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?

"Harry," a soothing voice whispered in the side of his ear, warmth quivering up the back of his spine along with a tingle of uncertainty. It was familiar enough for him to decipher who it was. He cracked his eyes open and squinted them into narrow slits, comprehension not quite getting to him just yet. Barely able to make out what appeared to be a wavering white blob moving about in front of him, he ripped out a wild yawn and sighed blearily.

It was Madam Pomfrey, eagerly awaiting his awakening next to his bedside. And although he had to strain his ears to hear them, there were two other voices indistinctly chatting behind her. His hearing felt vague and blocked, but when he swallowed, they popped. It was then that he could hear them properly.

"The Headmaster would like to speak with you, Harry," she told him softly, turning her side to him for a second while she outstretched her hand to grab a hold of his glasses that were more-or-less resting on the small side table next to the bed. "Time to wake up, just for a little while though. You'll have to take your potions after, all right?" Patting his shoulder gently, Pomfrey gave him one of her rare smiles. "Then you can go back to sleep."

Harry suppressed a croaky groan in the back of his throat, swallowing heavily as sweat beaded across his forehead. He was in no mood whatsoever to go through an entire explanation of what went down in the Chamber of Secrets, at all. But then, he supposed, it would be better to get it over and done with so he wouldn't have to do it at a later date.

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore's voice sounded almost benign to his ears, soothing and oddly relaxing. Harry didn't even bother to question it anymore, he reckoned that the Headmaster simply had that effect on the people around him. It didn't make sense, true, but then again; this was the wizarding world. Practically nothing made sense anymore. He found himself unwillingly recalling Snape's short speech when he was addressing one of the Gryffindors in class one day, almost releasing a chuckle of amusement at the memory.

"The logic of the wizarding world is held together by duct tape and begins to unravel at the slightest bit of scrutiny."

That time, he did chuckle — though it sounded a lot more of a blown raspberry than a laugh. Apparently, it was loud enough to attract the attention of the three lingering adults that had now fully entered his small private cubicle. It was Dumbledore who he locked eyes with, an odd warmth enveloping him whole as he stared right back into those glittering cerulean eyes. He was still grinning weakly after his chuckles died down, but it was swept off of his face when the all-too-familiar telltale throb of his arm took over and was substituted with a wince.

His hand flew to the side of his right arm quickly, which only proved to deepen his grimace further. Poppy was the first to snappishly pull his hand away from the opening wound, a scowl — that was more directed towards his injury than at Harry — painted firmly over her face. He tried to shake her off, jerking his moderately mended arm around in the air frantically.

If he could just get her to— she tried to make a grab for his right arm again, a soaring pain stinging through his veins indicating the brush of her hands over the wound. If she could just— just stop. Stop. Stop!

"Stop! Go away, stop- stop touching— stop touching it!" He heaved laboriously, pushing himself closer towards the bedside that didn't have a meddling nurse bustling about. She was protesting, his ears could pick up that much, but he didn't care. Perspiration was soaking his face by now, and frankly, he just wanted to get some damn rest.

Professor Snape was still present within the vicinity, Harry noticed dully. He was standing just outside of his peripheral vision in the corner with Dumbledore, his darkened form sweeping up to his side with long and elegant strides. At first, Harry began to shuffle away from the Potions Master, preferring to deal with the vexatious nurse than the teacher that hated him. Even if they did have a somewhat civil conversation earlier with him (though Harry was still half asleep through it), he didn't dare to think that that resolved anything, let alone the bad blood between them.

“Mr Potter,” Severus drawled softly. “I highly recommend you to cease your incessant whining if you know what is good for you. Madam Pomfrey is not trying to attack you for heaven’s sake; she is trying to help you.” He raised an arm to grasp the boy’s shoulder gently, “Now if you could just—”

“GET OFF OF ME!” Harry made a move to jerk the hand on his shoulder off violently, which proved fatal in terms of remaining on the bed. The sheets beneath him were slipping away as they wrinkled, the bed creaking vehemently at the violent and abrupt movements. And before he knew what was even happening anymore, other than the distant sensation of falling, he felt a mellow pair of arms wrapping around his body. An arm was slithered around the back of his shoulder blades, with the other coasting below his calf and thigh in between.

