Two nights. Just two nights left.

Thump! Loud thuds from the other room. Snape cursed a patch of sterile floor tile into ectoplasm, and buried his face into his hands. He'd dug his sharp elbows into his legs even more as pained cries and the smells of blood and vomit came through the door. Merlin's ingrown-toenail! Hiding in the water closet, Snape? Stand up, go into that room, and give the brat a hiding he'll never forget!. I must go, yes…I must…

Crash! The door shook as whatever had been hurled against it fell to the floor with a reverberating clang. Hoarse wails abruptly replaced the cries, and began rising in pitch. Snape resisted the urge to bite his knuckles, and stood up from his seat on the toilet lid. He repeated, Just two more nights, but didn't find himself reassured.

He curled his stained fingers around the doorknob. The wailing outside had trailed off into broken sobs and hiccups, so Snape thought it might be safe to remove the wards he'd put up around the tiny restroom. Pulling open the door, he stood for a moment to observe the damage in the small private room in the Hospital Wing. There was not a single object that had survived its occupant. Even the walls and ceilings were scarred and gouged, and the torch-holders were long since melted puddles of metal on the floor.

"Potter," he addressed the trembling, bloody thing huddled in the corner furthest away. Potter did not seem to hear. "Potter!" he snapped, spine straightening with relief as the cold, clammy fear (not pity, never pity) transformed into clean, pure anger, "Allow me to put the restraints on you. You're doing yourself damage with this obstinacy." Anger further (gloriously) rising as the boy made no move to answer, Snape strode forward -- wand raised -- expecting to encounter more projectiles. Potter had exhausted his magical reservoir three nights ago, so there was no need to be on guard for hexes. Nothing happened. He quirked an eyebrow. Potter may finally have matured enough to be reasonable… Potter slumped suddenly into unconsciousness… or not.

Snape hovered the boy with a tap of his wand on the brat's head, rather more forceful than absolutely necessary, but fully justified since the head did, in fact, belong to Harry Potter, Saviour-of-the-World (Arrogant-Prick-Who-Had-Flung-His-Shoes-and -Bedpan-At-Snape's-Head-for-The-Past-Week, General-Nuisance-That-Didn't-Have-The-Decency-to-Live-A-Normal-Happy-Life-Far-Far-Away-Once-He'd-Won).

No. Potter just appeared out of the fog at three in the morning (twelve years, three months, and eighteen days after Snape had left Hogwarts on a night of death), with blood running from his eyes, nose, and ears. Luckily, he had met Filch on his distracted rambling around the grounds, and not some blabber-mouthed student.

Snape wondered for a moment if he had been cursed by his godmother to always be obliged to pander to the whims of idiots, since he wasn't even working as Potions Master at Hogwarts anymore. Hadn't been for more than twelve years now, in fact, which did not explain why the dratted boy was searching for him on the lawn at three in the morning. McGonagall had promptly Floo'd to his hiding place on the Continent, and dragged him back, hoping for an explanation, which the brat wouldn't give.

That was a week ago. Seven nights, so far, of the boy in pain from fighting back the Horcrux's hold on his mind. Clearing the hospital pallet of the soiled sheets, he laid the boy on the mattress, and started an incantation to dull Potter's movements.