Harry's return to awareness happened in stages. The first thing to impinge upon his dulled senses was pain. Pain everywhere. Every muscle in his body seemed to be burning. His head pounded and his throat felt like he had swallowed broken glass. And he was hot, so very hot. Harry wanted to kick the light covering that he could feel draped over him off but he couldn't because his legs were lead weights.

Through the pounding in his head Harry became aware of a scratching noise. It was so insidious, it took him a little while to realise that the noise was not inside his own head but coming from somewhere nearby.

Harry next became aware that he was lying in an extremely comfortable bed. He knew it wasn't his bed in Gryffindor tower for although that was beautiful and comfortable also, this bed was different. Different also from the harder beds in the hospital wing. But why was he in a different bed? Surely if he was in bed, he should be in his dormitory.

Harry fought to open his eyes but it was really difficult; his eyelids were so very heavy. Even his eyelashes hurt. After several abortive attempts, Harry finally managed to force his reluctant eyelids open a crack.

Without moving his head (the effort involved felt as if it would be just as hard as opening his eyes) Harry could see-though blurrily-that the room he was in was made of stone; just like most of the castle, only this stone was Dark, like that in the dungeons. A subtle light suffused the room, emanating from under the architraves where the walls met the ceiling.

The scratching noise had stopped for a moment but now it started anew. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Harry forced himself to turn his head slightly. He tried to focus his eyes and fight the wave of nausea that had engulfed him as a result of that slight movement. Though his vision was blurred, he recognised a familiar figure sitting in a straight backed chair, her hair pulled back into a familiar tight bun; the quill in her hand the source of the scratching.

Harry tried to summon some saliva to moisten his dry mouth and throat but there was none. He tried to say ‘Professor McGonagall' but the noise that he produced was little more than a croak. It was enough however to shock Minerva so badly that quite uncharacteristically she knocked over the bottle of ink on her little writing table.

"Harry! You're finally awake." A surreptitious wave of McGonagall's wand and a muttered "Evanesco" had the spilled ink cleared up so quickly, Harry was not sure it had been spilt in the first place; another wave of her wand had the small table and the things atop it moving to the side. Minerva jumped up with the vigour of a much younger person and was at Harry's side in the blink of an eye. She placed a cool hand on Harry's forehead and he closed his eyes and sighed at the feel of that cool flesh against his burning forehead. He wanted to reach up and hold the hand there but it was too much of an effort to raise his arms.

"May I have some water?" Harry managed to croak but it seared his raw throat and he grimaced.

"Oh, dear." Professor McGonagall sounded flustered but when she continued, her voice had its usual, crisp tone. "You'll have to wait I'm afraid, Harry. I'll have to get Severus. I daren't give you anything without his say so.

"Snape!" said Harry and then, "Oww!" as his throat objected strongly to his loud exclamation. He whispered his next words. "What's Snape got to do with me?"

"Professor Snape, Harry, and he has been looking after you...trying to get you well for three days now." Minerva patted his arm. "Now, lie still while I go and get Severus."

She hurried out of the room and Harry lay there, appalled. What in the hell was going on? What was the matter with him, and if he was sick, (more than probable considering how terrible he felt) why wasn't Madam Pomfrey looking after him in the hospital wing? Why would Snape be looking after him? The thought of Snape touching him made his insides squirm.

Harry tried to move because his back was really starting to kill him but as with moving his arms and legs, he discovered he was not up to the task. He closed his heavy eyelids and tried to remember what had happened to him. But every time it seemed he might be close to latching onto a memory, it just floated away again.

"Well Potter, how are you feeling?" Snape had appeared as silently as one of the Hogwarts' ghosts. Harry tensed inside at the sound of that hated voice. Forcing his reluctant eyelids up again, he stared blearily at the potions master. He was glad he didn't have his glasses on because he preferred looking at the black and white blob rather than the clear version of Severus Snape.

