Just For Now by MarieLewis

Disclaimer! So on and so forth...

"Your belongings. Your... Mother, saw fit to have them portkeyed to my quarters at Hogwarts."

Severus directed Draco's trunk into his room, and Draco watched as it glided through the door, landing with a thump beside his bed. He fiddled with his bed sheet.

"Albus sent them through the floo for me this morning," said Severus, settling himself into a conjured hard-back chair beside Draco's bed and leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"Thanks," muttered Draco, his gaze directed at his still fidgeting fingers.

"Draco-"

"I'm sort of tired," he interrupted abruptly, shifting on the bed to lie down, pulling the blanket up passed his chest, "I'll just where these for now, if you don't mind, that is."

Severus breathed in deeply, lifting his hands to swipe them over his face. He looked rather worn out, Draco thought, but he couldn't be sure, Severus almost never showed emotion on his face... unless it was disgust or anger.

"Draco, Narcissa's death was not your fault."

Draco's head snapped up, his cheeks tinged pink, "I never said it was," he replied stiffly, well aware that he had told Potter of all people that it was. But he was certain Severus hadn't heard him.

"Speech would be, in this instance, irrelevant," Severus folded his fingers together, pressing his lips against them as he thought, "But, I heard your argument, with Potter. And though I did not hear you say it, I would be a fool not to know why he responded so."

Draco swallowed thickly, trying to look anywhere but at Severus.

"You will find that these walls conceal nothing unless charmed and warded." Severus added, his tone somewhat bitter. At any other moment, Draco would have wondered, but not just then.

"Draco..."

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Draco's slid his eyes shut against the sudden prickly sensation.

"It was not your fault."

Draco opened his eyes again to stare at Severus, his expression one of pain, "How do you know?" he whispered desperately, "How do you know that if I hadn't just- just-"

"Joined the Dark Lord?"

To choked up to speak, Draco nodded.

"Because if you had, he would have killed her anyway."

"I- What?"

"The Dark Lord meant to punish your family, Draco. Not because of you, but because of your Father. He had planned to murder Narcissa after he had degraded Lucius completely and set you a task you would be sure to fail."

An unbidden tear ran down Draco's cheek, Severus passed him a snowy white handkerchief.

"She meant nothing to him. Narcissa knew as much, and she wanted you, her son, to be safe. The majority of you belongings were charmed to be transferred to Hogwarts at last years end. She expected it Draco."

The words were said so forcefully that Draco could not help but believe it.

"The fault does not lie with you."

Severus squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, "You may wear those tonight," he said, standing and nodding towards the shrunken pajamas that Draco wore. "Tomorrow will have to start early, I'm afraid. Potter's appointment begins at ten, and I have papers and lessons to complete before another school year begins."

Draco nodded, pressing Severus' handkerchief against his eyes, "Thank you..."

"There is no need for gratitude, Draco, I am only sorry that I could do nothing to prevent your situation.

Draco nodded once more, his breath hitched in his chest, and he knew he could say no more without losing control of himself.

"Sleep well, Draco."

0000

Harry plodded down the stairs, rubbing his eyes blearily. Despite the fact that he'd washed his face and brushed his teeth, which normally would have him wide-awake, he was feeling heavy with sleep, and abominably nauseous because of the smells wafting up from the kitchen... Not that they were bad smells, oh no, if he was feeling normal, the scent of eggs, toast, and bangers would have had him bolting from the loo at top speed. But no, he didn't even feel hungry, which, Harry thought, was completely barmy seeing as he'd barely eaten any dinner the night before.

He entered the kitchen, trying and failing to wake himself up a bit more by blinking rapidly and shaking his head as though he were a dog. He gave up and dropped into the chair farthest from Snape.

"It is deemed impolite to sit slouched over at one's table."

Harry nearly rolled his eyes, Snape's 'politeness' tended to sound as though the man had a rather long stick shoved up his arse, and Harry would have said so, but he did have some semblance of self-preservation... and the begrudging gratitude he found himself feeling, helped keep his mouth shut.

"Aren't you going to eat, Potter?" asked Malfoy, his eyes on his own plate, which contained his own barely eaten meal.

Harry shook his head.

"How can you not be hungry, Potter, all you did last night was peck at your food like some sodding bird," snapped Malfoy, rounding on Harry, his eyes bloodshot and his face unnaturally pale.

"I wasn't hungry," replied Harry coolly, slumping further in his chair and picking at the calluses on the palm of his hand.

"Though your lack of appetite is uncommon for someone of your age, Potter-"

"Yeah well..." Harry shrugged, not sure what to make of it.

"Do not interrupt me, Potter!" Snape cut in sharply, dark brows drawn together in an ugly scowl, and his hand clenched around the handle of his mug, "As I was saying, Albus informed me yesterday that eating before your appointment is not permitted. Such a demand is usually only required if there will be an operation of some sort."

Harry did not know why Snape had felt the need to add that last bit, and he wasn't sure if he liked knowing it either.

"O-operation?" he stuttered, voice, an octave higher than his normal.

Snape merely shrugged his shoulder unconcernedly.

Harry would have questioned further, but bodily functions often got in the way of a persons desires.

Overwhelmed by scent, nervousness, and now full on anxiety, Harry's stomach lurched, and he wasted no time in fleeing the room to drape himself gracelessly over the toilet.

