~~~~HP~~~~

Saturday 11th, October 1997

During Harry's last appointment with Dr Snyder the previous Wednesday - the one where he came out to Snape and Mae snogging - the psychologist talked a lot about the chemotherapy clinic and embracing the community Harry had become a part of, whether he wanted to be or not. The conversation sat heavily with the young wizard the rest of the week, so when he finally walked in on Saturday, he couldn't deny he had a whole different outlook on the place. An almost comforting feeling fell over him like a blanket, where coldness and dread used to be.

He could admit there was something to be said about the "normality" in the air being surrounded by the other cancer patients and nurses - people who literally saw this every day - which at first made him nervous, but against all odds, now seemed to relax him. He recognized some of the more regular nurses, like Samantha and Mae, of course - though if Snape's girlfriend was working that day it wouldn't be until closer to the afternoon - and a few other patients; enough to give a friendly wave. Even if they never actually spoke to one another, as Dr Snyder pointed out they were all part of the same club, all fighting the same fight, just in different parts of their bodies, and Harry should try to connect with them even if it was only a smile. Overall, Harry could say the extra encouragement helped him come to accept the new community he was part of - living a life with long term chemotherapy - and he hoped to breathe a little easier because of it.

Samantha walked them through the same procedure as every other month: blood sample, height, weight, and blood pressure, questions about how he'd been feeling. She then moved them to the main treatment area - not allowing them to stay in the private room as Mae had last month - where the young wizard settled into the lounge chair hooked up to the antiemetic while they waited on the go ahead from Dr Swanson: the news that his blood counts could survive the plummeting from the chemotherapy.

That morning, Harry brought his Herbology work, as it really was the only class that, at a glance, could look muggle. He certainly had plenty of essays to rewrite as part of Snape's punishment from last night, and getting a head start while he felt well enough would be a good use of that time. At breakfast this morning, Harry noticed the professor seemed a little more level headed about the event, and he could have sworn at one point he saw the corner of the man's lips try to rise in a smirk. As a Slytherin, the young wizard would have thought his mentor to be a little more understanding about trying to make use of his available resources, however the fact the man was also a professor probably negated any of those cunning traits.

"I really am sorry about my essays," Harry dared to apologize yet again, as he pulled out a piece of paper and a muggle pen from his school bag then placed them on the tray set up over his lap. He loved the way he felt during the supportive medications before chemotherapy because they masked some of his general pain he always had from the tablets; pain he didn't notice was there, until it was gone.

"Yes, you did, in fact, tell me that last night," Snape replied, not lifting his head from his own book set up across his lap.

Harry nervously fidgeted in the chair, "I just figured as long as I wrote the original then why do I have to repeat it this year?"

"As I previously told you on the topic," Snape sighed, this time lifting his eyes enough to look over at the Gryffindor, "essays are assigned as a way for students to study the relevant material during that particular lesson. And therefore you should use it as a way to actually study, which cannot be done when one is simply copying, verbatim, another assignment. The bigger issue, though, is that you used your professor's corrections as opposed to actually thinking about what you'd done wrong last year and work out the solution on your own to correct it. Had you done that simple yet important step I might have been able to see your side of things. Finally, and this absolutely should not negate the other two reasons, it's a very-" he lowered his voice, "-Slytherin thing to do."

Harry smiled. So he had been right after all. In his mind, the other two weren't much different than getting Hermione's help, something he greatly missed, but he didn't find it wise to mention it at that exact moment.

"I thought you said I needed be a little more snake-like in my life?" Harry argued, holding back a smile.

"That is not what I meant," Snape closed the book in his lap, using his finger to hold his place as he made full eye contact with Harry. "You really do need to take this year seriously, Harry," Snape continued with less vigor than the Gryffindor expected. In fact, he sounded almost distracted.

Harry then noticed Snape start to lean side to side, now looking beyond Harry's face instead of at it. Turning around the teen saw the professor watching the nurses at the station behind him, next to the rooms where he'd just had his exam and blood drawn and would soon have his IT done. Two other nurses Harry didn't know, but recognized, stood beside Samantha as she spoke on the telephone with a file opened on the desk in front of her, hurriedly writing down whatever instructions were being told to her. Harry hoped she was getting the approval on his blood results so he could get started and out of there in time to at least hear how the Gryffindor Quidditch trials went before he got too sick, but based on her closed off body language he doubted that was the case.

"She's not working today," Harry told the professor with a smile, taking a guess the other wizard was looking for Mae.

"Don't you think I already know that?" Snape sharply replied, his eyes never leaving the commotion behind him. His curt voice, laced with an edge of panic, left Harry feeling vulnerable, and if he were honest, a little scared.

"What do you think is going on?"

"I do not know," Snape's slow baritone voice sent a shiver down Harry's spine.

But before the Gryffindor could say anything else, Samantha returned with a set of purple gloves on and started to unhook the antiemetic from Harry's port. It hadn't even come close to finishing.

"Well, it looks like we need to collect another blood sample," the nurse explained, giving Harry a smile he couldn't help suspect was covering up for something.

"Why?" asked Harry and Snape simultaneously. In any other situation the Gryffindor would have found it amusing, but his heart was practically beating from his chest at this odd deviation from their normal routine.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," the nurse answered, sadly, "we're not given that level of information. I'm just told Dr Swanson has requested another set."

Harry looked across the table at his mentor, whose dark obsidian eyes narrowed while he intensely watched Samantha collect more than the usual tubes. It couldn't be any more obvious that something wasn't right.

"If you could collect your things," Samantha pointed down at his school bag and Harry quickly closed his Herbology book, which had been open to a page on Sneezewort , "I'm going to go ahead and move you to one of the exam rooms while we wait on these results."

