A Wizard Song

Chapter 8 - Boiling Over

By Telanu

       

On the whole, Harry was glad not to be captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team this year, though he was eligible. He was far too busy. The post was capably held by Angelina Johnson's successor, a seventh year named Imogene Winterbury who was large, athletic, and a great favourite with Madam Hooch. Maybe next year, Harry thought, although he knew that under ordinary circumstances he'd be rather disappointed that he didn't get to lead the team as his father had done.

But these were anything but ordinary circumstances. On top of his usual regimen of classes, Quidditch practice and spending time with his friends, Harry had the added burden of extra studying to keep up his marks in Potions, and extra cunning to keep up his affair with the Potions master.

By mid-September, Harry was surprised at how exhausted he was. Keeping secrets was a tiring business. On the whole he was quite lucky, though there had been one bad moment when he'd sneaked back in the dormitory at two in the morning only to encounter Ron, who'd woken up to use the loo and noticed Harry missing. Postcoital bliss tended to fog Harry's wits a bit, but the scare cleared them sufficiently for him to garble out an explanation of how he sometimes felt the need to go for solitary walks at night, just to reflect.

Ron bought it, and with good reason. Harry wasn't the only busy person in the world; Voldemort himself had been active, and almost every week a new story appeared in the Daily Prophet, this week about a vanished Ministry official, the next week about another house burned to the ground. The articles never directly connected the attacks with the Dark Lord, a shaky Cornelius Fudge publicly announced that they were all merely terrible coincidences, and the dark circles under Dumbledore's eyes grew deeper. Harry had good rason to be worried, as did everybody else. That night he and Ron didn't go to bed, but sat in the Common Room and talked in hushed voices until dawn. Harry was profoundly grateful they didn't have Potions that day, since he was stumbling round without a wink of sleep, but it had been well worth it, to talk so long with Ron. His excuse for his absence had been a lie, the subject of their conversation had been grim -- but for a few glorious hours he'd had his best friend all to himself again, and at least that was something.

As an added bonus, he had an excuse if he got caught sneaking off again -- Ron thought it was only natural that Harry would want a little space to think, and now that he was with Hermione he could afford to be generous. Nevertheless, Harry was aware it wouldn't do to be caught too often. He couldn't foresee everything like this, but he and Snape were as careful as they could possibly be. A few nights, when somebody in the room appeared to be having trouble sleeping, Harry had to grit his teeth and stay in bed rather than going down as planned; other times, he would find small, unsigned notes tucked into his books or robe pockets warning him to stay away that evening.

And even when he did make it down, an evening of sex wasn't always on the agenda. Snape was exhausted too. He was no longer spying on the Death Eaters, but his classes, not to mention his duties as Potions master and head of Slytherin House took up a great deal of his time -- Harry frequently wondered how Snape had ever found the energy to work espionage into his schedule. More than once, when he sneaked down to the dungeons after a long day of classes and Quidditch, it happened that he and Snape would merely stare at each other wearily across the table, sipping at tea and making conversation.

Why do I go down there like that? Harry wondered after one of those nights. He needs sleep. I need sleep. Why keep him awake if we're not even going to do anything?

But his little voice whispered that they were doing something. Even if they never really talked about anything important -- smatters of their days' events in between long bouts of tired silence -- they were spending time together. A couple of times they even played chess again, knowing that there would be no time for lovemaking afterward as there had been before. Harry wasn't ecstatic about it -- he was sixteen and insatiable. But more than that, he liked being there. No matter what they did or didn't do together, the time he spent in the dungeons was always valuable.

More often than not, though, they did make love, and that, combined with the occasional stolen kiss after class or advantageously timed detention, was enough to keep Harry quite content. He still felt guilty about keeping his secret from Ron and Hermione, but when he saw them together he also felt a deep, unworthy kind of satisfaction: I have something too. I've gone beyond what you've done.

Barring the odd detention, which Snape would give Harry for the most ludicrous of reasons (and which never failed to send Harry's friends into satisfying fits about the unfairness of it all), Potions was going swimmingly. Harry sometimes wondered if he was learning by osmosis -- if somehow understanding of the subject was seeping from his lover's skin into his own. It never occurred to him that he was confusing his newfound enthusiasm for Severus Snape with enthusiasm for the subject he taught.

Neville too seemed to be infected with new confidence. What with Snape continuing to be unusually nasty to Draco and his cronies -- though still revoltingly partial to the rest of his House -- and with Harry's ability to make a decent potion time after time, Neville found himself less frightened in Potions than he'd ever been before. He even stopped breaking out into a sweat at the start of every class, his hands trembled less when stirring or chopping (all he was allowed to do), and he began to think he might not be too hopeless at the business after all.

