~~~~HP~~~~

Wednesday 22nd October 1997

When Harry woke up Wednesday morning to the sound of the rain hitting hard against the window above Snape's bed and thunder roaring across the sky, he should have known it would be some kind of bad omen for the news he would end up receiving. Yesterday morning he started his final twenty-four-hour chemo IV, the last one for his inpatient treatment, and his body felt every drop of it running through his veins. He'd hardly slept and eager for his release that afternoon, he gave up on his failed attempts and decided to start packing up his room instead. Trying to stay as quiet as possible so as not to disturb Snape's sleeping form, the Gryffindor collected his clothes, books, art supplies, homework, and pictures, amazed at how comfortable he'd gotten in the room to have his belongings scattered all across the space. No part of him would miss the AYA ward this time around, but he could see coming back for his next cycle feeling more prepared and in control. For one, he'd choose to leave his no-longer-needed homework at school since he honestly couldn't focus enough on it past that first day to make any kind of progress, and he'd exchange them for more bite-sized snacks to help clear the constant metallic taste which had taken over his mouth by his second or third IV. Going forward, he would also make sure to always pack his own pillow and a couple of extra blankets - two things he didn't know were possible to bring - as the hospital's felt horribly scratchy against his newly sensitive skin. At one point it had left him so raw from scratching that had Snape not brought his green bedspread after he met with Dumbledore last Sunday, the young wizard would have had to ask the professor to make a separate trip for it. Next time, he would come prepared and with realistic expectations of his stay.

Deep down Harry knew by packing his things he was making the assumption he would be discharged; a decision which couldn't be made before his blood test results came back to determine if his counts were acceptable enough to go home. Out of all the side effects he'd faced over the previous four days - the constant pain, fluctuating nausea, vomiting, tingling in his hands to where he had moments he could hardly hold his pencil, and the painful mouth sores - the lower blood counts hit him in a way he never expected. The constant fatigue became the hardest to handle because it constantly reminded him of how he went from being a vibrant, lively athlete able to race up the half dozen flights of stairs in the school to being a cancer patient barely able to stay awake after a quick trip around the ward. It caused him to live in a world of paradoxes - too tired to move, too sick to sleep, and his brain never wanting to turn off. The worst part, though, had to be the constant reminder of being sick, and specifically that morning, the truth he didn't want to accept: his counts likely would not be high enough to go home yet.

"I see you've packed," Snape's scratchy and tired voice startled Harry, causing him to drop a set of coloured pencils he held in his unsteady hands. "You do know you still need another blood test, correct?"

Although the idea of Snape staying overnight with him sounded awkward at first, Harry appreciated his presence, especially considering the man had to be running off of less overall sleep than Harry. To help alleviate his own guilty conscience, for his next cycle the Gryffindor considered offering for him to stay at the school, or even Mae's, but it would be something to be discussed later; when life returned to as close to normal as possible back at the school.

Harry picked up the fallen pencils and placed them into their small carrying case, then carefully crawled back into his bed, pulling his green bedspread up into his lap. "I know I do, but it feels wrong to assume I'm not going home at some point today, or the latest early tomorrow. You'd be surprised how much my things managed to spread around the room and once I'm allowed to leave, I don't want to have to wait because I still have to pack."

He didn't need the pity in Snape's eyes to tell him the professor didn't believe his blood counts would rebound that quickly. Harry wasn't stupid, he'd just spent four days under constant chemotherapy, obviously it would take more than an afternoon to rise to a healthy level again; it just seemed wrong not to think positive about it.

"That was another rough night," Snape uncharacteristically stretched into a sitting position on his sofa bed. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Ready to leave."

Snape gave a small chuckle, fully understanding the Gryffindor's desire to go home. "I take it Dr Swanson hasn't stopped by yet?"

"No, sir," the small act of packing had worn him down more than he wanted and he laid his head down on the firm pillow and closed his eyes. "But one of the nurses came in early this morning and took blood. I'm assuming she'll do her final exam when it's time to disconnect this -" he cracked open his eyes to gesture towards the IV stand over his shoulder; an extra shadow which followed him everywhere except the shower and he'd be more than happy to rid himself of it, "-which should be around half nine."

"Counting down, are you?"

Harry smiled, and enunciated each word of his reply, "Every single second."

