Severus raced over to kneel beside the prone form, his heart in his throat. It gave him cold chills to think of how long the boy must have been breathing in those fumes. Was he even still alive?

He had to be. Severus could not bring himself to imagine otherwise. With icy fingers he fumbled with Potter's wrist, swallowing hard in relief when he found a faint pulse. But it was much too weak for comfort and the boy was obviously badly hurt. With uncharacteristic tenderness, he gathered Potter in his arms and rushed over to the fireplace.

A few seconds later they were in the Hogwarts' infirmary.

"Poppy!" Severus shouted.

She was lying down, still wearing her brown Healing robes, on a cot near Albus' unconscious form. But at the sound of Severus' voice, she sprang up and hurried forward, taking in everything at a glance.

"Set him down here, Severus." She motioned to the closest cot and as Severus carefully laid the boy down, she pulled her wand from her sleeve and began a diagnostic spell.

Severus stepped back and watched as she worked in silence for a little while. He hated feeling so helpless, but his knowledge of healing was limited, mostly related either to injuries caused by Dark magic or to the brewing of medicinal potions. In this case, he thought Poppy could manage better without his assistance.

But it was hard to just have to stand by uselessly as she performed complex healing spells, moving her wand in quick, graceful movements over Potter's chest. Severus clenched his fists in frustration and waited in tense impatience. He wanted to rush over to the boy's side and join in, or at the very least, ask Poppy about his condition. He wanted to do something, anything, to help. But there was nothing he could do, and he didn't want to distract Poppy from her work.

So he waited.

Until finally Poppy straightened. She gave a final flick of her wand, and the blood on Potter's face disappeared, leaving him looking pale and wan and much younger than fifteen.

Poppy went over to Severus. "I've done what I can for now. He'll survive, but his lungs are badly damaged and it'll take some time for them to heal. Can you tell me what happened, Severus?"

Severus looked down, noted his fists, and made himself relax his hands. He dreaded having to tell Poppy. Yes, Potter had deserved some punishment for sneaking into his journal, but it had been very negligent of him to forget the boy and make him stay working in the laboratory all night. Severus was quite ashamed of himself for that. It really was inexcusable.

Finally he said, "He was cleaning and apparently mixed the wrong solutions together. My lab was full of fumes...I'm presuming they were poisonous...when I went to fetch him." Severus paused for a fraction, but Poppy needed to know. "I'm afraid, with all the fuss over Albus, I forgot the boy was working down there. He most likely breathed the fumes for hours, perhaps all night."

Poppy's face was absolutely white, but Severus wasn't sure if it was from anger or fear. But she only nodded.

"I could tell that much, from the amount of damage done to his lungs," her voice was clipped.

Anger, then. But Severus really couldn't blame her.

"He'll recover, you said?" He had to ask.

"I said he'd survive. There may be some permanent damage to his lungs. I won't know for a while yet." Her brown eyes pierced him. "Why was Harry cleaning your lab?"

Severus flushed slightly, but he scowled at her. The boy had deserved some punishment, even if it had ended up being much more drastic than Severus had intended. But it would be just like Poppy to insist that Potter should have gotten off scot-free.

"He was being punished," Severus answered stiffly.

"Punished? Whatever for?"

But before Severus could answer, Potter moaned and Poppy hurried back to his side to check on him. Severus couldn't help feeling a little anxious, but Potter grew still again and after a moment Poppy left the bedside and came back over.

"Should I take him to St. Mungo's?" Severus asked quietly.

Poppy shook her head. "I don't think the healers there could do any more for him, and it would lead to awkward questions. We're trying to keep this slavery spell quiet, aren't we?"

Poppy sighed as she looked back over at Potter. "Severus, he's going to need some potions."

Severus nodded. "Just tell me what you need."

"Some tissue restoration potion. I have a bit here, but not nearly enough, and a level 10 painkilling potion."

"Level 10?" Severus stared at her. The level 10 painkiller was by far the most potent, and rarely had to be used. In fact, Severus wasn't even sure the last time he'd had to brew a level 10 painkiller. Probably not since his days as an apprentice, studying for his Potions Mastery degree.

Poppy nodded grimly. "His lungs are in bad shape, Severus. The tissue restoration potions will take a while to work, and until they do, I'm afraid breathing is going to be very painful for Harry. So hurry, Severus. He'll probably wake up soon."

Severus started for the fireplace, calling over his shoulder. "What's the strongest painkiller you have here?"

"A level 6."

"I have level 8 at home. I'll send one of the elves with it and you can go ahead and give him that while I'm brewing."

