Just For Now by MarieLewis

Harry breathed harshly as he opened the parchment, his fingers trembling violently, his knees practically knocking together.

To Mr. Harry James Potter,

Regarding one, positron emission tomography (PET) scan.

Results:

Harry shut his eyes, forcing himself not to panic. It was fine, he was fine, everything would be fine. These were just test results... results that would determine his entire life for the next year or so.

"Sit down, Potter, before you faint."

It was a testament to how unsettled Harry was that he didn't object to Snape's hands on his arms, guiding him towards his previously abandoned seat.

His stomach was writhing with anxiety, his hands shaking like mad, and his throat, parched.

Snape plucked the scroll of parchment from his fingers.

"Read it," he croaked, pushing himself further into the chair, gripping the armrests.

Was the rest of his life to be a schedule of tests and treatments? Pain and weakness?

"Mr. Potter," Snape read,"Your cancer, Diffuse Large B-cell Lymphoma, is in the Non-Hodgkin's form. Your B-cells grow in an uncontrolled way and may develop in various parts of the body. In your case, the cancer is largely located inside your spleen and liver, it looks to be a standard Stage II. The cancer may spread to other organs inside you body, but it is not contagious."

Snape's voice circulated inside his head, echoing and reverberating. A tiny hammer seemed to be beating the spot between his eyebrows along with his speeding heart rate. Harry slid his slightly sweaty hands up over his face, taking his glasses off as he went, his fingers tangled in the front of his hair, spectacles, pinched, between his thumb and forefinger. He pressed his eyes to his jean clad knees, his breathing shallow.

"-loss of appetite and fatigue..." Snape trailed off, pausing before starting up on what was surely a different section of the letter, " Additional 'staging' tests will be performed before your treatments can be scheduled..."

Harry rested his chin on top of his drawn up knees, the knot in his stomach tightening, it sounded like Snape was surmising whatever was written, and then giving Harry a more understandable version.

Harry appreciated it. The medical terms and phrases were no doubt to complicated for him to even comprehend.

Snape's dark eyes skimmed across the page once more, then, "You are to go up to the Hospital Wing later today in-," he paused, checking the slightly worn watch strapped to his wrist, "Four hours. Tests are to be scheduled, your port checked, and papers filled out."

And still, Harry said nothing.

"Are you not curious, Potter?" asked Snape, his eyebrow quirked, "I daresay this must be a first."

Harry turned his head sideways on his knees, ignoring Snape's barb, "D'you know if D- Professor Dumbledore will let my aunt come again? To fill out papers, I mean."

Funny how out of all of that, the most that bothered him was his lack of parent to sign his forms. He'd felt like that once before, when he had to ask Uncle Vernon to sign his Hogsmeade form... but then, Sirius had come to his rescue.

Harry swallowed past the burning sensation in his throat. Sirius wasn't here anymore.. and neither was Aunt Petunia.

"I do not."

Snape sat down in the arm chair adjacent to Harry's, crossing one leg over the other and pulling the legs of his trousers up a fraction as he did so.

Harry couldn't bring himself to find any amusement in that. His Potions Professor sat with the same precision he used while brewing... once, he and Ron would have had a laugh over it.

But now, Harry didn't feel as though he could ever laugh again.

No parents to sign his form.

His eyes stung and his face burned, but he refused to cry in front of Snape.

And because he had nothing else to ask, "What do you think is going to happen with V- You-Know-Who, Professor?"

Snape didn't answer right away, and Harry didn't turn to look at him, afraid that his face showed signs of suppressed tears.

"I-" Snape hesitated, which, in and of itself, was an odd occurrence, "The Dark Lord aside, you appear to have enough on your plate as it is, Potter."

That was enough to snap Harry out of his despondent state, his head jerked up, "Wha-" he began, headache pounding in protest to his movements.

"Mmrrrmm."

Malfoy shifted on the couch, rolling over and nearly falling off the edge. He would have too, had not Snape rose in time to prod Malfoy gently in the other direction.

Watching made Harry's heart fall a little further down his chest, his short time with a caring relative seeming even shorter somehow. Images of himself being embraced by Mrs. Weasley rose, unbidden, in his mind, except Mrs. Weasley shaped into Aunt Petunia, who, after less than a moment, completely disappeared, leaving him alone in a churning sea of sadness.

Harry got up quietly, backing away as Snape brushed his fingers over the despicable tattoo on Malfoy's arm, probably checking to see if the skin was still inflamed, or if the mark itself was dark from Voldemort's call.

Harry closed the door to his room as softly as possible, then, turning, climbed under the covers of his bed, curled up, and pulled the duvet right up to his chin.

He was shivering. But not from the cold.

Though it may not have been the first time he had experienced it, Harry felt as though he were truly alone.

Alone, tired, and sick.

And now, more than ever, he wanted his mum.

When Harry woke less than an hour later (though it felt as though he had been asleep far longer), his skin felt hot and tingly, and his sore throat more scratchy then ever. Perhaps that was what had woke him. After all, it couldn't have been the lights, for though Harry had gone to sleep with them blazing brightly, they were dimmed enough that it looked like the sun was going down.

