*waves nervously* Hello. I'm a little nervous about posting this. As it's my first Harry Potter fan fiction. I just read all of the books last month, and I've seen all of the movies. I fell in love with the characters and the world and I wasn't quite ready to leave them behind, so here we are.

This will be a series of one-shot short stories about different moments from all of the books and beyond. I plan to follow the canon closely, but some liberties will be taken.

This story is just a character exploration of how Harry is coping mere days after the events in the graveyard at the end of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire." Hermione, Ron and Professor Snape make an appearance. Please let me know what you think! Thanks!

Harry Potter and the Professor's Purple Potion

There was always a short of breathless majesty overtook Harry as he beheld Hogwarts Castle. Despite everything that had happened, the castle—with rugged cliffs and skyscraping battlements—still represented the most splendid thing that had ever happened to him. The air was better here, lighter, fluffier and purer. The light was softer here, milky and diffuse, and it that gave the grounds a pearlescent sheen. It was all there now, the inviting verdant of the Quidditch pitch, the silver glimmer of the lake, the crunch of the gravel underfoot. After the disasters of the Triwizard Tournament, after Cedric's death, Voldemort's rebirth, Harry was determined not to let the enchantment be tainted, and to feel safe at the school again. And he wasn't going to be cured with the Sleeping Potion Ron kept pressing on him or the promises Hermione made to visit him during the summer. It was going to be done with the one thing that always brought Harry joy: flying.

It was with a shaky defiance that Harry marched out to the Quidditch pitch just after dawn, his beloved Firebolt perched over his shoulder. It had only been a week, but thankfully, the reminders of the tournament had been magicked away. The labyrinth of moon-blotting hedges had vanished, leaving nothing but the velvety emerald of grasses. The bleachers were cleaned and empty, gone were the streamers and food wrappers and POTTER STINKS badges. Harry sighed as the sun slowly climbed, spreading warmth over the fields. It was as if it had never happened. As if it Voldemort hadn't risen. He wished for a second that he could forget that it had. He wished that the memories of that evil wizard using Harry's blood to rebuild his serpentine body was just another one of his grotesquely vivid nightmares; that he wasn't out there gaining power and plotting murders. Meanwhile, Harry felt weak and young and helpless. He couldn't talk to Ron and Hermione, because their world didn't involve Cruciatus Curses or dead friends or horrible scarlet eyes that gleamed with hatred. Harry couldn't bear to take that away from them.

Harry had been numb in the days after leaving the hospital wing. His mind whirled with nightmarish images of wars and armies of death eaters, but he felt strangely detached any reflexive emotion. Harry hoped it would last forever, but Dumbledore assured him that it wouldn't.

Unable to wait any longer, the young wizard mounted his broom and kicked off the earth. He soared up above the pitch in a swirl of movement. Warm breezes lilted against his face, and ruffled his hair, like the jovial greeting from an old friend. He flew easily, gaining height and turning with a lazy grace that was only reserved for a leisurely ride. Adrenaline tingled within him, and the fierce competitor he once had been awakened. Soft turns became hard angles and barrel rolls and reckless climbs through the clouds where the air was cold and still a bit dark.

With a yelp of pure elation, Harry dove, plunging for the ground in a freefall. It was a defiant thrill, a sign of fearlessness. For those fleeting moments, there was nothing but rush of wind, the rattling broomstick in his hands and the dropping lurch of his stomach. The sensation was akin to the jerk behind his navel like that of a Portkey. And suddenly, he was choking on the very gale he'd relished just seconds earlier. Swaying on the broomstick, his vision blurred. Up became down; euphoria became fear; the refuge of the safest place in his life became the place where he'd stood a week ago, one slip away from death. He was falling into Voldemort's nefarious red eyes and vile hatred, through space and sunlight into darkness and madness. It was furious and violent, and it left Harry stupefied and ill. He didn't know where he was and why his feet weren't on the ground. Fighting against gravity and G-forces, he hunched forward against the slick slip of wood. The smell of the handle teased out memories of snitches and trophies. Instinct took over, mere feet from the ground, as Harry grabbed the handle in a strangle-hold and yanked it up, gliding up in a graceless ascent. Panicking, he forced himself to look ahead, and with a yelp of alarm, he saw that he was careening towards the bleachers. He had to throw himself sideway, dragging the broom with him. The ride ended with a ten-foot fall, and a series of bone-crushing rolls that rendered Harry dizzy and nauseated. As plush as the grass was, it did little to cushion him as he landed in a heap of limbs. There was no sound, except for the cantering of his heart and Harry felt the weight of Cedric body lying over his, the cool handle of the Triwizard Cup.

