Harry threw his quill down in frustration. Either his friends had gotten the assignment wrong – and if Hermione had gotten homework wrong, then he was Voldemort’s new best friend – or the new Potions professor had resorted to making stuff up.

“Why is it a bad idea to combine blue Fwooper feathers with jarvey saliva in a Keep-Away Solution?” Harry muttered crossly. He’d developed the habit of speaking out loud whilst doing his schoolwork in Snape’s rooms. It helped him to think, and he supposed provided something other than quiet stillness for Snape. “It would really help if she said what a Keep-Away Solution is!”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t mentioned in any of the textbooks. Harry had just spent a very aggravating hour looking through not just his book, but Hermione’s books from the previous years. He very carefully hadn’t asked why she had them with her.

He’d even asked a sixth and a seventh year if he could borrow their books, but still couldn’t find even a footnote regarding that particular potion.

With a huff, he closed the book he’d been skimming through.

“Come on, Professor,” he said, getting to his feet from where he’d been sitting beside a small table in front of the fire. “Let’s get some exercise.”

It had occurred to Harry and Malfoy that sitting around all day wasn’t doing the professor any good. Well, it had occurred to them after a very pointed remark from Madam Pomfrey. So they had taken to urging Snape to walk around his rooms. Occasionally, they’d take him to the Quidditch pitch and would take turns wandering with him while the other one flew.

Now, however, Snape only took a few steps before coming to a halt in front of one of the restored bookcases.

“Come on, Professor, we have to keep going,” Harry urged, tugging on the man’s sleeve. Reluctantly, Snape carried on around the room, only to halt again in the same spot. Harry groaned and tugged on his sleeve until Snape was moving again.

The third time, though, Snape refused to move at all. Harry pulled until he thought Snape’s robe would tear, but the Potions Master could have been turned to stone for all the movement he made.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Harry turned to face him.

“Okay, you win, Professor,” he said, wearily. “You obviously want me to find something, so what am I looking for?”

There was no verbal response, but something flickered through Snape’s blank eyes, and then one of the books on a lower shelf popped out.

While Harry gaped at it, Snape calmly stepped around him, and continued his circuit of the room.

Picking it up, Harry discovered it was a potions textbook. A very old textbook. Keeping half his attention on Snape, Harry flipped through the book. It appeared to be either a very general potions revision guide, or it was a seven-year textbook.

Whatever it is, Harry thought, I wish we had them now!

Most of the potion recipes looked easy enough for even Neville to brew correctly. And there – just four pages from the start of the book – was the Keep-Away Solution.

“Ah-ha!” Harry exclaimed, triumphantly. “Thanks, Professor!” He turned to look at Snape, and his excitement instantly drained away.

Snape was standing motionlessly in front of the door to his potions lab.

“Oh, Professor,” Harry murmured sadly. “I’m so sorry.” Snape’s head tilted slightly, but he put up no resistance as Harry led him back to his armchair.

Quarter of an hour later, Harry was still studying the old book. He’d been shocked speechless to discover the N.E.W.T section – the very first potion in it was the Boil-Cure that they’d brewed in their very first potions lesson.

“Blimey, wonder what they’d make of our N.E.W.Ts,” Harry pondered out loud.

“Who?” asked Malfoy from behind him, causing Harry to jump so badly he fell off the cushions he’d been sitting on. Malfoy just rolled his eyes and crossed to greet his godfather.

“I found the book our new professor’s using,” Harry replied, once his heart was beating steadily in his chest again. He held up the book for Malfoy to examine. “Bit out of date, though.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy said, absently, flicking through the book. “’75 isn’t that long ago.”

Harry chuckled. “Better check again, Malfoy,” he informed the other boy. “That book was written in eighteen seventy five.”

“What?!” Malfoy’s eyes widened, and he went straight to the front page of the book to check.