Harry pulled the chain to flush, unraveling a wad of toilet paper to wipe his mouth, and sat back on his heels, his throat sore and tender.

Visions of needles and doctors with masks loomed over him. But maybe... maybe, wizards didn't use needles... or maybe that was just for stitches?

All in all, Harry would rather not have another encounter with a needle wielding doctor. Nope, not at all.

"I never figured you to be squeamish, Potter."

Harry's head jerked around, and he stood quickly, "D'you enjoy watching people sick up, Malfoy?" he asked irritably, crossing the short distance to the sink to wash out his mouth, and perhaps re-brush his teeth.

Harry saw Malfoy scowl through the mirror.

"No," said the other boy shortly, "In fact, it makes me sick myself."

Harry turned around, leaning against the sink, and raising an eyebrow as if to say, well?

Malfoy got the hint, "I wasn't watching you, imbecile. Severus asked me to bring you this."

Malfoy passed over a glass of water, "He also says not to drink to much and to tell the medi-wizard who treats you that you drank water this morning."

Harry scoffed, but drained the glass all the same, "Why d'you call him that anyway?" he asked once he'd caught his breath.

"Call who what?"

"Snape, who d'you think?"

"I think, Potter, that if you want your questions addressed appropriately, you should ask them properly."

Harry laughed mockingly, brushing passed Malfoy as he left the loo, "There's only you, myself, and Snape in this house, Malfoy, and your the one calling him by his first name. Any fool would know what I meant without me having to ask properly."

He didn't bother waiting for Malfoy's inevitable scathing reply, instead he returned to his seat in the kitchen and waited for Snape, who remained reading a book that looked rather care-worn (in Harry's opinion), to announce their departure.

The silence grew awkward, and Harry shifted uncomfortably, his gaze, alternating between staring at Snape's potions-stained finger nails, and Draco's less than half eaten plate of food. He shifted again, sighed a bit, fidgeted, scratched at the itchy spot on his stomach, and shifted a bit more as he began to sweat.

Finally, Snape lowered his book, glaring at Harry with black pools that Harry supposed could be considered eyes.

"Cease your infernal habits, Potter. It is 9:30, and we needn't be at Hogwarts until at least fifteen past then. So for Merlin's sake, find something to do!"

"There isn't anything to do."

"Have you finished all of your summer assignments?"

That gave Harry pause, "Not all of them..."

Snape raised an eyebrow, "You have less than a month remaining."

Harry sighed and braced his elbows on the table, rubbing at both his eyes with the heels of his hands, "I know...

Snape scoffed derisively, "I take it you will complete them at the last minute in the sloppiest form possible?"

Harry propped his chin up on one hand, letting his free arm fall to the table with a thump. He glanced at Snape once before looking away again, trying to gage the man's mood by his expression. It was useless, Snape's expression was unreadable.

"No- I haven't had much time."

Snape shifted in his seat across from Harry, placing his newspaper down on the table, he cast Harry a scornful glance, "Two months is not a sufficient amount of time? Well well, Potter, it seems you are slower than I had originally-"

"I was sick!" interrupted Harry indignantly, "I wasn't exactly lazing about."

"Indeed. However, despite that you are sick, it is still no excuse. Being sick, you would have had plenty of time to complete your assignments."

Harry planted both palms on the table, glaring at his Snape, "It's sort of hard to write essays when you've got a splitting head ache the moment you open your eyes!"

"I am sure."

Snape's tone was level, unnerving. Usually Harry would already have been belittled and abused by the man's tongue, but Snape was acting almost... civil, towards Harry. It baffled the mind.

"I- uh, yeah."

"Eloquent as always, Potter," Snape sneered lightly and crossed his arms over his chest.

Harry frowned, suddenly remembering the question that had been niggling at his mind, "How did you know I was sick anyway," he asked, adding a hasty "Professor." When Snape's eyes narrowed.

"Albus."

Harry huffed. "It wasn't his right to tell anybody."

Both of Snape's dark brows rose a fraction, "Seeing as it is my home in which you now reside..."

"I guess..." muttered Harry, scratching the side of his neck.

"Hmm."

What was 'Hmm' supposed to mean?

An idea occurred to Harry, a stupid one, but it was worth a shot, "You wouldn't happen to- to know, anything about- erm, cancer. Would you?"

Snape fixed him with a look, "No. I wouldn't," he answered shortly.

Harry heaved a sigh leaning forward on the table again, "I suppose that's a stupid question anyway, considering..." Harry shrugged.

"Considering?"

"Well, you're not muggle-born are you?" asked Harry as though the answer was obvious, "And you probably weren't raised by muggles like I was either, and this is sort of a muggle disease."

Snape arched an eyebrow, the fingers of his right hand tapping his left arm, "And just what makes you an expert on my heritage?" he asked sardonically.

Harry had the good grace to flush, not quite sure why he was being so loose tongued, he muttered "Nothing... I'm just-"

"Spewing your usual drivel? No? Well then, it seems you are laboring under some misconceptions, do allow me to rectify them."

When Harry did nothing but scuff his feet against Snape's wooden floor, the man continued.

"I, Potter, though it is none of your business, was raised in this very house by my muggle father and my pure-blood mother. Right here, in the muggle world."

