Potter had slipped into a state of depression. He ate little and only when prompted. He only spoke when spoken to. And while his homework was the best it had been in four years – no doubt because he seldom slept and spent hours studying when he wasn't staring vacantly at a wall – all his professors reported that his attention in class was waning.

Snape had preferred the anger, or even the brief moment of pleading and bargaining. Anything that proved the boy hadn't just given up...

Potter's attention immediately snapped over to him as he entered the hospital wing. He sat forward as he impatiently waited for the man to draw closer to his bed. It was the first time Snape had seen the boy awake since his encounter with the Chinese Fireball.

"You have to do something," Potter declared once he was close enough that he didn't have to shout.

The Potions Master raised a brow at him. "Oh?"

"Yes!" the boy exclaimed. "I didn't – I... I don't..." To Snape's horror, Potter's voice became choked and tears began to fall from those brilliant green eyes. "I don't wanna die! You're a Potions Master. You can do something – please!"

"Potter," Snape tried hard to sound patient – really, he did. "I'm already trying..."

"I'll do anything you want me to!" Harry declared. "I'll scrub the dungeons ceiling to floor until I graduate, or, or... I'll dissect potions ingredients, clean cauldrons. I'll never complain about you singling me out in class again. I'll do anything – I know you hate me, but please, please, don't let me die!"

"Potter!" the man hissed, distressed by the boy's desperate pleas. "I am already doing everything that I can!"

The teen buried his face in both hands. "I know," he sobbed. "I know, it's just... I just..." The rest of his words became incoherent as he continued to weep, and for nearly an hour, Snape feared he would never stop...

Now, however, that same boy was seated listlessly at his house table, pushing his food around his plate. He was either totally oblivious to or completely ignoring the worried glances of his friends. The professor was unable to determine which.

Snape suddenly realized that he actually missed the 'old' Harry Potter. As much as the boy had been a source of irritation for him, a small part of him (he grudgingly admitted to himself) admired his spirit. Potter tenaciously clung to what he believed and stubbornly refused to let unfair treatment by others beat him down.

Before the boy was under his supervision, Snape had assumed that this was evidence of Potter's arrogance and self-importance. He'd never suspected how this show of confidence cost the boy, nor how little self-esteem was involved in it, until he had made the effort to see Harry and not the child's father instead. It was only then that he realized how much more Harry's childhood had been like his own than what it should have been.

Harry rose from his seat. Even from the head table, Snape could tell his food had been hardly touched. The man frowned. This wouldn't do. Somehow, he had to find a way to show the boy that he still had something to live for, to fight for, again. Otherwise, it was doubtful he would live at all.

0o0o0

After Harry's run-in with the dragon, Hermione had redoubled her efforts to find out what was wrong with him. It seemed that she had read nearly every book that so much as mentioned "Perfectus Memoria" or "memory draught." Finally, the countless hours of research paid off. She had found what she'd been looking for in the Restricted section within a book titled Benign Brews, Malefic Mistakes. (1)

Never had success felt so horrible.

She didn't even attempt to return her books to their shelves before she left the library. Madame Pince frowned at the girl, wondering what had gotten into her.

Hermione was unaware of her surroundings until she found herself in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, who stared at her expectantly. "Balderdash," the girl murmured, desperately wishing that were the case. The Fat Lady gave her a concerned glance as she swung forward to allow her access to the common room.

Ron was in the midst of a game of Wizards' Chess with Neville, who was losing miserably. He looked up as she entered. "Hey, Hermione," he greeted, turning his attention back to the chess board. He directed his bishop to take Neville's rook, putting the other boy in checkmate at the same time.

"I need to stop playing against you," Neville glumly declared. They started to put the pieces away before Ron looked up again, belatedly noticing that Hermione hadn't said anything since she'd returned.

"You alright, 'Mione?" he asked, moving over to her. "You look like someone just died." To his great bewilderment, she sank down onto the sofa and abruptly burst into tears.

"What did you say?" Neville asked in alarm.

Ron shook his head, sitting down next to his weeping friend. "Hey," he said, patting her awkwardly on the back. "What is it, Hermione? What's wrong?"

Hermione turned to him, burying her face against his chest and shaking her head. Even if it had been her place, she wouldn't have known how to tell him what she had discovered. She didn't even want to know herself, anymore. How could she express what their best friend was going through? What he would be going through?