Unfortunately for Harry, Dr Swanson - the gatekeeper to his freedom - was running late that morning. His nurse, Kathleen, had come in at half-past nine to remove the last of his chemotherapy - exchanging the bag for one filled with fluids - and told him to sit tight, that his oncologist would be there shortly to go over his results and discharge plan. So far, "shortly" had been over forty-five minutes. Having no idea where she lived, a part of him worked on convincing himself she got stuck in traffic due to the storm still raging through the area, while an equal part sat there panicking that she'd found something wrong with his latest blood tests. He'd tried reading, watching some bizarre game show on the telly, and listening to the portable music player Dudley gave him, all to no avail because the longer the time ticked on, the more the latter reasoning took over the rational side of his brain.

"What if it's getting worse?" Harry asked, his voice cracked from its lack of use.

Snape paused from his own attempted distraction - pouring over books Harry hadn't the slightest clue of the subjects - and methodically chose his words, "They couldn't possibly find anything to that degree - positive or negative - after only four days. Now, could she be rechecking your blood cell levels to be sure you can go home? Absolutely, and I sincerely hope-"

The knock on the door caused the professor to pause mid-sentence and promptly put Harry on alert. The door slowly opened and when Dr Swanson entered a second later, she didn't even have to utter a word for him to know the news would not be in his favour. Now, his biggest concern changed to 'how bad would the news be?'

He hadn't seen his oncologist nearly as much as he anticipated during his inpatient stay; certainly less so than when he'd done chemotherapy at home. On only the first day of staying in the hospital, it became clear almost immediately that the nurses were the superheroes and this was their domain. They switched out his chemo, helped him with his meals, changed the bedding when he didn't make it to the sick basin in time and explained everything going on with his body, his medication, and his time under their care in a way he could easily understand. He'd gotten so used to their overall friendly demeanour, he'd forgotten how impersonal Dr Swanson's bedside manner could be, and why he preferred Healer Smithe - who he sadly realized he wouldn't see again until his next Magical Block Procedure in January- over her care.

"It's not good, is it?" Harry asked, only then noticing Snape had moved from his sofa to sit on the end of Harry's bed.

Dr Swanson shook her head, confirming his second biggest fear, "I'm sorry I can't discharge you today, Harry. Your counts are still dangerously low."

"When?"

She'd obviously been anticipating the question because her answer came just as quickly, "We'll do another draw every twelve hours to monitor your progress, but as of right now you're at too high of a risk for contracting a second infection or bleeding."

His white blood cells and platelets, respectively, were the two pieces preventing him from going home, from sleeping in his own familiar bed that night. Ironically, neither was responsible for the fatigue or constant cold he hated most, demonstrating how his safety overruled his comfort; as it should.

"I get that," he angrily shot back at his doctor, "but when can I go home? By this weekend?"

"No one can answer that at this point," she stood at the foot of his bed, her hands clasped together in front of her.

Harry's face fell at the answer he'd already known, "But it's Hogsmeade on Saturday! And the Qui… the first game is Sunday. I have to be there!"

His muggle doctor's face scrunched as she tried to make sense of his rant. "I cannot guarantee you'll be able to attend those activities. I can tell you that to give yourself the best chance to be able to, you need to stay put until your counts come back up. I know you don't want to hear it, but it doesn't make it any less true. My priority is your health, otherwise, why are you here? An infection as small as strep throat can kill you just as easily as your Leukemia."

Harry scowled at the bluntness of her answer, then turned towards Snape, incredulously, as if he'd be able to override the doctor and pleaded, "Severus, there has to be something you can do!"

"It's your doctor's call, Harry," the professor regretfully stated. "I am fully supportive of her decision."

Harry's green eyes filled with betrayal and he swung his legs over the side of the bed needing to get as far away from the two adults as he possibly could. He didn't care how trivial it sounded. Neither of them would understand why Hogsmeade and Quidditch were so important to him; more so than the risk of infection. With his IV of fluids in hand, Harry started walking - albeit very slowly - to the door, desperate for some air.

"Where do you think you are going?" Snape sharply inquired.

Something in his mentor's voice made Harry stop and turn. "I need some space, sir," he defended, feeling too exhausted to fight, but simultaneously too agitated to stay.

"Let him go, Severus," Dr Swanson chimed in, frustrating Harry that she took his side when he wanted to be angry with her. Feeling a small sense of victory - no matter how he'd gotten it - he started to leave when Dr Swanson reached over and handed him something she'd been carrying along with his file. Begrudgingly, he grabbed it as she instructed, "You'll need to wear this whenever you leave your room until you are discharged. And I'd recommend the library… the Hub was empty when I passed it on the way over here, so you might as well get some peace and quiet to think things through."

The young wizard didn't need to peer down into his hands to know she'd given him a muggle medical mask, like the ones he used to have to wear last year in quarantine. And just like that, all the animosity he held for his muggle oncologist flooded back to him. With two sets of eyes trained on him, he put the mask on and - most likely not nearly as fast or nimble as he hoped - stormed from the room to find something to keep his mind occupied.