"Were my blood counts too low?" Harry questioned, confused as to why they'd move him from the main room into a private exam room if she'd already taken his blood samples. Sure, during his exam he'd hoped she'd let him have his chemotherapy there instead of the main room, like Mae did, however now it terrified him.

"Again, I'm just following Dr Swanson's orders," Samantha unhooked the rest of his IV, flushing it out at the end, while Snape began repacking his school bag. Neither of the wizards spoke a word to each other, they just followed the movements needed to get from point A to point B.

Once his things were packed, Harry noticed the other patients curiously watching him, causing his face to instantly heat up and his hands to tremble. Had they been here when someone else's blood counts were too low for chemotherapy? Maybe this was a normal reaction they'd seen another time or had lived through themselves? Although he'd been told having low blood counts was common during chemo, he'd always been lucky that in all of his time through the intensive and consolidation phases, he'd never had to reschedule a treatment from it. In fact, though he'd always been anxious over the results, deep down he'd gotten to the point to where the blood draws were simply a step he had to take; a checkbox to mark off or the pharmacy wouldn't release his medications.

Harry didn't remember walking out of the main treatment room or down the hallway. So when the door closed hard behind him, he jumped, having no clue how'd he'd gotten to the small exam room where the two wizards found themselves alone. Had Samantha told them how long it would take? Had she given any other instructions he didn't hear? Or had she just opened the door, shuffled them in, and left? Harry looked to Snape for some kind of answers. The man had been his pillar through all of this, he knew about the Leukemia before Harry had; had lived through what the other Harry had to go through. He always had an answer and often an explanation to go alongside it, but one glance at the man's ghostly white face told Harry this was not one of those times. He looked completely defeated sitting in the red plastic chair - across from the exam table Harry had instinctively jumped onto, even if he barely remembered doing it - with his elbows propped on his knees, fingers steepled, and held under his chin. Most uncharacteristically, the professor's legs bounced, causing his head to almost vibrate in a similar fashion to Harry's own whenever he was nervous. Suddenly Harry's mind flashed back to all the times Snape told him to sit still and it became obvious that the man didn't only feel scared about what they'd just experienced, he was absolutely terrified over it.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Harry lied, as his body started to shiver caused by a cold deep down into his bones from his nerves. Something in his movements finally caught Snape's attention because he looked to Harry, stood, then draped his black coat over the young wizard's shoulders. "Thanks," Harry mumbled, though it didn't stop him from shaking. This kind of cold couldn't be solved by a coat or blanket, no matter how many warming charms were on it.

The clock on the wall continued to tick the seconds away. Harry watched Snape finger his wand tucked into his shirt, itching to silence the almost deafening clicks with each passing minute. They sat in silence as a quarter of an hour passed, then a half, and right before three quarters of an hour, Harry whispered with a scratchy voice, "She took more blood than normal… More phials, I mean, than they usually do for chemotherapy."

Swallowing loud enough for Harry to hear across the small room, Snape said, "I noticed that as well."

But Harry didn't get to ask any other questions, sure that if anyone could figure out a logical solution, it would be Snape, because a small, tentative knock drew both of their eyes longingly to the door. It cracked open and Harry almost cried at the sight of Dr Swanson's stone face with Healer Smithe directly behind her.

No, this definitely would not be good news.

"Good morning, Harry," Dr Swanson entered the room and ever so carefully - far more calculated than her usual hurried state - closed the door behind the healer. The four of them barely fit in the small exam room, however Harry hardly noticed. Instead, he focused on the small quiver in her voice that was there for only a second before she steeled her emotions again; too similar to the way Snape always managed to do. "I'm sure you've got a ton of things going on your head right now, so I'll jump straight to the point. This morning's blood sample… well, both of them… showed abnormally high numbers of lymphoblasts. Do you remember that term?"

Harry shook his head. A lie. He knew, but he needed her to say it out loud, otherwise he could convince himself it wasn't real.

"Those are immature white blood cells and typically the first sign we see of ALL," she clarified and Harry's heart broke. Did he cry when he'd heard almost those same exact words over a year ago from Healer Smithe? He didn't think so, nevertheless at that moment he couldn't stop the tears from forming in his eyes if he'd tried. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Swiping the tears away with the back of his right hand - ironically across the scar stating I must not tell lies - Harry sniffled and without lifting his head, he quietly answered, "It's back."

"I'm afraid that's what it looks like," Dr Swanson said the words Harry had hoped to never hear. "We ran a second-"

"- and a third-" Healer Smithe interjected.

"Yes, and a third test to be certain," she continued, "but I'd like to confirm with a bone marrow biopsy, as well as several other tests, to check if it's spread to anywhere else in your body."

Harry nodded, trying to think of what else he needed to know, but was too numb to move. How could one have dozens of questions and not be able to ask any of them?

"So what now?" Snape finally spoke up and Harry could hear the man's own grief heavy in his voice.

"I've scheduled the biopsy and imaging back at the hospital," Healer Smithe took the lead. "We'll use magical methods for the processing, so we should know what we're dealing with later this afternoon. While you go through all of those, Dr Swanson and I will start putting together a new treatment plan."

"But I feel fine," Harry lifted his head for the first time and wished the three pairs of eyes - black, brown, and blue - didn't look so sad. "I'm not tired or sick." He looked at Snape for support. How could the professor not see that this wasn't right, that last time he'd been very sick and now he felt fine? "And I've had no bruising or nosebleeds… at least not unwarranted ones, nothing like before. So how could I… erm… how could it come back?"

"You are absolutely right, Harry," once again, Healer Smithe started to answer, "based on the levels we're seeing, we should expect to see some kind of symptoms and I believe it's because of your magic. It's still early to say, but since we know your raw magic was focusing itself inwardly, it's not out of the realm of possibility that it facilitated the relapse, and then masked the symptoms. I'll be honest, it's not a scenario I'd anticipated. I, too, figured we'd see something if this were to happen."

