Harry Potter bent over the cauldron set up in the middle of the floor. He'd been thinking about doing something like this all summer. After his encounters with the dementors the previous school year, the boy dreamed frequently of that night his parents had died. It occurred to him that if he could recall that memory, then maybe he could find a way to remember others before that, when his parents were still alive.

At first, he couldn't determine how he would best accomplish his goal, but then something he had read in one of his textbooks came back to him. A thorough search while his aunt and uncle were sleeping soon uncovered it in his first year Potions text, in the chapter on memory potions. It was mentioned only in passing: Perfectus Memoria, also known as the Perfect Memory Draught.

Upon returning to Hogwarts, Harry had spent so much time in the library that Hermione had begun to think he had turned over a new leaf. His research took only a couple of weeks before he found the directions for the potion and set to work gathering the ingredients. Several he had in his own kit and a few he was able to come by without breaking any rules, but the rest – nearly half – he had to pilfer from Snape's private and student stores.

Hermione had quickly grown concerned by his secretive behavior and even Ron had made an effort to keep an eye on him, but Harry told them nothing. He got his friends in enough trouble as it was, he wasn't about to drag them into this as well. Besides, now all he had to do was brew it.

It was a Hogsmeade Saturday. Harry had declined joining his friends, stating that he just wanted some time alone. Hermione had looked like she wanted to argue, but Ron had nudged her out through the portrait hole before she could start. No sooner were they gone, than he had secreted himself to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom on the second floor. Now, it was just after lunch and he was more than halfway through making the potion.

"Stir counter-clockwise," he murmured aloud as he read the directions he had copied down, "six times, before adding the four Jobberknoll feathers..." He had reached the count of three when Myrtle appeared with a sudden screech. Startled, he jumped, knocking the cauldron off of its stand onto the flagstone floor. As the potion sloshed back upon itself, there was an ominous hiss followed almost instantly by a deafening crack as the potion exploded.

0o0o0

Professor Snape looked profoundly unamused. Not that he often looked otherwise, but his ill-humor at the current moment seemed more pronounced than usual. He'd been called from his private lab to investigate a potions accident – in the second floor girls' lavatory, no less. It just figured that Potter would be the source of the trouble. After determining that no lasting damage had been done to Myrtle's bathroom, he made his way to the hospital wing where the boy was being looked over by Madame Pomfrey.

"As there appears to be nothing else, Poppy, I think I shall go try to determine what, exactly, Mr. Potter did to make a memory draught so explosive," he dryly declared.

"I assume that means I can finish treating my patient, now?" the mediwitch demanded. She was a bit annoyed. Though, she'd already healed a gash above the boy's right ear and several cuts along his arms and face, she had yet to get a second look at him because a certain Potions professor had been questioning him. The small pucker between Harry's brows could very well mean the poor child had a headache.

"I see no reason why you can't," Severus responded indifferently. She frowned reprovingly at him and he returned it with a slight smirk before turning to leave.

"Let's finish getting you cleaned up, Mr. Potter," Pomfrey said.

The Potions Master headed to his office, intent upon researching what Potter had done wrong. He recognized the potion scrawled upon the parchment, of course. Perfectus Memoria. Snape wasn't overly familiar with the draught. Most people avoided it as it caused its drinker to recall all previous memories – including those which were unpleasant or repressed. He couldn't help but wonder why Potter would feel the need for such a brew.

As he read over the ingredients yet again, alarm bells began to sound. It didn't take much to make a lot of potions unstable – the more elements, the easier this became – and even though memory draughts were known for their stability, it was not entirely unheard of for one to explode, particularly since this potion called for Erumpent horn shavings, which often were a bit combustible. Furthermore, the boy had mistaken a mildly toxic plant for a benign one, but that wasn't the source of Snape's unease.

No. The situation alone reminded him of something he'd seen or read somewhere. Slowly, he went over the ingredients list once more, reading them aloud under his breath. "... lacewing flies, gurdyroot, asphodel, Jobberkno-" He stopped short, suddenly remembering where he'd read about the scenario before.

Hurrying the rest of the way to his office, he went straight to the far bookshelf and pulled down a dusty tome. After a bit of fumbling, the man located the page he was searching for. His eyes scanned it long enough to confirm his suspicions before he lunged for the floo, throwing a handful of powder into the grate.

"Hospital wing!" he shouted, speeding across Pomfrey's office a split-second later and jerking the door open. "Don't give him anything!"

The mediwitch jumped in surprise as his yell echoed in the large room, dropping the potion she held onto the floor. "Severus?" she gasped, trying to regain her composure. "Good heavens, what..."

"What have you given him?" Snape demanded, striding over to where she stood near Potter's bed.

"Well, I put antiseptic on his cuts before I healed them, and some bruise salve..."

"What has he ingested?" the man clarified.

Poppy looked a bit miffed. "Nothing, as of yet," she tartly replied. "I was about to give the poor boy a mild pain draught before you came storming in here, scaring the daylights out of me."

"Give him nothing. He is not to take any potions unless I have brewed them specifically for him."

Harry, who'd watched the adults' interchange silently up to this point, gave a cry of protest. "That's not fair!" he winced as his head throbbed, then lowered his voice. "Professor, I know I messed up, but this really isn't –"

"This really isn't up for negotiation, Potter," Snape informed him. Pomfrey regarded the man with growing alarm and confusion.

"Why, then?" Harry snapped. "Why can't I have a stupid pain draught?"

The Potions Master leveled a scowl at him. "Because that 'stupid pain draught' would most assuredly have left you in a coma," he growled. "That is assuming, of course, that it didn't kill you."

Harry's anger abruptly vanished. "What?"

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter. You're dying."

Utter silence reigned as Harry gaped, Madame Pomfrey covered her mouth with a hand, and Snape stood completely emotionless.

"Is it really that serious, Severus?" the mediwitch asked.

"Undoubtedly," Snape told her. "The unfortunate substitution of Dolus' Scallion in place of gurdyroot makes Potter's mixture toxic, whereas a few too many Erumpent horn shavings would likely account for its instability. I will be testing the remains of his little... project, of course, but I am quite certain of my prognosis."

The man turned towards Harry before continuing in a detached manner. "You are dying, Mr. Potter, as you have most assuredly been dosed with a poison which currently has no antidote. Such poisoning is rare and has not been seen within the last thirty years. The poison has the immediate effect of making nearly all traditionally made medicinal draughts harmful, and in some cases, deadly to you. As time progresses, you'll become sicklier as your system breaks down. Any excessive strain on your system – physical or otherwise – is likely to have deleterious effects."

"Is there nothing we can do?" Pomfrey inquired anxiously, her gaze going from Snape to Harry and back again.

"There is a potion I can make that ought to slow the effects of the poison," he replied, "I could probably improve on the formula. Mr. Potter would need to take it daily and be closely monitored. But before I go to such trouble, it would be best to verify that I'm not mistaken. If you would run another diagnostic on him, Poppy. As you've probably guessed already, this poison is not detectable with a general diagnostic. You'll have to run one specifically for poisoning."

Poppy nodded, facing her patient and murmuring the spell under her breath as she passed her wand over him. A few seconds later, she grew silent, lowering her wand and turning to look out the window, head bowed.

After a moment, Harry spoke up, eyes wide in terror and confusion. "Madame Pomfrey..?" The woman's shoulders began to tremble as a choked sob escaped her lips.

"I see I have work to do," Snape said. "If you see Albus, tell him he can find me in my lab." And with that, the professor swept from the room once more, robes billowing behind him.

0o0o0

Albus Dumbledore stood quietly, waiting patiently – at least, as anyone who didn't know him might guess. The man's eyes were his tell, however, as one Severus Snape very well knew, and at present they followed the Potions Master's every move, lacking their usual twinkle.

Moving around the worktable, Snape removed a couple ingredients from their shelf. Referring to the open book on the stand near the cauldron, he prepared them as specified, adding them to the brew as the directions called for. Finally, he nodded to indicate that the other man could speak.

"What can you tell me, Severus?" Dumbledore's voice was quiet, his tone resigned.

"As I am certain Poppy has told you already," Severus answered, setting a timer to allow the potion to simmer, "Potter has inadvertently poisoned himself while attempting to brew Perfectus Memoria in the second floor girls' lavatory."

"Not a commonly used draught, though, it was famous at one time," the headmaster noted. "I take it something went wrong?"

"Indeed," the younger man responded dryly. "Among the ingredients Potter gathered himself, rather than steal from my stores, was this." He picked something up off the back table and handed it to his mentor.

Albus examined the plant given to him. It had a long, hollow green shoot that ended in a point, its underdeveloped bulb the color of rust. A thin, red-brown line ran up its side, from bulb to tip. "Gurdyroot, isn't it?" he asked.

Severus shook his head. "A gurdyroot doesn't have a bulb that red, nor does it have a stripe up the side."

"False Gurdyroot."

"More formally known as Dolus' Scallion," the Potions Master confirmed. "It grows quite well along the edge of the Forest. As gurdyroot is seldom used in potions, I didn't think it would be ever be a problem."

"I knew that Dolus' Scallion is poisonous, but I've never heard that it was deadly."

"It isn't, by itself, but when combined with the other ingredients and ignited, it creates a mixture that is quite virulent. Had Mr. Potter not added too many Erumpent horn shavings, or if he'd avoided jostling it before the Jobberknoll feathers were added, the potion would not have exploded. Even if he had taken the failed brew which still would have resulted, it would only have made him ill for a few days. Instead, he made two amateurish mistakes which will no doubt prove fatal."

With a slash of his wand, Snape cut off the timer, picking up a stirring rod to carefully stir the brew widdershins. Adding several other ingredients, he gave it a final stir and took it off the fire.

"Is this the potion Poppy said would slow the effects of the poison?" Albus asked, nodding towards the cooling cauldron.

"A temporary solution, at best," Severus replied. "It's an old remedy which should prolong his life by a couple of months. With a few adjustments, it ought to keep him alive until the end of the school year – if the boy should choose to draw the process out that long."

"How bad is he going to get?"

"I do not know. It's a rare occurrence – the poison doesn't even have a proper name. The few cases that have been documented varied greatly. From what I can deduce, however, Potter will grow increasingly weaker until his body finally shuts down."

"And there's no antidote."

"None. I will attempt to develop one, of course, but ideally, one would need years to work on such a project. Furthermore, I'd prefer not to be using a fourteen-year-old boy as a test subject." Severus met Albus' gaze. "I doubt I will be able to succeed in time, Albus. You know I have done my best to keep my promise to protect the boy – from Quirrel, as well as moon-struck werewolves – but clearly, I am unable to shield him from his own folly."

Albus studied him quietly for a moment. If he hadn't known better, he might have thought that Severus actually cared for the boy personally. This was not the case, of course – Harry reminded the man too much of his father – yet, even so, the Potions Master didn't wish the boy any harm. As much as Severus Snape disliked James Potter's son, he wanted Lily Evans' child to live.

"No one expects you to, Severus," he told the younger man.

"Maybe you don't," Severus uttered quietly. He didn't say, 'I do', but Albus heard it, anyway.

"Very well," said the headmaster, "Do your best, Severus." The professor simply nodded, his attention already absorbed in a dusty old tome from which he was hastily taking notes. With a weary sigh, Dumbledore went off bearing the awful news: the Boy-Who-Lived was dying.

0o0o0

Harry did not believe it. It just wasn't possible – there had to be some mistake. He felt fine, the same as he always felt. Surely, if he'd somehow poisoned himself, he'd feel different. If he were... well, wouldn't he be able to tell if he were dying? Shouldn't he be able to sense it?

That was that, then. Snape was wrong. Or maybe he was just being a git. And of course Madame Pomfrey would believe him, being as he was a teacher, and Dumbledore trusted the man, for whatever reason. It couldn't be true, though. If Harry could make such an effective poison by accident, surely more people would do so purposely. Were that the case, it would most certainly have been mentioned in one of their textbooks. It hadn't, therefore, it couldn't actually exist.

Could it?

Maybe something was wrong with him... He was feeling a bit confused, and his head hurt – no. That was the knock to the head talking. Those always made him a bit disoriented. Always.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be. He'd faced Quirrel and dementors and a basilisk. He was young and he felt perfectly fine – he couldn't be dying. He just couldn't be.

… could he?

0o0o0

"Drink this, Mr. Potter," Snape commanded, holding out a vial filled with a sludgy fluid that was sort of a yellowish-orange color. Harry eyed it warily, not the least convinced that it was something he cared to ingest. "Now."

The tone did it. It was an automatic response born of self-preservation, really. No student in his right mind would disobey that tone. Not unless he wanted to be used for potions ingredients, anyway. Harry took the potion and tipped it into his mouth.

Then, he gagged.

Never had Harry ever tasted anything that turned his stomach in such a way. The boy wanted nothing more than to sick up, just so he could be rid of the horrible stuff. He couldn't say just what it tasted like, but it certainly didn't agree with him. Somehow, he managed to swallow it down and keep it there.

"Here." The Potions Master took the empty vial and exchanged it for a glass of water, which Harry gulped down greedily. After a horrible moment of increased nausea, the feeling subsided and the foul concoction was merely a memory, albeit, a rather disgusting one.

"That stuff's awful," Harry declared.

"I am so terribly sorry it is not to your liking," Snape drawled heartlessly. He studied the boy for several seconds, before asking, "How do you feel, Potter?"

"Uh... fine, sir," Harry answered slowly.

"You don't feel anything out of the ordinary? No unusual aches or chills? Anything beyond the initial nausea?"

"No..."

"Good," the man said briskly. "You are to notify myself or Madame Pomfrey immediately if any of this changes even in the slightest. You will receive a dose of this same potion every morning at breakfast time. You are to take the full dose, Mr. Potter. Every Saturday, you will report here to Madame Pomfrey for a check up, unless you are told otherwise. Is that understood or does your scant Gryffindor intellect require that I repeat myself?"

Harry clenched his teeth to keep from saying something he'd regret. "Understood, sir," he managed after a moment, though, his expression was still rather mutinous.

"Very well. With any luck, we won't see each other again until our next class." With no further farewell, the man swept from the room, even as Madame Pomfrey approached Harry's bed.

"I trust you don't need me to repeat what the Professor Snape just told you."

"No, ma'am."

The mediwitch favored him with a small smile. "I'll do so, anyway, just to be sure we're on the same page," she told him. "You are to take the potion Professor Snape makes for you every day. If you feel ill or in any way different from normal, you're to let one of us know, and you will come see me on Saturday."

"Yes, ma'am." Harry was beginning to feel somewhat repetitive.

"I'm serious, Mr. Potter. If I find you've failed to do any of this, you will stay here in the hospital wing until I say otherwise." She fixed him this time with a stern stare and Harry had the sense to look abashed. "Well, I suppose if you don't have any adverse reactions, you may leave tomorrow morning after breakfast."

"Tomorrow?" Harry protested. "Ma'am, I was hoping maybe –"

"Then you can stop, right now. You, Mr. Potter, are not going anywhere before the morning, and that is final. If I had my way, I wouldn't let you out of my sight, but Professor Snape doesn't seem to think that is necessary... yet. You just settle in for now and if you behave yourself, I might allow your friends to eat up here with you."

"Yes, ma'am," the boy sighed in defeat. Pomfrey studied him a moment longer, a concerned expression on her face that made Harry feel uncomfortable. "I'm not dying!" he uttered softly after she had left. Harry would prove it, too. He didn't need Snape or his disgusting potion. He felt perfectly fine.

Laying his head back against the pillow, he stared at the ceiling overhead and waited for his friends to come visit him.

0o0o0

Harry managed to choke down another dose of the horrid orange potion (which didn't even have a name) the following morning. Being as it was the only way Madame Pomfrey was going to release him, he did so without complaint. He was just happy Snape hadn't come to make sure he took it.

Hermione had lectured him, of course, for carelessly breaking school rules and making a potion in secret. Harry thought that was a bit hypocritical of her, as it had been her idea to make the Polyjuice Potion back in second year. Even Ron had gotten after him a bit, but that was for not asking for their assistance, rather than rule breaking.

He didn't tell them about his supposed poisoning. Harry couldn't have said why he felt the need to keep the information from them. Had he asked, he was certain Hermione could have found out one way or another whether he'd actually created a deadly substance. Instead, he stated his accidental use of too many Erumpent horn shavings as the cause for the explosion – which was the truth, just not all of it. Fortunately, the girl took it at that, for once. He didn't want his friends to have further reason to worry about him, especially as there was no cause for it.

Since Monday, breakfast time had become trickier than ever before. He couldn't skip the meal – Snape and Dumbledore would notice, even if Madame Pomfrey seldom showed up at meals – but he was determined not to drink the potion which arrived alongside his pumpkin juice. That first morning, he poured it on the floor, where it vanished like every other food particle and fluid which dropped in the Great Hall.

Knowing he couldn't risk doing so every day, Harry dug an old vial out of his school trunk, along with a rubber stopper. Starting the next day, he transferred the foul brew from one vial to the other beneath the tabletop, stashing it in his schoolbag or pocket for later disposal.

As the week reached its end, he found he was growing a bit weary. This, however, he attributed to the increased excitement and activity surrounding the arrival of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students. They had arrived the previous evening, on Thursday, before Dumbledore announced how the three champions for the Triwizard Tournament would be selected.

The Goblet of Fire had been set up in the Entrance Hall that morning, and students age seventeen and older were able to put their names into it. Some of the younger students, including Ron, were disappointed about the age restriction (though, that didn't stop the twins – age sixteen – from trying to get past Dumbledore's age line). Harry didn't particularly care. He had had more than his share of life-threatening experiences without deliberately entering something so dangerous. Maybe this would even take the focus off him being the Boy-Who-Lived for a while.

