Disclaimer: Everything in the Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers. The plot of this work of fanfiction belongs to me, and I alone am responsible for its content. No galleons are being made from this work.


Never Done
Chapter Two

Slughorn was gone. The battle had taken the last burst of strength and energy from the man, and after seeing to the end of the year and the immediate potions needs of the wounded and weary, he settled for semi-retirement once more, agreeing to supply Poppy with whatever she needed on a weekly basis until Snape recovered enough to do so – assuming he'd want to, of course. McGonagall's pleas that he return to teach potions went unheeded. He could not face the Slytherins, he said, let alone the rest of the students, needed time to wrap his mind around what had happened over the course of the last two years. Besides, he had said, he'd only planned to stay one year, and it had been two. McGonagall was desperate to find another potions instructor, though she'd confided to Harry that she dearly hoped Snape would agree to resume that post once he recovered.

The Board of Governors was determined to rescind Snape's appointment as Headmaster, before they heard Harry's testimony, but even that did not sway their final decision, though they looked chastened and had vociferously stated their recognition of his heroism. They could not get past what he had "allowed" to happen while Headmaster, particularly in regard to the Carrows' torture of students in the name of "detention". McGonagall had initially refused appointment altogether, then accepted interim appointment, the Governors assuming they could persuade Snape to step down voluntarily if – when – he recovered.

Harry stripped out of his clothes on his way to Snape's bathroom, spelled the bath Kreacher had drawn him warm, laughing slightly when he found himself, yet again, choosing the green, sage-scented water that Snape preferred – something he'd recognized in the first days of his appropriation of the quarters after Slughorn vacated, his excuse being that Gryffindor Tower was too empty, too far from those faculty who had stayed to oversee the castle's repairs. McGonagall neither approved nor disapproved, merely pursed her lips in silent consideration that changed to a sad, sympathetic smile, and patted his arm, when he'd told her, "If you need me, I'll be in Snape's quarters."

Slughorn had changed things, of course – more luxurious, cushy comfort in his furnishings than Snape would ever have allowed himself – chintz upholstery at which Harry shuddered, reminded of Aunt Petunia, and an abundant, ever-replenishing supply of candied pineapple. After an uneasy night in the too-soft bed, Harry had called for a house elf and requested the quarters be changed back to Snape's décor. Then he and Kreacher set about making subtle changes. They lightened some of the furnishings, including the bed hangings, still green and silver, but a softer shade. They added softly-glowing wall sconces to brighten even the darkest corners, leaving no place for nightmares to hide, cleaned the floo, and patched tiny leaks that had made the place uncomfortably damp. Harry set about refurbishing the rooms as if to honor the man he hoped would soon occupy them, as well as with an eye to banishing anything that might be reminders of the torture Snape had undergone as a Death Eater, and the demons that would likely chase him in memory. These would be Snape's quarters again, he hoped, but he was determined the man would feel both at home and healed here.

So he and Kreacher cleaned, polished, refurbished, and renewed, making the rooms subtly warmer, both in actual ambient temperature and in feel, always retaining Snape, but Snape as Harry now saw him – noble, honorable, courageous, a man of impeccable integrity.

He sought input and assistance from the faculty, and even from Slytherin's resident ghost, the Bloody Baron. Because it was a Gryffindor in residence, however briefly, he also sought input from Sir Nicholas. Each time she visited, McGonagall inevitably noted the changes, gave that same sad smile, nodded her understanding, and patted Harry on the arm, leaving him with the feeling she thought his work in vain, but he determined it would not be.

