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It’s a potions accident.

Severus doesn’t really think it should be his problem, when he isn’t the one in charge of making sure no potions-related deaths occur in this school anymore, but he hears some of the students whispering in the halls that this particular incident didn’t happen in a classroom.

That was interesting, at least, if nothing else.

Even when he was a student here, he didn’t do much brewing just for the sake of it. And, somehow, he doesn’t think that Harry Potter, of all people, would.

Still, he doesn’t want to get involved—and, frankly, he shouldn’t have to.

Except that one Poppy Pomfrey seems to disagree.

They know what the cause is, apparently, but they don’t seem quite as certain as to what they should do about it. 

For his part, Severus doesn’t care. He knows the boy will wake up again and be back to his same old insolent self in no time. 

No matter how he tries, though, Poppy won’t leave him alone.

Finally, he relents.

It has been two days since whatever happened, but he tells himself that if Poppy really thinks he can help, he does have a duty to Potter—though he is loath to think of it—and the teenager will be fast asleep anyway, thanks to whatever potion he accidentally—what? Overdosed on? That sounds right, but Severus just doesn’t know. It occurs to him that all he’s really heard has been from the rather unreliable rumour mill of the Hogwarts students.

It’s past curfew now, and so the halls of the castle are quiet as Severus makes his way to the hospital wing. Perhaps what happened has something to do with the Dark Lord? But, then, wouldn’t Albus be the one helping the boy through it? Given how poorly Potter did with Occlumency, Severus doubts that it would be wise for him, of all people, to be advising Potter on how to banish the Dark Lord from his thoughts.

So, no. That can’t be it, then. Poppy is a smart woman, and Severus gets the feeling that she doesn’t want to compromise the safety of either of them.

She meets him at the entrance to the hospital wing, offering a small smile.

“Thank you, Severus.” Her smile falls away, and she studies him very seriously. “Now, I know this isn’t something you want to do, but I fear that Mr Potter has few other options.”

Severus raises an eyebrow at her, wishing the woman would just say whatever it is that she wants him to do.

“Dreamless Sleep,” she finally says, searching him for some kind of reaction.

“Overdose?” he asks carefully, almost hoping that the rumours are not true this time.

Gravely, she nods. “He will be fine, physically, but—”

“I fail to see what this has to do with me, then,” Severus cuts in.

Her look is a withering one. “I wouldn’t ask you if I thought someone else could do it better.”

Ask him what?

His impatience must show on his face, because she sighs and gestures to him, indicating that he should follow her. Generally, she is direct and to-the-point, something Severus has always liked about her. It is only this knowledge that keeps him from snapping at her.

She leads him to Potter’s bed. Indeed, the boy looks quite sickly. And, Severus thinks, much younger than sixteen. He’s terribly thin, far too pale.

“You don’t think this is a one-time thing,” he guesses, glancing at the matron.

She nods. “His friends don’t seem to be aware of anything, but they said he’s been off since the beginning of term. Well, what with everything that happened in June, they simply thought…”

Severus looks down at Potter again, trying not to sneer at his prone form. “I’m certain I’m the last person he would want consoling him about Black’s death.”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting,” Poppy tells him, very quiet indeed. “An addiction is an addiction, Severus. And this may be one you’re particularly familiar with, yourself.”

He glares at her, but can’t deny it. The first War had been difficult, and he had needed to get through it somehow, especially once he heard of the prophecy and began spying for Albus. It’s a helpful potion when used in moderation, but the longer one uses it, the less impact it has. Thus, Severus would think, Potter’s current condition.

But where in the world had he gotten that much of the potion from?

“He came to me at the beginning of the term,” Poppy explains. “He looked dreadful. I figured it couldn’t hurt, after everything he’d been through, but he came again. I turned him away, though he wasn’t pleased about it.”

“Was he brewing it?” It seems impossible, given the boy’s skill in Potions, but there are certainly books in the library that would explain the process.

“It’s the only thing I can think.” Poppy sounds rather sad, and tired. Severus almost feels bad for digging his heels in so firmly on this until now, but then he recalls why.

“He’ll wake up soon?” Severus asks, though he’s sure he already knows the answer.

“I should think so. Until he does, would you at least consider speaking with him? I can only help so much.”

Severus sighs, rubbing an irritated finger against his temple. Finally, if only, he tells himself, because of a particular Life Debt, he says, “I suppose I could, though I doubt he will be overly receptive.”

To his surprise, Poppy smiles. “Perhaps he will surprise you.” With a mumble and a flick of her wand, she conjures a chair by Potter’s bed.

“I’ll be getting some sleep, then,” she informs him, then turns and walks away. Leaving him, Potter, and the conjured chair.

Severus could just leave. He knows the chair is for him, but Poppy didn’t ask him to stay. He has classes to teach in the morning, and he doubts his students will like him any more than usual if he’s snapping at them from exhaustion, rather than just because of their regular idiocy.

But he can’t quite get his feet to move towards the door, and he is sitting down before he even really realizes he is.

“Stupid boy,” he mutters, but there is no weight to it. Potter can’t hear him now, anyway.

Severus has a feeling he knows why Potter would want the Dreamless Sleep, but for the boy to go to such extremes to get it is worrisome. It would certainly explain the quality of his recent schoolwork, though Severus is personally inclined to think that it has always been that abhorrent. Minerva disagrees, but she is probably just as shocked over Black’s death as Potter is, and trying to see something that is not really there to assuage herself of any guilt she may be feeling.

It was a mistake Severus made when he was quite young, too. But having something in common with Potter is far from a comforting thought, and he can only manage to watch the boy for a moment longer before standing and leaving the hospital wing.

It doesn’t seem to matter how much sleep he gets. Still, all of his classes go poorly in some way, and though the boy isn’t even in attendance for his, Severus can’t help but blame Potter.

He visits the hospital wing during dinner, grateful that everyone else seems more keen on having their fill of food. He gets the feeling that Potter’s bed would otherwise be quite crowded—especially as, from what he can see, the boy is now awake.

Poppy is with him, waving her wand and checking his vitals, but he stares ahead blankly. His glasses are still on the table by his bed, so he surely doesn’t recognize Severus as he approaches.

Poppy does, though.

“Good evening, Severus,” she greets.

Potter doesn’t react in the slightest.

Severus frowns. That doesn’t bode well, at all.

“Mr Potter woke up just a few minutes ago,” Poppy explains briskly. “I wondered if you might…”

Oh, yes, because Potter would love that.

Severus watches her a moment, then sighs and nods, coming around to the other side of Potter’s bed.

“Potter,” he says.

The boy’s head doesn’t move even a bit.

Severus sits on the chair by the bed heavily. “Would you care to explain to Madam Pomfrey and myself what happened?”

At this, his shoulders tense, but he still does not speak.

“We cannot help you if we don’t understand.”

Finally, his head snaps around. He’s scowling, but there is a glossy sort of mist in his eyes, as if he is still asleep, in part.

“Help me?” he demands, but his voice is scratchy and tired-sounding. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Mr Potter!”

Severus shakes his head, though, and Poppy steps back, lips pursed.

“I would say,” Severus tells him quietly, “that the only stupid one here is the one idiotic enough to overdose on a highly addictive potion.”

Potter’s anger flows out of him immediately, leaving him pale-faced. He looks away from Severus, chest stuttering.

“It wasn’t—that’s not—I didn’t—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Severus says sharply. “Now, you have two options. You can explain what happened, or you can let me enter your mind and see for myself.”

Potter is quiet for a moment, and then he takes in a deep breath and turns to face Severus again, meeting his eyes decidedly.

Severus doesn’t react immediately, shocked at Potter’s willingness after their horrid Occlumency lessons last year, but he gets a hold of himself quickly. Lifting his wand hand, he whispers, “Legillimens.”

There is a feeling of being pushed away, but it is so brief Severus can’t help thinking it was not intentional. As it falls away, he is assaulted with memories:

Cedric Diggory dying in the graveyard the Dark Lord had been resurrected in. Black, falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. Arthur Weasley in a St Mungo’s bed, the golden forms of the dead conjured by the Priori Incantatem, the green light of the Killing Curse, a large, moustached man looming over him threateningly—

And then it stops.

Poppy is at his side now, a firm hand on his shoulder, and Potter looks away from him, breathing hard.

“You have nightmares,” Severus says after a moment.

Potter doesn’t respond, but it wasn’t a question anyway.

“You realize Dreamless Sleep can be extremely addictive?”

One nod. “Madam Pomfrey told me, in September.”

“Where were you getting it from?” Severus presses.

“I…” He stops, gripping the white sheets of the bed beneath him.

“You…?”

“I stole it at first,” he says, facing Severus with a familiar defiant look in his eyes. Without his glasses on, Severus realizes just how like Lily’s his eyes are.

“I noticed,” Poppy puts in softly.

“And hid it,” Potter says, accusingly.

“Yes.”

He deflates somewhat. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I found the recipe and I made it. Not like I would be sleeping anyway, otherwise.”

“You don’t look as if you’ve been sleeping as it is,” Severus points out.

Potter glares at him. “It stopped working. I’d read that it would, but…” He shrugs, face falling, and turns away again.

“Yet you continued to take it?”

No answer.

“Potter, answer the question.”

He rubs at his eyes, but says nothing.

Frustration growing, Severus snaps, “You will answer my questions, or you will not like the consequences. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Potter mutters, but he sounds far from happy about it.

“You continued to take the potion?”

A jerky nod.

“I’m sure Madam Pomfrey informed you that your last dose left you in a comatose state for three days?”