If he understood right - an assumption in his current state, so he very well could be wrong - all this time they'd been celebrating his magic actually cooperating with the retraining and it's been silently, and that was the key term to use, killing him.

"You said this was the one the most treatable cancers," Harry recalled his healer's words from the day of his diagnosis, willing to find any way to turn the conversation around, "So… is that still… I mean… does that change when…"

He couldn't finish his question and was relieved when his muggle doctor understood.

"While that may be true for newly diagnosed cases, Harry," Dr Swanson started and Harry could feel the frustration he had when he'd first met her work it's way back up, "an ALL relapse, which is what it's called when the cancer comes out of remission, is unfortunately quite a bit harder to cure. Even with the aggressive treatments used, long term remission is achieved only thirty to fifty percent of the time."

Harry's stomach instantly lurched and his body started shaking, so he pulled Snape's coat tighter around him though it did no good. He didn't have to ask what happened to the other fifty to seventy percent of patients who didn't reach long term remission. Just when he felt like he was about to crumble, Snape's strong, solid arm wrapped its way around Harry's shoulders and the young wizard leaned into his mentor's chest.

"What I will say," Dr Swanson continued, "is that looking over your tests, outside of one questionable result at the beginning, which Dr Smithe consulted with me before doing the continuous chemotherapy, the rest have responded extremely well to your treatments. There's no guarantees, of course, but that is a positive trend we want to see in order to achieve a second remission."

"You said aggressive treatment," Snape said. "What does that mean?"

Healer Smithe spoke up, "Let's get everything confirmed first and then we'll talk about treatments once Dr Swanson and I have some time to go over a regimen plan."

Harry lifted his head so quickly, he almost hit the underside of Snape's jaw. "Could I do the potions this time?" He pleaded, "Maybe they'll work-"

Healer Smithe was shaking his head before Harry had a chance to finish his idea, making the Gryffindor angry inside. "As Dr Swanson mentioned, a relapse requires a far more aggressive protocol and the potions were a risk back when you were newly diagnosed with a nine out of ten remission rate. I'm afraid it's far too risky to offer it as an option. At that point, you might as well not do any treatment at all."

"Then when will we know the next steps?" Snape asked, more angrily than Harry would have expected. In fact, the more Harry looked at the professor, the more it seemed like he wanted to hit the healer.

"Right now we know the Leukemia has relapsed," Dr Swanson jumped back in, saying it without any doubt in her voice, "but until we get the biopsy and imaging, we don't know exactly what levels we're dealing with yet."

Wiping his eyes one more time, Harry stood up from the exam table, thankful to have Snape's arm holding tightly to him otherwise he was sure he'd fall straight to the ground. As they left the chemotherapy center for the hospital, Harry walked slowly with his school bag slung over his shoulder, and staring down at the floor knowing every single patient he passed knew why he didn't stay for his normal treatment, and deep down they were feeling grateful they hadn't been the one to get this news.

Harry felt so scared, numb, and defeated when he stumbled through the floo well after dinnertime - not that he was hungry with the bland lunch they had at the cafeteria still sitting heavily on his anxious stomach - he hardly noticed the physical pain he was in from the range of tests they had put him through at the hospital. If it had been a typical chemotherapy day, they would have disapparated from the clinic to right outside of the Hogwarts gates, but Harry couldn't take the possibility of seeing people in his current mood, especially if the Quidditch trials were still ongoing. Somehow he'd managed to get into, more or less, a stable state, and he was sure the moment his eyes met with one of his classmate's it would break him apart.

The whole afternoon felt like he was watching it all happen to him from a distance; as if it weren't even him, but someone else, maybe one of the other patients back at the clinic. People scurried around professionally and with a kindness he could only associate with someone who'd been given their death sentence. No matter how many different ways Healer Smithe and Dr Swanson - tag teaming him and Snape with information - explained his prognosis, it still didn't feel true. He didn't want to believe a single word they said.

The tests started with Dr Swanson taking another bone marrow biopsy, which Harry knew he'd never get used to, followed by a lumbar puncture to test his spinal fluids. Though those had been the same two tests he'd done back in Healer Smithe's office the first time around, this time knowing what they were looking for and what to expect made them infinitely harder to get through. After their third attempt, Dr Swanson prescribed the young wizard an anti-anxiety medication so he'd be able to calm down and stop shaking. In addition to the tests he'd done during his original diagnosis, they also took a scan of his brain and other areas of his body Dr Swanson said were common relapse sites for ALL. By then, the muggle calming draught was at its highest and Harry hardly remembered what they'd poked and prodded to get the images, and honestly, he didn't care much.

Once all of those were completed, they ended up back in Dr Swanson's office where she officially diagnosed him with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia Relapse targeted only in his bone marrow. Though he'd been given the unofficial diagnosis hours earlier, it still cut into his heart like a knife and he knew he'd never get used to hearing the word relapse. Dr Swanson kept emphasizing its sole location in his bone marrow, perhaps thinking by telling him they'd caught it before spreading to any other part of his body would be some kind of consolation to the bad news, but it made no difference to Harry's outlook on the situation. Nothing could lessen the blow of his diagnosis and he already dreaded having to tell everyone - his friends, Dudley, the Weasleys, Tonk and Remus - about what had happened.

As for treatment, they had a follow up scheduled for tomorrow to discuss the next steps; quicker than he'd expected and yet long enough away to cause his anxiety to eat away at him. He wanted to tell himself he could do another round of the chemotherapy he went through last year, but based on how often Dr Swanson referred to their next step as aggressive chemotherapy, he seriously began to doubt his abilities. Hadn't he done aggressive chemotherapy? How much worse could it really get? Those two questions filled every crevasse of his mind and yet, either from the calming medication or his own fear, he couldn't bring himself to ask about it. Instead he went through the motions, nodded his head when he should, and leaned on Snape to make it home; first to Spinner's End - where he wanted to stay - and then through the floo when the professor told him they'd be more comfortable in their quarters.