Which led to catastrophe, of course.

It was Friday, and spirits were high -- Ravenclaw was playing Slytherin that afternoon in the first match of the season. Harry was eagerly anticipating the game and praying, though he'd never say so to his lover, that Ravenclaw would trounce his rival house. With Cho Chang as captain they had a good chance.

...Cho. Harry's thoughts were still in a muddle about the pretty Ravenclaw Seeker. She'd spent most of last year to herself, obviously mourning Cedric Diggory, and he couldn't quite bring himself to face her. Her friends had cornered him once and told him outright she didn't blame him for what had happened -- but she evidently hadn't been able to tell him herself. She'd only started coming out of her shell at the end of the term, smiling and socialising again. And by then, Harry had been so thoroughly confused over Snape that he hadn't paid that much attention, though he was glad she was starting to be happy.

This year, he couldn't help but notice the small smiles she gave him on those rare occasions when they passed in the hallway. They made him feel...

Bad.

This puzzled him. Fourth year he would have given anything for one of those smiles. Even last year, confused and guilty as he was, it probably would have given him some kind of thrill, or at the very least reassurance that she didn't hate him. Now he didn't know what to make of it. She was still a bright, beautiful girl any boy would be honoured to have interested in him, but now, with Snape...Harry told himself he was overreacting. All she was doing was smiling, after all. And if by any chance she ever indicated she was interested in doing more than smiling, well then, he could simply say...he could say...he had no idea what he could say.

Suffice to say, Harry's mind wasn't exactly on his work that morning. It was a good thing he'd memorised this particular potion, a Fire Draught, over the summer -- it had been used in many examples in his textbook because it made use of many varied ingredients and techniques. No doubt the reason Snape was teaching it. What with part of his brian stuck on Cho, and another part stuck on Quidditch, he was only brewing the potion with a third of his brain.

"Harry?" Neville asked softly, tentatively. "Are you all right?"

Harry jerked, and stared at him in surprise, though his slow, steady stirring motion didn't falter. "Huh? Yeah, sure, Neville, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"Oh...you just looked a little distracted...erm. Never mind. Is, is there something I can do?" Neville asked, with another anxious glance at Snape, who was currently occupied in helping Millicent Bulstrode with considerably more kindness than he would ever show to any Gryffindor. "I -- I could add the Pepperblossom now…" he reached out towards the kernels on the table. "It's almost time, isn't it? I studied really hard last night -- "

"I remember," Harry said, summoning a smile for Neville. "You've been working a lot. Just, erm, don't get the Pepperblossoms and the Firebug Flowers mixed up. Remember which is which?" Because that would be very messy. Neville was really good with Herbology, seeds and all that sort of thing, but the kernels looked alarmingly similar, and Neville's concentration tended to be shot whenever Snape was around.

"Hm? Oh, okay," Neville said, as he glanced nervously over at Snape again, not much looking as if he'd heard what Harry had said. Snape was tapping his fingernails on the rim of Millicent's cauldron, the motion slow and menacing as always, his fingers looking like spider's legs, and Neville shuddered. Harry sighed, bringing his partner's attention quickly back to him. "Sorry, Harry, you said something -- "

"Never mind," Harry said, wishing Neville weren't quite so afraid of Snape; everything would have been a lot easier if he didn't have to worry about his partner collapsing in a fit of nerves at any moment. "I think we're all right, I think everything's..." Harry looked into the cauldron, then down at the textbook, and cursed softly. "I almost forgot the bindweed. Hold on, I left it in the kit under the table...just drop in two Pepperblossom kernels, would you?" With that, he ducked below the table and began to rummage around in his kit, cursing himself roundly as he finally closed fingers around the bindweed. If Neville hadn't woken him up from his daydreaming he would have forgotten it entirely, the whole potion would have been shot to hell, and it would have looked like he knew nothing at all about it in spite of all his studies. No way he was going to let that happen. Harry crawled out from under the table and straightened up --

-- just in time to see Neville, eyes firmly fixed on Snape's back, tremblingly drop two kernels of Firebug Flower into the bubbling goo.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion then -- Harry felt like he was witnessing his own actions from somebody else's point of view. As if from a distance he saw the potion abruptly turn a screaming yellow, saw it begin to froth alarmingly as the cauldron swelled and groaned, heard his own voice yelling "Neville, NO!" -- saw Snape whirl to look at them, his eyes going wide, heard Hermione's horrified cry -- not giving himself time to think, knowing what was coming, Harry threw himself on top of Neville's petrified body, right before the cauldron exploded.

