The man rapped softly on the door. "Aren't you up yet, Potter?" he called, his tone impatient. Underneath the impatience, however, detectable only to those who knew him well, was a distinct note of concern. Granted, Severus Snape would sooner have volunteered to personally test the effectiveness of Filch's old torture equipment than admit feeling concern for anyone, but it was there, nonetheless.

Quietly, Snape opened the door to Potter's bedroom. If the boy was merely sleeping in, he'd let him, but not without checking on him, first. It was nearly eight o'clock, after all, and since the boy's arrival in his quarters, he couldn't recall him sleeping much past seven.

Harry was still laying in bed, his eyes closed. His face wasn't lax with slumber, however, but set in an expression of forced relaxation.

"Potter?" Snape addressed the boy as he crossed the room. "What's the matter?"

The teen opened his eyes, slowly turning his head towards the professor. "Hurts to move," he answered quietly. He did seem to be trying to lay very still.

"Elaborate," Snape told him, moving closer to the bed.

"It feels like I overworked all the muscles in my body and now they're sore."

The Potions Master raised a brow. "Running about in the middle of the night, were we?"

"No, sir," Harry gave a short laugh, knowing that with Snape's wards, he probably couldn't even fall out of bed without the man knowing.

"Your tongue is a muscle," the older wizard pointed out. "I notice you seem to be talking just fine."

"Most of my muscles, then," his charge amended. "And it does hurt to talk – means I have to breathe more."

"Very well, Potter. I'll return in a moment." Snape left and, true to his word, returned a few seconds later, a potion in hand. "Drink this."

Harry looked at the vial, which the professor extended towards him. "Ouch," he stated decidedly.

"You haven't even moved, yet."

"But I'm gonna have to sit up to drink that," the boy responded wryly. "No matter how I move, I just know it's going to hurt."

"Where's that Gryffindor courage of yours?" the Potions Master inquired dryly.

"Right where it's supposed to be, sir," Harry responded. "Not that it really has anything to do with this. Having courage doesn't mean I have to be masochistic."

Snape raised a brow. "I'm surprised you even know that word," he said. "Now hurry up, Potter. The sooner you drink this, the sooner you should feel better."

With a groan of acquiescence, Harry propped himself up on an elbow and reached out for the potion. His muscles ached in protest. He imagined if they had voices, they would have been yelling quite loudly. He hesitated as he brought the vial up to his mouth.

"This doesn't smell like a typical pain draught," he said, sniffing at the potion cautiously.

"Well noted, Potter," Snape told him. "I've added a mild muscle-relaxant to it. I didn't realize you paid so much attention to what you consumed."

"When you spend as much time in the hospital wing as I do, you become familiar with this stuff," said Harry, downing the draught and grimacing. "Tastes worse than usual, too." Handing the empty vial back to Snape, he lowered himself back against his pillow. "How long until it works?"

"Hard to say. Possibly a few minutes, perhaps longer. It also might not be as effective because of the substitution I had to make to the ingredients," Snape replied. He studied the boy for a moment. "Why did you do it, Potter?"

Harry looked a bit alarmed. "Do what?"

"Why did you try to make Perfectus Memoria?" the man clarified. "Were you not aware of the potential side-effects of the draught itself? There's a reason its proper name means 'complete memory.'"

"I know, sir. It makes a person remember everything they've ever experienced."

"'Everything,' in this case, is not an overstatement," Snape lectured. "Everything, Potter. It would be like reliving every moment of your life. Every time you were happy or sad, every time you were hurt or mistreated, every moment you never realized you'd forgotten. There were some who went mad after taking that potion. What could possibly make you willing to take such a risk?"

"I just wanted a few happy memories of my parents," Harry answered honestly. "Because of the dementors last year, I can... I can remember the night they died. I-I thought, if I can remember that, maybe I can remember times before that. I just wanted to remember being wanted and loved." He whispered the last part, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Severus stared at the boy before him. He had expected something far more... trivial. Had it been a year earlier, or even at the beginning of the current academic year, he would have never imagined that the Golden Boy of Gryffindor had so little self-value.

