot.

Part of Occulmency was the controlling of dreams, as was it a part of meditation. In fact the whole reason he had begun meditation in the first place was to keep from having nightmares and night terrors, thus avoiding his uncle’s wrath. When Severus had taught him further in that area, he had been extremely grateful. Several skills were involved, including that of actually being able to move *around* in a dream. His dreams proved to be a prescience of a sort, occurring simultaneously whenever those meetings took place, and by his own choice, Harry decided to live through them at least once during the week. More often twice, or even three times.

It all depended on whether or not Severus went out to spy for the Headmaster that particular evening. And if he did…well, Harry made sure he was not alone. Although he could not be there physically, he *could* witness the entire meeting in his dream. And that is usually what he did.

He also normally kept tabs on the man until he reached his quarters after such a meeting, making sure that he received the proper care for his injuries. Most of the time he did not, and Harry often found himself wanting to strangle the Potions Master for so stubbornly disregarding his own safety and health.

It had not been until last night’s meeting that Harry had discovered that Severus felt he deserved it.

Often he had considered sneaking out underneath his invisibility cloak and seeing what he could possibly do to help Severus, but uncertainty of how the man would react to such actions prevented him from doing so. Now, however, it would be a miracle if he could keep himself from going.

He quickly glanced up, startled out of his thoughts as Severus swept back into the bedroom, carrying a tray with a number of liquids on it. Three were obviously potions---pale green for blood replenishing, lavender for aid in healing, and clear for Dreamless Sleep. On it also were a small silver tea kettle and a dark blue tea cup. Harry grimaced as he recognized the aroma of the tea from his many forays to the Healing Ward. Willow bark. For fever.

Severus gave a barely-there-smile as he caught the Gryffindor’s reaction. He was well-aware that none of the liquids on the tray he now placed on the nearby nightstand were exactly tasty. Dreamless Sleep potion had no taste and the others were rather vile, but…“You are to drink *all* of them, Potter, in spite of their taste. They will help you heal.”

“Harry,” the teenager corrected with a sigh, deciding he was just downright tired of the use of his surname, especially when it wasn’t necessary.

Severus stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“My name is ‘Harry,’ Professor. Please, if it’s not too much trouble, could you just *call* me ‘Harry’?”

There was a long moment of silence during which Severus contemplated the boy, a thoughtful expression in his obsidian eyes. Harry gazed back unflinching.

At last, he replied softly, “I will call you by what I deem necessary, Mr. Potter.”

It was all Harry could do to not groan aloud in frustration. Now what did he mean by *that*? “Potter” in public and “Harry” in extra lessons? *What*?

He was spared further thought on the matter when Severus---very gently---slid an arm around his shoulders and helped him lean against the larger man’s side. He bit his lip to stifle a moan as his head abruptly spun. A cool phial was placed against his lips and a glance down told him it was the healing potion. “Drink it *all* in one gulp, that way the taste will not linger long.” Emphasis was placed on the “all” part of Severus’s statement.

Trusting the man without question, Harry did as he was bid, his hand coming up to curl around the Potions Master’s wrist. He made a face as the potion hit his taste buds and hurriedly swallowed down all the contents. No sooner had he done so than the second phial was put against his lips and he followed suite. The same of the willow bark, though he had to endure a cup and a half of that. In due time, however, he had finished it.

Harry was rather startled in the next minute to discover another glass container against his lips. A glance down told him it was a cup of water. Shooting a surprised (he had not seen it) and grateful glance up at the stern man, the teenager gulped it down greedily and as the last traces of the potions and willow bark were washed away, he found he felt much better already---though he remained drained and exhausted.

Severus placed the empty cup on the tray and picked up the phial containing the Dreamless Sleep potion. However, now Harry was faced with a predicament.

When Severus attempted to place the phial against his lips, the young Gryffindor gently pushed his hand away.

Severus raised an imposing eyebrow. “Potter.”

Harry shook his head, locking his emerald gaze with the Head of Slytherin’s obsidian one. “Are you going out tonight?” he wanted to know.

The other eyebrow rose. “And of what concern is that to you---?”

Harry was not in the mood for a battle of wits right now, not where Severus’s safety was in question. Surprising both the Potions Master *and* himself, he cut his teacher off impatiently, “I just *made* it my concern. It’s *been* my concern since school began!”

And immediately flushed as his mind caught up with his mouth.

Half-flustered and half-terrified, he ducked his head. Nothing was said for a few minutes and Harry could feel the weight of the older man’s gaze as it rested on him. As the seconds ticked away, Harry came to the conclusion that he had either shocked the Head of Slytherin senseless or made the older man so mad that he could not speak. Still not looking up, he turned his head away and mumbled, “I’m sorry, sir.”