Dumbledore was hurrying to Snape’s side, his eyes brimming with concern as he steadied his hands around the abnormally light child, not quite touching him but close enough to catch him if he were to somehow slip from Snape’s grasp. There was a small proportion of Harry that thought that Dumbledore was too disgusted to even touch him, afraid that he might be contagious. And that hurt. But he knew that he was wrong, or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself. After all, the man had come to visit him; that had to account for something, right?

Or maybe he just came for an explanation, a sour voice piped up. Maybe he doesn’t care- hell, he might have just come to keep up his appearances. Make sure his little Golden Boy wasn’t going to die, make sure his pawn-

“Harry?” Dumbledore said softly, his voice so distraught that Harry couldn’t help but sniffle quietly. He looked up from where his head was now being cradled, purposely ignoring the fact that his entire body was trembling by now, staring up into those beseeching eyes of the Headmaster. Just by looking, seeing, with his own two eyes, he saw everything that he had desired when he was younger — that he still coveted for even now.

Genuine solicitude.

And it took all he had not to break down right then and there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered modestly, wanting desperately to simply curl up into an indestructible ball in the warmth of the arms that held him. They were firm in keeping him close to the professor’s chest, he noticed detachedly, a small voice in the back of his head screaming for him to put as much distance between him and Snape. Instead, however, he decided for once to side with the other voice, the more comprehensive one.

You. Are. Safe.

---

Albus was, as anyone would expect; worried. Terrifyingly so. He had taken heed of the thorough explanations of Ronald and Ginny Weasley, seeing as they were upon the first two to have awakened from their unconscious states in the chambers below. The details were, in all matters, gruesome to say the least. When they had heard that Harry was still recovering in one of the hospital beds, it was Ron who had tried to run up to his bedside before ramming straight into Poppy.

Eventually, after a firm holding of the distressed Weasley that was nearly in hysterics for thinking his friend was dead, the witch was able to usher the redhead back to his bed with his sister. Of course, that didn’t stop him from popping up near Harry’s bed every night.

As for Severus, Albus contemplated pensively with a small smile, he seemed ambivalent. He knew that the dour man probably had his mind reeling at the seams at having ‘the Potter brat’ in such close quarters with his person. His countenance was blank, but his eyes were flooded with conflicting emotions. They narrowed and twitched as they stared at the quivering boy he was still holding in his arms, a twinge of something foreign finding its way through his mental barriers.

“Severus,” Albus planted a hand on the man’s shoulder, effectively cutting him away from his ruminations. His head snapped in the direction of the Headmaster, eyeing him up warily before looking away to the boy again. He opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut, thinking better of it.

Severus gave a small and involuntarily gentle nudge, “Harry.” The name rolled off the tip of his tongue and he contrived to hold himself from blurting Potter out at the end, cutting off the initial habit. He spared a side-glance towards Albus and nearly scowled at the look he was given. His eyes had that particular sparkle in them again, a disgustingly optimistic one, something he absolutely loathed.

And Albus did indeed know that full well.

Senile old man.

As for the boy who was now in a much more relaxed and quiescent state, the trembling having been subsided while enveloped in the warmth Severus’ cloaks offered, he was now curiously looking up at the Headmaster who was waving the flustering nurse to her office with the promise of going to fetch her as soon as they were done or if she was needed.

With a gentle smile gracing his features, Dumbledore turned back towards Harry, eyes still sparkling with reassurance. “Harry,” he spoke softly. “Dear boy, I believe that I- no, we, as the school, owe you our sincere gratitude for ridding us of the unfortunate calamity of the Chamber of Secrets.”

That seemed to have aroused a little more tension in the boy, Albus noticed with a barely concealed pained look. Basing off of the thorough explanations of Ronald and Ginny Weasley, he could only imagine the kind of trauma the boy before him had suffered through. He was only thankful that it didn’t have to be passed on to the others, though, the Weasley boy had bared witness to the carcass of the mighty basilisk when the search party was launched. Which was the precise moment he fainted into oblivion.

Harry’s grip on his professor’s robes tightened considerably at the mention of the chambers, knuckles turning a pale white as a vague memory was pelted through his vision, eyes glazing over. Long, slender fingers adjusted their position behind the back of his head, softly kneading through the tangled strands of hair. It was then that his grasp slowly began to uncurl, the slightest dose of colour returning to his pallid cheeks and eyes. He didn’t even realise the tears that had been running down the sides of his face, only knowing that his sight was blurry.