Harry threw an arm up to shield his own head; nanoseconds later something hot and hard impacted it. He felt the bone snap and heard himself cry out again. Through the haze of pain he could hear the screams of his classmates, and felt Neville's panicked gasping underneath him, heard Snape's voice roaring for order. Then liquid, unbearably hot liquid hit him in the back, sizzling through his robes, and Harry screamed again. It was the potion, of course, the cauldron had blown and now the potion was going everywhere and oh God it was setting him on fire, he could smell the burning cloth and skin and it hurt so much --

Snape's voice yelled something again and the fire went out and the hot liquid disappeared. Harry relaxed in relief, though his arm still hurt like hell and his back was still sizzling from the potion's effects. He could smell burnt, crackling flesh. And distantly, through the roaring in his own ears, he could hear Neville squeaking something and Hermione crying, "Harry! Harry! Are you all right? Oh my God, Ron, is Harry, is Harry -- ?"

Taking a deep breath, Harry opened his eyes, vision swimming a little at the sharp jabs in his broken arm. Chunks of rapidly melting, steaming cauldron lay all around him, though the potion seemed to have mysteriously disappeared -- oh, right, Snape had said some kind of spell...

As if Harry's thoughts had conjured them up, two dark shoes appeared directly in his line of vision. Harry heard Neville give a terrified whimper before a sharper voice, sounding rather hoarse, snapped, "Potter!"

He cautiously raised his head, biting his lip against the pain in his arm and his back, to see Severus Snape towering over him, black robes billowing and face as white as ash. The dark eyes were wide and snapping with emotion -- anger, probably, Harry thought vaguely, he'd really loused it up this time. He leaned on his good arm and slowly, painfully began to lift himself off Neville, who scrambled out from underneath him and, gibbering apologies, attempted to help him, bumping his damaged arm in the process. Against Harry's will, a pained gasp escaped.

"Don't touch him, you -- " Snape started, and Harry looked up again as he finally got to his knees to see the Potions master shooting Neville a look of pure hatred. "Miss Zabini! Take Potter to the hospital wing immediately. Potter, can you walk?"

Ron rushed over and helped Harry up by his good arm until Harry stood on his own two feet. "I can take him, sir -- " Ron began.

"You will get back to your own seat, Weasley, and do as you're told," Snape barked. "Potter! I said, can you walk? I can conjure up a stretcher -- "

Harry took a couple of experimental steps. "No," he said. "I'll be fine. I'm fine." Although his back and arm still hurt like mad. He could see Hermione clutch her heart in relief as she sighed, and Ron's pale face broke into a tiny grin. Snape still looked ready to kill someone, and Harry hoped vaguely it wasn't him.

Snape whirled and stalked towards a cabinet, from which he brought back a bottle of a dark blue potion. "Drink this," he ordered. "It will dull the pain until you get there. Zabini! Is your head in the clouds, or -- "

"I'm here, sir," the girl piped timidly, appearing as Snape pressed the bottle into Harry's good hand. Harry drank the potion gratefully, not caring about the sharp taste as it immediately dulled the burning sensation on his lower back and the ache in his arm. "Come on, then," Blaise was saying, taking him by his good elbow and guiding him towards the door. "I'll be right back, Professor."

"See that you are, and that you make no detours going either way," Snape snapped, waving his wand again and causing the cauldron's luckless remains to disappear. The last thing Harry heard as they left the classroom was Snape's voice at its coldest saying, "Well then, Mr. Longbottom..."

That didn't sound good, Harry reflected. But the potion Snape had given him was dulling his thoughts as well as his pain, and his mind remained in a rather pleasant haze until they reached the hospital wing, where Blaise turned him over to Madam Pomfrey.

He was dimly aware that Draco Malfoy had watched him leaving with a keen eye, but couldn't bring himself to care very much about it.

       

Madam Pomfrey repaired his broken arm efficiently (Harry was very thankful he didn't require any Skele-Gro), but the burn on his back required the application of a particular salve that stung even as it healed. She gave him a mild sedative so he could rest through it which, combined with Snape's potion, knocked him out for a solid two hours. He slept on his stomach.

When he awoke, he discovered with embarrassment that he'd drooled on the pillow and that Ron and Hermione were sitting anxiously by his bedside. Wiping his mouth, Harry mumbled, "Hullo," and sat up, noting with pleasure that his arm felt like new and his back only felt a little raw.

"Awake at last," Ron said in relief, while Hermione called for Madam Pomfrey, who bustled over.

"Well, now, let me see," she said, and carefully peeled the sticky bandages off Harry's back. "There now! Almost good as new, though it'll still be a bit tender. That was a nasty burn and no mistake..." She washed away the residue of the salve with warm water and a very soft cloth while Harry tried not to squirm and be embarrassed about being treated like a baby in front of his friends.

