Harry woke up for the second time that night. He glanced at the watch on his nightstand. It was barely four in the morning, but he did not think he would be getting any more sleep. He threw the covers aside and rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out what it was, keeping him awake.

Perhaps it was a dream -- perhaps even a Voldemort dream. He hadn't had one of those in a long while, so maybe he was overdue for one. It couldn’t be Quidditch, at least, he thought. The match was tomorrow – or today, if he thought of it that way – but he was never that nervous for Quidditch matches. Then again, he was captain, and most of Gryffindor’s best players were gone, graduated and otherwise -- and, well, there was Ron. He forcibly reined in his stray thoughts -- he was getting better at that, he noticed -- and murmured, “I really should be getting a good night’s sleep.”

He found, after ten long minutes of tossing and turning, that he was wide awake, the dream lingering on the very edges of his consciousness. He got out of bed, put on his glasses, and began to dig the Marauder’s Map and his invisibility cloak from his trunk.

He had intended to go on a quiet nighttime stroll, just to calm himself enough to fall asleep, but changed his mind when he happened upon his broomstick servicing kit, the one Hermione had given him for his birthday. Might as well do something useful, he thought, setting it on the windowsill. He then retrieved his Firebolt and sat down by the dormitory window to polish it by moonlight.

Harry had worked the front third of the handle to a dull sheen when he noticed an odd black splotch on the grounds. After watching it for a moment, he decided that it was not a splotch at all. It was a person, someone moving erratically towards the castle, hunched over and stopping every few feet. A gust of wind caught its dark robes, which billowed out around the person's legs.

It was Snape, Harry realized, squinting through his lenses at the figure; the man's lank, dark hair and hooked nose were recognizable even across the lawn. Snape was, judging by the shape of his robes, probably returning from a Death Eaters’ meeting. It looked as though he was injured, badly. At this rate, he would collapse before making it into the castle, and the thought made Harry’s chest tighten strangely.

He was not worried for Snape. Well, he amended, perhaps just a little. Harry had no great personal interest in the man, really, but if anything bad were to befall him, the Order would lose its spy, and he his Occlumency teacher. Harry’s gaze returned to the dark splotch, which was no longer moving towards the castle. He was not concerned for Snape, not at all.

Harry slipped into robes and a pair of trainers, not bothering to tie them. He threw open the window and quickly drew the curtains closed as the cold air blew into the room. He climbed onto the windowsill, the drapes falling silently between his body and the dormitory. It occurred to him that, were anyone looking upwards in his direction, he would have looked insane and suicidal, standing on the window ledge in the dead of night. He shrugged off the thought, mounted his Firebolt, and kicked off.

Harry landed in the grass a few feet from Snape. The man’s face was deathly pale, even more so than usual, and there was blood dripping from his lower lip and chin. His hands were shaking, though they were clenched in the folds of his robes, and he clearly found it an enormous effort to put one foot in front of another.

“Professor Snape,” Harry called softly, not wanting to startle him.

“Potter,” he said, his head whipping up, his wand hand twitching in its sleeve, “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was harsh, harsher than Harry had heard it in quite some time, but somehow it seemed less menacing than it would have, even a year ago. That, and the fact that he had not deducted points for being outside past curfew, indicated to Harry that something was very, very wrong.

“You’re hurt, sir,” he said.

“It is no concern of yours.” Snape’s sneer was ruined by the blood leaking from his mouth. Harry was strangely reminded of how, in grade school, he used to insist to his teachers that he was perfectly fine, after Dudley and his gang had engaged in yet another round of "Harry hunting". He pushed the memory away; he endeavoured not to think of the Dursleys while at Hogwarts, and usually succeeded.

“No, sir, you’re not," Harry persisted, "you’re bleeding.” He remembered that evening in Snape’s office, at the start of term, when the professor had made the same observation.

Snape glared at him, as if to say that he was stating the obvious, but Harry continued, surprising even himself, “Where are you going? I can take you there.”

“Insolent boy," he said, without much feeling, "I can walk.” Harry caught him, instinctively, as he stumbled, and let go of him just as quickly.

“You’re barely standing as is. Professor? I know you’re not going to the Hospital Wing. Which door do you use?”

Harry was made suddenly aware of how much the man hid, still -- how much Harry really did not know about him -- as Snape’s eyes bored into his own. He knew he was being Legilimized -- he could tell, now -- but found that he did not much care, at the moment. He understood why Snape might feel it necessary.

