As it turned out, flooing was ten times harder when you did it with another person.

Harry was back in Snape's rooms now, his medicine drip still safely connected to his IV port. Remus had had to leave about a half and hour ago, taking the warm comfortableness Harry had felt for the first time since he'd moved in there.

Currently, he was back in his bed, the dull ache in his lower back fading to a distant memory every time he pressed the little button that distributed his pain relieving medicine.

He didn't like the fuzzy feeling the medicine gave him, nor the weird cloud-like fluffiness that coated his mind and scrambled his thoughts. But it did numb the pain in his back, so that made it marginally better.

Harry rolled from one side to the other, tugging his blankets tighter around his shoulders as he stared at the loo door. White fluff surrounded Harry, carrying him far and away... From his bed, from Snape's quarters... Hogwarts, Earth...

He snored as he slept.

It wasn't until the next day, when he could properly sit up with only little discomfort, that the tension became apparent. The floo trip back to the separated room in the Hospital Wing was awkward, what with Snape holding his arm in a vice grip, and Harry clutching the slim silver IV pole, (which was shrunken so that it might fit into the fireplace).

But that hadn't been where the tension lay. Instead, oddly enough, it was between Malfoy and Snape, both of whom had been exchanging tight-lipped looks and short, clipped comments. Harry supposed something must have happened while he was out. He wondered what Malfoy or Snape might have said to irk the other.

He would probably never find out, reasoned Harry as he shook Snape's arm off and made his way to sit on the sofa. The neatly made bed in the opposite corner was tempting, but Harry figured he might as well sit up straight while he had the chance.

Snape sat in an armchair on his right, Malfoy, (after arriving through the floo without a speck of ash on him) sat stiffly in the chair on his left. Harry dragged the toe of his right trainer back and forth across the grain of the carpet, yawning as he waited.

"Did you finish your summer assignments, Draco?"

Back to the stilted politeness. Harry yawned again, leaning an elbow on the armrest on his side of the sofa and resting his chin in his upturned palm.

Malfoy's lips twisted around the edges, "No."

Harry's eyes flickered towards Snape to gauge his reaction. The same tightening around the mouth, the line between dark eyebrows, the muscle that jumped in his jaw. Harry turned his hand so that his fingers hid the slight smile that tugged at his own lips. He'd seen that face on Snape before, only he usually saw it right before Snape would lay into him about this, that, or the other.

It was gratifying -more gratifying than Harry was willing to admit- to see Snape and Malfoy in a 'sort of' tiff about something. A savage pleasure that came from years of watching Snape favor Malfoy and despise him, even if he, Harry, had done absolutely nothing to be put at fault. With the exception of last year, all other loath-Snape related things were done merely in self-defence.

"Time dwindles," Snape was saying, that rogue muscle in his jaw still twitching, "Such a shame it would be for you to start out the year with failing grades."

Malfoy's hands tightened into fists on the arms of his chair, but he said nothing.

Is this how Slytherins argue? Harry wondered. A few strangled comments and tensed muscles? Would this be labeled as discretion or bottling things up?

Harry didn't have any more time to wonder though, because green flames had erupted in the fireplace, emitting Healer Beesely, Healer Hemmingway, and Dumbledore, one after the other.

He sighed as he stood, barely returning the smiles and greetings from the pair of healers and his headmaster. Once more, a curtain was erected between the two halves of the room, leaving Harry isolated from everyone but his healers.

What Harry now knew would be a permanent routine, took place. First, temperature check, second, blood test, third, a million questions about how he felt. It was tiring to say the least.

Apparently, it was imperative that he check his temperature everyday. In order for them to start the cancer treatments, both his blood and his temperature had to be perfect... Well, as far as figuring out what they were talking about went.

It was hard to understand mostly, but Dumbledore had sat next to him the entire time the healers went on about it. So had Snape, though that didn't matter. Harry trusted Dumbledore with his life, if he had any questions (which he most certainly did), he would ask Dumbledore.

0000

The matter of finding a 'suitable, discreet, and trustworthy' oncologist was left in Dumbledore's hands at the end of the check up.

It wasn't until then that Harry remembered. No one knew he had cancer... No one was supposed to know. The realization that he wouldn't be going back to school really struck him then. He'd known it all along really, but he just hadn't thought far enough ahead to consider it... what it would be like.

Now his mind, finally clear of drugs and Voldemort worries, had immediately whizzed to Ron and Hermione. Neither of whom had he written to since his birthday. He missed them. Even the constant bickering, if that made any sense.

Harry bumped his heels against the side of his bed, barely noticing the metal reverberating loudly each time he hit it.

When would he see Ron and Hermione again?

Somehow the two of them visiting him at Snape's didn't seem too probable. Neither did leaving the dungeons to see them, for that matter.