“No wonder she can’t stop any of our potions exploding, if she’s using that,” Harry said, grimacing. “It classes Boil-Cure as N.E.W.T level.”

Malfoy sat down heavily on the settee. “Merlin’s beard, didn’t Dumbledore check her credentials?” he wondered.

Harry shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” he said, “but it’s a good motivator for us to get Professor Snape back.”

Unseen by either of the boys, a small spark flared to life in Snape’s eyes.

It took Hermione another three days, along with much hair-pulling and gnashing of teeth, to discover the old text in an out-of-the-way corner of the library. Word quickly spread through Gryffindor and Slytherin, then to the other houses, and by the end of the week, Madam Pince had been flooded with requests for more copies of the book.

“It’s ridiculous, Albus,” she complained to the Headmaster.

Albus tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. He had been assured that his temporary potions professor had been home-schooled to the highest level, even if she wasn’t a Potions Mistress. Perhaps he should have asked just what her ‘highest level’ consisted of.

At that moment, his fireplace flared with green flames. Albus groaned as he heard Poppy’s strident tones.

“This cannot continue, Albus!” she said as soon as she laid eyes on him. “I have four N.E.W.T level potions students in the infirmary tonight, added to the three from last night, and the six from last week!”

“What?” Albus half rose from his seat. “What happened?”

“They’re all trying to complete their N.E.W.T projects without any competent supervision!” Poppy raged. “Really, Albus, something must be done, otherwise none of the seventh years will be in fit state to take any N.E.W.T!” And with that, she backed out of the fire, letting it go out with a pop that echoed around the office.

Albus sank back into his chair with a heavy sigh.

Madam Pince rose to her feet. “If I have your approval, I will go and see about ordering more of that potions book,” she said. Albus waved a hand at her, and she departed, muttering under her breath.

“We have to do something!”

“This is ridiculous. If he wants to go in there so badly, we should let him.”

“Are you nuts? Dumbledore said it’s still too dangerous in there!”

“Well, what do you suggest, then?”

Harry and Draco – he hadn’t been Malfoy for weeks – stood side by side in Snape’s living room. Snape, as had become his habit recently, was standing motionlessly in front of the door to his lab.

Harry thought it was a good sign that the professor wanted to brew again, but even if the effects of Sirius’ manic search had dissipated, they still wouldn’t be able to let him in. Snape was a Potions Master, after all, and no doubt his experiments would be far above the seventh years’ ability, never mind Harry or Draco’s.

Harry’s gaze wandered and suddenly fell on an old cauldron set out of the way near the door.

“We could set him up with the equipment somewhere else,” he said.

Draco looked at where Harry was looking and nodded. “We could set him up in the kitchen,” he said, thoughtfully. “Herbs, spices, vegetables – we’d be set.”

Harry thought of what Snape could make with that list – and his mouth fell open.

“You want Snape to brew soup?” he spluttered.

“Why not?” Draco smiled and headed for the kitchen to see what he could find.

“Because he’s a professor, not a house-elf?” Harry said sarcastically.

“Would you rather he tried to brew something else and poisoned us?” Draco raised an eyebrow then turned back to rummaging through cupboards. Harry shuddered at just how Snape-like Draco had looked.

Unfortunately – although he’d rather hex his tongue out than admit it – Draco had a point. Sighing, Harry went to help him gather the necessary equipment.

Harry returned to his dorm that night covered in a foul-smelling sludge. Whatever Snape had been brewing in his head had not worked out so well in the real world, and Harry, Draco and the kitchen had been coated in the stuff when it exploded.

Snape, however, had remained immaculate, although whether that was because of something Snape had done or because of Fawkes, the boys didn’t know.

It took Harry three hours to get all of the sludge off himself. He supposed it could have been worse – it had taken Draco four hours.

Yawning, he stumbled towards his dorm room, eager for bed.

Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t to be.

He’d barely set foot out of the bathroom when a searing pain went through his scar. With a cry of pain, Harry dropped to his knees, his hands pressed against his forehead.