At the moment, Harry's greatest ambition was to go to bed immediately after supper and sleep half the weekend away. In fact, the only other thing expected of him that night was to listen as the champions were announced. He laid his head on the table while he waited for Dumbledore to finally address them. A dull ache had settled into his skull sometime the previous afternoon and he'd been suffering mild bouts of vertigo when he stood up too quickly the last two or three days.

Perhaps he was getting sick. He refused to even entertain the other possibility, although, he'd been feeling miserable enough that he briefly considered taking Snape's disgusting draft before he dumped it out that afternoon. He was fine, after all; a bit of sleep and he was certain he'd be right as rain.

He just hoped the nasty stuff wasn't supposed to be traceable in his system. That would be fun to explain.

Hermione eyed her friend with concern. He had seemed a bit... odd all week. Ever since his brewing accident the previous weekend, in fact. It seemed to her that he was trying a little too hard to act normal. She certainly hadn't missed the potion that arrived with his pumpkin juice, either – the potion Harry refused to drink. He'd been arriving early to breakfast everyday to get rid of it before everyone else arrived.

The girl had looked up everything that could possibly go wrong in the brewing of Perfectus Memoria during her free time in an effort to figure out what might be ailing Harry. She was certain there was some sort of connection, but she'd been unable to find anything in the school library. Something was wrong with him, and he wouldn't take his potion, regardless of what she said.

"Just leave it alone, Hermione!" he had snapped at her when she'd confronted him about it.

She had let it drop until she found something concrete. Failing at that – and frustrated because of it – not to mention concerned as whatever it was began to take a noticeable effect on him, Hermione decided she'd tell Madame Pomfrey about Harry's refusal to take his potion the following day. She just hoped Harry would eventually forgive her.

Dumbledore was finally speaking, announcing those who would have a chance at "Eternal Glory." Three times, the blue flames of the Goblet flashed red and a piece of parchment was spewed out and caught by the headmaster. Three times, a champion was announced and ushered into the antechamber where they would meet with the judges for the Tournament. First, Viktor Krum for Durmstrang, then Fleur Delacour for Beauxbatons, and finally, Cedric Diggory for Hogwarts.

Harry clapped along with the other students, then let his head drift back to the cool surface of the tabletop. Did he have a fever? Or was he just tired? The headmaster was still talking, but the boy wasn't paying much attention. He was just about to turn to Hermione and ask if his head felt warm, when everyone grew silent.

Another name had come out of the Goblet. That couldn't be right, though... it was called the Triwizard Tournament. Surely that meant there were to be only three participants? Dumbledore snatched the smoldering parchment piece from the air, studying it gravely before finally looking up.

"Harry Potter?" His tone was soft, yet it carried easily across the silent hall.

Harry slowly lifted his head from the table as others began to turn in his direction and murmurs started to spread.

Again, Dumbledore spoke, this time louder and with more authority. "Harry Potter."

Hermione nudged him in the shoulder, and Harry finally rose to his feet, stumbling a bit as he stepped over the table bench. It took an eternity to reach the front of the hall. All eyes were upon him, it seemed, yet he focused on only one pair – and not Dumbledore's. No, Harry stared right past the old wizard, Snape's dark eyes boring into his own.

Harry shook his head minutely, the action imperceptible to most. He didn't want this, he hadn't placed his name in the Goblet. For a reason he could not say, it was important that the Potions professor knew that he hadn't put forth his name to be a Triwizard champion.

He reached the platform where Dumbledore was standing. The man handed him the scrap of parchment with his name on it and Harry stared down at it. It was his writing. After several seconds, he looked up again. Dumbledore wordlessly nodded him towards the room the others had entered. Approaching the door, he paused a moment, swallowing hard before pushing it open and stepping inside.

The next several minutes of his life were ever after a confusing blur, during which Harry was referred to as a "little boy" by Fleur and accused of entering the Tournament by nearly every adult present. They argued back and forth for a bit before he pulled himself out of his shock enough to follow what was being said.

"... Potter is rather notorious for crossing lines," Snape was saying to the headmaster from Durmstrang. Harry felt a twinge of anger. Ornery, greasy ol' git.

Dumbledore gave the Potions Master an admonishing glance and the man fell silent. Then, he turned to Harry. "Did you put you name in the Goblet, Harry?" he calmly asked him, his expression undecipherable.

"No, sir," Harry answered.

"You didn't ask an older student to put it in for you?" the man pressed.

"No, sir!" Harry insisted.

"But 'e is lying, of course!" Madame Maxime accused. And thus was started an argument over whether he was able to have crossed Dumbledore's age line or trick the Goblet. Apart from Ludo Bagman, head of the Department of Games and Sports, everyone seemed to be agitated. Harry would have been agitated, too, if he didn't feel so numb.

"We must follow the rules," the severe-looking man by the name of Bartemius Crouch spoke up for the first time. "It is clearly stated that those whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the Tournament."

The words hit Harry like a ton of bricks. No! He thought desperately. No – I don't want this! I don't want this, at all! A buzzing sound had filled his ears, almost as though the whispers that were likely running rampant in the Great Hall were echoing in his head, separate, yet indistinct. The room was starting to go gray around the edges and Harry was certain there wasn't enough oxygen to go around.

Noting that the boy was growing increasingly pale, even as his breathing became too rapid, Snape shot a look at the headmaster, deliberately meeting his gaze. 'Albus, put an end to this!' he thought, knowing the man would hear him. 'Even if this were to fit into whatever ridiculous plans you have for the boy, Potter cannot compete! It would undoubtedly get him killed, even if his system weren't compromised. With the effects of the poison, it is a certainty.'

'Of course, Severus,' Albus returned reprovingly. 'You know I would never intentionally put Harry in harm's way.'

Severus thought he knew of at least two examples to the contrary, but not in front of his mental shields where the headmaster could hear him.

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore said aloud, "due to certain circumstances, Harry is already disqualified. He simply will not be able to compete." Everyone fell perfectly silent, all turning to stare at the old wizard.

"Forgive my bluntness, but if the Boy-Who-Lived isn't qualified to participate in the Tournament, who is?" queried Bagman. Harry shrank back as the focus of attention was suddenly shifted back to himself. "Barty, you know the rule book cover to cover – what are the criteria for Triwizard champions?"

"There's an entire chapter that goes over them all in detail," Crouch replied, "but simply put, each contestant much be a healthy wizard or witch of school age, and his or her name must come out of the Goblet of Fire."

"He's a wizard, he's in school, and his name came out of the Goblet," Bagman reiterated, seemingly for Dumbledore's benefit. "What exactly disqualifies him?" Even Madame Maxime and Karkaroff seemed interested in the answer to this, despite their complaints about Hogwarts having two champions.

Dumbledore offered a smile that gave away nothing. "I do believe Harry should like to keep it a personal matter," he said. "Am I right, Harry?"

"Yes, sir!" Harry agreed. It wasn't until he had seen the expression of open relief that flickered across Harry's features that Snape was wholly convinced that the boy really had nothing to do with his name being put into the Goblet. That meant someone else had done so and all his suspects were currently in the room.

"But, what could possibly –" Bagman began to argue.

"I am sorry," Dumbledore interrupted, "but the matter is not up for discussion. Harry is not qualified to participate."

"Barty!" he turned to his colleague for aid.

"The boy's headmaster has deemed him disqualified. According to the rule book, he has the right to do so and without explanation," Crouch said, turning to face the headmaster. "Though I, myself, would be interested to know what exactly dropped the boy from the Tournament before it has even begun." The man glanced over at the boy in question and Harry squirmed uncomfortably.

"As there is nothing else, Harry, you are free to return to your common room," Albus told his student.

"Thank you, sir," said Harry earnestly. He quickly made his escape, thinking for the first time that being thought to be sick could be a good thing, after all.

Snape watched the boy leave, frowning to himself. Potter really ought to have been more stable, still. Perhaps he needed to make adjustments to the boy's antagonist? The man decided to be present when Pomfrey examined him the following day. Much more stress of any kind and the boy was liable to have some sort of episode.

0o0o0

Ron was mad at him. He was being a prat, really. Despite Harry telling him that he didn't put his name in the ruddy Goblet, his own best friend wouldn't believe him and was hurt that Harry didn't tell him 'how he did it'.

When Harry woke the next morning, he wasn't feeling much better than he had the night before. Though his head wasn't actively aching, anymore, it felt like it had been stuffed uncomfortably full of cotton. He could also swear he could feel individual nerves tingling all over his body.

Maybe something was wrong with him. Harry wanted nothing more than to remain in bed. Instead, he got up and pulled on some clothes to head down to breakfast. He'd decided to give Snape's potion another try; anything to make him feel less... whatever it was. If it didn't work, he was never touching the stuff again.

As he headed down to the common room, he noticed Ron sitting in one of the chairs, which was weird, because Ron seldom got up that early on the weekend. He didn't remember hearing the other boy get up, either. Harry came to a stop on the stairs, gripping the banister for support. He hated fighting with Ron. Why must he be so stubborn?

"Ron," Harry spoke. He had to at least try to make up with his friend. It was ridiculous to be arguing with him about something he wouldn't even be taking part in.

"What do you want, Potter?" Ron snarled back, rising to his feet.

Harry scowled. Fine, if that was the way he wanted it. "You're being stupid, Ron, and, and..." Harry searched for the word, "irrational. I told you –"

"That's me," retorted Ron. "Harry Potter's stupid, irrational friend!"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" Harry snapped, taking another couple steps so he was halfway down the last section of stairs. The world swayed threateningly.

"Oh, yeah? Then, what did you mean?" Ron demanded, then whirled about to leave through the portrait hole. "Forget it. I don't care anymore."

"Ron –" Harry began, then cut off as his surroundings abruptly began to lose color. The banister contorted beneath his hand, twisting itself from his grasp. He was about to make another grab for it, when in a flash of white, the world released its hold on him.

"You know what, Harry? Why don't you just..." the redhead trailed off, turning just in time to see the other boy's body arch backwards and slam against the stairs.

"HARRY!" Hermione's scream from the top of the girls' stairs mingled with his own shout as they both rushed to their friend's side. Harry's frame was still in a backwards arc, even as his limbs trembled minutely. His eyes were rolled back into his head and his jaw was clenched so tightly they could hear his teeth grinding together. After several terrifying seconds, his body went lax and Hermione was quick to cradle his head, checking for a pulse as she did so.

"Get Madame Pomfrey," she ordered.

"Is-is he..." Ron stammered.

"He's unconscious," Hermione exclaimed, "now, run and get Madame Pomfrey!"

Ron didn't need to be told a third time, as he jumped up and dashed out through the portrait hole. Others, having overheard the raised voices, emerged warily, eying the scene on the lower steps with curiosity. Percy and one of the other prefects ushered them back to their rooms, even as someone was sent to fetch Professor McGonagall.

Hermione remained at her friend's side, smoothing the hair back from his face. Harry's body twitched every now and then, but apart from that he remained completely still. McGonagall arrived seconds before Madame Pomfrey.

"What happened?" the mediwitch demanded as she checked Harry's vitals. She directed her attention to the two conscious fourth-years when it seemed apparent that the prefects had no idea.

"We were arguing..." Ron started, his voice failing him when the woman suddenly drew in a sharp breath.

"It looked like some kind of seizure," Hermione supplied.

Poppy sighed. "I don't think I'd better transport him by floo," she said. "Minerva, will you help me get him to the hospital wing?"

"Of course," McGonagall answered. She cast a hover charm on the boy, gently lifting him into the air before heading towards the exit. Pomfrey moved to open the door, but Hermione placed a hand on her arm.

"Madame," the girl said quietly, motioning the older witch to move closer so she could whisper in her ear. "The potion Harry gets at breakfast every day... he hasn't been taking it."

The mediwitch straightened, her lips pressed into a grim line. "I see," she said. "Thank you, Miss Granger." Turning, she went off to care for her patient, thinking to herself, Merlin save me from reckless students.

0o0o0

One would think that after the number of times their friend had been in the hospital wing, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger would have grown somewhat accustomed to the sight. That might have even been the case before, but this time, they were both worried. Never before had they seen Harry Potter look so pale. Never had he seemed so incredibly vulnerable.

"Madame," Hermione quietly addressed the woman as she leaned over her friend, "what's wrong with him?" Pomfrey frowned thoughtfully, trying to determine how she ought to answer. She was spared her dilemma, however, as someone else crossed the room to join them.

"Mr. Potter is ill," Snape told the two students, causing them both to jump in surprise. "as for the details, he will have to decide whether or not he wishes to tell you himself." He handed a vial to the mediwitch, who set it on the side table to give to the boy momentarily. Hermione recognized its color as being the same as the potion he'd been getting all week.

"Will he be alright?" Ron queried, shooting an anxious look at his friend.

"Provided that he does as he's told, for once, there's no reason Mr. Potter shouldn't be up to his usual antics, soon," the professor replied drolly, silently adding, for a time.

Hearing the unspoken words, Pomfrey nodded, not so much in agreement, as in acceptance of a fact. "It'd be best if there weren't any rumors regarding Mr. Potter's condition," she stated firmly. "For now, it'd be best if you both went off to lunch. I know for a fact that neither one of you ate any breakfast." Before either could protest, Ron's stomach growled loudly. With matching sighs of defeat (and a reddened face on Ron's part), they obediently departed.

"Pity I can't get students to follow directions so well in class," Snape remarked sarcastically.

"Behave, Severus. They're just worried about their friend." She propped Harry up in his bed to feed him the antagonist, using a charm to activate his swallowing reflex.

"There's no reason why they shouldn't be."

Poppy placed a hand on his arm. "You still have time, Severus."

"I've just haven't the slightest clue how much," the man hissed in frustration. They had moved a short distance from the bed as they continued their discussion.

"You don't think the potion you're making him will buy you enough time to develop an antidote."

"It's a rare poison, only ever known to be made by accident. Had Potter only used the wrong ingredient or just caused his cauldron to explode, he wouldn't be dying. It was that mix of ingredients combined with the explosion which made the concoction deadly. If he'd added just one more ingredient... The Jobberknoll feathers would have neutralized the excess Erumpent horn and he'd be perfectly fine right now."

"What about the other potion?" Poppy asked. "Can't you use it as a basis to develop an antidote?"

Severus shook his head. "That wouldn't work," he replied. "It counteracts the effects of the poison, but not the poison itself. Speaking of which, I adjusted it today, so it should help repress his apparent tendency towards seizures."

"Is that not one of the symptoms?" the mediwitch questioned in alarm.

"From what has been documented, the poison affects everyone a bit differently. But no. Seizures weren't listed as having been experienced by those previously afflicted."

"Poor boy. Can't do anything typically, can he?"

"Clearly, that would be far too simple," Severus drawled. "The boy seems determined to get himself killed at every turn – even when the effort is unintentional."

Poppy took on an amused expression. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you cared a little about the boy."

"You know perfectly well that is not the case," he scowled.

"Yes, Severus. I know," she told him. They silently gazed over at the unconscious teen. "I guess that I will be keeping him here until further notice."

Snape let out a long breath. "That won't be necessary, Poppy," he said.

"Oh?" Pomfrey tilted her head inquiringly.

"No. I have a –" he practically choked on the words – "better idea. First, I must speak with the headmaster. I will return later." He left the room in a billow of robes. As she watched him leave, a smile overtook Poppy's features. She knew that though he didn't like Harry, that didn't mean the stern Potions Master didn't care about the boy a little – even if it was only for the sake of his lost best friend.

Harry's eyelids fluttered open and it took him a moment to recognize that haze around him as the hospital wing. He tried to recall how he had ended up there, but nothing came to mind. The last thing he remembered was arguing with Ron in the common room.

"Harry?" it took him several seconds to realize someone had spoken to him. He turned his towards the source of the voice. Two faces looked back at him. At first, he couldn't figure out why they wouldn't come into focus.

"Glasses," he rasped. His throat was parched, his lips dry. Hermione handed over his glasses and he put them on. His limbs felt sluggish and heavy, as though he'd been lying still for too long.

"How're you feeling, Harry?" It was Ron who addressed him this time. The redhead looked concerned. Why was he concerned? Oh, right. Hospital wing.

"Tired," Harry finally replied. "Thirsty."

"I'll go get Madame Pomfrey." The boy got up and headed towards the mediwitch's office.

Bring some water, Harry thought, watching him go. Slowly, he directed his gaze back to his other best friend. She looked like she wasn't sure whether to scold him or ask if he was all right. "What happened?"

"You had a seizure," Hermione answered.

Well, that stinks.

"I told Madame Pomfrey you haven't been taking your potion this week," she told him.

"Oops," said Harry as his brain pointed out, That's not good. The girl frowned at him, but he wasn't sure how to classify it, so he didn't bother.

"Ah, good," Pomfrey commented as she approached, Ron trailing behind her. "You're looking much better, Mr. Potter. How do you feel?"

Didn't he already answer that? "Tired," he started to repeat.

"And thirsty," the woman finished with a smile. Well, if she already knew, why had she asked? The mediwitch adjusted his bed so he was sitting before offering him a glass of water.

"Madame," Hermione pointed out, "Harry's acting a bit... odd."

"It's the effect of the pain draught I gave him earlier," Pomfrey explained. "He hit his head pretty hard when he fell – it's a wonder he didn't crack his skull. It should wear off in a few minutes, now that he's awake."

"That's why I don't have a headache," Harry mumbled between sips.

Poppy frowned at him. Everyone was frowning at him today. "Have you had a headache, Mr. Potter?" she demanded.

Harry hesitated before answering. "Sort of."

"'Sort of'?"

"A little bit."

Poppy sighed in exasperation. "What did I tell you just last week, Mr. Potter?"

Oh. he was supposed to tell her if he didn't feel well, wasn't he? Harry decided he had a new favorite word: "Oops."