"You all right?" Ron asked anxiously while Harry was getting washed down.

"I'm fine," Harry said reassuringly.

"But you nearly weren't," Hermione said, sounding tearful. "Oh, Harry...if you hadn't put up your hand...I could see everything from where I was, that piece of cauldron almost hit your head...!" she clapped her hands over her mouth and started blinking quite rapidly. "If -- if it had -- "

"Well, it didn't," Ron said gruffly. "He's all right. Aren't you, Harry?"

"I said I'm fine," Harry repeated. "What time is it? I haven't missed the match?"

"Nah, it's just after lunch," Ron said. "We came up to see you as soon as we could. He can go, can't he?" he added anxiously, looking at Madam Pomfrey, who smiled and clucked indulgently.

"I don't see why not. Just so long as he's careful about what he leans up against with that back. And no straining your arm!" she added more firmly.

"All right," Harry said, relieved he hadn't missed anything. He was about to ask about Care of Magical Creatures, when Hermione said to Madam Pomfrey, in a worried tone of voice, "How's Neville?"

The nurse's lips thinned. "Still asleep, poor dear," she said.

Harry blinked. "Neville? But he wasn't hurt, was he?"

For the first time, Ron looked annoyed at Harry. "No. You had to go and throw yourself on top of him, didn't you? Not a scratch on him. It's Snape got him sent down here."

"Sna...?" Harry's voice trailed off as the memory of Snape's pale face came rushing back into his mind, and the furious way he'd looked at Neville. For an insane moment he wondered if Snape had actually attacked his hapless classmate. "What...what happened?"

"I've never seen anything like it!" Madam Pomfrey expostulated. "Really, I hope Professor Dumbledore gives that man a good talking-to -- imagine, sending your own students to the infirmary, what an awful -- " then she seemed to remember that she was speaking about a colleague in front of students, and clamped her mouth shut. Harry was almost writhing with curiosity, but Ron and Hermione remained silent until she had bustled away with his dirty bandages in tow.

"What happened?" Harry repeated immediately, leaning forward.

Hermione was looking tearful again. "Oh, Harry, the things he said," she whispered. "After you left -- he leaned over Neville, and -- my goodness -- "

Ron nodded, whistling. "I knew Snape could be nasty, but I've never heard him say anything like that." His voice dropped until it was a fair imitation of Snape's dark tones. "'Mr. Longbottom, I can safely say, in all my years of teaching, I have never seen such a senseless waste of human flesh as you,' and what else was it, something about, 'I hope next time you decide to recklessly endanger someone it's your own life you put in jeopardy, and for the sake of the human race I hope it is lost,' or something, and then a load of stuff about how stupid Neville was, and worthless, and..." Ron's face was heating up as Harry gaped at him. "I mean, I was mad at Neville too, he almost got you killed and all, but by the end of it I felt kind of bad for him..."

"By the end of it, Ron," Hermione broke in exasperatedly, "Neville was crying so hard he couldn't breathe and had to be sent up here! That's why he's asleep," she added to Harry. "Madam Pomfrey said she had to sedate him." She shook her head in outrage. "I hope Professor Dumbledore does say something to Snape! Neville felt just awful about what happened, it was obvious, he had no right to say all those things! I mean, Snape didn't, you know, not Neville -- "

"Yeah," Harry said distantly, face rather pale himself. He could almost hear, in his mind, Snape's voice viciously cutting through the air, saying the most venomous things...

"No offence, Harry," Ron said thoughtfully, "but I wonder why Snape got so mad about you? You think he'd be ecstatic you almost got blown up."

"Ron!" Hermione snapped.

"Well, it's true," Ron said defensively. "I mean, no use pretending he doesn't hate us when he does, especially Harry -- "

"Well, he hates Neville too," Harry said quickly. "And I mean, I reckon he'd get held accountable if anybody died in his class or anything." Would that be enough? He prayed it would be enough...

It seemed to be, because they were both nodding. "Especially you," Hermione murmured, her eyes lighting up. "I mean, honestly, Harry, you're so famous -- I know you don't like to talk about it, but really, imagine how many people would be after him if something happened to you in his class!"

"Er. Yeah," Harry said uncomfortably.

Ron, obviously no happier about talking about Harry's fame than Harry was, glanced at his watch. "It's only twenty minutes till the match. You feel up to going, right, Harry?"

"Eh? Oh. You two go on ahead," Harry said. When they stared at him in disbelief, he added, "I want to stay and talk to Neville when he wakes up. Tell him it's not his fault, you know, all that."