***

It was almost noon before Severus was able to bring the requested potions back to the Hogwarts' infirmary. As soon as he stepped from the fireplace, he could tell it wasn't a moment too soon.

Potter was conscious now, and though he was silent, he was obviously in pain. His face was drawn and whiter than ever; he was biting down on his lip so hard it was bleeding; and he was breathing shallow breaths and trying to wait as long as possible between inhaling.

Poppy was sitting beside him, murmuring softly and letting Potter squeeze her hands. When she caught sight of Severus, she said, "Here's Severus, dear. Let me get your potions and they'll help."

She rose and as she came towards him, Severus went swiftly to meet her. Poppy took the offered vials without a word and hurried back to give them to the boy.

Severus had expected Potter to fall back into unconsciousness once the level 10 painkiller was in his system, and he was unsettled when that didn't happen. To his surprise, the painkiller didn't seem to have any great effect at all.

He stood quietly, a little ways away from the bed, out of the boy's sight, because he couldn't imagine that seeing him would be any comfort to Potter, and indeed would likely upset him even more.

Except that Potter didn't seem to be aware of anything beyond the pain of breathing. Poppy had moved back to take his hands in her own, and Severus could see that Potter was holding on so tightly his knuckles were white. The boy didn't make any sound, except for the soft rasp of his tortured breathing, but from his sideways view Severus could see the sheen of sweat on his brow and the drop of blood that fell from his lip.

Time passed, and it all began to seem like a nightmare. Severus wanted to tell the boy to go ahead and cry, or scream, or do something. But Potter bore his suffering with brave fortitude, and Severus had to admire his courage, even while guilt eroded his self defenses and gnawed at him until it was almost a physical pain in itself.

For this was all his fault, wasn't it? Whatever he'd done, Potter didn't deserve to suffer like this. Wasn't it just last night that Severus had prided himself on the fact that he'd never physically abused a child? He couldn't say that any longer though, could he? It may not have been intentional, but it was his carelessness that had led to the boy being so gravely injured.

He watched in silence as Poppy kept on trying to sooth Potter, speaking in a low, gentle tone, encouraging him and reassuring him that it would be better soon. Severus couldn't make out much of what she said, but the soft words flowed over them like a stream of water slipping over smooth rocks.

In the middle of the afternoon, Poppy gave the boy another dose of the potions, and she and Severus watched anxiously to see if they would begin to take effect. But once again, they didn't seem to give Potter any relief and the anguished vigil continued.

Harry woke to pain. It was like a thousand knives stabbing him with every breath. He was lying in bed in the Hogwarts' infirmary, and sunlight was spilling through the high windows. But he couldn't even begin to wonder how he'd gotten out of Snape's lab and to the infirmary. The pain was too intense to let him think beyond it.

He tried to stay quiet. He'd learned long ago that crying and whinging never helped. But he couldn't stop a low groan from escaping his lips when he first woke and it was enough to bring Madame Pomfrey hurrying to his side.

She held a vial filled with an orange liquid to his lips and coaxed him to drink. Then another, filled with an emerald-green potion this time, ‘for the pain' she said. But it didn't do any good.

Then she sat on the side of his bed and reached for his hands. "Hold onto me, dear, as hard as you need to. It might help a bit."

So Harry did. Later on, he found out that he'd actually bruised her hands, and felt badly about it, but at the moment, he just needed something to hang onto...hard, because it was the only thing that helped him to bear the unbearable agony of breathing. White-hot rivulets of pain seared through his lungs with every breath he took, and of course there was no way to stop it because he had to breathe. He tried to breathe as shallowly as possible, but it was still horrible.

At some point Snape was there, too, with more potions that didn't seem to help an iota. Harry couldn't even find the energy to hate the man. There was nothing but the pain.

Snape moved away, but Harry had the impression that he was still around, just as he had the impression that Madame Pomfrey was talking to him. He could hear the sound of her voice, but couldn't concentrate on her words.

He didn't think he'd ever felt pain like this. It was worse than the time Uncle Vernon had beaten him across his back with a belt. It was far worse than any Quidditch injury he'd ever suffered. After a while, he began to think it was even worse than the Cruciatus curse or the times his scar had exploded in agony when he'd connected with Voldemort.

Or perhaps not worse, but at least those times hadn't lasted for hours and hours with no respite. He could understand how Neville's parents had been driven insane. He began to feel as if he were losing his own mind. He wasn't Harry, with his own thoughts and emotions and desires. He was only mindless agony.

Sweat dripped from his brow, and he felt a dim ache in his lip, where he had been biting it in an effort not to scream. Harry bit down even harder. It hurt, too, but he hoped that maybe that pain could somehow distract him from the torture of breathing. It didn't.

