Harry was downstairs before Snape the next morning. He took his tea out to the porch where his school books were still stacked on the table along with several roles of parchment and the charmed quill Madam Pomfrey had brought him yesterday—the one that responded to his voice and wrote whatever he said out loud. He'd had a few false starts with it while writing his Transfiguration essay, including a string of mlld profanity it had dutifully transcribed when he spilled his pumpkin juice and it had spread out over the table and dripped onto the floor. He didn't think Professor McGonagall would appreciate her essay on the challenges of cross-gender transformation of corvus corvus corone described as an "idiotic assignment" and knew she would not want to hear the other more colorful phrases that slipped out of his mouth as he cleaned up the mess with a towel. Snape had instructed him not to use his wand unless necessary to protect himself as he was still underage and there was always the off-chance his underage magic could be detected.

Madam Pomfrey had arrived precisely at 2 o'clock the previous afternoon by way of floo, her pristine white robes still looking properly hygienic despite the sooty fireplace. She'd run Harry through his leg exercises first, tutting a bit over his still weak left leg and upping the number of repetitions on that side. Predictably, he'd gotten a lecture when she examined his arm, declaring that the nerve damage was worsening instead of improving. She'd banned him from all writing but had left him with the charmed quill. The fact that she had it with her to begin with clued him in that Snape must have spoken with her when he arrived at Hogwarts and thus she'd been anticipating a problem. She had applied the smoke potion and the scar cream and had doubled the dosage of the nerve regenerator, the awful grayish potion that smelled like Crookshank's litterbox and tasted even worse. She'd agreed to stay for tea when he offered but had insisted on preparing it herself while he rested in one of the comfortable lounge chairs.

"I've always loved this cottage," she said as she sipped her tea a few minutes later and bit into a plain biscuit. She regarded the half-eaten wafer critically then waved her wand over the plate, changing the remainder into chocolate digestives. She stood for a moment by the big porch windows, looking out toward the sea.

"You've been here before, then?" asked Harry, accepting a chocolate biscuit with his left hand.

"Oh, a few times," she'd responded vaguely. She'd finished her tea and had admonished Harry again to take care with his arm before flooing away, leaving him with his thoughts and his essays. He'd fallen asleep after she left, his legs and arm achy, waking up an hour later feeling a bit better. That's when he'd tackled the Transfiguration essay, and he was still at it when Snape had arrived back at 6 p.m.

"Poppy was all over me when she returned," he complained, walking out onto the porch dressed in his teaching robes. Harry had already grown accustomed to seeing the potions professor in trousers and found that the robes looked out of place here at Shell Cottage. He watched as Snape placed a covered wicker basket on the table, stacking two books on top of each other to make room for it. "She's afraid you'll have permanent nerve damage in that arm if you continue to strain it. I believe she doesn't trust the efficacy of my nerve regeneration potion, hmmm?" He removed the cover on the basket and reached in to help himself to a piece of fried chicken.

They'd eaten together quietly and then Snape had suggested a game of wizard chess. Harry had frankly been stunned—he'd been sure they'd have to have a go at "real" Occlumency by this time—but had agreed to a game, and fifteen minutes later, to a second. Twenty minutes after that, grinning in defeat, he'd suggested going for three out of five.

He'd actually gone to sleep by nine, feeling more tired than usual. He'd done his 'trust' journaling in his room with the door closed, as he'd had to speak the words for the quill to capture them and thought he'd sound ridiculous muttering to himself in front of Snape. Besides, Snape hearing his journal was practically the same as Snape reading it. He only managed a paragraph on the new topic, mainly stating that one had to be extremely careful who one trusted and that it was usually best to simply depend on yourself, before he gave it up for Occlumency meditation.

Now, sipping his tea with the morning sun just peaking over the horizon, letting the hot cup warm his still slightly numb fingers, he felt vaguely unwell. His arms and legs felt heavier than usual, and he had an ache between his eyes. He attributed his discomfort to not sleeping well and to the more rigorous physical therapy yesterday and poured himself more tea, adding a dollop of thick cream and letting it warm him from the inside.

Snape woke him up an hour later for breakfast—he'd fallen asleep on the hammock again. After breakfast, he finished his Transfiguration essay and then they traipsed off to the beach for a second go at Snape's so-called immersion therapy.

The time he spent floating and sinking, bouncing and turning in the shield bubble was the best he had that day. When Snape pulled him in with a slow Accio and cancelled the charm, he asked Harry to estimate the length of time he'd spent in the water.