"Harry," he began awkwardly, only partially aware that he had used the boy's given name, "you're not... unwanted. There are people who... care about you."

"There are people who care about the 'Boy-Who-Lived'," Harry corrected.

"No. There are also people who care about you, regardless of your fame or the scar on your forehead."

"Like who?"

"Your friends, for starters."

"Sorta what makes them friends, isn't it?" Harry asked rhetorically.

Snape gave an impatient sigh. "The headmaster."

The teen gave a skeptical huff. So, he'd noticed that there was something more to the old wizard's regards towards him.

"The Weasleys, then."

"Because I'm Ron's friend."

Realizing that the boy would rationalize away the concern of any he suggested, Severus finally uttered the one response he couldn't refute. "Myself."

Emerald green eyes flitted from the ceiling to meet the man's gaze. Slowly, Harry raised himself up on his elbows, unable to come up with a response. He wasn't even certain he'd heard correctly.

"I care about you, Harry," Severus reiterated, "though, Merlin only knows how that came to be. I've come to realize that your fate... matters to me, for the simple reason that I mayhave grown a bit fond of you." He looked distinctly uncomfortable for a few seconds before a stern expression overtook his features. "And if a rumor ever gets out that I have uttered anything so sentimental, you will not like the consequences, Mr. Potter," he added severely.

"Yes, sir," Harry said obediently.

"How do you feel, now?" the Potions Master asked.

Harry sat up and cautiously stretched out his arms. "I'm still a little stiff, but I feel a lot better, now, sir," he answered.

"Good. If anything changes –"

"I'll notify you or Madame Pomfrey immediately."

"Cheeky brat," Severus muttered. "Best get dressed and join your friends for breakfast in the Great Hall. We can't have them thinking I'm cutting you up for potion ingredients." Without another word, he turned and exited the room.

A small grin slowly spread across Harry's face. Someone cared about him. Even if it was the greasy git of the dungeons, it still meant something to him. It meant a lot.

0o0o0

"Potter, does this really have to become a tradition?" Snape questioned rhetorically, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We will not know how the antidote affects you until you take it. Madame Pomfrey and I are both here in the event that anything unfortunate happens. Now, will you please take the potion already?"

Harry, who had been doing a rather remarkable job of putting off the inevitable, looked up sheepishly. "Sorry, sir," he murmured.

"Don't be sorry, Potter, be drinking."

Suppressing a grin, Harry finally raised the vial to his lips and swallowed the contents. To his pleasant surprise, the potion didn't taste all that bad. "Why can't my antagonist taste like that?" he inquired.

"I have made all the adjustments to your antagonist for flavor that I dare," Snape told him. "Until you've no further need for it, I'm afraid you'll just have to bear with it. Which, I do believe, brings us to the present. How do you feel?"

"I don't think it worked," the teen declared after several seconds of contemplation.

"That is not what I asked."

"Oh. The same. I don't feel different, at all. No headache, no trouble breathing. Nothing." Harry frowned thoughtfully, reaching over to scratch the back of his elbow. "I think I need lotion, though. My elbow itches."

"Don't scratch, Harry!" Poppy exclaimed. Harry started in surprise, jerking his hand away from the opposite joint.

Severus took hold of Harry's bicep, lifting his arm to examine the boy's elbow. "Why is it," he drawled, "that all the common allergens have absolutely no effect on you, but when I introduce a substance that is the least bit rare, you have some sort of reaction?"

Harry shrugged a shoulder. "Dunno," he responded. "Everyone's gotta at least one fault, don't they?" Pomfrey chuckled at this, and the teen was certain the Potions Master was struggling not to smile.

"Stay here, Harry," he said, "and don't scratch. I'll get some itch cream."

"Wait," Harry called after him, eying the rash that was beginning to spread up and down both his arms. His knees were starting to feel itchy, too. "How bad is it going to get?"

Snape paused to look back at him. "That," he said, "all depends on how allergic you are to Djinn berries."