Harry knew it wasn't though, someone had place a small, analog clock on his bedside table. Some part of Harry knew it was Snape, but the dominant, defiant, and sort of belligerent part disregarded the notion, chalking it up to magic.

If he thought of it that way, he felt as though his mind wasn't deteriorating along with his health.

Harry rolled onto his back, the soft sheets sliding across his fevered skin, making him shudder at the uncomfortable sensation. It was arguable that the worst part of having a fever was the hypersensitive skin. Harry couldn't decide between the achy, watery, burning eyes and the skin that hurt with the slightest touch.

It was a toss up really.

With a sigh that turned into a cough when it was half-way out of his throat, Harry shimmied to the edge of the bed, his limbs heavy and sore.

Another thing about fevers that he despised.

Everything hurt. Muscles, limbs, nails, fingers, throats, .. even hair.

Practically dragging himself to the loo, Harry yawned widely, slipping through the door and taking a seat on the lid of the closed toilet. Who knew walking a yard or two could be so tiring.

The sparkling clean, white tub looked terribly tempting... A warm water bath was a sure fire way to feeling a little bit better. Well, in usual cases, anyway. Harry couldn't be certain if it worked with..this.

Harry reached out with one arm, latching onto the silver, hot water tap, and twisting it until heated water gushed into the tub. He pulled up the small lever between the two taps and above the facet, effectively plugging up the drain, then turned the cold water tap to even out the temperature.

Three small bottles of soap, a wash cloth, shaver, and all the toiletries that Harry would ever need, sat in a basket beneath the sink inside a cupboard, beside which was a stack of white, fluffy towels.

Harry shut the loo door, fully intending on soaking for at least an hour.

0000

"Do you think this one will work?"

Draco winced as Severus cleaned yet another numbing salve off of his forearm, or, more specifically, his -he gulped even when only thinking about it... Dark Mark.

"The intensity of the Dark Lord's call renders most of these useless, never the less, I shall endeavor to find one that offers you relief," murmured Severus leaning forward, his wand alight and poised over Draco's forearm, "The trouble however, is finding one that works. These are the strongest numbing agents available, some are my own creation, however, as this last one isn't it either.. I may have to revise my recipe."

Draco recounted the row of jars they'd already tried, trying to distract himself from the burn in his arm. Unfortunately, to find a salve that worked, he had to be awake, and his arm, burning.

"Only two more jars," he said quietly, beginning to lose hope. With each salve they tried, his arm felt the same, as though he hadn't even applied the numbing agent at all.

"Yes, I fear it was necessary to start with the least strong and work our way up. Numbing agents are notoriously dangerous. We do not want you to lose feeling in your arm all together," Severus replied, glancing up at Draco, his eyes for once displaying an emotion, this one, regret.

Draco sucked up the urge to moan, "It's fine." My arm is on fire. But it's fine.

To his surprise, Severus scoffed, "You are beginning to sound like that-" and odd pause, "Potter," he finished gruffly.

Draco frowned, Severus had deliberately cut out an insult there, he could tell. And he wondered why..

Casting around for something to distract him from the current state of his arm, Draco seized on the subject.. even if it was his least favorite. What was better than talking about unpleasant things while experiencing something equally unpleasant, he reasoned.

"Where is Potter, by the by? I haven't seen him since this morning. Feels like it's been hours..."

Severus smeared the second to the last salve across his skin, Draco stilled as the cold, lotion like paste covered the mark.

"It feels.." He breathed a sigh of relief, his arm felt like nothing. Not even a tingle of pain.

Immediately, Severus closed the jar, labeling the top with a flick of his wand and storing it in his pocket.

"No pain, are you certain?" he asked urgently, looking up from Draco's arm, eyes roaming over his face as though to make sure Draco wasn't hiding anything.

"Positive."

Severus nodded, satisfaction obvious in his movements as he banished away all of the other jars, "Remember, you must tell me instantly if you feel the slightest-"

"I know," cut in Draco, "Thank you."

Severus' lips tightened briefly.. maybe that was a smile? A, 'you are welcome'?

Draco couldn't be sure.

Leaning back in his chair, Draco remembered his question, "Potter can't be sleeping already, can he? It isn't even two in the afternoon yet," he said, somewhat incredulous, even if he himself had been sleeping not three hours before.

Severus stood from his chair beside Draco, "Mr. Potter will be sleeping at odd hours of the day due to his illness. Come, Draco, you asked that I bandage your arm. We shall move into my lab, it is more suited to your needs."

Severus lead him from the kitchen with a hand on his shoulder.

Draco wondered why Severus was suddenly uncomfortable speaking of Potter, but he didn't ask. He'd seen the way his eyes had shuttered, and his expression grew tense. Perhaps Severus did like him, but that did not mean Draco was completely immune to the man's ire.

Not wishing to bring that down on himself, he let the subject alone.