"I don't know—probably 10 or 15 minutes," answered Harry.

Snape's eyebrows rose. "You're serious?" he asked.

"Yeah…wait. How long was I in that thing then?"

"Almost an hour," answered Snape, looking greatly pleased. "I waded out twice to make sure you were still moving inside there. Did you fall asleep?"

"No—definitely not." Harry shook his head. "It's like time slows down when I'm in the bubble," he continued, looking quickly up to catch Snape's expression. "That's good, isn't it? That I lost track of time?"

Snape looked thoughtful. "It's good that time slowed for you, yes," he answered. "I wouldn't necessarily say you lost track of time. I think that we will repeat this exercise later this afternoon and begin one-on-one training tomorrow. If that is successful, we'll begin attack training the following day."

"Attack training?" asked Harry, biting his lower lip.

"When you least expect it…" provided Snape.

"Expect it," answered Harry with a sigh.

Snape began to wade back to shore but Harry, still waist-deep in the ocean with the sun climbing overhead, decided to stay in a bit. He settled into the water, backing toward shore a bit until he was comfortably sitting on the ocean bottom, gentle waves making him bob up and down as they pushed and pulled him. He stood up after a while and walked forward into deeper water.

"You're close to the drop off," called Snape from his seat on one of the chairs on the beach.

Indeed, the bottom was getting steeper, so Harry turned and paddled back in a meter or so until he could just stand with his head out of the water. He practiced floating for a few minutes, then treading water, and finally tried diving down to pick up handfuls of rocks and small shells off the bottom, examining them once he surfaced. He found an interesting, though dull-colored, spiral shell and an orange rock that looked like a piece of a roofing tile. He had dived down again and was under nearly two meters of water, on the steep slant of the drop-off, when intense burning pain hit him right between the eyes, centered on his scar. He screamed, so totally unprepared, so totally taken by surprise, not realizing that only bubbles escaped his mouth and he reflexively took another deep breath. But without the Bubblehead charm he sucked in a great lungful of water and began floundering.

His brain was almost too fuzzy for rational thought or action, but he knew somehow that the pain had never been like this before. In the past, when he felt Voldemort, it had always been because Riddle had been experiencing some great emotion and he'd known it, known that he was angry, or intensely happy. Harry struggled instinctively to reach the surface, but he'd lost track of where the surface was and found his brain growing fuzzy through the pain. He was only remotely aware that his body had begun to move very quickly on its own accord through the water toward the shore, stopping in the very shallow water after scraping against the bottom for a couple of meters. Then hands around his shoulders pulled him onto the sand and turned him on his side and he was coughing up water, finally getting a deep, rasping, painful breath of air into his lungs.

Snape was kneeling next to him, grasping his own forearm tightly. Harry's vision was terribly blurry this close—where were his glasses?—and he couldn't see Snape's expression, but his voice was tight and worried.

"Occlude. Try, Harry. Erect your barrier—right now." He stood then and Harry heard the sharp crack of apparition, but Snape was still there. He was looking at something behind Harry, then nodded and disapparated on the spot, leaving Harry lying on the beach.

"No!" Harry closed his eyes again against the pain, now throbbing as well as burning.

But then someone else was there, kneeling behind him, hitting him between his shoulders from time to time, causing him to sputter and gasp until at last he was breathing more regularly.

"Block him, Harry," said a calm voice. "We'll talk later—just practice what you've learned. It was Bill Weasley's voice.

Harry nodded. Practicing his shield barrier was easy when he was floating in a bubble in the gentle ocean waters. This was not. There was burning pain to block, and pressure, and it was still hard to breathe. His side ached horribly where he had been dragged across the rocky shallows. But he pulled his knees up to his chest as best he could, wrapped his arms around them, closed his eyes tightly and slowly, ever so slowly, began to sink into his protected underwater world. Gradually, the imagined heart beat of the ocean, the gentle thrum of a maternal heart, called him and he sunk into it.

A passerby, had there been one on that quiet, remote strip of sand on England's east coast, would have seen a red-haired man, his long hair in a tail on his back, fully clothed and wearing beautiful leather boots (the passerby would not have recognized them as dragonhide), sitting cross-legged in the sand beside a sleeping teenager. The teen was curled up in a foetal position, clad only in bright red swimming shorts, and the red-haired man was patting his back from time to time and checking his watch, checking his watch, checking his watch again.

