“Stupid,” thought the Potions master, Severus Snape, as he hurried down a tunnel into Honeydukes. “Stupid. Unforgivably moronic, absolutely imbecilic, irresponsibly reckless, logically flawed on every level from here to Cocytus. How is it that this child is not dead already?” The wizard’s quick footfalls echoed through the passageway.

“Let me go with you, he’s my friend!” had been the Weasley boy’s pathetic cry, as if Snape cared a bit about sentimentalities at times such as this. “Go to the infirmary, Mr. Weasley, or Gryffindor tower, I don’t care which. If this stunt of yours pans out as I expect, we may all be done for, anyway. No. Do not argue with me, boy. I do not wish to hear your voice, lest the illness that is responsible for rendering your mind the practical equivalent of hippogriff waste infiltrates mine, as well! Leave!” Snape’s response may have been harsh, but every word was true. If Weasley had allowed the Death Eaters to kill Potter, or worse yet, if he was taken hostage to force Dumbledore’s hand…well, Trelawney’s prophecies of doom and destruction would suddenly seem the silver lining of a dark cloud.

After climbing a few steps at the end of the tunnel, the Potions master found what must be the trap door to the Honeydukes cellar. He wondered just how many students knew about this passage to the sweetshop, for while Gryffindors were not known for their discretion, the tunnel certainly couldn’t be common knowledge. A similar stunt would have occurred far earlier, if it were. With a grunt, he tried to lift the loose bit of floor. His sleeves fell back from his arms, revealing his bone thin arms and burning Dark Mark, but nothing could be done for it anymore. The Dark Lord knew well what he was. The floor moved very slightly against Snape’s paltry strength, and then the sound of someone scampering to the other side of the cellar could be heard. Snape rolled his eyes even as he struggled to pull himself up. Trust the Boy-Who-Lived to sit atop the only way help would come to him.

The cellar was dimly lit with fairy lights, which were clearly dying. Harry Potter was leaning against a dusty box of chocolate frogs, wand drawn but looking so poor that he probably couldn’t have cast a spell, if it had been needed. When he saw the aid his best friend had sent him, though, he looked even more likely to likely to fall over faint. “Professor Snape, Ron?” said the black-haired boy with glazed green eyes, moaning to himself. “Of all people, you had to send Snape?”

“Gratitude would be a more appropriate response from you, Potter, though I suppose the exulted prince of the Wizarding world has no need for such things.” Snape surveyed the cellar and saw a cloaked figure laying in the corner. The Death Eater’s mask was off, and Snape could see the man’s face quite clearly. Mordecai Jugson was his name, he had been a late recruit in the first war, but never good for much except adding to size to a mob. Carefully, he approached the Dark Lord’s unconscious minion and saw that he had a considerable welt on his head. “You hit him with something,” said Snape, slightly puzzled. Jugson was not such a good dueler that two wizards would have a problem taking him down magically, even if they were sixteen year old idiots. “Magically and physically weakened sixteen year old idiots, Severus,” a voice in the back of Snape’s head pointed out, but he didn’t mind it.

“He cast Petrificus on Ron and had my wand. Most anything will stop attacking if you hit it hard enough over the head,” said Potter as he sank to the floor, looking more ill than injured. The Potions master shook his head and cast Petrificus Totalus on the man,just in case.

Drawing himself up, Snape stalked over to where the boy sat. “Where are you injured, Mr. Potter? Or perhaps you believe your injuries have healed themselves in the past ten minutes; I dare not put anything past you, considering your latest episode of perceived immortality. In that case, please tell me where you were injured.” Snape eyed the boy with a snide gleam, but the Gryffindor either chose to ignore the barb or was in too much pain to catch it.

“My ankle hurts, and my arm, and I think my shoulder’s bleeding…” Potter’s face was white and drawn, though a quick examination proved that his injuries were not severe, though his ankle was badly sprained. Lack of nourishment and magical exhaustion, then, must explain the boy’s terrible appearance. He was far too thin, but so was everyone else. Three months into the Hogwarts siege, food was running very low. Many things, in fact, were running low: potions, ingredients, tolerance, and hope all included. “I think I’d like to go to the hospital wing, Professor,” the ill Potter boy moaned, softly.

