After twenty minutes, Harry closed the book and looked up at Professor Snape, who was sitting in what was probably his favorite chair -- he certainly never let Harry sit in it -- and reading. For fun.

Almost immediately, Snape lifted his gaze to meet Harry's. "Done?"

"Yes, sir. Can I go flying now?"

Snape replaced the bookmark in between pages, set aside his book and stood. "Yes, of course. I'll get our brooms."

"Our . . . our brooms?"

"Certainly. You didn't think, when there are undoubtedly those who still wish you harm about, that I would let you let fly off wherever you felt like?"

Since Harry had been hoping for that very thing, he said nothing, while Snape went to get the brooms. He wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize his first trip outside in what felt like years, but which Snape assured him had only been a couple of weeks. And he would do absolutely anything to make sure he got to fly, even if meant being watched like a hawk by Snape.

Would he still be able to fly? he suddenly wondered. What if he couldn't anymore, because his wand was gone . . . or because his magic was all wonky after everything that had happened this summer. Snape had said he could get a new wand before school started, and that he should be fine, magically, but what if . . .

His thoughts were interrupted when Snape returned holding a Nimbus series broom, as well as Harry's Firebolt. A jolt went through him, looking at the Firebolt. Sirius had given that to him. Sirius, who he had hardly even thought about for the last week, who'd died only a bit more than a month ago, died to save Harry, died because Harry had been too stupid to tell a true vision from a trick.

"Are you well, Potter?"

Harry set his jaw and reached for the broom. He would not cry. Not again. Not in front of Snape. "Yes, sir."

Snape still hesitated before handing over the Firebolt. "Come on, then."

The sky was bright and clear, then sun warm on his face as they exited through one of the side doors, the fastest way to get to the pitch. A light breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of cut grass and mossy stone.

Before they went more than a few yards, Snape stopped him and raised his wand. Harry jumped back, away from him. "What are you doing?"

"A small covertcy spell to keep your antics in the air from being noticed by anyone who's not supposed to know you're here. It doesn't hurt," Snape added with a sneer.

Harry braced himself to run, if necessary. "Who's not supposed to know I'm here?"

"Everyone, except me, Madam Pomfrey and the Headmaster. So, if you don't mind . . ."

Well, he did mind, but what was he going to do, argue with the one person who'd let him go flying, when he was so close he could taste it? "All right," he sighed.

Snape snorted a laugh and cast the spell. Or at least, Harry assumed it was cast. He felt no different.

"Did it work?"

With an eye-roll Ron would be proud of, Snape said, "Of course it worked. Now, would you like to stand here for the rest of the afternoon, or . . ."

"No! No, sir. Please, let's go." Harry jogged towards the Quidditch pitch, desperate to get into the air.

Snape's long strides kept him up with Harry easily, but the moment they reached the pitch, Harry straddled his broom and kicked off, leaving everything terrible behind. Stupid journals, and thoughts of Sirius, nightmares and Snape's piercing stares. The weight of al those things fell away from his heart. All that existed now was the wind in his face, the swooping feeling in his stomach as he turned and dove and rolled, the spike of adrenaline as he neared the ground, faster than a phoenix, and pulled up at the last moment. Nothing but the air, the broom and Harry.

It was some while later than he even realized that Snape was riding near him. He gave the professor a tight grin and dove again, wondering if Snape would follow another feint. Seemed so, for when he darted up toward the sky once more, Snape matched him, though not at quite the same speed, and looked a little green around the edges.

But he didn't tell Harry to stop.

Even though the professor was gulping breaths in a way that suggested he suffered from broom sickness, and sweat covered his face, he wasn't telling -- or even asking -- Harry to stop.

That, more than anything, make Harry stick to standard turns and maneuvers for a while. He knew, really, that Snape was doing everything he could to help Harry get through this summer, even if it seemed, sometimes, that he was being a real git.

The rules, for instance. Harry frowned, just thinking about them, and Snape's reasons for handing them down in the first place. He'd insisted that Harry must agree to the rules, or he would have to go to St. Mungo's, like the Headmaster wanted, and be treated there. Otherwise, the professor would not be able to trust him, and would not be able to help him. Such coerced agreements chafed Harry, but he had promised to abide by the rules. Besides, Snape had promised things in return, like not ever using any body bind spells on him, and rewards like flying.

Rule number one had been that he was not allowed to languish in bed. He had to be up and dressed for breakfast and was not allowed to return to bed until night time. Though Harry had thought it a stupid rule at first, he knew he would have preferred, in the days after he'd woken in the dungeon, to just curl back up in bed, pull up the covers and ignore the whole world. But Snape hadn't let him, and he was grateful. Probably. Deep down.

Rule two was that he had to take any potions Snape said he needed. Whenever Snape said he needed them. With no arguments. Oh, how that irked him. On the other hand, Snape was very skilled at potions, and Harry's physical recovery, at least, had been pretty good, he thought.

Rule number three had been the one about no self harming behaviors. Incensed by the very idea that he should need such a rule, when Snape first handed it down, he now understood why. His hands -- now clutched around the handle of his broomstick -- still ached somewhat after his wall punching yesterday. And he knew he wanted to punch some more. A lot more, if he was honest. He wanted to punch and kick and scream until his voice was hoarse.

As if Accio'd by the very thought of a throwing a fit, rage swept through him, leaving him shaking. His knuckles were white, and he had to work to unclench his jaw. He wanted to kill them, kill them all. Everyone who had ever hurt him. But he wanted them to suffer first, like he had. And he wanted nothing more than for it all to be just . . . over.

God, he hated this.

Shaking his head wildly, he turned his broom skyward and took off like a shot, heading for the sun, for the warmth he could so rarely feel any more.

---

Severus was grateful for the brief respite the brat gave him, after a few too-close-to-the-ground-for-comfort rolls and dives, when they stuck to a median height, and median velocity. He'd never really cared for broom travel. It took too long, for one thing, as a mode of transport, and one was constantly at the mercy of things such as wind resistance and weather conditions. Bah. Apparition negated all that.

Still, he had never thought himself an abject slouch when it came to flying, until the last few minutes. Potter really was quite talented. And it was more than his life was worth keeping up with him. But he wasn't letting the brat out of his sight -- or reach. The last thing he'd need is for Potter to suddenly decide smashing his broom head first into the ground would be just the way to get out of any difficulties he was having. He didn't think the boy was actively suicidal, but it was a distinct possibility, one he kept in the forefront of his own mind as he watched Potter loop and dive and careen around the pitch like a madman.

When Potter suddenly aimed his broom almost vertical and accelerated, Severus' stomach lodged in his throat, even as he pushed his older, less powerful broom to keep up. It was a losing proposition, he knew, but he couldn't not try.

Harry was crouched over his broom, almost lying flat upon it, and Severus could barely see him, as he was angled into the sun. Damn!

The air cooled, the higher they went, until Severus could barely feel his hands, or his face. The glare of the sun ripped tears from his eyes, which stung as they turned to ice on his cheeks. Still, he kept going, not slowing, even long after he'd last glimpsed the boy. Up and up and up . . . until his breaths were only cold pain in his throat and lungs and his vision wavered, edged in darkness.

"Harry!" he called, knowing there was not a hope in Hogsmeade the boy could hear him.

The last thought he had before he blacked out was, Huh. I never thought it would be a broom accident . . .