“Yes,” Potter says, sullenly.

“Yes, sir, Potter.”

“Yes, sir.”

Severus leans back, satisfied. “The overdose was not intentional, however?”

Potter huffs, glancing up at him. “You’re the one who thinks I have a death wish. You tell me.” Teeth clenched, he adds, “Sir.”

Yes, well, as far as that “death wish” goes, this was a rather tame attempt for Potter.

Still, he knows he can’t just leave it at that. Not with Poppy standing so close, hoping he’ll help the boy.

“I believe,” he finally says, “you told me you would answer my questions, Potter.”

As if suddenly very tired, Potter leans against the back of the bed. “No, it wasn’t on purpose, but…”

“But?”

“Nothing.” He sighs, eyes on the ceiling. “Why does it matter, anyway? Sir.”

Severus considers it for a moment, unsure if Potter means it the way he thinks he does, or the way he hopes he does.

Carefully, he says, “Madam Pomfrey asked me to speak with you. Likely, because of my knowledge of potions.”

“Not Slughorn?”

“Professor Slughorn, Mr Potter,” Poppy chastises.

“Sorry.”

“Perhaps,” Severus says, “she thought you may be comfortable with someone who is not a part of your excitable fan club.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause everyone either loves me for something I didn’t do or hates me because—” He cuts himself off, face twitching oddly.

“Care to finish that thought, Potter?”

“No, sir.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

Potter narrows his eyes at the ceiling. “I don’t care,” he says. “What good does it do, anyway? You know now. You can stop me from taking the bloody potion, and I’ll just go back to how it was before.”

“Addictions are rarely that simple, Mr Potter.” Poppy’s voice is gentler than it has been all evening. She shoots a furtive glance at Severus, then adds, “I expect, by now, your body feels some level of reliance on the potion. To function, that is.”

“Whatever,” Potter mutters.

Severus rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. “If you would prefer to let yourself be sick from it, be my guest. But we are offering to help you.” Not that his arrogance has ever allowed him to ask for help before, Severus thinks bitterly.

“I don’t need help.” Potter screws his eyes shut tightly. “I’m just tired, and I keep having bad dreams. I haven’t had one since summer, now.”

“And that’s a good thing, is it?”

“Well, sure.” He pauses, opening his eyes again and looking over to Severus with uncertainty. “Why would it be a good thing to relive all of...that?”

Severus wants to snap at him, tell him how idiotic he sounds, but he can’t. It would hardly be fair, when that look in Potter’s eyes is oh-so familiar, and twice as painful.

“It’s healthier to deal with things than to avoid them,” Severus informs him brusquely. “I was unaware that Gryffindors could be quite so cowardly.”

Potter sighs again, but doesn’t respond as Severus expects him to.

Instead, he says, “I’m tired. Can’t I go back to sleep, Madam?”

Poppy looks him over, then nods sharply. “Do you expect to have nightmares?”

Potter looks down at his hands. “Dunno.”

“Well, we’ll keep a watch on you anyway.” Poppy gives Severus a significant look. “If you need anything, Mr Potter, I will be around.”

He nods, but Severus gets the idea that he isn’t really listening. His eyes have taken on that glossy look again, and, in seconds, he has curled back up on the bed, sound asleep.

“Have you spoken to Albus?” Severus asks curiously. Surely, the old man wouldn’t be happy about this?

Poppy shakes her head. “He knows as much as anyone else, right now. I expect Albus has enough on his plate, as is. He came to visit, but…”

“Of course.” Severus wonders, too, if she is trying to spare Potter at least some of the mental anguish he will surely have to face as he overcomes this. She does seem at least somewhat fond of the boy, though Severus supposes he has been stuck in the hospital wing more than a few times in his Hogwarts career thus far.

“I expect you’d like me to stay here?” He raises an eyebrow at her, and at least she has the sense to look a bit embarrassed as she nods her agreement.

“Dinner is probably nearly over by now, anyway,” she says. “I’ll have a house elf bring you something.”

He waves dismissively. “Tea will be fine, Poppy, thank you.”

Truthfully, he doesn’t have much of an appetite. Not since Poppy told him about the reason for Potter’s current slumber.

For now, he leans back in the chair, closing his eyes. He hears Poppy’s footsteps retreat, and lets out a long exhale.

The best he can do for Potter, it would seem, is stay by his side.

Not for the first time, he finds himself cursing James Potter for saving his life.

Severus suspects that Poppy has sent away any visitors Potter may have had, and, for that, he finds himself endlessly grateful. He hardly needs Potter’s little friends here accusing him of poisoning their poor Chosen One, after all.

It turns out that there is more to be grateful for, when he notices Potter whimpering.

One of his nightmares, no doubt.

Severus watches him a moment, then jumps as the whimpering erupts into screams.

“Potter!” he demands harshly. “Wake up, Potter!”

He reaches out to touch the boy, but, while it stops the screaming, it doesn’t wake him. Instead, he is talking, words just barely comprehensible:

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. J-just—”

He stops, his breaths halting, then evening out again.

Well, Severus supposes he can’t blame Potter for wanting to sleep without dreaming. It’s disturbing enough to watch, without having to experience the terrible dream for himself.

It may be better or worse now, because of the Dreamless Sleep he has been relying on. It’s not always easy to tell what the long-term effects are; they seem to vary from person to person.

Typically, though, it is better before it gets worse. Eventually, it will get better again, but…

Potter is whimpering again, mouthing out silent words Severus thinks he should be glad he can’t hear.

Before it can escalate again, Severus shakes his shoulder.

He is awake in an instant, hands moving in front of his face defensively.

Severus stares at him until his hands fall, trembling slightly. His cheeks are red with shame or embarrassment. Possibly both.

“You...you’re still here?” Potter pauses. “Sir?”

Severus ignores the question in favour of asking his own: “What were you dreaming about, Potter?”

Potter stiffens. Then, his face pales. He looks away from Severus, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Nothing,” he mutters.

“Do not lie to me,” Severus says quietly, leaning forward to ensure he is heard. “What were you dreaming about?”

Potter’s head snaps around, eyes alight with anger. “Why don’t you just look in my head again, if you want to know so badly?”

Severus bites his tongue to keep from snapping at the boy, knowing it never does any good anyway. “Talking will be more beneficial, in the long-term.”

Potter laughs. It is a rough, bitter sound, full of all that rage still swimming in Lily’s eyes.

But it is so different from Lily’s anger. More painful, sharp like broken glass.

“The long-term,” he repeats, almost incredulous-sounding. “You’ll have to forgive me for not being overly hopeful about the ‘long-term’ at the moment. You want to hear what I dream about? So that the next time I muck something up in your class, you can tell everyone how—how disturbed I am? Well, I’m not going to tell you! Is that a satisfactory answer, sir?”

“Potter—”

“Oh, shut up,” he snarls. “Why are you here? Just leave me alone.”

Severus inhales sharply, hoping his already-thin patience will not break now.

“I have no intention of telling anybody how disturbed you are, Potter. On the contrary, I am here to help you. Surely you at least know the basic definition of the word?”

Potter scowls.

“I am well aware,” Severus continues, “that you would rather not talk to me. I assure you, the feeling is entirely mutual.”

Potter narrows his eyes. “Then why are you still here?”

Severus spreads his hands in front of him, as if to show that he isn’t hiding any ulterior motives or anything of the sort. “Madam Pomfrey asked, firstly.”

Potter snorts. “I never got the feeling you were the type to do something just ‘cause someone said ‘please,’ sir.”

“I’m not,” Severus agrees. “I have another reason to help.”

Potter watches him expectantly, but eventually sighs and turns to reach for something on the bedside table when he doesn’t say anything more. Putting his glasses on, Potter sits up fully and turns to face Severus again, arms crossed over his chest.

“I don’t need help,” he says. “I get the issue, okay? I already told you—”

“Madam Pomfrey thought I could help you,” Severus interrupts. “And that is what I intend to do. So, Potter, tell me. What were you dreaming about?”

For a moment, he thinks Potter isn’t going to respond.

And then he sighs, turning away from Severus. “Cedric,” he says shortly. “The graveyard. He used the Cruciatus on me, you know.”

He says it so offhandedly, Severus wonders if he heard him right.

But he did. He already knew about that, but Potter’s screams from before flash in his mind again, and suddenly he feels like he has only just learned this information.

“It is a terrible curse,” Severus acknowledges.

Silence.

And then: “I used it.”

“Sorry?”

He turns to look at Severus now, eyes unfocussed. “On Bellatrix. After Sirius… After she…” He stops, breathing hard.

Severus thinks of reaching out to him, but doesn’t dare to. It would throw him back into a rage, surely. And then Severus would grow angry as well, and Poppy would have to come pull them apart, like a couple of school children.

“Is that why you…?”

Potter seems to take a moment to gather himself. Finally, he says, “It didn’t work. I couldn’t do it.”

Severus doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react to that. Somehow, he gets the feeling that telling the boy he has cast Unforgivables too will be neither surprising nor productive.

It’s difficult to tell how, exactly, Potter feels about his attempt at torturing Bellatrix. At first, Severus thought he must be confessing out of guilt, but there is a hardness in his eyes, a complete hatred there, that tells him otherwise.

Perhaps he is...wishing he had been successful?

Thankfully, Potter speaks again before Severus has to come up with something to say:

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “What time is it?”

Severus watches him a moment, wary, then informs him, “Just past curfew. Perhaps you would like to sleep more?”

Potter snorts. “Yeah, right. All that does is remind me why I wasn’t sleeping in the first place.”