Potter came stumbling into the kitchen forty-five minutes later, just after Severus had subtly persuaded Draco into having a few spoonfuls of his chicken soup. Instead of just sneering at the other boy's appearance though, Draco took note of Potter's face, which was pinched and pale, with wet fringe plastered to his forehead.

Potter had actually lost enough weight for it to show on his face, Draco wasn't sure what to think about that. And it irked him that he'd noticed at all.

It seemed distracting oneself from one thing, brought all other -unwanted- notions into light. What a bother.

Severus' voice snapped him out of his musings.

"Are you fevered, Potter?" he asked, his tone not exactly a snap... but not kind either.

Potter, for his part, didn't even blink at the change, instead, he dropped into his chair -rather gracelessly- propped one elbow on the table, one hand supporting his face, and the other stirring around his soup.

Abominable manners. Awful, really.

But Severus still did not comment, he thought incredulously, turning wide eyed to look at the man, who merely continued to eat his own meal, calmly awaiting the answer to his inquiry.

"A bit, yeah," said Potter, his voice scratchy and gravelly. He scooped a bit of soup into his mouth, and from the way Potter grimaced as he swallowed, Draco could tell the other boy was suffering from a sore throat.

Unconsciously, Draco scooped up a bit of his own soup, mirroring Potter's actions.

With a rather irritable huff, Severus dropped his spoon into his now empty soup bowl, rose from his seat, and rummaged through what Draco had now dubbed, the medicine cupboard.

Turning away from the cupboard with a vial in hand, Severus made his way back to the table, sitting down again before passing the potion to Potter with a look that said 'take it, now.', and Potter did. Without so much as a whiff of protest.

The sigh of relief that came from Potter's mouth signalled the potion's success.

"Almost forgot what is was like to breath through my nose," said Potter, chuckling lightly.

Draco nearly scoffed aloud -as if there was anything even marginally entertaining about such a thing.

Without even realising he was doing it, Draco continued to scoop soup into his mouth, breaking his self-imposed fast. In fact, he was paying so much attention to Potter and his soup, that he missed Severus' approving look as his spoon scraped against the bottom of his -now empty- bowl.

Draco looked down in surprise. How had he not noticed how hungry he was? He shook his head, picking up his glass of pumpkin juice with one hand, and lowering his spoon with the other.

0000

Harry sat on the settee, his feet tapping against the sitting room carpet. The four bites of soup he had eaten had settled, uncomfortably, in his already too-full stomach. He wished Ron were there, well, not with him with Snape and Malfoy, more like, he wished he could be with the Weasleys at the Burrow.

Distractions weren't hard to come by there.

And more than anything, Harry wanted to be distracted.

He picked at the skin around his fingernails, resisting the urge to bite at it. What the hell was he to do all day? Homework, said a voice in his ear that sounded suspiciously like Hermione. Harry scoffed aloud, if he had to look at another piece of parchment.. well, he couldn't be held responsible for the out come.

Harry pushed himself further back onto Snape's sofa, pressing himself more firmly into the space between the back cushion and the arm rest. He ran a hand through his damp hair. Baths were all well and good, he supposed, but they always allowed one time to think... and thinking was the last thing Harry wanted to do.

He could write to his friends... but that required thinking, writing, and urgh, parchment.

With only one two-foot essay left -for Herbology-, Harry couldn't even stand the thought of writing a single word.

Harry scratched idly at a spot on his stomach, letting his head fall against the plump, back cushions. He stared up at the stone ceiling, trying to remember what the sky looked like, and when and if he'd ever see it again.

Pulling up one leg and tucking it beneath the other, Harry closed his eyes and decided that the best way to distract himself was to daydream... about Quidditch. The way the wind felt, ruffling his hair as he zoomed around. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins with every stunt. The sun...

Merlin, how he missed it.

He was probably even whiter than normal, with nothing but artificial light to keep him company. With a sigh that was more of a groan, Harry picked of his glasses before laying his forearm over his eyes.

Restlessness.

He needed to get out, walk around, see something... other than Snape's rooms and the bloody Hospital Wing. Which was where he needed to be in an hour or so.

He'd never been good at being sick... especially when he had to stay in the Hospital Wing, staring at blindingly white sheets, stone walls, and Madame Pomfrey bustling to and fro between rows of patient laden beds.

It made him feel ill just thinking about it.

Harry yawned widely, sort of forgetting for a moment that it was Snape's sofa on which he sat as he settled more comfortably into the overstuffed cushions, laying his head on the arm rest, and pulling both legs up to his chest.

Why on earth was he so tired?

Didn't matter, he supposed, he was already drifting away.

When he next woke, it was to someone shaking his shoulder and calling his name.

"Mrrmmph-?"

He reeled back a bit when he realised Snape's face was less than a foot from his.

"Your appointment, Potter, you have ten minutes," said Snape, in his usual brusque tones.

A couple more bit out commands and Harry thought he'd lose it. Honestly, didn't the man ever speak normally?