“I am sorry, Harry,” Dumbledore continued, the brim of his eyes turning watery as he steadied himself to remain composed. It was proving more challenging than he had incipiently thought. Snape’s thoughtful gaze never left the boy’s body, a myriad of ruminations of his own whirling in the core of his obsidian eyes. “So, so sorry,” he took two long paces forth and crumpled to his knees beside the two of them, weakly reaching out and taking Harry’s debilitated hand into his own.

There wasn’t much else to say then, and they allowed the silence to take over willingly, each of the three caught up with their most present considerations. However, the mental activity appeared to have taken too long because it was then that Madam Pomfrey decided to grace them with her eager presence.

“I do believe that you have burdened my patient long enough,” she announced sharply, though her expression softened when she noticed the fragile boy laying limply in the arms of the supposed man thought to be incapable of concern and all sense of tenderness. She had her arms crossed over each other on her chest, her frown still firmly in place before mellowing into a thin line that twitched suspiciously upwards when the Potions Master turned to look at her.

Dumbledore was the first to reply, tentatively pulling himself off of the hospital floor with the unsettling creaks and snaps of his bones cracking back into place. “I am afraid that you are indeed correct, Poppy. We have... overused our stay,” he said, voice cracking slightly with a croak as he covered his mouth with the palm of his hand, running it down to stroke his bed absent-mindedly. He turned to look at Harry again, lips straightening into a firm line as he refrained himself from instinctively reaching out to the boy again.

“Severus,” he approached the unusually detached ex-Death Eater slowly, slinking an elderly hand around his shoulder to prompt him up. Harry’s eyelids were drooping to the point where he was probably already asleep, his hands still holding onto his professor’s robes like they were a lifeline.

And initially, for a bleak moment, Albus felt that they were.

The man in question broke his gaze away from the dozing boy he held in his arms, his posture straightening rigidly that Albus feared that he might have popped a few bones. His face was impassive, dormant almost, but he nodded, all the same, to show that he understood the unsaid request. It was a quaint sight to witness, really. For a man of his particular reputation, he was especially considerate with the boy; a student he quite frequently claimed to have no care or concern about. Of course, he never claimed that he personally loathed the boy — not directly at least.

With the second-year tucked in (Poppy very nearly gaped at the unexpected action) within the warm folds of the sheets, Severus drew himself to his full height and took a moment to stare down at the small child. There was no animosity in his eyes, there was no scowl, no glower, no indignant demeanour— just a silent, contemplating look. When Harry began to stir, that was when he chose to look away, locking eyes with Albus before smoothly sweeping them to look over his shoulder at the wall blankly as he strode to his side.

“Pr’fessor Dumbledore,” Harry croaked abruptly, the current occupants of the room all turning their attention back to him at once. Snape turned around but was intently studying the opposing wall with sudden great interest, showing that he was listening to the conversation at hand, but deliberately avoiding eye contact with the boy speaking. He had broken character one too many times already.

Distance yourself, Severus, Snape reminded himself.

“Yes, Harry?” Albus asked softly, taking a step closer towards the bedside.

“Do I have to go back to the Dursleys?” His enquiry was desperate and filled with dread, and Albus took in every little detail of his expression. Harry’s eyes had promptly snapped open when a disconcerting realisation settled into the back of his mind, trepidation and even fear ingrained in them. He was biting his lip rather harshly as well, hard enough to maybe draw blood if he kept it up.

The rest of the students had already packed, including the Weasley’s and Granger girl. They would be leaving on the Hogwarts Express through Hogsmeade and back to London tomorrow, and Harry very well wasn’t capable of moving up from his bed, let alone the Hospital Wing with his present injuries. It would most likely take at least a week as the bare minimum for him to be able to perambulate the castle again, maybe longer. The venom was working its way through his body, and even Fawkes couldn’t completely heal the wound on the boy’s right arm; which was ultimately unheard of. Poppy had told Albus something of Harry having a weak immune system when they were discussing his wounds in her office on the night of the attack and rescue, which was worrying in itself. To add to that, he had to find a place for the boy to stay for the summer holidays.

Albus opened his mouth, allowing it to hang open for a few reflective seconds before speaking. “That is… hm,” he furrowed his brows, looking away to the ground and thought to himself. This is the second time he’s asked that, Albus noted grimly, recalling the boy’s earlier request last year to remain back at Hogwarts for the summer holidays. “There have been certain… ah, issues that have arisen in regards to your relatives. Nothing to worry about though," he added quickly. "However, I have a question of my own to ask of you; do you wish to return to your relatives?” He tried to be careful around his words, picking them out gingerly. If he did this correctly, he may be able to uncover something. And what was it that he was expecting to uncover? He didn’t know- he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to know, but it was what he needed to know.