For Harry, the diagnosis of his relapse was distressing in itself, but Snape's reaction - or lack thereof - almost overshadowed it. Throughout all of the tests and information given to them, the professor stayed oddly quiet; only asking for clarification when Harry seemed not to understand or too overwhelmed to remember to ask. Thinking back, the Slytherin almost seemed better put together during his first diagnosis than this one and he wondered when the reality would hit the other wizard and how he would react when it did.

Without thinking, Harry headed straight to his bedroom, hearing Snape say something in the background, but like all the other words he'd heard throughout the day, they didn't register in his mind. He wanted to take a shower, to scrub away the residue of the day from the top layer of his skin. If only he could scrub all the way down to his blood, to his bones, and wash away the Leukemia once again crowding the space within it. He couldn't though, and he didn't have the energy to move much further than his bed - where he found himself curled up, facing the window, his back to the door - let alone make it to the shower. The soft knock on his door went unanswered as Harry stared unseeingly into his enchanted window, not noticing the raging storm outside of the castle matching his own internal feelings, and he hardly registered the door opening or Snape's footsteps across his room. He blinked back to the present when he felt the bed beneath his side dip down, and he could feel the professor's eyes watching him.

"I'm fine," Harry tried to assure Snape, hating that his voice betrayed him with its trembling. "You don't have to babysit me."

"It's ok to be not fine," Snape's deep voice tore right through the Gryffindor's false exterior, "the news today-"

"-is fine," Harry firmly interrupted, and faster than he'd moved all day, he sat up in his bed, pushed past Snape, and stormed across his room to stand in front of his wardrobe, "Seriously… I'll just start over again, right? Isn't that what I do? I just keep going-" he hadn't realized he had started pacing and running his hands up and down his arms while he spoke, each word getting faster and louder, "-I keep beating whatever's thrown at me and that's it. First my relatives, then Voldemort how many times… five? Six? But who's counting? So why not this?" He couldn't say the word relapse, it would make the situation too real for him, the word felt like a bitter poison in the back of his throat. Not knowing what he was doing, the young wizard pulled back his arm and slammed his open palm into his wooden wardrobe door, causing the door on the right side to rattle, freed it from its latch, and swung open. The motion released a piece of his frustration, and so he repeated it twice… three times... four… and right before he could hit it a fifth time, a strong firm grip took hold of his wrist and carefully pulled it away.

"Harry," Snape's smooth, firm voice said, and the young wizard wondered when he'd gotten so close. "Stop before you hurt yourself."

He didn't turn to face the man he needed more than anything, instead he rested his head against the now closed wardrobe enjoying the cool smooth texture against his too hot forehead.

"How much worse can this really get?" Harry asked, his shaking voice showing exactly how scared he felt in that moment. "Isn't this what I died from back there? So, what does it matter anymore?"

"No," Snape told him, "that's not how it happened back there. Back there, you died from a mistake made in your potions. Had that not happened, who's to say you would have died from the cancer?"

Harry closed his eyes as he came face to face with his own mortality from Snape's other world. What the professor said made no sense, but he was in no condition to question it. Later. He'd ask for clarification on it later, once all of this finally sunk in.

Suddenly, standing there with his head against his wardrobe, it became clear to Harry why the news seemed harder to handle now than at his first diagnosis. This time around, he knew exactly what to expect. Now he knew what was in store for him, or what the minimum of what he could anticipate as this round was bound to be worse.

"So what now?" Harry sniffled, hating himself for how weak he sounded.

"Now, we keep fighting," Snape told him, and in one swift movement, he turned Harry around and wrapped him in a strong embrace. The action completely unravelled the Gryffindor who would have surely crumbled to the floor had the professor not been there to support him. Tears he hadn't realized he'd been holding back fell from his eyes and for once he didn't care about feeling embarrassed. For the most part, throughout this last year he'd kept a positive attitude about it all, but standing there facing the reality waiting for him, he couldn't do it any longer; he didn't want to do it any longer. Deep down he knew something had been wrong - he knew the other shoe would drop - and now he'd been blindsided just like he had wanted to avoid all along.

"I can't do it," he cried into Snape's chest, violently shaking his head from side to side. "I'm sorry, but I just can't go through all of that again. I'm not strong enough and I'm just tired of fighting. I'm so sorry."

"Harry, this isn't the time-"

"IT IS!" Harry screamed, pushing back away from Snape's comfort. "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE, SO DON'T TELL WHEN I CAN AND CAN'T TALK ABOUT IT!"

"Stop!" Snape exclaimed, causing Harry's head to snap up and look at him. The man's dark eyes held a pain within them Harry had never seen. And yet in all outwardly appearances, he appeared calm. The professor's hand reached out and grabbed ahold of Harry's left wrist, which he now realized had been scratching at his port, almost as if he subconsciously wanted to remove it. The small device had sat there so long he hardly noticed it anymore, however in his current state it felt like a foreign part of his body he needed to expel immediately. "This is not a decision we make after the news we received this morning, understood? It's why Alton and Dr Swanson did not present the treatment plan yet. We need time to process what's going on. We need time to rest. We need time to think."

Harry couldn't help but notice how there was no "I" or "you" in his speech, only "we"; a testament to Harry that he was not alone in this. That while only he would have to endure the pain of whatever aggressive chemotherapy entailed, Snape would stand by his side, or kneel beside him while he was sick, during it all.

They stood in that same position, staring at one another daring the other to make the first move for what seemed like hours. When Snape eventually moved, he held his arm out towards Harry's bed and slowly led the young wizard back to it. Sometime during the short walk back to the bed, Snape had summoned the muggle sleeping tablets Harry had been refusing to take since his kidnapping.

He helped Harry sit down in his bed, held out the tablet with a glass of water from the bedside table and said, "You need to take this tonight. It's not an option."

Harry didn't try to talk his way out of it, showing just how exhausted and fuzzy his mind was in that moment. Not saying a word, and still dressed in the clothes he expected to get chemotherapy in that morning, Harry laid down on his side, gently prodding his port, and hoping sleep would come quickly so he could wake up far away from the nightmare he managed to find himself in.

