The potion was tricky, which Snape generally enjoyed, but not so much when Potter’s life hung in the balance. He also had no certainty that the potion would work. The curse wasn’t very common so an antidote had never been developed. Still, Snape had found cures for rarer curses, and he wasn’t about to throw Potter to the wolves just yet.

Sighing, he wiped his sweaty brow, flicked his wand to turn the flames down to low so the potion could simmer for an hour, and went to check on the teen now restrained in the Potions Master’s own bed.

Potter was moaning softly in his sleep. Snape put a hand to his brow to check for fever. Thankfully, there wasn’t any. A fever spiked as the curse progressed and, if it got that far, Snape doubted anything he could brew would be able to help Potter. Snape absently carded his fingers through his ward’s hair, hating the feeling of helplessness that washed over him.

The teen’s eyes fluttered, opened, closed again. Potter groaned. “Hurts,” he moaned, his eyes still squeezed shut. “Hurts soo much.”

Snape put a hand on Potter’s shoulder. “Drink this,” he said, raising a vial to the boy’s lips. “It’s a pain relieving potion.”

But Potter had started to struggle, to fight his bindings, to try and get away from the torment. He swung his head back and forth, his muscles rigid.

“Potter!” Snape shouted.

Potter froze momentarily and Snape shoved the vial to his mouth.

“Drink,” Snape commanded.

Potter allowed the potion to be poured in and swallowed convulsively.

Snape breathed a sigh of relief when the teen didn’t choke on the liquid.

“Try and relax,” Snape said.

 “What’s wrong with me?” Potter whinged. “Everything hurts.”

“You’ve been cursed. I’m brewing a potion right now to reverse the effects.”

 “Every time I close my eyes, I feel like I’m being punched and kicked and…” the boy sucked in a sharp breath, “and… crushed… and pulled apart… limb by limb… all at once.” Potter shivered violently. “But when I open my eyes, there’s no one there.”

“That’s the curse. It tricks your mind into thinking you are being attacked.”

Potter tossed his head, unable to remain still. “Why am I restrained?”

“Because, as the curse progresses, you won’t be able to stop yourself from attacking anyone who comes near you. You will perceive every person as a threat.”

“It gets worse?” Potter asked, his eyes wide with terror at the thought.

“I’m afraid so,” Snape said. “But the potion I am brewing should be ready by morning.”

“Please tell me it will make this feeling go away,” Potter said, trying to twist and turn beneath the restraints.

“Try and be still,” Snape said, unable to answer Potter’s question. What he was brewing should work, theoretically, but that didn’t mean it would work, in practice. “Try and sleep.”

“Can’t,” Potter moaned. “Oh, make it stop! I can feel them hitting me, crushing me.” Potter’s head swung wildly side to side. “MAKE IT STOP! Arghhhhh!”

Snape gritted his teeth as Potter thrashed and began to scream. There was nothing more he could do for the boy. If the pain relieving potion wasn’t working, it meant that the curse was growing stronger.

Snape raised his wand and murmured, “Stupefy.”

Potter’s body fell limp against the mattress.

Snape only hoped that the spell truly knocked Potter out and didn’t just trap him in his mind, preventing him from even the woefully insufficient release of venting the torment in his mind through his body. 

Snape rubbed his face and headed back to the lab. Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

With one last anti-clockwise stir, the potion sputtered and turned a vivid hot pink. It was the counter shade of the violent lime green of the curse. Snape tapped the cauldron twice to cool the potion, then decanted it, prayed to whatever gods might exist, and walked with trepidation back to the Boy Who Lived, hoping that the moniker would still hold true.

Vial in hand, Snape stepped into his bedroom to find Potter in what looked to be the throes of a nightmare. He wasn’t sure if the teen was truly asleep or experiencing the effects of the curse.

“Harry?” Snape called softly.

The boy’s eyes jerked open and he cried out. His clothes were soaked in sweat, his breathing ragged. “Hurts,” he whimpered. “Bloody hell, it hurts.”

