Chapter Six

Ron and Hermione sent him odd looks as he entered the room. He met their gazes and shrugged as best he could, indicating that he would tell them later.

Or not.

The shock of what had happened on the Quidditch pitch had not yet worn off. Harry could not say for certain that it ever would.

Malfoy had kissed him.

Kissed.

Kissed!

...and Harry had, in all his stupidity, not pushed him away and laughed at him. No, he had stood there, broom still in hand, while Malfoy pressed his lips against Harry’s, meshing them thoroughly.

I guess he likes me.

Although Harry could not be quite certain. The boy had run off after giving him the kiss, and Harry wondered if Malfoy liked him at all, or if there was simply some strange attraction going on. But he had seen fear in Malfoy’s eyes, had he not? Fear of rejection?

Merlin, why did I ask that question? It wasn’t what I was going to ask at all.

He had been meaning to ask whether Malfoy slept with a teddy bear – it was a rumour that had been all over school for a while, but no one had any evidence – but when he had opened his mouth, another question had escaped.

Do you like me? Because I like you. He had, thankfully, kicked his brain into gear before he had uttered the latter.

He shook his head – he would have to think about it later. Hermione was already giving him questioning looks.

Harry shot a look at the High Table, noting that Snape's seat was empty. He had not been expecting him to sit there as though nothing had happened, but he felt had to check. Since Snape was still missing, it most likely meant that he was still in the Infirmary, and if he was, he would not have any of his classes.

Next, against his will, Harry’s eyes were drawn to the Slytherin table. Malfoy had just taken his seat, his posture rigid and his eyes carefully avoiding looking anywhere in the general direction of the Gryffindor table.

Harry sat down between Ron and Neville, and began filling his plate – he spread butter on a slice of bread and took two pancakes. His mind was still filled with the events of the last twenty-four hours – mostly of the last hour, if he was completely honest – as he began eating.

"Where did you go this morning?" Ron asked. "You were gone when I woke up."

Harry shrugged and did his best to sound honest. "I woke up early and went for a walk.”

It was not quite a lie.

Just then, Dumbledore called for the room’s attention, hitting a goblet with the side of a spoon, creating a ‘ding, ding’ sound. As the room quieted down, he stood and began speaking.

“As I'm sure most of you know by now, Professor Snape has fallen ill,” Dumbledore said. “Therefore, he will not be teaching his classes today, but there will be a substitute teacher. Professor Snape tells me you all know what you are supposed to do.”

For once, Dumbledore's eyes did not twinkle, although the man seemed to be doing his best to pretend things were fine.

Several of the students groaned upon hearing about the substitute – they had obviously hoped for a free period. Professor McGonagall sent a stern look at some of the Gryffindor third years.

"Professor Snape will hopefully be back tomorrow," Dumbledore continued, "so there is no need to worry."

Some snorted at this – Snape's nickname was after all ‘the bat of the dungeons’, and he was the most unpopular teacher of Hogwarts among the three houses that were not Slytherin. McGonagall sent another look at her students, telling them silently that if they were rude one more time, house points would be lost.

“Well, we don't have Potions today, so it doesn't really matter,” Ron said. "Typical, the one day we could have gotten away from Snape."

Harry shot Ron a look, but the redhead did not notice. It amazed Harry at times, how quickly Ron could change. Obviously, the only reason Ron had cared at all the day before was because Harry had told him to. Harry did not know what he had expected – he certainly had not expected to feel the way he did about Snape at the moment. He worried. It was a sort of caring, a slight concern. He could not possibly be so cold as to hate a person whose very soul he had looked into.

Needless to say, Ron had definitely not done so. Maybe that was the reason why Harry now cared and Ron still hated the Potions professor.

"We should get going," Hermione said a few moments later, waking Harry from his train of thoughts. "I need to go get my books before class."