"Yeah," sighed Harry scrubbing a hand over his face before shoving his glasses back on.

Snape straightened, pulling briskly at the cuffs of his sleeves, "We will be flooing," he commented offhandedly, leaving the sitting room, effectively missing Harry's bemused expression.

Back in his lavatory, Harry splashed cold water on his face repeatedly, dragging his wet fingers through his sleep mused hair when he was finished.

He braced his hands on either side of the white, porcelain sink, glaring at himself in the mirror, internally berating himself for his cowardice.

Breathing in deeply and then letting out the air with a whoosh, Harry left the confines of his corner in Snape's Hogwarts home, clenching his fists in grim determination.

Harry looked around in awe as he stepped away from the floo, barely noticing as Snape, then Malfoy stepped out behind him.

"Wh-"

Harry was positive they were in the Hospital Wing, after all, there was no mistaking that pristine, white bed with the perfectly fluffed pillow in the far corner. But that was just it. There was only one bed. Not a row of them against either wall. Just the one. And it was in a room Harry had certainly never seen before.

Harry stumbled a bit on the navy blue carpet as he stepped further into the room, turning in a circle as he stared, wide-eyed at machines and things that one would usually find in a muggle hospital. He was in the Hospital Wing, but... not. He could even see the place he usually stayed in, the small, close to the ceiling windows that let rays of sunlight beam over the beds. Unconsciously, Harry moved closer to that room, straying away from the single bed and navy blue carpet, somehow, he was divided from the other room, and he got the feeling, even though he could see out, no one could see in.

"This is-" he breathed, not even knowing how to complete his sentence.

"Quite amazing, the things we can accomplish with the wave of a wand and a spot of magic."

Harry turned from the weird barrier dividing him from the rest of the Hospital Wing. Dumbledore stood in the middle of the navy blue carpet, his hands clasped in front of his midnight blue robes, looking completely out of place amongst the muggle machines and gadgets.

When Harry continued to stare at him with a bewildered expression on his face, Dumbledore continued, "You will be visiting the Hospital Wing rather frequently throughout the course of the year. I thought it best to set up a private room for you here, in order to maintain privacy... as well as secrecy."

That settled it then... he wasn't going back to school this year.

Harry bit the inside of his lip, shoving away the sadness that creeped through him at the thought. Not complete his sixth year with Ron and Hermione and everyone else? It would be worse than staying with the Dursleys the entire summer used to be.

Harry's gaze strayed to where Snape and Malfoy stood, looking equally surprised to be in this newly created place. He wondered what living with Snape and Malfoy year round would be like... Of course neither were likely to be there with Harry very often, not once the school year started anyway.

It wasn't fair. But then, not very many things in Harry's life could be described as 'fair'.

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, but not because they were sliding down, actually, it was more out of habit... and something to do besides twiddle his thumbs.

He crossed the room, stopping by the edge of the bed, he sat on it, hesitantly, feeling strangely mindful of the neatly tucked sheets, "So, I'm just going to stay in here- or, where is here, exactly?" he asked, "I mean, I know this is the Hospital Wing, but..." He gestured wordlessly around him.

Dumbledore took a seat on one side of the small sofa that was positioned in a corned on the far side of the room beside one of those contraptions in a doctor's office that weighed and measured you.

"Madame Pomfrey's quarters," said Dumbledore, gesturing around the room with a wave of his hand, "After a floo call, she agreed to have a room added on to hers."

"I-er, that was, nice of her," stammered Harry, shifting back on the bed until his back hit the stone wall.

Dumbledore nodded, "Nearly time," he said tapping the small silver watch on his left wrist.

Harry craned his neck a little, trying to catch sight of the face of Dumbledore's watch, only to find that instead of hands, there were a series of moons rotating beneath the glass.

He couldn't tell the time, but it did remind him of something, or rather, someone.

"Professor, do you know how Remus is doing?" Harry asked, barely able to believe he'd forgotten all about his friend, especially after what happened on Privet Drive. His chagrin must have shown on his face a little, for Dumbledore tutted, "No need to feel bad about it, Harry, you've had a lot on your mind as of late. And, as it happens, I visited Remus earlier today. He is quite well."

Then why isn't he here? "That's good," said Harry, only half his enthusiasm genuine. He saw Snape roll his eyes through his peripheral, but was robbed of the chance to scowl at the man for just then, the floo flared.

Healer Beesely and her assistant stepped through, one after the other, brushing the soot from their hospital robes with one hand, heavy looking, black cases held tightly in the other.

Dumbledore stood, followed by Snape, but Malfoy stayed seated, and so did Harry, who had had his fingers crossed that it might be Remus or Aunt Petunia (as unlikely as that was) who stepped out of the fireplace.

"Ah, Margaret, right on time, my dear girl," said Dumbledore, extending a hand to shake the one Healer Beesely or 'Margaret' had already extended.

"'Tis my job, Headmaster," replied Healer Beesely, a tad too jovially for Harry's taste. Honestly, how could she be so merry when the last time they'd met she'd been shoving tubes and things down his insides?