When Harry pulled himself with difficulty out of his occluded world nearly an hour later, he blinked to focus his eyes then fumbled his left hand around for his glasses.

"Here," said a voice behind him, placing his glasses in his hand. "Didn't realize you'd lost them—they washed up a few minutes ago."

Harry groggily sat up, wiping sand off his cheek.

"Bill? Where's Professor Snape?" He closed his eyes, trying to think back, gradually remembering the burning pain that had ripped through his scar. The pain was remembered only—it no longer cut through him. "He was summoned…how long ago?"

"Only an hour, Harry," answered Bill. "How are you feeling?"

Harry shook his head slightly. "Head's better," he said. "Remind me never to go swimming again."

"The timing was … unfortunate," commented Bill. "Feel like standing? Let's get you back into the cottage." He helped Harry to his feet and handed him a striped beach towel. Harry winced as he wrapped the towel around his shoulders and it drug against his abraded side. It hurt to breathe still, especially when he took deep breaths. They left the chairs where they were and walked back slowly, Bill supporting him on the steep stairs to the cottage. Harry collapsed onto a lounge while Bill looked around then made his way into the kitchen. He was back in a few minutes with a steaming mug of tea, a bottle and a small glass.

He passed the tea to Harry and he took it gratefully, not bothering to ask for cream. Bill placed the glass on the table and tipped a measure of amber liquid from the bottle in it.

"Fire Whiskey," he stated. "You'll want to sip it slowly."

While Harry alternated sips of hot tea with sips of the bracing alcohol, Bill walked around the porch, picking up items to examine them and swinging experimentally in the hammock.

"How did you get here?" asked Harry as Bill stood up from the hammock and, like every adult who had been here, gazed out the windows at the sea.

"Apparated when Snape sent his Patronus," answered Bill. "I was on call." He turned and smiled at Harry. "Lucky you—got me both times."

Harry smiled vaguely then turned to look at the clock.

Bill frowned.

"Listen, Harry, he's likely to be gone for a while. You never know—but sometimes it's as long as a day or two."

"A day or two?" Harry snapped his head around to look at Bill. Despite the tea and whiskey, he was feeling shaky and tired. "Are you going to stay?"

"Today, yeah," answered Bill. "Listen, Harry, I'm going to floo call Madam Pomfrey and get you something to put on those cuts—and a Pepper-up Potion. You look like you need it."

Harry grimaced but Bill left the room anyway. He was gone more than ten minutes but returned empty-handed. He sat down at the table across from Harry and took out his wand.

"Well, nix on the Pepper-up. Poppy heard from Mom a little while ago. Seems the Grangers contacted them last night—Ron, Ginny and Hermione are all down with some sort of virus—some sort of Muggle flu. She wanted to be sure you didn't have any symptoms before she gives you anything."

"What are the symptoms?" asked Harry, remembering the soreness he'd felt when he woke up that morning.

"Fever, body aches, sweating, congestion," answered Bill. "You probably have all of these—but there's no telling if they're from a virus or from nearly drowning and lying in the sun for an hour."

Harry sighed. "I felt sick this morning. Body aches and headache. I figured it was from physical therapy yesterday—Madam Pomfrey pushed me pretty hard." He rested his head on his folded arms and closed his eyes. Sick or not, he was worried about Snape. He considered, in passing, trying to open his mind, to see if he could establish a connection to Voldemort and… No. Bad idea. Very bad idea. He raised his head.

"I'm going to go lie down upstairs, Bill. Will you wake me when Snape gets back? If I'm not up already?"

"Sure, Harry," responded Bill. "But first we need to heal those cuts. Poppy said to use the potion she gave you to pour over the cut on your arm. Where do you keep it?"

"Kitchen," answered Harry. "One of the cabinets—I think the one to the right of the sink."

Bill retrieved the potion and Harry let the towel drop and leaned sideways while Bill poured it on. He nearly dropped the bottle when plumes of smoke hissed out of the scrapes. "Is it supposed to do that?"

"Yeah," Harry said, looking down at this side which already looked and felt better.

"Go on then," said Bill when he had recapped the bottle and picked up Harry's towel. "You need help getting upstairs?"

"Nah, I'm OK," answered Harry. "Just wake me up, yeah?" He waited for Bill's nod then stood up carefully and left the room, leaving a very bemused Bill Weasley staring after him.