Harry woke with a start. He wiggled out from under Snape's arm, placing it across the man's chest. Next, he pushed the cloak off of him and stood. He shivered, and noticed his breath made little clouds. Harry blew through his nose, pretending he was a dragon. Soon, though, that distraction wore off.

There was absolutely nothing to do in a potions classroom - except potions. Between the fact that Harry hated potions and the fact that Snape would likely kill him for trying to do anything unsupervised, it wasn't a good idea to mess around. He couldn't get away with it, because he'd likely blow himself up in the process.

Still, Harry wandered into the stock room to look at the potions. Snape would be hard-pressed to be upset with him for looking. It was boring though. Harry didn't know anything about the potions stocks, which was probably his own fault, but they held no interest for him. How could you appreciate a pale blue liquid if you didn't know what it was? Harry sighed, frustrated at his own boredom.

If only he had his glass, then he wouldn't be bored.

Something gleamed on the table, and Harry saw a potions knife sitting there. Harry felt his stomach flip-flop nervously. This would end his boredom quickly, but could he get away with it? Snape was still sleeping, so it was entirely possible that he could pull this off. He would just clean off the knife quickly before Snape could find it.

Harry grabbed the knife and brushed his thumb against the blade. It was suitably sharp, but then, all the potions knives were. Snape made sure that a dull knife was never an excuse for mashing the ingredients rather than chopping.

Quickly, Harry unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up to his elbow. He would have to be quick about this, if he wanted to avoid Snape seeing. In quick succession, Harry made three cuts on his left arm. He closed his eyes and sighed. He wiped the knife on arm, set it back on the table, and put a thin potions rag in his pocket, just in case.

Harry stepped out of the stock room and resumed his post from the previous night, watching the door, waiting for their rescue. The residual pain in his arm, though, was a distraction. It throbbed with each heartbeat, and Harry was able to ground his thoughts with that.

He was sure never to cut deeply. They were more like scratches anyway, so when he thought the bleeding had stopped and scabbed over, he rolled his sleeve down, now slightly disappointed that it wasn't throbbing. He pressed the palm of his right hand onto the cuts, which were still tender and sensitive. By pressing on them at regular intervals, Harry was able to keep track of the time, at least in a certain way.

"Harry?" Snape's voice asked. It was immediately behind him. Harry had been so lost in thought that he hadn't heard Snape get up.

"Y - yes, sir?" Harry asked hopefully, freezing.

"What are you doing?" Snape's voice was suspicious, but not angry.

"Nothing, sir," Harry denied, risking a glance at Snape. The man was glowering at him, but didn't seem infuriated.

"Mm, if you say so," Snape dismissed, and then turned on his heel and went to the stock room. A moment later, Snape returned holding the very knife Harry had used. Harry swallowed nervously, realizing he hadn't fooled Snape, not for a minute. Harry placed his hands on the stone on either side of him and looked at his shoes. Harry flinched when Snape sat next to him.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, not looking up, in fact, purposefully looking away.

"I don't think you understand the full impact of your actions," Snape said conversationally. Harry didn't reply. He knew it made him feel better, that it made him relax. So what if it left scars? It didn't bother Harry that much. He already had enough of them from his uncle. What were a few more, really?

Suddenly, Harry became aware of the knife being placed in his hand, and his fingers wrapped around it. Harry looked up at Snape, now curious. Snape was rolling back his own sleeve on his right arm, the one without the Dark Mark. Snape held his arm out towards Harry, and Harry saw the numerous scars on Snape's arm again. They were silent for awhile.

When Harry didn't move, Snape reached over with his left hand and took Harry's in his own and placed the knife dangerously close to his extended arm. Harry's eyes darted from the knife to Snape's face and back to the knife. Snape wasn't looking at him, and instead his attention was on the knife.

"Do it," Snape instructed quietly.

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, his voice much higher than he had intended it. Snape couldn't be asking him to do what he thought he was asking!

"I'm showing you what you're really doing to those around you," Snape explained, now looking Harry in the eyes. Harry felt his jaw drop, but it didn't really matter to him at the moment. "You think you're only hurting yourself, but you're not. You hurt everyone around you. You hurt your friends and the adults who care for you. Tell me, do your friends know?"