“Avoidance won’t help you.”

It occurs to Severus that this may be their most civilized conversation with each other. He wonders if Potter’s exhaustion has something to do with it.

“I’m not tired,” Potter says, dismissive.

It doesn’t stop the child from giving him a headache, however.

“Then, why don’t we talk?”

“Talk.” Potter raises his eyebrows at Severus, as if this is the most ludicrous thing he has ever heard. “What’s there to talk about, Professor? Everyone already knows.”

“What exactly does everyone know, Potter?”

He sets his jaw, eyes flaring. “What happened in that graveyard? What happened at the Ministry? I—” He stops, his anger draining out of him quickly. “That’s it. You already know. Why bother talking?”

“It helps,” Severus tells him, for the umpteenth time.

“Yeah, well…” He sighs, turning away. “There’s no point.”

“It would ease your nightmares.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

His voice is hollow now. Unfeeling. So very...un-Potter-like.

Severus swallows back his frustration again. “So, if you refuse to sleep and you refuse to talk, perhaps you would like something to eat?”

A pause.

Then, “No, sir.”

“Sorry?”

He still won’t look at Severus. “I’m not hungry.”

A side effect of his Dreamless Sleep addiction, perhaps? But, no, Severus doesn’t think so. There are many things such a potion can do to one’s internal system, but it doesn’t tend to affect appetite like this.

How long Severus has been sitting here, he doesn’t know. Hours, certainly. He would like to get some sleep as well, but at least he can look forward to the fact that tomorrow is Saturday.

For now, he’s stuck with Potter.

It isn’t as bad a thought as it would have been even two days ago. Really, Potter is not himself at all—and he has nobody around to give a show to, so he seems to be reigning in his tongue more effectively than usual. Severus has had these sorts of encounters with students in his own house, but they generally don’t have quite so much personal animosity between them.

All the same, he supposes Poppy is right that he knows what Potter is going through. It isn’t an uncommon addiction, especially during a war.

“You look rather underweight,” Severus remarks.

Potter shoots him a dirty look. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, yes, all skin and bones.” Severus sneers at him. “I haven’t eaten yet myself. If I called some food up, would you eat?”

Potter opens his mouth, as if to protest, then stops. Closes it. Considers the words, confusion contorting his features.

“Er, okay.” He looks down at his hands again briefly, then up with suspicion. “You’re not going to poison me, right?”

“I’ve had plenty of opportunities to do so already, I assure you.” Severus rises from his chair and steps around Potter’s bed to summon a house elf.

He doesn’t know what Potter likes to eat, but he figures that if the boy looks like that—well, it’s unlikely he’s been eating much at all. It’s doubtful he would be able to stomach a full meal, anyway, given his current position.

So, Severus asks for something simple: bread, butter, perhaps a bit of whatever may be left from dinner.

When he takes his seat again, he sees Potter watching him very closely, like he is expecting Severus to attack him. Maybe he is, Severus realizes. He thinks, not for the first time, that Poppy really did not consider the circumstances before begging Severus to come here.

Neither of them speak until a house elf returns with food. Interestingly, Potter doesn’t begin eating until he sees Severus start. It seems the opposite of what he was expecting, given the boy’s typical arrogance.

And, too, he finishes first. He has eaten very little indeed.

Once their food is cleared, Severus dares to ask, “Do you often skip meals?”

Potter tenses, gaze averted. “No, sir.”

“You are a terrible liar, Potter.”

Potter huffs at this. “I don’t skip meals, Professor. Not on purpose. Miss them, though? Sure. Have them withheld?”

Severus waits for more, but it doesn’t come. Though it is rather dark and Potter’s face is mostly hidden from him, Severus can just barely make out the colour rising on the boy’s cheeks.

“Withheld?” Severus presses, when it becomes apparent the boy won’t be continuing.

“Never mind.”

“You brought it up, Potter.”

He scowls. “Even though you won’t care to hear about it, right? I said, never mind.”

It is like Potter is in trouble for something, trying to get out of a detention over some ill-advised bought of mischief.

He has certainly never been withheld meals at Hogwarts. Severus knows that Petunia has her moments, but she had assured Albus that she was more than happy to take the boy in all those years ago. Besides, even her specific brand of horribleness only really extended to verbal attacks. Lily loved her, at least, until the very end.

“What makes you think I wouldn’t care?” Severus asks.

When Potter finally faces him again, he knows it was the wrong tactic.

“You? What makes me think you wouldn’t—?” He laughs sharply. “You must be joking, Professor. I know you’ve protected me in the past, but you don’t give a toss unless it means I might die. Right?”

His words are like a knife in Severus’s chest. He remembers well when he had approached Albus, begging him to protect Lily. The way the man had seen him then, pitiful and selfish, to not think of the woman’s husband and son.

And here, now, is her son.

He hates Severus.

But it’s supposed to be like this, isn’t it? He is the spitting image of his father. Besides, if he didn’t hate Severus now, he would when he inevitably found out about the hand Severus had had in his parents’ deaths.

It seems, though, that there is nobody else to help.

“Your mother was my friend,” Severus says quietly.

Potter goes rigid.

“I will ask again: Who has withheld meals from you?”

Scrubbing at his eyes again, Potter lets out a long sigh. “Don’t lots of parents send their kids to bed without dinner?” He shrugs. “I misbehave a lot. You know that as well as I do, sir.”

“Then, if it is merely punishment, why do you eat so little? I’m quite sure it’s within your aunt’s budget to feed you?”

Potter grumbles something he can’t quite make out.

“Louder, Potter, if you please.”

“I said,” Potter hisses, “that she would disagree with you. Sir.”

Severus blinks. He means Petunia, doesn’t he?

“You are aware,” Severus says slowly, “that they receive money for having you? Money meant to pay for your needs?”

Potter’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth, then closes it, stunned.

Clearly not, then.

“I would imagine it is more than substantial,” Severus continues. “Even if the system didn’t pay for such things, it’s likely that they receive payments from your parents’ savings. And given that you are, after all, something of a special case, I believe it would be a safe assumption to say that Professor Dumbledore would do anything in his power to ensure your material needs were being met.”

Potter’s jaw twitches. His eyes are full of anger again.

And then it is gone, just as quickly.

“Yeah, well, Aunt Petunia reckons I’m a special case as well.”

Severus leans forward curiously. “You don’t sound overly enthused by that.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Why would I, Professor? I reckon you would agree with her, anyway.”

Severus raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t get a chance to verbalize his question as Potter continues:

“Arrogant little freak,” he says angrily. “Mouthy, disturbed, taking food out of our poor Dudders’ mouth. They almost hate me as much as you do, Professor. That must be some sort of record, don’t you think?”

For a moment, Severus isn’t completely sure what he is hearing. And then he thinks about it. And thinks about it some more.

Oh, Lily.

Severus has always sort of wondered what Lily saw in Petunia, but she always said that she loved her. They were sisters, after all. Petunia loved her too, she was just jealous. Once they were older, she would always say, she’ll be more like she was before we knew.

It would seem that that is the farthest thing from the case.

“Do you relatives abuse you, Potter?” He can never be too sure.

Potter stares at him, as if he has suddenly grown a second head. “Abuse me? What gave you that idea?”

“Withholding meals is not appropriate for a guardian to do to a child. Nor is calling one’s ward a ‘freak.’ Do you understand, Potter?”

Potter bites his lip. “Well, it’s never been a problem before, has it? Why are you so worried? Anyway, they got stuck with me. It’s not their fault.”

Severus is beginning to think that he may have to reassess his thoughts on the boy.

“If they are mistreating you,” Severus says, “you may say so.”

He’s only sixteen, Severus reminds himself. When he was sixteen, he had decided to become a Death Eater—to spite his Muggle father, perhaps, or to find people who understood as he did just how detestable Muggles could be.

It’s the result of a troubled childhood, he thinks. Maybe, if he had grown up in a different environment, he never would have pushed Lily away. Never would have found himself so full of hatred. Never would have taken the Mark.

He can’t change any of that.

“Mistreating me,” Potter repeats. “What d’you mean by that?”

“Starving you?” Severus suggests. “Hitting or otherwise harming you? Locking you up?”

“I’m not being starved,” Potter says dismissively. “Uncle Vernon only gets violent sometimes, but I’m faster than he is anyway. They just don’t know how to deal with my magic, so they rather I keep to my room.”

Severus rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. “I will not talk in circles about this, Potter. Your uncle is violent with you?”

Potter shrugs. “Sometimes. I did blow up his sister once, though, so you can see what he has to deal with. You think I’m a handful in class? Well, you don’t have to house me, do you?”

“You blew up his sister?” Severus figures addressing the rest of Potter’s words would be an uncomfortable experience for both of them.

“Before third year?”

Right. Severus did hear about that.

“So, they’re not pleased with accidental magic. Is that all?”

Potter purses his lips. “Why are you asking me this? Isn’t it a little late to do anything, anyway? I’ll be seventeen next summer.”

“Talking about it may do you some good.”

To his annoyance, Potter rolls his eyes.

“Stop saying that,” he complains, sounding more like himself than he has all evening. “I’m a little more concerned about Voldemort than my uncle, thanks.”

“Yes, well.” Severus presses his lips together firmly. “You don’t seem to deny that the Dark Lord’s interactions with you are steeped with ill-intention.”

“I never said my relatives didn’t hate me,” Potter points out. “I just don’t get why you care. Everyone knew about the cupboard, anyway.”

It’s likely not something he would have said normally, but his exhaustion is evidently making this conversation, miraculously, easier than it would have been otherwise.

