As soon as Harry put his head on to the pillow, he jerked awake. Panting and sweating, he tried to remember what had woken him. Some odd sound. Disturbing.

Harry looked at the clock he had found the previous day. It was six in the morning. The sun would be coming up now, but it was a rainy, cold day. He got two hours of sleep. He had to go back, otherwise he would lose his mind pretty soon. He swung his legs from the high, hard bed and walked (rather sneakily) towards Snape's room. Fully knowing that he'd probably regret it, but the man had been so... grey the previous night.

There it was again. Harry didn't bother to knock, he just stormed in. Snape was sitting up on the bed, his attention focused on his hand. Harry winced. It looked terrible. The deep gash on the back of the hand looked swollen and there was a red margin around it. Green, thick liquid leaked from it. The bones seemed to be in the right position though.

"It's infected. Sir."

Snape growled.

"Well observed, Mr. Potter. I wouldn't have been able to tell."

Harry ignored the comment and approached the man. "I found some stuff that could help."

Snape scowled at him. "I must have missed the announcement in the Daily Prophet. Boy-Who-Lived acquires PHD in muggle medicine."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Just, um, wait here, I'll bring something."

Harry stalked out of the room, took his torch and went down the spiral staircase to get to the storage room. He was careful not to touch the walls or the handrail.

It took ages to go through all the instruction leaflets, but after a while he was sure he'd found something that would help. An antibiotic called piperacillin-tazobactam. For some stupid reason, Harry repeated the name over and over again, read the instruction leaflet and memorised the small article on wound care. Administration: Intramuscular injection. Harry bit his lip nervously. He found some more compresses, plasters and antiseptic solution.

Then he walked upstairs, boiled water, took it off the hob to let it cool and sat down at the table to wait. The file was lying in front of him.

Harry wondered why on earth Snape had allowed him to see it. It was so very unlike him. The truth about the Dursleys must have been very important to him. For some weird reason. Harry did not see what was so exciting about them, but there were many things he didn't know.

He sighed and flicked through the pages.

Final report

Eileen Snape

Date of Birth. 12.02.1939

Date of Death 01.09.1972

Education: St Joseph's Primary School, Easterhouse, Glasgow. Secondary education unknown.

The patient was admitted on the 25th of December 1972, on demand of her husband Tobias Snape. He claimed she was endangering their son's mental stability and had to be removed from the home. Symptoms on admittance: Delusions, depression, schizophrenia, aggressive behavior. She has admitted to having attacked her eleven-year-old son on numerous occasions because he "reminded her too much of his father". The patient was always convinced that she was a witch and unfortunately, never gave up on the idea. When asked to perform "magic" she showed frustration in not being able to and blamed the loss of her "wand" as well as "bad vibes" from the hospital building. She was able to convince other inmates of this and was often found muttering "incantations" and involving others to help her to break curses. Medication: Lithium Bicarbonate 1800mg p.d., Mirtazepine 35mg p.d. Benzodiazepame on demand. Therapy sessions unsuccessful.

Cause of death: Self-inflicted.

Harry looked up. That's what Dumbledore meant. Severus and you have a lot in common, Harry. A screwed up childhood.

It was a small report. There was not a lot of information, but Harry knew how to read between lines.

With more confidence then he truly felt about healing, he sorted bandages, got the medication, re-read everything and went through to Snape's room.

"I found it," he said quietly. Only to realise that Snape wasn't awake. He must have taken quite a while. His forehead was glistening with sweat. The infection had obviously spread through the body already.

Harry prepared the injection and remembered the instructions. Thigh or upper arm. Obviously, Harry decided for the latter. He tried to lift the man's sleeve, but it didn't go high enough. He tried to wake the man, but to no avail. Finally, Harry decided to open the shirt, fully knowing that Snape would probably kill him when he saw it. He unbuttoned it slowly, uncovering a pale, thin torso and visible ribs. There were dark purple scars across hi chest and Harry winced. It was almost surreal seeing something so human under the black clothes. Finally, he managed to reach the upper arm. He quickly jammed the needle in, pulled a little to see if he had hit a blood vessel. Nothing. Then he pushed all the liquid in. Snape stirred and Harry startled.