Ron's expression said quite clearly that it was Neville's fault, and while Harry knew that, he also felt terrible for Neville. And responsible too, in a way, though of course he had no control over anything Snape did or said, especially in the classroom. But still...he felt obliged to say something. The whole fuss had been over him, after all.

So after a few cursory protestations, Ron and Hermione left to get seats for the match, promising to save him one, and Harry wandered around the hospital wing until he ran into Madam Pomfrey. "Goodness! Are you still here?" she asked.

"I wanted to talk to Neville," Harry said. "Is he awake yet?"

"That's nice of you, dear," she said, "but I'm not sure it's a good idea...it might upset him."

Harry blinked. "I hadn't thought of that," he murmured. "I just wanted to show him I was okay, tell him it wasn't his fault, you know."

Madam Pomfrey was a good-hearted soul. The words obviously appealed to her. She wavered. "Perhaps if I woke him up and told him you were here..."

"I'm sure that would help," Harry encouraged, glancing out the window at the afternoon skies. Maybe if he could talk to Neville now he wouldn't miss the whole match. She nodded and Harry followed her down the hall until they came to a screened-off bed. He could hear the faint sounds of snoring coming from behind the screen, and felt mildly guilty for a moment. "Should we wait until he wakes up?"

"I'm sure he's calmer now," she said softly. "And besides, if he sleeps away the whole afternoon he'll never get to sleep tonight." They proceeded behind the screen, where Neville was curled up in a foetal position under the crisp white sheets, clutching at his pillow with chubby fingers, face still red and blotchy from crying. It was such a pathetic sight that Harry felt a quick stab of pity, followed by anger at Snape. "What was he like when he came in?" he whispered.

"I've never seen him in such a state," she replied, reaching out to gently shake Neville's shoulder. "The poor dear, and he's so excitable too. Speak softly to him."

"I will," Harry assured her as Neville's eyes fluttered open to blearily behold Madam Pomfrey.

"Hello, dear," she said, giving him a gentle smile. "How are you feeling?"

Neville scrubbed at his eyes. "B-better," he quavered, voice sounding thick with sleep and the residue of tears. The eyes sleepily moved past her to Harry, and then widened; he whimpered.

Harry tried to smile encouragingly. "H'lo, Neville," he said.

Neville's mouth formed a round 'O,' and for a moment Harry was afraid it was a prelude to a wail. "Hush, now," Madam Pomfrey said quickly, "you're all right; Harry's come to visit you. Do you need any more medicine? Something to drink?"

Staring at Harry with obvious terror, Neville mutely shook his head. Harry felt a quick pang; Neville was looking at him with almost as much fear as he looked at Snape! Well, he's got no cause, Harry told himself. I'll just tell him...I'll say...

Then Madam Pomfrey departed, leaving them alone, and Harry discovered he had no idea what to say at all. He plunked himself down in the chair by the bed, realised that the encouraging smile had dropped off his face, and plastered it back on determinedly. "Um. Hi," he said.

Neville stared at him for a few moments before sitting up and launching himself toward Harry with a wail. Shocked into immobility, Harry could only sit there while two fat arms wound themselves hard around his neck and Neville began to blubber into his shirt. "Harry! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to almost kill you! I'm so glad you're not hurt -- oh, Gran is going to be so angry with me -- I'm sorry, Harry -- "

"Neville!" Harry said in some alarm, awkwardly patting the other boy's heaving back even as he tried to draw away from the clinging embrace, which was causing his back to hurt again. Neville must have been even more distraught than Ron and Hermione described, to react like this. "Neville. It's okay! I'm okay. Honestly. There, it's all right -- urgh, um, I can't breathe -- "

Neville released him as abruptly as he'd grabbed him, shrinking back against the mattress. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

Harry stared at him, slightly stunned. "Um. I didn't mean to, er, disturb you...I just wanted to make sure you were, you know, okay..."

To his horror, Neville looked as if he might cry again. "If I'm okay? What does anybody care if I'm okay? You're the one I almost killed!"

"You didn't almost kill me, Neville," Harry said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice, sensing it wouldn't help. "It was an accident."

Neville bent his head to stare at the sheets of his bed. "I know," he whispered. "Because I was so clumsy and stupid..."

Harry felt his cheeks flush hot. "Is that what Snape told you?" Neville looked up at him again, alarmed. "Ron and Hermione said he was really awful to you," Harry added. "I'm sorry, Neville..."

"He was right, though," Neville said gloomily. "He was right about all of it. I'm hopeless at Potions." He laughed a short, bitter laugh that was rather alarming when contrasted with the tears of a few moments before. "I'm hopeless at everything."

"You are not," Harry said defiantly. "Honestly, Neville, you've been doing lots better this term, haven't you? It was just this one time, and it won't happen again, will it? And don't forget you're so good at Herbology..."

