As McGonagall strides down the hall, there is no doubting that she expects Snape to follow. It’s with reluctance that he slams the door of his classroom and falls into stride with Minerva; spurred on only by his own curiosity.

The journey to the infirmary is silent, but for the echoing steps of their own feet. Some of the older students still remain in the halls – their curfew not for another half an hour – but their chattering soon stops as the two professors’ steam past them, exuding purpose and importance.   

Snape’s mind wanders, conjuring up ideas as to what the boy might have done to himself now. It doesn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that he’s probably gone and taken some skiving concoction made by the Weasley twins.

Menaces. Both of them. Potter’s probably lying in bed with Poppy pawing over him. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something so drastic to escape detention.

He scoffs to himself, earning a deeply displeasing look from the woman on his right.

Walking in from the quiet halls, Snape can’t help but frown at the sudden eruption of chaos behind the infirmary doors. He watches as McGonagall races up to Poppy by Harry’s bedside, but Poppy simply waves her away and goes back to frantically seeing to the child.  

As Poppy rounds the bed, Harry is suddenly in full view, and despite his usual reserve, Snape feels himself visibly pale at the sight of the boy’s sickly blue skin. And there’s something very perturbing about the speed at which Potter’s chest is rising and falling.

Having peeled off his wet clothes and spelled him dry, Poppy proceeds to clothe Harry in something loose-fitting before conjuring some thin blankets and wrapping his fidgeting body. It’s then that she spies Severus standing at the door.

“Oh, Severus, thank goodness you’re here. We need some warming potions. I haven’t had to use mine in such a long time; their potency has clearly diminished,” she says, frantically drawing a breath. “They’re barely working at all.”

But Snape doesn’t move, too shocked by the sight of Harry’s shivering frame mumbling and convulsing in the bed.

“What happened?” he manages to ask tersely, keeping the bite in his voice.

“I’ll explain when you get back. Right now, the boy needs our attention,” Poppy says firmly.

After receiving a nod from McGonagall, Snape replaces his cold mask and marches to the fireplace ready to floo to his dungeons. 

He’s awake, but not lucid.

Shifting in the bed, his movements are sluggish, yet sudden. When he starts trying to rid himself of the blankets, Poppy shoots into action again, pulling the covers back over him in an effort to keep him warm, but Harry still manages to struggle weakly against her.

His mind is a mess, like some tremendous tidal wave has ripped through his brain, but all he can think is hot, so hot. The shivering should tell him otherwise, but everything feels fuzzy. He doesn’t know where he is or where he’s supposed to be. He can’t place what he’s feeling or what he should be feeling. It’s like he’s hidden in a box and someone’s shaken him too hard, ignoring that he’s clearly labelled fragile.

The floo bursts with colour as Snape strides out. “Here,” he says handing Poppy the warming potion and trying to keep his composure as he’s forced to look at the boy up close. 

He looks...small... Brainless boy.

Snape’s body stiffens, gathering back his usual feeling of indifference – solid stone once more.

Insufferable child can’t go five minutes without causing trouble for someone, just like his father.

Again, Harry fights off the covers, pushing them down past his waist and mumbling something unintelligible.

Poppy frowns. “Harry? Harry, listen to me. I need you to drink this. You’ll feel better, OK?” She doesn’t know why she’s saying it; it’s obvious he doesn’t understand, but perhaps she’s trying to reassure herself. Removing the stopper from the vial, she lifts his head and brings it to his lips, but finds herself leaping back as his loose limbs jerk outwards.  

“Severus, Minerva, please...help me hold him down,” she says, a note of sadness in her voice.

There’s nothing either can do about the violent shivering, but Professor McGonagall sighs and takes hold of Harry’s legs, pushing his knees back down into the mattress to still him. Snape quickly grabs Harry’s wrists, pinning them to his sides – noting that he can actually feel the cold emanating from his frozen hands. For a moment, the boy’s glazed eyes flip open and stare, unseeing, at Snape.

“...Nrghh...off...nggh...”

Snape can feel the weak pull under his grip as Harry tries fruitlessly to wrench himself away. Quickly, Poppy pours the vial into Harry’s mouth and sets about getting him to swallow. They watch as the shivers slowly settle down to a small tremor and McGonagall is the first to breathe a loud sigh of relief, slinking down into the chair by Harry’s bed. For a short time, all eyes are set on Harry as a welcome silence washes over the infirmary – but all too quickly the silence is broken. 