A beat of silence, then, “Potter…”

Was it his imagination or did Severus actually sound choked?

“Sir?” He as yet had not raised his head or meet the Professor’s eyes.

A callused hand gently gripped his chin and turned his face to the Potions Master. “Child, look at me,” the man commanded him softly and…was that *tenderness* he heard?

Startled by the tone, as well as by being called something other than his surname, Harry did as he was bid. “Professor?” breathed in bewilderment. The man looked so stunned…

Gently running his thumb over the sleep-deprived skin underneath the young Gryffindor’s right eye, Severus demanded gruffly, “Is that why you haven’t slept well? Because you were watching my meetings in your dreams?” This child…

Cheeks flushing again, Harry nodded wordlessly.

*Badly* startling the teenager, the Slytherin abruptly clasped his dark, tousled head to his chest. The young Professor’s voice was *definitely* thick as he growled, “Damn Gryffindor.”

Harry could only remain as he was, eyes wide and shimmering. What the *hell* had just happened?

All too soon, the older man released his charge. About that time, Harry suddenly found himself feeling exceedingly tired. But…he had to make sure: “You…(yawn)…You’re not going? To your meeting, I mean?”

Severus watched his face a moment, shaking his head. “No, I am not. That I am aware of, anyway.”

Sleepily, Harry nodded again, relaxing imperceptibly.

“Potter, I need you to drink the potion,” Severus advised quietly, once more picking up the phial.

“(Yawn) All right. So…so long as you promise,” the teen acquiesced at last.

An imperceptible smile of amusement tugged at the corners of Severus’s mouth. “So damn stubborn, too. All right, Potter, you hold up your end of the bargain and I promise to hold up mine.”

“You’d better,” the boy muttered.

Another eyebrow raise and Severus placed the phial against the boy’s lips. As with before, Harry drank the Dreamless Sleep potion all in one gulp.

Almost immediately, the concoction took effect. Within seconds, the young Gryffindor had slumped against Severus’s shoulder, sound asleep.

The Head of Slytherin did nothing for a moment, merely replaced the now-empty-phial on the tray. Turning back to his charge, he smiled sadly down into the peaceful countenance of the “bloody Boy-Who-Lived,” a *real* smile, and spread the silver throw from the end of his bed over him. He carefully laid Harry down, making sure his head rested on a pillow, before straightening and standing. Gently, he removed the teenager’s glasses and placed them on the nearby nightstand, within easy reach. Then, in a display of affection that he would sooner die than exhibit during the day towards his student, Severus tenderly brushed a few stray strands of raven hair away from the boy’s face and, leaning down, brushed a warm kiss against Harry’s forehead.

Coming upright once more, the Slytherin murmured, “Good night, Harry.”

(End Flashback)

(Present Time)

Harry shut his eyes against tears as he recalled that memory to mind. That was the first time he could say that someone honestly had taken care of him. Sure, the Weasleys, Remus, Hermione, and his godfather cared about him, but his father’s friends---though they loved him---wanted him to be more like James, and well…he was not James. Hermione and Ron, though his best friends in the entire *world*, were simply not yet adults. And Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, though very kindly people, had their own lives and their own family.

With Severus it was something entirely different. A connection existed between them, one like he shared with no other.

And now he could very conceivably lose it.

“Tsk, tsk, what a pity,” Voldemort sneered, abruptly reminding Harry of his current predicament. Quickly, he snapped his head up to face the reptilian monster in front of him, eyes alight with unbridled fury.

Still holding the curse, Voldemort lazily twirled his wand around his fingers, stalking back and forth almost idly in front of the two in the far corner of the chill stone room. “You know, Potter,” he drawled, “they say the victors write history.”

Harry, not unfamiliar with the Muggle saying, merely snarled, “Then prepare to disappear into the pages of history, Riddle!”

The Dark Wizard came to abrupt stop; only a few feet’s distance separated him from the pair before him. Eyes hard with utter loathing, the monster laughed harshly, “Overconfidence, Potter? It does not become you.”

Harry clenched his teeth. “I’m not in the market for compliments from *you*,” he growled.

Voldemort scowled. “I grow tired of this childish banter.”

The fifteen-year-old allowed himself to smirk, although his eyes held *anything* but amusement, “You’re the one who started it, not me.”