"I'm sure you said that every morning this week," she remarked.

"Something like that... ma'am." Harry was beginning to feel more alert and was considering "crap" or perhaps something more colorful for his favorite words list. He shot a scowl at Hermione, who he realized (now that his brain was functioning again) had just confessed to ratting on him.

"Enough of that, now, Mr. Potter," Pomfrey clucked reprovingly. "I would have known you weren't taking your potion even if Miss Granger didn't care enough about you to inform me of you negligence." Harry stared down at his hands, but remained silent.

"Harry," Ron started, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"I think that will be all for today," the mediwitch interrupted. "I need to give Mr. Potter a thorough exam and after supper, he'll need his rest. Anything else you wish to say to him can wait until tomorrow."

"But he's been asleep all day!" Ron protested, at the same time Harry exclaimed, "I just woke up!" Hermione didn't look too pleased, either. Pomfrey fixed them each with a stern gaze until they finally gave up, Hermione and Ron saying goodbye with promises to return first thing in the morning. Harry glumly watched them go, then let out a sigh. He returned his attention to Madame Pomfrey.

When the mediwitch said 'thorough', she hadn't been exaggerating. The exam had been entirely thorough – including even such mundane things as flexibility and balance – and utterly humiliating. The latter of these grew worse when Snape stepped out from whatever shadow he'd been lurking in. Considering the fact that the man was garbed in his typical all-black, Harry thought he should have noticed him in the hospital wing's light interior.

Apparently, his presence came as no surprise to the mediwitch, who calmly handed her notes to him. Harry sulkily wondered how his health was any of Snape's business.

"Have you given up the foolish notion that there is nothing wrong with you, Potter?" the professor asked snidely, handing Pomfrey back her notes without comment.

"Sir?" Harry returned, barely biting back a retort.

"I'm assuming that you must have had some reason for refusing to take your potion all week," the man snapped. "Since the headmaster and several of your other professors insist that you do, in fact, have some form of higher brain functioning, I can only conclude that you did not believe me when I wasted my breath, along with several minutes of my time, explaining to you that you are dying. Unless, of course, you have a death wish, in which case, I have a good number of other projects on which I can spend my time, rather than squandering it on an ungrateful whelp like you."

"Severus!" Poppy scolded.

"I am merely speaking the truth," Snape told her, then continued to address Harry. "Unfortunately for both of us, the headmaster would never let me off were I to fail at putting forth every effort to save his precious Golden Boy. Make no mistake, Potter, you will be taking whatever I brew for you if I have to pour it down your miserable throat myself."

Harry stared at the man in shock. Snape had never been one to hold back on the barbs, but his latest diatribe had brought his threats to an all-new level. He couldn't help but find it a bit impressive, if not a little disconcerting as well.

Snape, uncomfortable having the boy openly gaping at him, turned his full attention to his colleague. "Potter will have to remain here tonight, Poppy," he told her, "not that I believe you are ready to release him from your care. The arrangements won't be complete until late tomorrow afternoon."

"I understand," Pomfrey said. "It's not a problem." Snape nodded, then turned to go.

"What arrangements?" Harry asked.

Snape paused. "Your new room, of course, Potter," he silkily replied.

"New room?"

"Why, yes. As it is apparent that you cannot be trusted to do as you're told, it is necessary that you have increased supervision – particularly in regards to taking your potion. Therefore," the man turned his head just enough to watch the boy through his peripheral vision, a smirk firmly in place, "you'll be staying with me from now on."

The look on Potter's face was almost worth the inconvenience of practically having to babysit him.

Almost.

0o0o0

"You," Ron declared, "are the unluckiest person I know."

Harry groaned. "Don't remind me!"

"But why would Professor Dumbledore make you stay with Snape?" Hermione asked. "What do you have that's so serious?"

"Nothing," Harry snapped. "They're just all overreacting. And Snape wants to make sure I take that disgusting potion, himself." He was feeling irritable. Shortly after supper the night before, Harry had laid back, thinking there was no way he'd fall asleep, then woke the following morning. At that point, he'd had to choke down Snape's vile concoction and he'd been in a foul mood ever since.

"Harry," the girl admonished, "you can't say it's nothing. You've been getting that potion for a week and not taking it led to you having a seizure. Whatever is wrong with you is bad enough that you were disqualified from the Tournament. It has something to do with the potion you tried to make, doesn't it? Did you –"

"It's none of your business," Harry growled. "You can stop prying or leave. Either way, I'm not going to talk about it."

"Easy, mate," Ron spoke up. "'Mione's just worried about you, is all."

"Really?" the dark-haired boy retorted. "I think she just can't stand the thought that there's one thing she doesn't know. Well, you know what? I'm not gonna tell you! I don't want to. I've got enough people meddling in my life – I don't need my 'friends' doing it, too!"

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Shut up!" Harry shouted. "Just shut up and leave me alone! Both of you, just leave. I don't want to talk to either of you. GET OUT OF HERE!" He starting grabbing things off the bedside table to throw at them. Hurt, they got up and made their exit.

They had just reached the door leading out to the hall when Madame Pomfrey caught up to them. "Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley." Reluctantly, they turned to face her, Hermione scrubbing tears from her cheeks.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I know Mr. Potter's words just now were unkind," the woman began, "but I feel I should let you know that I don't believe he is angry with either of you, but at what is happening to him. He's... truly dealing with a lot, and I think he's probably a bit scared, and that's why he's lashing out. I just hope that neither you will let his anger push you away because he really does need you right now, even if he isn't ready to tell you what's wrong."

"That's just mental," said Ron.

Pomfrey smile sadly. "That's often the way these things go."

"I'm worried about him," Hermione said.

"And I think part of him knows that."

"It's bad, isn't it? Worse than anything else that's happened to him."

Poppy studied the girl's anxious expression, her worry for her friend showing clearly in her brown eyes. She couldn't lie to her, to either of them. "I'm afraid so," she answered.

"How can we help him?" Ron asked.

"For now, all you can really do is be there for him, even if he sometimes believes that he doesn't want you to be."

Hermione nodded in understanding. "We'll come back to visit him after lunch," she said. Ron shot her a dubious glance before agreeing.

"I think Mr. Potter would like that," Poppy smiled. The two Gryffindors continued on their way as the mediwitch made her way to the only occupied bed, where Harry still appeared to be fuming. "Do try to calm yourself, Mr. Potter. It wouldn't do for you to have another fit."

"I wasn't throwing a fit," Harry muttered grumpily, throwing his head back against the pillow and crossing his arms.

"I was talking about another seizure," Pomfrey dryly informed him, "though tantrums are most unbecoming."

"I thought that stuff was supposed to keep that from happening."

"It should help, but that doesn't mean you should get worked up over every little thing, either."

Harry scowled, continuing to stare moodily out a window in the far wall.

"Do you feel sick, at all?" Poppy asked him. The boy shook his head. "Any pain? Headache?" Another shake. "Nothing unusual? You're certain?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry answered quietly. "I feel fine."

She put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away. "Very well, Mr. Potter. I'll leave you alone, now."

"Thank you." As the witch stepped into her office, Harry pulled his gaze from the window to stare down at his lap. A pair of tears trickled silently down his cheeks. It wasn't fair. All he wanted were a few good memories of his parents. Why was this happening to him?

Poppy Pomfrey quietly stood in her office doorway, watching her patient across the room. It wasn't fair...

0o0o0

"What are you looking for, Hermione?" Ron asked as he helped his friend carry an armload of books to a library table.

"I'm trying to find out what's wrong with Harry," she responded.

"Shouldn't we just wait for Harry to tell us?" the boy asked, their last meeting with their friend fresh in his mind.

"Do you really think he will tell us?" Hermione questioned rhetorically. "I just want to understand what he's going through."

"If he found out you were doing this, he'd be mad."

"Well, Harry won't find out," the girl stated, fixing him with a warning glare, "because I know I won't be telling him."

Ron threw his hands up in surrender, then took a seat across from her as she sat. "What do you think is wrong with him?" he asked, studying the cover of one of the numerous potions texts Hermione was browsing.

"I'm not sure," Hermione frowned, putting aside one volume and opening another. "I think his sickness is directly related to his potions accident."

"That makes sense. That's when all this started. Do you think he poisoned himself?"

"Whatever happened to him, he's having special potions made just for him."

"How do you know that?" Ron wanted to know.

"When is the last time a pain draught made you disoriented?"

"Oh. So the ingredients were changed. That's why he reacted differently."

Hermione eyed him appraisingly. "And I thought you didn't pay attention in class."

"I had to rewrite that essay," Ron admitted with a grimace. Hermione rolled her eyes at him. He pulled a thick tome towards him and opened it to the Table of Contents. "Hey, 'Mione?"

"Hmm?" she murmured distractedly.

He fidgeted in his chair a moment, then asked, "Do you really wanna know?"

The girl looked up to meet his gaze. "No," she answered, "but I have to, Ron. Whenever anything is wrong with you or Harry, I have to know, even if knowing is hard or painful. I just..." It had become one of the rare moments in which words failed her, so she gave a tight smile and returned to her search.

Ron nodded. He knew how she felt.

There wasn't a single moment Harry could ever recall being so reluctant to go somewhere. He stood, unconsciously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze focused on the floor.

"Stop dawdling, Potter," Snape's voice moved him to action. Harry stepped past the Potions professor and into the room beyond. He had envisioned the man's dwelling as a place shrouded in darkness, with cobwebs in every corner and shelf upon shelf of ghastly potion ingredients.

Instead, Snape's quarters were impeccably tidy and well-lit. In fact, the only thing he'd been correct about were the shelves. Floor to ceiling shelves lined the walls, filled with what must have been hundreds of books. A fireplace sat in the wall opposite the door, two picture frames resting upon its mantle. The sofa and the two chairs looked very comfortable, their upholstery a dark blue in color. Upon the coffee table, there appeared to be a small stack of potions journals.

"Not the den of despair you imagined, Potter?" Snape questioned after closing the door. He suppressed an amused smirk.

Harry quickly shook his head. "No, sir," he answered.

"Never seen a boy so prone to gawk," the man muttered to himself, loudly enough for his new charge to hear.

Harry wisely refrained from commenting.

"That is the kitchen, seldom used though it is," Snape told him, pointing to the open entryway immediately to their left. Harry could see cabinets and a table with chairs. The man indicated the corner to their right. "That is my private lab, which – I will state right now – is off-limits."

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded. He followed as the man moved farther into the room.

Snape motioned to another door further along the right-hand wall that was a few steps from the floo. "You may enter my study only when I am in there." They entered a short hallway containing three doors: two on the left at either end, and another on the right, in-between. The first door was identified as the lavatory and the second as Snape's bedroom. It was only a few steps to the end of the hall.

"This will be your room," Snape told him, opening the door and waving Harry inside.

It wasn't a large room, but it was easily as big as Dudley's second bedroom and without all his rejected clutter. In the corner directly across from the door was a desk. A bookcase, which was mostly empty, stood against the wall next to the door. The bed stood in the far left-hand corner, its comforter patterned in burgundy and gold. A wardrobe took up the remaining wall space at its foot, while a bedside table stood by its head. The floor was covered with cream-colored carpeting.

What caught Harry's attention the most, however, was the wall between the bed and the desk – or rather, the window which was charmed to show the Quidditch Pitch.

"That was the headmaster's idea," Snape told him, which was only partly true. The view was Albus' idea. Snape had intended to put in the window, anyway, but Potter didn't need to know that. "Sadly, there won't be any Quidditch to see this year."

Harry leaned against the window frame. It really did seem like he was looking out over the Pitch. He looked about the room once more, his gaze coming back to Snape. "I'm sorry, sir," he said.

"Whatever are you apologizing for, Potter?" the man demanded. "Is the room not up to your standards?"

"No, sir!" Harry exclaimed. "It's the best room I've ever been in, it's just... you must have had something else in here."

The best room he's ever been in?

"Just boxes, Potter," Snape told him, "mostly antiquated potions equipment left behind by my predecessors. You gave me a reason to finally be rid of it." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to reassure the boy, but as the damage was already done, he turned to go. "I'll leave you to put your things away. Mr. Weasley packed your trunk, so if anything is missing, he's at fault."

"Thank you, sir."

Snape almost hadn't heard the words, Potter had spoken so quietly, but he did, just before he closed the door. An odd feeling briefly swept over him. Unable to identify it, the man dismissed the sensation and made his way to his lab. He had some work to do.

0o0o0

For a moment, Harry didn't know where he was. He scrambled upright, his hand locating his glasses on the table beside the bed. Reaching out again, he found his wand and quickly whispered, "Lumos." He was startled when after a few seconds, the light seemingly jumped from the end of his wand to the lamp on the bedside table. As the soft glow lit up his surroundings, Harry suddenly remembered.

He was in Snape's quarters.

Tapping the lamp once, then twice to make it brighter, Harry threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Crossing to the window, he pushed the curtains open. It was dark over the Pitch, a sliver of moon the only illumination. Harry wondered what time it was, then decided it didn't matter.

Finding his room too quiet, Harry went to the door and made his way to the living room. He was glad to find a small fire still going in the fireplace. Often, he sought out the common room's fire for company when he woke during the night. The crackling coals were comforting to him. Sometimes he would fall back to sleep in front of it until others started getting up and making noise.

Harry laid down on his back between the floo and the coffee table, turning his head to stare into the flickering flames. With all the things going wrong in his life, at least he didn't have to be at the Dursleys'.

Meanwhile, Snape set his stirring rod aside, frowning thoughtfully at the headache draught he'd just finished. The color was a bit off, but that was due to the substitution of ingredients necessary to make it safe for Potter.

The Potions Master gazed over at the table in the back corner of the lab. It was the space he reserved for long-term projects and potions requiring days of brewing time. At the moment, half the table was piled high with books and notes. He'd intended to begin his first attempt at an antidote for Potter's Poison (as he'd come to think of it) over the weekend, but with Potter's episode and getting a room prepared so he could have more direct supervision of the brat, those plans had been set aside. He decided that the next day after classes would have to suffice.

Content that he now had practically any potion the boy might possibly need in a Potter-safe formula, Snape set the draught to cool and made his way into the living room. Though it was already late, he wanted to do some reading before going to bed. He made his way towards the bookcase just left of the floo. Selecting the book that he wanted, Snape turned to go to his study and was mildly surprised to find a pair of pajama-clad knees protruding from his rug.

Potter was laying in front of the dwindling fire, knees bent, feet bare, and face turned to watch the smoldering coals. "Potter. What are you doing?"

The boy started in surprise, his head jerking around to face his professor. Slowly, he levered himself into a sitting position before rising to his feet. Snape raised a brow at him expectantly.

"Sorry, sir," Harry murmured.

"Why are you up?" Snape demanded. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"No, sir. I just woke up."

The man let out an impatient sigh. "I really don't wish to play games with you, Potter. Why did you wake up? And why in Merlin's name didn't you go back to sleep?"

"I had a dream."

"A nightmare, I presume. What about?"

"Nothing."

"Potter."

"My relatives, sir."

"Your relatives," Snape repeated. "Don't tell me you dreamed they disowned you because you were sick or some such nonsense."

Harry stiffened, turning his gaze back to the fireplace. "No, sir. Nothing like that."

"Well, what was it, then?" the man questioned, suddenly very interested in the boy's response.

"It's nothing. I don't want to talk about it." Only, Snape heard, "I don't want to talk about them." He decided to switch tactics.

"Fine," he said. "But I do have another question, if you'd rather answer that, instead."

"Alright."

"Earlier – what did you mean that the room is the best you'd ever been in? What of your room at home?" Snape knew well that the Dursleys received a stipend from Dumbledore for the boy's upkeep. There was no reason for him to find a sparsely furbished room so impressive.

Harry stared at him, obviously pondering which question he'd rather answer and not particularly caring for his options. "I dreamed about the punishment I received for accidentally setting a python on my cousin," and every other punishment I've gotten for accidental magic, not to mention how happy they'd be to know that I'm dying... "I didn't think it particularly fair."

He expected Snape to sneer at him for whining about something he obviously deserved. Instead, the man asked, "How were you punished?"

"Chores," Harry answered. "I'm going back to bed, sir." He stepped around the man and headed for the hallway.

"... and?"

The teen slowed in his tracks, stopping just even with the wall. He shook his head, hoping that would satisfy the man.

It didn't. "Did they hit you, Potter?"

Harry wasn't sure how to decipher the man's tone. "No, sir. They didn't hit me." He continued on to his room before the man could question him further.

Snape found what the boy hadn't said far more interesting than what he had. His reluctance to speak told volumes of the information he'd omitted. Two things Snape found himself certain of: several of his assumptions about Potter were probably wrong, and Potter hadn't been entirely honest in answering him – maybe not at all.

0o0o0

Harry was in Potions class, bent over his cauldron. The mixture was boiling ominously. He reached for the next ingredient – gurdyroot – only, there was reddish line along its shoot. The boy looked up at the chalkboard, dismayed to find that the name of the Potion written there was "Perfectus Memoria." Hesitantly, he raised his hand.

"What do you want, Potter?" Snape hissed, appearing at his side.

"Sir..." he began, "this is the wrong ingredient."

"Are you questioning me, boy?"

"No, sir, it's just..." Before he could finish speaking, Neville's cauldron exploded. The classroom had morphed into the second floor girls' lavatory, his classmates standing at each of the stalls and sinks.

Snape held a vial aloft as he stood in the midst of the ruined cauldron. "Someone needs to test Longbottom's potion. Potter. You seem rather opinionated about this particular assignment."

"NO! It's poison!" Harry exclaimed.

"You can either take it or suffer the consequences, boy," Uncle Vernon spat, stomping across the room and shoving the potion into his hand. Harry looked down, the yellowish-orange sludge bubbling in the phial.