“I know,” Snape said, stepping closer. He didn’t know what Potter’s state of mind would be, and he didn’t want to aggravate the boy further. “You need to drink this.”

Potter whimpered, his body rigid. “Make it stop, please just make it stop.”

“This will make it stop,” Snape said, “but you have to drink it.”

But Potter was tossing his head, spittle flying form his mouth, Snape’s words incoherent to him. Potter’s head was the only thing free to move, the rest of his body was restrained.

“Potter!” Snape shouted. “Calm yourself!”

This time, even his most commanding voice failed to reach the boy. Seeing no other way, Snape grabbed a handful of the mop of black hair and held tight.

The teen’s eyes snapped to Snape and, as he opened his mouth to protest, Snape poured the potion in.

Potter sputtered and coughed, but the brew went down.

Then Snape held his breath and waited.

Potter’s eyes slid away from his, lost their focus. His body seemed to relax and sink into the mattress.

Snape released his hold on Potter’s hair.

And then Potter screamed. A blood-curdling, window-shattering scream that went on and on. His body convulsed on the bed, foam bubbling from his mouth. Lime green smoke issued from his eyes and ears, nose, and mouth.

It took several moments for Snape to realize that the boy writhing on the bed wasn’t the only one screaming. Snape’s heart raced and his throat burned from shouting the boy’s name. Was his potion ridding Potter’s body of the curse, or was it killing him? He’d never seen such a violent reaction before, but he couldn’t imagine that it boded well.

Potter’s limbs shot out as more sickly yellow-green vapor oozed out of him, now from the pores of his skin. Sweat ran in rivulets down the boy’s forehead and cheeks. He stared making choking noises.

“Anapneo!” Snape cried, but nothing changed.

Snape was coming undone. Sweat beaded his body as the taste of metal flooded his mouth. In his panic, he kept shouting Potter’s name over and over. He thought about fire-calling Poppy, but she was travelling somewhere in the west of France and he didn’t know how to reach her.

Snape ran back to his lab, checked his handwritten notes once more. Checked his ingredients. Checked his cauldron. Decanted a few more vials and added various ingredients to ensure that they reacted as expected. Everything was fine. But Potter was NOT.

He raced back into his bedroom, where Potter now lay trembling. The wailing had stopped, to be replaced instead by sobbing.

“Potter?” Snape said, clasping Potter’s hand. “Harry?”

The boy gasped and looked at Snape. He whimpered.

“What are you feeling? Where does it hurt?”

The boy shook his head, but it wasn’t the agonized, frantic tossing of before.

 “I feel awful,” Potter choked out. And then he lurched. “I’m going to be sick.”

Snape just had time to free the binds and conjure a bucket before Potter rolled sideways and started retching. The vomit was bright, lime green. But floating atop it, seeming to chase it, were strands of hot pink.

“I’m sorry,” Potter said, wiping at his mouth.

“No, Potter,” Snape said. “Get out as much as you can. Get it all out.”

Potter sicked up twice more and Snape rubbed the boy’s back, immensely relieved as the vomit slowly became more pink than green.

Finally, Potter collapsed back on the bed, panting and exhausted.

“Does it hurt anywhere?” Snape asked again.

“Not like before,” Potter breathed. “More like a dull ache.”

Snape nodded. “Do you still feel as though you are being attacked?”

“Not right now.” Potter looked up at him. “Is it over now, then?”

Snape let out his breath. “I hope so. But just to be safe, I think you should drink another dose. And then, if you can, use the restroom and let me know… what color… things are.”

“Sir?” Potter asked.

“Green is bad,” Snape said. “Pink is good.”

Potter gave him an odd look. “That’s not something I thought I’d ever hear you say.”

“Me neither,” Snape commented. “Here, drink this, and then I’ll help you to the loo.”

Indeed Potter’s output was bright green. But there were hot pink strands in it, too, that seemed to ingest the violent green.