~~~~SS~~~~

This cannot be happening. I can't do this again.

Those selfish thoughts ran rampantly through Severus's mind, tearing down all the neat and tidy walls he'd built over the year in order to deal with his unique situation: his first son's death, the cancer in this Harry, Harry's accidental magic, the looming Death Eater threat, and his normal everyday life. Sitting in that suffocating exam room, listening to the news of Harry's Leukemia relapse had every nerve in Severus's body firing at once, leaving him somewhere between overstimulated and numb for the rest of the day.

They were headed into deep, dark, uncharted waters, yet the situation felt far too close to the day of his first son's terminal diagnosis for his liking. He'd been familiar with Leukemia, almost an expert in navigating the Gryffindor's prognosis - magically and medically - , its symptoms, and side effects. Outside of the error in the original potions formulation, it had almost been textbook easy. A relapse, though, would not only bring him into a new, unfamiliar realm, it was one where the odds were against the teen; where Harry was more likely to succumb to the cancer than survive it, and that didn't even account for his magic aiding the cancer growing within him. When he heard Harry's raw magic may have caused the relapse, evidence of yet another failed crossroad, it took all of his resolve not to break down right there in the office. Everything he'd been working towards, everything - and everyone - he'd sacrificed to give Harry a chance to live, had potentially been for naught.

Completely defeated, Severus allowed his legs to carry him out of Harry's bedroom without sparing a second thought over his destination. Unsurprisingly, those legs brought him to the only place where he had any chance of escaping this newest reality - his liquor cabinet. Mindlessly, his hands fumbled to open the door and haphazardly pulled out a dusty bottle of firewhiskey and a glass tumbler. The three quarter full bottle of amber liquid was plenty more than he should be drinking, yet given the circumstances he subconsciously took note of the second full bottle - a gift from Albus last Christmas - tucked away behind it. Being as busy as he had this year, he'd hardly spent any casual time in his quarters and therefore the bottle and glass in his hands felt almost foreign to him as he walked to his armchair. How could the year - one which promised healing, growing, and friendship - take such a dark turn so quickly? Between the flood and the relapse, Severus found himself completely unraveling; he'd previously reached his limit and was now pummeling towards the bottom, unable to come up with any other way to slow himself down.

Some unknown time later, Severus had no clue what number glass of firewhiskey he poured, nor did he care. Whatever it took to numb his pain and despair he would welcome it with open arms. Gone were all of his inhibitions, those he strategically erected to make sure he would never turn into his drunken father, and in its place was pure desperation. Slamming back the current glass of whiskey in his hand, he relished in the burning sensation trailing down his throat, following it all the way into his stomach. If only the burning could penetrate his core and erase the crushing feeling suffocating him from the inside out; maybe then he could find some way to function and continue to move forward. He cradled his head in his right hand - propped up by his elbow on his knee - with the glass hanging in his left mere centimeters from the floor, his mind raced, trying to put some sense into what was happening. Letting the glass slip from his fingers, it fell to the ground, landing safely on its side - not giving him the satisfaction of hearing it shatter - spilling the last bit of liquid onto the floor around his feet. His unseeing eyes watched the glass roll, coming to an abrupt stop when it hit the gap between his armchair and the stone floor. The rest of his drinks for the night would come straight from the bottle.

This has to be a nightmare, he told himself over and over until the idea consumed every corner of his befuddled mind and, heavily aided by the alcohol, he started to truly believe it. It made perfect sense. If only he could find something to show himself he was living elsewhere - perhaps still in his old reality - it would startle him awake into the comfort of his bed and he'd be able to breathe easier. Pushing himself up and out of his chair, Severus frantically stumbled around the room turning over everything within his reach in hopes of discovering at least one object to prove to himself this wasn't real: a picture frame from his old life, a book he never owned here, or the adoption certificate.

Against all odds, he'd somehow managed to stagger his way over to the bookcases lining the wall near his office - making an impromptu stop by the liquor cabinet along the way to swap the almost empty bottle for the full one - and started forcefully pulling down every object he could reach. The sound of his own heart beating into his ears coupled with his labored breathing drowned out the deafening crash of each heavy book as they tumbled to the floor. His inability to reach the top three shelves along the wall didn't matter because he'd exhausted himself long before his feeble attempt to get to them. The floor around him was now littered in potions journals, old textbooks, years worth of his own research notebooks, broken pieces of quills, and shattered glasses and spilled ink; all of which had a rightful place in his quarters. Severus sank to the ground wishing for a split second it would swallow him whole. Maybe then he would wake up and find they'd made a mistake after all and Harry would be fine.