0o0o0

It was the last day before the rest of the students returned on the Hogwarts Express. Harry had spent the majority of the last few days covered in a dark red rash which spread the length of both arms, across his shoulders, up his neck, down onto his chest and back, and from the tops of his feet up to his thighs and backside. His face, most of his torso, and... another portion of his anatomy were largely unaffected – for which Harry was extremely grateful.

Now, there was only one patch of skin that still itched. Most unfortunately, it happened to be on his posterior, resulting in his constant wriggling in his seat as he valiantly tried to ignore it.

Harry was sitting in the Gryffindor common room with his two best friends. The others who'd stayed for the remainder of the holidays were out having a snowball fight (instigated by the Weasley twins) or studying in the library. Harry, having spent half the break still withdrawn, had already finished his homework, as had Hermione. Ron was currently trying to do just that, asking Hermione for assistance as he needed it.

It was then, just after Hermione had explained the Transfiguration assignment to Ron, that Harry decided to act on an idea which had actually come to him immediately after he'd tried the first antidote. "Um... can I talk to you guys?" he asked, breaking the companionable silence they had fallen into.

Hermione looked up, closing the book she'd been reading. "Of course, Harry," she responded.

"Yeah, mate," Ron looked away from his essay. "Is that why you've been fidgeting so much?"

"Uh, no," Harry said, flushing slightly. "But I do have something I want to tell you guys. Something I probably should've told you already, but... better late than never, right?" He gave a forced laugh.

Hermione ducked her head for a moment. She had a feeling she knew what Harry was going to tell them, and her heart set to aching for her friend all over again. They all moved closer together and Harry set up privacy charms to prevent anyone from listening in.

"I..." The words stuck in his throat. He'd never actually said them aloud and the thought of doing so was terrifying. It was as though speaking them would make them true. But they were true, and he owed it to his friends to tell them the truth before he was unable to do so.

"Harry?" Ron prompted, pulling him out of his reverie.

"I-I'm dying," Harry choked out, horrified to realize that tears had filled his eyes. Ron gasped in surprise and Hermione looked as though she'd been desperately hoping he'd say anything else. He continued before either could interrupt. "When I was making that potion earlier this year, I made a mistake – two mistakes – and it created this poison. When... when the cauldron exploded, I got several cuts and the poison got into my bloodstream. There's no antidote. Snape's trying to make one, but he might not have enough time." His voice broke and he had to pause to regain his composure.

"But... wh-what about that potion you have to take every day?" Ron asked bewilderedly, feeling suddenly lost. "Shouldn't that be helping?"

"It's called an antagonist, Ron," Hermione replied when Harry had shaken his head, unable to swallow the lump which had formed in his throat. "It counteracts the effects of the poison but doesn't neutralize the poison itself. It's only a temporary solution." Her voice faded to a whisper.

Ron stared at her. "That's what you found out," he said, "that's why you were crying that one night." The girl cast an anxious glance between him and Harry.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Harry murmured. He wasn't really mad at Hermione for looking into the matter on her own as he really hadn't expected her to do otherwise. In fact, she was probably responsible for getting Ron to stop pestering him.

"It's alright, mate," the redhead told him, "I mean, Merlin, how do you... that is, I'm not sure I would... Are you sure that greasy git's really doing his best to help you?"

"Ronald!"

"It's okay, 'Mione," Harry placated her, having finally regained control over his emotions. "And yeah, Ron, I am sure he's trying to help me." He proceeded to tell them everything, from the mistakes he had made and the reason he had attempted the potion, to the failed antidotes and the symptoms he'd been experiencing.

"That's why you had that seizure and fainted after the dragon chased you down," said Ron. "Blimey, mate." He shook his head, still having not fully internalized what his friend had told them.

"Yeah..." concluded Harry. "That's about all of it." They lapsed into silence.

Hermione finally had to ask the question that had come to her before the conversation began. "So, Harry, why do you keep fidgeting like that?"

Harry promptly flushed a deep crimson.