“Cupboard?” Severus asks.

Potter scowls. “The cupboard under the stairs? It’s where my Hogwarts letter was addressed. And I only got a thousand of the bloody things. Someone knew.”

Severus shakes his head. “Those letters are addressed automatically. Nobody would have looked, no matter how many were sent.”

“Oh.” He seems to deflate slightly.

“What was this cupboard?” Severus presses.

“Forget it.”

“I asked you a question, Potter.”

“And I answered it.” He shrugs. “Sorry, sir, but I fail to see what my cupboard would have to do with my nightmares.”

His cupboard?

“Were you frequently locked up?” Severus wonders. “That, too, would be abusive behaviour.”

Potter looks to him in bewilderment. “Locked up? I slept there. For ten years. Until the letters started coming. They were just making space for me. Stop saying that word.”

“Abuse, you mean?”

Potter’s annoyed look is answer enough.

“You slept in a cupboard?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” His tone is dismissive, but there is some sort of emotion behind it, an almost-panic that clouds his irises.

“Fine,” Severus says after a brief pause to consider the reaction. “However, you should get some more sleep, even if you do have nightmares.”

“I’m not tired.” He sounds it, though.

Severus purses his lips. “I would like to sleep tonight myself, Potter, and unless I am confident that you are doing so as well, I cannot leave you here.”

“What’s stopping you?” Severus suspects the question was supposed to sound irritated, but it is filled with curiosity, instead. Disbelief, perhaps.

“I gave Madam Pomfrey my word that I would help you.” Severus looks him over tiredly. “Is that not enough of a reason for you?”

“Is this helping, Professor?” He sighs, not seeming to need an answer. “I’ll try to sleep, then, if you need me to.”

That was honestly not the reaction Severus was expecting.

But, he reminds himself, his expectations surrounding Potter appear to have all been rather flimsy, at very best. It certainly doesn’t help that it is the middle of the night, and Potter is beyond exhausted—not to mention malnourished, by the looks of things.

Has nobody really been looking out for him?

It seems absurd, but Severus really can’t say. After all, he has his own duties within the Order; others were left up to watching Potter over the summer, for the most part. Besides, Albus has always been adamant that the boy was happy and healthy. Or, at least, as happy and healthy as one could expect him to be after the events of the past two years.

Five years, rather. Severus thinks back to Potter’s first year, when he had foolishly risked his life to go after the Philosopher’s Stone. Then, the child had faced a basilisk—and won. After that, a werewolf and hundreds of Dementors surely felt like nothing.

Finally, he inclines his head slightly, agreeing. “Very well, Potter. I’ll return in the morning, shall I? Should you have any more...disturbances, Madam Pomfrey will be in her office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Severus stands, legs stiff beneath him from all the time spent sitting.

As he leaves the hospital wing, he glances back to see Potter staring at the wall ahead of him, unseeing.

True to his promise, Severus returns even before breakfast.

Having always been an early riser, he knows that the castle tends to be quieter around these hours, particularly on a Saturday. He can attend breakfast later, or have it brought to his own chamber.

Or, still, he could eat here in the hospital wing with Potter.

The thought brings his lips to twist into a tight sneer, but it falls when he sees Poppy standing by Potter’s bed.

“Good morning, Severus,” she greets.

This time, the boy is watching him closely as he approaches. He looks beyond tired, eyes red and lids heavily purple. He doesn’t speak, but Severus wasn’t expecting him to.

“How was your night?” Severus asks soliticioustly. Hopefully, getting answers from Poppy will keep Potter from lashing out at him for prying.

Poppy gives him a weak smile. “Long,” she says. “Mr Potter tells me most of his nights were spent similarly, throughout the summer.”

Severus arches an eyebrow up at this.

Potter sighs. “You don’t really think I would start taking the potion if I didn’t need it?” When Severus’s stare remains level, he adds, “Sir.”

“No,” Severus says, “I suppose not.”

Potter doesn’t respond, instead just running a hand through his hair. He’s sweating, Severus realizes, and he is so very pale.

It will be a long road to recovery, Severus thinks.

But this next week is the last before the end of the term, so maybe that will be a good thing for all of them.

“Well,” Poppy says, “the best we can do for now, Mr Potter, is ensure you are physically healthy. Perhaps the rest will come in time.” She shoots Severus a significant look.

Potter gives a little snort, but says nothing.

“Have you eaten?” Severus directs the question at Poppy, though they both know it is meant for Potter.

“Not yet,” she says. “I’ll have something brought up for you, shall I?”

Severus nods. “Thank you, Poppy.”

She offers a quick smile, then turns away. In her absence, Severus watches Potter for a moment, then resumes his seat.

Neither of them speak, even once Poppy returns to them with breakfast. Severus keeps one eye on Potter as they eat, unsurprised but disappointed to see that he spends most of the time moving the food around on the plate than actually eating anything before he gives up entirely and puts it aside.

“Are you feeling sick?” Severus asks pointedly.

Potter frowns. “No, why?”

“You are not eating.”

“Oh.” He hesitates, then shrugs. “I’m just not hungry, I guess.”

Severus has a feeling it is going to be a very long day.

Indeed, the rest of their interactions are just as short and unhelpful. In the late morning, Severus leaves to retrieve some essays he has to mark by Monday, then returns to sit with the unresponsive child.

Unfortunately, upon his return, he sees that he is not Potter’s only guest.

Weasley and Granger, ever the faithful sidekicks, sit together beside Potter’s bed. Neither of them have taken Severus’s seat, but he suspects Poppy may have something to do with that.

As he approaches, the two immediately quiet.

Potter, though, offers him a small smile.

That’s unusual, but Severus tries not to let his shock show as he sits.

“Don’t let my presence put a stop to your conversation,” he drawls. “I assure you, I have no intention of interrupting.”

“Er, right.” Granger glances uncertainly at Weasley, but neither of them start talking again.

“Are those their essays?” Potter asks curiously.

Granger’s head snaps up, eyes wide in alarm.

Severus rolls his eyes. “No cheating, Potter, thank you very much. You’ll be writing your own once Madam Pomfrey gives me permission to assign it to you.”

“I was just wondering,” he mutters.

“Of course.” Severus’s lip twitches slightly. “They are not, however, the sixth years’ essays.”

Potter shrugs, turning to face his friends again. “Madam Pomfrey says I should stay here over the break.”

“What?” Weasley demands. “I thought you were coming to the Burrow!”

“Ron—”

“I’m sorry,” Potter says. He sounds dreadfully tired, but not overly apologetic.

“You’re fine, though, aren’t you?” Weasley presses. “We still have a week until the hols start, so—”

“We shouldn’t argue, if that’s what Madam Pomfrey thinks is best.” Proving once again, it would seem, that Granger is the smartest of the trio. She frowns at Potter. “We could stay here?”

Potter shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Professor Snape will keep me company,” he adds cheekily.

Severus looks up at him, but doesn’t bother giving a response. He doubts Potter is really very taken with the idea of spending Christmas with him, of all people, but he suspects that Poppy is correct in saying Potter would be better off here over the holidays.

“If you’re sure…” Granger’s discomfort is obvious in her voice. “Anyway, we just wanted to make sure you were okay. The Quidditch team is getting a little worried.” This last bit is spoken with annoyance. Perhaps she finds their concern rather misplaced, in this case.

“I keep saying there’s loads of time, but…” Weasley shrugs. “I reckon they just don’t know what to think, since nobody really knows…”

Potter’s lips press together in a thin line. “Doesn’t matter. Ginny could play Seeker.”

Weasley blinks. “You— What?”

“Ron, shh.” Granger smiles weakly. “I’m sure Harry will be fine well before the next match, but of course he’d think about it. He’s captain, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but…”

Potter only shrugs again.

“There is loads of time, though, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Weasley eyes him warily. “Okay… But you really can’t come home with us?”

“I wish I could, mate, really.” There is something forced about Potter’s tone, but Weasley and Granger don’t seem to pick up on it. “Isn’t it about lunchtime, anyway? You guys should go get something to eat.”

Severus stops, listening closely.

“Are you sure?” Granger frets. “We can come back right after.”

“No, don’t worry about me.” Potter’s smile is tight. “You have a lot of homework, right? I’ll be okay. Madam Pomfrey reckons I just need a lot of rest.”

It is a half-truth at best, Severus thinks, but it seems to reassure his friends.

“Okay,” Granger agrees. “Maybe we’ll come by after dinner?”

“Sure.”

She smiles brightly, relieved. “Let’s go, then.” She and Weasley stand and make their way out. Though she gives Severus a small, nervous nod, they otherwise don’t acknowledge him.

Once he is sure they’re gone, Severus sets his work down and measures Potter with a very serious look. “They don’t know why you’re here?”

“No, sir,” comes his meek reply.

“Why not?”

“They worry too much, sir.” Potter rubs at his nose. “It’s nearly Christmas. No point in ruining it for them.”

Severus considers this for a moment. “I doubt confiding in your friends is a bad thing, in this case.”

“I dunno.” He turns his gaze upward with a short sigh. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“As with most things,” Severus says.

Potter laughs. “Not much to talk about, is there? I did something stupid. Nothing new. Really, Professor, I’m surprised you aren’t saying so yourself.”

Severus folds his hands over his lap carefully. “Madam Pomfrey asked me to help. I don’t believe berating you would be overly effective.”

“This time.”

“This time,” Severus allows. “Addiction is...complicated, Potter. Even a few months of usage, as you’ve surely learned, can have detrimental effects on one’s health. Unfortunately, even the smartest of wizards can be victims of it.”