“Fine," said the man reluctantly. "Not a word to anyone, or –”

“You’ll poison me at breakfast or something, I know.” He held out his broom for Snape to get on. “Where to?”

“The back door by the dungeons. You don’t know of it, and won’t know of it –”

“Yes, of course, I promise,” Harry interrupted. "Just get on the broom, sir." Snape could barely lift his leg clear of the broom handle; Harry lowered it, until the bristles just skimmed the grass, so that Snape could get on. Harry mounted in front of him, careful not to jostle the man in the process, and kicked off. The Firebolt wobbled once before leaping into the air.

Once they were airborne, Snape said, “Come to think of it, the Headmaster’s office, instead.” Harry nodded and changed directions. Snape probably wanted to give his report, he figured, before he passed out for who-knows-how-long.

He felt the broom tilt upwards as it climbed. Snape was losing his purchase and sliding backwards. Harry reflexively leaned forward, pulling the Firebolt into a shallow dive. The professor slid forwards and did not have the strength to keep himself from hitting Harry.

Compared to taking a Bludger in the arm, Harry thought, the impact with Snape, however greasy, was nothing. Why, then, did he feel so heavy?

Harry whispered, as so not to startle the man, “It might be best if you just hang on to me, sir.” He received little response, save for a stiff arm around his midsection. Harry clutched Snape's arm with one hand, to prevent the professor from falling off, and with the other, pulled the broom out of the dive and towards the Headmaster’s office window.

The curtains were half-open, and the Dumbledore could be seen reading a book in his usual chair, with Fawkes perched on his knee. Harry rapped his knuckles on the windowpane, calling, “Headmaster! I’ve got Professor Snape here, he’s –”

Dumbledore looked up, as if expecting them. He waved a hand at tall window, which swung open. Before Harry could stop him, Snape tumbled to the office floor, pulling Harry with him. The headmaster stepped around his desk and knelt by Snape as Harry extricated himself from the man’s grip.

Harry just watched, feeling rather helpless, as Dumbledore summoned several potions from the bathroom behind his office and gently tipped one into the professor’s mouth. Snape coughed, a thin line of blue potion leaking from the corner of his mouth to mingle with the blood on his face. Dumbledore propped the man up against an armchair.

“Severus, can you hear me?” he asked.

Snape’s eyes were glassy and half-focused, but he raised a shaking hand to take the second potion Dumbledore held towards him. “Headmaster…” he whispered hoarsely. Even to Harry, who knew next to nothing about Mediwizardry, it appeared that his condition was quickly deteriorating.

“Harry, go fetch Madame Pomfrey,” Dumbledore said. “Take your broomstick.” Harry complied without question; he swung a leg over his Firebolt and fairly flew down the rotating staircase.

When Harry returned, with the Mediwitch behind him on the Firebolt, Snape looked marginally better. Though still sprawled awkwardly against the side of his armchair, with his eyes closed, he was conscious and in the middle of reconstructing the Death Eaters’ meeting for Dumbledore, while the headmaster foisted another potion on him and attempted to put off the report until after Snape’s recovery, or at least until the morning. The potions master fell silent as he noticed Harry and Pomfrey hovering, quite literally, at the top of the stairs.

Pomfrey got to work immediately, her manner brisk and her mouth set in a thin line. Dumbledore nodded to Harry and said, “Thank you, my boy. Go back to bed now; you have an important day ahead of you.”

Harry hesitated in the doorway. “Will he be all right?” he asked.

Dumbledore smiled, a weary, somber sort of smile. “I believe he will be. Thank you for asking.”

 The next morning, despite having slept only three or four hours -- and badly, at that -- Harry was awake before any of his teammates could see him slip out of Gryffindor Tower. He stuffed his Quidditch things into his school bag and slung it over his shoulder; the scarlet robes would have attracted more attention than his ordinary black ones. It was imperative that no one notice him. He really should not be seen visiting Snape at all, but he needed to assuage the vague concern that nagged at him, lest it affected his flying later that day. He wondered if anyone would believe that he had wanted a calming potion for pre-game nerves.

The infirmary was quiet as he entered. There was a first-year asleep in the bed closest the door. Madam Pomfrey stepped out of her little office, looking Harry up and down to ascertain that he was, in fact, perfectly healthy, before she realized what he was after. “Ah… he isn’t here, Mr. Potter,” she whispered, as so not to wake the little Hufflepuff.

