“At least you cooked yesterday,” Snape grumbled as he carried the large pot of beef roast into the sitting room where Harry lounged on the sofa, still recovering from his bout with hypothermia. “It smells delicious,” Snape added tersely, as if the compliment was given begrudgingly. He watched as Snape set the pot, still covered, in the center of the coffee table.

Snape went back to the kitchen and returned with bread, butter, hot tea, bowls, cutlery, and napkins, all of which he placed on the coffee table between them.

When Snape dropped the last bowl onto the table and cursed, Harry’s focus sharpened. Snape’s face was contorted in a grimace as he dug his fingernails into his inner wrist in a manner that seemed quite vicious to Harry.

“Sir? Is something wrong with your arm?”

Snape shot Harry a glare and pulled his sleeve down further.

“That’s the arm your Mark is on, isn’t it?”

Looking annoyed, Snape nodded curtly.

“Is the snake bothering you?” Harry asked.

“It’s nothing,” Snape hissed.

Harry shifted into a more upright position. “May I see it?” Seeing Snape’s reluctance, Harry added, “If it is the snake, I can talk to it, see what’s up. Otherwise, it will just keep bugging you.”

Snape gazed at Harry intently before letting out a put-upon sigh. He stepped over to the sofa and sat on the coffee table in front of the boy. Then he thrust out his arm, the action causing his sleeve to ride up, exposing his inner wrist. He fisted his fingers, making the muscle and tendons there flex and strain. The snake lay curled against his skin, which was red and raw from being scratched.

Slowly, Harry reached out and took Snape’s wrist in his hand. He pulled the man’s arm a little closer, studying the snake. Then he began speaking to it in Parseltongue.

Snape sat still, his expression shifting from annoyed to transfixed.

“It wants to stretch a bit,” Harry said. “It’s uncomfortable being confined to a tight coil.”

Snape cocked an eyebrow.

“Mind if I give it permission to move around?” Harry asked.

“As long as it doesn’t rejoin the skull and reactivate the Mark,” Snape replied.

Harry conveyed the message, and soon the snake’s head popped up, its tongue flicking out as if to taste Snape’s flesh.

Then, slowly, it began to uncoil, its long body undulating and shifting across Snape’s skin.

Snape shivered.

It slithered up and down Snape’s arm, and then tested out each of Snape’s fingers. Finally, it settled around Snape’s wrist like a bracelet, the head and tail intertwined at the base of Snape’s hand.

“How’s that?” Harry asked Snape.

Snape raised his arm and twisted it back and forth, studying the snake cuff he now sported. “Disturbing and intriguing all at the same time,” he murmured.

“Is it still bothersome?”

“No, not at all,” Snape said. Meeting Harry’s gaze, he said, “Thank you.”

Harry gave Snape a tentative smile. They were far from even, Harry knew, considering Snape had just saved his life—again—but at least Harry could give the man something in return.

“If it bothers you again, let me know. Yeah?”

Snape grunted and reached for the lid on the beef roast.

Snape’s stomach growled as he ladled out a portion of beef roast for each of them. He handed a bowl and fork to Harry, and then turned away to slice the bread, slathering a couple of pieces with butter, just as Harry liked it. When he turned back toward Harry to ask how many pieces the boy wanted, he froze.

Harry was trembling, his face pale, his gaze a million miles away.

Before Snape could even ask what was wrong, Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his head shaking back and forth furiously. “I can’t eat this,” he whispered.

Harry’s hands were quivering so badly that Snape barely managed to set down the plate of bread and rescue the bowl of roast before it spilled in Harry’s lap.

“Please don’t make me eat this,” Harry begged, a shudder wracking his body. “Please. I can’t…”

“Harry,” Snape interrupted, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he began to keen. “Shhh… calm yourself. You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to. I promise. Now breathe.”

As Harry wrapped his arms around himself and fought to normalize his breathing, Snape banished the roast back to the kitchen. So much for lunch, he thought. He sat back down on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, chin in his cupped hands, and waited.