"That's what everybody tries to tell me," Neville said sadly. " 'Failed Potions again, Neville? Well, at least you're good at Herbology.' 'Fell off your broom again, Neville? Not to worry, you're good at Herbology.' 'Can't get a date, Neville? Well, at least you can -- '" he turned bright red and ground to a halt. Harry swallowed hard.

"Well, Herbology is really hard for me," he tried, aware of how pitifully weak it was as a restorative.

"Nothing's hard for you," Neville replied, staring soulfully at Harry. "I mean, maybe you're not like Hermione, but -- but you're even good at Potions this term."

"That's 'cos I studied all summer," Harry said firmly. "Don't worry, Neville. I'll help you study this weekend and on Wednesday we'll show Snape you can -- "

"He won't let me partner you any more," Neville said tearfully. "He -- he said so -- I think. I-I can't remember everything he said. But...but before he got so..." Neville's voice thickened, "before he got so horrible, he said...oh, Harry, I'm sorry, I really messed it up for you too, he gave us both detention..."

Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Detention, eh? "Did he," he said grimly.

"Y-yes," Neville said gloomily. "I have to clean everybody's cauldrons during the Quidditch match. You're to come down tonight -- he didn't say what you'd be doing, though."

I just bet he didn't. "The Quidditch match?" Harry repeated.

"Yes," Neville sighed, and glanced out the window. His eyes widened. "Oh gosh! Wh-what time is it?"

"I think the match is about to start," Harry said reluctantly, "but listen, Neville, talk to Madam Pomfrey, I'm sure she doesn't want you going back down there after you've had such an upset -- "

But Neville was already scrambling out of the bed, hastily straightening his robes. "N-no. I -- I'm going. I may be a-afraid of him, but I'm not going to hide in the hospital wing." He shuddered. "All of this happened in the first place because I'm so s-scared of him. He likes it when I'm scared of him. I…I don't want him to win. He always wins." Neville looked even more miserable. "He'd only be worse to me later if I didn't come, anyway."

Neville was probably right, Harry decided, looking at the chubby boy with new respect. "Hey...don't ever let anybody tell you you're not a Gryffindor, Neville," he said with a little smile.

Neville looked at Harry with a wounded expression, before realising that Harry was serious. He turned cherry-red. "Oh..."

"And I did mean it," Harry continued sincerely. "It was an accident. It wasn't your fault."

Neville bit his lip hard, then nodded, then fled.

Leaving Harry to sit alone in the hospital wing for a few moments, pondering, before he finally rose and decided to join his friends at the match. He might as well have a few hours of relaxation before he went to serve his detention. His lips thinned. Tonight he very definitely had a few things to say to Professor Snape.

Good thing they'd already had their first fight. He had a feeling the second was going to be a doozy.

       

It was nice not to have to use the invisibility cloak, or worry about Filch, Peeves or some random Slytherin catching him on his way to Snape's office. Normally Harry appreciated the excuse to visit a detention gave him; tonight he felt very grim. He didn't think this was going to be particularly pleasant.

The fact that Slytherin had lost the match that afternoon probably wasn't going to help either -- at least, not as far as Severus' temper was concerned.

Harry rapped firmly on the office door. "Harry Potter here, sir," he called, and the door swung open. Harry noted gloomily the lack of any kind of anticipatory feeling in his chest. Or any other body parts.

He stepped inside. As usual, Severus wasn't in the office proper, but Harry could hear sounds of movement coming from his personal rooms. He shut the door behind him and squared his shoulders, heading through the second door.

It seemed a bit darker than normal -- the fire was burning down in the grate, and the room was chilly. But Severus didn't appear to notice; as Harry entered the room he saw his lover, professor and adversary prowling around the whole area, rattling jars around and rummaging in cabinets and drawers, muttering angrily to himself. He seemed unusually agitated; Harry wondered briefly if Dumbledore had spoken to him about Neville. He hoped so. It would kind of let Harry off the hook. But how to find out?

Severus glanced back at Harry, then swooped over to the other side of the room to look on the mantle. "Hello," he said briefly, eyes skimming over the dusty wooden surface. His face was paler than usual, and it seemed to Harry his eyes were glittering strangely.

"Um...hi," Harry replied, a little nonplussed. Severus was...not acting like Severus. His movements were never so -- there was no other word for it -- nervous.