“Oh, right, of course not.” Harry thanked her and left. As he headed for the Great Hall for what would be a rather early breakfast, he realized that Snape would hardly stay in the infirmary; it would only provide fodder for gossip. He was likely in his own quarters, where Pomfrey could undoubtedly check on him by Floo, if need be, as he was unlikely to call for her himself.

He found himself changing directions, heading down to Snape’s office in the dungeons, on the off-chance that the man was well enough to be awake and working at this hour. He was venturing into Slytherin territory, he knew, as he struggled to concoct some excuse for the fact. Before he had a plausible story, however, he arrived at Snape’s door without incident. He hesitated with a fist upraised. What would he even say to the man? But then his hand seemed to move of its own accord, producing a knock far too loud in the morning stillness.

“I am brewing,” came Snape’s voice. He sounded exhausted, but was apparently well enough to stir a cauldron.

“Professor, it’s Harry Pot–”

“Potter, what are you doing down here, at this hour? Have you at least the sense to wear your father’s cloak?” The door creaked open a crack, and the professor could make out the boy’s very visible form. “No? I thought not. Come in, then, before you are seen.”

Harry shut the door behind him. Snape looked positively ghastly, even paler than usual, with dark hollows under his eyes and a faint trembling in his fingers that he couldn’t hide.

“Are you all right, sir? You shouldn’t be up yet, I don’t think...”

“Spare me your Pomfrey impersonation, Potter,” he snapped. “What do you want here?” He tipped a spoonful of powder into the cauldron and stirred, his motions slow and careful.

Harry looked away. “I -- I just wanted… say, what are you brewing, sir?”

“A rather pitiful attempt at misdirection, Mr. Potter. What is it you want?” Snape did not look away from the potion, but a weary irritation crept into his voice.

“I… I wanted to see if you were all right.”

There was a short pause, though it seemed forever before Snape replied, “It counteracts the aftereffects of Cruciatus.”

“Huh?”

“I believe you were inquiring after my potion.” He smirked, but it did not reach his eyes.

“Oh. Yeah, I was. Wait, you’re not all right, then, if you need Cruciatus potion! Can’t someone else brew it? Like Madam Pomfrey or someone?”

“It is not a simple potion,” Snape said with a deepening frown. “Have you nothing better to do this morning than pester me?” He reached for a flask of armadillo bile, and had to steady himself on his desk as he leaned over.

“Here, sir, I’ll get it.” Harry dropped his bag on the floor and handed Snape the flask at the other end of the desk. “Er… do you want any help?”

“Have you not a Quidditch match today?” The irritation in Snape’s voice had largely been drowned out by sheer exhaustion. He closed his eyes for a moment, and it seemed to take an enormous effort to open them again.

“That’s not until later, Professor. You look a fright; maybe -- maybe you should get some rest. I’m awful at potions, I know, but do you want me to cut things up or something?”

Snape shifted his gaze back to his cauldron, stirring in measured strokes. It was a while before he reluctantly replied, “If you are really in need of something to occupy your time before the match, I suppose you may chop the shrivelfig. It is on the far workbench. Quarter-inch slices, against the grain.” He resumed his methodical stirring in the other direction.

Harry Accioed a knife from Snape’s desk. It spun through the air and impaled itself in the bench with a thump.

Snape’s head jerked up, towards the sound. His eyes raked Harry once, before settling on the quivering knife. “Potter, you are hardly playing at darts. You could have killed yourself just then, and then all my espionage would have gone for naught.” Snape managed a sort of grimace, a pale attempt at his usual sneer.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Harry, his voice laden with genuine contrition. During their Occlumency sessions, Snape rarely mentioned his spy work, even in sarcasm. Harry couldn’t suppress the pang of guilt that arose; the greater part of Snape’s injuries had undoubtedly been incurred on his behalf. “The Dark Lord asks about you more than you would imagine,” he remembered Snape saying once. Harry tugged the knife from the bench; it had transfixed itself quite securely in the wood, and took a few attempts to pry loose. "I'll be more careful next time," he said.

Snape nodded sharply, once. "See that you are."

They spent the next half-hour or so in companionable silence, save for occasional instructions from Snape. It was easier, Harry thought, than brewing in class. Perhaps it was because Snape was unwell, which made him quieter, and less likely to hover about behind people's cauldrons, looking for points to deduct. Perhaps it was because it was just the two of them, rather than an entire class -- much like with Occlumency. Wasn't it odd, Harry observed wrily, that he found it easier, now, to be alone with Snape, when half a year ago, he would not have willingly entered the man's office without backup, if at all?