"Okay, Hermione," Harry replied. The trio stood and left, but not before Harry shot another look at the Potions master's empty seat, and at the blond Slytherin who was at the moment hiding his face behind a newspaper.

He kissed me.

The first half of Double Charms with Professor Flitwick passed uneventfully. Gryffindor had the class with the Slytherins however, and when the Gryffindors were paired with that house, well… Harry did not think that it would ever be anything but a disaster waiting to happen.

They practiced a rather complicated charm – the Answer-to-me charm – which Harry and the rest of the class had done once before, during the class a week earlier. However, although Harry had managed the charm back then, it just would not work this time. Hermione and Ron shot him sympathetic looks as he tried it again. Still, the small tortoise that sat before him stayed silent. It blinked and then yawned at him, but no sound came out of its mouth.

Harry sighed. He could not concentrate enough on the spell to make it work. His mind could not shut the images of Snape and Malfoy out.

"Potter is stupid," a tortoise from the other side of the room suddenly said.

Harry's head shot up, and he soon spotted the offending creature. Behind it, Malfoy stood.

"Potter can't even make a simple spell work," the tortoise drawled, and Harry thought it sounded much as the spell caster's voice.

"Just ignore him, Harry," Hermione whispered to him. Harry glanced over at Ron on her other side – his face was red as he glared at Malfoy. Harry felt his own blood boiling the exact same way and felt he would rather hit Malfoy than ignore him. What on Earth was he doing? Was this some sort of payback? And for what, exactly, considering Malfoy had been the one doing the kissing?

“Go back to work, Weasel,” Malfoy drawled, and this time he himself did the talking. “Or maybe you should help Scarface over there instead? Mudblood, can't you help him?”

Hermione glared daggers at the blond boy. Crabbe, Goyle and the other Slytherins sniggered. Professor Flitwick, who had been helping Neville, glanced over at them, but they immediately pretended to be working.

Harry seethed. So this was what it would be like – Malfoy would kiss him, and then be an even bigger arse than he had been before?

Goddamn Malfoy.

The tortoise in front of him screeched as a bolt of magic from Harry's wand hit it. Smoke emanated from the tortoise's shell, as it fell backwards and landed on its back, mewling pitifully. Flitwick came running over as fast as his small legs could manage. The normally calm teacher looked upset.

“What did you do, Mr. Potter?” he asked angrily. He muttered a charm, and the smoking stopped, before he turned the tortoise back on her feet. “Mr. Potter, you will have to serve a detention tonight. Ten points will also be taken from Gryffindor for hurting the tortoise.”

Harry nodded mutely. He did not really know what had just happened, only that he had been angry. He must have reacted instinctively.

"Yes, sir," Harry said quietly.

He could hear the Slytherins snigger at him from the other table, and he wanted to disappear. He shot a glare at Malfoy, who stared back, before looking down. Harry sat back in his chair, angry at himself for what had happened, and even angrier at Malfoy, for being the reason.

“I wonder why Flitwick gave you a detention,” Ron said. "I mean, it wasn't like it was a big huge mistake you did. You only, you know, burned it a little.”

Harry, who sat with his Divinations homework in front of him, shrugged. The day had continued as badly as it had begun: Professor Trelawney had foreseen another one of his deaths, which of course was not rare, but still, it did not feel all that great to be predicted to die four times per week in the most gruesome ways possible.

Harry looked forward to Quidditch practice, which would start in an hour, even though the very thought of Quidditch made him think of Malfoy and the things that had happened earlier.

He would have to hurry down to eat dinner after practice, before meeting Professor Flitwick for his detention. That was why he now did a Hermione – he did his homework early in the afternoon.

"So, what's left?" Ron asked.

"We have to make predictions for two friends for the next week," Harry replied without looking up. "I did you two," he continued, motioning at Ron and Hermione. He mock-frowned slightly. "I don't know if Trelawney will like it though."

