Panting and half-unconscious from the wounds he had sustained, Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore’s ‘Golden Boy’ and fifteen-year-old savior of the wizarding world, pressed himself against the stone wall of Lord Voldemort’s fortress in the Black Forest of Scandinavia.

Although location was the last thing on his mind right now.

His wand was gone, tossed aside and rendered useless by a spell the demon in front of him had cast. Death would come for him at any moment, but he would face it with courage and fight ‘til the end. As he had been taught.

Voldemort---once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle---sneered, his lips curled back in a vicious, disgusting snarl. An insane gleam lit his eyes. Oh, he was going to enjoy this! An extremely troublesome Death Eater dead and now that dratted Potter brat would be no more than a mere page in history.

A dark figure crouched in the shadows not very far away, his entirely black ensemble combined with his black hair and dirtied, bleeding skin, working perfectly to conceal him from the eyes of the two combatants.

He had watched their every move, their every traded curse. While he winced and worried each and every time Potter was hit by a curse, more often than not *dangerous* curses, he could hardly enter into the duel in his state. And *especially* not when the duel was as intense as the one which had played out before him, fearing what it would cost Potter.

The fifteen-year-old had fought admirably, and from Severus Snape, that observation spoke volumes. He was well-pleased with how far the boy had progressed from the beginning of Second Year. Exponentially. And he intended to remark on it to Potter when and *if* he received the chance.

But unless the teenager pulled off a miracle, right now that chance seemed slim to none.

He, however, might be able to provide Potter with that miracle.

So he waited, every muscle in his body tensed. His own vicious wounds screamed at him, but Severus ignored them.

Of all the times to attack, Voldemort had to attack the week before Christmas. That initial attack had been three days ago today. Potter had been taken the first day and Severus had chased after him, tried to find him.

He had *not* known it was a trap.

During the first half of the school year, he had been teaching the boy Occulmency, the process of invading another’s mind and learning how to fend *off* those attacks. Potter had proven extraordinarily adept at it, throwing the Hogwarts Potions Master out of his mind the first evening of ‘remedial potions’ when he normally should not have been able to do so until at *least* two or three months later. When asked about it, the teenager had explained that he had learned meditation over the summer in order to break free of nightmares, thus avoiding what he had termed ‘unpleasant consequences.’

They had worked together to build up Potter’s shields, strengthen them, and turn them invisible. He had also taught the boy how to sort through both his *own* memories and another’s. Trust had formed between them---it *had* to, considering what you were allowing your Occulmency partner to be privy to.

What Severus had not told him was that, having seen just how ghastly a life he had been forced to live and, more importantly, seeing and experiencing it from *Potter’s* perspective, his entire view of the Boy-Who-Lived had changed---*dramatically*. Knowing how much Potter hated his fame, hated the pity, hated the stigma and title attached to him, understanding how much he wished for a loving family, how much he wished to be normal, Severus had found himself, inevitably, warming up to the boy.

Potter only knew there was trust and respect between them, and Severus had observed how much even those two, seemingly insignificant, things had meant to the teenager. The young Gryffindor did *not* know that Severus, in fact, had come to *care* about him. The Potions Master, however, sometimes wondered if Potter did not see straight through his act, nor detected the Professor’s attitude softening towards him.

The child was clever, and intelligent, no doubt about that.

And Voldemort, too, was intelligent. Wily. He, at least, had somehow found out about Severus’s changed attitude toward the Boy-Who-Lived, and set a trap in response.

Severus had walked right into it.

The Head of Slytherin House snapped back into the present as the Dark Lord raised the wand.

Potter braced himself, meeting Voldemort eye-to-eye, unflinching. “No matter what you do,” the teenager advised the demon, voice deadly soft, “No matter whom you kill or what you win, someone will *always* oppose you.”

Severus could have wept at the teenager’s bravery. Two utterly foreign emotions surged abruptly in his heart: pride…and love.

*Love*? Had this child *truly* wormed his way so deep into Severus’s heart?

Apparently so, considering what he was willing to give up for him.

“Crucio engorgio!” was cried and launched.

Potter did not move; he remained undaunted.

Severus, however, gathered all the strength he could muster. Wandless and in no shape to counter such a huge curse, he threw himself headlong into the bloated Unforgivable.

It smashed into him with all the gentleness of a tsunami, sending him flying backwards towards a very startled, very unprepared Potter.

“WHAT?!” was barked by an enraged Voldemort.

Harry cried out as the Potions Master crashed down beside him on the hard, stone floor. “Professor!” he shouted, torn between joy…and utter horror. He had not wanted this! He had not wanted yet another sacrificing themselves for him, *particularly* not one he had grown so attached to!

Hearing the fear and concern in his student’s voice, Severus gave a small, sardonic smile, paying no heed to the potent curse currently ravaging his body. Apparently, the boy had come to care for his Potions Master as much as the Potions Master had come to care for him.

Harry dragged himself closer to the man and gently hefted the Professor’s shaking form into his arms, completely ignoring Voldemort. He leaned close, peering into the Head of Slytherin’s obsidian eyes; they were bright with pain. “S-Sir?” he queried, voice harsh with his own pain and exhaustion, shaking slightly.

He had *never* expected this. Sure, there was respect and even trust between them, but he had not *once* thought that the Potions Master would take a curse like that for him.

Although there *was* an instance when he did wonder what the Potions Master truly felt about him…