Swift impressions fill tiny eyes. Warm golden light radiates down from the big blue, wind ruffling the all-encompassing fuzz as the tiny wings flutter frantically, little legs swinging wildly, weighted by their precious pollen sacs. Hazy blurs pass for so long and it waits to unload its bounty in its buzzing, humming home before it is once again flying with purpose. Flower to frost-bitten flower it tumbles, over petals it fumbles and slowly, slowly, everything comes together once more.

Only it doesn't. Pain. Pain from thorns. Thorny flowers, so needlessly defensive. And it is stuck; and it pulls and twists but pain, pain, pain. Thin, so thin, shredding. Wings make a sound like tearing paper when they rip. Ragged tissue and membrane float in pieces, nerve endings screaming.

Heavy body falling, falling through hazy wintry blurs.

Harry tripped down the last three steps, barely catching himself against the frigid, rough-hewn stones of the castle's exterior walls. He breathed out a cloud of miniscule ice crystals, relieved he had avoided landing face first in the blanket of glittering white laid out before him. Untouched and sparkling.

He was the only Gryffindor to stay for Christmas this year and one of only seven students in total to have free run of the school. Some of the Professors had left as well to visit family or friends, although enough remained behind that the students were still outnumbered significantly. The other children left behind were all older than Harry, the next youngest being a Hufflepuff third year. They would clump together in the draughty halls or wander the grounds or huddle in their common rooms by the fire. The castle was silent.

Harry had never much minded being alone, he was too used to loneliness for it to afflict him with anything worse than an ache he carried in his chest. Having friends and a routine that meant being involved in the hustle and bustle of school life, so joyously familiar, had left him feeling cold and pained in its absence. And there was so little in the way of distraction. His booted feet crunched in the snow and Harry looked back at the prints he was leaving, mind and eyes wide for anything of interest; anything at all that might stoke his curiosity.

He absently wandered closer to the Forbidden Forest, attracted to the mystery and strangeness. Walking along the tree line, hand idly running across calloused bark as he passed, he took in the unusual plants sitting so innocuously amongst those he was familiar with. He paused at one; an odd mix of Venus Flytrap and Honeysuckle, its spiny leaves swaying against the breeze. Another that struck him as odd was an untamed rose bush – well, he assumed it was, it looked rather like one and wasn't moving independently. It grew wildly upwards, hoisted by low lying tree branches and other unfortunate plants it was slowly smothering.

Harry thought it was beautiful, so much more alive and free than any of the over manicured specimens his Aunt liked to force him to weed and trim back to brutal extremes. Despite the icy ground and arctic wind, resilient dusky pink buds were opening to the sun and Harry wondered if it was magic after all or just able to flower wherever it wanted because not even the frigid temperature was stopping it.

With a small smile he nearly continued onwards with his trek along the tree-line but looking down he became distracted. There was something small and moving – twitching about beneath the roses. Harry knelt, knees soaking the snow up through his clock and trousers, and uncovered a squirming, fuzzy little body. He quickly pulled his frozen fingers away, not wanting to be stung, but the bee clearly wasn't very interested in stinging him; it was still squirming fitfully.

His curious little index finger wilfully stroked the bee's body so lightly the fuzz he felt may have been imagined. The bee stopped wiggling, stilling completely as Harry cautiously plucked it up by its middle, barely avoiding its flailing stinger. He murmured to it a litany of soft nonsense until the bee just hung from his fingers and he could clearly see its wings – tattered and hanging from it like Harry's ripped t-shirts hung from him until he was half-naked and his Aunt grudgingly tossed him another of Dudley's old shirts to replace it with. He could imagine how vulnerable the little bee felt.

Carefully he slid it to sit in his open palm and would've sworn it was studying him as cautiously as he was studying it. Both spent lifetimes evaluating the other, both steadily coming to the conclusion that they wouldn't be harmed by the other as long as they were careful. Harry stood from his crouch, his knees aching and frosted with dirt and ice.