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to appear as sulky as he suddenly felt. Maybe it was the smiling healer, or perhaps it was the pitying look Healer-in-training, Ms. Hemmingway, had just sent him, or possibly, it was that the only two people that were in this room -besides Dumbledore and the Healers- were Snape and Malfoy. The last two people he'd want with him anywhere.

Even so, with the way things were looking, Harry figured he was entitled to a little sulking every now and again.

Healer Beesely set her things down on the floor beside the steel table that stood between the weight/measuring thing, and a pole with a coil of clear tube hanging from it on wheels. She popped open the latch on her bag, taking out little plastic bags, boxes, bottles, and other odds and ends that Harry assumed would be used on him at one point or another.

On the other side of the room, where things were a lot less medical, was a desk with a chair, the couch, and the armchair where Malfoy still sat, looking a little more than shell-shocked.

Healer Hemmingway was organizing paper work and quills on the desk, looking up at Harry when she was finished, offering a small smile that Harry couldn't return.

He felt he had a right to be grim too.

Opening and closing draws and putting away her things in the compartments that made the steel table look almost like a short dresser, Healer Beesely emptied the entire contents of her bag. Harry had now figured out what they were doing. He was going to be here so long, and so often, they'd decided it was best to just keep everything here instead of going to St. Mungo's at all.

Standing up straight, Healer Beesely brushed her hair back behind her ears, "Well," she said, a little breathlessly, "That's that. I just need to-" she looked around, "Ah, here we are."

Harry watched as she strolled over to a door he hadn't even noticed -it was on the left of the fireplace- actually, there were two doors, one either side of the fireplace- and the one Healer Beesely had just entered was, Harry craned his neck, a lavatory.

"Alright," she said upon returning, drying her hands with a paper towel and then dropping it in the bin beside the silver table when she was finished, "Let's get started."

She beckoned a very reluctant Harry forward, "Up on the scale then," Healer Beesely gave him a little push, -a push Harry thought wasn't at all necessary- and he stepped onto the scale.

"Wait a minute," said Healer Beesely, her hand on Harry's shoulder, "You've got to take off those trainers first, dearie."

Refraining from groaning, Harry stepped down, toed off his trainers, then stepped back on. The steel plate on which he stood felt cold through his socks, but he tried not to shift as Healer Beesely weighed him.

Healer Beesely muttered to herself as she shifted the metal bits on the see-saw like metal bar, squinting her eyes as she adjusted the pieces once more, nodding her head decisively when the bar evened out.

"Catherine," she called out suddenly, causing Harry to jump slightly, jostling the metal plate and making it squeak, "Bring over the clipboard, we need to monitor everything from this point."

Ms. Hemmingway walked over, clipboard in hand, she reached into her pocket, pulling out a pair of reading glasses and sliding them onto her nose and behind her ears, "His weight?" she inquired, a quill poised over the paper chart on the clipboard.

"Six stone and 12 pounds," replied Healer Beesely, her eyebrows drawn together in thought.

Harry looked over his shoulder, watching as Ms. Hemmingway wrote out his weight. He'd lost some -weight, that is. When he went to the muggle doctors they'd said he was seven stone. It wasn't much, sure, but it was something. And that something worried him.

"-have to keep an eye out for it." Healer Beesely was saying to her assistant. Harry wondered how much longer he'd have to stand on the scale.

"Now for the height," she muttered, pulling up the metal rod with inch marks on it.

"I'm probably still around five feet and seven inches," offered Harry, getting rather tired of the constant silence -with the exception of the healers- he glanced over his shoulder at his companions. Dumbledore, Snape, and Malfoy still sat, the former to reseated on the couch, muttering in low tones about something that appeared to be rather serious.

But the latter, he was staring right at Harry. And for a moment, they made eye contact. Before Healer Beesely tapped his shoulder, smiling at him and instructing him to stand straight and tall.

Her fingers brushed against the top of his hair as she tried to flatten it, and despite his mood, his lips curled into a small smile.

"170.18," called out Healer Beesely, she pat Harry's cheek, "Looks like you've still got a bit a growing left, eh?"

That perked Harry up considerably.

Five minutes later, Harry was back on his bed, only, it wasn't really a bed anymore, apparently, it could be adjusted to look like an armchair. Healer Beesely said that because he wouldn't always want to lay down, and for his tests he should be sitting upright, there was a small lever beneath the bed frame. Harry had tested it out and discovered that by pulling the lever one way, it could go as far up as he liked, or back to being a bed again if he pushed the lever in the opposite direction.

He wished he had a curtain though, like the ones Madame Pomfrey always put up around his bed so he could change. He didn't have that here, so Malfoy was free to gape like a fish as Ms. Hemmingway peeled away the bandage covering his port so that he could be prepped for a blood test.

There had to be some sort of rule against random people being allowed to see him like this, thought Harry bitterly, wincing a little as the gauze came away completely and it pulled at his already too tight skin.

