Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or places in this story nor am I making any money off them.
Harry leaned against the wall. The cool stone felt nice against his feverish skin and grounded him against his dizziness. He glanced down at his left hand and growled upon seeing the freshly cut wounds written in his usual messy scrawl and dripping with blood: I must not tell lies.
He looked around, noticing for the first time that he didn't know where he was. Great. He was in the dungeons. Now if only he could get away without seeing... No luck. The sound of swooping footsteps and billowing cloak approached. "Potter," Snape sneered. "Too good for curfew, are you?" Harry struggled to keep his eyes open and his breathing steady. "No, sir." Snape raised an eyebrow and asked contemptuously, "Then why are you out of bed at this time?" Harry clenched his fist, feeling the pain lance through him and jolt him awake. His mind raced as he tried to invent an excuse that would not involve telling Snape about detention with Umbridge, and consequentially his weakness. "Twenty points-" His words were arrested by the sudden awareness that Potter looked like he was on the verge of consciousness. He grabbed the hand that the boy had been carefully hiding behind his back and examined it carefully. Curling his lip in distaste, he spat one word: "Umbridge?" Harry nodded, feeling that protesting would just increase the throbbing in his head. He didn't particularly enjoy having a hammer pound his head. "Follow me," Snape ordered in a voice of controlled fury. Harry gave no fight and allowed himself to be dragged along the dimly lit corridor.
They soon arrived at a warm, torch illuminated room. Snape gestured at the couch, saying curtly, "Sit." Harry sank gratefully into the soft leather. The older man strode out and came back in a few minutes holding a bowl of liquid. "Murtlap essence. Submerge your hand in it completely." Harry was tempted to shoot back that he knew what the stuff was thanks to Hermione, but the delightfully soothing sensation of the pain leaving his hand made him sleepy and quiet.
After a moment, the Potions Master pulled his fist back out and looked it over carefully. The wounds had receded into whitish scars. He was about to tell Potter to return to his dormitory when he noticed the bot was asleep. He frowned before, in a rare moment of tenderness, removing the child's glasses. He strode out of the room, glancing back one last time at the child of his best friend and worst enemy. An emblem of what could have been.
And that was how Harry found himself upon waking up. Alone, lying on the couch, raven hair rumpled, his glasses folded neatly on the table beside him. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and stood up, looking around at the tastefully decorated room in earthy reds and browns, with a hint of the patriotic silver and green. He smiled, remembering the events of the night before, wondered why Snape had helped him and then striding out of the room. It would be a long time before he remembered this small of of kindness again.