Harry shook his head violently, a spark of something nearly foreign rekindling in his heart— hope. It was a hopeless and desperate kind of hope, for sure, but it was there.

"No," he all but whispered, his voice rasped with urgency, uncaring of how childish he was acting. Snape’s gaze flicked down towards the twelve-year-old, a calculating look on his face with his eyes swirling with emotions he didn’t even know he still had. "Please."

That was all that Albus needed to hear, and what was sure to follow was a proper investigation of just what it was exactly that frightened the child to his very core of the idea of returning to his relatives.

Clearly, Arabella hadn't been as observant as he'd had hoped. He could only hope that it wasn’t done on purpose, lest the matters become more complicated depending on the severity of the situation.

Albus spared a glance towards his trusted spy, noticing the slight furrow of his brow as his gaze had found itself back on Harry. To see the man showing this much emotion (as little as it may have appeared was) made him wonder if he was finally beginning to widen his perspective, maybe coming to see Harry for who he was instead of whose father sired him.

Time was a fickle thing, and yet it was the only thing that could determine the future. And he hoped dearly that it actually did its job right for once.

"All right," Albus conceded gently, in what he hoped appeared to be a placating gesture, as he realised that the child had begun to hyperventilate. "You will stay here, for the time being."

The fear that had stung his eyes diminished and converted into what could only be defined as genuine gratitude, a modest and timid smile splitting across his lips. The hope that had once been stinging in his chest had sprouted back in full force, his vigorous green eyes flushing with renewed life as well as a few splashes of colour returning to his pallor.

Albus felt a sharp pang of guilt that weighed itself on his shoulders. There were many possibilities that could have led to the boy changing so fast. What did they do to you, my boy?

"Thank— thank you," Harry breathed deeply, extracting a shuddering exhale through his nose. "Thank you…"

Severus shuffled uncomfortably at his side, a subtle and discreet nudge clandestinely pressing against the side of his robes. Albus threw a small gesture for him to wait a little longer, giving Poppy the same look as he neared closer towards the bed again.

"Harry, for your living arrangements during the summer—” Albus suppressed a disheartened look at the troubled frown that took over the boy’s face, almost as if he was anticipating the opportunity to stay at Hogwarts a while longer was about to be snatched away from him. Which was, but exchanged for a better option. “—I am willing to give you the alternative of attending a summer camp. No charge.”

At first, there was nothing but silence as Harry tried to process the information through his head. And finally, when it got through:

He beamed the widest smile he’d ever worn.

Severus was, in contrast to his regularly snarky self; baffled. He was, all in all, ambivalent in his contradicting feelings; his beliefs about Potter were wavering like they always were and always have been since the beginning of the brat's first year. Potter had the visage of his father, not to mention that the round-rimmed glasses he always wore only intensified the resemblance adamantly. But then there was Lily, who was always ever-so present in those brilliant emerald eyes of his.

Severus knew fully well of the most pronounced resemblances to Lily that were present in the boy; most noticeably was her brazen temper that seemed to have passed down to her child. He didn't know whether to be grateful or chafed at that. Of course, in the first few months of the school term, he blamed it on the genetics of Potter's blasted father, a trait of some sort that was often associated with spoilt children. And that was what he thought of Potter. Spoilt rotten to the core, given anything he wanted — whatever he wanted.

And yet, he knew he was wrong.

The boy was everything but his father; he didn't go purposely tormenting other students, he didn't sneer or even insult his Slytherins — apart from Malfoy, but even then it was when he was provoked. Potter didn't have an opinion on Slytherin, or, at least, he never verbally announced it like many of his Gryffindor peers chose to. Nor his use of body language, he kept himself neutral, and level-headed. Meanwhile, the second youngest of the Weasley clan — heavens forbid they have anymore — mouthed off at them every chance he could get, even going as far as to keep himself at a distance from them like he didn't want to get infected. By what was beyond Severus.

Well, truth be told, that was all during their first year.

Weasley had apparently 'cooled down' from his incessant, petty prejudices. He didn't give any of the Slytherin students funny looks anymore, and he was beginning to keep his possibly offending opinions about the snake house to himself. Especially when Potter was around.