"How does it feel, dear?" asked Healer Beesely, who stood behind her assistant, watching the proceedings.

"Er, it's sore, and," Harry looked down cautiously, "And red, why is it red?" he asked, shifting self-consciously and painfully aware that the not at all bad looking Ms. Hemmingway was in close proximity to his partly bare, horridly scrawny, flushed red, chest, "I mean, it doesn't hurt, or I d-don..."

Ms. Hemmingway had just snapped on a pair of gloves, drawing Harry's attention away from his stumbled explanation, he stared as she dripped a clear substance onto a cotton ball before returning to his side with the cotton ball held out in front of her.

"It's because of the operation, Harry," explained Healer Beesely, distracting Harry from Ms. Hemmingway, who was now swabbing the cotton ball over the irritated skin around and on his port.

"I'm just going to clean the area," she had murmured, leaning over him.

Harry shivered a little, goosebumps rising on his skin as air blew over what he now realised must have been rubbing alcohol.

Ms. Hemmingway retreated to the silver table again, Harry sat up a little straighter to try and catch sight of what she was doing, but Healer Beesely had returned to distracting him.

"-anything to eat?"

Harry turned away from Ms. Hemmingway, "Huh? Oh, er- sort of," he replied, shrugging his shoulders a little.

Healer Beesely nodded in understanding, "Yes, loss of appetite or feelings of fullness is a side effect, Harry. Not to worry, we'll have you all fixed up in no time."

Not knowing what else to do, Harry gave a nod and a small smile.

Seemingly tired of simply standing at his bedside, Healer Beesely conjured a chair and sat down. "So Harry," she said, "Tell me a little about yourself."

Harry blinked, staring at the healer as though she had cat hair growing from her face, "A-about myself?" he stammered. When had anyone ever asked him that?

"Yes, dear."

Harry frowned, actually considering what to say. He didn't even notice that Ms. Hemmingway was pushing the entire silver table and all it's drawers and compartments closer to where he sat.

"I'm, er, sixteen." Wow, not only was that a pathetic attempt, but he'd almost said fifteen instead!

All Healer Beesely did was nod though, so that was alright.

Harry tried again. "I play Quidditch.. I'm the seeker for the Gryffindor team. I've got a Firebolt," he added, "It's the best broom out there," he clarified, sounding more than a little bit proud as he thought about it... Only thinking about his broom reminded him of Sirius. So he switched to safer subjects.

"I- er, I've always wanted to be an Auror," he said, rather sheepishly.

"An Auror?" repeated Healer Beesely, leaning closer, her eyes alight with interest, "Now isn't that a noble profession? Rather dashing, hm?"

Harry's cheeks colored. He hadn't been thinking of it that way...

"Ok, Mr. Potter, you'll just feel a pinch-"

Harry's head snapped back towards Ms. Hemmingway, "W-what?" he squeaked, his voice several octaves higher than his normal tone.

Ms. Hemmingway held a small, triangular shaped thing with an even smaller silver, glinting needle at one end.

Healer Beesely was patting his hand, "Relax, Harry dear, here," she reached over and plucked the needle-thing from Ms. Hemmingway's hand. She passed it to Harry, using her free hand to close his fingers over the yellow plastic part connected to the tiny, silver pinprick.

Harry refused to admit that his hand shook as he turned the object in his fingers, "So you're just going to..."

Healer Beesely closed her hand over his again, pulling apart the yellow bits, she revealed a small, plastic tube, obviously made for having something inserted into it.

"The needle goes right," she tapped his chest, "Here. It'll be over before you know it," she said, giving him that 'and it won't hurt a bit' smile that he never liked to see on anybody's face.

"Erm, alright, yeah," he passed the needle back to Ms. Hemmingway, shifting on his bed and tucking his hands beneath his thighs. Every single muscle in his body tensed.

Ms. Hemmingway and Healer Beesely shared a glance.

Harry's heart was thudding against his ribcage, his Adam's Apple bobbing with every dry swallow.

Merlin, he hated needles.

He felt skittish, like at any moment he would take off at a run and hide inside the nearest cupboard. The pressing blackness that cloaked you when the doors were shut tight had always been quite soothing, Harry thought.

"Are you ready, Harry?" Healer Beesely asked gently, her dark brown eyes were warm with sympathy.

Harry swallowed audibly, "Uh- I.. yeah, um, okay..."

Stringing words together to form a coherent sentence had never seemed so hard before.

"Here, you can grab hold of my hand," said Healer Beesely, pulling one of Harry's hands from beneath his leg and clasping his cold fingers.

"Just take a deep breath," she murmured, rubbing her thumb over his palm. Her voice was so soothing, Harry couldn't help but listen.

"That's it. In and out, Harry, deep breaths..."

Harry shut his eyes as Ms. Hemmingway's gloved fingers closed around his port, sort of pinching it to hold it steady.

Unconsciously, he gripped Healer Beesely's hand tightly, holding his breath.

"Let it out, dear," Healer Beesely was saying, "There you go, in and out."