Harry's head snapped up, his mind whizzing to last year's Occlumency lessons "This is the house from your-"

"Memory? Yes. If Draco were to look up the next time he enters his room, he would find the singe marks on the ceiling."

This was no doubt one of the weirdest conversations Harry had ever had, but as it was distracting him from the spreading itch on the skin of his stomach he wasn't going to complain.

"Who's room-"

"No one's. It was formerly a study, I had no use for it," answered Snape dismissively.

"Oh, well... thanks," replied Harry, who was by now, feeling quite bemused.

Snape opened his mouth, but before he could reply a gonging noise sounded, "It is time we be off. Go and wait in the sitting room," he said, standing from his chair and waving his wand to banish breakfast. "I will fetch Draco."

Dumbfounded, Harry nodded.

0000

Aunt Petunia,

Er, hi...

I'm not quite sure what to say, or even what I want to say that is. I feel sort of muddled about everything.

I suppose I can't tell you where I am, but I will say that I'm somewhere in England and I haven't been shipped off to school yet.

My professor, the one you met at the house, is housing me for the moment, but I'm not sure how long he will be. At least it isn't an awful place, and school does start soon so I'll be going back.

How are you and Dudley and Uncle Vernon, I hope you know that I didn't mean for any of this to happen. It's my fault you had to shift off to where ever you are now. I should have warned you that I couldn't leave the house. I forgot and that nearly cost your lives.

The boy whose mother died, Draco Malfoy, is staying here too. We're classmates, though I must admit, I can't stand him a bit, I suppose I'll try and make nice with him. Can't exactly avoid him if I'm staying here much longer.

I'm not quite sure why I'm writing to you about this, I'm sure you don't want to hear anything about my school, or what goes on there, but there isn't much else to do here, and I kind of thought... nah, never mind.

I wanted to say thank you, by the way, for everything you've done for me this summer, it's been a great summer, despite the ending. And maybe, I'll be able to visit you and Dudley soon, or maybe you could visit me. Or we could just write letters... or not. I don't know. I'm don't know anything anymore these days.

Well, I should do some homework... I didn't get any of it done at Privet Drive and there's quite a lot.

I hope this finds you well,

Harry

Petunia folded Harry's letter again, realising that she had just taken it out of her apron to re-read it for the fifth time.

She smiled to herself as she swept the kitchen. Harry's note weighed heavy in her pocket ever since it had popped onto the grey marble kitchen counter. She'd nearly had heart failure when it had appeared, innocent as you please, right beside her hand as she wiped away the crumbs from breakfast.

A small scrap of paper with loopy, slanted handwriting that read;

My Dear Petunia,

I shall return soon and establish a way for you and your nephew to correspond.

A. Dumbledore.

Thank the Lord Vernon had already left the small, pleasantly quaint, yellow kitchen, to sit in front of the television set to watch the news. Petunia quite liked their new house. It wasn't big by any means, certainly not as large as their house on Privet Drive. But Petunia liked it.

There were two bedrooms, a bathroom, the kitchen, an office, and the living room, and although they were small, they were spacious. It made Petunia see that their big house in Little Whinging, though luxurious, was a lot of work to maintain and clean. Especially when it was just she who was cleaning.

Well, that wasn't strictly true, she'd made Harry do quite a bit as well.

Petunia resisted the urge to wring her hands, and continued to sweep, her movements almost frantic.

She couldn't wait, couldn't sweep or clean, or launder. She wanted to reply to Harry's letter, right now, not wait until Vernon went to bed. Petunia stopped sweeping, stalked briskly over the refrigerator and placed the broom in the nook between the counter and the side of the fridge.

"Petunia?" Vernon craned what little of his neck was visible, to glance at her over his shoulder. Petunia continued on her path towards their bedroom.

"Petunia where are you going?"

"No where, darling. I'm going to lie down for a bit, I feel faint."

Vernon huffed and puffed as he hefted himself sideways on the couch to look at her without hurting his neck. "It must be the air in that tiny little kitchen! Those agents were lying when they told us about this house!" Her husband exclaimed balling his hands into fat, meaty fists.

"Hardly enough space to turn around, the types of hooligans that pass of for-"

"Yes dear, but I am tired." Petunia turned away, once again heading toward their bedroom, "Supper will be ready at six, and I left biscuits in the bread tin on the counter."

That should keep him busy for a while, thought Petunia as she opened a drawer in the small desk by the window, in search of pencil and paper.

Dear Harry...

The wind mused her hair, and the smell of salt water wafted around her as she sat on the screened in porch, looking out over the sea. It was so very beautiful. Her mind drifted as she sat, to inane things like curtain colors and table cloths, her eyes were closing, she knew, but Petunia couldn't bring herself to return to bed. Even though it was quite early, almost ten, and neither Dudley nor Vernon were up yet.

She lifted a hand to smother a yawn, a tear falling from her eye as they sometimes did when a yawn was forceful enough.

"It is a beautiful thing isn't it? The sea?"

Petunia whipped out of her chair, whirling around in the same instant, Vernon's name hovering on the edge of her tongue. But she swallowed the terrified scream when she caught sight of the intruder.

A man in a ludicrously colored, dress like out fit, with long snow white hair and beard stood before her, smiling benignly.

"Professor Dumbledore," she breathed, her heart still thumping in her throat. "W-why-?"

Harry's professor stepped closer, "As it happens, Harry's first appointment is tomorrow, at Hogwarts, I thought it best if you would be in attendance."