Cupping the little bumblebee in both hands made walking back to the castle a difficult task as he attempted (unsuccessfully) to avoid the inevitable knee-deep plunges into the snow when he stumbled across a snowdrift or tripped over a hidden obstacle. He didn't consider how he may have appeared to anyone watching from an upper window as he fumbled his way back to the comparative warmth of the castle, balancing without the use of his hands. Somehow managing with minimal spills and a lot of ice crusted on his lower half – and somehow in his hair – Harry half-fell through the large oak doors and into the significantly less draughty entrance hall.

Once inside he paused, unsure of where next to take the bee. Looking down at his cupped hands he realised quickly that he was unlikely to receive much help in his decision from his new friend. He turned his head this way and that, looking for direction, and he felt icy water drip down his neck from the movement as excess snow was dislodged from his hair.

"Mr Potter."

Harry spun and his feet nearly slid out from under him at the sound of the deep baritone and the admonishment it held.

"Is it too much to expect that a first year would have the common decency to use a towel to dry themselves instead of shaking off like a wet dog?"

Harry's cheeks burned at the vaguely disgusted look Professor Snape's black eyes held as they examined him and he fidgeted, wiggling his fingers to relieve the prickling ache that holding them in such a position for so long was causing them. Snape, unfortunately, noticed the movement.

"And what, pray tell, are you hiding? Something contraband no doubt." Snape strode forward, his piercing eyes now directed upon Harry's cupped hands.

Harry had the strange impression that the man could see straight through his skin to the fuzzy being he cradled protectively. As Snape came closer Harry lifted his hands and moved them slightly, almost unconsciously away as if to hide the bee from him. As if it would be so easy. The scathing and – dare he think it? – amused look he received for the movement made him still so that when his professor was looming over him he was able to see between Harry's fingers unfettered.

If the man was surprised he hid it well, though Harry still had the impression he was.

"Drop that bug at once Mr Potter, before it stings you. Do you always chase injury when boredom strikes? I'm sure I could find something more productive for you to do," Snape said as he moved to break open the bee's fleshy cage with his own hands, perhaps intent on brushing the bee to the ground. Harry just knew those big black boots that managed to sound so menacing when Snape swooped around the castle were itching to stomp the life out of the only friend he'd found over his Christmas break.

Potter's hands tightened instinctively and Snape paused, his pale, long-fingered hand outstretched mid-air as he surveyed the boy's face which was so rigidly attempting to remain impassive. It wasn't working very well and Snape didn't like the reminder of James Potter his son was presenting with his face full of defiance. Out of sheer irritation he opened his mouth to speak – to say something positively vicious brought on more by resurfacing memories than Potter Junior's petty contrary behaviour – when he saw it. Potter's chin was quivering very slightly. On closer inspection Snape could see that he was biting the inside of his cheek. There wasn't just defiance in the boy's eyes; there was something desperate there too. Interesting.

He had a feeling that had he not been so mind-numbingly bored from the silence of the castle he would not have bothered. He would likely have just walked away. As it was...

Harry watched Snape warily when the man retracted his hand. That was odd. It made Harry wonder if perhaps his Professor was seconds away from doing something worse than trying to get the bee away from him. Snape looked at him speculatively for a while; a while longer than Harry would have liked to be under that penetrating gaze that often made him jumpy in class. Snape spun on the spot, startling Harry, and his footfalls seemed heavier than usual in the heavy silence of the cavernous hall as he strode towards the stairs that would take him down to his dungeons.

"Follow me Potter," Snape called over his shoulder and Harry looked longingly at the great staircase that would have lead him to the safety of Gryffindor tower in another life before sighing dispiritedly and following Snape downstairs.

The man's office was creepy to say the least; animals and insects and plants of all kinds floated in glass jars surrounded by murky fluids and Harry could have sworn some of them were looking at him. Snape motioned to the hard wooden chair facing his desk as he divested himself of his heavy black cloak revealing more impenetrable black beneath.

"Sit."

Still adrift as to why he was even here, Harry gaped at him first and Snape made the same motion with his hand again, sharper this time. Using his feet, hands still occupied – quite literally – Harry pushed the chair back from the desk, wincing when it screeched and catching the impatient look Snape sent him at his hesitation. Squeezing in between the chair and desk he awkwardly pulled himself up by his elbows, hands never leaving their cupped position. He looked up in time to see Snape rolling his eyes. The man leant forward on the desk, giving him a look that Harry was sure the creatures around him had seen before being dropped into their jars.

