The Gryffindor Common Room was noisy— unusually so, and Harry was restless which made it ten times harder for him to concentrate. He wanted Quidditch through the ages back from Snape, and no amount of prodding from Hermione was going to get his Charms homework done. He was too nervous to think about anything but tomorrow’s match; about Snape… and why he was limping.

He’d been sitting there staring out the window for the last ten minutes doing nothing but contemplating why he was afraid of Snape. Why should he be afraid of the snarky old man, even if his bark was just as bad as his bite, the same could be said about Dudley and Uncle Vernon. Finally deciding to go ask for his book back (after all, what was the worst reaction he could get? A no, points taken? None of that was half as bad as what Uncle Vernon or Dudley could do.) He stood from his seat and told Hermione and Ron exactly what he was going to do.

“Better you than me,” Both said together with a shrug of their shoulders, and a side ways glance at each other. The unsaid “Your funeral” hung playfully in the air. Harry just smiled and thought back at them “oh ye of little faith.” He had an idea, and he was pretty sure it would work. He just had to ask Snape in front of a bunch of other teachers, it wasn’t likely he’d refuse on such rational grounds as ‘because I hate you’ in front of them.

As Harry made his way down to the staffroom as he turned the last corner Filch came out of nowhere. They knocked shoulders—an action that usually warranted a glare and lots of yelling, but strangely he received nothing. Filch just continued on his way without so much as a backward glance, muttering all the while about damn dogs, giants that raised them, and stubborn gits that didn’t know when or how to ask for help. It was strange, but not completely out of character for the prickly caretaker.

When he arrived at the staffroom, the door was slightly a jar and he could hear mumbling just beyond the heavy oak door. He knocked, but received no answer other than a familiar voice growling, “Blasted thing…”

Harry knocked again to be polite, and called out a curious “Professor Snape?” Always the Gryffindor, he pushed the door open a bit more, and inhaled deeply at the sight that met his eyes. Professor Snape was sitting in one of the chairs, with his robes hiked up over his knees and brushed out of the way where they could be. His face was pale and looked clammy, his left leg was a bloody mangled mess and he wasn’t doing the wound any good fumbling about with the bandages the way he was.

Harry pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside, “Professor?” He asked again.

“POTTER! What are you doing here?” Snape’s face was twisted with furry and something else not quite surprise, but more suspicion, as he dropped the bandages and thrust his robes down over his legs to cover the wound. Harry gulped, and took a couple of steps into the room.

“I just came to see if I could get my book back.” He said innocently.

“Fine then!” Snape grabbed his book, Quidditch through the ages, from off the nearby table and threw it at him. “OUT!”

Harry scrunched up his face and replied sourly, “No.” It was clear his professor was going to pretend that there had been nothing to see, which was stupid, because they both knew that he knew. Harry moved closer and knelt down in front of him, and surly replied “You need help.” He reached down for the hem of his professor’s robes, only to have his hand swatted away.

“Regardless of what you think Potter not everyone needs your help! Nor can you help them. Now take your book and Leave!” Snape snapped grouchily.

Harry simply raised an eyebrow in question—from where he knelt he could see a good deal of blood had already begun to pool on the floor. The simple “No” in reply shouldn’t have been too much of a bolt from the blue considering. “Besides,” Harry tilted his head to the side appraisingly as he reached for the hem of Snape’s robe again, “I’m better at first aid than you are, obvious from the fact that you don’t seem to know what a tourniquet is.”

Snape sat up straighter, a sneer contorting his face as he snarled, “20 points from Gryffindor for disobeying an order, and another 20 for cheek!” before lifting his good leg and kicking Harry hard enough to knock him off balance; onto his ass. “NOW GET OUT!” Snape yelled.

Harry shook with barely contained anger, “TAKE AS MANY BLOODY HOUSE POINTS AS YOU WANT! I’M NOT LEAVING!” he yelled back glaring all the while as he pushed himself back up onto his knees.