~~~~SS~~~~

"How are you doing, Severus?" Dr Swanson casually asked him the moment Harry, not so surprisingly, but more aggressively, stalked from the room, leaving the professor staring at the empty space Harry had previously occupied.

She stood at the whiteboard with her back to him, erasing the no longer relevant information regarding Harry's chemotherapy schedule - they'd officially made it through the first set of treatments in the first cycle, a feat they should be celebrating - and replaced it with a new set of information. He watched her curiously, not wanting to engage in a conversation bound to distract her from her task. Based on his limited knowledge of muggle medical jargon he managed to pick up, she was notating the requirements for Harry's discharge along with the list and frequency of his supportive medications. At the top of the board, she wrote MASK AND ISOLATION GOWNS REQUIRED ~circling the entire note three times. Recapping the red marker, she unceremoniously turned around to face him.

"It's been difficult," he found himself admitting. Regardless of Harry's personal feelings towards her, Severus had always valued her blunt answers. "He's either been-"

"I didn't ask about Harry," she interjected, causing him to recoil as if she'd slapped him. "I know it's hard to see this from your perspective, but Harry's a typical AYA new patient acting within the normal range of behaviour. Which is why I asked - how are you?"

He thought hard about the question posed: how was he? Sometimes he had to actively remember her presence at Malfoy Manor, where he may not have seen her, but he knew she cared for Harry during their entrapment. This was a woman who had seen Harry at some of his lowest points; she'd been kidnapped, threatened, and rescued all because of himself and Harry. And he'd always felt a certain level of comfort around her, yet he couldn't articulate his feelings, so he did the only thing he could think of - misdirected.

"I need a favour," he paused when her blue eyes rolled behind her black plastic-framed glasses, and waited for the lecture of his dismissal, which never came.

Instead, she pulled a chair over to where he still sat at the bottom of Harry's bed and sat down, prepared to humour him; for the time being, at least. "Continue."

"Your brother works at the Ministry of Magic, correct?"

"Do I even want to know how you know that?"

Hmph, perhaps she'd be a Slytherin after all.

Severus smirked. Since meeting the muggle a little over a year ago, he had pegged her as a Ravenclaw, like her brother. However, this conversation was already quickly altering his previous presumption.

"Let's just go under the presumption that I do know he works for the Ministry of Magic, and also specifically that he's in the Department of Mysteries," Severus arrogantly replied.

He saw the wheels turning in her head weighing the possible scenarios where this could end up negatively for her family. Outside of her older brother - who had a magical wife and the rarity of no heir born to them - the muggle oncologist had her husband and two sons to consider. Unfortunately, her sample size for getting mixed up in the wizarding world had thus far been small and not all that positive, so what was about to ask would look like a risk to them.

"I don't exactly know what any of that means," she stated. "He's a researcher at the government office and he doesn't like to talk much about the work he does there. Of course, he can't really have an open discussion about your world outside of our parents and myself. My husband and boys don't even know what he is. I'm pretty sure they think he does some kind of secret intelligence for the military."

Not too far off.

Based on her limited explanation, it all but confirmed her brother was an Unspeakable, meaning he wouldn't necessarily be able to get any information from her about the specifics of his research, nevertheless, he wasn't afraid to try.

"Do you know anything about the department he works in? Or perhaps even the subject he's studying?"

Warily - reminding him of his confrontation with Jessica only four days ago - she sat completely still for a second, then cautiously answered, "Why don't you tell me what you're interested in knowing and I'll see if I can help?"

Definitely a Slytherin.

"Time," he told her without hesitation. Dealing with one of his own changed the landscape drastically and he needed to lie a little in order to get even less. "I'm working on a project for the headmaster regarding time and I'd hoped for information from The Time Room."

She shook her head. "He can't talk about it."

"He's not supposed to talk about it," Severus corrected her. "I know for a fact others have spoken of their research, both in theory and actuality." Never would he tell her of his personal experience with Rookwood and how his illegal information from the Department of Mysteries aided Voldemort greatly in the first war, earning him a cell in Azkaban. "There's a significant difference between can't and won't and all I'm asking for is a chance to meet with him. If he can't help me, maybe he can refer to the direction of alternate resources which will."

She was skeptical, and he couldn't blame her; he would be too in her position. Regardless of her internal struggle on it, she relented, "Alright. I'll reach out to him and see what he can provide. I can't make any guarantees, he takes his work seriously, you know."