"Harry, what did you write?" Hermione asked sternly, trying to grab the piece of parchment Harry was writing on. Harry grinned and held it away from her.

"Harry James Potter, give that parchment to me instantly!" Hermione said, her voice letting him know it was not a suggestion but a threat. Ron just looked at the two questioningly.

Harry just kept grinning and held the parchment out of Hermione's grasp. It was not a hard task – Harry was six foot one tall, while Hermione only reached five foot three. He kept changing hands, going back and forth, only serving to make Hermione madder. Ron laughed at the expression on Hermione's face, but quickly shut up when she sent a deadly glare at him.

Then, before Harry could react, Hermione had her wand out. “Accio parchment.”

The parchment soared into Hermione’s hand, as a triumphant grin spread on her face. She opened it and read it. Her face turned an interesting shade of red as she neared the end.

She glowered at Harry.

"Harry James Potter, you are so not turning this in," she said.

Harry grinned. "Why not? It’s something that’s going to happen this week, isn’t it?"

Hermione's blush deepened. "I – no – well, yes – oh, but you can't turn that in!"

Harry's grin widened, before he said, "I won't Hermione, I was just teasing you. Here's my real assignment."

He handed her another parchment. She let out a frustrated scream.

"I hate boys," she yelled at him, and stomped out of the common room.

Harry, Ron and the rest of the room's occupants looked after the Head Girl. Harry and Ron giggled.

Harry slowly made his way to Professor Flitwick's classroom. Quidditch practice had gone well, though it had gone by too fast. Harry concentrated firmly on the Snitch and giving instructions to his team mates, not allowing his brain to focus on the game he had played a few hours earlier. Before he and Ron knew it, they were back inside, showering off the sweat and dirt. They spoke excitedly about the new moves they were trying, and bored a still steaming Hermione out of her skull during dinner.

Snape had been absent during the meal, and Harry guessed that his teacher was still in the Infirmary. Dumbledore had said that he was going to teach the next day, yet a voice in Harry's head doubted it. Madam Pomfrey healed minor illnesses in a whiff – to the annoyance of students who sometimes wanted to skip classes – and Snape’s failure to reappear today told Harry how serious his condition had to be.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Potter.”

Tiny Professor Flitwick came over to him, stopping only a few feet away. He tilted his head up to look at Harry.

"I am sorry to say that something has come up, Mr. Potter," he said. "You will therefore not spend your evening with me, but with Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing instead. She said she needed help organising her potions, and as I can't have you tonight, I thought I’d lend you to her."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. Hospital Wing? That meant he would be serving his detention right next to Professor Snape.

I wonder if that's a good thing or a bad, Harry thought, frowning.

"I would follow you up there," the Charms professor said, "but I need to be going. I do trust you know the way up there? Good. I will see you in class next week, Mr. Potter, and I trust you’ll behave better. Goodbye."

The professor set off down the stairs. Harry looked after him as he hurried off. Then he began walking towards the Hospital Wing.

Severus lay still on the bed. He breathed heavily, and even a person without the medical expertise Madam Pomfrey held would know that something was seriously wrong with him. His forehead glistered with tiny pearls of sweat, and if he lifted his hands off the bed, they trembled like leaves in the wind.

He could not recall ever feeling this bad. Not even after the many times Voldemort had used the Cruciatus Curse on him had he ever felt as bad for as long as he had now. The effects of that curse passed after a few hours. What frightened Severus the most was the fact that even though Poppy held him in bed-arrest and was doing her best to treat him, he did not seem to be getting better.

At least I don’t have to teach the dunderheads, Severus thought. The mere idea of getting out of bed to teach lessons made his head ache. His body hurt, and he had not even been out of bed to go to the bathroom all afternoon, instead using a magical catheter that Poppy had charmed to him.