Snape was standing beside the bed and Harry could tell that he had his arms crossed in his usual, supercilious way; both long fingered hands grasping the opposite elbow.

"If you must know, sir, I feel like shit," croaked Harry painfully trying to ignore the cut glass in his throat. "But if you've been looking after me, I'm not surprised. I don't suppose you can kill me too quickly though or it would look a little suspicious. Besides, I'm sure you'd want me to suffer first."

Snape placed his hands on the edge of the mattress and leaned in close to hiss menacingly in Harry's ear. Harry cringed when he felt Snape's warm breath against his ear and his tongue snaked out in a vain attempt to moisten his dry, cracked lips.

"I wouldn't waste my time or compromise my immortal soul any more than it already is by killing you, you insolent little whelp, when all I have to do is wait for your love of heroics to do the job for me.

"But I wonder, just how many of your foolishly, faithful friends you will manage to get killed before that happy day arrives."

The contempt in the potion master's voice was palpable but that was OK because Harry felt exactly the same way about him. But Harry could not help the shiver that snaked its way down his spine at Snape's words. Not being able to think of anything to counter with, other than another mouthful of abuse which he knew it would not be wise to let loose, Harry turned his face away and closed his eyes, hoping Snape would get the message that he was dismissed.

When Snape spoke again, his voice was as cold as it always was when he was addressing Harry and Harry could tell that he had straightened and moved back slightly. "I wish to know how you feel and this time, you will answer with a little more detail and a lot less cheek."

Harry remained stubbornly silent. He longed to say how thirsty he was and ask for a drink but he would not give Snape the pleasure of denying him his request. He knew he was acting like a child by keeping his face averted and his eyes closed but he found the alternative of speaking politely to the man abhorrent. The Greasy Git had shown Harry nothing but contempt since his first day at Hogwarts and for no other reason than the fact that he was James Potter's son.

"Very well Potter, we will do this the hard way."

The next second, Harry felt the sheet being yanked down to the foot of the bed. Harry's fever bright eyes flew open at the same time as he made a futile grab for the sheet. The sudden movement of his aching body had him screwing up his face in distress.

"Oww! You bastard!" gasped Harry through clenched teeth as pain stabbed through what felt like every muscle in his body.

"Mr Potter!" Professor McGonagall had re-entered the room and when Harry was able to open his eyes, through the shimmer of tears caused by the lingering pain he saw the tall, thin, silver-haired figure of Professor Dumbledore dressed in midnight blue robes approaching the bed alongside his transfiguration teacher. Professor McGonagall had obviously summoned the headmaster immediately after getting Snape and she had also obviously heard him cursing Snape.

"Ah, Harry. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you so far along the road to recovery," said the headmaster, who was obviously not going to reprimand Harry for his disrespect towards Snape. "You have been very ill, my boy."

"I am in the process of trying to ascertain Mr Potter's condition now that he is awake but he is being anything but co-operative." Snape's tone was its condescending best and Harry wished he could make that hawk like nose even more gross by planting his fist on it with a great deal of force.

All of a sudden Harry became aware that he was lying in full view of the headmaster, Professor McGonagall and of course Snape and from the feel of the cool air on his hot skin, he knew he had little on in the way of clothing. When covered by the sheet, he had been unaware of his state of dress.

His skin was already a rosy colour because of his fever but with the realisation that Professor McGonagall was seeing him in all his glory, (God, he hoped he had underpants on) the colour in his cheeks blossomed spectacularly, spreading down his neck and creeping across his chest

"Would you mind covering me up, sir?" he asked through gritted teeth, his angry eyes fixed on Snape who was obviously enjoying his discomfort if the mocking sneer on his face was anything to go by.

"If your state of undress is causing you embarrassment Mr Potter; perhaps you should do something about it yourself."

