Snape came to his senses, sweating and breathing heavily, holding tightly onto a freezing cold and trembling teenager. Snape eased his grip, but didn’t let go, just in case the Dark Lord made a counter attack.

“Okay, Potter?”

When Potter only continued to shake and didn’t respond, Snape snapped, “Answer me.”

“I… yeah… I guess so,” Potter said through chattering teeth.

Snape fought the urge to let go of the teen, instead holding on more tightly. He didn’t relish the boy leaning against him, nor holding his wrists like he was a toddler crossing the street, yet there was nothing for it at the moment.

“You can let go now, sir,” Potter said, his back stiffening in realization of his surroundings.

“If I thought that were wise, I would,” Snape replied, pulling the icy teen against him more firmly. He knew Potter’s body temperature was low from the mental attack; adding his own body heat would be the fastest way to return Potter’s temperature to normal. “First, though, we need to strengthen your Occlumency shields to prevent another attack.”

“How?” Potter asked.

Snape thought he caught the slightest hitch in the boy’s voice, but chose to ignore it. “I am going to re-enter your mind. You needn’t fight me. Later, I will teach you how so that you can do it on your own. For now, though, it will be faster for me to build the shields and for you to concentrate on maintaining them.”

“Ok,” Potter said tremulously, still shivering with cold and clearly skeptical of the success of this venture in light of their former failed Occlumency lessons.

As they talked, Dobby gathered blankets from the other bed and placed them over the teen. “Harry Potter has returned,” Dobby crooned triumphantly, beaming at both of them.

“Indeed,” Snape murmured.

Potter looked confused, but said only, “Thanks for the blankets, Dobby.”  

Dobby looked deliriously happy to be complimented so.

“Let’s get started then, shall we?” Snape intoned with impatience, though he, too, was grateful for the elf’s assistance.

Snape spent the next hour in Potter’s head, turning away from Potter’s memories and emotions—which he had no desire to see or experience—and concentrating instead on building and reinforcing walls to block out invasions. By the time Snape was finished, they were both beyond exhausted.

Snape contemplated the wisdom of returning to the bed in the master suite, unsure if Potter would be able to maintain his defenses while asleep. Likely a better solution would be to sleep in the other single bed in the room, readily available if Potter needed him. As he shifted Potter’s weight so as to slip out from behind him, the incorrigible boy slid down his chest, coming to rest with his head on Snape’s thigh. Potter nestled into him, murmuring in his sleep.

“Insufferable child,” Snape groused, sliding Potter off of him as he extracted himself from the bed. He grabbed the blankets that Dobby had used to cover Potter and threw them back onto the other bed. Sighing, he pulled out his wand and levitated the teen, freeing the covers from underneath the boy. Settling Potter back on the mattress, he quickly transfigured the boys jeans and T-shirt into a night shirt and sleep pants before covering Potter up. Then, Snape retired to the small bed on the other side of the room, his body and mind aching from their recent struggles.

Snape awoke to the first rays of sunlight, his back pressed firmly against someone else’s. He groaned inwardly as realization dawned. It had been too much to hope that Potter would have been able to fight off the Dark Lord in his compromised mental and physical state. Less than an hour after Snape had fallen asleep the night before, he woke to the sound of Potter’keening in distress, a sure sign of the Dark Lord trying to invade the boy’s mind. Realizing that neither of them would get any rest if Snape didn’t do something, Snape had relented, enlarging Potter’s bed and enlisting the least offensive means of maintaining physical contact between them in an effort to shield Potter’s mind along with his own. Now, the insufferable Gryffindor was snoring softly, marking the first restful sleep the teen had had in days.

Catching a glimmer of something on the nightstand, Snape looked over to see a jar of bruise salve, a glass of water with a full pitcher beside it, and three potions: pain reliever, muscle relaxant, and an anti-inflammatory potion. Snape shifted to the edge of the bed, sitting up and shaking his head in amazement. If he and Potter made it out of this alive, he resolved to hire Dobby as his personal assistant. If the elf was even half as useful in a potions laboratory, and Snape suspected he would be, the amount of work they could accomplish would defy reason.

Snape moved to the edge of the bed and sat up. Every muscle he had ached in protest from holding down the struggling teen the night before. His neck and throat felt swollen, each dry swallow a painful reminder. He cleared his throat once, twice, and forced himself to endure the pain. Sighing in resignation, he reached for the anti-inflammatory potion, uncorking and sniffing it before draining it in one long and agonizing gulp. It tasted of mangosteen and chamomile, with a hint of cinnamon. He drank the pain reliever potion next, forcing down the bitter taste of willow bark, and saving the muscle relaxant for last. As he drained the last vial, Potter stirred, stretching languidly. Snape pushed himself to his feet in time to see Potter open his bloodshot eyes.

Snape kept his expression blank as he observed Potter taking in the sight of his potions professor standing beside the enlarged bed; unshaven, disheveled, and still in night clothes. Snape guessed that he had the same dark circles under his eyes that Potter had.

Their gazes met and Potter opened his mouth to say something, closed it, opened it once more, and then shut it again. The teen’s eyes were a palette or confusion, guilt, and could it be… gratitude?

Dismissing the thought, Snape said: “Breakfast will be in twenty minutes, Potter.” He turned on his heel and left the room without waiting for the boy’s response. His first priority was a hot shower; eggs, bacon, and the Dark Lord could bloody well wait.