"Scared, Potter?"

"Useless freak – I'll teach you to disobey me!"

"No... No!"

"Potter."

"I won't. I don't wanna die! I don't!"

"Potter." Uncle Vernon grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, shaking him until it seemed his teeth rattled in his head. "Potter. If you don't wake up, you will be late."

"No..." the boy murmured in his sleep. "Won't."

Snape shook his shoulder again. "Harry," he tried the boy's first name. "Wake up."

Potter jerked violently, his eyes snapping open. With an alacrity that surprised his professor, he scrambled back into the corner, knees hugged protectively against his chest. For a moment, the only sound was the boy's erratic breathing.

"Here, Potter," Snape held out the boy's glasses.

Hesitantly, Harry reached out to take his eye wear and put them on. The boy gazed dubiously at the man standing beside his bed. He knew there was no way to brush off his reaction, and especially not without arousing suspicion, but still, he desperately hoped that Snape would just let it go.

"Another nightmare, Potter?"

"Yes, sir," Harry answered, moving out from his position against the wall to sit on the edge of the mattress. "I'm sorry."

Snape stared at the back of Potter's head, since the boy had fixed his gaze to a spot on the floor. "I never realized you had such a penchant for apologizing to people," he drawled. "What are you sorry for this time? Being unable to sleep properly?"

Unable to think of a response, Harry shrugged.

"Did you get any sleep last night, Potter?"

"Some," said Harry, looking up a bit. He was startled when the man pressed his palm against his forehead. Seconds later, the hand was withdrawn and Snape performed a diagnostic charm Harry had seen Madame Pomfrey use numerous times.

"Take this," Snape directed, holding out the dreaded potion. Harry obeyed, making a face at the taste, even though it did seem a bit better than before. "You'll remain in bed for this morning," the professor told him, trading the vial for glass of water.

"I feel fine," Harry protested.

"And I feel weary of your dishonesty," Snape countered. "I am not satisfied that you are completely recovered from your episode on Saturday, particularly since you didn't get proper rest. Furthermore, you have a low-grade fever – undoubtedly from running about the dungeons barefoot in the middle of the night. You can either remain here or the hospital wing, but you will rest. Now, which will it be?"

"I'll stay here, sir."

"Fine. Hana."

Harry wasn't sure what he was referring to until there was a sudden crack as a house elf apparated into the room.

"Yes, Potions Master, sir?" chirped the elf. "You is needing Hana today?"

"Hana, Mr. Potter isn't feeling well," Snape told her. "He is to rest this morning. I will not be giving him a potion for his fever, but if it worsens, you are to contact myself or Madame Pomfrey right away. You may get him a food tray when he is ready for it. Apart from using the lavatory, he is to remain in his room."

Hana looked at Harry in awe. "Potter?" she echoed in a reverent tone. "Is... is you Mr. Harry Potter?" As had become his habit since entering the Wizarding world, Harry self-consciously patted down his fringe to make sure his scar was covered. Snape muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like "and Albus wonders why I think the boy's a menace."

"Yeah," Harry finally answered. "That's me."

"And Potions Master wants Hana to look after Mr. Harry Potter sir?" she turned her large honey-colored eyes back to Snape.

The man pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Hana, do try to conduct yourself sensibly."

"Hana will, sir!" the elf exclaimed, seeming to snap out of hero-worship mode. "Hana will make sure Mr. Harry Potter sir gets his rest so he will be feeling well again."

"Thank you, Hana," Snape told her. "Potter, I will check on you later. I suggest you do as you're told for once. If you are in need of anything, Hana can get it for you. At lunch time, I will determine whether or not I feel you are recuperated enough to attend your afternoon classes." With that, the man turned and left the room.

Harry listened for the door to the outside corridor to open and close, but his professor must have closed it so quietly the sound didn't reach his room. The teen gave a defeated sigh, only to let out an odd, surprised noise when he turned to find the elf standing next to him on his bed.

"Is Mr. Harry Potter sir needing anything?" she asked. "Hana can get it. Potions Master says Hana is most sensible and reliable elf in Hogwarts! He always asks Hana if he is needing something. Mr. Harry Potter sir can, too!"

"Thanks, Hana," said Harry, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the elf's enthusiasm.

Hana's eyes grew impossibly wider. "Mr. Harry Potter sir thanked Hana!" she gasped. Somehow, this scenario was feeling a bit like déjà vu to Harry.

"Erm... am I not supposed to? I mean, Snape thanked you."

"Potions Master does not always follow usual etiquette," Hana explained. "He is very polite, even to house elves. But Mr. Harry Potter sir does not need to thank Hana. Hana is proud to help!"

Harry managed not to laugh at the declaration that Snape was "very polite." "I'd rather say thank you," he said seriously. "It's rude not to." And I know how it feels to be expected to do everything without any appreciation.

Hana studied him for a long moment. "Mr. Harry Potter sir and Potions Master is both strange wizards," she decided.

"Why is my name longer than the professor's?" Harry had to ask.

"Hana used to be calling him 'Master Potions Master Professor sir,' but he told Hana it is too long and not to call him that, anymore."

"I can't imagine why," remarked the boy. "Could you just call me Harry?" he requested, then added at the elf's expression, "or anything shorter?"

She calmed herself, looking about the room before turning her gaze back to Harry. "You is staying with Potions Master, and Hana is almost being Potions Master's elf, so Hana will call you... Master Harry."

Harry grimaced, but figured it was at least less of a mouthful than "Mr. Harry Potter sir." He never had gotten Dobby to stop calling him by his full name. "Thank you, Hana."

Hana beamed at him, then grew serious. "Is Master Harry needing anything?" she repeated her earlier question. "If he isn't, then Master Harry is needing to rest."

"I guess I could eat a little breakfast..."

"Hana will be right back!" the elf exclaimed happily, clapping her hands together in a way that reminded Harry of a child. Seconds later, it seemed, she had disappeared and reappeared with a tray of food. The boy began to eat, but before he was even half-finished, his eyes began to droop. Unaware of his tray's fate, he drifted back to sleep.

Hana made sure he was tucked under the covers before banishing the tray. She stood with her elbows resting on the edge of the mattress, watching the boy for a moment.

"So, you is reason Potions Master is being so worried, lately," she murmured to herself. "Hana thinks Potions Master must really care about Master Harry..."

Hana was sitting in the desk chair, humming quietly to herself and swinging her legs, when Snape returned to the room. The little elf perked up at his arrival. "Master Harry had some breakfast, then he be sleeping since shortly after Potions Master went to class," she reported without prompting.

"'Master Harry'?" the man echoed, raising a brow.

"He is not liking being called 'Mr. Harry Potter sir,'" explained Hana.

"I see. Has he been having any trouble sleeping?"

"Not that Hana can tell. Master Harry was so sleepy, he almost fell asleep in his breakfast!"

Snape could imagine the sight, as he had witnessed it from the head table on numerous occasions. Before, he had always assumed the boy had saved his homework until the previous night and had had to stay up late to complete it. Now, however, he wondered if Potter's nightmares weren't a frequent occurrence. Unfortunately, Dreamless Sleep wasn't a potion he could make for the boy because any substitution in the ingredients would render it useless.

"What is wrong with Master Harry?" Hana asked perceptively.

Snape looked down at the elf, whose gaze went from him to the sleeping teen and back again. "I will tell you, but you are not to tell anyone else. If they ask, you do not know."

"Hana won't tell," the elf nodded obediently. "Hana is not knowing anything."

"Mr. Potter is ill," Snape told her. "In fact, it is likely he will die. I have been working to prevent this eventuality."

"Then, Master Harry will be okay. Hana knows Potions Master is best at what he does – he will make Master Harry well."

"I wish that it were so simple."

"How can it not be?" exclaimed Hana. "Master Potions Master Professor sir can make anything!"

"Calm yourself, Hana," Snape hissed at her. "And do lower your voice. Just because I wish to cure the boy doesn't mean I can. Making antidotes takes time – of which I may not have enough."

"But Potions Master will try, yes?" the elf asked, eyes bright with tears. "He will not be giving up?"

"Staying up nearly every night certainly isn't for my own health," the wizard replied. "Despite your faith in my capabilities, I am not infallible. Furthermore, helping the boy will only prove difficult unless he is willing to help himself. I can only do so much for him."

"Hana is not wanting Master Harry to die," Hana murmured sadly.

"Neither do I," Snape whispered, then sighed. "Continue to keep an eye on him for me, Hana. I will return again at lunch time."

"Yes, Potions Master."

The man's footsteps echoed quietly in the short hall and Hana retook her vigil with far less cheer than when she'd started. Harry, a long time master of waking quietly, stared at the wall. Snape didn't want him to die. While the teen didn't exactly believe the man wished him dead, he didn't think he particularly cared one way or the other. He had thought that the man's efforts were merely because Dumbledore required them of him. That was not what he'd told Hana, though. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it.

It seemed like an eternity before he somehow drifted off again, dreaming of a dour Potions professor bent over a cauldron, an energetic house elf at hand, eager to assist him...

0o0o0

Harry knocked his head against the back of his chair. He should have begged off class for the rest of the day, after all. Monday afternoon was double Divination, so now, not only was he bored out of his skull, but he couldn't doze through the class because he'd been sleeping almost the whole weekend.

Worse than this was the fact that the rumor mill seemed to be in pristine condition. Nearly the entire school, apparently, was under the impression that Harry had put his name into the Goblet of Fire himself. While his housemates seemed to think this a brilliant trick on his part, the other houses appeared to consider it a bid for attention.

As this was reportedly the latest instance of Harry's inability to adhere to school rules, the story went, the headmaster had deemed it necessary for him to have more direct supervision from a staff member. Snape had been determined to be the most suitable for this role, as he was both a strict disciplinarian and unlikely to be indulgent with Harry. (Even some of the Slytherins felt a bit sorry for Harry in this regard, though, none of them would ever admit it.)

Harry couldn't even deny this, either. Only six other people knew about his condition – the headmaster, Snape, Madame Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, Ron, and Hermione. His friends only knew that he was sick, but not the severity of his illness. Until it was discovered who had put his name into the Goblet, the other teachers were not going to be told what was wrong with Harry.

"Whoever entered you into the Tournament, Mr. Potter, certainly didn't have your best interests in mind," Snape had told him. "It would be better to err on the side of caution than to risk the knowledge of your fragile health falling into the hands of whoever might wish you dead."

And didn't that help Harry sleep well.

The class finally ended after Trelawney predicted Harry's rather ghastly end for what seemed like the thirtieth time that year. But this time she was "horribly certain." Harry would have to keep his eyes open. As much as Pomfrey and Snape had been making him sleep lately, that shouldn't be a problem.

0o0o0

Harry entered the quarters, closing the door behind him and leaning up against it. It had been nearly three weeks and people were still gossiping about him. Admittedly, much fewer than at first, but enough that Harry still felt the need to avoid others at large. Didn't they have anything more interesting to talk about? Like, maybe, the first task of the tournament that was to happen the following week's Tuesday? Why did it matter anymore that the Boy-Who-Lived supposedly managed to put his name into the Goblet and now had to live with a professor because he couldn't follow rules?

The boy kicked the door with the back of his heel. The whole situation just made him mad.

"Do refrain from abusing my door, Mr. Potter."

Harry jumped in surprise when he noticed Snape sitting in one of the chairs for the first time. The man was calmly reading a potions journal, a cup of tea on the corner of the coffee table.

"You're back early," Snape noted, gaze still fixed on his reading. "I expected you to remain with your friends until after supper."

"I didn't feel much like company," Harry grumbled, taking the several steps to the hall.

"I'm sure they miss the charming demeanor you've been exhibiting of late," the man dryly declared.

His student scowled at him but if he noticed, he didn't comment on it. For his part, Harry had forgotten that Snape only had one class in the afternoon on Thursdays. If he'd remembered, he would have gone somewhere else.

"I'm going to my room," the teen murmured. It was almost strange how quickly he'd come to actually think of it as his, but he had, and he was actually quite content with not having to share a dorm with the rest of his classmates. Well, most of time. He'd never minded before, but now everyone irritated him – especially the other fourth-year Gryffindors. Even Ron and Hermione were hardly an exception.

The boy started down the short hallway.

"Potter."

Suppressing a sigh, Harry stepped back towards the living room. "Yes, sir?"

"You will not be taking your potion tomorrow morning," Snape informed him.

"I won't?" the boy asked in surprise.

Snape closed the journal and set it aside. "No," he said, studying his charge for a moment before he continued. "I will have finished an antidote I'd like you to try tomorrow. You will return here after class. You won't be having supper, so I suggest you eat well at breakfast and lunch."

"It's finished? Really?" Harry couldn't help but feel a bit hopeful.

"I wouldn't be too optimistic, Potter," Snape cautioned, rising from his seat. "It is only a first attempt. In fact, I rather suspect you will have some sort of adverse reaction. Unfortunately, there is no other way to to test the antidote than to have you take it."

"If you don't think it will work, why am I going to take it?" the boy asked, frowning uncertainly.

"Because I'll have no idea how to alter the potion, or if I'm even on the right track, before I know how your body responds to it."

"Oh."

"Don't forget to attend supper," the Potions Master told the boy dismissively. "If you need me, I'll be in my lab." He crossed over to the door in the corner, leaving it slightly open as he often did when he was working.

Harry went to his room, checking the time as he placed his bag on his desk chair. He decided to go find his friends after all, just to take his mind off the possible cure he was to try the next day. He paused just inside his door before leaving again, biting his lip in indecision.

"Hana?" he finally called.

The elf appeared with a pop. "Master Harry is needing Hana?" she asked excitedly. "Master Harry" never called her.

"If the professor doesn't remember to eat, will you be sure to remind him?" the boy requested.

"Hana will remind him!" Hana dutifully announced, thrilled that Harry had a task for her to complete.

"Good – but don't tell him I asked you to do it."

Hana blinked slowly at him. "But, why?"

"Just... don't," said the teen. "Thanks, Hana." He left in search of Ron and Hermione. The elf watched him go, shaking her head. She didn't understand.

0o0o0

"Not now, Hana," the Potions Master growled again.

"But Hana is just reminding Potions Master to eat!" said the elf.

Severus stopped what he was doing before turning to fix Hana with a stern glare. "Who put you up to this?" Hana's right ear twitched and she diverted her gaze. "Was it Albus? Or Minerva? Well? Answer me!"

"Hana isn't supposed to be saying!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands.

"Yes, well, I wish to know who insists that I be disturbed in such a fashion."

"Hana is wanting to tell, but..."

"Did this person specifically say you cannot tell me?"

"He told Hana not to be telling Potions Master he asked her to remind him," the elf uttered sullenly.

The man eyed her critically. Hana was almost never so reluctant to answer his queries. In fact, she seemed to consider herself more Snape's personal elf than a Hogwarts' elf. So, who else would she be so inclined to listen to? Snape narrowed his eyes.

"Was it Mr. Potter?"

Hana's head shot up in surprise. "Master Harry sir is only concerned for Potions Master! Only... he is not wanting him to know, which Hana does not understand... but Potions Master shouldn't be upset with Master Harry. Master Harry is only wanting to help!"

"I cannot imagine why Mr. Potter should even care," Severus declared. He turned back to cleaning up his worktable.

Hana edged the slightest bit closer to him, peering up into his face. "Potions Master?"

"He merely asked that you remind me, not make sure that I eat. Am I correct?" the man asked irritably. Hana nodded, her ears flapping back and forth. "Well, you've reminded me, already. Task accomplished. I will eat when I am finished here and not a second before."

A relieved smiled spread across the elf's face. "Yes, sir!" she chirped. "Would Potions Master like to eat supper in his kitchen?"

He sighed in defeat. "As supper in the Great Hall is nearly over and you will undoubtedly continue to pester me, I suppose I have no choice."

"Hana will make sure it is ready for Potions Master when he is done!" Hana declared, clapping her hands together.

"Yes, yes, very good," Snape grumbled. "Now, will you go so that I may finish in peace?"

"Mm!" Hana gave a quick nod, then with a little pop, she was gone.

Severus scrubbed at the tabletop. He wasn't sure what to make of Harry caring about whether he ate or not. "Waste of time," he muttered aloud, "the boy ought to just worry about himself."

0o0o0

Harry was slumped forward in the chair, chin resting atop his hands as he simply stared at the fluid in the glass in front of him. It smelled of dirt and stale coffee and was the color of liquified grass. While he was certain it couldn't possibly be worse than the potion he usually took everyday, he wasn't so sure he wanted to find out how it tasted.

"I assure you, Mr. Potter, that your continued scrutiny will do nothing to improve its flavor," Snape told him dryly. "In any case, it is meant to be a medicine, not pumpkin juice."

Harry turned his head to look at the man, then past him at the mediwitch standing in the kitchen doorway. Slowly, he directed his attention back to the first trial of an antidote for his poisoning. It didn't appear particularly harmful. He straightened up.

"You have no idea what it might do to me?" he asked.

"Nothing concrete, no," the man answered bluntly.

The boy bit his lip. "Could it... could it kill me?"

"Potter, I am not any happier to be using you as a test subject than you are," Snape said impatiently. "I can state with reasonable certainty that the antidote itself shouldn't kill you, but I can make no guarantees. I have already performed every possible test that I can without your involvement. The only way I can proceed further is to know how this potion interacts with the poison in your system. The only way to acquire that knowledge is for you to take it. Unless you'd rather just die, of course, in which case, I shan't waste my time."

"I'll take it," Harry muttered. "I was just asking." He took up the glass and raised it to his lips. Hesitating only a second, he threw his head back and swallowed it down. The brew tasted about the way it smelled, with a slight aftertaste that reminded Harry of licorice.