Harry seethed and in those few seconds he elevated Snape to the top of his hate list; even above Voldemort, Bellatrix and Pettigrew. He took several rapid, deep breaths and gritted his teeth before trying to push himself up on his elbows so that he could reach towards his feet and drag the sheet back up. The movement sent pain ripping through every muscle again and he cried out involuntarily and fell back on his pillow. Snape watched him with a clinical air, Dumbledore and Minerva with concern. Perspiration was dotting Harry's brow and upper lip and the rest of his skin was slick with it.

But Harry was nothing if not determined and he was not going to give Snape the pleasure of seeing him as a weakling. Though what in the hell could be wrong with him to be causing this amount of pain he didn't know. He would try another approach. After several more deep breaths to gird his loins he tried to lift one leg so that he could hook the sheet over his foot and lift it up so he could reach it with his hand.

"Oh, for heaven's sake Potter," snapped Professor McGonagall. She refused to stand by and watch the boy put himself through any more torture. "The sight of a teenage boy's bare chest is hardly going to give me palpitations. I think I can withstand your manly charms."

Harry thought that his eyeballs would fry, his face was so hot but suddenly his embarrassment was superseded by shock and his mouth fell open when he realised that Snape was laughing. Harry had never heard Snape laugh before. Indeed, he would have bet his Firebolt that the potions master did not know what levity was.

As distracted as he was by the sound, Harry was still aware that Snape's glee was at his expense and suddenly, uncontrollably, anger and hatred fused. He felt as though he was melting; his very core seemed to become a churning, roiling liquid; thick and bubbling. At the same time something white hot and molten surged along his nerves; like electricity racing along wire after wire. It began to flow outwards and felt as if it was charging every particle of his being.

The room and everything in it receded to the back of his conscious mind. He was not aware of the raw power that surrounded him; the very air seemed to crackle with it. Vaguely he was aware that Snape was no longer laughing. The prat was still standing at the end of the bed and for some reason, Harry could see him with crystal clear clarity, even though he did not have his glasses on. The look on the git's face was priceless-shock tinged with fear.

Harry raised both his arms; the pain seemed to have receded along with the miracle of his perfect sight. Snape took a step back when one of Harry's raised hands pointed directly at his chest; fingers splayed. The other hand was lower, its fingers crooked. The potions master did not see the crumpled sheet at the base of the bed fly directly into Harry's lower hand because he was too busy being thrown with sickening force into the wall behind him and falling unconscious at its base.

Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall saw however and the powerful witch and the even more powerful wizard watched in open mouthed astonishment as the sixteen year old boy who was virtually illuminated by his magic performed two spells simultaneously-a summoning charm and a banishing spell; both of them performed wandless and without a sound passing the young wizard's lips. Silent spell casting was not taught until sixth year and wandless magic was not taught at all. It was a very rare talent that had to be inherent in the witch or wizard and only ever manifested in the most powerful magi.

The whole surreal episode finished just as abruptly as it had started. Both the older magi's shock turned to concern when Harry's arms dropped heavily back to the bed and the magic that charged the air sizzled into nothingness. Harry's harsh cry of pain tailed off when his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness again.

&&&&

Severus awoke with Albus leaning over him, his good natured face creased with concern.

"Are you all right, my boy?"

Severus blinked, his eyes fixed dazedly on Albus' face. He was lying on his sofa and the reason why came back to him within seconds. He could not hold back the groan of pain that accompanied the hurried movement that brought him upright into a sitting position. He was holding his pounding head in his hands in an effort to stop it exploding like one of Hagrid's overripe pumpkins when he heard the unmistakable sound of a stopper being pulled from a glass vial.

Albus held the potion under his nose and Severus recognised the distinct smell of headache potion immediately. He took the small vial and downed the contents in one swallow, lying back against the arm of the sofa with a sigh, his crooked arm raised to cover his eyes. In less than a minute, the strain eased from around his mouth and he lowered his arm and fixed his eyes on Albus' troubled face.

