Harry trudged into the sparkling kitchen on a warm, stifling day in July. As usual, Harry James Potter, resident wizard of Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, had to get up at seven in the morning on a Saturday to make a Weasley sized brunch for his pigs of a cousin and uncle. And then eat dry toast and water for breakfast, himself.

Harry sighed as he put on the blue apron from his aunt’s cupboard and started to pull out bread, eggs, bacon, sausage, flour, cereal, etc. for his monster breakfast. He was about to begin cracking the eggs when he heard a groan from somewhere.

He stared around the kitchen in curiosity and shook his head when he heard nothing. He lifted his hand with the egg in it. He had almost brought the egg to the bowl edge when he heard another noise. This time, it was louder.

Harry put the egg back in the carton and brushed his hands off on the apron. He went to the back door, as that was where the sound seemed to be coming from, and peeked outside warily.

He didn’t see much, except for a strange red stain on the grass and some of the walkway. Curiously, he opened the door and was about to step outside when he looked down at the noise.

Harry gasped in horror. Snape. Severus Snape, the Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was collapsed on Harry Potter’s back porch. And, he was bleeding from gashes all over, dirt was matted in his greasy hair, and he was twitching from what seemed to be aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse.

Harry leaned down to his professor and carefully rolled the man over, so his face and stomach were facing the sky. He tapped his half-conscious professor on his cheeks to get him more lucid as he tried to get the man to lean against the wall.

“Professor Snape? Professor? Can you understand me?” asked Harry quietly as he looked into the professor’s black eyes. They were clouded with confusion and pain, and were softer than normal. The cold, hard, steely look in his eyes was absent as he gazed at Harry, his eyes not registering Harry’s face.

“Pot-t-ter?” the man gasped, struggling to keep his speech understandable and steady.

Harry nodded and asked Snape a question to make sure that this person was Snape for sure, “Professor, when is your worst memory?”

The Potions Master looked confused for a moment before his gaze hardened a bit, “After my O. W. L. ’s in Fifth Year. Down by the lake.”
Harry smiled in relief and tried to get Snape standing.

“I need your help, Professor, to get you into the house. Once you’re inside, we are safe and I can get the Headmaster and Madam Pomfrey here. You are hurt really bad,” said Harry slowly.

The professor opened his mouth to make a snide comment but decided against it. Better not infuriate the one who is supporting most of your weight at the moment.

Harry helped the professor stumble inside and into a chair. He made sure the professor wouldn’t fall off the chair and ran up to his room for a few things. He grabbed a few potions, some towels, a balm, and his emergency portkey. He then ran back downstairs, breakfast forgotten.

He was relieved when he saw Snape still in the kitchen and lay his supplies on the table. He then started on some healing.

First, he fed Snape a Cruciatus Pain Potion. It cured the tremors and nerve damage given by the Cruciatus Curse. Snape was lucid enough to give a quick, examining glance at the potion before he swallowed it. The shaking from his limbs stopped and he sighed in relief.

Harry then gave him a Pain-Relieving Potion and spread the balm onto his professor’s open wounds. The wounds closed up, leaving slight scars on the professor’s skin.

Harry also gave his teacher some water to ease the man’s obviously parched throat.

After his treatments were completed, Severus Snape was finally awake enough to look at his worried student. Harry’s brow was crinkled in fear for his professor, and his lips were pursed in anticipation.

“Are you feeling better, Professor?” asked Harry cautiously.

“Yes, thank you, Potter,” Snape said tersely. Harry nodded in affirmation, as he knew that was the most he’d get out of the man.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened sir?” asked Harry curiously.

The Potions Master gazed at Harry, as if sizing him up and then answered the boy, “I was at a Death Eater meeting. The Dark Lord was not happy, and as you can see, I was one of the people who received the brunt of his emotions. This is the farthest away I could Apparate to by the end of the meeting. I made it as far as your back door before I completely collapsed.”

“Oh, all right Professor,” Harry said, as he couldn’t say anything else, “I’m sorry, but all I have is this emergency portkey. You are in no condition to Apparate back to Hogwarts, but why don’t you take this to the Infirmary. I’m sure that the Headmaster can send it back with Hedwig later. You need it right now.”

Harry held out the phoenix pendant to his professor. Snape looked at Harry in gratitude before his face went blank.

“Thank you, Potter. I’ll make sure you get this back in an hour,” the man said as he stood up from the chair. He walked over to the doorway and looked back at Harry questioningly.

“The password is Fawkes,” said Harry in response.

The professor gave a terse nod and looked at his student briefly, “This never happened Potter. Fawkes.”

With a pop, the professor vanished. Harry smiled wryly at his teacher’s attitude and went for a mop. His aunt would not be happy to find breakfast still in its raw materials and blood in the kitchen and outside.

After much yelling, a late brunch for his relatives, and two hour had passed, Harry walked back up to his room, planning on starting his Transfiguration essay. He paused in the doorway, and saw his emergency portkey pendant on his desk with a note.

He picked up the pendant, staring at the phoenix before he put it in his desk drawer. He then lifted the note from his desk, and read the elegant script of his potions professor.

Thanks Potter. We’re even.
- Severus Snape, Potions Master

Harry smiled at the note and stowed it away in his desk. Severus Snape would never change. Harry pulled out his Potions text and thought, ‘Maybe I’ll do Potions instead.’

Harry Potter started on his Potions essay, as the master of the subject sat in a Hospital Wing bed, glaring at the matronly Poppy Pomfrey, thinking ‘Potter is better than this.’