The two adults moved closer, watching him carefully. "How do you feel, Harry?" Pomfrey inquired.

"I..." Harry paused to think. He didn't feel any different, really. He had drank all of it, however, so perhaps it simply didn't work. The teen opened his mouth to suggest as much, when he suddenly realized that something was very different. Namely, the fact that it felt like his throat was rapidly closing off, preventing the intake of air.

"Potter." Snape's voice, the tone indicating that he expected an answer. But Harry couldn't say anything – he couldn't even breathe. His hands went to his neck, the world already becoming hazy. Someone gripped his shoulder and was speaking urgently to him, but Harry could make out none of it.

He was going to die. It was then that he truly realized how much he wanted to live, how much he still wanted to experience before it was all over. He thought about how he'd never told Ron and Hermione what was really happening to him or how horrible his life was with the Dursleys or how very dearly he valued their friendship. He thought of how he would never have the chance to really know his godfather...

His mind became filled with the image of a beautiful, red-haired woman, who smiled lovingly at him. Then everything went black.

Harry was a bit surprised when he woke to find himself still alive. He was further surprised to realize that he was in his room instead of the hospital wing. The teen turned his head to see Snape sitting beside his bed.

"Leave it to you to have a severe allergic reaction to Shrake fin," the man drawled. He didn't appear to have been doing anything – he didn't have a book or any grading with him. Had he been waiting for him to wake up? "How do you feel, Potter?"

The teen thought about it for a moment. "Head feels funny," he answered hoarsely, then grimaced and whispered, "throat burns."

"I rather suspect it does," said Snape. "Unfortunately, there isn't much I can do for that. What else, Potter? Do you feel pain anywhere?" Harry shook his head. "No headache?"

"It just feels full," Harry murmured, rather feeling like he was gargling shards of rock or broken glass.

"That is likely due to the headache draught Madame Pomfrey insisted upon giving you," the professor told him. "Needless to say, the antidote didn't work, though, were it not for your reaction to the Shrake fin, I don't think it would have done you any harm, either. Have you any other allergies of which I should be aware?"

The teen shook his head. "Didn't know I was allergic to the whatever you said."

"Shrake. It's a magically-created species of fish. It is not a common allergy to have. You're certain you've never had trouble with eating any other fish or sea food?" Snape asked, to which Harry nodded. "Very well." He raised his hand and the boy flinched back.

Harry was mortified. He hadn't meant to flinch. Usually, he was able to repress such a reaction, but at the moment he was too tired and sore to think straight, let alone reign in his flight response. He gazed uncertainly at his professor.

Snape watched the boy for a few seconds, hand still poised in midair, before letting out a sigh. "Honestly, Potter, I'm just going to place my palm on your forehead," he admonished, doing just that. "Are your relatives never kind to you?"

"I never said they weren't," Harry responded automatically.

"Clearly, you've never heard that actions speak louder than words," the man said, withdrawing his hand. "I knew after your first night here that your relatives mistreat you."

"They don't –"

"And when I said I dislike dishonesty, it was my way of cautioning you against lying to me. I already know you are not the spoiled little prince I'd always assumed. While I don't expect you to tell me about your personal life, I'm not about to tolerate lying, either. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry stared at him. He didn't know how he ought to act. Snape had just stated that he knew about Harry's mistreatment, yet he didn't pry for more information, nor did he attempt to throw it in his face. What did that mean? Did that mean that he really did want Harry to tell him about it or that he didn't care? One thing was perfectly clear, though: Snape wanted Harry to be honest with him, even if he didn't talk about the Dursleys.

"Yes, sir," Harry croaked, his throat still a bit sore.

"Good," Snape said. "Now, go back to sleep, Potter. It's the middle of the night."

Nodding wordlessly, Harry closed his eyes and soon drifted back to sleep, his Potions professor still seated in the chair beside him.

0o0o0

"Where are we going?" Harry asked as he followed Ron towards a far corner of the grounds.

"It's a surprise – you'll find out soon enough!" was the reply.

They had followed the edge of the forest so long that neither the castle nor the lake were in sight, anymore. Harry wasn't even entirely certain they were still on school grounds. It was Sunday afternoon and he still felt a bit tired from his bad experience with the antidote Friday night. He was about to ask how much farther it was when a painfully loud bellow rent the air.

Harry's footsteps faltered momentarily. "What was that?" he demanded.

"Wait till you see!" Ron grinned, motioning him onward. They rounded a stand of trees to see a clearing with huge, fenced-in enclosures.

Before Harry could ascertain just what was within them, they were approached by a stocky redheaded man who bore a striking resemblance to Ron. "Ron!" Charlie admonished. "I thought I told you no one's supposed to know!"

"Aw, c'mon, Charlie!" his youngest brother protested. "It's just Harry."

Harry blinked dumbly at the older Weasley. "Aren't you supposed to be Romania working with –" There was another deafening roar and Harry visibly paled as he suddenly identified the creatures within the enclosures. "Dragons."

Charlie ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up a bit haphazardly. "Great," he muttered aloud, "at this rate, the whole bloody school's gonna know what the first task is."

"We won't tell anyone!" Ron exclaimed.

"You've already told Harry," his brother rolled his eyes. "Not that I think you're going to go off and tell anyone else, Harry. I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore."

"Why do you say that?" Harry asked.

"Well, Hagrid brought Madame Maxime to see the dragons last night, and I'd be willing to bet my safe that Karkaroff was skulking around, also. Lucky you're not in the Tournament, Harry. Mum nearly had kittens when she heard your name came out of the Goblet."

"Yeah," the teen murmured distractedly. "So, the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions probably already know..."

"Undoubtedly," Charlie agreed.

Harry frowned. "What about Cedric Diggory?" The two siblings exchanged a look and Harry sighed. "Then, Cedric's the only one who doesn't know."

"Weasley!" one of the other trainers shouted. "A little help over here!"

Charlie took on a bemused expression as he turned to go join his colleagues. "Wasn't me that let it slip," he murmured just loud enough for them to hear, shaking his head. "Hagrid never could keep a secret..."

0o0o0

Cedric Diggory looked every part a champion should, which was just as well, as far as Harry was concerned. He rather liked the Hufflepuff sixth-year. Although they were both seekers for their house teams, the older boy had always treated him genially. That didn't, however, mean that Harry was comfortable approaching his Quidditch rival while he was surrounded by his classmates. Particularly since they probably all believed he'd tried to enter the Tournament himself.

"Did you need something?" Cedric asked, eying the Gryffindor uncertainly.

Harry almost wished he hadn't even bothered. He hated the suspicious stares he was garnering. "Look," he said quietly so the other students couldn't overhear, "I just wanted to give you a heads up that the first task is dragons. Maxime and Karkaroff know and probably told Fleur and Krum, already. I thought it was only fair for you to know, also. Good luck tomorrow." He turned to leave, but Cedric put out a hand to stop him.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" he looked at the other boy expectantly.

"Thanks," Cedric told him. "It's too bad you can't compete, also."

Harry snorted. "Yeah. Too bad."

"You really didn't put your name in the Goblet, did you?" the Hufflepuff asked.

"Like enough trouble doesn't find me as it is."

"That's true enough," Cedric chuckled. "Thanks, again, Harry."

"No problem – I'm still gonna need a decent rival in Quidditch next year."

Cedric grinned and nodded at this, and Harry had to turn quickly before his own smile faltered. Would he even still be alive the following year?

0o0o0

The first task was nothing short of terrifying, by Harry's estimation. Each of the champions had to get past one of the three dragons – all of which were nesting mothers, making them even more aggressive – and retrieve a golden egg from amidst the nest. Harry found himself gaping in horror a good portion of the time, unable to tear his gaze away from the events unfolding before them. While all of the competitors made it through the task alive, none of them were unscathed.

Harry had nearly had to go through that. Furthermore, he wasn't all that confident he would have survived. If he hadn't accidentally poisoned himself, he would have had to face off against an enormous, fire-breathing, royally pissed dragon. He gulped involuntarily.

After Krum, the last to complete the task, had finished and his points were awarded (he came in first place), everyone was dismissed. Ron and Harry animatedly went over each champion's moves in much the same way they would have rehashed a Quidditch match. Hermione rolled her eyes at them, but refrained from commenting.

"Charlie said that if you'd ended up being the fourth champion, they would've brought a Hungarian Horntail," Ron said.

"A Horntail's a nasty piece of work, isn't it?" Harry asked, feeling a bit faint.

"Worse than the Chinese Fireball," confirmed his friend, looking a bit pale, himself. "I reckon whoever put your name in that Goblet was really trying to do you in!"

Harry turned to stare incredulously at him. "You really believed I tried to enter myself until just now." It wasn't a question. Ron looked sheepish and Harry heaved a sigh.

Hermione shook her head. "Boys," she muttered.

The three Gryffindors were among the last to leave as they'd been sitting near the middle of stands and therefore farthest from the exits. Finally, they neared the edge of enclosure, where they slowed to a halt as Ron was hoping to talk to his brother before he left. They continued talking, even Hermione joining in as they speculated on what the next task might be. Hermione, of course, had read all about previous Triwizard Tournaments and suggested several events that hadn't been done in a few hundred years.

Ron and Hermione were just arguing how valid some obscure and ancient endeavor would be when shouts rose up from the opposite end of the enclosure. Harry turned, his attention drawn to the racket, and was horrified to see the heavy gates give way to the Chinese Fireball's colorful mass.

It had been Krum's dragon. Half its eggs had been trampled, leaving it even more irritated than either the Swedish Short-Snout or Welsh Green had been. Its protuberant eyes swept the abandoned clearing, its gaze fixing upon the three students a relatively short distance away, for a creature its size. Shrieking in rage, it hurtled towards them, seeming to slither through the air at a terrifying speed.

After several long seconds of petrified immobility, the three fourth-years did the only thing they could do, given the circumstances: they turned and fled.

0o0o0

It had become apparent rather quickly that none of them would be able to outrun a full-grown dragon – not that they'd actually believed that was possible. They split up, hoping to confuse it a bit by giving it multiple targets to follow. Unfortunately for Harry, after but a brief hesitation, the Chinese Fireball chased after him.

Far too soon, Harry found himself at the base of a steep embankment. Where had it come from? His mind panicked. He was cornered. Whirling about, the teen raised his wand, ready to fight to the very end, even as he thought that whoever wanted him dead was about to get their wish.

Later on, he was never able to clearly recite what occurred after that. He had the impression that he'd cast at least one or two spells of his own as the dragon closed in on his position. The beast had shrieked – or had it roared? Then, next thing Harry knew, it was out cold, felled by numerous stunning hexes.

Harry was certain that some of the staff had appeared, because his mind numbly repeated, 'Thank Merlin, some the staff were here,' over and over again. Ron and Hermione had also arrived, for their friend could recall their anxious faces as teachers and dragon trainers moved to remedy the situation.

"Mr. Potter," Snape addressed the stunned teen, firmly taking him by the elbow. The boy didn't seem to hear him. "Potter! Potter. Harry!" That finally got a response from him, as Harry directed his attention to the man in front of him.

"Pr-profes-sor?" He probably didn't even realize how badly he stammered.

"Potter, do you hurt anywhere? Where do you feel unwell?" The Potions Master would not rest until he got a satisfactory response. It was obvious the boy wasn't entirely well and he was determined to assess what damage might have already been done. A healthy, full-grown wizard would not have responded well to being chased by an enraged dragon; Potter was neither healthy nor an adult.

Harry felt the urge to laugh manically, which he proceeded to do, but as he was currently breathing much too erratically to sustain true laughter, it came out as strained bursts of sound. 'Man up, Harry,' he managed to think, and even his inner voice sounded rather hysterical, 'you faced a Basilisk, remember? And Voldemort, and...'

"Harry!" Snape firmly smacked the boy's cheek a few times in an attempt to snap him out of whatever it was he had slipped back into. It appeared to work, for the boy no longer seemed to be looking through him. "Where do you feel unwell?" he repeated, his tone urgent and authoritative.

"Heart... m'heart feels l-like it's beating out of my chest," Harry answered at last between great, gasping breaths. "H-hard to... it's hard to breathe." The way the boy was gulping for air, it wasn't really a wonder.

"Harry, listen to me," the man gripped the trembling student by the shoulders, "you are having a panic attack. You need -"

"Never... had... before."

"Maybe you haven't had one before, but you're having one now. You need to calm yourself. Slow, deep breaths, Mr. Potter. No, no – with me. In... out... Good. Slower."

Ron and Hermione watched in growing alarm. While Harry had never been foolish enough not to have any fears, they'd never seen him come unglued in such a way before, either, and it was terrifying. Madame Pomfrey, along with the headmaster and Professor McGonagall, also stood looking helplessly on as the Potions Master of all people worked to calm their friend. Gradually, Harry's breathing began to come under control.

"Good, Mr. Potter," Snape said soothingly, loosening his hold on the boy just a bit, hoping he hadn't accidentally bruised him. "Now, how do you feel?"

Harry looked around him, truly seeing his surroundings for the first time in minutes. A dozen or so of the dragon trainers were already in the process of moving the unconscious Chinese Fireball back to where it was being held. Dumbledore, Madame Pomfrey, and his head of house stood by a short distance away, his two best friends a little ways beyond them. He couldn't remember if more of his professors had been there or not.

"Potter?" Snape was still waiting for an answer from him, but Harry wasn't sure what to say. The world was starting to become a little hazy.

"I..." he began, but got no further as his body grew limp and he lost consciousness for the second time in less than a week. His professor caught him, easily lifting the thin frame up into his arms.

"Severus?" the mediwitch stepped forward, resting a hand on the man's arm.

"I suspect he is merely unconscious, Poppy," Snape answered quietly. "He can wait to be examined until we get him back to the castle." The small group headed back towards the main grounds.

"Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger," McGonagall addressed her two students as she neared them. "Ten points apiece for immediately informing staff members of the situation with the dragon instead of trying to take it on yourself, as you've done in similar circumstances in the past. It would be best if you returned to your common room now until supper."

"Is Harry going to be okay, professor?" Hermione asked anxiously.

The woman managed a wan smile that wasn't very reassuring at all. "I'm sure Mr. Potter will be just fine," she prevaricated. She didn't put much effort into hiding it. The two youngsters wouldn't have been fooled, anyway. Soberly, they followed the adults back to the castle, their concern for their friend greater than ever.

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.

Snape raised a brow as he scrutinized the contents of the vial he'd just been handed. While the potion seemed to be the right consistency, it was slightly off-color. "You ought to focus more when you're in class, Potter," he admonished, then waved the boy off so the next student could hand in their brew.

"Yes, sir," Potter murmured. Draco Malfoy was smirking at him as he approached Snape's desk.

"Good consistency," Snape remarked, "Proper color." Draco beamed. "I'm afraid I'll have to dock points for sabotaging another student's potion, however."

The Slytherin's expression became one of shock and alarm. "Sir, I don't –"

"I am neither blind, nor ignorant, Mr. Malfoy," his head of house drawled. "Mr. Longbottom is perfectly capable of brewing potentially deadly concoctions without your assistance. If you wish to continue arguing with me, you'll spend the first week of next term scrubbing cauldrons."

"Yes, sir," the blond muttered. It was Harry's turn to smirk and even Neville (who'd been told to return that evening to attempt his antidote again) seemed a bit heartened by Draco's chastisement. For his part, Draco glared at Harry, thinking that the Gryffindor had clearly been a bad influence on his godfather.

Once everyone had turned in their potions, the class was assigned their holiday homework and dismissed. The students poured from the room, all thankful to finally be done with classes for the term and most excitedly looking forward to the Ball the following week. Harry was just glad he had one less thing to worry about. At the beginning of the week, Trelawney had predicted that he was going to have a horrible holiday, and for once, Harry was inclined to believe she was right.

He quietly walked alongside his friends, lost in thought. Ron was trying to get Hermione to tell him who she was going to the Ball with while she retorted that he should mind his business and find his own date. Harry remained largely oblivious to this, which is probably why he didn't notice that their bickering was half-hearted, at best. Soon, the topic changed to the last Hogsmeade visit the following day, but even that failed to draw Harry into the conversation. After Harry had excused himself to return to Snape's quarters, his two friends fell quiet.

"Seriously," Ron said after a few moments, "what's wrong with him, 'Mione?"

Hermione shook her head, as she always did when he asked that question. "It's for Harry to tell us when he's ready," she stubbornly replied.

Ron wanted to comment that she'd already found out without Harry telling her, but somehow managed to restrain himself. "Well, I hope he snaps out of it soon. It's depressing when he's like this."

"He is depressed, Ronald."

"Which is why it's depressing." The girl rolled her eyes at this. "I just want him to be Harry again," Ron added quietly.

Hermione smiled sadly at him. "Me, too," she agreed.

0o0o0o0

Harry opened his eyes. The light filtering through the window suggested that it was early morning, and probably snowing. Christmas. The thought was almost enough to make him want to turn over and go back to sleep. He had thought the excitement of everyone leading up to this day was nauseating, he wasn't sure how he'd survive it without vomiting on one of his overly cheerful classmates.

He usually liked Christmas since his arrival at Hogwarts, but just then, he would have liked to skip the holiday altogether. Would he even have another Christmas? Would anyone even care if he didn't?

The boy thought that maybe his two best friends would care, would probably even miss him when he was gone, but what about others? The Dursleys certainly wouldn't care, nor would any of the Slytherins. Snape... Harry wasn't sure, anymore. Before, he would have stated without doubt that the man would just as soon have him dead, but now... He simply didn't know.

When thinking about who may or may not miss him after his demise served only to make him feel more depressed, Harry threw back the covers to get out of bed. He was mildly surprised to find his customary gifts at the foot of his bed. Though it was a gesture which he'd received every year since first coming to school, it still touched him deeply just then and he had to scrub tears from his cheeks.

