Severus already had everything ready when Harry walked in. He thought the boy looked quite uncomfortable, but there was nothing he could do about that. He needed enough blood to complete the potion that would determine whether or not he and Harry were related. Severus wasn’t sure what he would do, what his reaction would be if he were to discover that he was indeed related to Potter. He knew for a fact that the two of them were not brothers. That was an easy conclusion to come to. It was also a given that Harry was not Severus’ father. Yes, that too was an easy assumption. What was not so easy to figure out was how he could possibly be Harry’s father. It just didn’t make sense.

Severus knew he was giving the situation too much thought. This new potion would show what the other had not, that Harry Potter and Severus Snape were in no way related. So, for now he would discontinue any thoughts of the past and the future and concentrate on right now. Right now he needed to get over two-hundred milliliters of blood from Harry.

“Hop up on that worktable over there.” Severus pointed to the smaller worktable on the far side of the room.

“You want me on the worktable?” Harry walked towards the indicated table with some trepidation.

“Yes, on. The higher up you are the better. I want to take the blood from your arm and that will put you, and your appendage, at better eye level.”

Harry walked to the small table and saw several empty vials, a knife, a jar of some sticky gel-like substance and a potion bottle containing something with a strong, foul aroma, as Harry could smell it from where he was standing.

Reluctantly, Harry climbed up onto the table and sat with his legs dangling off the side.

“Drink this.” Severus handed Harry the smelly potion bottle and waited while the boy quickly downed its contents.

“Yuck! That’s disgusting. What is it?” Harry wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt trying to get rid of any last traces of the nasty stuff.

“That is a blood replenisher. While I’m taking what blood I need that potion will help your body make new blood cells faster than normal. It should help prevent you from becoming dizzy or nauseas.

“Fuck! How much blood are you going to take?” Harry stared at his professor as if he was a sadistic psycho who enjoyed torturing young boys.

“Language, Potter and I will need approximately two-hundred milliliters. However, I will probably take a little more than that in case I need it.” Severus stood staring at Harry, giving the blood replenisher time to start its magic.

“Okay.” Harry didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t say no, could he?

“Roll the sleeve of your shirt up past the elbow. It doesn’t matter which arm.”

Harry did as he was told with a sense of growing dread. Did Snape actually expect to take his blood by cutting his arm? Harry quickly rolled up the sleeve of his scar-free arm, the other already having the scar from when Wormtail took his blood at the end of the last task of the Triwizard Tournament. As Harry sat and looked at his unblemished arm he thought he would be sick. How could he sit here and let another person take blood from him, and in an eerie sense, take it the same way it had been done last time, with a knife.

“Don’t be conceited, Potter, I won’t leave a scar, if that’s what you’re worried about. That jar has a salve in it that will prevent any scarring. You’ll have your perfect arm back in a few short minutes.” Severus made sure the vials for the blood were lined up and ready. He picked up the small incision knife, casting a spell to disinfect it, even though he had already done so earlier. “Now, this will sting a little. I’m going to make a two or three inch cut, it will have to be somewhat deep, but not terribly so, then collect the blood in these vials. I will then heal the cut and put this salve on it to prevent scarring.”

Severus reached for Harry’s arm, in order to hold it steady in his firm grip, but Harry pulled away from him.

“Potter, really, you’re acting like a three-year-old.” Severus reached again for Harry and again Harry pulled away holding his arm across his stomach and protecting it with his other arm. Harry folded in upon himself and wouldn’t look at his professor.

“Potter, I really don’t have time for your childish antics. I know you are no stranger to pain. This is not going to hurt as much as a Quidditch accident might. Now stop wasting my time and give me your arm.” Severus was not going to reach for Harry again, but instead make the boy hold out his arm. He would not be foolishly evaded a third time.

“I can’t, sir. I just…um…it’s hard to explain. No, it’s easy to explain. It’s just…”

“Would you please get to the point sometime today, Potter?”

“Isn’t there some other way that you can do this? I was fine, yesterday, when we got blood by pricking my finger.” Harry knew he sounded desperate, but he didn’t care.