Surrounded by his belongings - evidence of his failure mocking him - the professor's sluggish, drunken mind struggled to find any solution possible, when his eyes somehow caught sight of the book Albus brought him outlining the Magical Block Ritual. Taking a swig of whiskey from the bottle, he pulled the book open and hastily searched for the recipe he needed. In hindsight, it seemed so obvious he questioned why he hadn't thought about it before. There wouldn't be a red potion at the end this time if things went wrong, so he had to do this right from the beginning, and that meant first blocking Harry's magic. If they didn't take this crucial, albeit dark, step, any and all of the treatments his doctor and healer talked about tomorrow would be worthless as the magic continued to assist the Leukemia in killing the young wizard.

Tapping into the academic side of his brain - hoping the liquor hadn't washed away too much at this point of the night - he managed to find the ritual. The ingredients seemed straight forward, if difficult to obtain, and until now he'd not really considered how they'd go about getting them:

Fresh blood of the host
Grave dirt taken from a relative of the host
Red clay collected from Abyaneh during a full moon
A phial of Water of Life from Abkhazia

Though unpleasant, the first two would be the easiest. Harry could donate blood the first morning of the ritual, and a trip to Godric's Hollow for a visit to Lily and James's grave sites - surely they'd understand the need to disturb their resting place - would be quick and painless. Having just sent off the latest batch of Wolfsbane to Lupin last week in preparation for the full moon on Tuesday, they wouldn't have to wait a month for someone to go to Iran and collect the red clay. Severus would never say their situation was lucky, but not having this drag on another month waiting for the next full moon worked in their favor.

The last one though - a phial of Water of Life from Abkhazia - would prove difficult, if not impossible. The Water of Life, also known to some as the Spring of Life or Fountain of Youth, resided in the land of the darkness and could only be collected by those willing to pay the steep price. The stories surrounding the Water of Life were filled with irony of those who searched for it carrying all of their gold and riches only to find the price was the one thing they wouldn't pay: life for life. Severus admitted he didn't know exactly what "life for life" entailed, but he wouldn't hesitate trading his own life for Harry's. Nevertheless even in his completely intoxicated state, he knew how much the young wizard needed him here, leaving him without any other viable options. Hopelessness seeped into every part of his body as the professor sat on the cold ground, his legs sprawled out in front of him like a toddler, trying to find an answer; he had to fix this, Harry had to be alright in the end.

And as he was as close to giving up as he'd ever been, the professor took another long draw of the amber liquid and he thought back to a day not too unlike this one, when he needed a solution no matter how desperate or impossible it seemed. Back there he'd found it; he'd left that night to go get his answer, and instantly he knew where he needed to go. But first, he had to call someone to stay with Harry. Should the young wizard wake up in his absence, the last thing Severus wanted was for him to be alone. His current depressive state made casting anything more than a few silver wisps of his Patronus impossible, so instead he belligerently stuck his head into the floo and practically demanded Minerva to come through to his quarters.

"Severus, what happened here?" His colleague and friend shockingly asked when she stepped out from the floo and saw the mess from the bookcases strown upon the floor. "Are you alright?"

"M'fine," he slurred, not making eye contact as he collected the book he'd need to convince Lucius of his plans, "I need you t'watch 'arry for a bit."

"Have you been drinking?" She admonished, though the empty bottle by the cabinet behind her and the fallen glass on the floor near her feet gave all the confirmation she needed. "Where is Harry?"

"Can't esplain now." His wobbly hand pointed to Harry's room, "He's sleeeeepin'. Should be down the 'ole night. I have ta go. I 'ave ta fix this."

Determination quickly replaced where his depression had once settled - masking it at best, but he'd take whatever he could get - and so ignoring Minerva's protests, he grabbed his travelling cloak, wand, and the bottle of whiskey, then pulled open his door. Clearly torn between following her former student or staying with Harry, Minerva continued to plead for him to return as he made his way down the corridor, but she didn't cross the threshold. Severus paused at the bottom of the stairs leading out of the dungeons and released a whiskey laced breath when he didn't hear her firm footsteps following him; she'd correctly decided to stay with her Lion.

A small swift movement from the corner of his eye - paired with his limited reasoning skills - had the professor brandishing his wand, ready to duel the potential enemy he was sure was lurking within the depths of the castle waiting to attack. His wand shook from the trembling in his arm as his eyes focused on the "potentially deadly creature": the white kitten he had too often seen wandering around the school. A nagging in the back of his mind warned him of some significance to the cat, but it was too hazy to come to any solid conclusion.

"What're you lookin' at?" He wailed at the small mammal, simultaneously stowing his wand back into his cloak. The cat stood frozen in the corridor near the entrance to the Slytherin Dungeon with its back raised in either fear or aggression, neither of which Severus cared about. "Why're ya even down 'ere?! Geddout b'fore you end up in my potions cubbrd!"

Stumbling up the stairs as gracefully as possible, Severus didn't notice the cat slinking its way a consistent two meters behind him. Being small and nimble had its advantages, making the ball of white fluff able to sneak through the heavy wooden doors leading out of the grounds right before they closed behind the professor. The storms which swept through the castle earlier in the afternoon had moved on, but it left the ground frigid and wet, causing the kitten's fur to be quickly covered in mud. Undeterred, the feline utilized his ability to see in the dark to aid him in watching and following his unsteady target - who luckily hadn't tripped on any of the stones - down the pathway leading to where he knew the anti-apparation wards were located. His grey eyes widened in shock when the professor disappeared without hesitation and he hoped the other wizard would land in one piece on the other side.

Searing pain greeted Severus when his feet landed outside of the tall wrought iron gates of Malfoy Manor. Although he'd never splinched himself in all of years apparating, he recognized the blinding pain in his left side as exactly that. It made sense, he probably should not have attempted to disapparate in his condition, nevertheless he'd made it to his intended destination and therefore a little lost skin - quite literally - was a worthwhile sacrifice. Nevertheless, he still had the bottle of firewhiskey in his hand and he felt his wand tucked in his robe, so there wasn't much else he needed.