Emerging from his room later, Harry found Snape seated in one of the chairs in the living room, reading from a book. Harry sat down on the couch, picking up his vial of potion from the coffee table as he did so. The taste had improved since he'd first taken it – or maybe he'd simply grown accustomed to it – but it still was his least favorite part of the morning.

"Happy Christmas, sir," he said, putting down the empty vial.

Snape looked up at him, his expression neutral. "Happy Christmas, Mr. Potter," he returned. "I'm afraid all I have to offer you is the assurance that I am still trying to develop an antidote for you."

"Thank you, sir," Harry told him. "I... I don't have anything for you."

"There is nothing I either want or need," Snape responded disinterestedly, "nor do I expect you to get me anything."

Not certain how or if he should reply to this statement, the teen looked down at his hands. He began absently picking at his fingers – a habit which had been occurring with greater frequency since the onset of his depression.

"Do you have dress robes, Potter?" the professor asked, effectively distracting his charge from the attack on his cuticles.

Harry looked up, mildly confused at the sudden change in topic. "What for, sir?"

"The Yule Ball, Mr. Potter. You may have heard of it?"

"I'm not going, sir," the boy stated.

Snape, having fully expected this response, set aside his journal and fixed the boy with a stern gaze. "The headmaster has required me to attend," he informed him. "If I have to go, Potter, you have to go. Do you have dress robes?" When Harry took too long to answer, the man decided it didn't matter. "Hana."

The elf appeared a split-second later. "Potions Master is needing Hana?"

"Hana, I want you to locate the robes given to me by Professor McGonagall several years ago," the man directed.

"Is Potions Master going to be wearing them, tonight?" Hana asked excitedly.

"Definitely not. I want them refitted so Mr. Potter can wear them."

Hana looked disappointed for a moment. As her gaze fell upon Harry, however, she immediately brightened again. "Master Harry will look very nice in them!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. She vanished, then reappeared an instant later. "Master Harry is needing to go to his room to try on the robes!"

"I do?" Harry asked.

"It would probably be best to do as she says," Snape advised, rising from his seat. "Be sure to attend breakfast once you are finished."

"But, sir, do I really..." the boy began, but trailed off as an insistent house elf grabbed him by the arm and attempted to tug him off the sofa.

"Master Harry, hurry!" Hana exclaimed. Left with no other option, Harry obeyed, albeit a bit dazedly. Snape smirked to himself, knowing how persistent the little elf could be. If nothing else, Hana would keep the boy's mind occupied for a while. And that was certainly better than leaving him to his own devices.

0o0o0o0

"Happy Christmas, Harry!" Hermione greeted him when he arrived for breakfast. "I love the book you got me!"

"Glad to hear it," Harry returned, taking a seat next to Ron. "Happy Christmas, Hermione, Ron. Thanks for the book and the dungbombs!" Hermione, who had given Harry Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland, frowned reprovingly at Ron, giver of the dungbombs.

"Sure thing, mate," Ron told him, gleefully ignoring their friend's disapproval. "Thanks for your gift, by the way – it's brilliant!" He was speaking of the Chudley Canons hat Harry had gotten for him.

"It clashes horribly with his hair," remarked Hermione. Harry grinned at the image this conjured and Hermione nearly dropped her spoon. She stared at the dark-haired boy, who had started talking about Quidditch with Ron. Their friend was talking more than he had in a month and he was smiling. It was still a bit tentative, but it was genuine – the first real smile he'd worn in what felt like an eternity.

It was as though some higher power had seen fit to give a Christmas gift for which she hadn't even dared to hope: a glimpse of her friend, who'd been present in body, but absent in spirit.

"You alright, Hermione?" Harry was looking at her with concern. "You're, uh, staring at me."

Hermione continued to stare several seconds longer before putting down her spoon and rising to her feet. Dashing around the end of the table where they sat, she threw her arms about her friend and hugged him tightly. "Harry, I've missed you!" she exclaimed, her tone thick with emotion. "I've missed you so much!"

Harry awkwardly patted the arm wrapped across his collar bone, uncertain how to reply. Finally, Hermione released him and straightened up, brushing tears from her cheeks. Telling them she'd see them later, she fled the hall.

Ron turned back to Harry after their friend had gone, eying him appraisingly. "You do seem different today, mate," he noted.

"I do?" Harry asked in surprise, looking down at his own attire. It was nothing different from what he usually wore.

"Yeah," the redhead replied. "You seem... more like yourself, actually. It's like we've had another Harry, and he's not near as much fun. Ah – not that you're boring, mate. You've just been a bit sad, is all. 'Mione's been real worried."

Harry considered this, realizing that he hadn't really been the best of friends, recently. He wondered if the gifts he had gotten them were enough to help make up for it.

"So, what are you gonna do, tonight?" Ron's question pulled him from his musing. "Maybe I can join you."

"You don't want to go to the Ball, anymore?" Harry asked in surprise.

"I didn't find a date," murmured Ron. "My robes are awful, anyway. I thought we could hang out. It's been awhile, y'know?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, but, um..."

"What? You don't think we can?"

"Well, I... I have to go, actually," said Harry.

Ron frowned. "Go where?"

"To the Ball," his friend clarified.

"So, you're going? Really? Do you have a date?"

"Well, no. I didn't find out I had to attend until this morning," Harry responded, flushing slightly. "We don't have to have dates, do we? Can't we just go by ourselves?"

"We could..." Ron hedged.

"Great – nothing to worry about, then."

Or so Harry had said at breakfast. Later, in the dorm, however, he and Ron stood staring at the redhead's formal robes. They consisted of a long sheath of maroon fabric with unsightly lace trim at the neck and cuffs. Harry had thought them ugly the first time he'd seen them – now, they seemed even more hideous.

"I don't think I'll go, after all," Ron moaned, looking a bit ill. Harry didn't blame him. If he had to wear Ron's robes, he wouldn't attend, either, and nothing Snape was able to do could make him. It was then that he had a burst of inspiration.

"Hana," he said aloud.

Ron looked at him in confusion. "Huh?" But he received an explanation as a house elf popped into the room.

"Master Harry is needing Hana?" she asked excitedly.

"Erm, yes," Harry replied. "Hana, I have a set of black dress robes in my closet. Do you think you could alter them to fit Ron?"

"Master... Ron is much taller than Master Harry," Hana began uncertainly, eying the boy in question.

"I know, but the only other option is for him to wear those," Harry told her, indicating the maroon robes.

Hana glanced at the robes, her eyes bulging. She looked back and forth between them and Ron. "Hana will do her best!" she exclaimed. She disappeared with a crack.

"What are you going to wear?" Ron asked Harry.

"I, uh, have another set of robes," his friend answered.

"You do?"

Hana reappeared with Harry's black dress robes. "Master Ron is needing to try on these robes," she declared. And with that, yet another refitting session began.

The Great Hall had never been more beautifully decorated. The air itself seemed to be infused with excitement, and the various colors worn by those attending the Ball seemed to brighten the large room. Students stood in the Entrance Hall waiting for their friends or dates.

Ron looked down at his robes. Hana had done an excellent job in refitting them. Resizing the clothing so that it fit across his broader shoulders, however, had left the robes a little short for his lanky frame. Even this would have been acceptable to the Ron, as he was rather used to outgrowing his clothes, anyway, but Hana was not satisfied. So the elf had used some of the fabric from the maroon robes to add length to the black ones.

The final result was that the robes now had a broad border of dark red that was far enough from his head to keep from clashing badly with his hair. Ron thought he even caught a few girls giving him second glances as he waited for Harry to show up.

Harry took the long way around to get to the Great Hall to avoid the Slytherins going to the Ball. While he was actually looking forward to the event a bit now, he had no desire to encounter any of those who seemed to take his presence in Snape's quarters as a personal insult.

By the time he arrived, many of the other students were already clustered in the Entrance Hall. He spotted Ron at foot of the Grand Staircase and proceeded through the crowd to reach his friend. Some people moved aside for him to pass, while others gave him annoyed scowls.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed as he was jostled into someone's shoulder.

"It is alright," said a heavily accented voice, as its owner took him by the elbow steady him. "It voz not entirely your fault."

Harry looked up in surprise. "You're Viktor Krum," he stated, immediately feeling like an idiot for saying something so obvious.

The corner of the older boy's mouth twitched in amusement. "Yes. And you are –"

"Harry, you came!" A pretty girl in pale blue robes suddenly threw herself at Harry, hugging him enthusiastically. "You look great!"

It took Harry a moment to recognize her. "Hermione? You... you look beautiful," he stammered, his face turning red. "I told you I was coming earlier today."

"I know, but I didn't actually believe you would," Hermione admitted sheepishly. Her hair had been done up very elegantly, with little ringlets framing her face.

"I had to, remember?"

"Yes. That's right," the girl said.

"So, who did you come with?" Harry asked, looking around at the surrounding students.

"That vould be me," Krum spoke up, drawing the younger boy's attention back to him (Harry had forgotten he was there). Harry looked at Hermione, taking her flushed cheeks as confirmation. "You are Harry Potter, von of Hermy-own's good friends, yes?"

"Um, yeah. It's, uh, good to meet you," the Boy-Who-Lived awkwardly extended his hand to the Quidditch star, who cordially shook it.

"Champions over here!" Professor McGonagall called.

"Later, Harry," Hermione grinned at him, taking the arm Krum offered to her. She continued to look at him over her shoulder until there were too many people in the way. She sighed.

"You are vorried about him?" Viktor asked, noting her expression.

"No," she answered quickly. "Well... a bit. Harry hasn't really been himself much, lately. He's had a lot on his mind."

"Such as who tried to enter him into the Tournament."

"Well, ye – you don't think he did so, himself?" Hermione was surprised by this.

"Anyvon who vatched his expression ven it seemed he vould haff to compete, vould haff seen how frightened he voz," Krum explained. "Then, vhen he voz disqualified, I haff never seen anyvon more relieved. I do not blame him – I vould haff been terrified if I had not intended to enter the Tournament."

The girl nodded, but said nothing more as they were directed to line up and enter the Great Hall.

0o0o0

"Why are you wearing Slytherin colors?" was the first thing out of Ron's mouth upon seeing his friend's robes.

Harry frowned at him. "I'm not wearing Slytherin colors," he responded. "I'm wearing... well, green. And gold." He knew the latter for a fact because he'd specifically asked Hana to turn the silver trim on the robes to pale gold.

"Yeah, Slytherin green."

"Emerald green. And gold. And I like the way they look," stated Harry. He struggled a moment to maintain a straight face. "Are we really going to argue about the color of my robes?"

Suddenly, Ron was having trouble composing his expression, as well. "Well, they do match your eyes," he said seriously. "That bright, Slytherin green."

"Emerald green. And I'm afraid the trim on your robes doesn't match you hair," Harry returned, then laughed. "This is so stupid." They both broke into laughter at this, drawing looks from those around them, which succeeded only in making them laugh all the more.

"Let's go in," Ron suggested once they'd finally stopped, still grinning broadly. "We don't want to miss out on the food."

"Are you ever not hungry?"

"Hey!"

They found seats with Neville and Ginny shortly before the feast started. After Harry elbowed Ron in the ribs to keep him from glaring at Hermione and Krum, reminding him that he should have asked her earlier if he didn't want to see her with someone else (which the redhead adamantly denied), the Ball continued pleasantly. In fact, it was the happiest time Harry could recall in quite some time.

Hermione made sure to dance a couple times with each of her friends, telling Harry how good he looked (and she wasn't merely talking about his clothes). She wasn't sure what might have caused it, but something had managed to bring him out of his depression a bit. He was Harry again, quick to smile or utter something with his old wry humor. It was a small miracle, in her eyes – one for which she found herself immensely grateful.

Ron, too, had not failed to notice the difference in his best friend. He intimated to Hermione that he hoped the change wasn't quick in passing. The redhead had felt as though a significant part of his life had been absent as Harry's depression had started to bring him down as well. Being able to see Harry smile – really smile – and joke again meant a great deal to him. He wished that time would stand still, if only to see his friend happy once more.

Most of the night Harry and Ron spent daring one another to ask different girls to dance, or teasing Hermione about her date. They danced with some of the other girls, mostly their classmates, though, Ron was surprised to be approached by one of the girls from Beauxbatons, who shyly asked him to dance with her.

The Ball was more than half over when Harry returned to their table, resting his head on his folded arms. Ron joined him, frowning in concern. "You alright, mate?" he asked.

"Mm," Harry nodded, opening his eyes briefly. "Just tired."

"You sure you don't feel ill or anything?" Hermione inquired. She had excused herself from Krum's company when she saw her friend lay his head on the table top.

Harry nodded again, adding, "It's been a long day." He closed his eyes once more and his breathing became so even, Ron and Hermione weren't entirely sure he hadn't fallen asleep. They looked up in surprise as another figure approached.

"I think that will all for you tonight, Potter." Harry merely turned his head at the sound of the professor's voice. Snape pulled the teen's chair out a bit and took him by the arm. "Up you get, Potter. I didn't go through all the hassle of putting a bed for you in my quarters to have you sleep on a dining table."

"Y'sir," Harry mumbled, as he managed to get himself upright with his teacher's assistance. He just felt so tired all of a sudden.

"Sir?" Hermione spoke up, her anxious expression speaking volumes.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he responded, ignoring her unspoken question. "Mr. Weasley." With that, he led a disoriented Potter out through the nearest door and down the corridor. Rounding a corner, he brought them to a halt, looking left and right before lifting the boy up in his arms.

"Sorry, sir," the boy murmured. His eyes had drifted shut again. The little brat didn't even attempt to hang on, preventing himself from becoming dead weight; not that he weighed that much, but still.

Snape carried him all the way back to their – no, his – quarters, where he took the boy to his own room and put him to bed, changing him into a pair of pajamas with a wave of his wand. Potter slept through all of it. After tucking the blankets around the boy, the man had the odd urge to brush the hair from the boy's forehead. He was a bit startled when the slumbering teenager leaned into the touch.

"Are you so starved for affection that you're willing to accept it from a man who hates you?" the Potions Master questioned, allowing his hand to linger on the boy's cheek. Harry smiled slightly in his sleep. "Yes, well, I wouldn't go around telling people otherwise, Potter. For one thing, no one would believe you. For another –" He broke off. He was going to say "it isn't true," but he'd suddenly realized that that would have been a falsehood.

He did care. For Lily's son. For the stubborn Gryffindor who clearly had an unhappy home life but somehow managed to function, to make friends. For the usually reckless little pest who'd be a much better student if he only applied himself more. For Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

No. Not the Boy-Who-Lived. Not James Potter's son, either. He cared for Harry – just Harry.

When had that happened?

"Hang in there, Potter," Severus spoke quietly. "Use some of that famous Gryffindor stubbornness to buy me time to find an answer for you. I don't... I don't want you to die, Harry, so you'll have to keep fighting, as long as you can." He was thankful the boy wasn't conscious for such a sentimental spiel, but hoped somehow that message would still reach him.

Harry whimpered slightly as Snape withdrew his hand. Part of him wanted to remain at the boy's side a while, but another, the more sensible part, knew he had to go. Turning, he left to spend the rest of the night in his lab.

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.

The boy sat in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, reading a potions journal from the coffee table. His foot tapped out the rhythm of a tune only he could hear. It was late afternoon and he was waiting for the professor to return to his quarters. He looked up expectantly as the door opened, letting out a small sigh a moment later.

Potter. Try as he might, he never could quite make himself forget the other boy was staying in his godfather's quarters. Granted, the man probably had little say in the matter, as the headmaster was no doubt the one who set up the arrangement. All because the precious Boy-Who-Lived couldn't keep himself out of trouble. Anyone else would have been suspended or expelled, but not Potter. Instead, he gets forced upon a decent man like Professor Snape.

If the boy were to be honest, he would have had to admit to feeling jealous that his rival was permitted to stay in the Potions Master's quarters. He, himself, had specifically requested to do the same upon his arrival at Hogwarts and had been denied. The Malfoy scion was not greatly inclined towards honesty, however, particularly if it might cast him a bad light.

"Well, if it isn't Potter," Draco drawled, placing an ugly emphasis on the other teen's name. He rose from his seat, tossing the magazine aside. "Then again, I don't suppose there are many of us bold enough to so rudely intrude upon the lives of others. See, unlike you, Potter, I happen to be welcome here. Professor Snape's my godfather, you know, and he's told me I can come and go as I please."

"Whatever, Malfoy," Harry murmured disinterestedly, moving past the blond. He'd seen the Slytherin in the quarters a few times before, but never when the professor was out.

"What? Not even going to utter a word of protest, Potter?" Malfoy taunted, following him down the short hallway. Why couldn't he get a reaction out of this stupid Gryffindor?

"Not now, Malfoy," the dark-haired boy groaned, entering his room listlessly, not even bothering to close his door. He felt exhausted and just wanted to sleep. Again, Malfoy attempted to follow him, but was stopped by an invisible barrier at the threshold. "Oh, yeah," Harry added, "you can't come in unless I invite you."

"Dumbledore's idea, no doubt," Draco snarled from the doorway, jealously taking in the room.

"Snape's, actually," Harry corrected. He dropped his book bag onto the floor, before sprawling on his bed atop the covers. His eyes drifted shut.

"Hey!" the blond exclaimed. "I am not finished... Unbelievable." He shook his head disparagingly, returning to the living room to wait for the professor.

The man returned a short time later, allowing the boy to join him in his lab. It was only two weeks into the term and Snape was already a bit behind in replenishing the stores for the hospital wing. He knew that Draco would be more than willing to lend a helping hand in exchange for spending time with him. Sometimes, he wondered what the boy saw in him but supposed that it was likely connected to being his godfather.