Severus paused in his long strides across the dungeon cobblestone corridor, a moment of silence saturating the air like poison. With fingers stained with the residues of potion ingredients, he ran his hand down his face, stopping to rub his eyes in roughly before stretching it down.

That was Potter's doing, he realised.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth unpleasantly, scowling not only at the epiphany but at himself. In the back of his head, he could hear himself, words once spoken in a barking tone.

"Just like your father!"

"Why you insolent little…"

"Think you can get out of this one, hm? Think again, Potter."

"Bullying, Mr Potter?"

He was wrong. He was always wrong. And he knew it, but he didn't care. Dear Merlin, how petty could he get?

Severus stopped again, pausing just outside the portrait hole to his private quarters. He swallowed harshly, just barely quelling the abrupt urge to slam his clenched fist straight through the portrait and instead deciding to settle for pinching the bridge of his nose. The mere thought of having to concede to his mistakes were daunting enough, but the added guilt that weighed over his shoulders didn't help aid him in this task.

—

Harry felt… for a lack of a better word, shaky.

And that wasn't only figuratively speaking; every one of his limbs was trembling, whether from the repetitive stinging sensation that wracked his body all the time or from the freezing air assaulting his skin, he didn't know.

It had been a full week since he had gained consciousness, and Harry quite frankly enjoyed the independence he was given for the last few days. He spent the majority of his time sleeping in the hospital bed (that had been given daily doses of warming charms) though, so there was really nothing to it. Madam Pomfrey gave him his potions — that surprisingly tasted fine — every day he was there as well, advising him to send his thanks to the dour Potions Master. She was quite adamant about that.

Not that she had to remind him though, Harry was planning on it the next time he saw him. Maybe he was going mad. A few weeks ago he probably would have grimaced at the idea of having to thank the 'greasy git'. However, his thoughts began moulding into different opinions. He had heard Snape coming in numerous times in the night, the clicking of his boots becoming something he was getting familiar with more and more. And for once, he didn't feel that incoming dread that would usually come with it.

It was… awkward. Harry didn't know how to react, what he could even say to the man. So, for the sake of avoiding any graceless interactions with the man, he pretended to be asleep every time he saw the Potions Master creeping into the Hospital Wing. Initially, he was there to deliver batches of potions to Madam Pomfrey, but even Harry knew that Snape was giving too much of them for the first week into the summer holidays.

Madam Pomfrey herself had reprimanded him for it.

---

"Severus," the witch groaned wearily, running a hand down the front of her face. She gestured towards the small wooden box of potion vials, shaking her hand as if to emphasize it. "What are you doing? You never do this much activity during the first week into the holidays!"

Severus didn't even try to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. "Believe it or not, Poppy, but even I would like to enjoy my time in the solace of my holidays," he said silkily, a sneer marring his lips. "I would certainly find it… beneficial to conclude my rounds of resupplying your stores as soon as possible. Note that I will be returning again over the days whether you like it or not."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Poppy threw her hands in the air exasperatedly, taking the crate from his arms and storming off into the back of the Hospital Wing, all the while muttering inaudible curses that Severus was glad he couldn't hear coming from her mouth.

A muffled groan emerged from one of the hospital beds, most notably, the one that had its curtains drawn around it. Although no one had ever claimed it, Severus wasn't dense; he knew exactly who was behind those curtains, who was laying in a vulnerable state in that bed. Attentively, Severus stalked towards the area and pulled back the curtains briefly, careful in the amount of noise he made.

Potter.

As anticipated, the boy was laying there on his back, his uninjured arm hoisted over his eyes with his jaw clenched tightly. He was crunching his teeth together in a sporadic pattern, his breaths coming in shallow and out wheezing. Severus stretched the curtains a little further, his obsidian eyes taking in the full form of the twelve-year-old child.

Looking closely, Severus realised just how small Potter was. Not to mention how emaciated he appeared. He was wearing one of the hospital gowns, so all of the excessive cloth that usually came with the student's uniform robes was ripped from the boy's image, evidently leaving him gaunt and exposed. Initially, he thought that the child was just skinny because of his regular Quidditch practices, but the closer he leaned forward, the outlines of the boy's ribs became more pronounced and visible.