No wonder Harry hadn't been himself; no wonder he'd become so depressed... She no longer blamed him for not confiding in them, yet. The last bit she'd read in the text replayed through her mind: No known cure. No known survivors.

0o0o0

It was the last week of term before the winter holidays. A greater number of students than ever had elected to stay at the school over the break than usual. The reason for this was due to the Yule Ball that was to take place Christmas night. Everywhere, members of all houses talked excitedly about the event. Fourth-year and above were allowed to attend, and the lower years only if they were invited by an older student.

Harry was already weary of the topic, of all the excitement it entailed, and of the giggling. He'd never noticed how many girls attended Hogwarts, before.

"Why do they have to travel in packs?" he asked Ron as they made their way to the Great Hall. He indicated a group of Hufflepuff girls who frantically began to whisper amongst themselves as they passed. "There's never just one of them – they don't even go to the bathroom alone. And why must they giggle all the time?" Harry frowned after a Ravenclaw third-year, who squeaked in surprise when they rounded a corner.

"She was alone," Ron pointed out, not commenting on Harry's foul mood. At least his friend was talking; he didn't say much, anymore.

"Not very long," stated Harry, nodding to where the girl had joined two others, darting looks back in their direction over her shoulder.

"What I'd like to know is how to get one alone and ask her to the ball. I don't know who to ask. What about you, Harry? Any idea who you wanna go with?"

"I'm not going."

"What?" the redhead exclaimed. "You mean Snape won't let you?"

His friend shrugged indifferently. "I don't want to go."

Ron gaped at him disbelievingly. "You don't? But... why? It'll be brilliant, mate. We get to stay up hours after curfew and not get in trouble for it, and..."

"And wear dress robes and trip over our feet while everyone is watching," Harry cut in, taking a seat at the Gryffindor table. "I'll pass, thanks."

"Aren't we positive?" the other boy remarked as Hermione joined them.

"Positive about what?" she asked brightly.

"Harry's not going to the ball."

"You're not? Aren't you allowed to?"

Harry clenched his jaw in annoyance. "I don't want to go," he repeated, slowly enunciating each word.

"Right ray of sunshine, isn't he?" quipped Ron. Hermione chewed her lip, but refrained from commenting.

"You should ask Hermione to the ball," Harry directed at Ron. His two best friends looked at one another in surprise, each turning interesting shades of pink.

"That's right..." the redhead murmured after he'd thought about it. "Hermione, you're a girl!"

"How good of you to notice, Ronald," Hermione retorted, giving him a frown, which he ignored.

"That means you can go to the ball with me!"

"Actually, no, I can't."

"Aw, c'mon, Hermione!" Ron wheedled. "Don't be like that – just go to the ball with me. Please?"

"I told you, I can't!" Hermione insisted, her face flushing again. "I'm already going with someone."

"That's great," Harry spoke up before Ron could insert his foot into his mouth. "Who are you going with?"

The girl turned even redder. "I'm not going to tell," she said. "You'll tease me."

Ron was looking about the Great Hall, as though he expected Hermione's date to have a sign above his head. "Who would ask you to the ball?" he questioned, a little too skeptically to keep himself out of trouble.

"Just because you've never noticed I'm a girl doesn't mean other people haven't!" Hermione snapped angrily.

Before his other friend could respond and the argument escalate even farther, Harry rose to his feet. "I'm finished," he declared.

"But you've hardly eaten anything!" Hermione protested, immediately forgetting her quarrel with Ron. "You should eat a bit more."

Harry picked up a dinner roll and took a half-hearted bite out of it. "I'll see you tomorrow," he told them, then turned to leave the hall.

"But we were going to study," the girl began, then groaned in dismay. "... for our History of Magic test tomorrow." She glumly rested her chin against her hand, no longer interested in eating, herself.

"Guess we put him off his food," Ron murmured guiltily, poking at his food with his fork. Hermione let her head sink the rest of the way to the table. How were they going to help their friend?

0o0o0

Snape stepped into his living room to grab a book, suppressing a sigh upon finding Potter seated in one of the chairs staring into the fire. Again.

"Potter," the man addressed the teen, who started in surprise before looking up. "Shouldn't you be studying?"

His charge merely shrugged, turning his gaze back to the fire.

"Potter, when I ask you a question, I expect an answer," Snape snapped, irritated by the boy's apathy.

"I've already done a lot of studying with Hermione and Ron this week," Harry responded. "Sir."