And just as he was letting out his second breath; the needle touched his skin.

Less than a second later, Harry realised he'd been waiting for a pain that didn't come.

His eyes popped open just as Ms. Hemmingway pressed a piece of clear tape over the entire area. Harry let go of Healer Beesely's hand, frowning in confusion, he turned to her.

"Well, you're very stoic," she commented lightly, "It's alright to show pain s-"

"It didn't hurt," cut in Harry, shaking his head bemusedly, "I couldn't feel anything..."

Now Healer Beesely and Ms. Hemmingway were frowning as well. His stomach clenched, "Is- is it supposed to do that?" he asked worriedly, pushing himself to sit up straighter and angled himself towards the healer.

She hesitated. Harry swallowed.

"It is normal," she began, "To feel a prick or a sharp pain..."

"But I didn't," interjected Harry, "Not a thing, I mean..." he looked down, raising a hand to tap the needle through the spell-o-tape, "It's like, I dunno... numb?"

Healer Beesely exchanged a glance with Ms. Hemmingway, then, standing, they moved a little to the side and spoke in whispered tones. Harry caught small bits like, "what must have happened" and "proceed with the test, Catherine", but that was it.

"Harry?"

He moved his gaze from the healers, looking up at Dumbledore, "I don't know what happened... The needle didn't hurt," he said, vaguely aware that he wasn't making any sense.

Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder, long fingers resting next to Harry's neck, "I am sure they will work it out, Harry," he said, the usual kindness and quiet certainty coloured his voice.

Healer Beesely jerked her head imperceptibly toward Harry, and their hushed conversation ended. Ms. Hemmingway was coming his way, but Harry wasn't paying attention to her. And how could he? When Healer Beesely had just set her jaw determinedly, and beelined towards Snape.

"Alright, Mr. Potter, I'm just going to attach this here."

Ms. Hemmingway held up a syringe. Not a normal one, this one didn't have a needle. She connected the needleless-syringe to the short plastic tube on the end of the needle in his chest.

Harry's eyes slowly slid away from Snape and Healer Beesely, feeling rather care-free as he lay flat against the back of his bed/chair.

He yawned widely, "Mhm," he hummed, blinking as Ms. Hemmingway glanced up at him worriedly.

He could feel it, the slight pulling sensation. He could literally see his blood, red and thick, as it was drawn into the tube of the syringe. It should have made him sick... it would have, actually. But Harry couldn't be bothered to be sick just now, not when he was feeling so pleasantly relaxed and... cozy?

"If you could just hold your breath for five seconds, Mr. Potter?" asked Ms. Hemmingway, her eyes glued to the operation she was conducting, "It makes it easier.. and quicker."

Well, in that case.

Harry inhaled before he held his breath, counting backwards from five.

"And... we are finished."

Ms. Hemmingway reached back, plucking a yellow cloth from the steel table behind her. She placed it on his chest, directly beneath the connected tubes. A tiny droplet of blood dribbled as she disconnected them. Harry realised what it was for then, and silently berated himself for being so slow.

"You are quite the trooper, Mr. Potter," said Ms. Hemmingway, placing the tube of blood inside a transparent tupperware, "Not many people can take a blood drawing without so much as a wince."

Harry nodded. He wasn't tired, but he did feel a bit.. hazy. Muffled about the edges.

"I- yeah. It's easy when you can't feel it."

Ms. Hemmingway snapped off her gloves, "Is that so?"

"Mhm."

"Why do you think you didn't feel anything, Mr. Potter?" she asked conversationally, trashing her gloves and wiping her hands on a wet towel.

"Dunno," said Harry, shrugging a little. Who cared how it happened anyway? No pain was a good thing, wasn't it?

"I suppose it's alright for now," said Ms. Hemmingway. She conjured a chair and sat down beside Harry, "We won't have to fill you with numbing drugs.. well, maybe not until tomorrow. I'd say the potion -if it really is one- will have worn off by then."

What was she talking about? What potion...?

Harry scratched his head, trying to concentrate, "I haven't had any potions... have I?"

She raised her eyebrows, "We'll find out, won't we?"

Harry nodded solemnly.

Ms. Hemmingway sat back in her chair, "So how have you been since we were last here?"

Harry scratched his head, thinking about the past day, "Erm.. I had a fever earlier, I think. Loads of headaches," he pursed his lips, "Oh, and a sore throat. I hate those."

"So do I."

"D'you know what they're talking about over there?" he asked suddenly, gesturing to where Snape and Healer Beesely were standing by the door. They looked to be in a very intense discussion.

Ms. Hemmingway pursed her lips as though contemplating whether it was right to tell Harry anything. "Well... I think your professor there," she jerked her head in Snape's general direction, "Spiked something you ate or drank with a potion."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. He'd always known Snape would try to poison him at one point or another, but honestly, was the man so daft as to try it right before a medical appointment? He leaned closer to Ms. Hemmingway, "Is there a way to suck poison out of a person?" he asked, and quite seriously too.

