Snape stared at the Boy Who Lived with a mixture of wonder and exasperation. The desire to rip the boy limb from limb had deserted him as soon as he realized that that was exactly what the boy both expected and wanted. Snape snorted inwardly. He wouldn’t make it that easy for the boy. It hadn’t been easy for him, why should Harry-bloody-Potter get what he wanted without any effort.

He knew the moment the boy had released him from the body bind, but still he didn’t move. Had he thought about what he’d do in a situation like this, he would have sworn that he’d have sought vengeance, throwing the boy against the stone wall for starters and then cursing him senseless. But what was the point of that with someone who was suicidal? Instead, Snape had remained frozen, debating his options.

True he had been furious when Granger had saved his life. And he had been ready to kill Potter when the little idiot had assaulted him in his own chambers. But the boy did have a point. Snape never would have listened to him otherwise. And instead of the fame-hungry hero he’d expected to see gloating before him, he saw a broken child who’d seen too much, done too much. Potter wanted out and Snape knew that feeling all too well. Which left only one question: What to do?

“So what do you say, Snape? Are you in?” Potter fidgeted in his chair. “You are free, by the way. I released the curse.”

Snape stretched his tight muscles and slowly shifted to a sitting position, his gaze never leaving Potter’s. In a deep growl, he uttered, “I could have your hide for attacking me, Potter. In my own chambers, no less.”

Potter shrugged.

Snape got to his feet and towered over the boy. To his credit, Potter didn’t even cower.

“I have three words for you, Potter: shower, eat, sleep. Only after that will I discuss your idiotic suggestion.”

Potter stared at him, speechless. Whatever the boy had expected, this clearly wasn’t it. Disappointment marred his features. The boy dropped his head into his hands.

Snape could feel the waves of exhaustion and despair radiating from the boy but he was in no mood to deal with another’s sorrows. He’d had a lifetime of them, he didn’t need to take on anyone else’s, especially not Potter’s.

“Now!” Snape bellowed.

Potter jumped, unwillingly startled by the command.

“The shower is through there,” Snape pointed, indicating a hallway and a closed door.

Potter sat frozen with confusion. “You want me to shower here?”

“Yes, Potter, you stink. You are covered in blood and grime and I can’t bear to be around you. Unless, of course, you’d rather go visit with your hoard of admirers,” Snape said caustically.

At that, Potter jumped to his feet. “No,” he said.

Snape rolled his eyes. “There is soap and shampoo in the shower, and towels under the sink. I’ll leave a nightshirt for you outside the door. I’ll have the house elves bring some food and after you eat, you can sleep in my guest room.”

Potter looked stunned.

“Then we shall talk, Potter.”

Harry swallowed, and for the first time, Snape found that the boy looked both unsure of himself and a touch vulnerable. Gone was the false bravado that had buoyed the young wizard who had forced his way into Snape’s quarters and taken him hostage. Vanished was the self-righteous, angry teen tinged by the type of madness only seen in the severely sleep deprived or the mentally ill. In its place was a weary traveler, beaten down on the road of life, looking for the nearest rest stop.

Snape stood, arms crossed resolutely across his chest, as he waited for Potter to get in the shower. Once the door had shut firmly behind the boy, Snape made his way to his room where he searched his wardrobe for a nightshirt for the boy, muttering all the while: “…idiotic, irresponsible, reckless…” He grabbed the first one he found, a flannel number in muted green. Balling the soft fabric in his fists, he cursed, “What the hell kind of proposal is that?”

Loathe as he was to admit it, the scheme did hold some appeal. A joint suicide would free them both and blame neither. As he listened to the boy speak, he thought for once that Dumbledore just might have been right; he and the boy did have more in common than he’d ever realized. Oh, not what Dumbledore would have presumed, not their Spartan childhoods or their mistrust of others. Rather that they were both beholden to two masters, and the same two masters at that—Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. Now that both of those masters were dead, they were free to live as they chose—or to die as they chose. Snape wasn’t the only one looking forward to respite and mercy at the hand of death. One simple potion, one simple spell. It was easy really, too easy.