Petunia's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, "I y-yes," she stuttered as soon as she regained use of her tongue.

Dumbledore clapped his hands together, "Excellent, excellent! If you'll just come with me?"

Petunia stumbled in her bed slippers, "But what about-"

"Vernon and Dudley will be just fine until you return, I assure you."

"A-alright. I just need to-" Petunia gestured to her robe covered sleeping clothes.

"I shall wait in the sitting room."

Not five minutes later, Petunia and Dumbledore were standing inside the fire place, Petunia's fingers gripping the older man's arm like a vice.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Dursley, just close your eyes," said Professor Dumbledore soothingly, and Petunia listened.

There was a flash of heat against her skin, but not burning heat, mind, more like a warm burst of air. A spinning sensation, and then, nothing.

Petunia cracked her eyes open, they were standing in another fire place, it seemed, one that was in a white room with rows and rows of beds covered in pristine white sheets, one bed surrounded by curtains suspended in midair.

Petunia's eyes were as round as golf balls as Dumbledore helped from the fireplace and she took in the blindingly white room they had somehow managed to enter.

"How, we- I just-" she stuttered, her body quaking uncontrollably, and her mouth horribly dry as she was panting and the cold air filtered through her open mouth instead of her nose.

"The Floo," Dumbledore gestured to the fireplace, "Is a form of Wizard travel, it is a bit jarring at first, yes."

Petunia's mouth worked soundlessly before she gave up trying to articulate and nodded, breathing deeply to calm herself.

"Where are we?" she asked, after her breathing was once again under control and her heart rate likewise.

She had to hold back a frightened squeak and the urge to retreat several steps when Dumbledore withdrew his wand from his robes, waving it with a flourish and causing a chair -very much like the one's pushed against the kitchen table- to appear right in front of her.

Dumbledore pushed the chair towards Petunia a bit more, and once again, she successfully refrained from stepping back, instead she steeled herself and sat down, albeit gingerly, on the edge, her entire body taut.

"This is the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, your nephew is just behind those curtains," said Dumbledore in soothing tones, patting her on the shoulder as though she were a small child.

"Mrs. Dursley, I must request that you calm yourself before you go in to see him, I dare say Harry has enough to deal with on his own."

There was a warning in the man's voice that made Petunia gulp convulsively, could he know?

Maybe Harry had told about his troubles at home... Petunia's fingers fluttered as she restrained the urge to clasp a hand to her chest, her heart thumping wildly against her rib cage.

"I- yes," she said faintly, her lips trembling.

Dumbledore switched back to velvet tones and shoulder patting, "There, there, Mrs. Dursley, mistakes will lie peacefully in the past once all is made up for."

This time Petunia barely flinched when he waved his wand once more and a glass of water appeared beside her. Flashing Dumbledore an uncertain look, she plucked it from the air and took a wary sip. And then another, and another. Until the glass was empty and her body relaxed.

She stood on slightly shaky legs, but her jaw was set in determination.

Mistakes will lie peacefully in the past once all is made up for.

Once all is made up for.

Dumbledore flicked the slim stick in his hand and both the chair and the glass clutched in Petunia's hand disappeared before the wand was pocketed once more.

"Shall we?"

Dumbledore held out his arm, allowing Petunia to proceed.

Five feet away from the curtained bed Petunia could hear voices, one she immediately recognized as Harry's and the other she could not place, though the deep tones did sound familiar.

"Stop scratching, Potter, you are likely making it worse."

"Yeah? What would you know?"

"More than whatever you possess in that pitiful excuse for a brain, I am sure."

"Just because I'm not an expert in Potions doesn't mean there's something wrong with my brain, Snape!"

"It is-"

"Sir or Professor when you are addressing me, Potter! Well I'm sorry if I forget, but in case you've forgotten, I'm the one who's about to have a fucking needle shoved into my back!"

"Your hip, Potter, and, your disgusting obscenities aside, the medi-witch explained that you were to be numbed, did she not?"

"Yeah, she also said you can't numb bones. And then she said to just relax and wait to be prepped. What the hell does she mean by 'prepped' anyway? Argh! Why am I so itchy!"

"Healer Hemmingway explained that as well, you would know if you had listened instead of sitting there with your mouth gaping like a fish out of water. What's more, she said that you would not be having that operation today."

"I don't care if it's today or tomorrow! And, what's more, I wouldn't have been gaping like a fish out of water if you hadn't-"

By then Petunia had reached Harry's bed and the heated voices within quieted the moment Dumbledore cleared his throat and swept back the white curtains.

Harry sat atop a turned down hospital bed, his knees pulled up to his chest and his face set in angry lines as he glared at the man in the straight backed chair in the corner of the make-shift room. Of whom, to Petunia's utter surprise, was Severus Snape of the playground, with the grimy clothes and greasy hair.

Only now, he was none of those things.

Well, aside from the greasy hair.

Their eyes met and Snape's eyes glittered momentarily before he averted his gaze, choosing instead to examine the wall behind Harry's bed.

"A-aunt Petunia!" Harry spluttered, his legs falling flat on the bed, "What- what're you doing here?"

Petunia stepped back. Horror creeping up her spine with cold feet, Harry didn't want her here.

Of course he didn't.

After everything that had happened, how could a week or two of kindness change things?