"Sit down at the table," Severus abruptly ordered. Then he muttered, looking irate, "I brewed it -- now where the hell did I put it -- "

Bemused, Harry sat. He ran his tongue over lips gone dry, then bit the lower one, wondering how to broach the subject of the day's events. I don't want to, he thought, I really don't want to...but Neville... He tried to steel himself with the memory of Neville's pathetic, tear-drenched face, with the memory of Neville's voice whispering, "He likes it when I'm scared of him." That had been horrid. He couldn't just sit there and say nothing while Snape bullied Neville like that, not when such awful things came of it. And besides, it wasn't as if it wasn't any of his business. As a Gryffindor and Neville's friend, it was his duty, practically...

...What on earth was Severus doing?

Before Harry's bewildered gaze, Severus finally seemed to find what he was looking for: a small jar of clear ointment sitting right in front of Harry on the table. It reminded Harry uncomfortably of Veritaserum. On sighting it, Severus growled softly and strode forward, picking it up and gripping it tightly. "Oh, for Merlin's..." Then he looked fully at Harry for the first time. "How are your injuries?" he demanded.

Harry was momentarily speechless, looking into that face. The Potions master's lips were pinched tightly together, and a tic was going under his left eye. The eyes themselves burned with an unsettling intensity -- and considering how intense Severus' eyes normally were, that was saying something. Harry gulped. "Erm...they're fine...Madam Pomfrey -- "

"Take off your shirt."

"What?"

"I said, take off your shirt!" Severus' long fingers began to fumble with the stopper on the jar. Harry's eyes widened.

Severus never fumbled. With anything.

This strange clumsiness so surprised Harry that his fingers were at his shirt buttons before he realised it and halted them. "What...for?"

The stopper pulled free with a 'pop' and fell to the floor. Severus didn't bother to retrieve it. "So I can look at your shoulder and back, idiot." But the words were said without the customary sarcastic edge, or even the rolling of eyes.

Harry frowned. "I told you I was fine, Madam Pomfrey fixed everything up..."

"I am mostly concerned about your back. I saw the charred skin. This," Severus gestured with the bottle, "is a burn ointment."

"She already put some on," Harry said in irritation. "She has a burn ointment -- "

"Of course she does. I make it myself. I worked this evening on improving the formula. Now take that damned shirt off so I can look -- " The long fingers were twitching, as if threatening to tear the shirt off themselves if Harry didn't hop to it.

Harry blinked and felt worry stirring in him -- not because of Neville, this time, but for his lover. What on earth was wrong? "All right," he said quietly, moving to undo his buttons, deciding that discretion might be the better part of valour, at least for now. "Just...calm down, would you?"

"I'm perfectly calm," Severus snapped, never removing his gaze from Harry's chest as the shirt was drawn away. "Turn around."

Frowning, Harry turned, wondering what the hell was going on, and how he was supposed to bring up the whole Neville thing. Now didn't seem like a really auspicious moment, what with Severus acting so...weird.

His lover made a soft 'humm' sound, and light fingers brushed over his injured shoulder, and then down over his back. Harry was shocked to feel them tremble before they drew away, and his eyes got even wider. Of course. It explained almost everything.

He wanted to turn around and look at Severus. He wanted to see the look of fear that he was sure was crossing the Potions master's face. Because he knew now...it seemed so obvious...Severus had been, was, scared.

For Harry.

The fingers returned, the lightest, gentlest touch, and this time coated with cool ooze that soothed away whatever ache remained in his back. Harry's head fell forward onto his chest; this was a vast improvement over the stinging stuff Madam Pomfrey had used. And Severus had just whipped it up tonight? "Why didn't you improve the formula before?" he asked softly.

The fingers paused before they resumed rubbing the ointment into his flesh. "Hold still," Severus said, just as quietly. Harry held still, though his head was spinning.

It made more sense now. Judging from his own experiences, Harry knew Severus always acted like a complete git when he was scared. So that's why...poor Neville. Now he felt guilty again. It would have been easier if he could have written it off as Severus just being a bastard to someone he disliked. He should have known better. Things were never that simple. Severus had been undeniably cruel -- partly because it seemed to be his nature, but also because he'd been frightened for Harry.

And a not-so-small part of Harry was pleased by that. Which only made him feel guiltier.

"It's working," he murmured, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Your back was nearly healed," Severus said.

"Yeah, but it was a bit sore. Better now." He turned around then, but the Potions master had got his face composed in the interim, it seemed, though the eyes still glittered disturbingly. Harry swallowed hard. Now that he understood, now that the anger was gone, the words came even harder. "Uh...Neville," he began.

Severus' face became closed and hard, but he didn't say anything.

Harry groped desperately for words that wouldn't make his lover too angry. Severus didn't exactly seem up for a rational discussion. "I saw him in the hospital wing. He...he said you weren't going to let us work together any more..."

"That's right," Severus said in a clipped voice. "As of next Wednesday, the entire class will work in pairs which I shall devise myself."