He kicked his leg out again, this time with a considerable amount of effort; his heel hit the metal bed frame harder... Hard enough to hurt... Hard enough to snap him out of his musing to see the healers, Dumbledore, Snape, and Malfoy all staring at him.

He flushed, averting his eyes and stilling his legs.

A weight settled beside him on the bed, and Harry looked up to see Healer Hemmingway smiling at him. He returned the smile, though his was more of a half-grimace.

"It can be a bit much, yeah?" She bumped him with her shoulder, rocking him to the side as she jerked her head towards Dumbledore, Snape, and Healer Beesely.

Harry shrugged, emitting a noncommittal grunt.

She smiled again, and Harry realised her eyes were almost as crystal blue as Dumbledore's...they sort of twinkled too, now that he thought about it.

"I spend a lot of time with kids who have cancer, most of them younger than you," she said, her tone nonchalant, "Some of them are about your age though, they all say the hardest part is learning all the medical terms, and keeping track of their temperatures..."

"I guess so," muttered Harry, not sure what else to say. Why was she telling him this stuff anyway? Was it a, 'Hey, I know it's hard, but all these other people have got it just as bad!' sort of thing?

"It's a good thing you've got the Headmaster, your aunt, and your Professor to look out for you, takes some of the responsibility off your shoulders."

What?

Snape...look out for him? It was laughable. The only looking out Snape did was on nightly patrols of the corridors, undoubtedly hoping to catch kissing couples or Harry under his dad's cloak.

Harry chuckled aloud at the very thought of it.

Healer Hemmingway frowned a little. Harry swallowed the last of his chortles.

"Miss- er, Healer-" he stammered, unsure of how to address her.

"Oh, Lord, you don't have to title me," she protested, "My first name's Margaret, but I prefer Maggie... Don't know what my parents were thinking when they saddled me with such a boring name." She sighed resignedly, mouth tipping to one side in a lopsided grin. A small smile tugged at the corner of Harry's lips.

"Oh, you can call me Harry..." He fidgeted awkwardly, "Snape and I, we, -er- , don't get along very well.. so, I wouldn't exactly call this," he jerked his head in Snape's direction, "looking out for. He just does it because he has to."

Margaret's lips pursed as she thought about Harry's reply.

"Well, I'm not sure I agree, but you've still got your aunt, -Petunia, was it?- and the headmaster."

Her attempt to cheer him up worked, if only a little. Something about her voice, and the way she completely focused on Harry as she spoke, prompted him into speech.

"Yeah," replied Harry, "My Aunt Petunia and I, we never got along much either, but something changed this summer... I think Dumbledore might let her visit sometimes. Before term starts, that is."

"I'm sure she'd love that."

Harry glanced down at his toes, "Yeah..." he said slowly.

"Do you have any questions?" asked Margaret after a pause, "You must be the most quiet patient I've ever seen to."

Laughter coloured her words; Harry cracked a grin.

They sat in silence for awhile, Harry kicking his feet out in front of him whenever the feeling struck. It wasn't awkward. It was just... sitting.

Harry felt like he didn't need to say anything. Like conversation wasn't important when another person sat next to you.

He hadn't realised it, but somehow, Margaret had lifted his spirits (if only a bit), and he felt... not better. But maybe... less... less of whatever he'd been feeling before. If that made any sense.

Harry swung his feet, biting his bottom lip as he watched Snape, Dumbledore, and Healer Beesley conversing. Conversing about him. Deciding his fate, he mused, somewhat dramatically. A sense of detachment stole over him, and it was almost as though he didn't mind.

Didn't mind that he hardly had any say in where his life was going.

Thinking about it now, Harry thought that maybe, possibly... Letting this part of him... being sick, living with Malfoy and Snape, maybe it was beyond his control, but that didn't mean he couldn't have opinions.

That didn't mean he, Harry, couldn't construct his own terms of living.

A new resolve. That was it.

And the first thing he wanted to do, for what was surely the first time in his life, Harry wanted to visit his relatives. With the exception of a certain horrendously obese man, named Vernon Dursley.

"-for potions."

He caught the tail end of Margaret's sentence. "Sorry?" He looked up from his trainers, where his eyes had been fixed as his mind wandered, "I didn't catch that first bit." He shrugged apologetically.

Margaret waved it aside, "I was just saying how I had Professor Snape for a potions teacher. He isn't the nicest man, I'll admit, but I think there's something rather... mysterious, about him, don't you?"

Mysterious? Snape? The man positively reeked of secrecy and guile.

Again, Harry shrugged, "I dunno much about him... I guess. I mean, I found out from my aunt a couple days ago that she, my mum, and Snape used to live close to each other as kids... I've known Snape since I was eleven and he never said anything about it."

Why was he telling her this?

Perhaps it was because she was talking to him. To being the operating word. Margaret was talking to him. Not at him. And talking, not commanding or demanding.