"For the tests that you have tomorrow?"

"Already had our final for Charms."

"And what about History of Magic? Binns always holds the finals for his classes on the last day of term. He's been doing so since before he died. Furthermore, I know for a fact that you're to be tested on antidotes tomorrow in Potions," the professor said. "Have you gone over your notes on that material? Assuming, of course, that you even took notes."

"No, sir," Harry murmured, though, Snape wasn't entirely sure if that were in answer to whether he'd gone over his notes or if he'd taken them at all. He decided it didn't make a difference.

"Come with me, Mr. Potter," he said, heading back towards the door to his lab. Hesitantly, Harry unfolded his small frame from his position in the chair and followed the man into the room that had been designated 'off-limits' upon his arrival.

Snape's lab was close to Harry's original vision of what the man's quarters would be like, with shelf upon shelf filled with various potions ingredients. Like the rest of the quarters, however, everything was quite clean, and the lighting was more than sufficient. Two other doors led into the room; one went into Snape's study, which Harry caught a glimpse of through the open door, while the other almost certainly opened onto the outside corridor. There were three worktables and Snape led Harry towards the one in the far corner of the room.

"Sit, Potter," Snape pointed to a stool set a short distance from the table. Potter wordlessly obeyed – since when was the brat so obedient? – watching him with a mixture of wariness and curiosity as he opened the book and went back to working. "What is the purpose of an antidote, Potter?"

Harry blinked in surprise. "To counteract the effect of a poison," he answered promptly.

"What can be used as an antidote for most poisons?"

"A bezoar. Which can be found in the stomach of a goat." He'd never forgotten that one.

"Common ingredients used in antidotes?"

"They vary, but besides bezoars, mandrake is often used."

"So, you do pay some attention in class," Snape remarked, copying something to his notes before carefully adding an ingredient to the cauldron. "What are the three types of antidotes?"

Harry had to consider the question for a moment. "Um... well, there's one that prevents the poison from being absorbed..."

"Such as?"

"A bezoar?"

"Are you asking me or telling me, Potter?"

"Telling you, sir."

"Good. The other two. With examples."

"Another... changes the poison into something else – something harmless," Harry continued, a bit uncertainly. "Deflating Draught should be an example of this."

"Indeed," the man confirmed.

"The third type of antidote..." the boy chewed his lip as he thought back, trying to remember what he had read or heard in lecture. "The third opposes the effects of the poison. They're not considered true antidotes because they don't truly neutralize the poison itself. The proper term for them is... uh, an... antagonists."

"And an example?"

"Um... I-I don't know, sir."

"You truly can't think of one?" Snape raised a brow.

Harry wracked his brain for a proper response, brow furrowed deeply, when it suddenly occurred to him. He looked up at the man's face. "My potion," he said, "the one I have to take every day."

"Well-done, Potter," the Potions Master said, eying the boy thoughtfully. "I've no idea why you do so poorly in my class. You are clearly capable of recalling the information, which is generally what most find difficult. From now on, I expect you to get no lower than an E on your written assignments, though, I see no reason why you shouldn't be getting an Outstanding in the entire subject." He measured out a viscous bluish fluid that Harry didn't recognize, then added nonchalantly, "Ten points to Gryffindor."

Though, he kept his gaze fixed on what he was doing, Snape was fully aware that his student was gaping at him in shock. He suppressed the urge to smirk in amusement. Though, he didn't often award points to Gryffindor, he did on occasion. Usually, the points were awarded to one of his N.E.W.T. Level students. Since they'd started Hogwarts, one or both of the Weasley twins were also known to earn points for their house. Few of the younger students knew of this, however, so hearing him award a Gryffindor points always left them wonderfully flabbergasted.

"Since you're not studying and you've clearly nothing better to do than stare off into space, you might as well make yourself useful, Potter," Snape drawled once the boy finally managed to close his mouth. "On the table over there are some ingredients that need to be prepared. Follow the directions written on the parchment."

Since only one of the other tables had ingredients on it, there was no question as to where the professor was directing him. Harry looked over the detailed instructions on how each of them were to be prepared. He was alarmed to realize that Snape had just told him to work on his own antagonist.

"Sir, are you sure I should –" he began.

"Just follow the directions, Potter," Snape repeated himself. "I'll double-check them before we put them to use."

Gingerly picking up a pestle as though he expected it to bite, Harry set to work.