“So, is anyone going to explain?” is Snape’s curt request.

Professor McGonagall looks up at Poppy, knowing she can always read her face.

“It’s OK. There’s nothing more you can do here, Minerva. You can use my office.”

In the office, McGonagall takes a seat and waits for Snape to do the same, but instead he stands there, glaring down impatiently. 

“Severus, I won’t do this with you looking at me like that. Now, sit down.” He still doesn’t move. “Severus Snape. Sit. Down.” It’s the glare that does it. He remembers it well from his own Transfiguration lessons all those years ago. She may be over two decades older now, but she still knows how to intimidate. Feeling like a student again, Snape sighs and drops down into the chair, knowing full well that he looks like a petulant child, but hardly caring.

“So what has Potter managed to do to himself this time?” he sneers.

Much easier to slate the boy when you’re not looking at him in the hospital wing.

“Now Severus, I think you should listen to the story before you judge.” 

Anxiously wringing out her hands, she begins.

“We found him about an hour ago, sitting outside in the rain.”

Brainless Gryffindor.

“When we found him, he was shivering and mumbling to himself; looking completely lost. He couldn’t even stand up. Severus, the boy was almost blue!”

Snape awkwardly looks away, noticing how much just talking about it is upsetting her.  

“He was sat under the Whomping Willow.” It’s here that Snape’s interest is piqued. “We just assumed he’d worked it out and managed to reach the base knot. I soon found out, when young Mr Malfoy got too close, that the tree was working perfectly well and was indeed still active. Thankfully, Mr Malfoy is fine, just a bump on the head.”  

Gritting his teeth, Snape indulges her. “And why, must I ask, was Mr Malfoy with you?”

Silly question, Severus, he thinks.  As if I do not already know.

“It seems he decided it would be funny to use the Confundus charm on Potter, for his own entertainment, forgetting that such actions rarely come without consequences.”

Growling under his breath, Snape sighs. “I suppose a talk needs to be had with Mr Malfoy.”

Foolish boy.

“More than a talk, Severus. Potter could’ve been killed! I know young Draco’s situation has changed some-what since his father was taken to Azkaban, but that is no excuse. Poppy says that Mr Potter has managed to contract a severe case of hypothermia. Do you know how serious that is?”

Unfortunately, Snape does. Running a hand through his hair, he slumps back in the chair, only now beginning to understand the grim seriousness of the situation.

Draco Malfoy almost killed The Boy Who Lived; the boy I vowed to protect. 

“We only found him because Mr Malfoy finally grew a conscience. When he told me what happened and we found Mr Potter under the tree...” she drifts off, shaking her head. “Perhaps this may put an end to their silly little feud.”

For a moment, they sit in silence; McGonagall trying to stem her worry and Snape berating himself for doing nothing about the incident between the two boys in Potions.

It’s only through chance that Snape glances out of Poppy’s office and spies none other than Draco Malfoy standing sheepishly in the corner by the infirmary door, eyes fixed on Harry’s body. 

“It seems we have the opportunity to speak with Mr Malfoy now,” Snape says absently as McGonagall peers out of the office at a wide-eyed Malfoy. He doesn’t seem to have noticed them. 

“Minerva, I assume you’d like to be present in this...discussion? You are Potter’s Head of House after all.”

“Yes, thank you Severus,” she says, steeling herself for the up and coming conversation.

Standing and smoothing down his robes, Snape adjusts his posture and sharply calls, “Mr Malfoy, in here now,” his stoicism never faltering.

They sit in a triangle; Snape and McGonagall side-by-side and Malfoy directly in front of them. The way two sets of eyes bore into his, he can’t help but think of it like an interrogation. Neither professor speaks at first. McGonagall isn’t sure she trusts herself to stay calm. Snape’s lips are drawn in a straight line, but the cogs in his head are turning as if he’s picking over his words.

The lack of noise makes Malfoy fidget. There’s something truly menacing about distant footsteps and thick, angry breaths with nothing in between. 

“Look, I can explain –” he chokes.