"No," Harry replied. Then he added under his breath, "They're not my friends anymore."

"If they did know, if they knew you continued, they would see it as though you had just told them you didn't want their help. I'm trying to help you, Harry, and you're not letting me. I should know better than anyone what you're feeling. Don't refuse my help. Now do it." Harry's hand began to shake, as he tried to understand what Snape was asking of him.

"You want me to cut you?" Harry whispered. Snape steadied Harry's quivering hand with his own.

"Yes," Snape confirmed stoically.

"Just once?" Harry winced.

"How many times did you cut yourself?" Snape asked.

"Three," Harry replied, his throat going dry.

"Then three times," Snape instructed. He took his hand away, and Harry began to shake harder. The boy took a deep breath, and then released it.

"I can't," Harry gasped. "You're insane. I can't hurt you."

"But you're more than willing to hurt yourself," Snape pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "Now do as I say."

"But - but - " Harry objected pitifully. Snape couldn't possibly expect this. Harry's breathing was coming in ragged gasps as he was close to panicking. It was one thing to cut himself; it was another to cut someone else. It seemed cruel to do it to anyone but himself. Harry felt tears well up in his eyes, and he looked up at Snape, begging the man to not to make him do that. For a moment, Harry thought Snape might give in.

"Do - it - now," Snape ground out through clenched teeth. With his hand still shaking horribly, Harry dragged the knife over Snape's arm once, twice, three times. Then Harry dropped the knife, and it clattered on the floor. The incisions were clumsy and crooked, and Harry blamed that on his shaking and the tears marring his vision.

The cuts were much deeper than he had intended. Harry wondered how Snape could maintain his impassive expression. Quickly, Harry grabbed the potions rag he had stuffed in his pocket and pressed it firmly against Snape's wounds.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Harry repeated quietly. His cheeks were flushed, and suddenly, Harry felt incredibly stupid.

"Do you understand now?" Snape asked patiently.

"Yes, sir," Harry sobbed, two tears trickling down his cheeks. "I didn't want to - you made me - "

"I know you didn't want to hurt me," Snape readily agreed, "but the fact remains that the visible wounds are much less serious than the invisible ones. You hurt anyone and everyone who cares about you, only you can't see it."

"I'm sorry," Harry sobbed again, gripping Snape's robes. Harry was suddenly very scared that Snape wouldn't speak to him anymore. What with losing Ron and Hermione, Harry realized that his only source of human companionship would be Snape. He couldn't afford to lose whatever thin and precarious relationship the two of them had been forming in the past week. "And you can't heal yourself." Harry began a soft mantra of "I'm sorry" as weak sobs wracked his body.

"I can't heal you either," Snape pointed out sadly. "Don't do it again." Harry sniffled and nodded into Snape's robes.

"I won't," Harry promised. "Don't make me hurt you again. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Snape sighed and placed one arm around Harry, and his other hand on the boy's head. Harry cried harder, but settled into Snape's arms and relaxed his tense muscles a bit.

Harry knew he was forgiven.

"Ron's gone!" Hermione shrieked as she bounced up and down in front of McGonagall Saturday morning. "He wasn't in the dormitory last night! No one has seen him all night and I can't find him anywhere!"

"Please calm down, Miss Granger," McGonagall instructed. "Have you talked to any of his family, to see if they know of his whereabouts?"

"Yes, I talked to the twins, and they said Ron isn't at home." Hermione's voice lost some of its hysterics, but she was wringing her hands in agitation. "Will you let me speak with Professor Dumbledore?" McGonagall sighed.

"Alright," she conceded. "I don't like to bother him, but in the case of a mysteriously missing student, he likely should be consulted. Are Mr. and Mrs. Weasley aware that Ron is missing?"

"Yes, I think so," Hermione said, relaxing a bit now that McGonagall was going to do something about the situation.

"Alright," she nodded. "I'll floo call them, and you and the Weasley parents may speak with Dumbledore on the matter."

