There was one good thing about having the infamous Professor Snape nearly catatonic against your person: every other student steered clear for their own safety.

It made it a lot easier on Harry, that was for sure. Although, he knew, at some point, he was going to have to answer some very awkward questions.

Who cared, though? Getting the professor back into the dungeons was the best course of action. Harry would much rather have the man puking his guts out while in the safety of his quarters. Heads would roll if Professor Snape was seen at his lowest. And Harry wasn’t about to be the instigator of that. No, thank you. He already had enough reasons for his life to be short.

Once Harry and Snape crossed the threshold of the man’s office, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He was still half dragging Snape along, but now they were out of sight of curious eyes. His body was protesting against the extended support it was giving, but Harry pushed through it. When he finally reached the plain wall which held the hidden door to Snape’s quarters, he brushed his hand over the runes.

Harry smiled when the runes responded to his touch. The stone melded into the door and Harry fumbled for the key around his neck. It was difficult with Snape leaning heavily against his side, the man’s hand pressed against his mouth as if he were waiting for the right moment to heave. But Harry managed it and when the door opened, he pulled the man through.

“The couch,” whispered Snape, sounding grim. “Take me to the couch.”

Harry, already planning to do so, obeyed without question. Snape collapsed onto the couch with an exhausted huff. Then, the man leaned his elbows onto his knees, his hands covering his face. The curtain of black hair shielded any view. Harry stood over the man, unsure what to do next.

“Cabinet,” said Snape, hoarse. “In the kitchen. Many vials. Second row from the top, third vial from the left. Bring it to me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, turning away immediately. He chanted the instructions in his mind as he rushed into the kitchen, searching through three cabinets of kitchenware, before finding the cabinet in question. He found the vial and quickly returned to the man’s side.

“Here, sir,” said Harry, holding out the potion. Snape slowly sat up, taking the proffered vial. He popped the stopper and downed the potion in one shot, grimacing slightly afterward. He plugged the stopper and handed it back to Harry, who took it. He waited, once again unsure what to do. When Snape bent back into his hunched position, Harry decided to take the vial back into the kitchen.

After setting the vial on a countertop, Harry came back into the sitting room, internally thankful that the distance between both places wasn’t longer than their imposed length.

“Are you all right now, sir?” asked Harry, tentatively stepping closer.

There was a long inhale, before Snape sat up once again. He looked considerably better than before, but it was obvious he was still affected by flying.

“I will be,” said Snape. His dark eyes studied Harry. “I… appreciate your quick obedience.”

Harry couldn’t hold back the beaming grin. Snape looked uncomfortable and glanced away.

“How come you got ill, sir?” asked Harry. “What happened?”

“I… I get airsick. I usually avoid flying when possible.”

“But you refereed in my—”

“Oh, I was airsick even then, but I flew carefully, not that wild madness you just subjected me to,” snapped Snape. He put a hand to his mouth again, grimacing. When the moment appeared to have passed, he looked up at Harry, raising his eyebrow. “Dear Merlin, child, how on earth do you not feel sick after those outrageous moves?”

Harry just shrugged, but was inwardly pleased at how the man said ‘child’. It had been more gentle than anything he had heard Snape use in reference to Harry.

Hang on… Snape refereed… even though he got airsick. Why had he done that?

Harry glanced back at the man. Snape still looked a bit green, but it was fading. Hopefully the potion would fix his sickness. Harry couldn’t help but feel some wonder towards the man. Snape had tried to fly with him, even though he obviously got sick no matter what. It didn’t make sense at all.

Snape let out a low exhale of breath. “Potter…” he began, his voice low. “I am afraid this will not work out.”

A prophetic chill went down Harry’s back. He feigned ignorance. “What won’t?” he asked, his tone light.

The light in Snape’s eyes changed. The man pursed his lips, as if his next information displeased him. Then, he sighed and said softly, “You are going to have to stop playing for now.”

“No!” cried Harry. He knew it; he’d known the man was going to say it, but that didn’t mean he had to agree with it. “No! I can’t give up Quidditch. That’s… I can’t…”

It’s the only thing I’m actually good at. I need Quidditch. I’m average in my other classes. I’m pants at Potions. I can’t even enjoy the one class I’m actually good at now because of the toad. What else do I have if Snape takes this away from me?

For once, Snape looked somewhat apologetic. Well, as remorseful as Snape’s face could be. It was faint as it was.

“Potter, I am afraid that there is nothing I can do. All the potions in the world couldn’t keep me from being ill while riding with you. I wish it were otherwise.”

This wasn’t fair at all! This stupid spell was taking everything away from him. And while he knew, in many ways, staying with Snape was better than the Dursleys – so long as Snape didn’t hit him – he couldn’t help but feel like everything was against him. It just reiterated the fact that he wasn’t normal. He couldn’t stay in the tower with his dormmates. He couldn’t eat at his table in the Great Hall. He couldn’t go to his classes.

And now, no more flying, the one thing that made everything seem just a little bit better.

