“Potter, stop that racket at once!” Snape shouted, stomping towards Harry’s room.

Harry paused in his perusal of 101 Ways to Curse Your Neighbor, a rather amusing comic book that Dobby had found for him, and glanced up. Snape stood in the doorway panting and looking rather demented. His hair stood up at odd angles and his eyes were both bleary and blazing.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“What on earth is making that noise?” Snape demanded.

“What noise?” Harry asked, perplexed.

“Don’t mock me!” Snape yelled, putting both hands to his ears and cursing in pain. “That abominable pounding noise!”

At Snape’s raised voice, Dobby hurried into the room.

“Dobby!” Snape snapped, spinning around on his heel. “Where is that booming sound coming from?”

Dobby cocked his head and studied Snape. “Dobby doesn’t hear no booming sound, Professor Snape, sir.”

Harry set his book on his bed and sat up straighter, studying the haggard wizard before him.

Snape looked coldly at both of them and swept out of the room. Harry heard the door of the master bedroom slam shut. He exchanged a worried glance with Dobby.

After a few beats of silence, Dobby spoke. “Harry Potter, sir, I have letters for you. From your friends, sir.”

“Ron and Hermione?” Harry asked, excitement strumming through his veins. Snape had finally given him permission to write letters to his two best friends only—which the potions master had insisted upon reading before Harry gave them to Dobby to leave under Ron and Hermione’s pillows, where they could reply in kind. While his friends would likely guess a house elf was the one couriering the letters, they’d not know which house elf, though Harry was secretly sure they’d guess correctly. Harry hadn’t been able to write much beyond telling them that he was safe and bored and that he missed them and asking them to send news about themselves and Hogwarts. He also cautioned that he’d likely not be able to answer any of their questions and that all of his mail was being read.

Ron had sent him a letter telling him that the school was in an uproar over his disappearance and that Snape was missing too. Dumbledore had been tight-lipped about the whole situation and the rumor mill was quite active in asserting one or both of their deaths or defections to the dark side. Ron had also sent his latest copy of Quidditch Monthly, which had a picture of Victor Krum on the cover. Hermione had written about what he was missing in all of his classes and offered to send him a copy of her notes so he could keep up during his absence. She reiterated that she and Ron wouldn’t tell a soul that they’d heard from him and made him promise to write again soon to assure them that he was okay. She also enclosed some Hogwarts stationary and a new quill.

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon writing letters back to his friends and perusing Quidditch Monthly. 

Snape collapsed into one of the wicker chairs in the sitting area of the master bedroom, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. The pounding in his skull beat like a drum: boom—boom—boom. It felt like walls of sound pressing in on him, suffocating him, threatening to crush him to death. It was the worst headache he’d even had, threatening every moment to drive him insane. In desperation, he pawed through his various potion vials, looking for something, anything, to dull his senses, if not the unrelenting sound.

 “Professor?” Harry called as he knocked lightly on the closed door of the master bedroom. Harry hadn’t seen Snape since he claimed to be hearing noises the morning before. Snape had taken all of his meals in his room since then. Harry hadn’t wanted to bother the wizard the night before about reading the letters he’d written to Ron and Hermione so he could send them, and he wasn’t sure he should now, but he was anxious to keep in touch with his friends.

“Professor?” Harry repeated, knocking more loudly. Still there was no answer. Harry paused. Perhaps the potions master was sleeping. He decided to try again later.

Harry knocked three more times over the next six hours, with no response. Dobby was at Hogwarts, or else Harry would have asked him to check on Snape. As it was, he was the only one here and he was starting to get worried. He knocked one more time, and then slowly opened the door, peering inside.

There was a single lamp lit in the corner of the room which cast an orange glow over the small sitting area where Snape had previously answered Harry’s questions. A few books and magazines lay scattered on the floor, as well as an assortment of half-empty potions bottles. Three trays of food lay untouched as well.

His concern growing, Harry stepped further into the room, his gaze landing on the bed where Snape lay motionless, his eyes open but apparently unaware. His face was creased with pain. More potion bottles lay sprawled on the nightstand and on the rug near the bed.

“Professor? Are you alright?”

Snape’s eyes flicked to Harry’s and Harry took an unconscious step back at the rage he saw there.

“Get out,” Snape ground out, moving nothing but his lips.

 “But Professor…” Harry began, the letters in his hand forgotten in light of Snape’s condition.

“Get. Out. Now. Potter.” Snape’s lips were curled back and he looked like a rabid animal.

Harry backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him, his heart pounding. He didn’t know what was wrong with Snape, but something clearly was, and from the looks of it, potions weren’t helping.

Harry sat at the dining table alone and poked at his breakfast. The cottage was deathly quiet. Dobby had made him eggs and ham before he’d left for Hogwarts that morning, and Snape was nowhere in sight. Harry wondered if Snape had slept off whatever had been ailing him, but as Snape was usually an early riser, Harry doubted it.

