“About last night, sir,” Harry began, pushing his scrambled eggs around on his plate and not daring to meet Snape’s gaze. “I can’t remember all of it, sir, but I’m pretty sure you helped me get Voldemort out of my head.” Harry didn’t want to address the fact that Snape had slept in the same bed as himself, nor that for the first time in a long time, Harry had actually felt safe.

Daring a glance up, Harry caught a glimpse of Snape’s expression. The normally stoic man appeared amused for a moment before his impassive mask slid back into place. As Harry stared, his gaze drifted downward, catching the dark splotches of black and violet that painted the man’s neck.

“Sir,” Harry exclaimed, “your neck! What happened?” An icy feeling of dread settled into the pit of Harry’s stomach as brief snatches of memory chased each other through his foggy brain. Reaching up to touch his own neck, Harry murmured, “I didn’t…I couldn’t have… Please tell me that wasn’t my fault.”

Harry stared, frozen, at Snape’s appraising look. “Let us just say that I would not be disappointed if we refrained from repeating the events of last night. Now, eat your food before it gets cold.”

The rest of the day passed in uneasy silence as Harry paced the tiny cottage, waiting for the mind strengthening potion to be ready. Although he had slept soundly for part of the previous night, he still felt exhausted. Another day he would likely have taken a nap, but he didn’t dare chance leaving his mind unprotected now. He knew that it was highly unlikely that Voldemort had given up on destroying himself or Snape. And trying to guess what the maniac’s next move might be was enough to drive anyone around the bend.

Snape, meanwhile, had settled himself in a chair and was attempting to read a book. Every time Harry walked by, Snape scowled. Harry guessed it was taking all of the man’s effort not to snap at him to just be still. Harry couldn’t fathom how Snape managed it; how he could remain so calm and unperturbed beneath the ever-nearing black cloud of impending doom.

When Snape finally spoke, his voice was harsh with suppressed annoyance. “Potter,” he nearly spat, “you are enough to drive Merlin to take up with a Muggle.”

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said automatically.

Snape seemed to consider something for a second before calling: “Dobby!”

The house elf appeared, a wet dish towel in one hand, a pot in another. “Professor Snape called Dobby, sir.”

“Yes. Please bring us one of the school brooms.”

“Yes, Professor Snape, sir. Right away, sir.”

Harry’s heart leapt as he stared at Snape in amazement. “I can fly?” he whispered in awe.

“If you cannot be still, then you will at least stop bothering me and attempt to burn off some of that infernal energy you seem to be cursed with.”

Harry gazed at Snape, dumbfounded, as Dobby popped noisily back into being. He was carrying one of the school brooms, which was easily twice as tall as he was. Harry reached for it, his hand sliding lovingly along the smooth, cool wood of the handle. “Thank you,” he breathed, his gratitude encompassing both his potions master as well as the house elf.

“I assume that I needn’t remind you to stay within the wards?” Snape asked, an eyebrow raised in emphasis.

“No, sir,” Harry said quickly. “I promise to stay within the wards at all times.”

Snape nodded once, dismissing both Harry and Dobby, before returning to his book.

Harry, amazed at his good fortune, made a bee-line for the door before Snape could change his mind. He mounted the broom and kicked off into the air, leaning forward over the handle to gain speed. Harry flew hard and fast, the chill wind whipping his hair so fiercely that it lashed his cheeks raw. He swooped, dove, and rolled, pushing himself to the limits as he fought to exercise the demons of fear and worry from his mind. He pulled the broom into an upward arc, racing toward the limits of the wards, challenging both them and himself. A moment before he would have soared through them, he executed a sharp turn, jerking the broom back as he skidded along the perimeter, before heading for the far side of the property.

Snape had vowed to let the teen work off his pent-up energy, but watching Potter fly was becoming an exercise in self control. Snape gritted his teeth, fighting against the urge to stalk outside and throttle the boy for risking life and limb on a damn broom. Did the child have a death wish? Images of Potter Sr. on a broom flashed through his mind, and had he not seen the look of fierce determination mixed with exhilaration on Potter’s face, Snape would have sworn the child was intentionally showing off or impress someone. Instead, he recognized the daring behavior as what it was—a way to face one’s fears by pushing the limits. That didn’t make it any easier to watch though. Tapping his wand against his palm, he was just about ready to cast an Impedamenta jinx on the broom to slow the infuriating child down when it happened.

Exhaustion was edging its way into Harry’s consciousness as he flew, reminding him that he didn’t have the stamina he once had. Injury, stress, and lack of sleep had taken a toll on his body. Harry decided to make one last lap around the perimeter before calling it quits. He leaned forward, pushing hard into the wind, gaining speed and arching upward. He imagined the snitch, dancing in front of him, racing tauntingly around the pitch. He chased after it, gaining on it, before it suddenly sped toward the ground. Harry grasped his broom hard, fighting against the trembling in his hands and feet, and dove. He felt the cool air rush against his chapped face, blowing his robes out behind him. His focus zeroed in on the pursuit, winning his only goal. Just as he reached the point of no return, he jerked his broom up, away from the earth, planning for a smooth glide into a graceful landing. In an instant of blinding clarify, however, he realized that he wasn’t on his Firebolt, he was on a school broom—a broom that didn’t have near the agility and range of motion that his Firebolt did.