He would not even be at Hogwarts if it had not been for the fact that no one else would want to hire him. Even after Voldemort’s downfall, now that most knew of his work as a spy, the suspicion had not disappeared. And Severus could not stop acting like he had for the last twenty years, making himself even more undesirable to other employers. 'The greasy git of a Potions master' really did fit him as a description; it had become his personality.

Besides, this was easier. He would rather be hated than rejected – because rejected was what he would be. Ugly, hateful, cynical, with a load of wrong choices in his past – what was there to like?

Maybe the world would be better off without him.

The sudden thought both frightened and intrigued him. Another set of questions began to form in his mind.

Perhaps that's why I'm sick. Maybe there is no poison, no curse to counter, as Madam Pomfrey believes. Perhaps this is all because the world is better off without me. Maybe this is my punishment for what I've done to all those innocents in Voldemort's name.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the door to the Infirmary open. Light footsteps travelled over the floor, and soon a figure came into view. Snape's vision, blurred from dizziness, made out a black robe and equally black hair. The figure turned around and gasped.

"Professor Snape?" he asked, his voice quiet, yet Severus heard the boy's shock clearly.

Of all the people to come up here, it had to be Potter. The Potions master had hoped to avoid the boy, preferably forever. It did not seem like such a long time anyway, now. He definitely had not planned to have Potter arrive in the Hospital Wing to see him lying there.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" Severus spat, but even he could hear that it did not hold the dark hatred it usually did. He simply felt too tired to converse with anyone, let alone have a battle of wits with the Boy Who Lived.

Potter moved closer to the bed, and Severus could not find it in him to tell him to get out of his sight, although he wanted to. Instead, he closed his eyes, and hoped that this was all a bad dream.

"You are not supposed to be here," he said to the boy. His voice was quiet, indifferent.

He opened his eyes to look at Potter. The boy stood closer now. Severus could make out his facial features even with the fog surrounding his brain.

"Actually, I am. I have a detention to serve with Madam Pomfrey," Harry said.

He looked as though he wanted to ask how his professor was feeling, but did not dare to, perhaps afraid of the answer. His bit his lip, his eyes darting over Severus’ body. Severus felt self-conscious, knowing he must look like hell.

"What did you do this time, Potter?" He wanted it to be a sneer, as it always had been in the past, but it came out softer than he had intended.

"Um—I kinda burnt a tortoise," Potter replied sheepishly.

Severus wanted to give a snappish reply, but his eyelids felt so heavy. His body was exhausted, even after only being awake for little over an hour. As the numbness of sleep began creeping over him, he thought he felt someone take his hand, squeezing it briefly.

Potter? his sleepy mind wondered, before sleep claimed it.

As his Potions professor drifted off to sleep, Harry took Snape's hand in his. He did not know why, but it made him feel at least a slight bit better. After seeing the Potions master's prone form on the bed, his eyes the only thing that actually looked alive at all, he had become sure that the man was dying. And the more convinced he became of that fact, the more he knew that he did not want the man to die. Snape, along with Remus, was the only one who could tell him more about his heritage. His parents.

Yet that was not it; far from it. As Harry searched, he found admiration for the professor. Admiration for the work he had done for the Order, for the dangerous situations he had been forced to get into for years and years. He had survived somehow, even though Harry had seen, through his link with Voldemort, that Snape had been tortured along with the other Death Eaters on several occasions.

Snape was an honourable man.

But Snape has hated you for years!

He had to, and I don't care, Harry said to the voice in his head. I hated him back, for the way he treated me and the way he spoke about my dad, even though it was true. And his work for the Order has more than made up for everything.

Snape would never be a favourite person in Harry’s eyes, but he could not be considered Harry’s most hated anymore either. And no matter what, he certainly did not deserve this.

Harry's head shot up when he heard someone clear her throat. Harry's hand left Snape's, as he met Madam Pomfrey's eyes.

"I was just—He was awake—" Harry began a stumbling explanation, but Madam Pomfrey held her hand up.