They work efficiently for several minutes, Severus only half-listening to the boy's inane chatter until he said, "Potter's been acting strange, hasn't he?"

"Oh?" Snape prompted, raising an inquiring brow.

"He has!" Draco declared. "I haven't been able to get a proper response out of him all week, no matter what I say. It's almost like he's ignoring me, only he's never been so good at it before."

"I thought you were told not to cause mischief this year."

"I wasn't trying to cause mischief, Uncle Sev," the boy back-pedaled. "Just a bit of friendly rivalry. I only wanted to trade a few barbs. It's not as if Vince and Greg are witty enough to banter."

Were it any other time, the professor might have reflected on how Draco's perception of his rivalry with Harry was apparently less malicious than he'd suspected. At the moment, however, he was a bit preoccupied with his charge's seemingly odd behavior.

"So, you haven't been able to raise Mr. Potter's ire."

"Not a bit. He hardly spared me a look just before you arrived. Went straight to his room and fell asleep. Didn't even close his door," Draco complained. "It was rather rude, actually. He really ought –"

"He's sleeping?" Snape asked sharply.

"Well, yes. He's a bit old for naps, I think, but..."

"Wait here." If there was one thing that alerted Draco to something being off, it was his godfather telling him to remain in his lab unsupervised. Naturally, he had to follow the man.

Severus walked quickly across the living room and down the short corridor, striding through Harry's open door less than a minute later. "Potter!" he spoke loudly. The boy didn't rouse. He moved to the boy's bedside, placing a hand to his forehead.

Instead of a fever, as the Potions Master had suspected, Harry's skin was cold to the touch. A quick diagnostic spell verified that his body temperature was lower than it should be, yet the boy wasn't even shivering. Snape quickly felt for a pulse, relieved to find one, sluggish, but present.

"Potter," the professor addressed the boy, shaking him by the shoulder. "Potter. You need to wake up. Harry." He pinched the teen's upper arm, finally succeeding in rousing him.

"M' tire," Harry whined, weakly attempting to pull away from the hands that were prodding him awake. "Wan' sleep."

"Harry, I need you to tell me how long you've been feeling like this," Severus told him, trying to lure the boy further into consciousness by requiring him to speak. He drew the blankets out from under the teen and put them over top of him, placing a warming charm on them.

"Dun... nn," slurred the hypothermic boy, "sinn yest..?" The Potions Master shook him roughly when he started to drift off again.

"When did you notice Mr. Potter was behaving differently?" he demanded.

Draco, who was watching from the doorway, started in surprise. "Tuesday, sir. Maybe, Monday," he replied.

"Just inside the door of my lab in the cupboard is a small caddy of potions," Snape directed. "I need you to get it and bring it here, please."

"Yes, sir," Draco immediately hastened to obey.

"Stay awake," his godfather was ordering when he returned, smacking Potter's cheek quite soundly. "You may enter, Draco." Sometimes, it was disconcerting how good the man's ears were. Draco set the caddy of potions on the bedside table, looking on as Severus deftly selected a reddish-gold one with purplish flecks. He wrapped an arm about the Gryffindor's shoulders, raising him upright with apparent ease.

"I need you to drink this, Harry," he commanded, pressing the vial to the boy's lips.

Harry. He called him "Harry," and Harry obeyed.

"Swallow, boy!" Snape scolded, followed shortly by, "Stay awake!"

"Ouch!" Harry protested loudly, and quite clearly, as the professor pinched his arm again. Why couldn't the man just let him sleep?

"He didn't get into trouble, did he?" Draco murmured, staring at his godfather with dawning realization. "Potter's sick. He's staying here so you can help him. The rumor about you is true, isn't it? You were a spy."

Snape sighed, both at the prospect of the conversation that he would no doubt be having with his godson and the fact that Harry was already much more lucid than he had been. "Please fetch Madame Pomfrey, Draco," he said a bit tiredly. "You may use the floo."

Hesitating briefly, Draco gave a sharp nod before doing as he was told. He would definitely be talking to his godfather later.

0o0o0

Having neither been in pain nor feeling ill, Harry had been unaware that he was suffering another effect of the poison. After soundly chastising both Weasley and Granger in his office for their failure to inform him or Madame Pomfrey of their friend's symptoms (though, he was irritated with none more than himself), Snape returned to the hospital wing, where the mediwitch had gotten Harry's temperature back up to where it should be.

The Potions Master approached the curtained off bed. Poppy had already sent Harry's friends away for the day (which is when Snape had taken the opportunity to scold them), leaving him alone in the large room.

Snape briefly rested a palm against the boy's forehead, relieved again by its healthy warmth. Perhaps he had been rather harsh with the other two Gryffindors, but he'd been frightened, dammit! If Draco hadn't said anything, Harry's temperature might have fallen too low to bring back up. The boy could have died that very afternoon and the mere thought of that scared him.

There had to be a means to better monitor Harry's condition without making him feel smothered. After this incident, he'd be having a check up every other day. Still, that didn't seem enough. Perhaps he could charm something that would notify himself and Poppy if there was any measurable change in the boy's health.

Satisfied that he had come up with a useful solution, Severus settled back into a chair. The pepper-up potion for the rest of the little dunderheads could wait. He sat a while, watching Harry sleep, reassuring himself with every breath the sleeping boy took. He was still alive.

0o0o0

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, absently fingering the miniature snitch pendant that hung on a chain around his neck. Snape had given it to him nearly a month and a half before with the order to never take it off. It was charmed to alert him and Madame Pomfrey if he was having any problems. Harry liked the way it looked and that the chain was long enough to tuck under his shirt if he wanted to.

His hand began to shake and he clenched it into a fist to try to stop the tremors. That had started three weeks ago and despite Snape making several adjustments to his antagonist, it hadn't gone away. It tended to be worse later in the day and when he was tired or stressed – the former of which was becoming more and more prevalent. The professor was clearly frustrated by his lack of success in quelling these symptoms, though Harry knew he would never admit it.

"Good morning, Harry!" Hermione greeted cheerfully, sitting down across from him as Ron plopped down at his side. "Did you sleep well?" She had noticed the trembling of his hand, but having been assured by Professor Snape that there was nothing he could do about it, said nothing.

"Not really," Harry answered honestly.

"Were you sick or something?" Ron asked quietly. This wasn't the first time Harry had had trouble sleeping, lately, and it was nearly always connected to his condition.

Harry shook his head. "My scar was hurting," he replied in an equally quiet voice.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, her expression sympathetic. "Did you tell –"

"Yes," the boy cut her off. "I'm to inform him if I have 'any further symptoms.'" They fell quiet for a moment.

"Were you going to eat anything, mate?" Ron changed the subject, piling eggs onto his own plate.

"I'm not hungry."

"Harry, you really ought to eat something."

"Hermione, I'm really not the least bit hungry," Harry replied, mimicking the girl's tone.

"But –"

"Fine!" The dark-haired boy snatched up a piece of toast and took a large bite out of it. "Happy?" Hermione gave him a reproving frown, but didn't press the issue.

"So, what do you suppose today's task is?" Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. "Something to do with water."

"How do you know?"

"Because the whole school's going down to the lake to watch," Hermione answered dryly.

"Oh. Right," Ron blushed. "That makes sense. Maybe each of the champions will have to wrestle the giant squid."

"I just hope it doesn't end like the last task," Harry murmured. The three friends grew solemn, each remembering the incident with the Chinese Fireball.

"Perhaps you should've stayed in bed, mate."

Harry laughed, not because Ron's statement was funny, but because he wholeheartedly agreed: some days, it was better to just stay in bed.

0o0o0

Spectators murmured in excitement. The three champions had just set off to rescue their respective hostages from the merfolk who lived in the lake. Everyone was looking on, avidly listening to the commentary made by Ludo Bagman.

Everyone except Harry, that is, who was finding it rather difficult to pay much attention to anything beyond the buzzing inside his skull. When the noise rose to a head-splitting whine, he decided to leave. Hopefully, getting away from the crowd would help lessen the racket. Ron, who was seated beside Harry, hadn't noticed the other boy had left until he turned to make a comment. Spotting his friend's messy black head moving up the steps and towards the exit at the back of the stands, the redhead nudged Hermione and the two of them started after him.

Potter was nearly to the top of the stairs. A bit further and he'd be able to exit, removing himself from the view of any spectators. The little nuisance was rarely by himself and never so conveniently. Such an opportunity could not be passed up. He got up to follow.

Severus jerked his head around as the alert from Harry's pendent went off, trying to locate the boy amidst the sea of spectators. A short distance from him, Poppy was doing the same. He saw the boy first, however, and quickly made his way towards him.

Before any of his pursuers could reach him, however, Harry suddenly dropped to the floor of the final landing before the exit. Ron and Hermione ran up the remaining stairs as those nearest the fallen teen crowded around him.

"He's fainted."

"Is he alright?"

"Isn't that Harry Potter?"

"Harry!" Hermione called, as she attempted to push her way through the crowd.

"It's Harry Potter!"

"Why do you suppose he fainted?"

"Out of the way!" a gruff voice commanded. "Move aside!" The students obediently parted, allowing Professor Moody to move to their schoolmate's side.

"I'll take him from here," Madame Pomfrey announced as she arrived at the scene seconds later. "Everyone, return to your seats!" She cast a hover charm on Harry, levitating him in front of her on the way to the infirmary.

The former death eater looked on, seething internally. Thwarted again.

Harry didn't want to return to class. Ever. Of all the things that had happened to make others gawk at him, to whisper as he passed, the boy simply could not imagine anything capable of surpassing his embarrassment at having fainted. In front of the entire school. And a portion of two others.

Not to mention all the other spectators.

Indeed, his little episode – which was largely due to lack of sleep, as the rumor said – had been splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet. The Second Task was reported on page two. Sometimes, he really, really hated being the Boy-Who-Lived. Somehow, he managed to survive the rest of the week, however, and a majority of the teasing died down shortly thereafter.

Through the magical window in his room, a hedge maze could be seen growing on the Quidditch Pitch. Clearly, the Third Task would require the champions to make their way to the center of it. Harry was once more glad that he didn't have take part in the Tournament, particularly since he had heard Hagrid mention something about making arrangements with the acromantulas.

Harry himself found that he was becoming more and more tired – so much so, that his other teachers were beginning to take notice. The trembling in his hands had become so bad, that he was no longer able to write legibly. Snape had helped him charm a few of his favorite quills to write as he dictated, allowing him to complete his homework in the evenings.

The teen also began to suffer from infrequent aches all over his body, which no amount of adjustment to his antagonist was able to alleviate. Snape had managed to complete two more possible antidotes. Harry didn't have an adverse reaction to either of them. He didn't have a positive reaction to them, either.

It was without any further public episodes that the day of the final task of the Triwizard Tournament arrived.

Harry was frantic.

The teen hurried through the corridors as quickly as he dared. Where was it? He knew he had it the day before and was certain he'd had it that morning at breakfast, but now he couldn't find it. Snape would kill him. Okay, probably not kill him, but the professor would definitely be very upset Harry had lost his pendant.

Where could he have dropped it? He didn't remember taking it off, anywhere... Upon reaching Snape's quarters, Harry practically ran through the door – and right into the Potions Master himself.

"Harry!" Snape took him by the shoulders to steady him. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Sir," Harry panted.

"Then, why are you out of breath?" the man demanded, placing a palm against the boy's forehead. "And your temperature elevated? Or is that due to you rushing about?"

Harry ducked away from Snape's hand. "I forgot something," he replied, still trying to catch his breath, "in my room. And you said my temperature's almost always elevated."

"Which is one of the many reasons I specifically cautioned you against overexerting yourself," Snape severely informed him. "I'm still not convinced letting you take your exams was the best idea, you certainly don't need to be running about."

"Sir, I'm fine," the boy protested wearily.

"You are not 'fine', you're..." Severus trailed off. Anyone who took the time to compare how the boy looked at the beginning of the year to his present appearance would immediately notice how sickly he looked. Harry's face was pale with shadows under green eyes that were a little too bright. He was far too thin – even for him – and at times it seemed he had difficulty remaining upright. He didn't sleep, could hardly eat, and (at the moment) was still trying to catch his breath.

Nobody who didn't already know of Harry's condition seemed to notice anything amiss, apart from his fatigue. The changes had been so gradual that they'd been brushed off as something else. What struck Snape the most, however, was that, had he not been watching for them, he might not have noticed the changes, either.

The antagonist was quickly losing its effectiveness, the time it had bought dwindling away. Severus had the unsettling thought the he was, in fact, watching Harry Potter slowly die. Somehow, the prospect had been easier to bear when the only reason he had to care for the boy was because he belonged to Lily.

"The headmaster has insisted you be allowed to attend the final task this evening," he informed the teen. "I have another antidote for you to try, but we will wait to test it until first thing tomorrow."

"Oh," said Harry a bit glumly. "I almost don't want to take it."

"Why would you say that?" Snape demanded, feeling mildly alarmed.

"Well, what if it doesn't work?" the boy asked quietly.

"Then I'll make another," the Potions Master immediately replied. He felt no need to mention that the latest antidote was the one he felt the least confidence in.

"... Would you have time to make another?"

The grip Snape still had on Harry's shoulder tightened minutely.

"I dunno..." Harry continued after a few seconds. "Maybe it'd be better if –"

"I will not give up, Harry," Snape declared. "First thing tomorrow, you will try the new antidote. If that one doesn't work, I will make another, and if necessary, another, until... I won't give up."

Harry looked up at the man, realizing how much the professor must truly care for him to commit himself to such seemingly futile efforts. After all, Severus Snape didn't waste his time on useless things.

"Yes, sir," Harry said, his tone more confident that he felt. He managed a rather wan smile. Snape gave his shoulder a final squeeze and patted the side of his head before heading out the door. Harry hastened to his room. He had to find that necklace – it was the only thing the professor had even gotten him.

0o0o0

It was about time for the final task to begin and Harry still couldn't find his pendant. He was supposed to meet Hermione and Ron at the exit leading out to the Quidditch Pitch but he had found no trace of the missing piece of jewelry.

"Hana!" Harry called in a sudden moment of inspiration.

"Master Harry is needing Hana?" the elf asked a split-second after she appeared.

"I can't find the pendant Professor Snape gave me," the teen explained. "Do you think you could help me find it?"

"Master Harry is not supposed to be without it!" Hana scolded.

"I know that. That's why I need your help finding it again. Could you just look for me, please?"

"Hana will do her best." The elf blinked out of sight, and Harry continued on his way, retracing his steps from the day before. He had just stepped outside, resigned to the possibility of having to confess his negligence to his Potions professor, when an owl came swooping towards him.

"Thanks," Harry said, accepting the envelope the owl carried in its beak. Hooting, the bird wended its way back towards the owlry. His name was blazoned across the front of the envelope and he could feel a small, round object through the paper. He was relieved when he opened it to see his pendant on its chain.

Turning the envelope over, he dumped the necklace into his hand, only to feel an all-too-familiar pull behind his navel.

0o0o0

Snape had an uneasy feeling – and it wasn't entirely unrelated to the mark on his arm, which had been growing darker all year. Something wasn't right. He again tried to locate Harry sitting amidst his housemates but he wasn't able to make out much in the growing darkness.

Absently rubbing his forearm, the man returned to his thoughts as all around him spectators cheered for their respective champions.

0o0o0

Harry looked on in horror as Lord Voldemort stepped from the enormous cauldron. 'No! No, no, no!' His mind screamed. He struggled futilely against the bonds holding him to the tombstone. Calm, he had to calm himself. If he lost his head, now, he would never get out of this mess.

'Breathe, Harry! C'mon breathe,' he thought desperately.

Voldemort pressed a long, spidery finger against the brand on Wormtail's arm. "Now, we shall see," he murmured contemplatively.

Harry thought he'd really rather not.

0o0o0

"Master Potions Master Professor sir!" Hana shrilled frantically, appearing at the Potions Master's side. The elf took hold of his arm and abruptly disapparated with him to the Entrance Hall.

"In Merlin's name, Hana," Severus exclaimed, "what –"

"Master Harry is missing! Hana is not finding him anywhere!" she wailed.

"What do you mean, he's missing?" the wizard demanded.

"Master Harry isn't anywhere in Hogwarts – Hana has looked and looked for him," Hana sobbed. "Hana was asked to be helping Master Harry find his pendant, but when Hana is finally tracking it, it isn't being in the castle anymore, then Hana went to tell Master Harry, but Master Harry is being gone, too!"

"The boy couldn't have simply disappeared," Snape stated with far greater calm than he felt. "There has to be..." He broke off as his left forearm burst into pain. "No!" he hissed.

"Potions Master?" Hana looked up at him with wide, worried eyes.

"Hana, I need you to fetch the headmaster, immediately." The elf nodded, vanishing with a pop. Severus pulled back his left sleeve to look at the writhing, inky black brand upon his arm. He thought he knew just where Harry might have disappeared to and he didn't like the idea. Not a single, solitary bit.

0o0o0

Harry crouched behind the headstone, gasping in pain. His hands were trembling almost uncontrollably, though, he couldn't say if it was due to the poison or the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse. Death Eaters laughed as Voldemort mocked him in a cold, cruel voice.

He was going to die. The strange thing was that he had known for nearly the entire school year that he was going to die, knew for certain that without an antidote he wouldn't survive even a significant portion of the summer, yet, he still wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to die.

He still hadn't told his best friends all his secrets, about his life before Hogwarts and how horrible the Dursleys truly were. He'd wanted to do that. And Harry never had figured out how to tell Sirius he was dying. He'd meant to do that – the man really seemed to care for him. Furthermore, he had yet to even decide what he might want to do with his life, what sort of goal he would set for himself. He'd never get to do that, now. Worst of all, he'd never gotten to tell Professor Snape "thank you," never told the man how much his concern had meant the last several months, that he hoped that some small part of the man could remember him kindly once he was gone.