She had thought, perhaps, Harry had forgiven her. But Petunia could see now that it would take much more than a week to sway Harry's opinion of her.

Tears filled her eyes and her formerly fluttering fingers rose to press against her collar bone and the fine bones of her throat. She took another step back, watching as a series of emotions flitted across Harry's face.

Surprise, joy, confusion, and now, sadness.

"Articulate as always, Potter. Obviously you are rude to everyone."

Snape's scathing tones had Petunia blinking back tears faster than she already had been. That man didn't know anything! Why was he speaking to Harry that way?

Harry was never rude to her, and if he was, it was because of her own treatment of him.

Harry turned to glare at Snape, his hands balled into fists at his sides, "That's not what I meant," he said through gritted teeth.

Snape's mouth opened to retort but before he could Dumbledore cleared his throat for silence.

"Severus, if you would?"

Dumbledore inclined his head and Snape nodded sharply, rising from his chair, he swept past the Headmaster and left the make-shift room.

Offering a small smile and patting Harry's knee, Dumbledore left as well, leaving Petunia and Harry to stare at each other awkwardly.

It was Harry who broke the pressing silence, "Er, I really didn't mean it like that, Aunt Petunia..."

Petunia nodded, reaching out to push Snape's previously occupied chair closer to Harry's bed. She sat down, folding her hands tightly in her lap, so tight that her knuckles were white.

"But," Harry wriggled down until he was on his side, propped up on one elbow, facing her, "What are you doing here, I thought you and Uncle Vernon and Dudley were in hiding?"

Petunia relaxed a little, glad that Harry was initiating the conversation, "We are. Your professor came this morning and told me you had an appointment today. He said it was alright if I came along."

Petunia looked up from her twined fingers, sometimes it still shocked her how much his eyes resembled Lily's, a perfect match really. It could have been a nice reminder, but Petunia had resented her sister, and then when her sister was no longer there to resent, she had aimed her ill-feelings at Harry.

"-nice of him."

Harry was saying as he stretched out on his bed a bit more, pulling the bedsheets out from beneath him and tugging it over his shoulder, turning fully on his side, knees pulled to his chest.

Petunia lifted a hand, and before she could stop herself, laid it on his shoulder, rubbing up and down his upper arm.

Harry shivered, pulling the blanket closer to his chin.

"Are you cold?" asked Petunia, even though she already knew the answer, but somehow hearing Harry offer information about how he was feeling made her feel better. Or at least less horrible...

Harry peered up at her through the lens of his glasses, his mouth opening abruptly as he yawned, "Yeah... And tired."

Petunia continued to rub his arm, up and down, up and down, hoping that the movement warmed him somewhat, "Do you want me to ask for another blanket?" she asked, leaning forward so that her face was closer to Harry's.

Harry yawned again, burrowing into the thin hospital bed sheet, his eyes drifting shut, "It's fine."

Harry shook his head, his hair rustling against the pillow, and his eyes opened wide. He blinked blearily, "I can't seem to stay awake anymore," he muttered in explanation, bringing up both hands from under the blanket to remove his glasses and scrub them over his face.

Petunia nodded, not sure what to say.

Harry settled back in, "The moment I start to relax it sort of creeps up on me, the fatigue."

"I read that it's a common symptom," supplied Petunia, she removed her hand from his shoulder and plucking his glasses from his lax fingers, but only after a moment's hesitation to make sure that Harry didn't mind.

"That's what Snape said," mumbled Harry, still blinking rapidly to keep his eyes from closing.

Petunia's lips pursed in disapproval, despite her change of feelings toward her nephew, she really had no reason to treat Snape any differently.

"He was always a disagreeable sort," she said with a somewhat haughty sniff.

Harry tilted his head up against his pillow, "Yeah?"

"Professor Dumbledore gave you my letter?"

"Yeah... To be honest I still find it hard to believe. My Mum and Snape-" Harry shook his head as though to banish the very thought.

A small smile crept onto Petunia's lips, "It's true. They were as thick as thieves, especially when they got to talking about-"

Harry's eyes narrowed, "Magic?"

Petunia pressed her lips together as she tried to overcome her long time jealousy and hatred for all things magical. It was hard. But Harry with his sparkling, emerald green eyes narrowed in determination, just like Lily's used to when she really, really wanted something.

"Yes- magic," she whispered, almost missing Harry's encouraging smile.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, "I am trying, Harry," she said, her voice wobbly with suppressed tears.

Harry's hand landed on top of her suddenly twisted ones, "I know. Thank you," he said urgently, propping himself up on one elbow again and leaning closer to her, "I can see that you are, Aunt Petunia."

Petunia pulled her hands from beneath his hand, pressing the tips of her fingers into the ridge above her eyes. "I'll make up for it, Harry, for everything," she cried, suddenly desperate. So very desperate. She wanted, no needed him to understand that she was sincere, and that she wasn't just trying to make amends so that she would be at peace with herself, but because she knew her actions were wrong and that she wanted Harry as her nephew.

Wanted.

She wanted Harry to know that he was wanted, not simply tolerated or borne.

Harry sat up completely, leaned forward, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, "I understand," he whispered into her ear as her arms came around his back to hold him just as tightly as he was holding her, "I really do."

Harry pulled back, blinking rapidly, he brought up a hand to rub at his eyes, "Something in my eye," he mumbled.