As the pain quickly increased and his black muggle shirt - the one he'd worn to the chemotherapy clinic - beneath his cloak became cold and wet from the sticky blood, he stumbled towards the gates in hopes of getting the Malfoy Patriarch's attention. In his mind he imagined he would simply cross the wards, thus alerting the residents to his presence, but reality rarely matched expectations, especially on a day such as that one. Instead, he stumbled up to the gate, grasping his left side with his right arm and falling face first into the cold iron bars, dragging his shirt agonizingly across his splinched skin. Crossing the security wards in this manner triggered an instant, but silent, alarm and the professor found himself on the wrong end of three wands pointed directly at him; one through the gate he practically laid upon and the other two jabbed roughly into his back.

He hadn't checked the time before his departure from Hogwarts, an oversight on his part likely due to the amount of alcohol clouding his judgement. It had been dark when he'd left, and since he hadn't passed any students, he assumed it to be after ten o'clock - the weekend curfew for the entire student population. Otherwise, surely someone would have seen him in his inebriated state as they waited until the very last second to get back to their Common Room. If he had to guess, it was nearing eleven o'clock, but knowing Lucius, he'd be burning the midnight oil trying to stay on top of his many business ventures.

"m'a friend of Lussus," Severus's dark voice slurred, lifting his hands, causing him to wince when the pressure left his injured side. "I need ta see 'im. S'importnt."

"Hold it there," the guard warned, and the wands surrounding him tightened when Severus moved to grab his side again. This wasn't how it went in his old reality, then again, he'd been much more clear headed there.

Just when the former spy thought he'd need to abandon his quest, adding another failure to the day, he heard Lucius's calculated voice.

"Thank you, gentlemen," the other Slytherin announced, "you may stand down, this man is a friend… and one who appears to be quite injured."

No words were exchanged while the guards backed away and the gates opened to allow him entry. Each step Severus took up to the manor pulled on the wound at his side, but he didn't make a sound of protest. He was on a mission and wouldn't do anything to jeopardize its success.

"It appears Narcissa had been right about your apparation skills after all," Lucius commented, helping the professor into one of their sitting rooms off the entryway and into a silver wingback chair. The professor couldn't hold back the groans when he removed his travelling cloak and lifted the side of his shirt to see the damage. Sure enough, a section of his side - roughly fifteen centimeters around - was missing, leaving a shallow crater of bleeding skin.

"Of course that-" Lucius's head nodded to the bottle of firewhiskey still clutched for dear life in Severus's left hand, "-likely had something to do with it. Merlin, Severus, you know better than to disapparate in this state. You're lucky you didn't decapitate yourself."

"I'need your 'elp," Severus pleaded, completely ignoring the blonde's lecture and his bleeding side.

"What you need is to get sober," Lucius chided, "and some Dittany."

Severus shook his head, but no words came out from his mouth. He didn't need either of those, he needed to help Harry.

"Lucius?" Narcissa's soft voice caused the professor to turn towards the open doorway to his left. "Is everything… what happened?"

She rushed up to the pair of wizards with her eyes wide, looking calculatedly into Severus's new wound. The fire roaring in the large fireplace to Severus's right baked the room in a soft orange glow allowing him to see that the Matriarch was already dressed for bed in a dark green silk dressing gown and matching slippers. If she were embarrassed by her attire in front of him, she didn't show it as she summoned several potions Severus knew by sight alone: Essence of Dittany, Pain Draught, Sobriety Elixir, and a Calming Draught. How she knew he'd need the last one, Severus could only guess.

He took the Pain Draught without question - the Dittany did it's best work when the recipient wasn't clenching against the painful work - but refused the Sobriety Elixir. Sobering up immediately defeated the entire purpose of the drinking and the calming draught just wouldn't do enough to block the crushing feeling in his chest.

"You need to take this, Severus," Narcissa commanded, removing the bottle of firewhiskey from his grip and pressing the uncorked phial of black liquid in its place.

"No," his brows knitted together as if he didn't understand the words she'd just said to him. "I'need life water."

"We'll figure it all out after I fix up your side," she told him in a voice one would use if speaking to a petulant young child, "and you need to drink this in order for me to do it. You can have the Calming Draught right afterwards."

She was lying and she knew he'd know it - at least in his sobered state - however something in her voice told Severus they would help him, but not if he didn't play by their rules. Feeling sweat bead up on his forehead, he gave a swift nod and drank back the Sobriety Elixir in much the same manner as he did the firewhiskey to get him to this state in the first place. The elixir was thick, like a sludge, coating his tongue and the path it took down his throat to his stomach. The process of ridding the excess alcohol from his bloodstream didn't hurt - a testament to the brewer's skill level - and he immediately took the Calming Draught when the flood of emotions came washing over him; the helplessness over Harry's relapse, his own doubts of being able to handle more rounds of chemotherapy, and the fear of watching Harry succumb to this disease for a second time. The Calming Draught was a strong one, but not nearly as effective as the alcohol had been.

Seeing the professor's eyes clear, Narcissa silently went to work on closing his wound using the Dittany and then wrapping it tight with a set of conjured bandages around his entire waist.

"That'll work for now," she said, sitting back to admire her work. Severus blanched in embarrassment at the large spot of blood on the front of her expensive dressing gown. "I want you to go to Madam Pomfrey when you return to Hogwarts, though. She'll make sure it holds."

"Thank you, Narcissa," he told her, "You have my sincerest apologies for my actions earlier."

She gave a curt nod and left the room with only the smallest of glance in Lucius's direction.

"Still having trouble?" Severus inquired, feeling the weight of the world seeping back into him with the alcohol now gone from his system.