“You just want to sabotage the Gryffindor team, don’t you?!” cried Harry, wildly tossing the accusation out. He knew he wasn’t being fair to Snape; it wasn’t his fault he got airsick. But it still wasn’t fair to Harry. He didn’t believe his words, but his tongue was now running off on its own. “I bet you’re super glad that I don’t have to play now.”

“Potter—”

The hurt pinched Harry’s chest. His words took on a different turn.

“You’re always happy when I’m miserable, aren’t you!” shouted Harry, his heart twisting. Some of the color in Snape’s face faded. “I never did anything to you! And yet, you get some kind of thrill hurting me! You can’t take this away from me! It’s all I have left!”

And with that, Harry rushed out of the room. Abruptly, he remembered and barely stopped in time when he turned into the hallway. A gasp expelled from his lips. He couldn’t even be alone; couldn’t even rush to his room and slam the door shut. Harry curled his arms around his chest and dropped to the floor. His knees pulled to his chest, while his arms wrapped around his legs. He buried his face there.

There were no tears, however.

No matter how much he felt like it.

Severus sighed to himself. His fingers rubbed against his eyes. The vertigo had finally subsided, but the guilt hadn’t. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling guilty about denying Potter his precious Quidditch. Surely the boy understood how it couldn’t be possible. What would happen during games? Severus felt a wave of sick rise in his throat at the very thought. He had to take a moment to steel himself before it passed.

Now this was why he hated flying. The few times he’d been in a car, he’d gotten sick. His father had been less than pleased when he sicked up on the man’s floor – those were the early days, when he could afford a car. Getting airsick was just the next step up.

The old memories were still clear. During his first year, that first class in flying, it had been one of the most embarrassing moments in Severus’ young life. He could vividly remember James Potter and his new little band of cronies snickering and laughing at him. The Marauders had been young in their development, but despite their infancy, they had still maintained their cruelty. They had taken delight that ‘Snivellus’ was throwing up all over the lawn. Oh, yes, that’d been a horrible day.

Only dear Lily had been his friend…

She had defended him against her housemates and even his own, who were open in showing their disdain for him. She had helped him to the infirmary. She had sat next to his bedside, her bright green eyes wide with worry, her eyebrows furrowed in motherly concern, and her lips thinned. Poppy had complimented the girl on her bedside manner, suggesting that she be a healer one day.

And it was in that moment, Severus had hoped she would become a healer.

She had argued with Poppy about leaving him when visiting hours were up. And when Severus had told her he was fine and that she should sleep in her dorm, she had waved him off and retorted lightly, “And give Potter a chance to gloat to my face? I’ll get detention for hexing his stupid mouth off!”

Severus shuddered silently. He could still hear her voice as clear as the day it spoke to his ears. He disliked delving into memories. They only brought up painful feelings. So much regret; too much regret. One should never live in such a way.

It was easy, when the boy was in his dorm with his housemates, to hate him. The distance created safety. There was no possibility to see Potter happy, with his mother’s eyes shining brightly. There was no moment to see the similarities between mother and son. From a distance, it was easy to see Potter, the son of the bane of his existence.

Now, it wasn’t so easy.

Instead, Severus saw a boy, one without parents, one who had the weight of the world on his shoulders, one who was insecure, one who was pleased about the small things in life, and… one who flinched against oncoming contact.

Of course, he had noticed it. Any moment when Severus was extremely angry and made a move on the boy, he flinched, as if…

As if expecting to be struck.

It was easy to dismiss it. His students feared him. There were more than enough rumors in the castle and Severus knew every single one of them. But his intuition said otherwise.

He could almost hear her voice, scolding and chastising him for ignoring her son.

“Sev, you insensitive idjit! That’s my son you’ve been hating. I can’t be there, so get over yourself and help him!”

Severus growled, his throat vibrating lightly. It was like she was there, haunting him with her voice. Her voice sounded older than the last time he heard it. He could only attribute it to slow approaching insanity.

He let out another sigh, thankful for the security of his quarters. Though he was no longer completely alone, they still held the same feeling of sanctuary from the outer world. Since he wasn’t currently stuck to Potter, nor struggling to get off the floor, Severus could only surmise that Potter was still in the hallway.

Silently, Severus stood up and made his way to the hallway entrance. He had to move slowly or else invite the vertigo back again. And he was right; there on the floor, Potter was curled up in a small ball, his face pressed against his knees.

Any sharp, rebuking words Severus had had for the boy vanished in his chest. The boy’s shoulders, thankfully, weren’t shaking in suppressed sobs. He was still, almost deathly so, if it weren’t for the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

It was easy to say something cruel.

But Severus hated doing things the easy way. He’d been doing it too long. He knew it was time to take the other road and watch over the boy more carefully from now on.

“Potter,” began Severus, his voice unusually soft. The boy still flinched. Severus bit back another sigh. “You’ve not had lunch. Come up from the floor, before you catch your death of cold.”