Potter seems to think about this for a minute. Then, slowly, he says, “If I didn’t know any better, I might think you just called me smart, sir.”

Severus gives a soft snort. Of course that’s what Potter would pull out from that statement.

“Anyway,” Potter continues, “I would rather stay here than go there. I just don’t want to tell them why. Hermione, especially, can get really, well…”

Remembering the screams of Potter’s nightmare the previous night, Severus nods slowly. “You don’t want pity, you mean?”

Potter nods. “They mean well, but…”

“I see.” Truly, Severus understands the sentiment. “Does that have to do with your aversion to discussing your relatives’ abuse, as well?”

Potter groans.

“Just answer the question, Potter.”

“I’m not avoiding anything, sir.”

“Your dependence on Dreamless Sleep says differently.”

He tenses. “Yeah, well, I don’t usually have nightmares about my relatives, do I?”

Suddenly, the memories Severus saw in Potter’s head come to mind. “I don’t know, Potter. Do you?”

“No.” That sullen tone again, like a small child in trouble.

“Let me rephrase.” Severus adjusts his posture, leaning closer to watch Potter’s face carefully. “Even if uncommonly, do your relatives ever star in your nightmares?”

Silence.

Then, “Sometimes, sir.”

“Then,” Severus says smoothly, “it would do you some good to talk about it.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Potter complains, turning to face him in annoyance. “I don’t want to talk, and you don’t want to listen, so what’s the point?”

It is the same back-and-forth they’ve been engaging in for nearly twenty-four hours.

Perhaps it means that Severus’s approach to this is the wrong one.

“I want to listen,” he lies. “Why do you not believe that?”

Potter looks at him in utter disbelief. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly having no idea how to respond.

“I’ll be here until you start talking,” Severus says, leaning back and picking up his stack of essays again. “You’re the one to decide how long, exactly, that will be.”

“Are you serious?”

“Incredibly so.”

For a moment, Potter seems to think about this. In the silence, only the sound of shuffling papers and the scratching of a quill against parchment can be heard.

“You mentioned my mum, before.”

Severus stops, but doesn’t look up.

“You shouldn’t feel like you have to look after me just because she can’t,” Potter continues. “Or anything like that. Because, no offence, sir, but you trying to be nice to me is a little weird.”

Severus snorts. “I am not trying to be anything, Potter. Yes, your mother was my friend. I have no doubt that she would be unhappy with the life you have lived in her absence. No doubt, indeed, that she would want you to heal from that.”

Potter’s shoulders hunch in further with each word, as if they are physically painful. The room grows tense, and, for a moment, Severus worries that the boy is going to lash out magically.

And then the strangest thing happens:

He starts to cry.

Alarmed, Severus sets his work aside again and leans in closer. “Potter? Are you all right?”

He takes in a gasping breath and wipes furiously at his eyes. “F-fine, Professor,” he manages. “I—”

Cut off by a sob, he doesn’t finish that thought. In minutes, his tears subside, but he keeps his gaze away from Severus’s as he catches his breath, head bowed and hands wrapped in tight fists in his lap.

“I— Sorry, sir.” He sniffles. “I don’t know what’s…”

“You are beyond exhausted, Potter,” Severus reminds him. “And your body is strained from the withdrawal of the potion. A certain degree of...instability is to be expected.”

Potter says nothing. His breaths continue to come short and fast.

“Are you bothered by your parents’ deaths?” Severus asks.

Potter lets out a noise that is somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I’m an orphan, Professor. What do you think?”

“Of course,” Severus says quietly. “Perhaps a better question would be what about your parents’ deaths bothers you? You did not know them.”

Potter waves one hand in the air abstractly.

“A verbal response, if you please.”

Still, Potter doesn’t look at him. “You answered your own question, sir.”

“Sorry?”

“I didn’t know them. Before I came to Hogwarts, I had never even seen a picture of them.” He shakes his head. “Everyone else knows more about them than I do. All I know is that I’m the reason they’re dead now.”

It’s more than a charged statement, Severus thinks. Of course, he understands why Potter would think like that. Of course he does.

Another thing they have in common, then.

“The Dark Lord killed your parents, Potter,” Severus says carefully. “Not you.”

Potter sighs unhappily. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly, it does.”

“But that’s not the point.” He brings his knees up to his chest. “I just mean, well—even you know more about my parents than I do, sir. And now Sirius…”

Severus waits, but Potter does not continue.

“You believe Black’s death is your fault as well?”

Potter shoots him a dubious look. “You don’t?”

“I don’t seem to recall you being the one to cast the curse that killed him.”

“There are other ways to kill a person,” Potter says darkly. “Anyway, I just mean that he was the only person who could really talk about my parents like they were real people. Him and Remus, but Remus…”

A long time ago, Severus thinks that he would be grateful to hear what had become of James Potter and his little friends. One of them a traitor, two dead, the other miserable and alone.

Now, it does not seem so satisfying.

“Your mother’s best class was Charms,” he offers.

Potter blinks, surprised.

“She liked shepherd’s pie, and treacle tart. She had a bit of a sweet tooth, overall.”

As he watches, Potter’s eyes grow glassy again.

“Why are you telling me this?” he snaps, but his voice is surely weaker than he intended it to be.

“Because, apparently, your aunt did not.”

“You don’t like me either,” Potter points out.

Severus ignores the intention behind the words. “Does your aunt frequently tell you she doesn’t like you?”

He sighs again. “I don’t know. She just doesn’t like magic, sir.”

“And your uncle?”

“The same.” A shrug. “You really knew my mum well?”

“Well enough,” Severus allows. The boy already knows what happened, though.

“Oh.”

Severus considers him a moment. “I could tell you more about her, if you like.”

The hope that lights his eyes should not feel as painful as it does.

“Really? I mean, you don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind, Potter.” He’s sure the boy can see the lie for what it is, but he won’t tell Severus not to talk. Not when he is looking at him like that.

And so, Severus tells him.

It is, perhaps, the first time he remembers Potter ever really listening to him, with an attention he could only wish for the boy to give him in classes.

When Severus finally closes the conversation, around dinner time, Potter is looking brighter than he has since he woke up. Since he returned to school this year, even.

“Thank you, Professor,” he says.

Severus inclines his head, just a bit. “Of course, Potter. I hope you will remember, then, what I’ve said about talking.”

To his surprise, the boy smiles, just a bit. “It helps?” he suggests wryly.

Severus’s lips twitch up. “Indeed. Have a good evening, Potter.”

“You too, Professor.”

It’s the turning point, apparently.

By the end of the week, Severus thinks that he is beginning to understand Potter, at least a bit. The arrogance Severus had always seen as evidence that the boy is just like his idiot of a father is practically nonexistent. His temper, Severus must admit, is far more a trait of Lily’s than the senior Potter’s.

Potter refuses help, not because he believes he can do everything on his own, but because he has been taught to believe he has to do everything on his own. Petunia and her loathsome husband, it would seem, instilled in him a great sense of self-preservation.

“The Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin,” Potter informs him quietly, only half-awake after a particularly bad nightmare. “I asked for Gryffindor.”

It is as though it is a great secret. Severus thinks that, perhaps, it is.

It leaves him to wonder, though, what would have happened had Potter been in his House instead of Minerva’s. Would they still hate each other so much? Severus would like to think they wouldn’t, but he’s not so sure.

“Hate” may not be the correct word, anyway. Potter is, in every way, a living reminder of all the things Severus has done wrong in his life. Whatever hatred Severus has for the boy, at least a portion of that must be directed at himself.

The end of term comes, and the vast majority of the students leave to go home. To be with their families.

As it would seem, Potter does not have a family to go home to. In word, but Severus is beginning to suspect that one’s word is rarely enough.

They spend the first day of the break together in the hospital wing. Poppy comes in and out, but never stays to talk to them long.

Instead, Severus is left to speak with the boy.

He’s healthier, now, than he was, but he still wakes with nightmares. Still asks, voice sluggish with sleep and fear, for the potion that left him in this predicament in the first place.

“It’s not good for you,” Severus tells him.

Woken in the middle of the night, his glasses remain on the bedside table. Those green eyes, Lily’s eyes, look up at him in terror.

“Please,” he croaks. “I can’t—can’t do this a-anymore.”

In these moments, Severus doubts Potter even recognizes who he is.

The fit passes, and he either falls back asleep, or wakes fully and engages in a whispered conversation until Severus relents to grabbing him a book or something else to put his mind at ease where sleeping so clearly fails him.

No, “hate” is not really the correct word.

“Don’t you get bored, Professor?”

Severus looks over at Potter, an eyebrow raised. He’s leaned over a tray of food, picking at the lunch Severus insists he has to at least eat half of.

“I mean, I’m bored.” He glances up. “There’s nothing to do here, other than talking to me. Wouldn’t you rather be doing something else?”

Well, yes.

But.

“I have no intention of leaving you on your own, Potter. You need help.”

“So I’ve heard.” He pauses. “Why did Madam Pomfrey ask you, anyway? I know you know about potions and all, but…”

Severus turns to look out the window, feeling suddenly rather cold.

“Addiction is complicated,” is all he says.

Potter is silent for a moment. Severus thinks he must have returned to eating his lunch.

But then he says, “I knew it was addictive when I started taking it.”

Severus looks back at him. His eyes are thoughtful.

“I think I just thought that it didn’t matter if I messed everything else up, as long as I wasn’t having nightmares.” He looks down at his plate and sighs. “I really don’t think I can eat more of this, sir.”