Feeling at a distinct disadvantage reclining in front of his boss, Severus slowly and carefully raised himself to a sitting position again. When it was obvious the pain in his head had been laid to rest, he pulled his robes tightly around his slender body, the action an attempt to gather the remnants of his dignity. His black eyes snapped back to Dumbledore's  blue ones.

"Potter?" he asked in a voice that contained equal amounts of venom and incredulity.

Dumbledore nodded his head and spoke in a resigned but troubled voice. "A truly astonishing display and not one that I expected to see for several more years, I have to admit."

"Are you telling me that you have foreseen Potter being the possessor of magical skills far advanced of all but a very few exceedingly gifted wizards-yourself and the Dark Lord amongst them?" Severus tried to sound as though he was not scoffing but it was an abysmal effort.

"I have. But I am afraid that Harry's display may have been a little premature coming as it has so very close to his near death. It has taken a great deal out of him and he has relapsed back into unconsciousness."

Severus stared hard at his mentor for several seconds, disbelief plainly etched on his austere face. He pushed himself off the sofa and trying to hide the fact that every one of his muscles throbbed dully, he stalked into his bedroom where Harry bloody Potter was indeed unconscious on his bed again-just as he had been for the last three days.

If Minerva's distress was anything to go by, it was not just the adolescent female population at Hogwarts who were enamoured of the pestilential Gryffindor. She was standing beside his large, comfortable bed with it's carved intricately carved headboard, sponging the boy's face. Her mouth was set, her nostrils pinched and blanched; a sure sign of her agitation.

Severus reached past her and put a long fingered, cool hand on Potter's forehead. He was even hotter now than he had been at any time since the poisoning had occurred. The pulse in his neck was bounding rapidly, clearly visible under the flushed, finely grained skin.

There was barely any evidence of adolescent stubble on the young face, just a fine, smudged line above his upper lip and the slightest darkening of his chin. Despite this evidence of approaching manhood, the boy looked much younger than his nearly sixteen years. However, it was painfully obvious that the appealing boyish features were going to mature handsomely.

 Harry stirred under the combined touch of the two professors but he did not awaken. Snape watched dispassionately for several minutes as the boy became more and more restless. At least this time he was not so deeply comatose as he had been.

"He'll throw himself off the bed at this rate," said an emotional Minerva. "Severus, is there nothing you can give him to quieten him down?"

Severus, who was still greatly peeved that Potter had thrown him across the room so unceremoniously answered her in a calculatedly cold and uncaring voice that he knew would raise the woman's hackles. "It is not wise to deepen his unconscious state. This activity will speed up his metabolism and hopefully purge his system of any remaining toxins a little faster. Though why anyone would want the cheeky little snot conscious is beyond my understanding."

Minerva bristled as he had known she would. He assumed it was because of his tone rather than the content of his assessment because after all, he was the healer.

"He will hurt himself!" she said angrily.

Snape sighed in a very put upon manner before drawing his wand. He pointed the ebony rod above the bed, moved it delicately in a complicated circle and muttered an incantation that Minerva could not make out. The air above the bed shimmered for a moment.

"There, Minerva. A cushioning charm. If he gets too close to the edges of the bed, he cannot fall or harm himself in any way."

Minerva pressed a hand against the invisible barrier. It gave under pressure like a bubble but she could not break through it. "And just how am I supposed to minister to him?"

"I would suggest leaving him be for the moment. He is too restless and he is likely to hurt you with a flailing limb if you get too close." With that said, Severus stalked out of the room, intent on getting himself a sizeable dose of  pain potion to deal with his sore muscles.

Minerva watched him go, her face livid. Dumbledore who had watched their exchange in silence put a soothing arm around her thin shoulders. "He has worked ceaselessly to get Harry to this stage, my love."

"He hates him so much, Albus."

"He only thinks he hates him. He saved his life."

"Only because it was expected. Not because it was his will."