"I'm done with the aconite," said Harry.

Snape waved his wand, forming the air around the powdered stems into a bowl, a handy little spell that Harry had seen him perform multiple times that morning. The bowl floated over to him, hovering obediently about a foot above his cauldron, releasing the powder in a steady trickle as he stirred.

"Anything else I can do?" Harry asked.

Snape glanced at the clock, and then at him -- and in that one look, Harry felt as though he were being weighed and measured like a sack of fire beetles, as though it were October again, or perhaps even September, in this very office, and Snape were deciding whether to let Harry into his mental parlor. Harry looked away, or would have, had Snape not suddenly nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw, and said, "Here."

Harry blinked. "What?"

Snape held the end of the glass stirring rod towards him. "Four turns clockwise, then one counterclockwise, for the next three minutes. Keep the fire at the same temperature throughout."

Harry numbly took the rod from him, and Snape limped towards the opposite wall. "Where are you going?" Harry asked.

Snape did not answer, but tapped on a stone in the wall in some pattern that Harry could not distinguish. A small section of wall opened up, and Snape withdrew a vial of some reddish-brown liquid. He closed up the wall with a flick of his wand, unstoppering the vial with his other hand.

"What is that?" Harry asked, carefully keeping track of the glass rod as he stirred.

Snape raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry muttered, "Right, sorry, sir."

"Blood-Replenishing Potion. My own formulation," was Snape's clipped response. He took an almost imperceptible breath, and drank the entire bottle in one go. Harry was mildly impressed; he had had to take that particular potion a number of times, and knew that it tasted terrible and had the consistency of yoghurt.

Snape coughed into his sleeve after draining the last of the potion. He incanted an Aguamenti into the empty vial and drank that down as well. Replacing the stopper on the empty bottle, he floated it over to the sink in the far corner, and then came back to the cauldron.

"Here," said Harry, finishing the last counterclockwise stroke, "I think that was okay."

Snape glanced into the cauldron, taking the stirring rod from Harry, and doused the fire beneath with a flick of his wand. He then withdrew the rod, and silently produced a clear, hard shield spanning the lip of the cauldron. "It must be allowed to cool without undue exposure to air," he explained, "else a skin will congeal on the surface of the potion, which would be detrimental to its medicinal effects." He handed the stirring rod to Harry, and said, "This needs to be washed immediately; the potion will stain even glass, if allowed to dry. The phial is less urgent, but--"

"That's fine," Harry said, "I don't mind." He took the rod over to the sink, slipped on a pair of gloves, and began scrubbing it down.

"You know," said Snape after a while, "had you produced similar work in class, your Potions mark would have been much better than it was in past years."

Harry turned around, the clean but wet stirring rod in his hand. "I guess. It's just, well, no one was going to drink anything I made in class."

"I believe I once threatened to make you -- or perhaps it was Longbottom -- do exactly that."

"I -- that's different. I don't know how -- it's different when it's a threat. And it wasn't... important, I guess." Harry grabbed a clean dishtowel and began wiping down the phial and rod. "Anyhow, I'm doing pretty well with Slughorn this year." Harry bit his tongue as soon as the words had left his lips.

"Indeed." Harry nearly cringed as Snape said it, though the man's tone was even and in no way accusatory.

"Umm... so, are you coming to the game?" Harry asked quickly.

Snape's expression was unreadable as he said, "Yes, I suppose I will."

"You -- you're up for it?" The man looked a little better after the Blood-Replenishing Potion, but not by much.

"Slytherin is playing, after all," he said.

"Right." Harry had almost forgotten that particular detail. "I... I guess I'll see you there, then?"

"Yes."

Harry nodded, and turned to leave. He was halfway out the door, when Snape said, "And Mr. Potter?"

"Yeah?" Harry glanced over his shoulder.

"With your Keeper being... what he is... I would not be amiss in wishing you good luck."

"Ron is going to be fine!" Harry protested, having grown quite accustomed to defending Ron's goalkeeping over the past weeks. "Umm... but, yeah, thanks." Harry added, having never imagined that he would find himself saying so, "And, uh, good luck to Slytherin, too."

Snape inclined his head, in a gesture that could have been acknowledgement, or perhaps dismissal only. Harry shouldered his bag, and made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast.