Chapter Three

Severus hurried after Madam Pomfrey, the necessary potions already Accio’d from the cupboards in the dungeons.

Blasted boy, can never get through a game of Quidditch without injuries.

He remembered the time when Quirrell had hexed the boy’s broom, and that game in his third year, and—the list went on and on. Potter was a bloody magnet for trouble – although this time, Severus knew all too well what the trouble was.

Goddamn Malfoy, he thought.

The day of Quidditch had worn Severus out, and he happily stood back as Madam Pomfrey worked on Potter. Potter looked bad – the wards on the pitch had softened his fall, but the Bludger had smashed into the side of his face, breaking his nose and several teeth, bloodying his chin and making it swell. Blood dribbled down on the ground, below Potter’s lifeless body. His face had already started turning purple when Pomfrey started with her spells and healing charms.

Potter’s friends came running onto the pitch, the Granger girl close to tears. His team mates had landed, as had the parent team. Severus looked up at Lucius, only to see him with a pleased smirk.

“Will he be all right?”

Draco drawled the words, but Severus had known him long enough to hear the subtle, honest worry in the boy’s voice.

“Madam Pomfrey hasn’t lost a student to Quidditch yet,” Severus said, careful to keep any emotion out of his voice. “I’m sure she won’t allow the great Boy Who Lived to be the first.”

Draco nodded mutely, watching Pomfrey conjure a stretcher and place Harry upon it. Severus saw Draco glance at his father every now and then, and he knew that Draco too was aware of the person behind Potter’s injury. As usual, nothing would stick, of course, if taken to the Wizengamot. Lucius Malfoy had gotten out of messes far worse than this one. He would claim that he had only sent the Bludger in Potter’s general direction – it was his job as Beater after all.

Many followed Pomfrey as she took Potter to the hospital wing, and the rest of the crowd scattered, the good mood of the afternoon lost with Potter’s injury. Severus mostly felt like lying down, tired after the day’s escapades.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Draco spoke quietly now – Lucius stood speaking to the Parkinsons, but Severus did not doubt that he listened to every word Draco and Severus exchanged.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?” Severus asked.

Draco shook his head, staring out at the Quidditch pitch. “No, sir.”

When Harry showed up for the feast that night, doused with Pepper-Up Potion and other strengthening potions, the crowd cheered. Many made their way down to speak to him and Harry wondered if some of them only did it because they finally had a reason to address the famous Harry Potter.

Once everyone was seated, Harry flanked by Hermione and Ron on either side, Dumbledore stood and spoke.

“Now that we have all gathered,” he said, “let me first thank you all for a fine afternoon of sportsmanship. I hope you’ve all had a great time – there seem to be no sore losers.”

Harry wondered what kind of drugs the Headmaster was on. A ‘fine afternoon of sportsmanship’? Was that what Lucius Malfoy’s continuous misuse of Bludgers could be called? Harry was the only seriously injured player, but that did not mean Lucius had not done what he could to hurt the other students, particularly those who had been against Voldemort in the war. Harry held back a snort at the part about no sore losers as well – the Hufflepuffs did not look too happy about the Lucius Malfoy team winning over them.

“I want to congratulate today’s winners. In second place, the Slytherin team, with four hundred and ten points.”

Some cheering, especially among the parents, took place. The Slytherins did not look as happy. Harry studied both Snape and Draco upon the announcement – Snape looked as he always did, with a heavy scowl on his face, and Draco’s eyes were cast downwards. Lucius, sitting next to him, did not look happy. Harry wondered what kind of pressure Lucius placed upon his son – did Malfoy Senior expect Draco to win, and if he did, what were the repercussions when Draco failed?

“And, our winners in this little tournament – the Ravenclaw student team, with four hundred and sixty points – congratulations!”

The Ravenclaw table broke out in wild cheers.

Harry knew it would have been the Gryffindors, had his broom only not been jinxed. It did not matter much – Harry had won enough games and this rather silly little competition against the parents had only been for fun, and not nearly the prestige of the House Cup. Harry clapped and smiled and told the players congratulations.

“We’ll take them next time,” Ron said.

“Yeah,” Ginny said, “When Lucius bloody Malfoy isn’t on the other team.”

