Albus was seated behind his mahogany desk — which just so happened to have been newly cleaned and polished by himself the other day — his narrowed gaze looking down at the piece of paper that was practically glaring right back at him, the sharp and slightly slanted words written in black ink standing out among the blank whiteness around it greatly. They didn't have the elegance or gracefulness of writing with a quill, but rather (from what he remembers).

Petunia Dursley, it read. And it was enough to make the old wizard thin his lips into a narrow line, almost flawlessly impersonating his Deputy Headmistress when she was at her strictest. The effervescent sparkle that usually mirrored in his eyes were dim with dread, brows furrowed together in thought.

In the far corner of the room, Fawkes gave what he could decipher to be a concerned trill, most likely because of the uncommon expression that was now marring his typical flamboyant liveliness. It was, after all, not all that often that he wore such a grim visage — for good reason to, that being that he had donned it frequently during the times of war. And at that moment, he was currently having one with himself inside his mind, an unsettling parade of thoughts flying about.

Absent-mindedly, he raised a hand to stroke the distressed phoenix that was now perched on the edge of his desk, using the other to scoop up the envelope as Fawke's singing played in the background as his ambience. He gave one gentle smile towards his familiar, silently thanking him for his attempts of comfort and consolation. Count on Fawkes to be the Calming Draught to his day.

He hesitated for the first few seconds, pulling his hand away from Fawkes to fully grasp the sides of the envelope, tapping the four corners with his fingers with a distant feeling of trepidation beating repetitively in his chest. Honestly, he didn't know why he was being like an eleven-year-old child getting their first-ever Hogwarts letter — all he knew was that it had something to do with Harry Potter.

Finally finding the courage to push aside the overwhelming feelings of concern and tenseness, he ripped open the top of the envelope and drew out the folded note that was disclosed inside. He noted that the sides of the note appeared to have been gripped rather tightly, distractedly storing that piece of information into the back of his head for consideration. Petunia must have been in quite the irritated mood to have caused a not-so-subtle tear on one of the sides.

Albus Dumbledore,

To make matters simple, my family and I will be absent from Privet Drive for the next couple of months due to… trivial affairs. Note that no one will be there to pick the boy up, nor will anyone be present at Privet Drive #4. If possible, keep the boy there for the summer holidays. If not… well, I'm sure you'll think of something.

Please understand, Dumbledore, that this is for Harry's own good.

- Petunia Dursley.

It was rather vague at best, really, informative, sure, but vague nonetheless.

"Oh, Petunia," Albus sighed deeply, leaning off on one side of his chair with an elbow resting on the surface of his desk, the letter now lying prostrate and unmoving across the wood. He buried his face into the palm of his hand, massaging his temples harshly as his mind was sent to work on organising a plan for the poor boy that was still currently unconscious in the Hospital Wing.

The only few things that he had to be grateful for was the fact that the youngest of the Weasley clan, Ginny Weasley, was still alive — counting young Harry Potter and Ron Weasley as well. Lockhart being taken away by the Auror's was also a huge relief, the lying fraud had the misfortune of his own Obliviate curse shooting back at him. Good riddance.

Now all that was left for him to do was to deal with the Daily Prophet — most notably: Rita Skeeter — from embellishing the school affairs out to the public. That in itself was going to be a hell of a lot more difficult than anything else that was on his to-do list. Next was making suitable living arrangements for Harry over the summer holidays, which was another matter to contemplate on.

There was just something about that letter that made him think twice, though. There was a sense of what Albus could only make out to be desperation — which was not something that Petunia was well-known for. Reminiscing back on it again, he did notice the indistinct splatter of a runaway watermark on the lower sides of the letter. It was dried out, obviously, because of the amount of time it had taken to be delivered from its owner to Hogwarts.

She had been crying when she was writing the letter, that much was made clear. But… why? Did something happen? Was she okay? The questions were an endless stream, and the old wizard couldn't help but bring himself to worry about Lily's only sister. Something wasn't right, and he knew it.

Without so much of a second thought of recollecting his dwellings, he scrambled for a spare scroll of parchment and one of the only few envelopes he still had in his possessions — he figured that Petunia wouldn't be all that grateful receiving just a scroll of parchment, seeing as she was probably much more familiar with the ways of muggle letter-delivering. Perhaps I should start sending letters through their post office, he pondered.

Plucking his overly ornamented quill up from its golden holder, he set to writing his letter back to her, ignoring the quiet whispering of a voice in the back of his head. She won't read it. He had to at least try and appeal to her, after all, Harry was in safer hands with her family, not at Hogwarts or anywhere else for that matter. At least, not completely.

Dear Petunia,

I understand the significance of your activities, but I must remind you that Harry Potter will not be able to remain here at Hogwarts…

---

The antiseptic air had a fragrance of vanilla flowers, something oddly pleasing to the senses. But, it tasted stale, nearly sour. His nose felt wet and his forehead pulsed with heat, the back of his throat feeling as dry as cardboard with his lips more chapped than usual. Fatigue devoured his small, scrawny body, seeming to start from the tips of his toes and racing its way up past his chest, ending near his neck.