The former Slytherin’s scowl deepened. “As you seem decidedly cheeky, Potter…”

A tight whirl of his wrist and the Cruciatus Curse on Severus was canceled. But Harry was not so ignorant as to believe it would stop there. He knew what was coming next, he knew…and he did not care. Anger and a bone-deep ache had penetrated to the very core of his being. Combine that with a wizard of Harry’s level of power, and you had a very volatile mix, indeed.

So it was that in a moment of human weakness---in a corrupt being striving to become immortal---that the Dark Lord met his downfall at the hands of a fifteen-year-old boy.

“Avada Kedavra,” incanted and thrown at the teenage savior of the wizarding world and the Death-Eater-turned-spy.

Green light.

Emerald eyes narrowed.

“*Aegis*,” hissed out.

And a dome of pure white shot up around Harry and Severus.

A split second of utter rage on Voldemort’s part, which quickly turned into disbelief, then horror, as the green light impacted against the shield…and was sent hurtling back at its sender at twice the speed.

Harry, startled, stared after it.

Unable to move in time, Voldemort was hit squarely in the chest, incidentally where his heart was. A brief blood-curdling scream, and then everything exploded.

A cloud of black, roaring in agony, exited the once Tom Riddle’s body, before bursting into a million specks of white light. The final echoes of the Dark Lord’s scream resounded throughout the stone room before all fell silent. As Harry watched, Voldemort’s prone body seemed to crumble, dissolving until there was nothing left, not even a wisp of ash.

It was over. Finished.

Much as Harry tried to wrap his mind around that fact, he simply could not fully grasp it. Silence fell, pressing in on ears still ringing with the after throes of the curse. The Boy-Who-Lived did not notice as his spell disappeared. As he regained usage of his hearing faculties, muffled sounds reached his ears. But one word cut through them all:

“Harry…” the voice was weak, pain-ravaged, but it broke the silence and drew his attention back to the man he still held in his arms. Off in the distance he could hear the sounds of yelling and explosions, many unaware that the greater part of the battle had already been won. But he could not bring himself to care about that now. No. What mattered most at this moment, *all* that mattered at this moment, was the older wizard who barely clung to the last fragile threads of life.

Obsidian eyes glowed with warmth and gratitude when Harry’s own sought them. “Well done,” the Head of Slytherin rasped.

Rapidly blinking back moisture in his eyes, he managed to crack a tremulous smile. “You know, that’s probably the first time you’ve called me ‘Harry’ face to face.”

Severus managed to return it, although very clearly he was in a lot of pain. “I-I *told* you I-I would use…” he drew in a shaky breath, trying to battle the aftereffects of the bloated Unforgivable, “use it wh-when I d-deemed nece-necessary…” He trailed off into a coughing fit.

Harry tightened his arms around his mentor’s softly shaking body and leaned down to lightly rest his forehead against the older wizard’s, tears stinging at the back of his emerald orbs. “Shh, shh, you’re all right,” he murmured thickly.

Severus shook his head adamantly, still coughing. “Harry…” he wheezed when the boy’s arms tightened even more, trying to steady his breathing, “Harry, look…look at me,” he forced out between coughs, managing to pry his arms out of the slight teen’s tight hold. His hands shakily reached up for Harry’s face as his student pulled away, enough so that they could match gazes, then settled gently against either cheek.

Harry’s breathing hitched, but he allowed his head to be gently tugged down.

A soft touch to his forehead.

His eyes widened. Shimmered. And at last overflowed.

“Sir?” he choked, blushing nonetheless. His once-surly Potions Master had just kissed his forehead.

Severus found a smile for him. “Wh-when I first saw you…I-I did not expect…to fall…to fall in l-love with you.”

Harry started, tears still streaming down his cheeks. “Sev…?”

The Potions Master’s smile remained, and the teenager was astounded when a tear trickled down his mentor’s oddly peaceful, though battered, face. He gently tugged Harry’s face down again and placed another warm kiss on his forehead. When the fifteen-year-old pulled back slightly, his teacher continued, “Not…not th-that type of…love…L-Like a father might have…f-for his child.”

A sob was torn from Harry’s unwilling throat. “Sev…” Then he threw himself completely into the Professor’s arms, burying his damp face against the man’s neck as soft sobs wracked his body. “I love you, too,” he sucked in a breath, then let it out. Sucked in a breath, then let it out. “I love you, too.”

At those words, Severus completely relaxed, a brilliant grin decorating his face. Harry loved him. Harry was safe. Voldemort was gone. The war practically won…

He could go now.

And with a final sigh of pure content and relief, the thirty-five-year-old Potions Master finally released the last shreds of consciousness he had clung to, and his life fled.