“Now, now, watch the language. We have no proof of such allegations, do we?” Mrs. Weasley said, though Harry did not think her tone of voice quite matched. In fact, Mrs. Weasley sounded just as convinced of Mr. Malfoy’s guilt as everyone else.

An hour later, Harry felt the potions’ effects wearing off. He had promised to return to the Hospital Wing after dinner so that Madam Pomfrey could keep him over night, and after bidding the others good night – and fighting them off as they offered to walk him back to the Infirmary – Harry left.

The stairs barely moved as Harry made his way upstairs. The corridors echoed emptily.

“Mister Potter.”

Harry’s blood froze upon hearing the chilly voice. He turned to face Mr. Malfoy.

“Malfoy.”

“It’s a wonder you’re up and about,” Mr. Malfoy said. “And all alone, too.”

“Yes,” Harry said, wishing he had accepted his friends’ offer to walk him back. “A real wonder.”

Mr. Malfoy stepped closer, that unpleasant cane of his clicking against the floor. Harry felt light-headed. The potions were definitely wearing off and he might soon be too weak to stand. He would be no match for Mr. Malfoy tonight.

“Was there something you wanted?” he asked.

“What do you think people would say, if the Boy Who Lived was found dead in an empty corridor?” Mr. Malfoy asked.

“They’d realise it was you who killed me,” Harry said.

He gripped his wand, though he could not be certain that he would be strong enough to cast any spells.

“Are you really, truly sure?” Mr. Malfoy asked, levelling his wand at Harry.

“Harry?”

Just then, Hermione’s voice floated down the corridor. Harry had never been so relieved to hear his friend’s voice.

“Down here,” he said. He looked at Mr. Malfoy. “You should probably leave.”

Mr. Malfoy glanced back at the corridor where Hermione was sure to show up at any moment. He glared hotly at Harry for a long second, and Harry thought the man might just kill him anyway, but then he swept off in the other direction and disappeared.

“Hermione?” Harry called.

But Hermione did not come, nor did she respond. Harry frowned, making his way down the corridor.

“Hermione?”

Draco Malfoy looked rather like a deer caught in headlights when Harry rounded the corner. He stared at Harry, then turned his eyes to the floor. Far from feeling like fighting – he swayed on his feet as it was – Harry asked tiredly:

“Malfoy? What are you doing here? Your father just went that way-”

“I—uh,” said Malfoy, with a lack of eloquence that was highly unusual for him. “I’m not looking for my father.”

“No? Then what are you doing here? Did you see Hermione? She was just coming up here,” Harry said. “Perhaps she and her parents are checking the castle out—”

Malfoy looked up. “Uh, that was me.”

Harry looked dubiously at Malfoy. “Right.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Vocius Hermione Granger.” When he spoke again, his voice had changed to that of Harry’s best friend. “Harry?”

It sounded so very strange and wrong, to hear Hermione’s voice – female voice – come out of Malfoy’s mouth. Harry simply stared. Perhaps his exhausted brain was playing tricks on him. He could feel the pain potions lose their effect now too – the side of his face where the Bludger had hit pulsed painfully.

“Why?” he said.

Malfoy ended the spell, his voice returning to normal.

“My father is up to no good, as usual,” Malfoy said. “Or would you prefer I left the two of you alone?”

“No, no, that’s quite all right. I—uh—thanks,” Harry said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—the Infirmary seems like a good idea.”

He nodded to the other boy, and passed him. He felt unsteady, his head spinning and his face throbbing. When he took another shaky step forward, he felt a hand under his arm, steadying him.

“Let’s get you to the Infirmary before you fall down,” Malfoy said.

“You don’t usually help me,” Harry said, “and now you’re doing it twice in one night? Why?”

Anger and hurt flashed briefly through Malfoy’s eyes, although he did not let go of Harry. “I can leave you if you want me to.”

Harry shook his head. “No, don’t. I’m sorry – I’m just not used to you being anything but nasty.”

“I’m not my father, I don’t want you dead,” Malfoy said.

“But our fighting is fun?”

Malfoy shrugged, and they started making their way up the stairs towards the Hospital Wing. “Yes.”

Harry shook his head, then regretted it when the world spun even worse. He mumbled, “You have a strange sense of fun.”