"Thank you so much, Professor!" Hermione breathed. She didn't think she could survive losing both of her friends like that, even if she had shoved Harry away only to protect him. She was all alone now, unless Ron came back.

"Albus, where is Ron?" Molly asked, more calmly than anyone would have expected her to act.

"My apologies for not letting you know sooner," Albus replied. "He is working a mission for me."

"He's a child," Arthur said, narrowing his eyes slightly, almost making the comment sound like a question.

"He undertook it of his own volition," Albus replied. "He is fine, I assure you."

"Where is he?" Molly demanded, her voice rising in both pitch and volume.

"He is on a very delicate mission," Albus hedged. "I'm not sure how much I should tell you."

"He's our son!" Molly screamed. "We love him and we care about him! What right? What right have you to give our son a mission, not tell us about it, and then refuse to explain yourself now?" She was furious enough that Albus' little trinkets began to quiver with the strength of her motherly rage.

"He could have told you himself," Albus pointed out calmly. "Are you aware of a reason why he would not have confided in you himself?"

"He has been increasingly reclusive," Arthur observed quietly. "Perhaps we were ignoring him a bit."

"We have a large family, Arthur," Molly sighed. "Ron knows he can come to us if he has any problems. We've never been cruel or abusive to any of our children."

"Of course not," Albus agreed. "But I have observed you do seem to ignore the younger ones. When was the last time you spoke to Ron? The last time you had a personal conversation, with just him?" Molly flushed and adjusted her dress.

"Ron knows he can talk to us," she repeated.

"I don't think that's what Albus is going on about," Arthur interjected. "He's asking how much time have we taken to get to know our son. And the fact is, Molly, we don't remember the last time we actually tried to get to know our children!" Molly glared at her husband.

"Why did he do this?" Molly asked, and she looked like she was ready to break down crying.

Hermione had been waiting in the shadows, watching and listening.

"I gave him a time-turner," she said, stepping forward.

"A time-turner?" Arthur echoed. "Where did you get one of those? They're held in the Department of Mysteries - "

"Professor Dumbledore gave it to me," Hermione explained. "He told me to give it to Ron when Ron asked for it, and I did." Molly and Arthur looked at Dumbledore curiously. "But when you use a time-turner for short distances, like, say to get to yesterday, you live out an extra day, and show up where people expect you to, and since it's only a day, no one can tell you've lived an extra day in that time. But what if someone goes back years and years and years? They would age a lot, and no one would recognize them when they finally get back to their original time. It has to be what Ron has done, because otherwise, we would have found him."

"What are you saying?" Molly asked.

"When we used a time-turner in third year," Hermione began, drawing a nervous breath, "we went back earlier that day. We turned time back a few hours. In those few hours, we completed the story, you might say. Harry saved himself from the Dementors by casting his own Patronus. But Harry was saved from the Dementors from the beginning, because when the whole story was done, Harry was always there to save himself.

"So when those few hours were done, we ran back to the infirmary right as we were about turn time. That way everyone else thought we had never left. Remember, Professor? You left us in the infirmary, and then, from your perspective, when you turned around, we were behind you. If it weren't for the time-turner, it would seem that we had apparated."

"Yes, indeed, continue," Albus said, his eyes twinkling madly.

"To everyone around us, we looked the same. A few extra hours doesn't age someone noticeably, so we could pretend nothing ever happened. Even a few days won't age someone enough for anyone to notice. But just like Dumbledore didn't 'feel' that we had time-traveled, if Ron had gone back a few hours, or a few days, we wouldn't 'feel' he was missing. He would have gone to bed and we would never have known he time-traveled.

"But he is missing. He used the time-turner and went back so far that he couldn't take his old role as a fifth year student. He could have gone back so far that he died before he was born! Whatever he's done while he's time-turned, though, is something we know as reality, just like Harry saved himself before he knew he saved himself."

"Albus!" Molly shouted. "Is that what's happened?"

"Dear woman," Albus began, "once Ron accepted the time-turner, his mission was his own. If he chose not to tell you, it is the way he wanted it."

"I just don't understand why Ron would want to leave," Hermione whispered, but the adults heard it. She turned and left the three of them to their arguing. It was clear that Ron would never come back to her.