So maybe that was why Harry was talking to her the way he'd normally talk to Ron and Hermione.

"Maybe your aunt knows more about it," said Margaret cheerily, then she bent closer to Harry and whispered, "What if there's some sort of grand scandal!"

Harry turned enough so that she could see his skeptical expression, "I doubt it," he told her, though he noted that it did nothing to dim the bright smile she now wore, "They probably just came to Hogwarts, got sorted into different houses, and decided not to speak to one another anymore."

That, and Snape had called his mother a mudblood.

But Harry saw no reason to tell her that... a comment like that would lead to questions about how he'd found out at all.

Margaret opened her mouth, no doubt to spout a ridiculously dramatised theory about Snape's background, but her words never passed her lips.

The sound of a throat clearing brought both Harry and Margaret out of their private conversation.

"If you are ready, Mr. Potter?"

Harry made a face at Snape's snide tone; Margaret let out a sound that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a cough. He grinned at her.

0000

Four walls. One floor. A gazillion books. A thousand flagstones. Whirling orbs of light. Ticking grandfather clock. Four fingers tapping against a table. Breaths coming out as sighs.

Time. Walls. Floor. Books. Stones. Light. Movement. Breathing.

Words.

Words... spinning through his head. Twirling around in his mind. Comforting him... Mocking him.

But he can't do anything. Not a damned thing.

And it was driving him absolutely mad.

A frustrated groan sounded from across the hall. Apparently, Draco wasn't the only one who was losing it.

He stood from his desk, crossing the floor to shut his door.

Potter's whinging wasn't something he felt like hearing at the moment... or ever.

Merlin.

As if Potter had anything to be whining about. So he was sick... and?

It wasn't as though he'd be sick forever. Draco didn't see why they had to go through all this trouble the bloody idiot in the first place. He glared at the potions text sitting on his desk. Snape was an idiot too. A damned fool. Didn't he see that the Dark Lord would murder all of those who weren't loyal to him?

Draco saw.

He was scared. It would be stupid to pretend that he wasn't. Not that he would let anyone else see his fear. Admitting it to himself was simply a step in realizing how deep in he was in all this war-mess.

And that was why he was here. Sitting at this desk. Pretending to be doing potions homework. When really -really- a missive he'd just finished writing weighed heavily in the pocket of his trousers, waiting for a chance to be sent.

The cold sweat that broke out on his forehead from time to time was ignored.

The shaking of his fingers as well.

After all, he didn't want to betray Severus. He had to. There was no other choice.

Telling the Dark Lord about Severus and Potter, and this whole mess, maybe... maybe that was his ticket back in. His father would be proud. Draco knew he would.

That was the important thing. Staying alive. And making his father proud.

His mother would be proud too. Would have been.

Draco abandoned his desk chair for his bed, trembling.

He felt sick with it sometimes. Not sometimes. All the time.

It played over and over in his head at night. Twisting and turning in his nightmares.

Her body, limp and lifeless.

A bright flash of green.

His own warbling scream.

Draco pulled the blankets up over his body, breathing harshly through his mouth. He closed his eyes, trying futilely to dispel the images.. the sounds... the memory.

His chest felt heavy, weighed down, compressed.

It choked him. The guilt. Chipped away at him. Piece by piece.

The letter in his pocket crinkled as he rolled onto his side, and curled his knees to his chest.

He could set it right.

He would set it right.

Then... when it was all done... then he wouldn't despise himself.

Right?

0000

Harry's hand was beginning to ache from all the letter writing.

Aunt Petunia, Remus, Hermione, and Ron.

It was still a little weird writing to Aunt Petunia, but there had been an empty space where Sirius should have been... having Aunt Petunia there to fill it made him hurt a tiny bit less.

Writing to Ron and Hermione involved more creative editing than anything else. They'd notice, of course... that he'd left things out. Or, Hermione would, and she'd tell Ron.

But Harry wasn't sure if he could tell them anything yet. Not about the cancer, and definitely not about living in the dungeons. That one he knew for certain.

Snape would kill him if he even thought about trying.

Snape would know he'd thought about it too. Harry scowled and dropped his quill, leaning back in his chair as he popped each of his knuckles, dutifully avoiding the abandoned essay to the left of his desk.

He'd just ask Hermione-

Oh... right.

He wasn't going back to school. At least, not for a while yet.

What was he going to do?

Banging about down here while Snape and Malfoy went up to ground level whenever they pleased.

Could it be any worse?

No. Well, yes.

Voldemort.

Harry sighed, pushing back from the desk in his room to stumble tiredly toward his bed. So sleepy... all the time. Just flat out tired, and a little feverish, and... itchy?

He scratched the spot on his stomach, just below his rib cage.

This happened before, he reminded himself, as he tried not to tear at his skin.