“I cannot get the amount of blood I need by pricking your finger. Now, give me your arm.” Severus used the voice he knew brooked no argument with his students and although Harry flinched he did not relinquish his limb to his professor.

Harry sat there, still hunched over, his breathing becoming erratic. He could hear his heartbeat pounding away, as if the organ had moved from his chest to his head. Nothing happening at the present time seemed to matter. His thoughts drifted back to that fateful day in the graveyard, when for the first time, Harry saw someone die. Cedric. Why did he have to be a noble Gryffindor and offer to share the glory with his competitor? Why couldn’t he have been selfish, just once, and taken the prize for himself? And there had been more death too; his godfather, his family. Who would be next? Ron? Hermione? Ginny?

Harry couldn’t inhale the air into his lungs fast enough. Why couldn’t he breathe? He seemed to be drifting away. Why am I drifting away, Harry thought to himself. Harry saw vivid spots before his eyes, then a swirling sensation and then he was tunneling into blackness.

Severus was moved into action the moment he realized Harry was suffering some sort of panic attack. He rushed to the potion cabinet and quickly scanned the shelves for a calming draught. Finding what he needed, Severus turned only to find that Harry was already losing consciousness and was about to fall off the worktable. Harry’s descent was gradual and Severus was able to catch him in time. He quickly spun Harry around lengthwise on the table to lay him down. By then Harry was completely unconscious.

Severus checked Harry’s pulse and found it to be strong and steady. “Potter,” Severus called, but there was no response. “Potter, wake up.” Severus reached over and not so lightly slapped Harry’s face. The boy began to stir and his eyelids began to flutter and Severus let out a breath he had not been aware he was holding.

“Potter, can you hear me?” Severus leaned over the table to get a better look at Harry’s eyes, which seemed to be dilating normally. Harry’s breathing and color were normal again, but Severus chose to wait a few more minutes before questioning him about what had just happened. As far as Severus knew, this was not a normal occurrence and surely Albus or Poppy would have mentioned it if it were.

“I need to sit up,” Harry said as he began to twist himself into a sitting position. His professor stood there with his arms crossed looking like he was sucking on something sour. Well fine, Harry thought, don’t help.

“Potter! What just happened?”

“Um…I think it was some kind of anxiety attack or at least that’s what Hermione calls it. It’s only happened twice before, so now three times, I guess.” Harry still cradled his scarless arm against his body, not wanting to relinquish it to the knife.

“I know it was an anxiety attack, you idiot! Why are you having them?”

“Well, could it be because I have anxiety!”

“Do not raise your voice at me, Potter. Now, when did you have the first attack?”

“It was, uh…after the Triwizard Tournament.” Harry looked down at his feet, not wanting to look up at Professor Snape.

“Ah, I see. Drink this.” Severus waited while Harry drank the calming draught and then took the empty vial to the sink and set it down. He turned again to face Harry. “So, you have only had two attacks prior to today, in the last year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That doesn’t seem like overly much. Did something specific happen to trigger the other two attacks?” Severus had move back to the small worktable where Harry sat and proceeded to bring order to all of the supplies that prior to Harry’s attack had been set out in an orderly fashion.

“Yeah, well the first one I had was because Ron had cut his hand real bad in Herbology, but it was at the end of class, during cleanup, so no one else saw it. Well, except for Ron and Hermione.” Harry seemed to be relaxing somewhat, no longer holding onto his arm for dear life.

“And the second attack, Potter?” Severus was done straightening his supplies and was once again standing in front of Harry with his arms crossed.

“The second happened after I woke up from a nightmare about Cedric dying. Ron helped me out during that one and then I told Hermione about it later.”

“So, am I to understand that Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger are the only two who know about these episodes,” Severus asked with exasperation.

“Yeah.”

“Did it never occur to you that going to Madame Pomfrey would be wise? That she would be able to provide you with a potion that you could carry around with you and take at the first signs of an attack? Did it occur to you to confide this to your head of house or the Headmaster?” Severus knew he was raising his voice at the boy, but cared little at the moment.