His arm was a whole other matter though. He could feel himself shaking, trembling, quivering, all so violently. This was a whole different level of pain, more than he was used to at that. And that was saying something, from past experiences, that is. His left arm was the one in the most tip-top condition, just a few minor scratches from scraping across the stone tiles that could be healed up in a jiffy, as well as a couple of bruises that may or may not have been caused by the massive basilisk in the chambers.

As for his right arm… that one held a different story, as well as a completely new appearance. The bite he had so graciously received from that blasted snake was still there, the hole of where its fang had penetrated itself into his skin laying wide and open for all the world to see. His veins were pumping something different other than blood to this moment on, something black and sinister, evil was a word he would use — something… something that wasn't his blood.

It was… oh god, was that the venom?

"Mr Potter," a distant voice echoed from the side of his bed, something that he only came to realise just then as he swung his head around lethargically to scan his surroundings. Of course, due to the first thing he smelt upon waking up being the thoroughly clean air that reminded him of linen bandages, he was quick to note that he was in the Hospital Wing.

His sight was blurry, blobs of colours in various sizes bouncing around his vision, the humanoid outline of the Mediwitch in all her worried glory being the best he could comprehend before trying to sit up by pushing himself on his elbows. It was all too soon and too much for his current brain cells to handle, for just seconds later it felt like they were burning to a crisp right then and there. A hand soon found itself planted against his chest as it pushed him down onto the bedsheets, sprawling his arms out to his sides widely with his face scrunched up into an utterly painful and miserable visage.

"Oh, dear," Madam Pomfrey quickly spilled her apologies out, having the misunderstood impression that she was the sole reason for his suffering. It was in that split second that she used to her advantage, backing out and zooming towards one of the potion cupboards on the opposite side of the wall, scavenging through the different coloured phials for the following; headache potion, stomach ache potion, and pain reliever potion. She came hurrying back with the three potions bundled up in her hands, pulling the curtains closed as soon as she settled them on the side table. Then, she strode to Harry's side, cupping the back of his head with careful gentleness and holding one of the opened potion bottles to his mouth.

He tossed his head to the side when he caught a whiff of the vile-smelling potion, adamantly refusing to take the ungodly substance with a small shake of his head and a grimace. Harry could practically feel the deep frown Madam Pomfrey was sure to be giving him right there.

"Open," she demanded firmly, pushing the lid to his mouth once more. Bluntly, and rather apologetically, he shook his head again, doing his best to give the most pitiful and begging look he could muster up with all that he had left of his Gryffindor courage. "Mr Potter… open your mouth. Now." Her voice wasn't raised, she didn't yell — but it spoke authority, a disturbing similarity that related back to Snape. It was more like a deadly whisper, a faint tinge of a most promised threat being in order if he continued to refuse to comply with her orders. "Mr Potter…"

That was all it took for the still half-asleep boy to almost automatically go along with her austere management, the thinness of his lips parting away from being clamped down on each other being the Mediwitch's swift advantage in making him drink the disgusting concoction with silent protests not daring to slip through his mouth in the presence of the now content nurse. The two of them went through the same process another two times, taking the last of the blasted potions though, much to his never-ending chagrin. After all of that, he just wanted to go to sleep.

Apparently, fate wasn't feeling all that merciful for him.

For at that moment, Snape came bursting through the Hospital Wing, robes, cape and all, his black boots tapping against the stone tiles in a rhythmic motion that made Harry's eyelids droop down as if they weighed more than just skin and tissue. He could see the Mediwitch parting the curtains away from his section of the Hospital Wing and groaned, forcing himself into a sitting position with the small question of whether or not she was going to fetch him some more potions repeating in the back of his mind. He dearly hoped not. Harry didn't think he could handle any more of them being forced down his throat.

"Poppy," Harry froze at the familiar quality of silkiness the voice that spoke had, a dwindle of dread seeping its way into his very core. His pallor worsened with every passing second and manifested quite visibly on his face, unfocused green eyes widening a fraction more. "The potions you requested."

The sound of glass phials clinking together as he passed them over to the Mediwitch filled the silence in the air, distinctly followed by Harry's heaving breaths as he tried to calm himself into a state of peace.

"Thank you, Severus," Poppy nodded her head at him gratefully before striding over towards the potion cabinet she had been digging through earlier. "Goodness knows that I'm going to need more by the end of this week," she added when she didn't hear the clicks of the Potion Master's boots travelling back to the doors and leaving. "He's in a poor state, Severus. Suffering from the delayed reactions most likely."

Intrigued, Severus tilted his head to the side subtly with open curiosity — which was really just a well-formed facade to conceal the twitch in his brow that had almost dragged itself down. He told himself in his head that it wasn't a sign of concern, fighting off the voice in the background that told him otherwise.