"We still have a long road ahead of us," the patriarch peered back at the door leading to the rest of the enormous manor where his wife had just walked out through. "I will say, fixing you up has been the most… focused... she's been, what with the renovations coming to an end."

Severus swallowed back the lump growing in his throat.

"So tell me," Lucius walked over to the fireplace, his back strategically turned towards Severus, and watched the flames slowly dance across their home, "what happened to cause such a reaction from a wizard as careful as yourself? The Severus I know wouldn't dare leave himself so vulnerable. I always imagined you as a locked up drunk, making sure you couldn't leave whatever prison you decided to inebriate yourself in."

"I'll just see myself out," Severus began to stand, halting when the door in front of him closed automatically.

"Are you forgetting this?" Lucius held out the bottle to which Severus did not reach for. "You came here seeking something important enough to risk splinching yourself dead, you might as well ask for it."

If it weren't for the Calming Draught, the professor was sure he'd uncharacteristically crumble to the floor thinking back on the conversation at the chemotherapy clinic.

"I need Water of Life from Abkhazia," he replied quietly, staring into Lucius's grey eyes; the same eyes Draco inherited. Now with a sober mind, he didn't know what he'd been thinking coming here. Even if Lucius knew how to get to the source and what to exchange, he doubted his own ability to be able to do it in time.

"I see," Lucius turned, his hands were clasped together in front of his chest. "Am I correct to assume its need is for a certain young wizarding savior?"

Severus grimaced at the question. He hated when others referred to Harry as such, but they toed the line of getting into a conversation far from either of their comfort zones.

"It came back," he averted his eyes away from his friend as he said the three words, unable to say them otherwise. "I can't even begin to start to explain it all, but his healer believes his magic caused it… and now we need…"

Lucius's eyes lit up for a fraction of a second, and with a half grin he said, "You're going to block his magical core."

Severus didn't respond. He didn't have to, the other wizard said it as a statement, not a question.

"It's amazing what we'd do for the children we love," Lucius continued, cryptically. "They do drive us mad most of the time, and yet we'd kill to keep them alive."

"Do you know how to get it or not?" Severus demanded, tired from the day and his aching side and wishing he hadn't made the bloody trip. "I don't have time for games."

"Then you're in luck, Severus," the blonde chorted. "The Malfoys have collected a wide variety of ancient, rare, and usually dark artefacts over the centuries. It's been longer than I'd like to admit since I've visited the vault, however I do seem to recall there being a rather healthy supply of the Water of Life you seek."

Suddenly, Severus felt sick to his stomach at the idea of the family collecting from this spring. The Malfoys' questionable ethics were no secret in the wizarding community across the continent, not only in Britain, and yet the thought of their seemingly disposable sacrifices to obtain the water felt like it should have crossed a line even for them. As someone who benefitted from those questionable morals more often than he would like, did it really make him any better than Lucius? And did it change if one needed to taint their soul to save the life of the child he loved as his son?

"The cost? I'm sure something so difficult to replace would be priceless," Severus neutrally replied. It would tell Lucius of his interest without committing blindly.

The aristocratic wizard looked down at the professor sitting back in the wingback chair clutching his wrapped side."I don't need anything from you now, Severus," he bargained, "but I would expect if a favor were required, you would not stand in my way."

A "blank cheque" as the muggles would say, or probably more in tune with selling his mortal soul to the mortal devil. Though they'd certainly crossed the line into friendship over the year, what Severus needed went far beyond what a friend would give. To replenish what he took would require Lucius - or any future Malfoy - to venture off towards the Middle East likely with someone who would be sacrificed for their cause. Could Severus condemn another person to their death in the future so he could help save Harry's life today?

He closed his eyes and before he talked himself out of it, nodded his head and answered, "Of course. Whatever it is you need."

"Don't sound so doom and gloom," the other wizard sighed, "I'm certainly the better person to owe a favor to than the Dark Lord and we both still bear that mark. When do you need the ingredient?"

"As soon as possible," Severus answered, not commenting on the other part of his statement. "The full moon is Tuesday, so no later than then."

"I don't foresee that being an issue."

The clock above the mantle rang midnight and Severus could almost breathe a little lighter. The day had flipped over and now the awful news fell into "yesterday", a small but important detail. Today, Dr Swanson and Healer Smithe would be over to go through Harry's next treatment plan; today would be focused on how to fix the problem. His period of wallowing - or at least one of them - was now behind him and in its place a plan of action.

"I'd offer you a nightcap," Lucius jested, pulling down his container of floo powder, "however it wouldn't mix well with the Sobriety Elixir. After all, what good is wasting a potion if you're only going to turn around and negate its purpose?

"I would highly suggest you refrain from apparating until your side is healed, and floo home before floo'ing to Hogwarts."

Severus gave a sad chucklein response. His exhaustion had caught up with him and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, and floo'ing would achieve the result far quicker than attempting to disapparate. The thought of Minerva back in his quarters - having to face the Gryffindor with a full explanation - seemed daunting, but he couldn't put it off any longer. He'd accomplished more than what he came here for and at least now being sober would help him get through what may be waiting to attack him when he made it back into his Hogwarts sitting room.

"I'll keep this-" Lucius shook the bottle of firewhiskey playfully, "- if you don't mind. Certainly you have more at home, but do try to let the Elixir work its way out of your system first."

"I'll keep that in mind," Severus flatly responded. He reached out and grabbed a handful of powder, but before throwing it down he added, "Thank you, Lucius."

Not waiting for a response which wouldn't come, he called out "Spinner's End" and disappeared to his muggle home, where he would floo back to Hogwarts to sort through whatever the minimum amount of information Minerva would take to get her to leave for the night.