Harry lay on the couch, taking shallow breaths. The pain was like a monster trying to claw its way out of his chest. He adjusted his spectacles and stared at the smiling woman in the painting, trying to focus on her pleasure instead of his pain. A few moments later, a rhythmic banging had him looking towards the balcony. Something, or more likely someone, was up there, making one hell of a racket. And from the curses he could overhear, that someone was likely very angry. He shuddered. He felt safe here, and yet… Visions of Uncle Vernon’s purple face coming at him made him pale. No, he wouldn’t think about that now. Wherever he was, he was definitely not at the Dursleys’.

Presently, that someone was coming down the stairs, towards him. He couldn’t have run even if he wanted to. Not Uncle Vernon, he reminded himself as he closed his eyes and tried to calm both his breathing and his racing heart. He felt anxious and sweaty and his leg itched.

“Don’t even bother trying to pretend you are asleep, Potter. I’m not an idiot.”

Harry swallowed and opened his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said. “You seemed upset and I thought it best not to bother you.”  

“A wise choice overall,” Snape sneered, “but unfortunately not a very apt one at the moment. I do not tolerate lying, Potter.”

Harry watched the man warily, but did not reply. The effort to steady his breathing cost him.

“Did you eat?”

“Yes,” Harry responded. “Dobby brought me some soup and bread.”

Snape nodded. “Is there anything else that you require at the moment?”

Harry paused. He wanted to tell someone that he was in pain, so much pain, but he knew Snape would only think he was trying to get attention. “Nothing, sir.”

Snape looked towards the red cube, and Harry glanced at it as well. “You know how to reach me.”

Harry nodded, waiting impatiently for Snape to leave. He wanted to suffer in peace. He also had to pee in a bad way. But he’d be damned if he’d ask Snape for help with that. Once he was sure Snape was gone, he slid his feet to the ground, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Why did his insides still feel like someone was slicing and dicing them? Getting into a sitting position was even more excruciating. Once he’d regained his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow, he looked towards the bathroom. At a distance of nearly ten feet, he highly doubted he’d be able to walk there.

Gazing around to ensure that he was alone, he slid to his hands and knees on the floor, crawling slowly to the bathroom, pausing occasionally to scratch his itchy leg. Each movement jarred him. He couldn’t help the cries that escaped from between his clenched teeth. But if he didn’t get to the bathroom soon, he’d wet himself.

His vision wavered as he neared the open doorway, blackness pressing in around him from the pain. He was almost there. And not a moment too soon—his bladder was ready to burst. The cool, white tiles shimmered before him like a mirage in the desert. He slid his hand forward, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood.

“POTTER!”

Harry froze, and to his horror, felt his bladder release in a wave of sweet relief. He tried to stop the flow but couldn’t. He groaned in both pain and mortification, collapsing to the floor in the growing puddle of his own urine. “Just kill me now,” he muttered, as the clicking steps of boots came rapidly nearer.

“Potter, what are you doing..?”

As the professor’s voice trailed off, Harry knew he’d just realized that Harry had wet himself. Harry braced himself for Snape’s cruel comments on his incompetence, or rather, his incontinence.

“Potter, look at me.”

Harry moaned. He could feel the heat of embarrassment color his cheeks. So, Harry thought, Snape wants to shame me to my face. Lovely. Harry looked up to find Snape squatting down in front of him.

“Why didn’t you call me if you needed assistance?”

“I am not my father,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

Snape looked at him like he was losing his mind. “What are you talking about?”

“I am not the attention seeking egomaniac you’ve always accused me of being.”

Snape sat back on his haunches and took a deep breath. “No,” he agreed, “I think that you are not.”

Harry felt dumbfounded. “But you’ve always said…”

Snape waved away Harry’s comment. “Never mind that now. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Snape cast a cleansing spell at Harry and then at the floor around him.

Harry’s cheeks flamed. Though he was now dry, he felt like an infant who needed to have his diaper changed. To add insult to injury, Snape picked him up like a baby and carried him back to the sofa. Harry wanted to protest that he could walk, but the fact of the matter was that he could not. 

Snape sat on the coffee table in front of Harry, his elbows on his knees, studying Harry. Harry felt more humiliated than ever. Unable to bear the man’s intense gaze, Harry turned his head away.

“Where is the pain?” Snape asked.

Harry shut his eyes. “Everywhere. Mostly in my chest, but it’s spreading.”

“Do you have trouble breathing?”

Harry nodded, and then regretted the small movement as a cry of pain escaped his compressed lips.

“Does it hurt when you cough?”

“Yes,” Harry breathed.

“Hey!” Harry protested as he felt the silk robe disappear. He resisted the urge to cup his hands over his privates; he was, after all, still wearing his boxers. Then he felt Snape’s hand clasp his left thigh, just above the knee. Taking a look, Harry saw that the lower part of his left leg was swollen to twice its normal size.

“How long has your leg been like this?” Snape asked.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, squirming under Snape’s intense gaze. “It felt itchy, but I didn’t know it was swollen.”

Snape frowned. “Don’t move, Potter.”

Harry almost laughed. As if he could.

 “Mr. Potter, must you insist upon testing my medical training at every visit to this school?” Madam Pomfrey asked as she placed her wand back inside of her sleeve. “Do you have any idea how dangerous your condition was?” Not waiting for his answer, she turned on Snape. “And you, Severus,” she said, crossing her arms, “I expected better of you. He could have died! I told you he should be in the infirmary, but Dumbledore thought he’d be better off here. Here of all places!”

Dumbledore. The named echoed in Harry’s mind. So Dumbledore knew he was here. Harry looked over to Snape for confirmation, but Snape was standing stock still, pale as a ghost, not making eye contact with anyone.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “Pulminary embolism. Who’d have guessed? Well, Mr. Potter, I assume that if you are having any other problems, you’ll let us know?”

“He damn well better,” Snape growled, looking menacingly at Harry.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, deciding it more important to address the angry potions master first. “Yes, ma’am,” he finished, sparing a glance for Madam Promfrey.

“Well, then, Severus, I’ll leave you to your charge.” She threw floo powder into the fire, green flames licking the hearth. “You’d better not disappoint me again, Severus.”

Harry watched as Snape paced back and forth across the room. Harry guessed he was trying to get control of his temper. Or he was annoyed at having to play babysitter.

“Sir?” Harry ventured.

Snape stopped to look at him.

“I should have told you…”

“Damn right you should have told me,” Snape shot back. Then, taking a deep breath, Snape added, “And I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

Harry shrugged. “You had worked to do.”

“And as Madam Pomfrey informed me, and rightfully so, you could have died.” Snape took a seat in one of the chairs. Looking away, he murmured, “I don’t need another death on my conscience.”

“Excuse me?” Harry said.

Snape waved a hand in dismissal, but Harry didn’t miss the look he spared at the painting of the woman.

“Who is she?” Harry asked softly.

“Who is who?” Snape snapped.

“The woman in the painting.”

“It’s a painting, Potter, how should I know?”