Potter lifted his face from his knees. There was a brief moment where his eyes shone brilliantly, unobstructed by those obnoxious black rimmed glasses. Then, the glasses fell into place on the boy’s face, but the striking moment where those eyes appeared greatly affected Severus.

Those eyes had been unnaturally dry.

Severus waved his hand, somewhat irritatingly, at the boy.

“Come now.”

Potter nodded, before slowly uncurling himself from the floor. The silence that held between them during lunch wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

***

It was one of those nightmares.

They haunted Harry. The memory was real. It played over and over again. Countless times, he watched Cedric fall in a flash of green light, those same horrific words rasping out, “Kill the spare!”

Red eyes; a slit, snake-like nose; a rasping, mocking voice; cold fingers tracing over his scar; and pain – pain beyond anything Harry had ever known before.

“Crucio.”

Harry screamed.

He was thrashing beneath the horrors of the curse. His throat tore, going hoarse, from his screams. Tears streamed from his eyes, though they felt like liquid fire across his skin.

Then, suddenly, large hands gripped his shoulders. Harry couldn’t delineate reality from dream. The only large hands he knew were harsh to the touch – his hands, which readily and repeatedly abused him.

Then, his mind snapped into place. Harry flinched backwards, terrified that his uncle would slap him for waking him in the middle of the night yet again. In fact… Uncle Vernon would have slapped him a few times already by now.

But those large hands hadn’t withdrawn themselves from his shoulders.

It didn’t stop Harry from murmuring out apologies.

“Sorry, Uncle Vernon. I’m sorry.”

A clear, baritone voice spoke above the babbles.

“Mr. Potter, I am not your uncle. You are at Hogwarts, within my quarters. You are safe here.”

Safe…?

“Professor Snape?” whispered Harry. The large hands withdrew. He opened his eyes. Snape was standing at his bedside, a dressing robe haphazardly thrown on. The man’s long hair was messy and unkempt from sleeping. Tired dark eyes held a hint of concern and even alarm within their depths.

A nightmare. It had been another nightmare. He had woken Snape… Oh, Merlin, he had woken the man up in the middle of the night!

“I’m s-so sorry,” stammered Harry, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe; yet, the panic of disturbing the man rose inside his chest. His arms curled around his chest, as he burrowed against the back of the bed. “I’m sorry for waking you. I–I—”

“Potter, calm down,” said Snape, sounding slightly exasperated. “There is nothing to be sorry about. I would wish to know… if you were in distress.”

Harry felt his cheeks heat. He shook his head; his hands delved beneath the safety of the comforter. “I’m fine. You can go back to bed. I’m sorry.”

Snape sighed and ran a hand through his hair, untangling a few strands along the way. There was a moment of silence as the man studied him.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“I’m fine,” said Harry automatically.

Snape regarded him for a long moment. Those dark eyes were unfailing in their scrutiny.

“Potter, you are a terrible liar.”

Harry bit his lip. His right hand clenched beneath the covers, his abused skin on the back stretching tightly.

“A quality you should continue to nurture.”

The pressure relieved itself against Harry’s lip. His hand unclenched. He glanced up at the man, studying those hard features. Snape wasn’t sneering at him. There was an impassiveness to his expression.

But it was his eyes that gave Harry a hint to the man’s feelings. It was so different from Umbridge. She took great pleasure in causing him pain; he could see it in her gleaming eyes. But here… Could Snape really be all that concerned for Harry? Well, it certainly seemed that way. But why? And why now? It was just a nightmare. What was the big deal?

But still… the consideration was nice for once.

Harry clasped his hands together in his lap. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered.

“You still haven’t properly answered my question,” said Snape, but there was something less stern about his tone. Harry shrugged, not looking up at the man. There was a sharp exhale. “Potter, I require respect. Do me the courtesy of looking me in the eye and giving me verbal answers.”

Harry bit his lower lip again. His eyes flicked upward first. Snape’s entire stance was nonthreatening. Slowly, Harry lifted his head all the way, feeling a little safer now that Snape didn’t look angry.

“What… What do you want me to say?” asked Harry. The man’s eyebrows lifted upward, appearing surprised by the soft question. It seemed to throw the man off guard. Harry had meant it, though. Just what was he supposed to say here? Did the man really want to hear everything? Was he really asking for Harry to tell him about the nightmare? Or was he simply being courteous to the situation?

“You had a nightmare,” said Snape, stating it now, instead of questioning. He appeared uncomfortable for a moment; then, continued, “Sometimes talking about it makes it a little better.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

Maybe Umbridge’s form of discipline was just right for Harry; obviously two weeks of detention didn’t have an effect.

Snape appeared not to believe him, but the man didn’t push for any more information. He nodded once, before turning away. He stopped at the doorframe and briefly turned back around to look at Harry.

“There is Dreamless Sleep available to you, should you want it. You simply need to ask first.”

There was a rustle of robes and the door shut softly behind the man, leaving Harry alone in his room. Somehow, there was a gentle tug at his lips, barely a hint there.

But it was still there, nonetheless.