"I am relieved to hear that he does," Severus commented. "Unfortunately too many people - especially in the Ministry - don't and that's exactly how things fell apart. In fact, had more people thought like your brother, then I probably wouldn't need his assistance in the first place and we'd all be left alone to live our lives in peace."

~~~~HP~~~~

Friday, 24 October 1997

Much to Harry's displeasure, his blood counts didn't rebound enough for him to be discharged from the hospital until Friday evening - a whole two days after he expected to be home at Hogwarts, and practically a week since he'd arrived. As he prepared to leave the hospital, which included having to repack the belongings he'd taken out to pass the time over the last two days, Dr Swanson emphasized more times than Harry thought necessary about his recovery being above average for one's first cycle - typically lasting as many as fifteen days, compared to his short seven - but it didn't make him feel any better. If anything, it only aided him in feeling a bit betrayed because nowhere in the muggle doctor's original colour-coded schedule did it mention anything about staying past the treatments; let alone practically tripling it. Over his final days in the hospital, Snape, of course, hadn't been any more helpful to Harry's pleading by continuing his agreement with Dr Swanson's requirements for his discharge and the need to put his safety above all else.

Somehow, despite not being connected to any chemotherapy medications, the wait for his blood levels to rise was almost worse than the four previous days of treatment. Though still fighting the obvious side effects - which would have been significantly more comfortable to do at home - the fact that he had no control over his blood counts, and therefore no idea how long he'd end up being there, frustrated him to no end, making him equally antsy and tired. When he felt up to it, he walked around the corridors of the hospital, peeked into Evie's room decorated with pictures of her friends from their school dance and crochet projects galore to chat, said goodbye to Charlie who'd been officially discharged on Thursday, and explored the library and the Hub, deciding to try to utilize those more on his next visit.

The rest of the time, when he was too tired to move from the bed or too sick to walk around, he stayed in his room shifting from the bed to the sofa or the recliner shuffling through all the activities he brought with him - reading, sketching, puzzles - and writing to his friends back at school regularly. Mostly they chatted about the plans for Saturday - including meeting after breakfast, then making stops at Gladrags, Honeydukes, and Zonkos, and ended up at The Three Broomsticks for lunch - and everyone asked daily if Harry would be able to attend. Oddly, Ron made several strange underlying comments about Snape's attendance at the wizarding village along with them. Things like: he's not planning on walking around with you, is he? If so, doesn't he have anywhere else or anyone better to be with? Harry ignored each question he received in fear his friend once again felt threatened by the professor's role in Harry's life. Why else would he ask about Snape's presence at an obvious student-only event? Harry would simply have to set the record straight when he saw his friend if he could attend himself.

By Thursday night, the conversations shifted to the girls gushing over all the details regarding the Halloween Ball. Reading between the lines, Harry had the distinct impression that had the wizards' coins been separate from the girls', he'd be getting a whole different viewpoint about the event and how they planned to celebrate it. On at least three separate occasions, he picked up hints of a Halloween after-party, including bootlegged Firewhiskey courtesy of Seamus, music by Macmillan, and all of this taking place in the Room of Requirement. If Hermione had seen these messages, she either didn't understand them or chose not to comment; neither of which would surprise him. As much as the Head Girl boasted about rules and laws, Harry and Ron knew better. The Gryffindor witch handheld her own with them over the years and Harry wouldn't be surprised if she had a hand in all of it. To Harry, though, no matter how much he wanted to go, the point felt moot because even if he made it to the Ball, trying to attend any kind of after event would only manage to draw attention to the illicit party itself. He'd have to sit this one out or, per Draco's sly suggestion, try to find a way to manipulate Snape into not questioning his whereabouts. This led Ron to rant over Snape's lack of presence when the Slytherin prefects all passed off their work to the other houses, claiming Snape - and by extension Dumbledore - instructed them to spend their energy managing the Slytherin House rather than the Halloween Ball. Later that night, Harry casually mentioned to Snape the recent attitude from his Snakes causing issues within the committee, but based on the death glare he received from the professor, the man clearly couldn't care less about the tablecloths and centrepieces, commenting that his duty of creating the colour changing smoke for the floating pumpkins had been completed in the first week. In the end, the only exciting news Harry got from their chat about the actual event was how Fred and George had been hired to provide the "entertainment" and he couldn't wait to see what they had up their sleeves. Being allowed to voluntarily come in with their bags of tricks would guarantee a good show for the night.

Since the afternoon Harry and Mae spent playing video games, Snape's girlfriend visited every night of the week when she finished her shift at Dr Swanson's office. The muggle nurse had earned more of Harry's respect when he complained about not being able to go home Wednesday and rather than jump into a lecture about it being in his best interest - as everyone else seemed to do -, she validated his feeling of disappointment. It didn't feel condescending, nor sympathetic, but more like a friend understanding how much he wanted to be in the comfort of his own bed at home - or school in his specific case. Mae and Snape had dinner together every night down in the hospital cafeteria, and although Harry continued to tease them about the "dinner dates", he did enjoy seeing Snape happy with his girlfriend. No matter how much Harry appreciated the little things she did for him - ways to distract him from his misery, helping him through some of the worst sick waves without him having to call for help, or just listening to him talk about his friends or how first inpatient treatments had gone - it was her attention to Snape he clung to the most. After the previous stress-filled week and weekend, having someone who the professor respected, who he loved in a way very different from Harry, making sure he took care of himself, helped Harry relax a bit more too.

The process of floo'ing back to Hogwarts from Spinner's End on Friday evening took more energy out of Harry than he would ever comfortably admit to anyone. As the days had passed and the fatigue failed to lift, he started to accept it as part of his normal life now; particularly when his counts were high enough to leave. So when he managed to make it back to his bedroom without Snape's assistance, the Gryffindor had every intention of falling into bed for the rest of the night and not moving until morning. Unfortunately, he hadn't anticipated the wide range of emotions his weak body would be hit with by simply walking into his room for the first time in seven days. The last time he'd been here he said goodbye to his friends, a group of people he needed to see again, but he may or may not get to see them tomorrow. A week ago he'd been preparing for that damn ritual - the one that started his week with no sleep and an abnormally high amount of stress - and he couldn't imagine how he'd manage it again in January. Standing completely still, unable to move a muscle, in his normally soothing bedroom, Harry now understood Christopher's warning to him earlier that morning. When the Child Life Specialist explained going home may not feel like the happy, exciting moment he had built up in his head, it seemed completely counterintuitive, but now Harry understood exactly what he meant. Being away from the hospital certainly had its merits - like no one coming into his room to check on him every two hours in the middle of the night, no early morning blood draws, and not having to log every single solid and fluid entering and leaving his system - it wouldn't be an easy transition either. What would his days look like next week when Snape and his friends returned to classes? How careful did he have to be to ensure he wouldn't get sick? What if he did get sick, particularly with no one down in the Dungeons during classes… who would he tell? Would the side effects he still felt on occasion eventually subside or would they last until his next treatment the following Saturday? The biggest questions he had, though, were still the most trivial: could he go to Hogsmeade tomorrow, Quidditch on Sunday, and the Halloween Ball exactly a week from today?