"That's another matter," Severus whipped around instantaneously, alarm in his eyes. It was only Poppy. "That I've been wanting to discuss with you, Severus," she continued flatly, though her voice contained a little more of an undertone of despondency than what was normal. At the Potions Masters raised eyebrow, she nodded her head towards the bed that Potter was resting in. "Let me just say that you're… more experienced in this area."

Severus frowned at her vague elaboration, looking back at the boy and then to the nurse again, the gears of his mind working itself into a swirling vortex of entropy. More experienced? What exactly was she insinuating here? His gaze found the pale body of the boy once more, obsidian eyes squinting questioningly. He stepped back once he realised the boy was stirring awake, his groans developing more into meek sobs that made nearly made Severus dart to his bedside.

Poppy swooped in, nurse-mode activated.

"It's alright, Harry," she cooed gently, brushing her fingers against the surface of his forehead while stroking any loose strands of hair away. For a moment, Severus felt envious of her position — an emotion which he immediately squashed down and turned away to leave in a billow of robes. Poppy's voice followed him down to the exit of the Hospital Wing. "Professor Snape brought you your potions," Severus paused on the spot, the clicking of his boots halting abruptly and skidding across the stone floor.

"That's nice," the boy's voice was weaker, exhausted.

"Mhm, indeed," Poppy hummed her agreement, a smile evident in her tone. "You should thank him when you see him, I'm sure that he'll appreciate it, however snarky and distant he may be."

"I will."

Severus strenuously snubbed the foreign warmth pricking at his stone heart, stalking out the doors with a disgruntled noise that came from the back of his throat.

---

"Harry," Poppy called out as she was emerging from her office, squinting slightly under the exposure of the light pouring in through the tall windows lined up against the infirmary walls. Her eyes landed on the diminutive figure of the child, a tentative smile stretching across her lips when she realised that he was sitting up. Such a straining task had proven difficult not even a few days ago. Of course, telling by the small wince that hid behind the boy's features, it wasn't exactly easy to even do so.

Not yet, she reminded herself. He'll heal.

Harry looked up at the nurse and shot her a grin, blinking rapidly before using the back of his hand to rub out the lingering particles of sleepiness from his eyes. "Morning, miss," he said politely, yawning behind his hand. Poppy noted that he was still relying heavily on his left arm rather than his right one. That one was shaking.

Brandishing her wand with a small flick, she gave a swift wave in the air and settled down onto the cushioned chair next to Harry's bed. The cabinet specialised and personally organised for Harry slapped open with a short bang, a trio of potion vials zooming out from the cluttered space and landing gently on the bedside table.

Harry glared at them balefully with disgust.

"You know that you won't be able to get through the day without them, Mr Potter," Poppy reprimanded softly, though her tone spoke no-nonsense. "Come along now, best not let Severus' work go in vain. Heaven knows what he'll do if-" she shook her head when she caught herself rambling redundantly. "Nevermind that."

It was with a resigned sigh that Harry got to downing each of the three down, already knowing them from the top of his head.

Pain-nulling Potion, was the first one, a royal blue colour.

Muscle Restoration Potion was a new one he had learnt.

And finally, a Calming Draught, one of the most regularly taken ones for him.

When he finished drinking the third one, he felt his head give a piercing throb before numbing down into a meagre nag at the back of his head. He nearly collapsed back into the pillows underneath him before Poppy managed to catch him by the back of his shoulders, pulling him up slowly as to not aggravate any of his still present injuries; particularly his arm. Looking down at the gaping wound, Harry scowled darkly.

It's still there.

"All right, we better get you up and going before the potions wear off," Poppy declared, rather reluctant in the idea of moving him around, let alone walking. "Albus will be waiting for us in his office, said that someone will be picking you up and taking you with them to the camp. As an… escort of sorts." Her hand came under his right armpit as she tried to boost him up from the bed, helping him in swinging his legs over the edge.

Harry inhaled sharply when her hand jostled his arm too excessively, his face twisting into a grimace. He didn't voice his troubles, but there was a strangled sort of sound that slipped through the gaps of his mouth. Poppy's movements shifted into a steadier pace, a gesture that Harry appreciated greatly as just about everything in his body was protesting against the effort needed to move.

"We'll take it slow, Harry," she reassured him, chuckling quietly when she felt him deflate and slump a little. "However, that does not mean that I am entirely willing to carry you all the way up there young man!" He straightened up almost immediately.

"Sorry, ma'am."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Just call me Poppy, child."