Dumbledore tore his eyes from Harry and looked down his long nose at the woman who had been his companion in more ways than one for the last thirty years. "Do you really think that Severus would allow a child-a student-to die if it were in his power to stop it, Minerva? Even James Potter's son? His own cousin's son?

Minerva breathed in deeply and relaxed against Albus' side. "No, of course not. That cold and indifferent shell does hide a conscience, I know. Still, forgive me for saying so Albus, but I wish Poppy was here."

"Poppy would only have bowed to Severus' superior knowledge-both of poisons and healing as our Harry was so close to death. Our brilliant potions master is not just a pretty face, my love," he said in all seriousness and Minerva chuckled as he had known she would.

&&&&

Severus was not happy. Minerva had been called away. Her sister had need of her assistance as she was unwell. The deputy headmistress had been reluctant to leave Harry to Severus's less than tender ministrations; she respected the potions master for his towering intellect but she had no illusions about the man's distaste for children; Gryffindors were definitely at the top of his most hated list and Harry in particular.

Minerva had, up to now, tended the desperately ill boy diligently. Without Poppy Pomfrey's presence and as the only female left in the castle this summer break, the nursing duties had mainly fallen to Minerva. She had not minded; she had been the natural choice. After all, Harry was one of her Gryffindors and he was a child in need. She did not feel that she should leave her charge. Severus agreed but Dumbledore had other ideas.

"You must go, Minerva."

Minerva flung her hands out towards her charge. "And what of Harry? He needs me."

"Morgana needs you."

"Morgana is a hypochondriac."

"Still and all, my love, she is your sister.

"I think you need a break Minerva. You have hardly left Harry's side since he became ill. The change of scenery will do you good."

And so, much to Severus's displeasure, Minerva had gone. When the potions master would have delegated the nursing duties to the boy's champion, Dumbledore, the blasted old man had insisted that he had important ‘Order" business that needed his immediate attention now that Harry was out of danger.

Severus had limited his hands on care to the absolutely necessary up to now; frequent sips of water, the administering of potions (all of which required the disgruntled man to massage Harry's throat to assist him to swallow) and the casting of the necessary spells to rid Harry's body of waste products.

However, when Minerva and Dumbledore had failed to return within two days and Harry had still to regain consciousness, it became apparent to Severus that the brat needed more personal care. Whilst performing the necessary tasks needed to keep Potter on the path to improved health, Severus' formidable olfactory nerve picked up the unmistakable odour of stale teenage male. It was obvious that the freshening charms he had been casting periodically were no longer enough and that a rigorous sponge bath was necessary.

"I will extract my revenge," Severus grumbled as he assembled the necessary accoutre to give the darling of Gryffindor a bed bath. "This is not part of my duties, old man," he continued in an undertone as he put the tip of his wand into the water in the large bowl and incanted a warming charm. Not to be accused of being thoughtful, however, he barely took the chill off the water and told himself he would not have even done that except for the fact of not wanting the boy to contract pneumonia when his immunity was compromised. All appearances to the contrary, Severus Snape did not want Harry Potter dead.

Harry's restlessness had finally settled down twelve hours after that truly shocking surge of magic, as had his temperature, which was almost back to normal. Therefore Severus did not have to deconstruct the cushioning ward he had made to protect the boy from injury; he had removed it twenty-four hours earlier; Harry's thrashing had eased as his temperature decreased.

The increasingly hot summer weather did not warm the air this far down in the bowels of Hogwarts, so Severus' personal chambers were always quite cool. Minerva had placed a blanket atop the sheet when she had noticed goosebumps covering Harry's skin. Now, when Severus pulled the bedding down to the foot of the bed, and the cool air touched the boy's skin, he whimpered like a new born puppy deprived of its mothers warmth and turning on his side, he wrapped his arms around his too thin chest and drew his knees upwards in an attempt to conserve his body heat.