"I see," he drawled indifferently to the distracted Mediwitch, moving his curious eyes sideways to drink in the soft blueness of the curtains that were pulled over to cover the patient within. The most that he could see from his idle angle was a lifeless arm that was swung lazily across the bedside. For a moment, he thought that there was a corpse lying in that bed. It was only until he saw a few of the fingers twitched a little that relief flooded his system, never taking his gaze off of the limb as the hand curled up into a tight fist before relaxing again.

Severus left the Mediwitch to the fussing of her potions cabinet and strode over towards the stock still curtains, pulling them back with one swing of his hand. And there he was — the blasted boy he was supposed to protect in all his glory, lying sprawled across the bed with both of his arms spread widely on the bedsides. Even Severus could tell that the child was beyond exhausted and doubted that he would want to see his hated professor in such close proximity so soon. He also took note of the fact that the boy was pretending to be asleep.

"Potter," he said neutrally, none of his usual vindictiveness or malice currently present in his tone. The boy flinched if only by a little, but remained as motionless as ever under the intense look of the Potions Master. "Potter, there is no need to simulate sleeping."

Harry managed to crack half an eyelid open, setting his lips into a thin line as his breathing grew a little heavier than normal. "I'm tired, sir," he stated simply, watching with hidden amusement when the towering man lifted an eyebrow at his declaration. "I didn't think that you'd…" he trailed off before taking a deep breath to give his lungs some much-needed oxygen into their system. He could see that Snape was looking at him oddly and continued from where he left off. "—care that much, sir," he exhaled all of the excess air he had remaining, resuming his normal — if a little laboured — breathing.

Severus narrowed his eyes, calculating silently in his head.

The boy looked as if he were on death's doorstep to put it plainly, he certainly didn't have any of the usual spunk and fight in him, that was for sure. Severus took a good look at the boy again, running his eyes over his fragile body before striding closer towards the bed and pulling up a chair that was sitting in the near corner.

"As much of a nuisance you are, I too, believe it or not, care for your initial safety," he said softly, leaning forward ever so slightly in his chair to push away a wayward strand of hair from the child's face. Harry tensed at the unexpected gesture, his green eyes widening a fraction before relaxing. Snape smirked. "You seem more tolerable in this state, I must admit. If only you were—" the man suddenly paused, the rest of his words seeming to catch themselves in the back of his throat and dying off.

Harry, intrigued by what could have possibly made the man stop in his half-hearted tirade halfway through, followed his professor's gaze that appeared to have caught sight of the evident bite mark that was engraved along his skin. The veins there had transformed into a colour similar to that of black ink, running along in intricate patterns down the rest of his arm and stopping at the base of his neck.

But it was the bite mark that drew the professor to lean in closer, steadying himself with a hand gripping the edge of the bedside he was closest to. His fingers came to stroke across the mark, obsidian eyes lost in thought. Harry gave an involuntary gasp and jerked his arm away, almost twisting it by the sheer force and desperation he put into it.

"Please don't," he begged breathlessly, "It just… hurts. A lot. Sorry, sir."

Snape resumed his previous position of sitting down on his chair, a calculating expression covering his face. After a small pause of stillness, he spoke. "My apologies," he said sincerely — so sincerely that Harry wasn't even sure what to make of it, let alone coming up with a reply, so he decided to just stay silent. Thankfully, he didn't have to say anything because the professor continued. "How are you faring?"

Harry snorted at the question, rolling his head to the side — an action of which he immediately regretted doing when he felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on. "As you can see," he used his unaffected arm to wave it over his body, gesturing to the whole of it. "I'm doing just- just fine." He didn't mean to sound harsh, but he really didn't want to have to deal with any of… this. Whatever this was.

"I see," Snape replied evenly, deciding to allow the slip of not using his title. Truly, he couldn't blame him — he knew himself of how vehemently irritating it was to keep awake without having itinerant mood swings that more often or not led straight to anger and frustration.

Harry turned his head around with effort, staring straight back at the professor with glassy eyes. "Sir," he started, his voice already beginning to crack. The dampness of his eyes didn't escape Snape's attention. "Are my friends okay?" The question seemed to tip Snape off a little if the raise of his eyebrows indicated anything. That only appeared to make Harry more desperate and desirous for an answer. "Please, sir…"

Severus took a long few seconds, staring at the child that was now steadily beginning to hyperventilate. "Your little followers? They are alive — unfortunately," he muttered the last of his sentence more to himself than anything. The boy finally ceased his perpetual heavy breathing, settling into a more settling and comforting pace. Snape seemed satisfied, though he didn't show it.

"Thank you, sir," Harry sighed, shoulders sagging with non-to-subtle relief. Severus frowned, silently waiting for something else to come up, some indignant retort for his slimy professor referring to his oh-so-loyal friends as mere 'followers'. But nothing came, which only served to irritate Severus because he couldn't retort back with an insult.

Surprisingly, the boy looked to have been dozing off into unconsciousness. It was with the ill-practised ability to remain stoic right then and there that Severus returned to Madam Pomfrey, looking over his shoulder to look at Potter. From his perspective, now that he was standing a little further away, he wouldn't have been able to decipher whether the boy was alive or just a rotting corpse.

What in Merlin's name had happened to the boy?