Harry's eyes widened. "You'll pick our partners?" he blurted. "What? But -- but who -- ?"

"Mr. Longbottom," Severus said, with a definitely malevolent gleam in his eye, "will be partnering Mr. Malfoy for the remainder of the term. I haven't decided for the rest of you yet. A little task for the weekend."

"Malfoy!" Harry said in horror. This was awful. Neville was almost as frightened of Draco as he was of Snape. "Why?"

"Because at least the next time he blows someone up, it won't be -- " Severus stopped.

Me. It won't be me. "Malfoy will be horrid to him," Harry said softly. "He'll never learn anything."

He got an incredulous look for his efforts. "Well, one would hate to break up the routine," Severus said with mock-astonishment.

"But I can help him," Harry protested. "Just give me one more chance. He's not so bad when he's with me, most of the time, and -- and it was partly my fault anyway," he admitted. "I almost forgot the bindweed, so I looked away and got distracted...if I'd been paying more attention he wouldn't have..."

"If he was halfway competent," Severus snapped, "he wouldn't need you or Granger or anybody else to hold his hand and change his nappies. It is not your job to ensure that Neville Longbottom, pathetic creature that he is, receives a decent education in Potions. Regrettably, that falls to me. Nor is it your job," he added sharply when Harry opened his mouth to protest again, "to tell me how to order my class."

"I wasn't," Harry replied fiercely. "I just want to help Neville, that's all!"

"Then do so on your own time," Severus replied, in a voice that implied that the subject was permanently closed. Harry tried not to growl mutinously, his anger prickling under his skin again.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He knew, even if he didn't like it, that arguing like this wasn't going to get them anywhere. And if -- if they wanted to be happy, it had to be just them in this room. Neville couldn't be here, or Draco, or Ron and Hermione, or Sirius, or Harry's parents, or anybody else. Somehow they had to completely separate what went on out there between Potter and Professor Snape and what happened in here between Harry and Severus.

For a minute the sheer impossibility of that sat like a rock in Harry's stomach before he willfully dismissed it. No sense in borrowing trouble. They'd deal with things as they came up. He let out a heavy sigh, wishing his doubts and fears could be expelled along with his breath. Then he opened his eyes again, to see Snape regarding him steadily, worry pinching his brow again.

"I'm fine," he said, knowing that this was the heart of it all. "I promise I'm fine."

"Very glad to see it," Severus replied flatly. "You're still not partnering Neville Longbottom again. Ever."

This was all wrong. Neville was his friend. Hearing that shouldn't make Harry feel good. He was nearly a grown man. He didn't need anybody protecting him to death, but...

He liked that Severus cared about him -- at least cared whether he lived or died. Was that so wrong? Harry asked himself rebelliously. "I know," he said aloud. Severus blinked in surprise, and then looked a bit relieved, as if he had expected more of a fight. And then he raised his other hand, the one not covered with salve, to touch Harry's shoulder lightly, checking for a flinch or wince.

Harry closed his eyes at the warmth of those fingertips.

"I..." Severus said, and then, "You..." and then pinched his lips together tightly before leaning in for a kiss. He didn't push any farther than a press of warm, dry lips; Harry sat still for a moment before pressing back, and then opening his mouth a little. It was funny; of all the things they did, for all that he was supposed to be a sex-mad teenager, sometimes he thought he still liked kissing best. Although he shouldn't by rights be kissing Severus now. He should be defending Neville...he should be...

The hand gripped his shoulder more strongly, and when it became obvious that Harry was not in pain, pulled them both closer together. After a moment, the salve-slippery hand wandered up and down Harry's spine, leaving cool, delicious trails in its wake.

No, there was nothing else he should be doing. Except for...

Harry pulled away from the kiss, listening to the sound of raspy breathing echoing off the walls. The wild look was back in Severus' eyes, and it was a little unnerving.

"What's the matter?" demanded Severus, brows drawing together. "Are you -- ?"

Harry brushed his lips against the sallow, startlingly smooth cheek -- Severus hardly ever had stubble -- and murmured again, "I'm fine." Then he drew back, taking hold of Severus' arm and halting the progress of the salved hand up and down his back. "But I don't..." for a moment he was afraid words would fail him, before he heard himself say, "I don't come down here just to...just for this. You know that." Pause. "You do know that?"

Snape looked directly at him. "Why else would you come down here and just play chess?" Then he kissed Harry again.

It wasn't really an answer, Harry thought. Just another question. But he'd said his piece. Whether or not Severus believed him was out of his hands.

He sighed and gave up Neville, gave up reassurances, gave up himself for the umpteenth time as he wound his arms around his lover's shoulders and pulled him close.

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