He began to wish he would just go ahead and die. Death would be better than this awful, endless suffering. But death was elusive. It came when he didn't want it, but it wouldn't come to release him now.

Harry gripped Madame Pomfrey's hands even harder and prayed the end would come soon.

***

Finally, just before sunset, the pain began to ease. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the agony dulled and became more bearable. Breathing was still uncomfortable, but then Madame Pomfrey held the bottles of potions to his lips again, and this time, they helped.

Harry thought it still hurt a bit to breathe, but somehow he felt distanced from it, as if layers of fog had fallen between him and the pain. He was sleepy all of a sudden, too, so sleepy. He relaxed and leaned back against his pillows as Madame Pomfrey conjured a damp cloth and wiped his face with it.

"Your lungs are beginning to heal, Harry, dear, so it will be easier to breathe now, and the pain potions should help, too. The worst is over, sweetheart. Sleep and you'll feel much better when you wake up."

Harry didn't have to be told twice. A wave of drowsiness swept over him. He closed his eyes and gratefully fell into a deep sleep.

***

Severus and Poppy went back to her office in silence and sank into armchairs, both of them unutterably weary and drained. Almost in slow motion, Poppy took her wand and waved it over first one hand and then the other, easing the soreness after letting Potter hang onto her all day.

Severus slumped in his chair, his elbows propped on his knees and his head resting in his hands. He didn't know the last time he'd been so exhausted, and the mental and emotional fatigue was as bad as the physical tiredness.

Watching over Potter had been an ordeal, similar to some of the Death Eater meetings he'd been to, where Voldemort and his followers had amused themselves by tormenting innocents. Severus had convinced the Dark Lord that he couldn't have blood on his hands if some of the delicate potions he brewed were to contain their full potency, so he himself had never had to participate in those events, but he had sometimes had to watch. It had always been a terrible strain on Severus' nerves and only his fantastic ability to Occlude and bury his emotions had allowed him to survive.

But this had been even worse, because at the Death Eater meetings Severus could place most of the blame on others. This time, he had to blame himself.

He wasn't used to feeling guilty about the way he treated Potter. Yes, he was harsh with the boy, unkind even at times, but the brat was spoiled and conceited, just like his father...always thinking he was too good to follow the rules, always thinking he was better than everyone else. Potter had always deserved the things Severus had said and done.

Until now.

Much as he despised Potter, Severus could never think that the boy had deserved the torment he'd been through that day. There might be permanent damage to his lungs, too. Poppy had said she wouldn't be able to tell for another day or so. What would that mean for the war? What would that mean for Potter himself?

Unfamiliar feelings welled up inside Severus...regret, anxiety, uncertainty. How the hell was he supposed to act towards the boy now? He hadn't meant for this to happen, and he truly regretted it all, but at the same time, if Potter hadn't read his journal, none of it would have happened.

For a long time, the two of them just sat. Severus wanted to go to bed and sleep, but at the same time, he was so tired he couldn't bring himself to move.

Finally Poppy sighed and spoke, her words slurred from pure exhaustion. "I'm going to lie down on a cot in there with Harry and Albus. I'll ask that house elf, Dobby, to come sit up here, too, and he can wake me if either of them need me. Severus, I still want to know more about how Harry came to be in this shape, but right now we both need some rest before we fall over. Are you staying here or going back to Prince Hall?"

"Here, I suppose. I don't think I have the energy to Floo anyway." Severus stood and as he did, he accidently bumped against the corner of Poppy's desk and knocked a black leather-bound book to the floor.

Severus stared at it a moment before kneeling to pick it up. "This looks like..." he began slowly.

Poppy nodded. "It's yours, the Romano journal you said I could borrow. I went to get it yesterday. Harry said you'd gone to Diagon Alley, but I didn't think you'd mind since you'd already said I could borrow it."

"I don't mind," Severus replied, setting the book back down on the desk. Something niggled at him, making him vaguely uncomfortable. Something about the Romano book, with its ebony leather binding, and it being in the library...but he was too tired to figure it out right now.

"I almost got your journal by mistake, Severus," Poppy went on. "I picked it up first, but then I realised what it was. I didn't read anything," she hurried to assure him. "I just saw your handwriting and knew I had the wrong book, so I set yours down and..."

"What?!" Severus demanded, his face turned deathly white and his eyes were like burnt coals.

Poppy stared at him. "I set your journal down on one of those little tables, and..."

Severus shook his head. His voice was rough. "Oh, dear Merlin, no..."