"Don't worry about it, dear. If he didn't want you here, he would have told you so, I'm sure," the nurse told him. "Now, why don't we get started on your detention?"

Harry stifled a groan, but followed Madam Pomfrey into one of the backrooms.

Three hours later, when Harry was in the middle of filling up vials with potions and placing them in alphabetical order, a scream rang through the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey shot up, and ran out of the room. Harry followed quickly. Pomfrey had not told him not to, after all.

The scene he came upon left him speechless. Professor Snape, obviously trapped in a nightmare, thrashed back and forth, pulling at the sheets covering him. His forehead was covered in sweat, and his screams continued to ring through the Infirmary.

Madam Pomfrey tried to hold him down, but she was utterly unsuccessful. She muttered calming charms, but they seemed to have no effect.

“Help me hold him down,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I can’t freeze him – we don’t know what’s wrong, and I don’t want other magic interfering.”

Harry moved forward swiftly. He grabbed Snape's left arm, pressing it down. The professor was surprisingly strong, he noted, despite how weak he had looked earlier. Harry leaned over Snape, pressing the Potions master's right arm down as well. The man suddenly stiffened, his body tensing as though expecting a blow or a curse.

"Professor Snape!" Harry said, his voice barely hiding his panic. "Professor Snape, it's me, Harr—Potter. Professor?"

Severus' eyes fluttered open, although he flinched back as he saw a figure close to him. Still expecting the Cruciatus curse from the dream to be uttered, he did not relax until he realised that he was in the Infirmary, rather than at a Death Eater meeting. He saw the face hovering above him.

Potter.

"Get off, Potter," Severus spat. He was dismayed to find that his voice was wavering, making him sound more like a fearful child than a professor. He hated his traitorous body.

Potter followed orders quickly, and released him. Poppy hurried over to Severus’ bed, and held a vial to his lips. He recognised the sour taste of citrus – it was the Dreamless Potion. One of the many potions he himself had brewed, he knew.

Ironic, really.

"I need to talk to Dumbledore," Poppy said, straightening up. "You are not going to teach class tomorrow, my dear Severus."

She glared at him. He glared back, as she turned around and disappeared out of sight.

He noted Potter, who was still standing a few feet away.

"Aren't you supposed to be doing something useful for once?" he said, trying to inject some malice into his voice. Oh, how he wanted his old voice back. This new, wavering and hoarse voice did not intimidate in any way. Neither did the white tent-like garment Poppy had put him in, showing far too much scarred skin.

"Are – are you okay, Professor?" Potter asked quietly.

"Never better," Severus replied scathingly.

He wished what he said was true. Now, as the nightmare faded, the adrenaline did as well, and he found his body growing heavy and tired again. He tried his best to fight off the nausea – he was not going to throw up in front of the Brat Who Lived.

"C-can I get you anything?" Potter asked.

A new body and a non-foggy brain would be good, Severus thought. The waves of nausea hit him with bigger impact, and he knew he would not be able to hold himself much longer, no matter how hard he tried.

Need to get the brat out of here.

Potter seemed to have noticed how his expression had changed, however, for when the next wave hit and the walls that Severus had built collapsed, the boy was there with a bowl. Emptying his stomach's contents into the bowl, Severus’ cheeks stung with humiliation. He would never live this down. Potter would tell all his friends, and all the school would know. It would be just like the boy, and everyone would think it served the greasy git just right. James would have done the same thing – the Marauders had spread whatever dirt they had on him.

He was surprised to say the least when Potter gently helped set him back against the pillows. A glass of water to his lips; he could rinse his mouth of the foul taste. He felt a wet cloth on his forehead, wiping away the pearls of sweat created there. It felt—soothing. He knew that nothing Harry did to him should ever be called 'soothing', but it was. Once again, he felt his eyelids become heavy, and within a minute, he was asleep again.

'Harry'? he asked himself. When did he become 'Harry'?

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Chapters

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