“The curse seems to be working its way out of your system,” Snape observed.

Potter was leaning against the wall of the loo, his eyes shuttered, his breathing still ragged.

“Come on, let’s get you back to bed,” Snape said.

He helped Potter into bed, then cast some cleaning and freshening charms on the boy. With a flick of his wand, he dressed Potter in clean pajamas and used magic to change the sweat-drenched bed sheets as well.

“I’m so cold,” Potter said, his teeth beginning to chatter.

Snape grabbed some heavy blankets and a quilt from the chest at the end of his bed, throwing them over the teen.

“Thanks,” Potter mumbled.

“Try and rest,” Snape said. “You will need to keep taking the potion every four hours until nothing comes out green.”

“Okay,” Potter said, burrowing beneath the blankets. The teen fell asleep almost immediately.

Snape collapsed into a chair by the bed, his head in his hands. His body began to shake as it came off the fear and adrenaline rush. How had a child he had so loathed worked his way under his skin to become someone he would do anything to save, and not just for Lily or Dumbledore, but for the boy, and for himself?

At the feel of a hand on his shoulder, he jerked his head up to see Dumbledore standing over him.

“Headmaster,” Snape said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can see that,” Dumbledore replied. “I take it your potion worked? Harry seems to be resting peacefully. And he’s no longer restrained.”

Snape let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “It nearly killed him,” Snape said.

“The curse? Or the potion?” Dumbledore inquired.

“Both,” Snape said.

Dumbledore squeezed Snape’s shoulder. “I didn’t doubt you for a moment, Severus.”

“That makes one of us,” Snape said shakily.

“Why don’t you get some rest, Severus, you’ve earned it,” Dumbledore said.

“Potter can’t be left alone,” Snape replied.

“I will watch over him,” Dumbledore said, producing a very large tome. “I have some reading to catch up on, it seems.”

Snape studied the elderly wizard. He would have liked to monitor the boy himself but he hadn’t slept in over 24 hours and it was rapidly catching up with him. “He needs another dose in four hours,” Snape instructed, pointing to the vials placed neatly atop the bookshelf.

“I will see to it,” Dumbledore replied. “Now go get some rest. I will wake you if I need you.”

Snape nodded and retired to his sitting room, collapsing onto the couch where he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When Snape awoke, Dumbledore closed the book he was reading, smiled at Severus, and took his leave. Snape found Potter sitting up in Snape’s bed, a spread of food laid out before him. Snape grimaced at the thought of crumbs on his shee

“Feeling better, I see,” Snape remarked.

“Yes, much,” Potter said. “Want to join me?”

Snape hesitated, realized his bed was already a lost cause, and sat on the edge of the mattress, helping himself to some steak and kidney pie.

“Still more pink than green?” Snape asked.

“Yes,” Potter replied around a mouthful of chocolate biscuit. “Not much green left now at all.”

“Good,” Snape said. “Did the Headmaster have anything interesting to say?”

Potter paused and set the uneaten half of the biscuit back on the plate. “He said you saved my life,” the boy said earnestly. “Thank you for that.”

Snape nodded. “See that it stays saved.”

Potter frowned. “Are you angry?”

“That you almost got yourself killed? Again? That you didn’t listen to my strict instructions? That you were reckless and impulsive and idiotic?”

Potter shrunk back into the pillows.

Snape sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I should be,” he said. “Yet I find myself too relieved at the moment that you survived—not only a Death Eater attack, but also a curse that should have killed you.”

“Sorry, sir,” Potter muttered.

“You should be,” Snape snapped.

“What happens now?” Potter asked.

“Now you will stay at Hogwarts until school starts,” Snape replied.

“In Gryffindor tower?” Potter inquired.

“No, here, in my quarters. I still need to monitor you. You can finish your summer homework when you feel up to it.”

“I could help you brew potions,” Potter offered.