Harry, where he had pressed his face against the older wizard’s neck, felt his mentor’s pulse give out. Its final beat ripped through him, tearing his soul to shreds and his heart to ribbons. Then he did the only thing that came to mind:

He screamed. “*NO*!”

Without being consciously aware of what he was doing, the teenager once more pressed his forehead against the man’s beneath him. His teacher was not breathing. Scariest of all, he could actually *sense* the older wizard’s magic retreating. Rapidly. “Don’t you *dare*,” Harry forced out through gritted teeth, then latched on to Severus’s quickly fading magic.

All went dark.

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(Four Days Later, Hospital Wing of Hogwarts)

The figure did not move from the threshold of the Hospital Wing, gazing intently at its only other occupant (aside from Madame Pomfrey). The man’s once greasy black hair now had a healthy shine and his silken locks were strewn around his head. His face looked very much relaxed and at peace, but other than that, no signs existed to prove that he was, in fact, alive.

“Why don’t you go in, my boy?” came the murmured question from behind him, causing Harry to jump as a warm, wrinkled hand was placed on his shoulder.

Quickly, the teenager glanced up at the older wizard behind him, still rather pale and gaunt from his captivity and fight. He had just been released this morning, and was still quite unsteady on his feet. Hermione and Ron had been hovering around him all day, and only now had he been able to slip away from them and come here.

And he wanted to go in, oh, *Merlin*, how he wanted to go in. But…he was afraid…Harry gave a derisive snort. He who had looked Death in the face was afraid that it had, in fact, taken away one of the most important people in his life.

Albus Dumbledore smiled gently at him, not the least bit confused by the boy’s reaction. “I think you’ll find you have nothing to fear, Harry. Go on.” The hand on his shoulder urged him ahead.

The teenager shot the venerable Headmaster a disbelieving look---and a rather nervous one at that---but nonetheless did as he had been bid. Still a bit unsteady on his feet, he wove his way over to the man’s hospital bed and there paused, struggling not to let the building heat behind his eyes fall down his cheeks.

His teacher looked so pale…

A hand was placed in the middle of his back and the Headmaster gave him a gentle nudge forward. “It’s all right, my boy,” he leaned down and murmured into the teenager’s ear.

A dry sob was wrenched from Harry’s throat. “No, it’s not!” he cried---and quickly turned away, unable to bear the sight of his mentor lifeless on the bed, making as if to bolt.

A surprisingly strong grip on his shoulder halted his flight. “Harry,” Professor Dumbledore’s voice had taken on a note of sternness.

“Why are you making me do this?!” the Boy-Who-Lived cried thickly, struggling to pull away from the older wizard. He wanted out of here! He wanted to get away! Why couldn’t Dumbledore *understand* that?!

“Because he is not dead,” the Headmaster infuriatingly serene voice cut into the center of Harry’s emotional maelstrom, freezing the teenager in place.

What…?

Apparently satisfied that the boy would not try to flee any time soon, Professor Dumbledore slackened his grip on Harry’s shoulder, hold going from restraining to comforting. When emerald eyes bright with unshed tears looked up and sought his own blue ones for the truth of that statement, the venerable Headmaster gazed back openly. “It is true. He yet lives.”

Harry pulled away from the older wizard and turned fully to face him. “How?” he choked, wincing slightly when his voice cracked. Dumbledore would never lie to him…would he?

The Headmaster gestured for him to sit on the bed. Harry hesitated a moment before complying, sitting on the edge of the pallet near Severus’s head and taking the man’s limp hand into his own. He gave it a light squeeze, leaning down and whispering in a voice thick with tears, “Sev…” A definite note of pleading had entered it. He brought the man’s hand to his face and rested it against his cheek, holding it there. “Wake up.”

Albus smiled sadly as the scene played out in front of him. For five years he had been trying to get the two to set aside their differences and see just how much they needed each other. Ironic that it took a half-year’s worth of Occulmency lessons and a brush with death to make them actually *realize* it.

What he had told Harry was true, Severus was not dead. However, he had not regained consciousness yet, either. “I am guessing you would like to know what happened,” the Headmaster remarked quietly, coming over to sit beside the teenager.

The fifteen-year-old glanced briefly up at the elder wizard and nodded. “Please,” he begged unashamedly, desperate to know why his mentor was alive when by all accounts his Professor should be dead. His eyes went back to the prone Potions Master’s face.

Albus, too, turned to look at the younger man, still smiling slightly as he watched the two. Ah, Harry did not realize how much of his power was vested in the care he held for his loved ones. “First, Harry, do you remember what shield you used to reflect the Killing Curse back at Voldemort?” asked quietly.