Whilst Severus had been working against the clock to save the Boy-who-lived, he had been operating on automatic pilot and had only taken note of what he needed to; to aid in his identification of the poisons used and the brewing of the antidotes needed to combat the terrible symptoms that had wracked the boys body and had him so close to death for what seemed an eternity. Now, without Minerva's hovering presence, Severus allowed his sharp gaze to run over the boy's body.

He had always known Harry was small of stature but he was only now seeing exactly how thin he was. Every bony protuberance of his vertebral column was clearly defined and his scapulae were clearly visible as was the rim of his pelvis above the low slung waistband of his boxer shorts. Severus' brow furrowed as he thought back over the time he had known Potter.

It was true that when he had started at Hogwarts, Harry could easily have been mistaken for an eight year old. Ronald Weasley had topped him by at least six inches and a good stone and a half. At the welcoming feast each year, Severus had often observed Potter piling his plate with food and eating like a ravenous beast.

But the boy's appetite was never equal to the task of eating what he served himself as less than half the mountain of food was ever consumed; unlike Ronald Weasley who served himself at least that much and went back for second and often third helpings as well as desert. On thinking back over the years, Severus realised that he rarely saw Harry totally clear his plate. The boy had a very meagre appetite compared to most healthy teenage males.

Despite this apparent disinterest in food however, the boy always looked much healthier when he left school than he did upon his return to Hogwarts after his summer break. Though he seemed to have grown several inches over the course of this last year, he was still one of the shorter boys in the fifth year. But now, without the camouflaging fullness of school robes and the ridiculous baggy jeans and sweatshirt Potter had been wearing on the day of the poisoning, Severus could see-now that he was focused on the boy and not his symptoms-how deplorably thin he was.

And that was not all. The boy's lack of weight was one thing, but the too numerous scars adorning his body were another. From his forays into Potter's memories during those painfully futile occlumency lessons, Severus had finally had to concede that the boy's childhood had been far from ideal-a fact that Albus had been trying to convince him of since Potter's first year when Severus had believed that the little snot was not only the mirror image of his father but was just as arrogant and spoiled as James had been.

But during his incursions into the morass that was Potter's mind, Severus had seen the proof-had seen the bullying at the hands of his aunt and uncle as well as his cousin. The earliest memory he had been shocked to witness was of a tiny, nearly two year old Harry being pushed so hard by his much larger, two year old cousin when Harry had dared touch a brightly wrapped birthday present that the older boy had just received, that he had been catapulted into his aunt, making her stagger backwards and drop the birthday cake she had been carrying to the table. The great lump of an uncle had picked Harry up by one stick thin arm, shaken him like a rag doll whilst bellowing into the terrified child's face before cuffing him soundly around the ears and throwing him bodily into a cupboard under the stairs.

It had not only been the scene that had shocked the potion's master (and Severus Snape had thought himself immune to shock considering the unspeakable acts he had witnessed and sometimes participated in during his tenure as a servant of the Dark Lord) but also the fact that Potter could remember something that had happened at the tender age of barely two.

However, Potter must have been better at occlumency than Severus had thought because the memories of the acts that caused this scaring on his body had been well hidden; no doubt buried deeply as a result of embarrassment and shame. They were memories the boy did not want to relive.

Severus knew about those kinds of childhood memories. He knew of the hopelessness and despair Harry felt knowing that he had been helpless to stop the behaviour of the people who were supposed to protect him but instead reviled and abused him. 

Severus did not have to see the memories to know that most of the marks on the boy's body had been made with a belt. With his mouth set in a thin line, Severus traced a particularly deep gouge that snaked from the boy's rib cage at the back on the left side around to the front and could only have been made with a belt buckle.

Severus gently took hold of Harry's shoulder and tried to push him back onto his back but Harry resisted and wrapped his arms more tightly around himself. Letting out a long, frustrated breath, Severus decided not to push the issue just yet and he began to wash the boy, starting with his back and, in a burst of unfamiliar compassion, he decided to warm the water quite a bit more before applying the wet wash cloth to the boy's skin.

