(One Week Later, Library)

It was past midnight, well beyond the time all students (save the Prefects) were due to be in bed. The corridors had been dark and silent as Harry went along, his only means by which to see his lighted wand. As he entered the library, the door creaked open, barely audible. Just as quietly, he shut it behind him and shed his invisibility cloak, the silky material pooling on the floor around his feet.

In his hands he carried his wand and the Marauders’ Map. He tapped the seemingly blank piece of parchment with his wand and muttered, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

It took a moment, but at last, the introduction appeared. He paid no heed to it, having read it over dozens of times, and instead unfolded it. The entire layout of the Hogwarts castle appeared before him. Quickly he checked where the most likely people to be up at this hour were:

Filch, the caretaker of the castle, was on the sixth floor, several levels above the library. He appeared to be in his office-quarters, along with Mrs. Norris, his cat.

Headmaster Dumbledore appeared to be in his office, as well. Harry gazed at the scroll indicating who and where the man was with a twinge of sadness. He could bet the man had not had a very restful sleep in a while.

The teenager’s eyes became more distant, and the twinge grew a bit, as he recalled Hermione’s words of a week ago. He doubted *any* of the teachers had gotten a decent night’s sleep in a while. It showed in their classes. Even Professor Snape seemed out of it these days.

Speaking of…

The Head of Slytherin House’s name appeared in the dungeons---in his private quarters, no less. Good. Harry just hoped the man was sleeping and not brooding over some potion or staring distractedly into the fire of his living room.

Of all the teachers, perhaps, aside from Dumbledore, the Potions Master was under the most stress. As a spy, he was contacted quite frequently. In fact, not one night this week had passed without his receiving summons. Though the man was unaware of it, Harry had spent every evening watching him from the window of the sixth year boys’ dormitory, the one that gave a bird’s eye view of the grounds, as he made his way quickly down the hill towards Hogsmeade Village. It was, after all, not hard to spot a figure stumbling the smallest bit as he clutched his left forearm, despite the fact that he dressed in all black.

And every evening, although it was beyond his comprehension, Harry prayed for the Professor’s safe return.

Today in the N.E.W.T. level Potions class had been the final straw. The man could hardly hold his head up, and when he had looked up as Harry entered the classroom, the teenager had had to forcibly restrain himself from rushing over to his teacher. The obsidian eyes that had been, for as long as Harry remembered, alert and sharp, were dulled and somewhat unfocused, causing him to wonder just how much more of this the older wizard could take.

Perhaps seeing the recognition in the sixteen-year-old’s own emerald ones, the Potions Master had stood---rather unsteadily, as the boy had noted with concern---and using his desk for balance, informed the class at large that he was canceling lessons for that day.

He did not have strength enough to even scowl.

Utter silence had fallen as Slytherins, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws alike stared at the Professor. Then there was a whoop a moment later (he thought it must have been Ron), and the spell was broken. Instantly, the students had scrambled to collect their things and head outside to enjoy the balmy late spring afternoon.

Harry had chosen to remain after, in spite of the fact that Hermione and Ron had both been insistently tugging at his arms, far more worried about the Professor than he cared to admit. His two friends had at last given up, and settled with waiting in the corridor for him.

Once they had left the classroom, the sixteen-year-old had hesitated a moment, nearly changing his mind. It was made up for him, however, when the Potions Master---completely oblivious to his presence---immediately collapsed into the desk’s chair. Barely managing to check his surprised and concerned cry, Harry had quickly thrown his rucksack over one shoulder and hurried over to the man.

He had stopped at the teacher’s desk, biting his lip, and debating how best to go about this:

(FLASHBACK)

“Professor?” Harry queried cautiously, voice quiet.

At the question, Severus’s head jumped up with a jolt. The older wizard had quite firmly believed all his students to have left. He peered up in exhaustion at the boy. “Potter?” Mumbled.

Biting his lip harder, the young Gryffindor slowly reached out and slipped one arm around the Potions Master’s lower back and waist. “Come on,” he advised, “let’s get you to your rooms.”

Severus started slightly as the teenager hefted him---not without some measure of difficulty---to his feet. That done, the boy secured one of his arms around his shoulders. “What are you doing?” muttered wearily as he tried to pull away.

Harry scowled a bit. “What does it look like I’m doing? Stay still!”

The man was too tired to do anything but obey. So he did, leaning heavily on the slighter teen beside him. For all the boy appeared to be scrawny and thin, he was, in fact, quite strong. That strength helped him now, allowing him to balance the weight of the Potions Master as he carefully led the older wizard through the door of the classroom and out into the hall.

Hermione and Ron, true to their word, had remained in the corridor. Now they gaped at him as he and the Head of Slytherin emerged, one barely aware of his surroundings.

“Harry?!” Hermione gasped.

Ron said nothing, merely stared at the two.

The Boy-Who-Lived shook his head firmly. “Later, ‘Mione!” he near-snapped and headed in the opposite direction from where they rested in the right wing of the corridor. He had a vague sense of where the man’s private quarters were and figured that the portrait of Salazar Slytherin he saw some ninety yards ahead could not be far off the mark.