Petunia nodded.

Harry settled back into the sheets, "So where are Dudley and Uncle Vernon?"

"I can't-"

Harry waved a hand dismissively, "Oh I know all about that, I mean, how did you get here without Uncle Vernon pitching a fit...assuming he didn't?"

Petunia frowned, "I'm not sure... Professor Dumbledore said it would be fine. I thought maybe he did- something."

Harry nodded, covering his mouth belatedly as he yawned, "Sorry."

Petunia shook her head, dismissing his apology. "Did you get my letter?" she asked, scooting her chair closer to Harry's bed.

"Yeah..." Harry shifted, "What you said, about Snape and my mum..."

"You didn't know?"

Harry smiled ruefully, "Snape and I don't get along much."

Petunia frowned, "Why ever not? I thought he'd worship anything remotely related to Lily." Petunia considered her words, "Well, except non-magical people."

"Muggles," offered Harry.

Petunia nodded, memories of when she was a child sitting at the dinner table listening as Lily told stories about her school to her parents returning to her, "Muggles."

The curtain surrounding Harry's bed was pulled aside, both Harry and Aunt Petunia looked up.

A young woman with dark brown, curly hair pulled back into a pony tail, square rimmed glasses, and sunny yellow robes stood in the opening, a gleaming 'Medi-witch Hemmingway' tag on her chest.

She smiled brightly at the pair of them, and Petunia refrained the urge to sniff disapprovingly at the display, after all, the woman couldn't have been more then twenty-five!

"You must be Harry's aunt, Petunia?" she chimed in a cherry, bright voice. Petunia briefly noted that Harry had gone pink in the face, "Yes."

The nurse -medi-witch- held out her hand and Petunia shook it hesitantly.

The medi-witch turned to Harry, and what Petunia decided was a simpering smile, said, "It's time, Mr. Potter."

Petunia returned her gaze to Harry just as her nephew gulped loudly, she took his hand. Harry glanced at her briefly before answering, "Alright."

0000

Draco watched as the potion before him bubbled away, a roiling sound emitting from the cauldron as steam billowed around him. It was time to put out the fire from beneath the cauldron and stir the purplish liquid inside, past time by now, but Draco continued to watch as though in a trance.

His wand was in his hand, but it was pointing aimlessly at the flagstone floor of Severus' private lab in his quarters at Hogwarts. The half-finished calming draught rose as the roiling sound became louder and the bubbles grew larger, and still, Draco stared unseeingly, his eyes transfixed.

His wand slipped from numb fingers and clattered on the floor. The potion spilled out onto the scrubbed wooden table spreading like blood might from a large enough wound.

And still Draco sat.

The potion dripped onto the floor, and with each drop came a small splashing noise.

His hands shook where they sat in his lap, his eyes were wet, but he wasn't crying. He couldn't cry. Not anymore. Just like he couldn't sleep. Or eat. Or live. But somehow, he managed that last one.

But Draco couldn't help but hope he wouldn't for much longer.

He slip from the lab stool, his body moving fluidly, almost subconsciously, as he walked from the lab into the sitting room and lay down on the settee there.

Draco curled on his side facing the back cushions of the worn couch. He drew his knees closer to his chest, trying and failing to breath in deeply. A weight had planted itself on his chest, right on top of his lungs, pushing the air out of his body. The ever-present lump in the back his throat throbbed constantly, the pressure waiting, waiting to be alleviated. But it wouldn't be.

Because Draco could not cry.

He could do nothing. Nothing but pretend and think. And thinking was the last thing Draco wanted to do.

He was tired, oh so very tired. But every time his eyes slid shut, he would see that same flash of green light, and his mother's body falling, falling, falling. The image seemed to be engraved on the inside of his eyelids. Burned into them. A permanent reminder.

Just like the mark on his arm.

The finger nails of his right hand dug into his left forearm. Sometimes he felt like scraping his skin off. Other times he considered burning it off, just as it had been burnt on. But most times, he would think about the knives in Severus' kitchen. Think and think and think, until the only way he didn't take the largest one and scrape it over his skin was by fleeing the room.

Draco breath was coming in gasps now, his chest moving up and down with each ragged inhale.

He removed his finger nails from his forearm, and raised his arms to press the heels of his hands into his eyes until orange colors burst behind the lids.

His chest still jumped as air hitched on its way in and out. It was as though her were sobbing without tears. He had gone too far for tears. The whole in his chest was too deep and too painful. Crying was supposed to make you feel at least marginally better. Crying helped you get it out of your system.

And maybe that was why he couldn't.

The potion in the lab continued to drip from the table onto the floor. The fire scorched the cauldron until it was black instead of copper coloured. And Draco's wand remained where it had fallen.

His eyes drifted shut, a flash of green, his mother's face, and then, nothing. His body had won out, and he drifted into a fitful sleep.

"Draco."

Draco stirred, raising a hand to bat away the source of the shaking.

"Draco, wake up."

With a tired groan, Draco rolled over carefully so as not to fall off the settee, he rubbed his eyes and yawned.

Severus stood up straight, his lips pinched and his expression irate, Draco waited.

"You left the fire burning under your cauldron," bit out Severus. His jaw clenched and unclenched consistently, obviously the man was restraining himself.