“WHAT PART OF GET OUT NOW DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND POTTER!?” Snape struggled to stand up on his own, but finally managed with the help of the table next to him, sweat immediately beginning to bead on his forehead. Completely annihilating any chance he might have had at intimidation.

“AND WHAT PART OF I’M NOT LEAVING DON’T YOU!?” Harry followed the older man’s example, weary and ready to try and catch his professor the moment it looked like he would fall over.

“GET OUT NOW!” Snape gestured sharply towards the door still keeping a firm grip on the heavy wrought iron table with his other hand, “YOU WANTED THAT BLOODY BOOK AND I GAVE IT TO YOU! NOW GET OUT!”

“NO!” Harry yelled.

“OUT!”

“IT’S NOT ABOUT THE BLOODY BOOK ANYMORE!” Harry snapped in frustration, “NOW SIT DOWN BEFORE YOU FALL DOWN AND HURT YOURSELF FURTHER!”

“OUT!”

“NO!”

“POTTER WHY, THE HELL, DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO BE SO MUCH LIKE YOUR GODDAMN FATHER?!!

“WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO BE SO HUNG UP ON MY FATHER? I’M NOT HIM! IT’S NOT LIKE I CAN EVEN REMEMBER HIM!”

“HOW COULD YOU EXPECT ME NOT TO BE!!? EVERYTIME I SEE YOU IT’S LIKE HE’S SUDDENLY BACK FROM THE DEAD!”

“WELL HE’S NOT!! AND HE’S DEAD, HE’S NEVER COMING BACK! NO MATTER HOW MUCH I’D BE WILLING TO GIVE FOR JUST 5 MINUTES WITH EITHER OF THEM! NOW SIT DOWN AND LET ME HELP YOU BEFORE I CAN’T AND YOU DIE TOO!!” Harry took his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes, he was not about to cry in front of this loathsome man.

“Potter—

“MY NAME IS HARRY,” he cut him off sharply, “And it doesn’t matter how many times you call me by my father’s last name I’ll never be him. No matter how much you might want me to be—He’s Dead and I’m his son. I’ll always be his son, but it doesn’t matter because a dead man is a dead man. Even if I remembered him, it wouldn’t change anything, he’d still be DEAD! It wouldn’t change the fact that I’m living with people who’d sooner beat me and drop me off at an orphanage than hug me and tell me they’re proud of me because he’d still be dead, and no matter what anyone says no one cares about a dead man, especially not his son…” Harry wanted to think that the reason he’d stopped there was because he didn’t have anything else left to say. But in truth it was because he’d lost control of his voice and wasn’t sure if he’d start sobbing and get called a little whiney baby by Snape just like his uncle and aunt would. To hide it, and keep up his strong farce he didn’t look away from his professor, no matter how much he wanted to—damn it, he wanted to.

He also wanted to run right out the open door at his back, but he liked to think he knew what his parents would say if he did. He had to stay and help even if the man in question didn’t want him to, because it was right. He searched Snape’s black eyes, looking for something—understanding maybe? A reason to hope, or to matter to someone…It was true what he said about dead men and their son’s. No one cared unless they knew you for more than just a dead man’s son. Harry swallowed and pushed all his childish woes and insecurities back. Crying wouldn’t do anything but embarrass him.

“Now would you please sit down?” With a determined set to his jaw Harry just kept staring at his professor, pretending that he hadn’t taken in a choked breath half way through his question. Maybe if he smiled enough, laughed enough, pretended long enough that everything was fine and that he didn’t hurt inside anymore…that it would be enough, and he wouldn’t have to pretend, because sooner or later it would have to be true.

“Fine,” was all that was said in reply as Snape practically collapsed gracelessly back into the bright cherry-wood-red chair. The pool of blood had nearly quadrupled its circumference. Harry took a deep worried breath, he wouldn’t be surprised if the only reason Snape had managed to stay up right as long as had to was through sheer will and stubbornness.