Ms. Hemmingway gave him a weird look, and in return, Harry gave her a meaningful nod. She'd probably had Snape for a teacher too, of course she knew what he meant.

"Why would we need to suck out poison?"

Or maybe not...

"You mean I'm not poisoned?" inquired Harry, marginally surprised by this new development.

"No, of course not!" exclaimed Ms. Hemmingway, as if the very idea were ludicrous.

Apparently she didn't know Snape.

Harry laughed it off with her though, but mentally resolved to keep an eye out all the same.

"He gave you a potion that relieves pain, and as I think I've just discovers, loosens your tongue as well!"

She was chortling now, pressing her hand to her lips. Not sure what else to do, Harry chortled too. Somehow her laughing had him doing the same... even if he couldn't see what was so bloody funny. Snape would poison him... but he had to agree with Ms. Hemmingway there, the idea that Snape would do it so conspicuously, well, quite frankly, that was absurd.

"It does not loosen the tongue, Ms. Hemmingway," cut in Snape, who had glided over unannounced and was now towering over them, "It fools the mine into believing that absolutely nothing is happening to the body... Perhaps his relaxed state is what makes him blather on so, but to my reckoning, Potter never had trouble with that when he wasn't -to quote a phrase- 'drugged'."

By then Harry's eyes were round as Galleons. If he'd wanted a ruddy vocabulary lesson he'd have asked for one. Snape's last word stuck though, Harry seized upon it, "I'm drugged?" he asked curiously, looking up at Snape and then at Healer Beesely (who was red in the face and wisps of hair seemed to have escaped her bun) for confirmation.

"To state it plainly," said Healer Beesely with a harrumph, she turned to Snape, practically swelling with suppressed emotion, "I trust it will not happen again, Mr. Snape?"

Snape raised an eyebrow, "Consider me effectively chastised," he replied, then, with a curt nod, he went to sit on the couch once more. Only then did Harry notice that Dumbledore had returned to his seat there, cleaning his nails, seemingly oblivious to the scene around him.

With one last huff, Healer Beesely returned her attention to Harry and Ms. Hemmingway, "All went well then, Catherine?"

Ms. Hemmingway nodded, "Blood sample's on the table."

"Alright," Healer Beesely looked at Harry contemplatively, "We have two more tests, dear, and then we're finished. How are you feeling?"

Harry didn't like the sound of that, but he told her he felt fine anyway.

"Catherine, can you prep while I explain to Harry?"

"Of course."

Healer Beesely sat in the conjured chair beside Harry, who sat up and listened with rapt attention as she explained the doings of a bone marrow biopsy and a spinal tap.

"Just a sample, we want to make sure there aren't an abnormal types or numbers of white or red blood cells or platelets on a complete blood count, it also helps us see how far the cancer's spread. But before we do all that, we have to get your current guardian to sign the consent forms."

Even if he was 'drugged' Harry could still feel a sense of sadness, "But she isn't here," he said quietly, "I thought she was going to come... but she didn't."

Healer Beesely held his hand in her own, "I'm sure she'd be here if she could," she said kindly, squeezing his fingers, "But Professor Snape is the one that needs to sign your forms, Harry, he will be caring for you by proxy."

Snape.. caring for him?

Poor Healer Beesely had been deceived.

"Snape can't take care of me," said Harry, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "He doesn't even like me."

It was fact. Common sense, really.

Healer Beesely smiled, though Harry could tell this one was for reassurance only, as her eyes had strayed to Snape, who was flipping through a copy of the Daily Prophet, "He's signed all the papers, dear, and Professor Dumbledore approved. You will be staying with him for a while, they're just trying to do what's most convenient for you."

And her reasoning made so much sense, Harry didn't argue.

"I guess..." he shrugged.

Thirty minutes and two very thick stacks of paper, two quills, a hundred medical questions, and several signatures later, Harry lay on his side with his knees pulled up toward his chest, biting his lip and trying not to glance over his shoulder. He may not have been able to feel anything, but he was sure as hell he'd freak out if he saw any needles.

As it was, when something touched his back, just above his rear, he stiffened and screwed his eyes shut.

"Relax, Harry," Healer Beesely was saying, "Just breathe. In, out, there you go, come on."

Her voice was soothing, but Harry could feel the needle entering his skin. And it wasn't a normal needle either, in fact, they weren't even just sticking him. They were boring it in, it didn't hurt, but it didn't feel good either.

Harry bit his lip, "I c-" he was just about ready to arch his back away, but someone grabbed his hand. Without opening his eyes, Harry grasped it tightly, and focused solely on breathing.

"Is it hurting?"

"N-no, it just doesn't feel right," mumbled Harry, still working on relaxing his muscles, another hand -he assumed it was the other hand to whomever's hand he was currently crushing- was massaging his neck, slowly working away the tenseness and leaving Harry so lax that he slipped away the moment the uncomfortable needle was pulled out of his skin.

He was so deep in sleep, he didn't feel Snape's hand retreat from his neck, nor the one that was pulled out of his grip.