But Draco couldn't bring himself to care much, not about being on the receiving end of Severus' ire, not about anything.

"If I hadn't decided to return these rooms may well have been on fire!" Severus paused, crossing his arms one over the other across his chest, "Well?" he demanded of Draco who sat staring up at him. "Have you anything to say for yourself?"

Draco swallowed passed his parched throat, "I'm sorry, Severus, I must have forgot."

"And let the potion boil over and spill all over your wand and the floor as well?"

Draco didn't respond other than to slump further into the cushions surrounding him.

Severus sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, "Draco, you musn't-"

The hairs on the back of Draco's neck stood up as he leaped to his feet, suddenly feeling that leaving the sitting room and Severus just had to be done; now.

But Severus was having none of it.

Just when Draco was about to slip passed him, he grasped the boy's shoulders, returning him to the settee, and pushing on his shoulders to make him sit once more.

Severus sat beside him, one hand still had a hold on Draco's forearm to keep him from bolting.

"Draco-" Severus released his arm to pass his hands over his face, "There was nothing you could have done to prevent Narcissa's death."

Draco picked at the skin on the side of his nail.

A hand landed on Draco's shoulder.

"I would prefer not to tell you, but, the Dark Lord had already planned to kill your mother. He was just waiting for the- most opportune moment."

Draco sucked in a breath, the corners of his eyes pricking, the hand pressed lightly, turning him around. Severus' expression was blurred by his tears, but Draco could see the sympathy there, and it helped, a little.

Draco let out a shaky breath, "Severus I-"

Severus gripped both his shoulders comfortingly, "It was not your fault," he said firmly, "Nor was it a result of your actions."

A tear slipped down his cheek despite his efforts to blink them back, "If I had-"

Severus shook him a bit, "No, Draco. Do you understand? There was nothing, you or anyone could have done to swerve the Dark Lord's decision, nothing."

Another tear escaped his eye, Draco sniffed as more tears fell in rapid succession, "B-but aren't you in his inner circle? If you knew, why didn't you try to save her?" Draco sucked a harsh breath through his mouth, his nose too clogged to breathe through. Severus had said the Dark Lord had planned his mother's death, wasn't there something he could have done?

Severus' hands dropped from his shoulders, "There was not."

A sob caught in Draco's throat, his breathing, uneven and harsh.

The weight of Severus' arm around his shoulders caught him by surprise, but after a moments hesitation, he leaned towards Severus, allowing his head to rest against his shoulder and beneath his chin.

Severus' other arm encircled him, and Draco leaned further into the impromptu embrace, gasping for breath as he swallowed back his sobs.

"I d-don't know w-what t-t-to do," he stuttered, all semblance of decorum and propriety had long since vacated his mind.

Severus rubbed his back, "You don't have to do anything, Draco," he whispered against Draco's ear, his breath tickling his skin, "You will stay here, as planned. It is what your mother wanted, no?"

Draco nodded.

0000

"It has to go w-where?"

"In your chest, dearie, right underneath the skin."

Healer Beesely's cheery tone didn't make him feel one bit better, never mind that she was bent over a metal rolling tray that had not only a clip board with his entire medical history on it, but there was a syringe in a little container beside it. Not to mention the metal pole on wheels with transparent tube like wire and a baggie full of clear liquid attached to it.

Just looking at it Harry felt queasy.

"The IV catheter will be just inside the vein, and we'll even put you to sleep through the entire process -Rachel put that right here please- you won't feel a thing," said Healer Beesely, looking up from her charts to smile at Harry.

Aunt Petunia's hand squeezed his, "Is it easier this way, for Harry?" she asked.

Healer Beesely came to stand beside them, her assistant Healer Hemmingway bustling around behind her.

"The port is generally used in muggle hospitals for children who require IV access for longer than three months. Because Harry has cancer, it will be used for a majority of his needs that would otherwise require injections," explained Healer Beesely, "Mr. Potter, the port allows more stability than a catheter would, and though it leaves a larger scar, after you are through with your treatments and the port is removed it can be healed by magic in a jiffy. One of the only things that magic can help with in this situation."

Harry ran a shaky hand through his hair, "So it'll just... be there. I won't feel it or anything?" It won't... hurt? Was actually what Harry had wanted to ask, but he remembered that Snape and Dumbledore were standing just off to the side of his bed, listening to every word that was said.

"You may be a bit sore at first, but it will heal within a couple of days, again, magic is all but useless in this case, otherwise I would heal the incision straight away."

Harry nodded jerkily, ""When can I use magic again?"

"When we are completely certain that it will not speed the progression of your cancer."

Snape, apparently, had been listening well. According to Dumbledore, Harry's magic tied in with his cancer and they grew together compatibly, something about his magic developing before the cancer.

His mum, as it turned out, had cancer before her magic had made itself known, thus when the accidental magic started in it was not under her control and fought with the cancer until the former won.

When Harry had inquired as to why it was different for him, Snape had cut across Dumbledore's explanation and drawled that 'obviously, his magic was already under his control, so it wasn't likely to begin fighting a disease that was lying dormant in Harry's system'. The two had tied together in order to grow, now if Harry continued using magic not only would his magic become stronger, but the cancer would grow right along with it.

Not for the first time that day, Harry cursed his luck.