He’s looking a bit queasy, Severus notes.

“Very well.”

Relieved, Potter sets the tray aside.

“Do you feel like it was worth it, then?”

“Sort of,” Potter admits. “In the summer… My aunt and uncle, they didn’t want to put up with it. I would wake up screaming, or sick, and they would be angry at me. For disturbing them.” He shrugs. “I stopped sleeping at night. Got what I could throughout the day. It wasn’t so bad, at first. Nobody had ever really said anything about it before.”

“Your dorm mates?”

He shakes his head. “Sometimes it got bad, but, for the most part, I don’t think I ever disturbed them. It got worse this summer. That’s all.”

Severus nods slowly, understanding. “Very well, Potter. Madam Pomfrey asked me to help, because I struggled with a Dreamless Sleep addiction myself. For many years, in fact. I can assure you, the benefits do not outweigh the risks.”

This seems to shock Potter. In any other situation, the look on his face right now may have been rather comical.

“You…” Potter blinks. “Really?”

Severus barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “Yes, Potter. Really.”

Potter’s cheeks redden slightly. “Er, sorry. It’s just—honestly, sir, I had never really thought you could struggle with anything.”

It’s just about the last thing Severus would’ve expected to hear from him.

For a moment, they only watch each other.

And then Severus smiles, just a bit.

“Clearly, I am more than capable of it. I even make mistakes, from time to time.”

A bewildered pause. “...Was that a joke?”

“It certainly was.” Severus leans back in his seat, studying Potter. “Do you believe yet that I want to help you?”

Potter thinks about it. Genuinely.

“Yes, sir,” he says softly. “Thank you. For telling me.”

He nods in acknowledgement, and they spend the rest of the afternoon between silence and much lighter conversation.

Progressively, Potter gets easier to talk to.

Severus finds himself in the hospital wing one night, just a few days before Christmas, watching the boy sleep. He was already under when Severus arrived, but Severus doesn’t know just yet if he feels okay with leaving Potter on his own.

Just as well, because Potter begins mumbling something in his sleep, tossing and turning. Sweat beads his forehead. There is a low, guttural noise coming from deep in his throat.

Severus watches, but it doesn’t stop. When he can no longer keep looking, he moves to shake the boy awake.

He shoots up, gasping, but seems to realize where he is quickly. At the very least, he doesn’t move to defend himself as he did the first time.

“What time is it?” he mutters, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

“Around eleven, last I checked.” Severus studies Potter in the dull light of the nighttime hospital wing. He looks tired, but there is a heavy sort of resignation in his eyes. As if he has accepted that nightmares will be the norm from now on.

Potter nods. “Two hours, then.”

“You still have plenty of time to go back to sleep,” Severus reminds him.

He hesitates. “Er, actually, I thought… No, never mind.”

“What is it, Potter?”

He doesn’t meet Severus’s eyes. “I thought maybe we could talk about it, is all.”

“Of course we can,” Severus says quietly. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

It takes some time before he does start talking, but eventually he sinks back against the bed, shoulders loosening.

“The graveyard. It usually is,” he adds. “But instead of killing Cedric, Wormtail had me…” He stops, swallowing thickly. “He made me do it. I had to—had to look right at him, and I…” Three deep, ragged breaths. “It would’ve been all the same, I think. You woke me up before it got further than that.”

Severus can see the toll the words are having on the boy, though he does a remarkable job of not letting the true extent of it show.

The content of the dream itself is not surprising, but Severus can’t help the pang he feels in his chest at it.

“It would seem,” he says softly, “that you suffer a lot of guilt from the deaths you have witnessed.”

“I told him to take the cup with me.” Potter’s eyes are unfocussed, far away. “We could win together, I thought. I guess I knew that—that someone wanted to kill me, when my name came out of the goblet. But I just thought…” He sighs. Shakes his head. “He wanted me to win. He did everything he could to make sure I was the one who got to the graveyard that night. Cedric would have won,” he adds. “He was talented. Smart. But Voldemort didn’t need him. ‘Kill the spare,’ he said. I wish it had been me,” he suddenly spits. “I know he would’ve come back anyway, but—”

Severus watches as the angry flare in his eyes dies away again. He sinks down against the bed, breathing hard.

“You wish you had died?” Severus asks, with a morbid sort of curiosity.

Potter’s hands are trembling. “Sometimes. But I know better, sir. Until he’s gone…”

Silence stretches between them as Severus turns the words over in his head. And over and over again.

“Your life does not revolve around the Dark Lord,” he says slowly.

Potter shoots him a disbelieving look.

“You are a...competent student.” Severus stumbles around the words, but he knows they aren’t untrue. “Professor McGonagall says you have aspirations of becoming an Auror?”

“I…” Potter bites his lips. “I wouldn’t call it an aspiration, sir.”

“Sorry?”

He shrugs, hopeless. “I don’t know how long it’ll be before Voldemort is gone. Becoming an Auror made the most sense. I can’t say I’d ever really thought about...anything else.”

Severus wonders if whatever afterlife Lily is in now, she can see what has become of her precious child.

“Well, what do you like? Flying? You’re a talented Quidditch player.”

Potter furrows his eyebrows. “Er, I’m okay, I guess, but I dunno if I would want to dedicate my life to it or anything, if that’s what you’re saying.”

Severus inclines his head. “Yes, that is what I’m saying. And you are more than ‘okay,’ Potter. Youngest Seeker in a century? I’m certain any team in Europe would want you.”

“Want Harry Potter, you mean.”

“Well, yes.”

Potter sighs. “See? It doesn’t matter, does it? Might as well focus on doing what everyone expects me to do.”

“Kill the Dark Lord?”

“Yeah. And—my life does revolve around it, you know. The prophecy? I’m the Chosen One, remember?” He says it with a scowl, words wrapped in a bitter vice.

“You know what it says?”

Potter’s lips press into a thin line. “Yes, sir.”

Severus only knows a part of it, but even that much wouldn’t be wise to share with Potter now. Not when he is here, sleep deprived, exhausted in every way, finally talking to him.

It doesn’t seem to matter, though.

“‘Neither can live while the other survives,’” Potter quotes. “How does that sound to you, Professor?”

Severus cannot look at him. “Is that a part of the prophecy?”

“Yes.” Potter is quiet for a long moment, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m so tired.”

“Go back to sleep,” Severus suggests. “Should you start tossing too much, I will wake you again.”

It is surely a testament to exactly how tired the boy is when he nods slowly and lies back down.

Within seconds, he is fast asleep.

Severus watches him, throat tight. He knew, of course. The Dark Lord marked this boy fifteen years ago. Gave him that curse scar, the uncanny ability to speak to snakes, a weight on his shoulders he may very well never be able to shake off.

Again, he thinks of when he was Potter’s age. Tormented at home and at school. Separated from his best friend, because of his own foolish decisions. Yes. Though he does not like to admit it, he chose that path.

Potter did not choose this.

He finds he doesn’t mind sacrificing the quality of his own sleep, so much, to ensure that someone is by Potter’s side.

“Would Occlumency help, sir?”

Severus studies Potter carefully, considering. “It may lessen their severity, though it isn’t a fix.”

Potter smiles grimly. “Not as good as Dreamless Sleep, huh?”

“But not addicting, either.”

It’s very quiet in the hospital wing today. Poppy has run out to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, and it would appear that the small minority of children still at Hogwarts aren’t in any of immediate medical attention. Nonetheless, Severus gave the matron his word that he would keep an eye on things. For now, though, the only thing he has his eye on is Potter.

“I’m sorry,” Potter says after a moment.

Startled, Severus meets his gaze. It is steadier than it has been in many days.

“I was angry at Dumbledore,” Potter tells him. “For making me learn Occlumency from you, instead of him. I thought— Well, I know better now, but I was stupid. I thought what I could see was a good thing. It saved Mr Weasley’s life, didn’t it?” He shakes his head. “But now Sirius is dead, because I didn’t learn. I should have tried.”

“Black’s death is not your fault,” Severus says quietly.

Potter smiles wryly, but what Severus sees is one of the darkest expressions Severus has ever seen on the boy. “Yeah, well. I should’ve tried, either way.”

“I wasn’t happy with the arrangement either,” Severus reminds him.

“I shouldn’t have looked in your Pensieve.”

Severus doesn’t drop his gaze. “No,” he says. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I’m not my father,” Potter tells him firmly, green eyes blazing. “I don’t want to be.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “I get what that’s like. Being picked on, just ‘cause you’re—well, you, I guess.” He shrugs. “So, I’m sorry.”

It is as if he has set out to shatter every belief Severus has held about him these past five and a half years.

Maybe, he thinks, this is something of a resurrection for the both of them.

It goes against everything he has thought all this time. Against every bit of loathing he holds for this Potter, and possibly even the Potter of his past.

He says, “You don’t need to make amends for the things your father did wrong.”

Potter stares at him, as if awed.

“It doesn’t change them,” he continues. “And it is not your responsibility to fix things from a time when you were not even a thought in someone’s mind. So, no, Potter. I will not accept your apology.”

“Harry,” he says quietly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Harry. My name is Harry.”

Despite himself, Severus feels his lips twitch up, just a bit. “Very well,” he agrees. “You are not your father, after all.”

Harry smiles at him. Genuinely.

“Thank you, Professor. I was wondering if…” He stops, lips dropping. Takes in a deep breath. “Would you teach me Occlumency? I want to learn. Really.”

“The Headmaster told me you wouldn’t need it,” Severus says carefully. “Do you think otherwise?”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not Voldemort I want to protect myself from right now.”