“Confide? In my head of house or Professor Dumbledore? No, it never occurred to me to do that!”

“Why ever not?”

“I have my reasons,” was Harry’s only response. Harry, although still calm enough, was beginning to get annoyed. What was it to Snape if he had a few problems? He could deal with it.

“Listen,” Harry pleaded, “as much as I hate this, can we just try again. I want to get this over with. Hey, maybe you could give me a sleeping potion or something, then take my blood while I’m asleep. You could do that, right?” Harry was excited by the idea of sleeping through this whole bloody procedure. However, on second thought, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to be asleep while his most hated professor had a knife and wanted his blood.

“No, Potter, I can not give you a sleeping draught. There are some components in sleeping draughts that would taint the blood that I need. There were no such components in the calming draught that I just gave you. Perhaps you are calm enough that we could try again.” Severus again reached for the knife and turned to Harry. He held his hand out to Harry waiting for the boy to extend his arm.

With great reluctance, Harry finally held his arm out. Severus quickly grasped his arm, as if the limb would be snatched back any second and swiftly made the cut. It took a few seconds, but eventually blood began to well up and trickle down Harry’s arm. Using the vials, Severus collected what blood he needed and set them safely aside. Grabbing up his wand he cast a healing spell over the small wound and then applied the salve that would take care of any potential scarring.

Only when he was completely done did Severus look up at Harry. He was white as a ghost and shaking slightly, but he seemed in no immediate danger of passing out again.

“Sit there for a few minutes before getting down, then you can go.” Severus took the vials of blood over to a larger worktable and began working away on the first stages of the three week process it would take to complete the potion.

Harry stayed where he was for a few minutes and then gingerly got down from the table. Before Harry could get to the door, Severus spoke up.

“Potter, do you still have a sufficient supply of dreamless sleep potion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Remember, don’t take too much, too often. It is a potion that can…”

“Become addictive, I know. You’ve only told me about a hundred times.”

“Potter, I don’t have time for your insolence. Get out.” Severus turned his attention back to his potion.

Harry slowly made his way out of the potions lab and went to his room. With nothing better to do, he decided that a nap was in order. In a matter of minutes Harry was sleeping restlessly, tossing and turning. Nightmares plagued his sleep often these days. Most times his dreams contained horrible images of Voldemort, the death of Cedric or Sirius; images that his friends and professors would not be shocked to know he was dreaming. However, there were times he dreamed of days in darkness and lonely nights; period of endless time, everyday blending with the next, with no beginning or end.

The worst nightmares that he had from his time with the Dursley’s always came from when he was extremely young. He had early memories of being three and screaming, crying, and calling out for help because his stomach hurt; but no one came. Crying endlessly because he had soiled himself, his skin raw with rash and burning; but no one came. Young Harry did not understand why they didn’t feed him when they fed Dudley. Why didn’t the Dursley’s give Harry gifts for Christmas and his birthday? Of course, Harry was only about four or five when he had finally given up hope for any gifts for any occasion. Harry was about six when he finally understood that no matter what he did the Dursley’s would never love him. Harry was about seven or eight when he finally realized, that in a sick, demented sort of way, his Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Cousin Dudley actually seemed to enjoy making his life difficult and miserable.

Sometimes Harry actually tried to remember his very first days, weeks, months with the Dursleys. Had they put him in the cupboard when he was only one or two, just a baby? Surely not, but his earliest memories were of that cupboard. Had he cried out for his parents, not understanding why they didn’t pick him up and sooth him? Did Petunia really hold him and help feed him baby food? Or did she just give him food and hope animal instincts would kick in and he would manage to somehow feed himself?

So, Harry slept on in his room at Grimmauld Place, fitfully kicking blankets this way and that. His nightmares not coming from the world of make believe, but instead a real past that he could not forget. A past so deeply engrained on his soul, leaving divots and graters filled with loneliness, despair and an abiding hatred that no one else knew was there.