Slowly, they made their way towards it, Ron and Hermione trailing behind them. To his teacher, he murmured, “Is this routine for you?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” growled weakly. He said nothing further and Harry did not press the issue. But his mind had latched onto an idea---a crazy one, yes, but still an idea.

They arrived at the portrait a few moments later.

The teenager twisted to look up at the Professor, locking eyes with him, as if by his very will alone he could force energy into the overtired man. “Promise me you will try and sleep,” he pleaded, barely believing his own ears.

Severus had enough wits about him to shoot the sixteen-year-old a rather startled look. He had become accustomed to hearing sarcasm from his student, and this sudden reversal had him astounded. “All…all right,” he conceded shakily.

The relief which washed over the young features only served to astonish him further.

Satisfied, Harry nodded and gently leaned the much taller man against the corridor wall next to the portrait. “Good night, then, Professor Snape.” He went to pull away…only to be halted by the older wizard’s arm tightening around him slightly.

Surprised and a bit concerned, the young Gryffindor glanced up at him through wayward dark strands. “Sir?”

The faintest of smiles touched the thirty-seven-year-old Professor’s lips. “Thank you, Potter.”

Unable to think of a response, the boy nodded again as his teacher released him. He gave a small start when the older wizard fleetingly touched his cheek. So fleetingly, in fact, that Harry wondered a moment later if it had not been a fly’s wing instead.

Quickly, he glanced up at the Potions Master. Nothing on the man’s face betrayed if he had done so or not, only that faint smile remained.

Severus wearily quirked an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

Harry shook his head a bit. “Never mind,” he mumbled.

If possible, the eyebrow went higher. “If you are sure, Mr. Potter…Good night.”

The teenager inclined his head. “Professor.” Then turned and grabbed Hermione’s and Ron’s wrists, dragging them off before either could get a word in edgewise.

(END FLASHBACK)

Harry blinked and shook his head, coming back to the present. That was the whole purpose of his visit here tonight. As insane as it was, he intended to find out if there was any way he could possibly help the man…

By disposing of his Dark Mark.

The Gryffindor was by no means a genius, but he did not have to be. Not to see that Voldemort was growing more and more suspicious of his teacher. Severus---it *was* okay to think of him as “Severus,” now, wasn’t it?---*had* told him that the Dark Lord was a very mistrusting and paranoid individual, but Harry was of the opinion that being called away nearly every night for a test of loyalty was worrisome, even where Voldemort was concerned.

He no longer questioned it, but the boy always managed to be surprised when he thought about how much he had come to care for the Head of Slytherin. And, well…he did not intend to lose the older wizard any sooner than absolutely necessary. That man meant something to him now, far more than he would have ever believed possible. He had allowed Severus to be privy to things he had never, not once, shown anyone else, and that said something, that said a *lot*.

Thus resolved, Harry tapped the parchment once more. “Mischief managed,” he muttered, and the map disappeared as swiftly as it had come.

Stooping down, the teenager retrieved his cloak and threw it over himself, keeping his wand lighted. Creeping across the floor of the library, he made his way to the only caged-in section there. Over the iron door hung a sign:

*Restricted Section*, it said.

Harry twisted the handle, allowing the gate to swing open with the most indistinct of groans.

Taking a deep breath to quell his nerves and calm his wildly beating heart, he entered the smaller room. He had done this but a couple of times in the past, and it never ceased to rattle him a bit. As he was a sixth year student now, he could probably have requested a permission slip from Professor Minerva McGonagall, *his* thirty-seven-year-old Head of House and the Deputy Headmistress. She would not, he knew, have objected. Especially considering it was to help Severus, her dearest and oldest friend (and something more, though she would never have wanted Harry to know that). But it was simply too risky. *Anyone* could see him checking the book out, and if they carried the Dark Mark, or knew of it, it would not take them long to figure out what he was trying to do.

That, in turn, would put Severus in danger…

So he chose, instead, to do it this way. He had had enough and by the looks of things, the Potions Master would not be able to keep this charade up much longer. Severus had not been summoned tonight, and though Harry was greatly relieved for it, he could not dismiss the annoying niggling of fear at the back of his mind.

“Merlin, I hope it’s here,” Harry whispered to himself, running his fingers lightly over the spines of the books towards the back of this section. A row or two of this, and suddenly his finger was caught by a loose thread on one of the spines. Holding up his lighted wand, he silently read the title on the binding:

*Removing That Which Was Never Meant to be Removed*.

“Thank goodness,” the young Gryffindor murmured fervently, releasing a heavy sigh of relief.

Swiftly, he pulled the book from its place on the shelf into his hands and underneath the invisibility cloak. It was heavy. Thick. Something Hermione would have been proud of.

A smile touched Harry’s lips. “That damn Mark doesn’t stand a chance.”

The book was written by Merlin.

Still smiling, the sixteen-year-old navigated his way out of the *Restricted Section* and allowed the door to click in place behind him. His footsteps almost soundless, he trekked back across the library’s wooden floor and slipped out the door into the hallway.

Only his own heartbeat filled his ears.