“Sparring with you has always been fun,” Malfoy said, rather softly.

Harry did not answer; he barely noticed that he leaned rather heavily now on Malfoy, counting on his support to continue up the stairs. He did not notice Malfoy’s head turning this way and that, looking for something. Nor did he feel the light kiss Malfoy placed on the back of his head, when they had reached the Infirmary and Malfoy had helped Harry onto the bed.

Harry recovered, as he always seemed to do, with Madam Pomfrey’s care and a hefty dose of healing potions. A night’s sleep later, he felt as good as new. The previous evening’s adventure seemed almost like a dream, and Harry could not quite piece together the helpful Malfoy he almost remembered of the night before, with the unpleasant git who sat sneering at the Slyterhin table the next lunch, when Harry had been allowed to leave the Infirmary.

Yet the younger Malfoy’s sneer seemed kind and loving in comparison to his father’s hateful, cold eyes. Harry held back a shudder, thinking about what could have happened – would have happened – the evening before, if it had not been for Draco.

“Now that you’ve had your Quidditch injury, do you think you could stay on the broom and away from the Bludgers for the rest of the year?” Ginny grinned at Harry.

Harry smiled, “I’ll try.”

“Please do,” Hermione said. “I’ve said it before, I don’t like that sport.”

Ron rolled his eyes, and kissed her cheek. “We know.”

“After yesterday, I have to agree,” Mrs. Weasley said. “It is an awfully dangerous sport.”

“But mum, his broom was hexed,” Ginny said. “It wasn’t Harry’s fault.”

“I overheard Professor McGonagall talking to Dumbledore,” Dean Thomas said. “They couldn’t find any hex on the broom.”

“What are you talking about?” Ron said. “Of course there was – he couldn’t steer it!”

Dean shrugged apologetically. “They didn’t find anything.”

“As usual,” Harry said. “Nothing sticks to him.”

Hermione, Ron and Ginny followed his glare to the Slytherin table, to the man sitting regally with his wife on one side and his son on the other. Mr. Malfoy looked up, and gave Harry a quick smirk. Harry felt his blood boiling.

One day, Harry would see to it that that man was sent to Azkaban – for good.

That day passed quickly, and before anyone had time to realise it, Sunday had come and the parents were going home again. Hermione and Ron both said goodbye to their parents quickly, and waved them off as the Hogwarts Express began moving towards London again.

It was nice, Harry thought, to have the school back as it should be – without parents. The last three days had been a bit too chaotic for his liking; everywhere he had gone, there had been people. With the added bonuses of the Quidditch tournament and his subsequent intimate meeting with the Bludger, and his rendezvous with Lucius Malfoy in the corridor, Harry was only too glad for the return to normalcy.

He was tired.

Sitting down in the deserted Gryffindor common room – everyone else was still down in the Great Hall – he sighed deeply to himself. Dean had been correct – neither Dumbledore nor any of the other teachers had been able to find any hex on the broom Harry had used. Despite the fact that everyone had seen the broom’s refusal to follow Harry’s orders, no one could link it back to Lucius Malfoy.

Harry had told the Headmaster of his meeting with the elder Mr. Malfoy in the corridor – but his memories of it had been jumbled. He had extracted his memory into a Pensive, but all that had told them was that it could not be used as evidence – the pain and exhaustion of Harry’s mind made even the Pensive memory foggy and uncertain.

“I’m sorry, Harry, but this would be far too easy for Mr. Malfoy’s lawyers to shred,” Professor Dumbledore had said. “And though I have no doubt his intent was to hurt you, he never did anything to you.”

Harry had not told him of Draco’s help that night. It would not have mattered – and Harry had some trouble believing it to begin with.
 
His thoughts turned to Professor Snape.

The Potions master had seemed all right after that first, strange evening, but there was something nagging Harry's mind. Perhaps it was the look in the professor's eye, or perhaps he really did walk more stiffly, as though his body hurt. Harry could not tell, and he could not very well ask.

That'd go over real well, he thought sarcastically to himself. "Professor Snape, are you okay? You seem to be walking like you're hurting – are you in pain?" He bit my head off for wanting to help him the last time – Gryffindor house points would be in the negatives if I asked him that…

Hermione and Ron still did not know what had happened on the night of the first feast with the parents. After the breakfast, when Harry had said he would tell them, there had just not been one moment where he had been alone with his friends, and too many other things had happened.