When lunch rolled around and there was still no sign of Snape, Harry started to fidget. He’d read and reread the letters for Ron and Hermione enough to commit them to memory, and couldn’t maintain his interest in any of the other reading materials he had. Grabbing a jacket, he ventured outside, walking around the charmed limits of the property. It was a cold, grey, windy day with nary a bird in sight. Still it was good to get out of the cottage. He wished, not for the first time, that he had his broom. What he wouldn’t give to go flying, much less play a game of Quidditch with Ron and Ginny.

By late afternoon, and cold from the biting wind, Harry made his way inside to find Dobby had returned from the Castle. Hearing Dobby’s voice coming from the master bedroom, Harry sidled up to the open door. All of the potion vials and papers that had been scattered around the room the night before were now neatly stacked and ordered, though Harry was sure that Dobby, and not Snape, had been the one to clean up the mess.

Snape lay atop the bedclothes with his back to the open door. He was dressed all in black and curled up on his side in the fetal position. The concerned look on Dobby’s face as he stood before Snape had Harry stepping into the room. Harry startled at the sight before him. Snape’s whole body was rigidly curled in on itself, as if in the throes of some horrible agony. His black hair lay lank over his too pale skin, his face clenched in a permanent grimace. Most disturbing of all, though, was the unflinchingly vacant expression in his obsidian eyes.

“Professor,” Harry breathed. There was no response. Turning his attention to the elf, Harry asked: “What’s wrong with him?”

“The potions are not working, Harry Potter, sir. The noise lives inside his head. It is taking over his mind.”

“But how?” Harry asked. “And why?”

“Dobby knows not, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby has not seen such things before.”

Harry stared at Snape. The wizard almost looked like he’d been petrified. Harry remembered feeling just as helpless when he visited Hermione in the hospital wing in their second year. At least Hermione has not been in pain, though.

“Think,” Harry muttered to himself. What could be causing the relentless sound in Snape’s head? If it was some dark spell, who could have cast it? Snape had not left the premises, and no one had come to visit, outside of Dobby. And dark magic could not be cast at a distance, unless…

“Dobby,” Harry said, “Could Voldemort be doing this to him?”

Dobby’s eyes widened in fear.

“But no,” Harry recanted. “Professor Snape is a master Occlumens. Voldemort has never been able to break through his defenses in person. There’s no reason to think he could do so now, over such a distance and when…” But Harry stopped at the horrified look on Dobby’s expressive face.

“Dobby, what is it?” Harry asked.

Dobby’s gnarled hands trembled and his voice shook as he said: “Harry Potter, sir, Professor Snape… he…” Dobby swallowed and looked down at his feet. “Professor Snape’s magic is depleted, Harry Potter, sir.” In a much smaller voice, Dobby added, “He doesn’t even have enough magic to summon a newspaper from a few feet away.”

“What?!?” Harry exclaimed. “Why not? What happened?”

Dobby fidgeted nervously, before speaking again. Looking up at Harry, his bright orb-like eyes glistening in the orange glow of the room, he said, “When Professor Snape rescued you from the Dark Lord and his followers, you was dying, sir. Professor Snape did all he could to save you, but he is not being able to save Harry Potter, sir.” The elf gulped and squeaked, “You was too badly injured.”

“But I’m here now,” Harry said. “I’m not dead.”

Dobby nodded solemnly. “Professor Snape thanked me for helping him and bade me farewell, but Dobby is not letting Harry Potter die, sir. Elves have access to ancient magic, Harry Potter, sir, and I is calling upon this ancient magic to heal you, sir. But even I is not able to save Harry Potter, sir,” the elf squeaked, his face a picture of misery.

Harry felt a tingle of apprehension dance up his spine. “But then why am I still here?”

“Professor Snape,” Dobby said simply. “Your magical core was destroyed by the damage you suffered, sir. Professor Snape is giving you his magic, sir, so Harry Potter can live.”

Harry stood there, stunned. Snape had saved his life before, but never quite so literally, and never at dire risk to himself. “But then,” Harry asked, swallowing against the fear building inside of him, “is he a Muggle now? Or a Squib?” That thought was horrifying, and Harry would not wish that fate on any wizard, especially one as strong and proud as Severus Snape.

Dobby shook his head. “Professor Snape is still a wizard, Harry Potter, sir. But it is taking time for his magical core to regenerate. This is why Professor Snape is having headaches, sir. But this…” Dobby said, gesturing toward Snape’s rigid and unresponsive form on the bed and shaking his head, “this is something Dobby is not seeing before, Harry Potter, sir.”

“If Snape saved me from Voldemort,” Harry reasoned, “then surely Voldemort would wish to make him suffer. And if he can’t shield his mind…” Harry shuddered at the thought, remembering just how persuasive and overpowering Voldemort in one’s mind could be.

Dobby’s features were marred in concentration as he followed Harry’s every word.