Hysteria was a very near thing; it burrowed within him and clamping on. He could only manage rapid sips of air before it was pushed back out and he couldn't slow the galloping of his heart. He wiped his face with a muddy hand, and dug his fingers in the dirt, fighting a beast who knew his every vulnerability and had all the time in the world to torture and stress him to death. But he couldn't go back to that graveyard, with the Death Eaters cackling as Voldemort gleefully tortured him, so he coughed and struggled for breath and opened his eyes, forcing himself to confront whatever was attacking him.

Nothing and no one was there. Harry was simply going mad. The thing that he'd been fighting ever since he'd gripped the handle of the Triwizard Cup was finally overpowering him, coiling and suffocating. His lungs pumped like bellows. His chest was burning, blood was flying through him. Idly, he wondered if teenagers had heartattacks, if he would be dead soon like Cedric…

…Harry had never reconciled the very real fact that he'd brought Cedric home, and that he was dead. He'd never realized how absurd it was to be near a body that was still warm but free of life. He hadn't noticed how much bodies moved when they breathed and when the heart pumped; and how still they were when they didn't. He pushed himself up, out of burning memories and into the lush present.

"Mr. Potter," said a voice that was distantly dim, but unique in its snideness, "are you so addicted to defying death that you have taken it up as a hobby?"

Desperate and terrified, Harry latched onto the voice and the dramatic black robes that billowed in the breezes. He could only manage a pathetic gurgle in response, wanting help more than he needed to openly hate Professor Snape.

He looked up at him, face wet with tears, and was so profoundly glad to see him, "…ple…helllp…" He gurgled.

Snape, with his curtain of dark hair, literally looked down his nose at Harry, sprawled in the grass and pale to the lips. "Do me a favor, Potter, and try not to suffocate before Madam Pomfrey can tend to you. I have more important things to do than explain to the Dumbledor why you, his favorite, died on my watch. Slow breaths, Potter, slow."

The pressure was building, Harry was shaking, the bright sun was dimming and somewhere close by Voldemort was laughing…

CRACK!

His cheek stung terribly, and he coughed, curling over into the grass. Blissful air glided into his lungs. His face ache, but he could breathe again. "Didja slap me?"

Snape's eyes glittered, and the edge of his lips twitched, like he was trying to button in laughter. "It was necessary."

"Er...thanks…"

"The pleasure was mine, I assure you." He said nothing else, but purposely flicked his wand, causing Harry's Firebolt to fly neatly into his grasp before pulling Harry up by the scruff of the neck and powered him back towards the castle.

They entered the school through a passage Harry had never seen before, and judging by the cobwebs and dank smell, few students knew about. Snape guided him down winding, dusty staircases that emerged into his dungeon classroom and, thankfully not the hospital wing. He walked into his locked vault of stores, lit his cauldron with a flick of his wand, and began adding ingredients and stirred in weird, precise formations while Harry shivered at a nearby desk. Snape's black eyes fixed upon his over the wisps of smoke over the cauldron. "While I do not live to serve you, Potter, you could benefit from paying more attention in my class, consider this a...private demonstration."

The fumes of the potion were pungent like the burn of Aunt Petunia's favorite cleanser and the fresh like peppermint, and his throat, which felt nearly swollen shut, opened a bit.

Harry accepted a steaming flagon of the murky purple, even through his hands were shaking so badly that he nearly slopped it all over him. After a few sips, Harry no longer felt as his skin was crawling with bugs or that he was rattling apart. After half a mug, his breaths were no long grating or painful and the reality felt firmly under his feet. He regarded Snape with gritty eyes and seemed compelled to offer him an explanation, even though he wasn't quite sure what had happened. "Er…I was flying and…it felt like before, at the graveyard," Harry stammered. "I t-think I had a fit…or something. The potion helps though."