“I would have to use Legilimency on you again.”

He just shrugs. “Honestly, sir, you probably know more of what’s going on in my head right now than anybody else. But I guess you could say I’m feeling a little desperate for something to change.”

Of course he would be. Severus thought, all those years ago, that Harry Potter represented everything in his life he had never had: popularity, riches, respect, the love of one Lily Evans.

But now, he doesn’t think he envies the boy at all.

Harry doesn’t speak a lot about his aunt and uncle, but what Severus can gather is beyond damning, in his opinion. Locking a child up? Calling him terrible names? Depriving him of meals on the regular? Hitting him, apparently, though Severus still has not learned exactly how often this particular event occurred.

Even with the surely massive fund Petunia and Vernon Dursley receive for taking care of the boy—if “taking care of” can be used in the loosest of ways possible, here—they convinced him that they were only taking him in out of charity. Money out of their own pockets, and, they seem to believe, a waste of it too.

Finally, he nods. “If you are certain, I could teach you. You may change your mind at any time, of course.”

“I won’t,” Harry says decisively. “Can we start now?”

Beyond the initial shock of being asked to repeat something that was, for both of them, a rather awful experience, Severus finds he doesn’t mind  teaching Harry at all. Indeed, he seems more attentive, willing to listen even if he may not necessarily like what Severus has to say.

Over the next two days, they work at it steadily—having nothing else to do, really, until the winter break ends. Both of them are expecting to continue this into Christmas, but Poppy has other ideas.

“I don’t want to see you two in here,” she says, all business as usual. “Christmas is about family. At least go to the feast.”

Severus doesn’t miss the sardonic twitch of Harry’s lips at the word “family.” In all honesty, he feels much the same.

But it would do Harry some good, surely, to interact with others. Possibly, it would even remind him why he hated Severus so much only two weeks ago.

The thought makes Severus’s stomach twist uncomfortably. Though he is loath to admit it, he has found himself beginning to care about the boy a bit. With free access to his mind, it is clear to see that very few people ever actually have.

Harry is by no means confined to the hospital wing. Poppy has been beyond lenient with him, however, offering him a bed here until he feels he can actually sleep somewhere else. Severus suspects, though, that Harry’s dorm has been empty for some days now.

But he takes most of his meals here, with Severus. Between them, they work on Occlumency. The rest of the time, he spends sleeping or explaining why he can’t.

So, yes. Severus knows Poppy is right.

It doesn’t ease the sinking, nagging worry tugging at his gut.

Still, Harry is the first person Severus sees on Christmas morning. They take a silent breakfast together while Severus eyes the admittedly sizeable stack of gifts at the foot of Harry’s bed.

“Do your relatives ever send you gifts?” he asks after a while.

Harry shrugs. “Dunno if you’d call then gifts, compared to the things they buy for Dudley, but sometimes. Useless stuff. Toothpicks, or something like that.”

Severus stares, bemused. “Why in the world would they do that?”

Another shrug. “To remind me I can’t get away from them, but they don’t really love me? I don’t know, sir. I try not to think about it too much.”

“So, before you came to Hogwarts…?”

“Hedwig was my first gift,” Harry cuts in. “Hagrid bought her for me when we went to Diagon Alley on my eleventh birthday. Or, I guess my parents gave me gifts, but…”

“That is deplorable, Potter.”

“Harry,” he corrects absently. “Well, I guess, but they didn’t want me, did they? Doesn’t matter, anyway. Mrs Weasley, she…” He stops, something like guilt flashing in his eyes, but it is gone as quickly as it comes. “Ron told her I wasn’t going home for Christmas, and I wasn’t expecting anything. She sent me a gift before she had even really met me. Like I was one of her own kids, you know? The first time I went to the Burrow, I really wished I could’ve stayed there. Thought it was just—well, y’know, it’s a magical house. The one I grew up in wasn’t.”

“And your aunt didn’t like magic,” Severus remembers.

“Uh-huh. Are you going to the feast?”

Severus blinks, surprised by the sudden change of topic. “No, I hadn’t planned to.”

“Oh.”

“Madam Pomfrey says you are?”

Harry nods. “She told me I have to. And that I should go back to my dorm, but she said it didn’t really matter, since there wouldn’t really be anyone around either way.”

“You don’t sound overly enthused about either of those things,” Severus notes.

He shrugs. “I’m just tired, really. Like I haven’t had a good night of sleep in two years.” He grins, but the look quickly falls into a grimace. “You’re really not going to the feast? Why do I have to go, then?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Severus informs him. “But the socialization would be good for you. Surely you’re rather bored around here?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then, you should dine with your classmates.”

“I don’t mind, though,” Harry says quickly. “Being here. It’s kind of nice. You know? My friends are still…”

Severus studies him for a moment, trying to piece together all of the bits of this puzzle Harry is laying out for him. He feels bad, Severus thinks, because he didn’t go to the Weasleys.

“Why don’t you want to go to the feast?”

Harry looks down at his feet, eyes growing distant. “I don’t know.”

All those years ago, it was the job that Albus gave him that finally helped Severus out of the cloud the Dreamless Sleep had put him in. This responsibility, the knowledge that the world would keep moving whether he was truly in it or not, and that there was someone watching him. Waiting for him to ruin it all, as he had ruined everything else before.

But he didn’t. He pushed through it, and he has kept true to any promises he’s made to Albus since he was so graciously given this job. Sometimes he did slip up. Often, it was Poppy who got him back on his feet, never telling Albus how bad things really were, until eventually it was no longer a lie.

Severus wonders if Poppy knew, when she begged him to come here all those days ago. They both know he is not kind. He is not empathetic in the slightest.

And yet, he is still here.

“You should open your gifts,” he suggests. “You seem to have a great number of admirers.”

Harry makes a face at this. “Not really,” he mutters. “Besides, Hermione would be telling me not to open anything from people I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to kill me. Though,” he adds, thoughtful, “those sorts of things are usually more prone to happening at Halloween, rather than Christmas.”

“Just open them,” Severus says, rolling his eyes. “If, indeed, someone has an intricate plan to murder you with a Christmas gift, rest assured I will intervene.”

“You might’ve given them the poison,” Harry says under his breath.

“I can hear you, Potter.”

He smiles, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches forward and opens the gifts at the foot of his bed. He pauses as he reaches something small and rectangular.

“You got me a Christmas gift?” he asks, turning to look at Severus with wide eyes.

Severus shifts uncomfortably. “It’s practical.”

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“Why would you?” Severus raises an eyebrow at him. “There isn’t much one can do from a hospital bed, anyway.”

Harry narrows his eyes, nose scrunching up slightly as he considers Severus.

Finally, he asks, “Why?”

Severus wondered the same thing, when he bought it.

It’s a journal, spelled to keep whatever is written within it from being read by others.

This way, at least, even once Harry inevitably comes to hate Severus again, he will still have somewhere to spill the contents of his nightmares without feeling it is unsafe.

“It’s not exactly the same,” he says, “but writing can be an effective way to work through things as well.”

Harry stares at him blankly.

“It will help,” Severus presses. “Perhaps, someday, you could talk to your friends about it. But until then, this may help.”

A long pause.

And then: “What about you?”

Severus frowns at him, turning the words over and over in his head but still not understanding.

When Harry doesn’t add to that thought, Severus shakes his head slowly. “There are many people who would want you to talk about it.”

Harry drops his gaze. “Maybe,” he says.

“Professor McGonagall has a duty to the students in her house,” Severus says, beginning to feel somewhat desperate. “She speaks quite highly of you, and she was rather fond of your parents as well.”

Harry drops the journal, shoulders hunching up. “Okay,” he says, voice hollow. “I should probably take my things to my dorm. Madam Pomfrey wanted me to go back, after all. Would you excuse me, sir?”

Baffled, Severus can do nothing but step aside as the boy collects his gifts and his wand and practically runs from the room. He knew, of course, that Harry has been out of sorts thanks to his detox from the potion, but it seems a strange reaction regardless of all of that.

Was it really such a bad gift? Severus had put a lot of thought into it, but…

Well, it is likely for the best, either way. These past couple weeks have been odd for both of them. In Harry’s case, at least, some normalcy would not be amiss.

Even as he thinks it, he cannot push away the ache in his chest—a sort of feeling he has not had, he thinks, since the night Lily died.

The night Harry Potter got that scar.

He stands, turning to banish the chair. He takes one long look around him, then shakes his head a bit and makes his way to the doors. 

Whatever Poppy has to say about family, Severus will take his dinner in his own quarters. He has been fine on his own all this time, hasn’t he? Another thing he and Harry have in common, he thinks wryly, but they have clearly both survived this long.

Barely, in Harry’s case, but he’s still here. His friends will return after this next week passes in full, and he will return to his regular classes, with his regular arrogance and his regular hatred for Severus.

The thought only serves to sharpen the pang in his chest, though, and he spends the walk down to the dungeon pushing it as far from his mind as he can.

Nothing has changed, he reasons. And that’s a good thing.

By the time dinner comes, Severus is feeling frazzled in a way he has not felt in a very long time.

Since he agreed to help Harry, he has taken almost all of his meals with the teenager. They don’t often talk over them, except perhaps when Severus tells the boy to eat more, but even the lack of his presence feels wrong, somehow. Like there is something missing within Severus, but it is an absurd thought.

And yet, the feeling does not go away.

He leaves his quarters with a scowl, but the lines on his face soften as he comes up to the Great Hall. There aren’t many students here for the holidays; those who are sit with the remaining staff members at their table. When he enters, all of their eyes land on him, but the only gaze he meets is Harry’s.