Healer Beesely nodded her approval, "Once we finish the PET scan and we know what stage of cancer you have, we can get right to work on treatments." Then, seeing the despairing look on Harry's face added, "There, there, Mr. Potter, I dare say you will come through with flying colors."

Optimism should be illegal, thought Harry savagely, as he stripped down to his boxers and donned a pair of yellow and purple striped hospital pajamas. In his opinion, optimism was right up there with giggling girls, Death Eaters, and Voldemort.

Harry sighed mournfully as he looked down at himself. Yellow and purple? He'd never seen those colors on hospital wing pajamas before. He blamed Dumbledore for asking Snape to fetch them from Madame Pomfrey's well kept linen cupboards. His sneer had been extra vicious when he'd handed them over, mused Harry as he swept back the privacy curtain.

Aunt Petunia held out her hands for Harry's bundle of clothes, and he passed it over to her, pausing before he slid back into his bed to glare hatefully at Snape who looked a tad too smug for Harry's taste.

If only Dumbledore hadn't insisted that the man stay. What the bloody hell was he playing at anyway?

Actually, Harry knew what he was playing at. Dumbledore wanted Harry to stay with Snape or the duration of the summer. The idea made Harry feel furious, irritated, and queasy all at the same time. Living with the man whom had tortured him for five years? Not bloody likely. Not only would Harry protest, but Snape would as well, he was sure.

Harry ignored the fact that he felt nervous as well as those other things. But how could he not? The memory of Snape's face when he pulled Harry out of that pensieve last year... well, he considered himself lucky that throwing a jar of cockroaches was all Snape had done to him.

"Alright then," said Healer Beesely as Harry settled down beneath the sheets, pulling them purposefully up to his chin to cover his horrendous pajamas. She bustled over in a way that reminded Harry very much of Mrs. Weasley. She even had wisps of hair falling from her bun and into her face. She swept them back behind her ears, and if her hair hadn't been dark brown, she might have looked exactly like Mrs. Weasley.

"You just relax, Ms. Hemmingway is setting up in the office. When she's finished we'll begin the staging process."

Harry sighed and made a mental note to write Hermione, it was rather tiresome hearing all these phrases and words he had no idea about. Hermione probably knew... Harry just had to tell her he had cancer first. Her and Ron.

He didn't know why he felt nervous about it, but he couldn't shake the tainted feeling that creeped on the edges of his thoughts.

Instead of asking what exactly 'staging process' meant, he moved onto another subject, "In Madame Pomfrey's office?"

"Poppy is away with relatives for the summer, Harry," piped up Dumbledore from the corner, "She has kindly offered her office for our use."

Healer Beesely nodded, "Yes, lovely woman, Poppy, we've been friends for quite a long while, trainees together." Her expression turned nostalgic. Harry picked awkwardly at his blindingly white sheets.

"Er, how are you going to put me to sleep?" Funny that he hadn't thought to ask that first...

"Anesthesia, dear."

Was it going to be breathed, injected, swallowed?

Harry would have asked, but he decided that having a clear idea about the whole port thing was a better idea.

"So, what about the- uh, port?"

Healer Beesely conjured a chair and sat beside him, "I'll need to lend you a book, I think. I suppose this is to be expected," she said kindly, "Not many children who grow up in the wizarding world know about cancer, at all."

"I guess not..." What did she expect him to say?

She pat his leg.

Definitely a Mrs. Weasley.

"The port is a round, little, metal access device." She launched into her explanation, sweeping back more fallen hair. "We're going to insert it right here, underneath the skin," she leaned forward taping the right side of Harry's chest through the blanket, "and put in a tiny plastic tube, about eight inches long, and thread it into a whole in your vein."

She was good at explaining, too good maybe. Harry's stomach roiled unpleasantly, thoughts of tubes and things under his skin filtered through his mind, accompanied by sickeningly vivid images.

"What's the tube for again?" he stuttered, shoving away his squeamishness.

"For the chemotherapy, ultimately, but today we're going to use it for the staging."

Staging again, at least she was going to give him a book.

"Today will just be the PET scan, we'll start in on some more once we receive your results." Continued Healer Beesely in bright and optimistic tones that would have grated on Harry's nerves if she wasn't so nice.

"Not today though?" asked Harry, just to be certain. He felt beyond overwhelmed already.

"No, not today, tomorrow, perhaps the day after, no need to worry dear." She reached out and pat his leg,"After all this is over you just relax and get some sleep. If you have any questions in the morning, your aunt will have all the answers."

At Harry's confused look she elaborated, "It's customary to ensure that parents or guardians of a minor patient has all the information."

But Harry wasn't living with Aunt Petunia anymore. He could tell his aunt was thinking the same, for she squeezed his hand and offered a small smile, mouthing, 'we'll talk later'.

"Right." Harry muttered, irritated for the first time in his life that he'd have to live somewhere other than with the Dursleys.

Just his luck. As always.

If it wasn't basilisks in the bloody walls, it was cursed trophies, Voldemort filled cauldrons, fake teachers, and stupid ministry hags.

It could have been hours... it could have been days. But when Harry awoke the first thing he felt was a warm hand holding his and the first thing he saw was the top of Aunt Petunia's blonde head.

It was the first time he'd woken up in the Hospital Wing with actual family beside him. Not that he didn't love the Weasleys... But there was something different about blood-related family being next to you when you were sick and in the hospital.

And that sort of made up for how sore his chest was.