As he contemplated those anxiety-driven questions, debating if he'd made a mistake practically demanding to be discharged that day, the galleon in his pocket started to heat up, alerting him to an incoming message. His legs took over automatically and unknowingly he made his way to his bed to sit down.

GW: Are you home?

Harry grinned at Ginny's message. Being near the end of the dinner hour, she'd most likely written it sitting at the Great Hall or upstairs in Gryffindor tower. Around breakfast time, he'd told his friends that his morning blood counts looked promising and they'd be checking again in the evening, then assuming everything still looked stable, he'd be Hogwarts-bound. When everything for his discharge happened so quickly he'd not gotten the chance to message them again saying he would be home soon.

HP: Finally home about four or so floors under you

GW: want some company? Seamus is trying to coordinate some kind of Exploding Snaps tournament I have zero interest in.

Harry laughed thinking about playing poker with the other patients after the AYA support group, feeling torn between his two worlds. Turning back to the question at hand, quite literally, he knew he had to turn it down. True, he wanted to see his friends more than he could ever explain on a galleon, but unfortunately not only had Snape specifically told him no guests tonight, but travelling had completely exhausted him.

HP: sorry, I'm too tired tonight. Hopefully, I'll see you guys tomorrow.

RW: Any news on the Hogsmeade front yet?

HP: No, SS said he'll decide in the AM. I'll let you know either way.

RW: the girls are planning on hijacking all of it for shopping. Blokes can stay with you if SS says no.

Harry could almost picture Ron's irritated face as he wrote that message. Lifting his head to look over at the sketch he'd done of him, Ron, and Hermione sitting on the porch of Shell Cottage last Christmas Eve, Harry knew he always kept on his bedside table, his face fell. Sitting there, practically mocking him in the same place he left it once Healer Smithe confirmed his magic had been officially blocked, was his wand. How could he have so easily forgotten about something so important in his life? What if he managed to lose it while not using it for the next couple of years? His hand trembled as it reached out to pick up the piece of holly, and when no twinges of excited magic flowed through his arm, it left him more defeated than he should have been. As logical as it was for him not to feel his magic anymore, fully knowing didn't have access to his core, his brain wasn't thinking logically at all, and he carefully rolled the wand between his hands contemplating his next move.

"Lumos," he whispered to his wand, shaking it at the last moment.

Nothing happened.

"Lumos!" This time his command came out louder and with a desire from deep inside of him to see the wand tip illuminate, but still, it remained unchanged. His insides filled with defeat. "LUMOS!"

Harry honestly hadn't expected to scream the last attempt, and by doing so he missed his door being opened right in front of him. Snape stood in the doorway with Harry's previously shrunken duffle bag now enlarged and casually slung over his shoulder and his green bedspread folded over his left forearm.

"I thought you'd like to unpack," the professor slowly walked into the room, but Harry - unable to raise his eyes, too afraid to see Snape's disappointment in his weakness - continued to stare down at the worthless wand in his opened palms.

"It's really gone."

"No," the bed dipped down as Snape sat beside him, the duffel bag dropped heavily to the professor's feet and the blanket folded on his lap, "it's simply hidden for now. Unlike last time, your magic is still there and you will get it back once it's safe to do so."

Rubbing his nose with the back of his right hand, Harry held back a sniffle, "It still feels gone." A pregnant pause blanked over the pair. "What am I going to do now, Severus? My magic is such a big part of who I am. I can't… I can't just stop my life for the next three years. And what about next week… next year... any of it? How can I be part of a magical school without magic, and I very well can't do muggle school, so where does that leave me?!"

Snape placed the blanket on his other side, then shifted his body until he faced Harry, whose green eyes were still glaring at his wand.

"I have put some thought into this," Snape carefully started. The fact he'd made a plan on how to handle Harry's education made him feel simultaneously grateful and embarrassed. "If you are agreeable to it, I've made arrangements with Professor Burbage, Dudley, and Lucius to get you into the Foundations lessons Draco has been taking to prepare himself for muggle university. Things like maths, science, history, that you would have learned had you not come to Hogwarts. I don't know where it will lead you in the end, but it will give you something to concentrate on right now, then if it goes over well, and you're healthy enough, we can discuss Muggle Studies here or perhaps true muggle courses. And as you've already attended a muggle primary school, I have a feeling you'll have a bit of a better establishment in it than Draco."

Harry gave a small laugh. Seeing Draco learning a muggle education would be worth it even if nothing came to fruition from it. Unlike the Malfoy heir, Harry had no clue what he wanted to do with his life, or rather what he could do, nonetheless he could admit he needed to do something with his idle mind.

"But how-"

"Let me handle that," answered Snape, cryptically, holding his hand to prevent any of Harry's follow-up questions. "Similar to last year, you will need to stay in our quarters as much as possible, especially after your inpatient treatment. I'm going to arrange it so you can attend tutoring with Draco in the classroom, and then work on the assignments here in our quarters." Harry nodded. "If you do this, please do not forget that your first priority is healing your body. Given that this will be your only class, you are to use the remainder of your day to rest and-"

"I feel like all I do is rest," Harry mumbled his interruption," and I'm still so tired."

As if on cue, the busyness of the day seemingly sprung upon him and Harry slowly leaned over onto Snape, resting his weight on the man for comfort; a move he hadn't done since those long chemotherapy days of last year. The professor wrapped his left arm around the young wizard - prepared to let him sit there for however long he needed - making Harry feel secure and warm.

"Remember, this is a marathon, Harry, not a sprint," Snape softly stated the words which had been said by many, "and your body is being taxed more than ever right now. You need to have patience with it and listen to what your body is telling you to do or not to do.

"Dr Wright suggested - and I agree with his idea - we make a tentative schedule for you to follow on your days at home… things like taking a daily walk, reading, visiting with friends, doing schoolwork… you get the idea. This weekend I'd like you to take a first pass at what next week may look like for you while I'm teaching. The benefit of having a couple of friends down here once or twice a day should not be overlooked, so long as they always wash their hands when entering and I'll teach the sanitizing spell to anyone who may be stopping by..."

Against his will, Harry's eyes started to burn with sleep, and began to feel heavy as he listened to Snape's deep voice drone on about the different ways he would be preparing their quarters to keep Harry safe. As the words got further and further from Harry's conscious thoughts, the appreciation and love he felt for the man grew exponentially. Eventually, the low baritone voice stopped talking - having noticed his audience having stopped responding - but Harry's eyes were long closed and no matter how hard he tried, they refused to open. Giving in to his exhaustion, he relaxed his body to allow his mentor to move him around until his head laid on his familiar plush pillow and the soft fabric of his green bedspread covered his constantly chilled body. More warmth and love flooded through him and with his mind clouded with sleep, his last words before falling asleep fell so easily from his lips, it was like he'd been saying them all year:

"Love you, Dad."