The boy nodded his head. “The Aegis Shield. I remembered reading about it in Sev’s library one night when we finished Occulmency early.”

The Headmaster smiled, eyes twinkling, although Harry did not see it. “Correct. And you performed wandless magic to do so, am I right?”

Another nod.

“That is something very few wizards can do, Harry. I can perform some wandless magic, so can Severus, and I am nearly certain Voldemort could as well. However, it is a rare quality to possess. And that you used it to perform a very powerful spell, says a great deal about you,” Albus explained softly.

The tiniest of smiles touched Harry’s lips. “Not really, sir,” he pointed out quietly, “I was furious with Voldemort…because of what happened to Severus. I am sure it was more that than it was any sort of power.”

“Ah? And you are sure of this?” Professor Dumbledore remarked, mirth dancing in his eyes.

Harry shot him a confused look.

“Harry,” the Headmaster continued, smile widening, “the most many wizards can do when they are angry is shatter glass. The Aegis Shield is one of the most complex and difficult spells to perform in our entire world.”

The teenager whipped around, stunned at this revelation, “But…” he tried to protest feebly.

“You said you were angry at Voldemort because of what he did to Severus, correct? However, no doubt you were also highly upset because Severus took that curse for you,” the elder wizard responded, seeing comprehension slowly dawn on his student’s face. The Headmaster’s voice gentled considerably, “So you see, Harry, you loved him enough that it manifested itself into the form of an Aegis spell.”

“Aegis spell?” the boy repeated around a suddenly tight throat.

Albus elaborated, “The Aegis Shield is one among a series of spells, the general title being ‘Aegis spells.’ These spells, Harry, are classified as neither Light nor Dark; rather, they are a class all their own. Only with an emotion as powerful as Love, can a wizard perform them. Even then, he or she must have an enormous store of power. You, my boy, performed *two* of them.”

“But I didn’t cast a…” Harry trailed off, remembering anew the fear that had seized him as he felt Severus’s magic recede and the desperate grab he had made for it.

The Headmaster slowly nodded. “The second one you performed was a healing spell, Harry. I believe the technical term for it is Aegis Remedium. Combined with the injuries you received during your duel with Voldemort, and how much your mental battle taxed your mind, the amount of power you invested in both the Shield and Remedium spells completely wiped out your magic. That is why you have been so unsteady and dizzy these past few days.”

“And I’m guessing it’s also why ‘Mione and Ron have been following me around like a bunch of mother hens,” he grumbled to himself.

The elder wizard laughed. “Your friends, one of whom is very bright, and the other who has grown up in our world, know the signs of depleted magic. *They* are simply worried about you, my boy.”

At that, Harry cracked a small grin. “I know. Sir, would you mind telling them that I’ll be staying here tonight?”

“Not at all, my dear boy,” Albus chuckled, patting his shoulder as he stood, “not at all!”

And then, still laughing, he swept out of the Hospital Wing.

Continuing to faintly grin, Harry watched him as he left. While he had been confined to a hospital bed for the past few days and had only just been allowed up this morning, he had noticed a distinct difference in the atmosphere as he wandered around. People---students and teachers alike---practically *danced* down the corridors of Hogwarts. All four of the hourglasses containing house points were filled to brimming for a great many had been involved in the final battle, the majority of Slytherin House included. Light seemed to radiate from every corner of the castle---even the dungeons were bright! And everywhere, people were smiling.

Except Filch. That man *never* seemed to be happy.

Of course, Harry’s smiles were rather toned down in comparison to others. And the reason for that lay quietly on the bed beside him…

“And y-you (cough)…y-you accuse your f-friends…of being m-mother hens,” came the rasping, but incredibly familiar voice out of nowhere.

Or not so quietly.

With a cry of utter amazement and joyful disbelief, Harry whipped around…taking a tumble to the floor of the Hospital in the process. Not that he noticed.

“Sev!!!”

Pushing himself up onto his elbows and peering down at his beloved student in great amusement, Severus Snape remarked warmly with a smirk, “I-I did not r-realize…I was *that*…spectacular.”

Harry said nothing, merely gazed up at his mentor as tears of joy started streaming down his cheeks.

The older man’s smirk softened and he rolled his eyes, holding down a slightly trembling hand to his charge. “Oh, come here,” he murmured.

And Harry complied, allowing Severus’s surprisingly strong grip to pull him off the floor and onto the bed, into his teacher’s arms. Once there, the fifteen-year-old savior of the wizarding world started crying in earnest.

But he smiled.

He smiled.