He heard footsteps, and knew that his time for being alone was over. He sighed to himself, before forcing a smile onto his lips.

Draco could not be happier about the fact that his father had finally left. To act like the perfect Slytherin for three days when he really felt like anything but had been draining. Even more so when he worked every moment to keep his father from hurting and killing the Gryffindors; one of them in particular. Still, he was getting very good at pretending. He wondered if it was a good thing, and decided that, when it came to his father, being able to pretend was a very good thing. If his father ever found out where his thoughts took him these days… He shuddered to think of what his father would do to him if he knew.

There was something else going on in the castle as well. An incident that troubled Draco.

On the first night the parents had been there – the night of the feast, that was – Draco had seen the very odd scene of his Potions professor leaning against the wall, breathing heavily with his eyes closed. In all the years Draco had gone to Hogwarts, and the years before Hogwarts when his father and Severus had spent time together, he had never seen him like that. His face looked tired beyond belief, his posture, which was normally proud, sagging.

He had just been about to go help Severus, when he heard footsteps. Harry Potter stood a few feet away from Severus. He looked confused. Severus did not seem to notice him at all, at first. Not until the professor asked, "What do you want, Potter?" did Draco realise he had known all along.

"Are you all right?"

Typical Harry to never answer a question. And an insane Harry to ask his most hated teacher such a question.

But Severus did not snap back. Instead he straightened, and Draco saw him begin to fall over. He was weak, that much seemed obvious. But why? He had not shown any signs of being sick during dinner, or throughout the day.

Harry leaned forward to steady him, and the Potions master growled, "Get your hands off me! Five points from Gryffindor for—being where you shouldn’t be."

Even Draco, who normally applauded the loss of Gryffindor points, had to wonder about Severus’ reasoning. Harry looked upon the professor with disbelief all over his face.

“What?”

Severus turned around, not answering, trying to regain his posture, Draco noted. But try as the professor might to hide the fact, the young Malfoy could still see that there was something wrong with Severus. Harry watched him, puzzlement and anger marring his features, before he began walking towards his own dorms. Draco held his breath as he passed; no need for Potter to notice him. Luckily, Harry seemed to be in his own little world, for he did not seem to sense anything at all.

Draco could not help but wonder what had caused the sudden illness. Severus was still sick, of that Draco was sure, even if his professor tried not to show it, and even though he had denied it when Draco had asked.

Draco could not help but admire the man for everything he had gone through in his life. The things he had had to do, to secure a win for Dumbledore's side in the war that had finally led to Voldemort's downfall. Many powerful wizards had been involved of course, but few more so than Severus. The forbidden spells Draco knew had been used on Death Eaters to test their loyalty, the double life he had had to live – it was not something Draco envied, not something he ever wanted, but he could and did feel admiration towards the man.

Now, there was something wrong with him, and Draco cared, even though Snape tried his best to behave as unpleasantly he always did.

But there was a stiffness, a pain apparent in his eyes that Draco was unused to. No matter that he was a Malfoy – he did not want anyone to be in pain.

Of course I'm beginning to wonder if I'm really a Malfoy after all, Draco thought grimly. Helping Harry – Merlin help me if my father found out that was me.

Draco sighed. This was getting him nowhere. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep. It would be several hours before it actually found him.

His sleep was plagued with nightmares of men clad in black, hovering above him. He could hear them laugh, hear them tell him it was over; they had won. He tried to fight against them, but found his wrists bound. As he struggled against the magic ropes, he found his body growing weaker and weaker. His chest felt as though on fire; he struggled to breathe.

The figures above him moved back, and something else came into view. A long, dark snake held its head perfectly still, and looked into his eyes. It hissed, but he could not understand, though he knew, somehow, that it was telling him it was over.

A second later, the snake's head shot forward, its teeth burying themselves in his neck. He screamed.

Shooting straight up in bed, with pearls of sweat covering his body, Severus Snape took several long gulps of air, trying to get his breathing back to its normal rate. His body felt weak, and he fell back on the bed, still gasping for air. The question that had burned in his mind for three days was the one thing occupying his thoughts.

What is wrong with me?

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