Voldemort was apparently furious.

How DARE he pretend he can’t feel me? He WILL come when I call!

Abruptly, Harry realised that Voldemort meant Snape. Either no-one had told the megalomaniac dark wizard about Snape’s breakdown, or he didn’t believe it.

Another surge of pain blossomed in his skull, and Harry screwed his eyes shut against it.

Damn that traitor! He will pay for this!

Harry began to panic. Snape was in pain – probably more than he was – and Draco was on his own with the professor. He had to do something, had to go and help them.

Clenching his teeth with effort, Harry clambered to his feet and lurched towards the staircase. Peeling one eye open, he just barely managed to stop himself from tumbling headlong down the winding stone steps.

Leaving one hand pressed against his head, and using the other as support against the walls, he made his way down to the common room. Wishing briefly for Floo powder, he staggered towards the portrait hole.

Harry didn’t know how long it actually took, but it seemed a very long time before he found himself slumped against Professor Snape’s door. He gasped out his password – Draco had his own – and almost fell flat on his face as it swung open.

Draco was fast asleep on the transfigured settee. Snape, sat in his usual armchair, looked as he always did, but his eyes were open, and Harry had the impression that Snape was screaming inside. Fawkes was perched on Snape’s leg, trilling firmly but with a worried edge.

Harry fell to his knees beside Snape’s chair, his free hand gripping the professor’s shoulder, both for support and balance. “I’m here, Professor,” he said, softly, the pain causing his words to slur. He wasn’t sure he could do anything, but he had to try.

With Fawkes chirruping encouragement, he transferred his grip to Snape’s forearm. Even through the sleeve of the nightgown, he could feel the Dark Mark burning.

Shuffling the sleeve up, Harry squinted at the Mark. It was a deep black and looked as though it had tried to explode out of Snape’s arm. The skin around it was red and inflamed.

Another surge of agonising fury went through his scar, and before he could stop it, his head dropped down until his scar was resting against Snape’s Mark.

Harry almost thought he could hear Snape screaming.

Why, oh why had he not learnt Occlumency when he had the chance? He sorely regretted it now. He needed to protect them both. He needed . . .

It felt like a small snapping noise, somewhere deep inside his mind. Then there was the rush of a soundless explosion and abruptly, all the pain disappeared.

The absence of it was like total silence, echoing around him.

Stunned, Harry slowly lifted his head, almost expecting to be struck down by the blinding pain again. When nothing happened, he sat back on his heels. Fawkes was carolling triumphantly, causing Draco to stir and mutter groggily from the settee. And Snape . . .

Harry stared at his potions professor in disbelief.

Snape . . . was smiling.

Dark. Red. Dark. Red. Thick, black, inky darkness. Pain, pulsing red like a heartbeat. Eaten by darkness or washed in agony.

Time passed. He had no idea how much. Time was meaningless here.

Someone was so angry with him. Not that there was anything unusual in that. Everyone always hated him. Nothing he ever did changed that.

With a whimper, he curled himself up as tightly as he could. Perhaps the pain would rescue him from the dark.

Or perhaps being eaten by the dark would be preferable to the agony etching every artery and vein in burning red.

Abruptly, there came the sound of something rushing towards him. Panicking, he tried to push himself out of its path.

Something warm broke over him, and the red agony disappeared, and even the hungry darkness retreated.

Just as when he’d been coated in the fiery harmony, he relaxed, finally feeling at least a modicum of safety.

Unfortunately, his sanctuary didn’t last. The voices were back – loud and argumentative, pecking and drilling at him, circling, waiting for an opening to ravage him.

Would they never leave him alone?

“Greasy git!” Spat with contempt. “It’s just Snivellus.”

Except there was suddenly one he’d never heard before, overcoming all the others, shouting them down.

“DON’T CALL HIM THAT!!”