"So what is it, Mr Potter, that has you so reluctant to let go of this insect that could at any moment sting you? Do you even know if you are allergic to beestings? I assume you don't."

Harry gazed blankly back. He had no idea. He supposed he wasn't, considering the other stings and bites he'd had in the past that hadn't produced anything more significant that slight pain and red bumps or rashes. His Aunt had never seemed overly worried so he hadn't thought much of it.

Snape sighed and Harry bit his lip; he knew Snape hated non-answers from Potions and the numerous times he'd had no answer to a question he'd been asked. Blank faces and 'I dunnos' tended to make for an irritable, impatient Potions Master but this time seemed to be the exception because Snape simply stood and went to the small fireplace in the corner.

A miniscule pinch of powder went flying into the grate and Snape muttered into the floo to a faceless someone before pulling his head back and regarding Harry once more. Harry shifted awkwardly with his hands still cupped in his lap. He didn't like the constant scrutiny the man always seemed to have him under, even when he hadn't done anything. It made him feel like Snape knew more about him than Harry could possibly guess. Like he could read his mind or knew things about him that even he didn't.

As if he realised the source of Harry's discomfort – and cared – Snape's eyes moved to the jars over Harry's head, examining each one as if looking for something. Harry relaxed once the spotlight moved away from him, not noticing Snape still watching him and his reaction from his peripheral vision.

Long moments passed in silence and Harry still had no idea what he was doing here. Snape seemed to be procrastinating, though Harry had never known the man to do anything without reason. As if in agreeance the man was suddenly striding across the room and out the door leaving Harry in complete stillness on his own in the creepy office. Without the use of his hands. Perfect.

He listened for a second but couldn't detect Snape at all and was fairly sure he would hear it when the man's heavily booted feet strode back down the hall. He squirmed out of his chair and walked around the room in a circle to get the feeling back into his legs. Lifting his hands to his face he peeked between his fingers to look at the bee. It had been mostly still up to this point but was currently weaving over the ridges and into the dips created by his bunched fingers and the tiny legs tickled his hands making him smile.

He was distracted enough that when a tea service appeared with a sudden pop on Snape's desk he was so startled he yelped. But nothing else happened and, intrigued, Harry trotted to the other side of the desk to see what was on the tray. A steaming pot, a plate of biscuits and two aged, ornate teacups sitting in saucers were laid out. Harry's mind began working overtime to figure out who the other cup was for considering one must be for Snape. Not only that but why was it here at all? Had Snape ordered it? But then why would he have left?

The smell of the tea and the sight of the variety of biscuits – who would have thought Snape liked chocolate chips? – were reminding Harry that he had skipped lunch. It was hard to summon an appetite when there was no one to eat with. He licked his lips and crept forward. Perhaps... perhaps he could have just one. Would Snape notice? But then, he didn't have the use of his hands so he couldn't get one anyway. He looked back at the door and listened hard but there were no sounds from beyond. Maybe he could put the bee down. Just for a second.

He moved forward and stood on his toes to place the bee on the deeply grooved surface of the oak desk before thinking better of it. The bee couldn't fly but it might not realise and if it got too close to the edge...

He looked around the room for a moment before his eyes settled on the teacups. No tea had been poured so they were empty and presumably dry. The sides were high enough that the bee would probably be unable to crawl out and it would just be for a moment. Harry already knew which biscuit to grab to make it look like he hadn't disturbed the tray at all, and he didn't know how long Snape would keep him here for. The man would never know he had taken his food or used the cup.

Very carefully, Harry transferred the bee to one hand and pulled the teacup closer with the other. Even moving as slow as he was the bee still tumbled gracelessly to the bottom of the cup where it crouched. Harry had wondered if he would have difficulty 're-capturing' his newest friend but maybe the bee was happy with Harry? He didn't seem to want to escape. Nevertheless Harry cautiously tipped the cup slightly from side to side to make sure the lack of movement coming from the bee really was just docility or weariness. When the bee wobbled slightly and shuffled its little legs he breathed a sigh of relief and placed the cup in its saucer.

Feeling very mischievous, Harry reached for the biscuit he'd been eyeing, only to pull his hand back as if burned when he heard the tell-tale footsteps outside the door. He only had time to turn his head towards the sound before the door was opening and Snape was striding through, shrewd eyes taking in everything in a heartbeat.