“Brew potions?” Snape asked incredulously. “Did you hit your head when you were cursed?”

“Probably,” Potter admitted. “But I could brew the simpler potions, and it would give me something to do.”

Snape studied the teen carefully. “I never got the impression you enjoyed brewing,” Snape observed.

“Well,” Potter responded, “I do owe you for saving my life. I reckon it’s the least I can do.”

Snape raised a brow. “I suppose there are a few basic potions that even you could brew for Madam Pomfrey’s stores.”

“Great,” Potter said, pushing himself up in bed. “When can we start?”

“Not so fast,” Snape said. “You may be feeling better at the moment, but that’s only because you’ve hardly left that bed. You will need longer to recover before you are able to be up and about.”

Potter sighed and collapsed back onto his pillows.

“If you are so eager for something to do, you can write out potions labels for me.”

“All right,” Harry agreed.

Snape looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. “I wasn’t serious.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s something to do, at least.”

“As you wish.” Snape left the room, returning a short while later with a stack of labels and a quill.

“Will you tell me what each potion does?” Harry asked.

“Are you sure that curse didn’t affect your brain, Potter?”

Harry glanced up.

“Since when are you interested in Potions?”

“Well,” Harry responded, chagrined. “I didn’t think you’d want to discuss Quidditch with me.”

Snape snorted. “I happen to be a fan of the Ballycastle Bats.”

“You are?”

“And that potion right there,” Snape said, gesturing toward the label Harry was filling out, “would eliminate your ability to create new memories for the next six months.”

Harry swallowed. “Why do you brew it then, sir?”

“Because in small doses, it can be used to ease the memory of a traumatic event. Madam Pomfrey has been known to give it to inconsolable students who have suffered the loss of a parent or sibling.”

Harry nodded, rather wishing they’d return to speaking about their favorite Quidditch teams instead.

The last weeks of summer progressed in a rather comfortable fashion. Once Harry was well enough, he helped Snape in the professor’s private potions lab in the mornings, brewing the simpler potions for Madam Pomfrey and also brewing potion bases for Snape’s stores. His afternoons were his own, and he spent his time exploring the castle or the grounds, writing letters to his friends, having tea with Hagrid, or playing pick-me-up games of Quidditch with Madam Hooch and any Order members that were visiting.

One very memorable game included himself and Madam Hooch against Tonks and Lupin. At one point, even Professor McGonagall joined in and, for as old as she was, she was remarkably skilled. By the time he’d landed, sweaty and exhilarated, he found Snape sitting in the stands.

Harry walked over to him and took a seat beside him. He was surprised to see Snape there and it felt remarkably like what having a father would feel like—someone who came to see his son play sports, who took pride in his son’s accomplishments.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Harry said.

“It pains me to acknowledge it, Potter, but you fly remarkably well,” Snape said.

Harry beamed. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from you.”

Snape merely grunted.

When the other Order members joined them, Harry excused himself to shower.

How very different this summer had turned out, he reflected, a smile still plastered to his face as he changed in the locker rooms. He would never have thought, not in a million years, that the professor he’d loathed more than any other—barring Umbridge, of course—could become a man he’d come to respect and rely upon. A man who, for all his harsh posturing and bitter exterior, still looked out for Harry, even if he hadn’t signed up for the task.

Harry didn’t know what the future held, but if he had Snape by his side, Harry thought he just might make it to the final showdown with Voldemort. And if they were both extraordinarily lucky, he and Snape might actually live through it too and have a chance at the Voldemort-free life they both very much deserved. 

For now, Harry thought he’d try and enjoy the rest of the summer and not worry too much about what lie ahead. There would be plenty of time for that later.

~Fin~

A/N: This is NOT where I intended to end this story. However, the story deviates from here and becomes quite dark. Darker than what I’ve written so far for this series. Thus, I’ve decided to end this story here and continue it in a second sequel. That way, if readers don’t want to delve into the darker side of things, they can end the series here on a lighter note.