“You will not speak unless you are spoken to,” Snape shoots back with an ice-cold glare. “Do you have any idea what you have done? Your family may no longer work under the Dark Lord, but you have very nearly succeeded in doing what the Dark Lord failed to do all those years ago –”

“Professor, I didn’t m–”

“If you interrupt me once more, I shall seal your mouth shut myself.” Draco’s eyes flash as though to challenge his Head of House, but quickly shrink back into his head as Snape’s expression darkens. “Do. Not. Test. Me. Mr Malfoy. You are very lucky you got to Mr Potter when you did. Very lucky indeed.”

Locking eyes with her student, McGonagall sighs and sinks further into her chair. “Perhaps, you could explain to Professor Snape exactly what happened,” she suggests watching Malfoy’s shoulders sag.

“OK, very well, Mr Malfoy, from the beginning. I want wheres, whens and whys. And do not even think about lying to me.”

Expelling a defeated breath, Draco begins. 

Sitting on a stone bench outside the castle, Harry squeezes his eyes closed, taking in the soft, chilling breeze and the low murmur of students changing classes inside. He suspects that he must have been outside for hours judging by the thick black clouds rolling in and the sudden coolness of the air. 

White knuckles gripping the bench, he barely feels the first drop of rain as it hits the frames of his glasses.

After his swift exit from the Potion’s lab, he was hit with a rush of memories and all the feelings that came attached. Setting himself down outside on the bench, he allowed his body to bend in on itself and simply let go, safe in the knowledge that everyone would still be in class. Squeezing his arms around his torso, he fought past a wave of nausea as the tears cascaded down his cheeks. Afterwards, he felt empty.

Now, still rooted to the secluded spot he’s occupied since the morning, feelings are creeping their way back under his skin – into his head – and part of him wishes he could be numb forever.

He subconsciously brings a hand up to rub his scar, only then registering the cold rain hitting his skin and hanging precariously from the tip of his nose.

“Hiding, are we, Potty?”

Harry inwardly groans.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” he says over his shoulder through gritted teeth.

“Why would I want anything from you?” Draco sneers pulling up the hood of his cloak.

As usual, Harry pays him no attention, intent on watching the rain as it comes down hard from the sky. A shiver runs down his spine, but he’s not sure if it’s because of the water dripping from his hair down the back of his neck, or the knowledge that Draco Malfoy is still stood somewhere behind him, probably donning an ugly smirk.

“Your little friends are worried; running round the castle like pathetic little house-elves. Maybe I should give them something to worry about.”

At that, Harry’s grip tightens on the bench. “Just leave me alone, Malfoy,” he croaks.

“You look a bit tense, Potter...Petrificus Totalus!”

“Protego!” Harry’s on his feet in seconds, staring daggers at his opponent. “What the hell is wrong with you? Can you not go one day without being a total git?”

“What’s wrong, frightened you’ll lose?” Draco’s eyes flash something wild and he raises his wand slightly as if anticipating an attack. “Mummy and daddy not around to defend you?” 

Immediately, Harry’s features harden. Sucking in a deep breath, he shakes his head against the wind whistling in his ears; neither willing nor prepared for this fight.

“Better than being locked up in Azkaban,” he growls and turns on his heels, heading towards the Quidditch pitch. Three steps into his trek, his ears barely register the distant shout of Confundo that rings through the air. His thoughts twist suddenly, jumbling up; a feeling like someone’s spilled hot coffee on his brain and is now trying to wring it out in their hands.

Draco stands there and watches as Harry sways on the spot. Moments later, he scoffs as Harry – now fascinated with the rain – sticks his tongue out all the way, trying desperately to catch the falling droplets on his tongue. As Draco moves back into the building, a smirk plastered firmly on his face, Harry drunkenly squelches through the mud, deciding he wants to touch the big tree.  

Draco’s eyes remain on the floor, not wanting to see the furious look on Snape’s face. 

“You think it’s brave to strike when another wizard’s back is turned?”

“No, but...I saw him and it seemed...it was...I thought he’d just...wander around and make friends with the trees,” Malfoy says, waving his hand in the air, “I didn’t know this was going to happen!”

McGonagall finally jumps in, creaking forward in her chair. “So you admit that you went out of your way to find and deliberately attack a fellow student?”

“...Potter deserved it,” he says to his feet, knowing it’s a lie.