The professor bottled the purple potion an old jar of pumpkin juice and stoppered it with a sealing spell. "I can assure you that better men than you have been driven St. Mungo's after encounters with the Dark Lord. I would not expect a boy of fourteen to emerge unscathed. You will need time."

Harry was both confused and grateful for the backhanded compliment, and nodded into his potion. He felt encouraged to ask the question that had been plaguing him since he had witnessed the violence of the very magic that had taken his parents' lives. "Do you know if the…killing curse…if it hurts the person who dies? Like the Cruciatus Curse or…something worse?" He dreaded the answer.

Snape lifted his eyebrows, a crack in the mask of sallow indifference he usually wore. "You, Mr. Potter, would be the only one who could truly answer that question, now wouldn't you?"

"Oh…right."

"The Dark Lord used that on you, the Cruciatus?" Snape asked.

Harry nodded, ignoring the flash of unforgettable pain.

"The Cruciatus causes more than pain, especially when you are as strong as the Dark Lord. It can addle the mind."

That did not make him feel better. Finishing his potion, Harry felt settled enough to stand. His legs tingled irritably, but locked his knees. "Um…thank…"

"Take the bottle with you, Potter, just in case. Good day." Snape clearly did not want his gratitude.

Harry had just stepped into the hallway when he heard the professor curse and sigh, "Damn if he doesn't have his mother's eyes."

While the potion had remedied the brutal fear, it had done nothing to ease the sadness and emptiness. On the contrary, it seemed that it had fed it, nurturing it so it blossomed within him like a virus, infecting him like a poison. He found himself staring wearily at the fire, unable to sleep, but unable to talk to anyone else. He didn't know how he was going to gather the strength to endure the Leaving Feast the next day, to return to the Dursleys.

"Harry! I've been looking for you for ages. I was worried. Are you okay?" Hermione asked. He glanced away from the fire to see Hermione in her robes, setting out her last batch of knitted clothes for the elves.

Harry tried to smile as she settled down beside him, but shook his head.

"I'm sorry, that was a ridiculous question. Of course you're not. You can talk to me, if you want."

"I know."

She wove her arm beneath his and squeezed her hand into his. Harry struggled. The words were right there, ready to explain everything, because he knew she would listen and reassure him, even selfishlessly wish she had been there with him. Despite Hermione fierce strength, she had a softness that only her close friends knew of, and she constantly worried about him, even when she didn't need to. He didn't want to make it worse for her. She sat down beside him and rested her head on his shoulder, so it looked like he was comforting her. "Merlin's beard, Harry, you're trembling."

Harry relaxed a little as she tried to rub warmth into his hands. "I'm all right."

A few minutes later, Ron skidded into the room, frazzled. "I checked everywhere but I couldn't…oh, there you are…" His face fell when he saw Harry. "Mate…you look ill. Are you all right?"

"He will be." Hermione said softly.

Humiliation flushed Harry's cheeks as he wiped his face. He just wanted Ron to go up to the dorms and not to ask questions. But his clueless friend just flopped down beside him, and started talking about how his brothers had started testing bewitched treats on each other. Harry smiled softly as he listened to the story, but found himself distracted, drifting. Before he knew it, he was falling asleep to the sound of laughter.

It was a day later, as the Hogwarts Express trundled back to King's Cross Station, when Harry looked up at his friends, who still remained steadfastly by his side. Hermione and Ron were bickering, as usual, about who was a better wizarding band.

Harry sat up and sipped from the bottle of potion Snape had made him. He stood up and closed the compartment door. "I think I'm ready to tell you lot what happened in the graveyard…if you want to hear it."

"It's about bloody time…ow! Hermione!" Ron rubbed his ribs where she had elbowed him.

"Of course we do…but only if you're ready." Hermione said, glaring at Ron.

"Oh, right. What she said."

He told the story in painstaking detail. Once he had started, it had unspooled in a rush of words and emotion, like it had in Dumbledore's office. Ron looked a bit green when Harry spoke of Voldemort rising from the cauldron in his rightful form. Hermione had cried when he explained about seeing the echoes of his parents, and how they'd helped him and exacted some kind of final revenge beyond the grave. When he finished, they looked at him, not with horror or even fear, but with unfailing loyalty and even love. And not for the first time in four years, Harry Potter realized that while he never had parents, he'd found his family after all.