Maybe a shower would help.

He got up, perhaps a little too quickly because his head spun and he swayed on his feet. Maybe he'd just wet a cloth and put it on his stomach instead, otherwise he might fall down or something.

Harry returned to bed feeling marginally better, his stomach still itched, but it didn't feel like his skin was on fire anymore. Shifting, Harry punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape, settling down to sleep away the exhaustion he so often felt. Just as his eyes were closing, he heard it. A door creaking.

He sat bolt upright.

Harry retrieved his wand from where he'd placed it beneath his pillow and slid from his bed. He crept to the door, peeking out into the hall before he leaving his bedroom.

Harry froze, his back pressed to the cool flagstones and his wand clutched tightly in his sweaty hand.

Malfoy stood in front of the fireplace, sparkly green powder trickling from his fisted right hand.

Harry stepped into the sitting room, watching as Malfoy stepped into fireplace, fist raised and mouth open. His mouth moved before his brain could.

"Stop! What the hell are you doing, you idiot?"

Malfoy jumped, accidentally dropping the handful of floo powder. He went up in green flames, coughing and sputtering.

What happened next went so fast, it's all a blur in Harry's mind.

One second Malfoy was flooing to Merlin knew where, and the next, he's sprawled out on the rug in the sitting room, hacking like Mundungus Fletcher after he smokes his pipe.

Edging nearer to the sofa, Harry stands just off to the side of the armrest, staring down at Malfoy who is trying to cough up to soot he inhaled and get off the floor. He could help the prat, but that would put him at a disadvantage. Malfoy could easily overpower him if it came to a hand to hand scuffle. Harry hated to admit it, but he had lost a lot of weight, (and with it, muscle) since he got sick.

The wand in his hand won't be much use, either. Harry had already decided he'd only do magic if it was an emergency. If Malfoy tried to curse him, then yes, he would hex the little idiot to Kings Cross and back, (hopefully it wouldn't do him too much damage).

Malfoy had managed to sit up, still wheezing, his porcelain face smudged with ash. He glared up at Harry as though it were his fault the floo spat him out. Harry rolled his eyes and regarded Malfoy with the most scathing look he could muster.

"Trying to escape?" Harry crossed his arms over his chest.

Malfoy scowled, "It's none of your damned business where I go, or what I do, Potter." He stood, brushing off his trousers.

Harry tightened his grip on his wand, just in case.

"I'm pretty sure we aren't supposed to leave the dungeons, Malfoy," said Harry, narrowing his eyes, "Just where were you sneaking off to?"

Malfoy glares but doesn't answer, continuing to pat at his trousers as though Harry isn't worth answering.

Harry would have taken offence, but his eyes catch sight of a piece of parchment sticking out of Malfoy's pocket. Instead of staying back behind the couch, he rounds the piece of furniture, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Snape will know you tried to go somewhere," Harry commented idly, positioning himself on the cushion furthest from Malfoy who scoffed derisively.

"Going to tell on me, Potter?" Malfoy mocked, dropping onto the opposite end of the sofa with an air of nonchalance. "That's pretty pathetic, even for you."

The comment would have bothered Harry a lot more if he hadn't seen the fright in Malfoy's eye when Snape's name was mentioned; that, and the piece of parchment in Malfoy's pocket had wriggled free and dropped onto the sofa cushion.

It took all of Harry's self-control to keep his expression clear and his eyes locked on Malfoy's still-mocking grey ones.

Pushing himself into the corner between the armrest and the back cushions, Harry sneered back at the other boy. "I don't need to tell Snape you tried to leave, this stupid dungeon is probably plastered from floor to ceiling with wards. Besides," he added as an after-thought, "isn't it you that sucks up to the professors? I'm sure Umbridge misses you and your trusty pack of Slytherin cronies."

"Ah yes, wasn't I the one who caught you trying to run away? Knocked you flat on your damn face, didn't I?" Malfoy's hands curled into fists where they rested; one on the armrest, one on the back of the sofa. He looked like he wanted nothing better than to knock Harry flat on his face again.

"Fifth year must have been so upsetting for you," continued Malfoy. But something was different, Harry noticed, Malfoy didn't have the stupid, Yes, my head is shoved so far up my arse I'll never be able to pull it out, look. Harry's eyes narrowed, Malfoy sounded like he was about to drive a particular point straight to where it would hurt most.

"I mean, what with your godfather being murdered because of your own complete idio-"

Harry launched himself at Malfoy, drawing his wand and grasping blonde strands of hair in a fist simultaneously. Then several things happened in the same instant.

One second Harry was screaming obscenities right in Malfoy's shocked face- his wand pressed into the side of his throat-, and the next, he was being dragged by the arm off the other boy, off the sofa, and out of the room.

By none other than Snape himself.