“And since when do you have the right to decide what Mr Potter does or does not deserve? I suppose when you look at him now, you believe that he deserves to look like that?” she says, her tone severe and strict. Amid his own seething anger, Snape is momentarily stunned; he hasn’t seen her so irate in a long while.

Malfoy gulps and continues to keep his attention on the purple woven carpet. Abruptly, Snape stands and snaps, “Come here.” For a moment, Malfoy is sceptical. “Now,” Snape barks and there’s barely time for Draco to move before Snape steps forwards and pulls him up by his collar. Ignoring the boy’s yelps and protests, Snape drags him out into the infirmary and begins heaving him towards Harry’s bedside. 

Getting closer to Harry, Draco pales to a new shade of white. Though warmed up, Harry’s body still shivers lightly under the covers and the odd, faint whimper escapes his lips. Noticing Draco’s discomfort, McGonagall feels that, despite her urge to let the boy suffer as a consequence of his foolishness, she has to step in.

“Severus,” she warns, giving him a disapproving look. Snape simply grunts before releasing his hold on the boy’s robes.

“You will come back and apologise when Mr Potter comes around. If he comes around,” he adds gravely for effect, but only serves to remind himself of the truth – that Harry’s still not completely out of the woods. “Go back to your dormitory. We will speak about punishments tomorrow.”

And Draco gives a sheepish, “Yes, Professor,” before hurriedly escaping the infirmary.

Quietly, both professors make their way back to Poppy’s office and drop into their chairs, looking thoroughly exhausted.

“Mr Malfoy must be the only person ever to leave the infirmary looking sicker than when he came in,” Snape muses out loud.

McGonagall sighs, glancing briefly at Snape. “He did seem very shaken by Potter’s appearance. I do not doubt that this was an accident, Severus, but whether he meant to cause harm or not, Mr Malfoy has been very reckless with his magic. I trust you will discuss it with him?”

Snape nods. “Though I assume you too will approach Potter on his truancy? It seems he neglected to go to any of his afternoon classes.”

Ungrateful little...   

“I shall be having words with Mr Potter when he’s better...he has been strangely quiet of late... I should like to know what he was doing outside all afternoon.”

Indeed...

Lost in their own thoughts, they’re suddenly alerted when a loud moan reverberates throughout the infirmary, followed by a strangled cry. When they see Harry, face tightened into a grimace with what look like tears falling fast from his eyes, neither knows what to do.

“N...no...please...nghh...me...lone...st-st-stop...”

Poppy looks lost. “He opened his eyes, but...but didn’t seem to know what was going on. I was talking to him, but it’s like he doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Surely the Confundus should have worn off by now?” Snape says brow furrowed.

“He’s severely hypothermic. I can’t tell for sure, but this might be less to do with the charm and more down to his condition. Look,” she says, waving a hand in front of Harry’s face, “his eyes are open, but he’s unseeing. I don’t even think he’s truly awake. I don’t know what to do! He should be out of the worst danger by now, but he needs to stay calm.”

“C-can you not give the boy a calming draught?” McGonagall stammers.

“I cannot. His breathing was bad when you brought him in. I don’t want to do anything to compromise that.”

“Draught of Peace,” Snape blurts out, staring up at Poppy. “It should calm him down, but it’s not a respiratory depressant and it won’t induce sleep. In essence, his current condition as severe as it is, it should simply wear him out.”

Without a word, Poppy scurries to her Potions store and picks out a vial.

“...ge’off...le...le’go...”

Professor McGonagall can barely look. They watch as Harry attempts to hide his face, but finds his arms unwilling to cooperate, so instead he tries to turn and bury his head in his pillow, and Snape finds himself moving forward to stop the boy rolling out of bed. Instinct. It surprises even himself.

“OK,” Poppy says running back, “please, Severus, hold his head still.” Snape places a firm hand on Harry’s head and uses the other to open his mouth. Harry moans even louder, trying to twist away, but Snape simply tightens his grip.

“Down the hatch,” Poppy mumbles. Some of the blue liquid seeps out of the corner of Harry’s mouth, but Snape simply tips Harry’s head back further until the boy manages to swallow.

Almost instantly, his body relaxes into the bed and with half-open eyes, he stops struggling. It’s like the energy has been sucked out of him like blood through a needle.

No energy to move.

No energy to speak.

No energy to think.

No energy to hold up the glamours anymore...