“There is very little that can be done for you in the infirmary, Mr. Potter, and I believe you know that. You shall simply have to call upon some of your famed Gryffindor bravery to help you through,” the professor sneered the last sentence, but returned to a professional demeanor as he asked, “What spells were used on you?”

“Diffindo, Relashio, Cruciatus, but he missed with the last one, and then Ron started to break out of the Petrificus and I hit him with an old stirring rod,” Potter mumbled, almost incoherently. Whatever adrenaline that had kept him going earlier was gone now. “Please, sir, have you got a potion, or a spell, maybe? My head is pounding, and I don’t know why.”

“I have nothing, Mr. Potter. I am hesitant to even treat you here, but I don’t believe that I could moblicorpus you back to Hogwarts. Now, let me see your arm-”

“Could you fix my ankle first, it hurts the worst.” Potter’s tone was begging, painfully so.

“Your ankle will swell if your shoe is removed. Ice is the best I can do for it right now,” said the professor, who murmured a soft incantation for a magical cold pack. “Let me see your arm.” The boy held it out for examination with reluctance. The burn was not too bad, but widespread, covering nearly all of the boy’s left forearm. With a shudder, Snape thought that it looked a bit like his own arm when the mark would burn with a maddening tingle just under his skin, as it had in the early part of Potter’s forth year. It needed burn cream, magical or non, but he had none with him and almost none in his stores.

“This is too much,” Snape finally admitted to himself and his patient. “We need to leave. Can you stand, Potter?” The boy tried valiantly, and eventually made it to his feet. “Now, wrap your arm around my shoulder and I will try to support some of your weight.” Potter made a face, like leaning on his Potions professor was an unsavory fate second to only peeling live flobberworms. “I know you do not like me, Potter,” Snape sighed, becoming more agitated as he watched the door that led to the shop upstairs, though it appeared benign, for now, “and I am sure that you know I return the sentiment, but please, we need to leave. Abandon your foolish Gryffindor pride and let me help you.” Resigning himself to his fate, the boy acquiesced. Walking was awkward, as the Potions master was a good six inches tall that his pupil, but step by step, they made it back to the third floor of Hogwarts.

Beside the statue of the humpbacked witch, Potter disentangled himself from his professor and leaned against the wall, face to his knees. Though his skin had been dry earlier, so dry that it seemed like parchment, a thin film of sweat now layered his skin while the burn was pus filled and blistered. “I can’t go any further, sir,” he said quietly, weak, but controlled, “Please, just find someone who can hover me to a bed. I want to sleep.”

“Potter,” Snape sighed, wishing that someone would come and relieve him of this responsibility, though he knew that, really, it was only he who could do anything. “Do you not understand that the whole castle is weak and starving? Everyone. The classes have been cut to one a day because that is all any teacher has energy for anymore, not because the Headmaster want you to have time to ponder your fates.”

“Yes, sir, I know. Just…will you help me get to the Hospital Wing?” The boy raised his head as though he really didn’t expect any help, now that he was out of immediate danger.

“I told you, there is nothing for you in the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey is overwhelmed as it is with sick students. I will have to treat you myself,” replied Snape, who found himself unsettled at the Potter boy’s tone. Was the boy really in so much pain that he couldn’t maintain any of his usual arrogance?

“Leave me here, then. I can’t make it down to the dungeons. I can’t, sir, I’m tired,” The sixteen year old’s voice broke a bit, and Snape thought that entirely too dramatic for the circumstance.

“Get a hold of yourself, Potter! I’m not leaving you anywhere, except for maybe in that room across the hall while I go down and get my supplies. Now, if you care to stop playing the wounded hero, I will help you move if you stand up.”

“I can’t.”