~~~~SS~~~~

Love you, Dad.

Those three words completely unravelled Severus in a way he had never thought possible. Yes, Harry had said he'd loved him after waking up after the Battle of Malfoy Manor, and two or three other random times since, but it had been his first time hearing his old title, Dad, along with it since his arrival here. It didn't matter to him that Harry had muttered the words while practically asleep, he had been longing to hear them from his child and enjoyed the solace they brought to him. Unable to move for the longest time, Severus sat beside Harry's bed, watching his child finally find some peaceful sleep. Harry only moaned and grimaced in pain twice - having taken his pain medication, at Dr Swanson's insistence, prior to leaving the hospital - and settled down both times when Severus reached out to hold his hand. It was the best he could do, but the young wizard calmed down without waking.

Once Severus was sure Harry had fallen into a restful sleep, he quietly extracted himself from the teen's bedroom intending to work through the dozen or so things he had to complete before starting classes again on Monday. His heart had different plans though, and instead of going to his office to collect Tonk's notes from the week or to start unpacking his hospital bag, he found himself sitting on his queen-sized bed - a far cry, and welcomed reprieve, from the converted sofa he'd been sleeping on for the last week - with his back against the headboard, and his bare feet propping up his knees to hold in front of him his two most prized possessions in this reality: the pictures Harry had given him for Christmas last year. There in his hands, he held the proof of his odd travels; a showcase of his old and new reality side-by-side. He fought back the tears of joy when he thought back on that first holiday spent with this Harry out at Shell Cottage. He would never forget the pure elation on Harry's face at seeing the ocean for the first time, and while the Gryffindor's Christmas had been dampened by chemotherapy, Severus could tell it had been his best yet. As much as he tried, though, he couldn't hold back the tears of sorrow over all of the holidays he'd never get to have with his first son. That grief somehow managed to find its way back to him, creeping up at the most inopportune times, and regardless of whatever decision he made with this Harry, his heart would always ache with the loss of the other. He would forever be torn between the grief of his past and the promise of his future.