When Harry finally glanced up, his eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “I thought…” Harry said, his voice breaking. “I thought if I prepared the meal myself, I’d be able to stomach it. But I can’t.” Harry lowered his gaze. “I just… can’t.” After a moment, and in a much quieter voice, he added, “I used to love beef roast.”

Perplexed, Snape inquired, “What set you off?”

“The carrots,” Harry moaned. “They reminded me of… of…” Harry raised his face skyward, blinking to hold back the tears. “Of his fingers. Chopped up.” Losing the battle, Harry dropped his head into his hands and began to sob.

Well, hell, Snape thought. “Budge over,” Snape said. He moved to sit behind Harry, jamming himself in the space between the boy and the arm of the sofa. Then he pulled the lad into his arms.

“I hate this,” Harry cried, his voice muffled against Snape’s shirt. “I can’t do anything right anymore.”

“You have done plenty right,” Snape corrected. “You kept yourself alive. And sane.” Which was more than that poor Muggle was able to do, apparently, Snape thought. “And you have the courage and strength to talk about it, which is far more than most witches and wizards are ever able to do.”

“What good does it do?” Harry lamented. “I just want to forget it ever happened.”

“Forgetting does not serve one well,” Snape said, speaking from experience. “It only temporarily buries the pain and the memories.” Sighing, Snape admitted, “If you don’t deal with them now, Harry, they’ll come back to haunt you, usually at the most inopportune times.” As Harry’s sobs quieted some, Snape transfigured a handkerchief from a napkin and handed it to the boy. “It is much better to work through them now, to integrate them into who you are, and move forward from there. You’ll be much stronger and healthier for it.”

“Is that what you did?” Harry asked, an inadvertent challenge.

Snape grunted. “Unfortunately, no. I am testament to what happens when you do not deal with the things that happened to you. Trust me when I say it is not a path you wish to travel.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry pulled away from Snape and sat up. “I’m sorry about lunch, sir.”

“It is of no consequence. We still have bread. Would you like a piece?”

“In a bit.” Harry glanced up, and Snape could see a request in the boy’s eyes before he voiced it. “Will you do me a favor?”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“You sent the roast to the kitchen?” Snape nodded. “Will you go there and have some? You must be hungry and at least one of us should eat it. Maybe I’ll be able to manage a roast beef sandwich later.”

Snape studied the boy a moment in an effort to ascertain if it was wise to leave the boy alone for a moment. Coming to the conclusion that Harry was both sincere and emotionally stable, Snape replied, “As you wish.” Then he patted Harry’s knee and got up from the sofa. “Do try and eat some bread.”

“It was very good,” Snape said when he rejoined Harry in the sitting room twenty minutes later. After the latest food incident and Harry’s breakdown, not to mention Harry helping him with the snake, Snape couldn’t find it in himself to be angry with the boy any longer. Frustrated at times, exasperated at others, but not angry. “I didn’t know you had a hidden talent for cooking.”

Harry shrugged.

“I had something special planned for this evening, but given the events of this morning…” Snape said, pausing to take in Harry’s sheepish expression, “it will have to wait until tomorrow. Assuming you are well enough, that is. In the meantime, you need to rest.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said. “I will try and get some studying done.” A moment later, Harry asked, “What is the date today?”

“The 19th of December,” Snape responded. “Why do you ask?”

Harry bit his lip, and Snape felt his ire rise. “What harebrained scheme is rattling around in that head of yours now?”

“Not to push my luck, sir, but, er, I was wondering if it would be possible to…” Harry paused, looking nervous. Then in a rush, he said, “Have Dobby deliver the gifts I have for Ron and Hermione.”

Harry’s gaze held such stark hope and longing that it gave Snape pause.

“Let me give it some thought,” Snape heard himself saying.

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

Harry returned to his Charms book and Snape thought he looked the tiniest bit happier. Sighing, Snape shook his head and wondered if he was going soft.