“So help me, boy, I am hoping to alleviate some of your pain, and you are doing your very best to delay all aid. Now, do as you are asked.” The threatening tone jolted Potter enough that he struggled to his feet and leaned again on Snape. He was delivered into a chair in the adjacent classroom, and Snape left to visit his lab.

~*~

Harry Potter drifted through a dream. Ron and Hermione were playing chess, though neither appeared very interested in the game, and then Hermione turned to a nearby first year and said, “No dear, I’m afraid house elves aren’t edible. No, not even their ears.” Somewhere, buried deep in a mire of half-sleep, Harry’s conscious mind thought that this dream was really rather sick, and he should wake up. Another part of this buried conscious mind responded that he needed sleep more than anything, well, no, not more than anything. Really, he needed a pain-killing potion, or maybe an aspirin or six.

Dragged back into consciousness by a burning sensation on his arm, Harry opened his eyes to find himself in a strange classroom, one he had never been in before. It was dark, as was most of the castle, anymore. Dumbledore had explained to the students early on that the castle stayed magically lit by its occupants’ magical energy, and while the borrowed magic was normally unmissed, the dimming of the lights would help to keep everyone more comfortable during the siege. Harry hated the darkness. The castle felt like it was dying, and really, it was, wasn’t it?

Settling in against his chair, he tried to remember why he was here. His memory didn’t need much prodding, as an apparitions of the plan that failed so brilliantly floated up in Harry’s psyche: Ron telling him to be quiet. A noise behind the door. A Death Eater throwing curses, then falling to the ground, unconscious. Ron leaving for help. Being alone, terribly alone, weak. Snape…

The classroom door opened noiselessly as the Potions master glided into the room. He carried what appeared to be some plastic bottles and a torn up bed sheet. “Potter? Are you awake?” Snape shook Harry’s shoulder, sending a shock of pain through his back. Remembering how he had whined and generally disgraced himself before his teacher what must have been just minutes earlier, the boy did his best to disguise his discomfort. Snape noticed, however. “Ah, your injured shoulder. Apologies. I need to see your burnt arm, Mr. Potter. I have a Muggle burn cream, I believe it might help.” Harry extended his arm as best he could, but the skin at his elbow joint was burnt, as well, and his skin cracked and bled a little when he unbent it.

Snape sighed deeply and wiped the blood away. With surprising gentleness, he administered the cream and wrapped it with a length of white linen. Then, without saying a word, he removed the shoe from his injured foot as well as melted ice and wrapped it tightly. The pain didn’t subside, but somehow, just the pressure helped. Harry watched in fair amazement, though whether it was the professor’s knowledge of Muggle first aid or his lack of ire that instigated this amazement, he didn’t know.

“Close your mouth, Mr. Potter,” Snape drawled with an unfriendly amusement, “Dumb amazement doesn’t become you any better than arrogance, though the latter, at least, results in your silence.” Well, so much for the lack of ire.

“I didn’t know you knew anything about Muggle healing, Professor,” Harry said, attempting to be polite in hopes that maybe Snape would let him go.

“I know many things, Potter, as you may guess. I still need to treat your shoulder. You will have to remove your shirt as bet you can. I am certain you can manage, even considering your burn.”

Knowing better than to argue, Harry carefully removed his shirt from the uninjured side of his body and then threaded his burnt arm through the sleeve. Snape moved behind him and examined the wound. After several second of consideration, Snape said, rather crossly, “You implied that Diffindo caused this injury, but that clearly not the case. What happened to your shoulder?”

Harry couldn’t remember implying anything, but he did remember tearing his shoulder. “When I tried to avoid the Crucio, I dove behind a wooden box with a nail sticking out, and my shoulder caught it.”

Snape did not seem happy with this development. “If you develop tetanus, I hope you remember that it is your own fault. In any case, I do have a Muggle antiseptic, rubbing alcohol. It will sting, but you will be better for it.”