He stared at the two pictures for what felt like hours, his black eyes shifting between the two boys while his mind tried to convince himself the seed Miss Rosier planted there wasn't on its way to growing a full tree. Since Harry's relapse diagnosis, he'd been less careful than in the past about referring to Harry out loud as his son. It wasn't a decision he'd consciously come to, but one he just followed his intuition about; in hindsight, it certainly made things easier for them at the muggle hospital. And though he'd been actively thinking more and more about the idea of adoption since that fateful Saturday, watching - and caring for - Harry in the hospital brought to light how much he wanted this Harry to be his son too. Life was too short to let opportunities go wasted and their time to act was running out - once Harry turned eighteen there would be nothing he could do to make their relationship official. Suddenly, like a flash of lightning in his mind, he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

Unfortunately, not only would those plans take time to implement - the first step of which involved securing a muggle solicitor - they would have to wait because barring any catastrophic events in the next twelve hours he'd promised Lucius he'd be at the laboratory tomorrow morning for work; he couldn't let yet another responsibility fall from his plate. He had high hopes Harry would feel well enough to go to Hogsmeade with his friends in the morning, so long as he took extra precautionary measures, of course, and Severus could leave with a clear conscience. Otherwise, at the suggestion of Miss Rosier, he had spoken with Minerva last night to discuss getting help should Harry fall ill.

"Reach out and find help," the muggle social worker had urged him, "you will do more harm than good if you run yourself down trying to do this alone."

In a quick trip back to Hogwarts yesterday evening, he and Minerva came up with a set of criteria for when Severus would need to stay home with Harry versus when someone else could come in to help. In the latter event, Minerva offered to be Harry's secondary caregiver and a quick firecall to Molly Weasley secured a third, should neither he nor Minerva be available. Having a network of assistance made him equally uncomfortable and peaceful. They had a plan and while everyone knew plans rarely worked out as… well, planned… he could breathe a little easier by taking away a little of that unknown; no matter how difficult actually deciding who would stay with Harry would be when the situation arose.

Assuming things went well tomorrow, he also made plans to meet Mae for dinner near the Guildford hospital, expanding their options beyond that of the hospital cafeteria. There was no denying that her stopping by Harry's room each night and sharing dinner in the cafeteria helped keep Severus sane during the difficult, trying week. He may not have stayed all day at the hospital, choosing to come back to the castle to either prepare for Harry's discharge, make arrangements for his tutoring, or coordinating with Tonks on marking and lesson plans, but the nights were always long and seeing her there definitely lightened his - and what seemed like Harry's - spirits up.

Grudgingly, Severus put the two pictures back in their rightful place on his bedside table and turned his attention to the task of unpacking his hospital bag. The clothes went into a bin where they would be combined with Harry's, once the Gryffindor unpacked his belongings, and sent to be laundered tomorrow; a chore he loathed doing back at Spinner's End, making him eternally appreciative for the house elves' contribution. The rest of his belongings were easily placed back around his bedroom and lavatory accordingly, with a small stack - mostly coursework and textbooks - on his bed to go back to his office when he had a chance. Allowing his exhaustion to overtake him, Severus laid back down on his bed ready to fall asleep regardless of still being dressed in his black muggle jeans and long-necked green shirt and the time being barely half-past eight. The last two weeks had taken their toll on his mind and body, and the reprieve until cycle B started on the 8th of November would be much needed. He didn't even feel concerned about the one treatment in the clinic coming up the day after the Halloween Ball. That one would feel simple and almost welcomed, in light of what they had just endured. His heavy eyelids began to close, ready to succumb to their desire for comfortable slumber. Unfortunately, the quiet didn't last more than a minute when the voice of Albus Dumbledore interrupted his tranquil moment.

"Severus? Are you in?" The headmaster called from the floo.

Dammit! Why didn't I lock it?

Uncharacteristically, Severus jumped out of bed and raced down the corridor from his bedroom to the sitting room; thankful no one would truly see him in such a state. The last thing he needed on his first night was the headmaster to wake Harry.

"Do tell me, Albus, are you actually trying to wake Harry up from his first peaceful sleep in a week? Or do you always yell this loud when you firecall into an empty room?" He admonished the Headmaster's floating head, allowing his frustration to overtake him. He sank to his knees onto the floor to properly address his employer.

"You have my sincerest apologies, Severus," the other wizard stated, "I hadn't considered anyone asleep at this early hour. Would it be better if I came through?"

No, it would be better if you went away.

Severus ran his hand down his exhausted face, not wanting to entertain tonight. He and Harry absolutely needed this week to regain their energy and once again Severus doubted if he were strong enough for this. But there were things he needed to discuss with Albus and he certainly didn't want to accomplish that practically yelling back and forth through the floo. Giving his permission - a formality really as the headmaster could legally enter any of their quarters unannounced - to allow Albus through, Severus summoned a set of tea onto the sitting room table and began preparing it using magic as he waited for Albus's arrival. Contrary to his time over the summer at Spinner's End where he could utilize magic in his own house, spending a week fully immersed in the muggle world, where essentially he'd lost that ability, compelled him to appreciate the little things magic could help with, like filling up the tea kettle with water from his wand and heating it up for instant tea. Again he wondered if he'd be able to give it all up for Mae should the need arise.