Harry wasn’t even tired but Snape had insisted he go to bed early. He’d spent the entire day lying on the sofa, after all. He might have argued, save for the fact that Snape wasn’t in the best of moods given that morning’s fiasco with the garden shed. Plus, it was a Dreamless Sleep potion night, and he knew that would knock him right out. Thus, he didn’t protest when eight pm rolled around and Snape told him it was bedtime as if he was six instead of sixteen. He took his potion and fell asleep within minutes.

“Harry!”

Harry drifted slowly toward consciousness. Had someone called his name?

“Harry. Harry!”

Yes, Harry’s muddled mind provided. Someone was calling out to him.

“HARRY!”

Harry bolted upright, grabbing his wand instinctively as he recognized Snape’s panicked voice. By the light of the hearth fire, he rapidly scanned the room, searching for the threat.

“Harry! Where are you?”

Harry’s gaze locked unerringly on the source of the panic. Snape was thrashing in his bed, sweat glistening on his brow, his features twisted in torment.

“HARRY! Where are you?”

Jumping from his camp bed, he rushed to Snape’s side. “I’m here, Professor. I’m right here.”

“Harry! Harry! Where are you?”

Harry caught one of Snape’s flailing hands and held it in both of his. “I’m right here, sir,” Harry reiterated, giving Snape’s hand a squeeze. “Right here,” he repeated, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Snape’s head lifted off the pillow as wild onyx eyes jerked open, frantically darting to and fro.

“I’m here, Professor. It’s all right. It was just a dream.”

It took a moment for Snape’s gaze to focus on Harry. It seemed to take another moment for his awake brain to convince his half-asleep brain that it was, indeed, just a dream.

Snape groaned and let his head fall back. Harry let go of his hand.

Harry could see the frantic pulse beating in the older man’s neck. “Are you all right, sir?”

Snape grunted and sat up in bed, throwing off the covers. Harry got out of the way as Snape sat himself on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the cold floor, head in his hands. His cascading black hair shielded his face from view.

Harry sat back down next to the man, not sure what he should say or do. Clearly the dream had disconcerted the man, and Harry knew how that felt.

“Sir?”

Snape’s breathing was still labored when he finally spoke. “I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m right here,” Harry soothed.

Snape shook his head, negating Harry’s statement. “You weren’t in the house. This morning. You weren’t in your bed. You weren’t on the ground floor. I searched everywhere. I was…” Snape exhaled loudly. “I thought they’d found you, taken you…”

Harry felt stunned. “You said they couldn’t find us! You said it was safe here!”

A large hand settled on Harry’s knee. “Calm yourself. You are safe here.” Snape took a deep breath and peered at Harry from between his fingers. “Fear is not always rational.”

“Oh,” Harry said. Then realization struck. “You were afraid,” Harry breathed.

Snape dropped his hands and gazed directly at Harry. “I wasn’t afraid, Harry. I was bloody terrified.”

Harry blinked, their gazes still locked. “You were?”

“I was,” Snape said, finally averting his eyes.

It struck Harry as so very odd to hear Snape admit such a human emotion. To him, Snape had always seemed unshakable, invincible. Nothing ever got to the man. Of all the things Harry had considered, fear had not entered his mind. No wonder he’d been so angry at Harry.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and he meant it. “I promise not to leave the house again without letting you know first.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Snape said, running a hand through his lank hair.

A noise at the door had them both jumping and reaching for their wands.

“Dobby is sorry to be startling Professor Snape and Harry Potter, sirs. Dobby is making Sleepy Time tea for his masters. Dobby is bringing it to his masters so they can sleep, sirs.”

Snape snorted. Harry exhaled in relief.

“Bed,” Snape said, pointing Harry in that direction while accepting a cup of tea.

Harry took a cup as well and returned to his camp bed. He drank half of it and then settled back in to sleep. “Thanks, Dobby. Night, Professor.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”