Rubbing alcohol. Harry remembered it well from his childhood. More than once, he had tripped while running from Dudley, and once he made the mistake of going to his aunt. Unwilling to actually help her nephew, but also unable to let him bleed all over the house and yard, Aunt Petunia had poured rubbing alcohol over his wound and leaving him a flesh coloured bandage. It burned terribly.

Snape was not nearly so vicious with the antiseptic, but instead, he pour a bit on the fabric and cleaned the wound. His method made sense, really. Someone else would no doubt have a cut at some point, a Slytherin, maybe, and Snape certainly would not want to deny any of his students because he had wanted to torture Harry Potter. Normally, he could find a way to do that without affecting anyone else.

“There is no good way to bandage your shoulder, but the bleeding has stopped, for the most part. A simple stick charm should work,” Snape said musingly, more to himself than Harry.

“It’s too bad you don’t have a sticking plaster, that’s what my aunt always used,” Harry said, for no reason except to see whether Snape knew what he was talking about.

“Sticking…plaster,” Snape sneered, “I am not an expert in Muggle medicine, Potter. As you feel well enough for frivolous conversation, though, perhaps you will answer this question:” Here, the Potions master’s tone became considerably darker, “Have you been having visions from the Dark Lord again?”

Harry gave Snape an odd look before responding, “No, I haven’t had any visions since the siege started.”

“Then I am correct in assuming that you were acting under your own influence when you left the castle?” Snape asked, silkily. Oh, yes, Harry could see that this conversation was going to be ugly.

“I had to do something, Professor! We’ve been in here for three months and nothing has been done to get people out! It seemed like it was worth a shot--”

“Worth a shot? Do you understand, Potter, that Hogsmeade is completely overrun? Over two hundred Death Eaters are out there, and you thought that you and Weasley could just traipse through the town without any notice? You clearly are more of a fool than I thought, and that is truly remarkable.”

“I had my invis--…I thought I could get through without being seen, it was just dumb luck that the Death Eater found us in Honeydukes.”

“It was most certainly dumb luck. If you had left the building, both yourself and Weasley would be dead, or else Weasley would be dead and you would be hostage. The Dark Lord is not fooled by sixteen year olds, not even those with invisibility cloaks.” The sneer in Snape’s voice was so thickened by anger that Harry found himself wanting to run for the door. Though Snape was more controlled than after the Pensieve incident, he looked no less angry. Still, he soldiered on and responded,

“I had to do something. I sit here in the castle everyday, starving, and no one cares to mention whether anything is being done to help us, or if Hogwarts is considered a lost cause, or what.” The memories of days in the tower, staring at the ceiling, rose before his eyes.

Suddenly, Snape crouched down, his face only inches away from Harry’s. “Let me make something very clear to you, Mr. Potter. You have no more of a right to information than any other student in this school, and no other student has hatched such a harebrained plan. Do you understand that your leaving could have disrupted the tenacious wards surrounding the school? Contrary to your beliefs, the Headmaster is busier than your fragile mind could possibly understand.” Snape stopped, suddenly, and listened. What he was listening for soon became clear. There were voices down the hall.

“It’s been too long, Hermione,” a faint voice pleaded, “He’s not in the Hospital Wing. Maybe Snape changed his mind about what side he’s on and decided to take Voldemort a peace offering…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” said Hermione, “He’d have left before now if he intended to go back. Still, maybe they need help. Hogsmeade is a long walk, especially if Harry is badly hurt.”

Snape, having heard enough, swept over to the door and called out, “If either of you step foot out of this castle, I will personally hang you from the Astronomy Tower by your fingertips. I am nearly done with Mr. Potter, you may escort him back to Gryffindor tower when I am finished.”

Turning back to Harry, Snape gazed at him for several seconds before declaring, “You have detention every night until every cauldron I have is clean and every recipe is alphabetized. And if you ever repeat this incident, I will lock you in the deepest level of the dungeons and tell the Headmaster it is for your own good, as it would be. I am understood?”

Harry briefly considered arguing, but saw that he had no way out, and so nodded.

“Good. Get out of my sight.”