"Finally relinquished your bug Potter?"

Harry almost groaned at Snape's timing. His stomach decided to go ahead anyway and growled loudly into the silence. Already feeling caught out by his location – standing on the wrong side of Snape's desk and perilously close to the man's tea service – Harry drew into himself at the sound of his empty stomach and waited for a tongue lashing. He was surprised he only received a passing glance from Snape who seemed remarkably impassive over the whole thing, especially considering how many times Harry had received detention for breathing wrong (in his opinion anyway). Snape waved a careless hand at the tea and biscuits as he sat himself behind his desk.

"Go ahead, I didn't order the chocolate for myself," Snape said, as if it were obvious. Harry gaped at the offer as much as the admission and found himself unable to react further when the man rolled his eyes and reached for a biscuit. At Harry's continued look of disbelief Snape's lips quirked into something that wasn't malicious enough to be a sneer. "That doesn't mean to say I'm impartial to them," he said waving the biscuit between his fingers slightly in the air.

It took longer than Harry would have liked to admit before he regained his composure enough to tentatively reach for and nibble on his own biscuit. The thought didn't occur to him that Snape was rather enjoying seeing his discomfiture brought on by the way his usually dour Professor was acting.

Snape had watched from his quarters, straight through the stone separating him from his office, as Potter had placed the insect with utmost care into the teacup.

He had expected the boy to lunge at the food and drink, having not seen the boy at breakfast or lunch and knowing from experience the voraciousness of the pre-pubescent appetite, especially for anything sweet. It was why he ordered chocolate-chip.

Instead he had watched as the eleven-year-old had crept around his office as if waiting to be caught out at any moment doing something he shouldn't be. It briefly made Snape wonder what he was planning until he realised that the boy was just wary of being caught out of his chair. When the tea service appeared he seemed so shocked that Snape had to wonder if the boy even knew about the house elves. When Harry inspected the tray inquisitively, Snape had to ask himself if he had ever truly observed the boy without the expectation, the preconception of misbehaviour that just seemed so obvious when it came to this boy.

When he watched Harry so very carefully tip the bee into the teacup – a gentle, somewhat selfless move he had not expected to see that spoke of Harry's belief he would not be having any tea himself – and then breathe a sigh of relief over what Snape guessed was the reassurance that the bee was still alive and hadn't been crushed with the boy's prolonged handling of it, he had to wonder if he had ever been so reminded of his childhood friend so much as he was in that second. Sighing to himself he made his way back to his office.

The boy was alone on Christmas break; the youngest in the castle by two years and lonely enough that a flightless bee had been enough to gain his defiant protection in the face of sense and authority. Time for a talk, Snape thought to himself.

Harry nibbled on his biscuit with care – one hand beneath to catch stray crumbs – and warily kept his eyes on Snape; though he couldn't bring himself to meet the man's eyes as they stared unrelentingly back.

"You have not been eating."

The statement was met with silence. Harry occupied himself with his snack and pretended he wasn't affected. Or startled. Or suddenly very nervous. He also pretended not to see Snape's eyes narrow.

"Would you mind explaining why?" the man asked silkily, though not dangerously, Harry noticed; the way he might have before today. Harry shrugged and for all of two seconds Snape looked ready to pursue the topic like Ripper with a bone, before sighing and, remarkably, changing the subject. Harry tried to keep his eyes in their sockets.

"What do you intend to do with your bee?"

Harry nearly shrugged again but he no longer had a mouthful of biscuit and there was no reason to be rude when Snape was being so... un-Snape-ish.

"I don't know, Sir." Snape arched an eyebrow. "Its wings are torn up and it was lying in the snow, I couldn't just leave it there so I thought..." Harry trailed off in his defence. Taking in a bumblebee had been much more logical alone outside in the snow. He waited for Snape to say something scathing but instead his Professor stood and moved to one of the shelves littered with smaller vials. After a brief moment of searching he plucked a square, green bottle about the size of Harry's index finger from amongst the others and brought it back to his desk, setting it between them.