The whoosh of the floo coming to life didn't startle the professor in the slightest. Albus arrived in a set of bright blue robes with yellow circles almost dancing around them and Severus rolled his eyes. Thinking again about his time spent with muggles and their more toned-down clothing choices, he was sure even if someone else had selected the clothing, the headmaster never could pass for one.

"Tea?" He offered his employer, levitating the cup and saucers expertly across the table to the aged, waiting hands. "I apologize in advance for my brevity, it's been a tiring week and I'd like to turn in as well."

"I do understand, my boy," Albus's blue eyes inappropriately twinkled when they shifted to the wall separating their location from Harry's room. "I'll get straight to the point, then. Have you gotten the opportunity to look into the issues we met upon last week?"

The former spy pinched his eyes tightly closed. He wanted to ask when the man thought he'd have time to do a thorough investigation, or even why Albus wasn't responsible for any research of his own, however, seeing as he did have an update the sentiment would be completely lost on the other wizard. Summoning his notebook from where it sat on his bed, recently unpacked from his bag, Severus walked the headmaster through all of the details he managed to put together during the week. Admittedly, they weren't nearly as enlightening as either wizard hoped, nevertheless as Albus wasn't the one pouring through all the texts and prior contacts, he didn't have much room to complain. And so, dutifully, he updated the elder wizard about his theory regarding the possible motive behind the Death Eater attacks - strategically choosing not to mention Lucius nor his use of Veritaserum to uncover the information - and his plans to meet with Dr Swanson's brother from the Department of Mysteries regarding the Obcasio.

In the end, Albus disagreed with his plan to try to siphon information from the Unspeakable on the Obcasio, believing it to be an ill use of his limited time, but agreed over the likelihood of the former Death Eaters tracking down those left behind with their next primary goal being to locate and interrogate Jugson and Gibbons. From there, they could start unravelling what could be going on behind the scenes. And even if Albus wasn't fully prepared to let go of the potential of another emerging Dark Wizard - an undertaking Severus vehemently reminded him should then belong to the Aurors, not the headmaster of Hogwarts - Severus would continue to investigate as he saw fit.

Having said everything he needed, in the quickest way possible, Severus stood to signify the end of their meeting. But when Albus didn't follow suit, he glared over at his employer with arms firmly folded over his chest.

"Auror Samson dropped this off for my review this morning," Albus held out a folder of parchment he'd pulled out from his robes, then ceremoniously placed it on the table in front of him. "I thought you'd be interested in reviewing its contents."

The flood report.

The former spy couldn't think of anything else nearly as urgent for his review, and yet he'd also assumed he would have been called to the headmaster's office when the report was delivered. Warily, Severus eyed the folder, then sat down and grabbed it.

"Why wasn't I notified of Samson's arrival?"

It sounded petty, but he didn't care. At one point in his life, Severus had been the right-hand man for the two of the most powerful wizards of their time and now he hadn't even been given the courtesy of being notified when the report regarding his students' lives had been ready; not to mention his own possible guilt in the catastrophe. Albus might as well have slapped him in the face.

"Nothing of much value came from the report," Albus answered, "otherwise I certainly would have reached out to you immediately."

Severus released a tired sigh. He'd spent too much energy of late fighting for Harry, he didn't have enough to counter his employer's reasoning. Without uttering another word, he opened the file and began to read. The first thing he noticed was that Albus had been absolutely correct: nothing of value was in the report that he hadn't already known. His eyes scanned the photographs from the Common Room and all of the evidence: the broken glass on the floor, the water line near the ceiling, a diagram depicting where the glass would have shattered from the windows, and the labelled wands from each witch or wizard in the vicinity, his own included. He briefly read over the reports on the wands from his students, relieved to discover nothing more dangerous than a stinging hex used by his pupils that night, Millicent Bulstrode to be exact, the detailed review of every interrogation completed, and the confirmation of the dissolving spell's usage to strip the protective enchantments from the windows. He flipped the pages back and forth searching for something the headmaster obviously wanted him to review, enough to disrupt his first night back in the castle. Finally, on the last page, nestled within Samson's conclusion to Williamson's report, were the two sentences he needed to read the most:

Shards of glass littering the floor tested positive for Obcasio - a magical soil with the ability to slow time…

And then further down the page, near the bottom:

After a thorough investigation, Severus Snape (Head of Slytherin) has officially been cleared as a suspect. The DMLE is still…

He didn't finish reading the paragraph; he didn't need to. He was no longer a suspect and that was what mattered to him. In his relief, Severus dropped the file from his hands, hardly registering its clattering to the floor causing the contents to disperse around his feet. Covering his mouth with one hand, his head sank down into the other, as he struggled in vain to get a hold of his emotions. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how afraid he felt that his Dark Mark combined with all the circumstantial evidence would overpower the truth. Seeing his innocence clearly written across the official DMLE report, and knowing he wouldn't spend time in Azkaban, was exactly what his mind needed. They had so much going on lately, he knew to take whatever wins he could get, particularly one this substantial. What he didn't know was how soon this reprieve would end so he could prepare himself to once again be thrown into the fire.