There was so much he still wanted to do and that which he could have done in his remaining time was being stripped away by an ugly, black-hearted man who considered murdering a teenage boy a way to show his so-called power. The coward! Harry would not cooperate. If he had to die, he would not do so cowering behind a tombstone as he was watched by a bunch of fanatics like some animal on display at the zoo.

Gathering the dredges of his waning strength, Harry rose to his feet, whirling to face the creature that had killed his parents, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. Voldemort was waiting.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted, even as Voldemort malevolently hissed, "Avada Kedavra!"

0o0o0

"Albus," Severus argued furiously, "if I were to go and Harry's still alive, I could –"

"Get both of you killed trying to rescue him," Dumbledore cut in. "You are not thinking clearly, my boy. If Voldemort has truly returned – which I've no doubt that he has – it is of utmost importance that you convince him that you are eager to reprise your role as spy for him."

"But Harry –"

"Is already dying," Albus gently reminded, looking as though he thoroughly hated himself for speaking the words. It was likely that he did.

Severus turned away from his mentor and friend. He was unable to look the man in the face, not only because he'd just implied that Harry might be an unavoidable sacrifice, but also because he knew his horror at the prospect would show on his face. Even if Harry did escape from Voldemort alive, the stress of such an encounter could easily be too much for his system to handle.

"Harry..."

0o0o0

Harry's vision was going gray, his entire body shaking so badly, it felt like his bones were rattling. He couldn't say how he summoned the willpower to remain conscious, but he rather suspected adrenalin and the shock of seeing his parents emerge from the end of Voldemort's wand were contributing factors.

"When the connection is broken, you must get the portkey!" his father whispered urgently.

"We can only remain for a moment," added his mother, "so you must hurry. Keep fighting, Harry – we love you." Harry nodded his understanding, even as his vision dimmed further.

"Now, Harry," James told him, "do it now!" The teen wrenched his wand up and back, breaking its connection with Voldemort's. Turning, he ran as fast he could, pushing his way pass two shocked death eaters.

"Stun him!" Voldemort roared.

Harry stumbled and sprawled across the ground. "Accio pendant!" he gasped, pointing his wand towards the spot where he'd arrived. He was unaware of whether the pendant reached him or not, however, for just then, everything went black.

Frantic shouting heralded Harry's sudden appearance in the main courtyard of the school. There were not many students who were not currently attending the final task, but fortunately, there were some. Moments after he'd returned, three of the teen's schoolmates had gathered around while a fourth hung back uncertainly.

"Is that –" the boy began, looking like he wanted to flee rather than wait to have questions answered. After all, people weren't supposed to randomly arrive in the courtyard, by portkey or otherwise.

"It's Harry Potter," confirmed a Ravenclaw boy. Spying the necklace laying next to the Gryffindor's wand hand, he pulled out his handkerchief and cautiously wrapped it, seeing no other possible portkey in sight. "I think this is responsible for his little trip," he said, setting it carefully aside.

Meanwhile, one of the others, a muggleborn, had the presence of mind to press her fingers to the side of Harry's neck. "He doesn't have a pulse!" she exclaimed.

"He's dead?" squeaked the student who was still standing. A couple others had paused in passing at this point.

"Don't just stand there!" the girl snapped angrily as she and her classmate turned Harry onto his back. "Run for help! Madame Pomfrey, or the first teacher you can find!"

The Ravenclaw and the other three ran to obey as she quickly instructed her friend how to aid in CPR. They took turns doing rescue breathing and compressions until Professor Sinistra arrived, followed closely by the mediwitch. Professors Dumbledore and Snape showed up a short moment later, just as Madame Pomfrey was able to get the unconscious boy's heart going again.

"Let's get him to the hospital wing," the mediwitch said briskly, features drawn in worry. The adults started towards the doors, Harry carefully hovered between them.

"Professors!" the girl who'd known to perform CPR grabbed up the cloth-wrapped necklace and moved to the closest of the staff members as he turned. It was the Potions Master. "Professor, this was next to Potter's hand when he appeared. We think it's a portkey. Neil wrapped it in his kercheif, just in case."

Snape accepted the small bundle with a short nod. "Thank you, Miss Landon. The headmaster will want to speak with each of you, so be certain to make yourselves available."

"Yes, sir," said Miss Landon as her friend nodded.

The Potions Master did not immediately follow the others to the hospital wing, instead going first to his private lab and taking the floo to Poppy's office. As the mediwitch got Harry settled into a bed, he waited in pensive silence, gaze fixed on the scene. Time had run out, he realized morosely. There was no more waiting, no more chances. Only one.

"We should give this to the boy, now," he declared, moving forward once there nothing more to be immediately done for the boy. Snape held up the vial holding the latest antidote. Albus and Poppy knew what it was, but Sinistra did not and looked on in mild confusion.

"Now?" Poppy protested. "You said this was the one you were the most uncertain of!"

"What other choice do we have?" Snape questioned.

"We could at least wait until he regains consciousness, then give it to him."

"And the likelihood that Potter will regain consciousness at this point?"

The mediwitch's mouth pressed into a hard line before she turned to the headmaster for support. "Albus!"

"I'm afraid you and Severus know far more about healing than I, Poppy," Albus responded carefully.

"If we delay, we may lose any chance of saving him at all," the Potions Master pressed.

"And what if this is the antidote that just kills him? Then, what?" Poppy argued.

"If it doesn't work, he is likely dead, anyway," Severus countered. He stepped closer, holding the vial out to his colleague again. His tone was heavy when he continued. "Harry has already lived longer than anyone else infected by this poison. You know I have done everything in my power to ensure his survival. I... I don't like gambling with his life anymore than you do, but there are no other options for him. Not anymore.

"Poppy, we should give him this antidote, now," Severus reiterated.

Reluctant, Poppy reached out to take the vial. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. "If you would help me, then?"

"Of course."

Dumbledore had led the Astronomy professor from the room as they debated, leaving them alone with the unconscious Boy-Who-Lived. Snape situated himself next to Harry, gently supporting the boy against his side. Standing at the bedside, Poppy fed the potion to the boy with great care, quietly murmuring a charm to make him swallow. Once it was gone, she stood back, watching as her coworker ran a hand over Harry's hair. She wasn't sure he was aware of doing so.

"Now what?" she questioned aloud after running a diagnostic spell over the boy. There was no change. She hadn't really expected any.

"Now, we wait," Severus voiced the obvious. He was still holding the boy. Poppy made no mention of it.

0o0o0

Cedric Diggory had won the Triwizard Cup for Hogwarts. The Hufflepuffs had been exultant, as well was their due. For once, the oft-overlooked house was in the spotlight. Their jubilation was short-lived, however, overshadowed by far solemner news.

Voldemort had returned. Not only that, but Harry Potter lay comatose in the hospital wing after his latest confrontation with the evil wizard.

The Potions Master had stationed himself at the boy's bedside, unwilling to leave. It was Albus who finally convinced him to do otherwise, insisting that he go to Voldemort and reprise his role as spy. Naturally, the Dark Lord was displeased that his servant had failed to appear in the graveyard the first time he had called.

Severus knelt on the ground, face almost pressed to the floor, a residual tremor coursing through his frame. The agony of the Cruciatus Curse was nothing compared to the worry piercing his heart, however. To think that he cared more for the fate of Harry Potter than the harm wrought upon him by a madman.

"How can I be certain that your loyalty is not to that old fool?" Voldemort demanded.

"As I have told you, my lord," Snape repeated himself, "it was my desire to convince Dumbledore that I am true to the Light. I had to make him believe that my return to you was at his bidding. It has been a long time, master – a spy could only aid your return to power."

"Oh? Are you truly loyal to me, Severus?"

"Always, my lord," the Potions Master murmured reverently. He found he could sympathize with the way Harry had felt towards his antagonist.

"It is my understanding that Harry Potter has been residing in your quarters all year," the object of his loathing informed him.

"At Dumbledore's command," Snape spat distastefully. "The boy is a troublemaker in need of constant supervision. The rest of the staff were considered too good for the task, so the old fool placed him with me. I could not make a move against the boy without Dumbledore knowing. It was a most unpleasant year, my lord. It is such a great relief you have finally returned."

"So you claim," Voldemort sounded unconvinced. "Look at me."

Severus met the man's gaze, allowing him to see what he wished.

Voldemort gave a chilling smile that was meant to be warm. "It is good to know there are still some on whom I can depend," he said. "In light of that, I have my first task for you. It is a simple one, for which I am certain you are more than capable."

"What is it that you desire, master?" Snape inquired, his nose once more to the floor.

"I have... a headache and the muscles in my arms are sore. I suspect Wormtail made a mistake with the ritual. You are to bring me the appropriate pain draught, immediately. Make it, if you have to, but don't delay."

Were he not staring at the ground, the expression which flickered across Snape's face would have surely given him away. As it was, rather than the Dark Lord's cold, high tones, he was instead hearing a teenaged voice disrespectfully demanding, 'Why can't I have a stupid pain draught?'

"My pleasure," Snape replied, barely suppressing the purr of satisfaction which threatened his tone. "Right away, my lord."

0o0o0

Severus did not immediately go to Voldemort upon completing the requested potion. With everything that happening, the delay was believable. It was only a couple of days before the Dark Lord called a meeting. The Potions Master made sure he was one of the first to arrive, profusely apologizing for not having brought the draught sooner. Voldemort had retaliated with a brief crucio, but he had drank the potion.

The spy had smirked against the floor, murmuring a single word under his breath before returning slowly to his feet. A house elf popped into the room, disappearing again just as quickly. She was ignored. Soon, the other free Death Eaters had arrived, circling their mad lord upon his throne.

As the man stood to address them, he paused, bringing a hand to his throat. His head felt a bit better, but breathing was slowly becoming difficult. Crimson eyes instantly fixed upon the Potions Master.

"What is the meaning of this?" he hissed.

"Shrake fin, my lord," Snape answered promptly, tone unmistakeably smug. "Incorporated into the strongest dose of a traditional pain draught. You see, you made one mistake in your return: you used Potter's blood and in doing so, you posioned yourself."

At that moment, as Voldemort's loyal raised their wands in his defense, aurors burst into the room, having arrived outside the wards when Hana led to the location. As spells began to fly, the Potions Master hurled a blasting curse at Nagini. Unable to breathe, let alone utter an incantation, Voldemort was unable to protect her. His wand dropped from his fingers as he sank to the floor.

Snape made his way to the man, wanting to personally ensure that Voldemort perished. Wand aimed at the Dark Lord, he stopped over him. Voldemort glared up at him and the Potions Master was able to catch his fading thoughts.

"Traitor, Snape. Curse you. Do not think you've won. You'll be sorry..."

"Never again because of you," Severus declared after the man's mind went dark. There was probably still time to save the man. After all, a person was supposed to be able to live up to three minutes without air. He did nothing, however, simply continuing to stand there as the aurors rounded up the last of the gathered Death Eaters.

Barty Crouch Jr. was hurling invectives at him, as were some of the others. Snape only smirked. Finally, Kingsley and one of his coworkers moved towards him. Only then, did the Potions Master move, crouching beside Voldemort to press his fingers into the man's neck.

"He has no pulse," he stated indifferently. He withdrew his hand and stood. "Lord Voldemort is dead."

0o0o0

The new defeat of Voldemort and the capture of the majority of his loyal death eaters, including Barty Crouch Jr, who had been impersonating Mad-Eye Moody, was cause for great celebration. Nonetheless, it seemed that few were in the mood to celebrate, nearly every mind drawn to Harry Potter and his fate. So many cards and gifts had arrived for Harry that Madame Pomfrey finally had to have them delivered elsewhere. Soon, school had officially ended and the students went home, some with great reluctance.

And still Harry slumbered.

Snape spent the majority of his time in the hospital wing. So much of that was spent pacing that Pomfrey thought she could see a line being worn into the floor by the man's restless movement. For the most part, they left one another alone, neither feeling up to interaction.

Poppy was checking on her patient, her mild relief over the slight improvement in his condition dampened by the fact that Harry was still unconscious. Assuring that his vitals were all stable, she decided to cast a poisoning diagnostic on him. The last time she'd done so had been the day after his encounter with Voldemort and it had shown that nothing had changed. While she couldn't say what compelled her to check it again, she knew it wouldn't hurt.

At first, she thought she had made a mistake, so she performed the scan a second time. Then, a third. "Severus!" she exclaimed.

"What?" Snape demanded, quickly closing the distance between them. "What is it?" Whatever it was had to be terrible – the woman was practically shaking all over.

"I-it's gone!"

"What's gone?" he looked over the boy, as though expecting one of his limbs had disappeared.

"The poison, Severus!" Poppy finally managed in her excitement. "The antidote worked!"

The Potions Master stared at her. "You're certain?" The mediwitch (who had taught him most of the medicinal magic that he knew) motioned for him to run the scan himself, which he did. "It worked," he murmured. "But why didn't it show up before?"

"Merlin, I don't know," the woman replied. "Maybe the antidote needed more time to work its way through his system, or perhaps I cast the charm wrong. Either way, you've done it, Severus. The poison has been neutralized."

"Then, that means..." Severus began, trailing off uncertainly.

"I'd say that means Harry's chances of pulling through this have dramatically increased."

0o0o0

Nearly three weeks had passed since Voldemort's second death. Outside, the sun was shining brightly, its light filtering through the tall windows of the hospital wing at Hogwarts. In a far corner of the ward, on the only occupied bed in the room, a fourteen-year-old boy slowly opened a pair of bright green eyes.

He was small for his age and rather too thin, his complexion paler than it ought to have been. Messy black hair stood out starkly against the clean, white pillow as he slowly turned his head, squinting at his surroundings as though he needed glasses to see clearly. Finally, his gaze came to rest on a man seated in a chair close to his bed, his attention absorbed by the book sitting in his lap.

"Sir?"

The man's head snapped up, dark eyes resting upon the boy before him. He closed the book and rose from his seat. "Poppy!" he called over his shoulder, even as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter. You've been asleep for quite some time." He placed a hand on the boy's forehead, the corner of his lips turning up fondly as the younger wizard leaned into the touch.

Harry's eyes began to drift shut again, before widening in alarm. "Voldemort!" he exclaimed hoarsely.

"Is dead, Harry," Snape told him.

"No!" the teen rasped. "I saw him. He..."

"He is dead, again," the man amended. "When he used some of your blood to regenerate himself, he was also poisoned. Unlike you, he didn't have anyone who was careful to make sure he didn't imbibe any potions that would cause him harm. The headmaster has a theory as to what allowed him to resurrect himself and is working to prevent it from happening again. So, you see, Harry, you might never have to worry about Voldemort, again."

"He's really gone again?" the boy queried anxiously.

"He's really gone."

Harry let out a sigh of relief as he accepted this reassurance, allowing his eyes to drift shut again. "I had a dream," he whispered after a moment.

"What did you dream about, Harry?" Severus prompted, brushing back an errant strand of hair that had fallen into the boy's face.

"I dreamed... that we were making potions," he murmured. "Hana was there..." His voice trailed off as he drifted off to sleep.

Snape couldn't help but give a gentle smile. "We will brew together when you are well again," he promised the slumbering teen.

"Severus?" Poppy briskly approached the bed. "I'm sorry I didn't come right away – I was out. Is everything alright?" She looked back and forth between her colleague and her patient.

"Yes, Poppy," Severus answered. There was an unmistakeable warmth in his tone and the gaze resting on Harry was fond, almost paternal. It almost seemed that she was looking at a different man, altogether. "I daresay everything is nearly perfect."

The child of his heart would have agreed.

"Finished, sir," Harry said. The fifteen-year-old stepped aside to let the Potions Master inspect his potion.

"Sit down, Harry," Snape instructed him. "Your stubborn pride will profit you nothing if you embarrass yourself by falling over in my lab. That is what the stools are for."

"Your worktable's a bit higher than the ones in the potions classroom," Harry argued, even as he seated himself on a stool. "I can't see into the cauldron as well unless I'm standing."

The man rolled his eyes. "It sounds as though your best solution would be to be grow taller." This comment earned him a scowl from the teen, who deigned not to comment. Harry was still not fully recovered, but as the boy had nearly died – had, in fact, for a minute or two – it was none too surprising. Nevertheless, the progress he had made already was impressive.

"Sir?"

Severus looked up to see the boy staring at him expectantly. He'd allowed his thoughts to wander as he examined the potion. "Just the right consistency," he critiqued. "Color is what it should be. Pity, school isn't in session. I might have awarded points."

"So, it's good?" Harry asked, ignoring the teasing remark.

"Indeed, you have done very well. Now, what do you wish to do with it? Do you intend on taking it?"

"Actually, I was thinking..."

"A rare occurrence, I am sure," Severus drawled.

Harry rolled his eyes and continued. "Anyhow, I think there are better ways of having complete memories without taking Perfectus Memoria. I mean, just because you can't remember every little thing doesn't mean your memory isn't complete."

"I quite agree," said the Potions Master. "Which still leaves us with the question: what shall we do with this?" He indicated the full cauldron, whose shimmering contents seemed to glow.

"I... I think we should throw it out."

Snape raised a brow. "That would be a waste of a perfect potion," he pointed out neutrally.

"I know," Harry murmured softly, looking down at his hands, "but some things aren't worth risking."

The man placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. When the boy finally looked up, he vanished the cauldron's contents with a wave of his wand. "A zero for this session, Potter," he declared wryly.

Harry laughed. "Good thing classes aren't in session!"

Snape mussed the boy's hair. "Cheeky brat," he scowled, but Harry just grinned.