"When a person collects potions ingredients they usually have to be very precise to avoid damaging the more delicate specimens. There are many potions that call for the use of insect's wings and they are almost impossible not to tear no matter how careful one is. Thus there is a potion for the potion ingredient; made specifically to repair delicate tissues with minimum alteration to the natural specimen, though it does tend to leave a tinge of gold from the mineral-heavy chemical compound in the potion's base."

Harry, who had wanted to snatch the bee and run at the mention of insect wings as potions ingredients – this was, after all, a man who he had been convinced wouldn't bat an eye at using errant students in potions, purely for the joy of slicing and dicing them – felt, by the end of Snape's speech, that he must be missing the point. Was Snape offering what he thought?

"Sir?"

Snape observed Harry for another moment but broke the silence again just as Harry wanted to squirm in his seat.

"I do not know why you are not eating adequately." Harry's eyebrows scrunched together as he tried to understand the non-sequitur but Snape continued. "I am inclined to believe it is by choice and possibly due to the current circumstances but if it becomes something to worry about I trust that you will come to me immediately so that I can resolve the issue."

Snape observed Harry once more and Harry got the impression he was being weighed up, as if Snape was deciding whether he could trust Harry with this directive. He understood why when Snape continued.

"If I give you this," here he tapped the dusty jade bottle between them with one long finger, "I would like an assurance that you will try your best to eat sufficiently three times a day. And I will know if you do not. Do we have a deal?" Snape held out the bottle by its stopper.

Harry took his time to think, obviously surprising Snape by considering and not jumping in impulsively, though Harry didn't know how he knew Snape was surprised, he just knew. It wasn't like the man ever gave anything away.

"Why do you care how much I eat?" Harry asked, pure confusion in his voice and eyebrows scrunched once more.

"You are a student at this school Mr Potter. It is my job to ensure your health and wellbeing."

Harry really tried not to show any signs of amusement. It wasn't just that this man had hated him, quite obviously and for all to see, from the second he'd seen him; it was the idea that this man wanted to 'ensure his health and wellbeing' when this time yesterday Harry would have laughed at the idea that Snape wanted anything other than the obliteration of children worldwide. Despite trying very, very hard to keep his face blank – not as easy as his professor made it look – his lips twitched and his eyes danced. He expected his reaction to incur the sudden return of scary, mean, menacing Snape but to his shock Snape seemed to somehow read his thoughts and, wonder of wonders, find the concept equally as funny if the curl of his mouth was anything to go by.

"No matter how incredible the notion may seem, I assure you I am telling the truth."

Harry was astonished to hear what he thought may have been laughter in Snape's voice. Harry nodded after a moment and reached out to take the bottle but paused with his hand in mid air. Snape waited patiently.

"Do you collect your own ingredients sir?"

Snape's face was, as ever, a mask but one brow inched slightly upwards in curiosity.

"I do."

"Oh." Harry bit his lip, hand still outstretched. "Do you need to collect some more anytime soon?"

"Take the potion Mr Potter, while I retrieve another teacup."

Swift impressions fill tiny eyes. Warm golden light radiates down from the big blue, wind ruffling the all-encompassing fuzz as the tiny wings flutter frantically, little legs swinging wildly, weighted by their precious pollen sacs.

It has memories of pain now. Of ice and snow on all sides. Of stone. Of skin. It remembers the warmth and gentleness of the large being that had cared for it, that had dropped strange liquid on tattered wings that burned and fused and remoulded tissue. It remembers porcelain; the cool, oddly patterned smoothness of its temporary home as its wings reformed and mended. It remembers the day it could lift itself into the air once more, the freedom forever sweeter because it knew what it was to be without it.

It passes over flowers and between trees, gold glinting from flickering wings in the sun; the sun that was steadily melting the remaining icicles that clung stubbornly to the undersides of shaded leaves. Fluttering with the butterflies and dancing with the mayflies, it soars through the light and dark of dappled sunlight and spies, as it usually does, the familiar sight of the Gentle One who helped it. He crouches and buzzes animatedly beside the Dark One and together they fill their pollen sacs.

Hazy blurs pass for so long and it waits to unload its bounty in its buzzing, humming home before it is once again flying with purpose. Flower to newly-budded flower it tumbles, over petals it fumbles and slowly, slowly, everything comes together once more.