Despite Harry's reluctance to return to full consciousness, the bed bath was quite a tussle and by the time Severus had finished washing and drying the upper half of his body, he was quite ready to apply both hands to Potter's throat and commit an act that would ensure the little horror never needed another wash. But when he thought of the amount of time and effort he had put into saving the boy's life, he gritted his teeth and continued with the task with renewed determination.

Cursing Minerva and Albus, Severus divested Harry of his underpants with a flick of his wand, and wondering how he had ever come to the sorry pass of not only seeing Harry Potter in all his teenage glory but actually having to wash him, he continued on with this most unwelcome task. He was sorely tempted to hex the boy into submission but he was still wary of actually using magic that could alter his physical state, even for only a short time.

The light freshening charms he had eventually allowed Minerva to employ were quite different in that they did not actually alter Potter's physiology; they just agitated the air slightly over the surface of the boys body to freshen him up. The fact that he had insisted on the charms being so light was why he, Severus was now in the unenviable position of washing away the pungent odour of stale teenage male.

Applying himself to the remainder of the task with detached vigour, it was several seconds after he had lifted Potter's left leg up to wash his calf and the back of his thigh that Severus realised what he was seeing. The ablutions ceased but he continued to hold the leg, his black eyes riveted on the red crescent moon shaped mark on the inside of the boy's thigh, exactly three inches above his knee.

The potion's master stood, dripping wash cloth in hand, holding Potter's leg angled off the bed and his obsidian eyes glued to the ½ inch sized birth mark. It wasn't until Harry fought against Severus' hold that he came to himself and lowered the leg back to the bed. When Harry would have turned onto his side again, Severus put a firm hand on his thin shoulder to keep him on his back.

Without conscious thought, he threw the cloth back into the basin of water and continued to stare at the mark that he could still see because he had pulled Potter's right leg to the side. Severus was not staring at the mark because of its shape or colour. He was staring because he had seen the exact same birth mark before in the exact same spot on another leg.

Severus continued to stare bemusedly. Bemusement was a state of mind that rarely overtook Severus Snape. A man of such formidable intellect was rarely anything but in total control.  His sharp, clever eyes saw but his brain could not really comprehend the significance of this discovery at this point. The only thing that his brain had registered was the fact that the mark was exactly identical in shape and position to the mark that he was already familiar with.

When Harry, with an unexpected burst of strength yanked his leg from Severus' admittedly loosened grip and turned on his side, the potions master belatedly  recalled where he was and what he had been doing. With his thoughts whirling, he cast a charm that dried Harry and the damp bedding and another that clothed him in oversized pyjama pants and a misshapen faded green t-shirt that had been retrieved from the boy's trunk earlier.

After pulling the covers back up and detachedly watching the still unconscious boy burrow into the warmth like a much younger child would, he banished the accoutre of the bed bath before taking himself as far away from Harry Potter as he could get whilst still remaining in earshot.

Immediately after he exited the bedroom, Severus stood, irresolute just outside the door, his eyes focused upon nothing, his brow furrowed as if in thought. But as his thoughts were in total chaos, Severus was in the unusual position of being totally baffled.

After a minute of indecisive wavering, he pursed his thin lips and strode to a small, bow legged, cherry wood table that sat against the wall on one side of the fireplace. The table was home to Severus' alcoholic beverages. He snatched up a heavy squat tumbler, slopped a large measure of his favourite single malt whisky into it and downed it in three swallows. He repeated this operation once more before he felt calm enough to gently refill his glass, release his death grip on the bottle and carefully fold himself into his favourite worn, leather chair.

The sudden flooding of his system with strong alcohol did not do anything for his thought processes however and whilst sipping the contents of the third glass, he tried to make some sense of his shocking discovery. But though the next three glasses of whisky were imbibed at a much more acceptable speed, the only conclusion that Severus had hit upon was that Harry Potter had most definitely been born to do his head in.