The man's eyes opened and he stared at the needle and the packet, but did not say anything. Wearing a stone-cold expression, he closed his shirt again. One-handed.

Harry pulled the chair closer to the man's bed and sat down and inspected the wound. Neither of them spoke a word. There was a foul smell which couldn't have escaped Snape's large crooked nose.

Harry washed it carefully, pouring the water over it, then the antiseptic solution which turned the whole hand a fluorescent yellow. Snape exhaled loudly and Harry nearly dropped the bottle. Why was he so nervous around the man? He had, after all, faced Voldemort. Several times.

Then he put the bandages back on and finally the splint.

"I can't stitch it," Harry stated, not knowing why. "You can only do that a few hours after the injury occured and never to infected wounds." Snape looked angry.

"I-Im sure you knew that already."

"Don't tell me you have ever done that." Snape looked rather disturbed.

Harry simply nodded yes.

Back in the kitchen, he made two glasses of water and sat down, tiredness overwhelming him. Snape stood in the doorframe, again, just staring. Harry was horribly aware of his long, skinny limbs, his paleness, his bruises.

"Sir" Harry asked, fidgeting in his seat. "Why is it so important for you to know about the, uh-" He didn't continue and just hoped that Snape understood. The man sat down, his eyes fell on his mother's file.

"It is essential for my further conduct." He finally answered.

"Why?"

"Are you so naive to believe it to be a coincidence that the two men Dumbledore chose to fight the Dark Lord had the most miserable home lives one could imagine?"

Harry didn't know how to reply. Yes, he did believe that. It was impossible that Dumbledore...

"Potter. Think. For once in your life. After what I have recently learned, I am not sure any more how much this man knew. Did he know that Black would die in the ministry? Did he know that Black was innocent all along but chose to keep him in Azkaban so that you would never have the chance of a relatively pleasant childhood? Did he know but didn't change it in order to your ensure your gratefulness to the wizarding world? Did he know that Black would change to Pettigrew? Did he know that Pettigrew would betray them? Was the death of your parents calculated, too?"

"No!" He couldn't have. He just couldn't have. "You were the one who brought the prophecy to Vol-"

"Don't speak his name!"

"Fine. To You-Know-Who. That was you."

Harry saw a tortured flicker in the older man's eyes and clapped his mouth shut.

Snape dropped the gaze and rubbed his forehead. "He knew I was out there. And he wasn't surprised when I informed him that I had divulged the contents of the prophecy to the Dark Lord. I am beginning to believe that everything was planned. Dumbledore allowed his precious golden boy to be mistreated. Hence, there is little doubt that he would let other events unfold."

Harry blinked nervously. He put two and two together and it almost clicked in his head.

Snape went on. "He tested you. You had to face the Dark Lord several times. Under Dumbledore's protective wing. First year. Second year. Fourth year. Fifth year. I am sure he gave you a little speech every time, telling you how unbelievably proud he was."

Harry nodded in agreement.

"Not to forget. He raised you fjust to die at the right moment. He is convinced that you will sacrifice yourself. Your parent's death might have been part of the plan. Your death is part of the plan. And the fact that you had no one, nobody but him to look up to was part of the plan, too."

The man looked green now. Suddenly, he jumped up and ran past Harry. First, he bolted towards the door, but then re-decided and changed direction. He threw up in a dustbin, then walked out. Harry, not knowing if he was supposed to clean up, cause that had always been his job when Dudley was sick, stood up.

"Don't you dare!" he heard the man shout from the washroom.

He came back, looking more pale than ever.

"I don't want to fight for Dumbledore any more." Harry announced.

"Nor do I. Go to bed."

A miserable Harry rose from his seat and walked to his room.

And even now, neither of the two man were able to thank each other or apologise.