For a moment, they only watch each other.

And then Harry turns and says something to Albus, who tilts his head in thoughtful consideration. By the time Severus gets to the head table, whatever conversation they were having is long over.

“Severus!” Albus greets him cheerfully. “We were missing you in our celebrations! Come, come, won’t you pull a Christmas cracker with me?”

He sighs, shaking his head tiredly and seating himself at the empty seat on Harry’s other side. He gets the idea that Albus has orchestrated something here, but what it is, he can’t tell.

“I thought you weren’t coming, sir,” Harry says under his breath. “Maybe you thought the socialization would be good for you?”

Severus rolls his eyes. “If socialization means indulging the Headmaster in his inane Christmas traditions, then certainly not.”

“Then, why are you here?”

Severus doesn’t think he imagines the chill in Harry’s voice.

“Madam Pomfrey asked me to.”

“Is she the only person you do things for when she asks?” Harry makes a face down at his potatoes. “You really ought to start being meaner to me, Professor. Everyone else is getting confused.”

Severus looks down the table to see that, yes, there are more than a few pairs of eyes trained on them. Minerva, for her part, is trying to be less obvious than the others. Albus has a small smile on his face, that obnoxious twinkle in his eyes.

Severus drops his gaze again, focussing on the food before him. “It’s Christmas, Harry.”

Harry looks up at him in surprise, then bites his lip and turns away, just a bit.

“Do you normally spend Christmas alone?”

“I have no family to share it with,” Severus says quietly.

Harry’s lips twitch up, but it is far from an expression born of mirth. “Me either.”

Eventually, the others at the table seem to grow accustomed to the air of civility between Harry and Severus, and the rest of the feast is spent between light conversation and little more. Severus notices that Harry eats very little, but he doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite himself.

Albus stands and thanks the students for attending before sending them off to bed. He turns to Harry with a smile, but Harry is already turning to go before the man can get a word in.

Severus watches, reminded of the boy’s behaviour in the hospital wing earlier. Of course, the relationship Albus shares with Harry goes beyond a typical student-teacher bond—indeed, Severus has always gotten the feeling that Harry is quite fond of the old man, maybe if only he let him gets away with pretty much everything under the roof of this school.

Yet, he could remember the way Albus had treated him while he was taking Dreamless Sleep regularly. There was pity, and an effort at understanding that he fundamentally did not have.

Poppy wanted him to talk to Harry because he does have that understanding.

And it suddenly all makes sense.

Before Albus can say anything to him, he hurries after Harry, catching him just outside the Great Hall.

Harry turns to him sharply, one hand on what Severus can only assume is his wand. After a moment, his shoulders relax and he looks up at Severus expectantly.

“You didn’t eat very much,” is all he manages to say.

Harry blinks. “Er, I just wasn’t very hungry, sir. You can’t give me a detention for not eating enough, can you?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Severus glances around them, seeing that most of the others have already cleared the area. When he looks back again, confused green eyes meet his.

“I was just going to bed, I swear.”

“Why don’t you come with me?” Severus suggests before he even really realizes he is saying it.

“I thought you said—”

Severus rolls his eyes. “It’s not a detention, Potter. I thought, perhaps, we could talk.”

Harry considers him carefully. “Because it helps?”

“Indeed.”

“Okay,” he concedes. “And you won’t poison me?”

But he has already stepped closer to Severus, and there is nothing harsh about his inflection at all.

“I’m still debating it,” Severus says dryly. 

To his surprise, Harry laughs.

Severus leads them down to his quarters in the dungeon, watching the boy beside him cautiously. Harry doesn’t look unhappy, but he doesn’t speak again until they reach Severus’s door.

“You live here?”

“During the school year, yes.” He closes the door behind him and turns to face Harry. “What in the world were you expecting to see?”

“More green?” Harry looks around, thoughtful. “I’m not being judgemental or anything. Compared to my aunt’s house, this is really nice.”

“That’s a rather loaded compliment,” Severus mutters.

“Yeah, well…” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Did you know my aunt? Since you were friends with my mum and all.”

“I did,” Severus says tightly. “But that is neither here nor there. Would you like some tea?”

“Poison-free?”

“For now.”

Harry smiles a bit. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Professor.”

He leads Harry towards the kitchen and invites him to take a seat at the table before putting the kettle on.

“I was talking to Madam Pomfrey today.”

Severus looks at him unwaveringly, but Harry’s eyes are trained on the wall in front of him.

“She told me that you stayed by my side almost the whole time I was in the hospital wing.” He pauses, gaze flickering briefly towards Severus. “Is that true?”

“Yes.” There’s no need to lie about it. Harry already knows about the Life Debt, thanks to Albus.

“Why?”

Now, he meets Severus’s eyes.

The kettle begins to whistle.

Busying himself with preparing the tea, Severus says, “It was my duty to do so.”

“That’s not true.”

His hands still.

“You could have come by even once a day,” Harry continues. “Just for a few minutes. We both know I would’ve been fine. But you didn’t. Why not?”

“Are you fine?” Severus asks after a moment.

“Not really,” Harry admits. “But I was never in any real danger of dying. Would you have stayed by any student in my position?”

Severus pours them both tea, letting the task lend silence to the room until he finally sits across from Harry.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Perhaps, if their position was an exact replica of yours, but…”

Harry takes his cup, stirring sugar into the liquid.

“Okay,” he says simply. “But it’s still kind of about my parents, right?”

“Yes,” Severus allows. “Because your father saved my life, a long time ago.”

“And my mum…”

“Was my best friend.” He lays his hands flat against the table. “Had I known how Petunia treated you, I may have realized sooner how unlike your father you are.”

Harry scowls. “Don’t talk like that.”

Severus raises an eyebrow at him. “You are the one who said you were different in the first place.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Harry says impatiently. “You think my aunt and uncle abuse me. Dumbledore always sends me back, though. Says it’s safer, because of the wards. Safer for them and for me.”

“And you want to protect them?”

“Well, sure.” He takes a sip of his tea. “Dudley’s barely any older than I am. Besides, no matter how we feel about each other, they’d still be in danger just by being my family. That’s what Voldemort does, right? Kills the people close to you until he can finally get to you?” He shakes his head. “Maybe when I was a kid I might not’ve cared, but I’m not now, so…”

“You are still quite young,” Severus points out.

“Professor Dumbledore would tell you otherwise.”

“And what about you?”

“Me?” He laughs, incredulous. “Actually, Professor, I feel a bit like a child now. See, I need someone to sit with me and reassure me when I have nightmares. You’re making me talk my feelings out, not to mention eat all my meals. Even after all these years, I’m still surprised when people send me Christmas presents.” He shoots Severus a significant look. “But I always look out for myself. I had to learn how, because nobody else would do it for me. And now you’re doing it. Even though you hate me. Why?”

Severus sets his cup down gently. “I do not hate you.”

The look on his face tells Severus that Harry is far from convinced.

“Your mother was my best friend,” he says again.

“And my dad was your sworn enemy.”

“Yet he saved my life.”

Harry watches him, one hand wrapped so tightly around his cup his knuckles are white.

“I had the wrong idea about you,” Severus says quietly. “We’re far more similar than I ever would have thought.”

Something indistinguishable flickers in Harry’s eyes.

“I didn’t intend the journal to be a replacement for talking to me. I only assumed…”

Harry’s grip loosens.

“Were you telling the truth when you said you wanted to listen?”

“No.”

Harry nods. “I thought so.”

“But you talked anyway?”

He shrugs. “I like doing the things you don’t want me to, Professor.”

Severus snorts. “Yes, well, as it is, I didn’t mind so much. If I told you now that I wanted to listen, would you believe me?”

“I guess it would depend whether or not that’s what you’re saying.”

Severus barely refrains from sighing. “Yes, Potter, that is what I’m saying.”

“Maybe,” Harry says after a thoughtful moment. “It might be more believable if you used my given name, though.”

“Harry, then. You believe me?”

“Sure.” Harry draws an absent circle over the surface of the table with his index finger. “I don’t hate you either, for the record.”

Severus pushes down the surprise he feels at the words. “Is that so?”

“People care about my name,” Harry says, hand stilling. He lays his palm against the table and looks down at his fingers with distant eyes. “Not me, really. Well, some do. The Weasleys would care, but they…” He shakes his head. “I dunno. It’s different. I appreciate it. That you listened, I mean.”

Five years ago, there is no way Severus ever could’ve imagined having a conversation like this. Not with anybody, really. Especially not with Harry.

But he thinks back to those first few years he knew Lily. Her smiles, her love for magic, the way she argued with her sister even though she wanted nothing more than to be close with her again. She had taken the monotonous greys from Severus’s life, and replaced them with her vibrant greens and reds.

When they fought, they dulled.

And then she died, and Severus was sure he could never get those colours back.

Harry’s eyes are steady as he waits for a response from Severus. Such a vivid green, like a thousand springtimes.

“There are…extra rooms here.” Severus looks away from him, throat tight. “If you wanted to stay, until the holidays are over.”

“Are you serious?”

When Severus chances a glance back at the boy, his features all read shock.

“Yes,” he says. “I am completely serious.”

Harry’s eyes fall down to his tea, but it would be impossible to miss the small smile that stretches across his face.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “And, er, happy Christmas, sir.”

Christmas is about family, Poppy said.

Severus returns Harry’s smile and picks up his cup to take a calming sip of his tea.

“Happy Christmas, Harry.”