Once he had done all he could to make Snape's quarters as safe and comfortable as they could be, without Snape's own personal touches, and lacking anything else to do, those evenings he could not sleep or McGonagall or Pomfrey shooed him away from Snape's side, Harry set about the overwhelming task of unpacking and sorting through the vast library of potions and dark arts texts McGonagall sent down from the Headmaster's… Headmistress'… Dumbledore's… Snape's… the office Snape had occupied this past year. He treated the texts reverently, checking topics listed in indices to help him categorize and arrange the texts. Often, he'd find his fingers caressing Snape's copious annotations in the margins of pages, a fond smile on his face, recalling his old potions text book – the one that had been Property of the Half-Blood Prince. When he found himself clutching one such potions text to his chest one evening, he took it to bed with him, and, starting at the beginning, read each page, bouncing between the text and Snape's illuminating, clarifying, and often amusing commentary. Crush, don't cut… Add one cw stir every 8 ccw… Potion-making idiots! Some tomes had the word Worthless! inked in Snape's angular, pointed scrawl, all over the frontispiece. Harry read them anyway, amused at Snape's increasingly snide commentary as the despised author went on.

Snape received volumes and volumes of mail. Harry greeted and rewarded the owls in the Great Hall, where he sat with McGonagall and other faculty and staff members once Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna and the rest of the students had gone home for the summer. By common consent, he and McGonagall incinerated the howlers unopened, and jointly went through the rest, tossing declarations of undying love and offers of marriage without guilt, retaining genuine expressions of gratitude or queries after Snape's well-being, grouping offers of employment that made them both uneasy, and stacking up the many potions journals that arrived weekly – some with requests for articles from Snape's quill. Harry selected the most supportive letters and read those to Snape, hoping the positive regard would call the man out of wherever he had retreated, in his continued unconsciousness.

"I've done all I can do, Harry," Madam Pomfrey had told him. "The rest is up to him." So Harry kept him company, and daily repeated his plea, "Don't leave me, Professor. I'm not done with you yet."

Daytimes, he'd read a few letters to the man, eventually losing his discomfort, commenting on each one. Then he'd read aloud from one of Snape's books, making points or asking questions, carrying on as if Snape had responded or asked him a question in return. Over time, those one-sided conversations began to include talking to Snape about his own healing – how he was feeling, what he was thinking, what his dreams and nightmares provoked in him. He confessed that he slept in Snape's bed, and promised he was taking good care of Snape's belongings and space. He imagined and responded to Snape's side of the conversation, ending, often, with "I wish you'd wake up, Professor. I'd give anything for you to take points away from Gryffindor and tell me to stop being such an idiot again… or even to tell me I'm arrogant, just like my dad – even if you'd be wrong. I'd rather have that than…"

Than nothing of you, he thought, and whispered again, "I'm not done with you yet."

He finished his bath, shaking his mind out of his musings, stretching and groaning as the hot water soothed his cramped muscles, planning his day – not that it varied much, except when interrupted by hearings at the Ministry. Those were, thankfully, beginning to abate, though demands by The Prophet and numerous other publications for interviews still plagued him. He steadfastly refused them all, save for one, given after Arthur Weasley pointed out both that the public needed something from him in order to be fully reassured, and that it was a chance to hear from him – from the one person whose word they would trust, for now, that Snape had been working on the side of the Light all along. He'd attended that one interview, supported by McGonagall, Arthur, Kingsley, Ron, Hermione, Neville and Luna, as each of them had a part in the story to tell, and then retreated to Hogwarts again, from which his friends could rarely drag him. Even the Ministry could budge him only with the enticement of adding more to his testimony about Snape each time he answered a summons, though that, too, was nearly concluded, with the recent official exoneration of the man in absentia, and the awarding of the Order of Merlin, First Class.

He shook himself, realizing the bath water had gone cool during his continued musing. Rather than spell it warm again, he stood and grabbed a towel, and used his toes to yank the plug free with the chain that kept it anchored to the tub. He dried himself off, acutely aware that Snape had probably used this particular towel to do the very same, and growled at himself when he felt a twitch in his nether regions. Shaking that off, he padded, nude, to the bedroom, and opened the wardrobe, where he'd allotted himself scant space next to Snape's black robes, trousers, and white, high-necked shirts. He chose khaki-colored pants and a plain white shirt, grabbed up his belt from where it had slipped to the floor, and tossed it all on the bed. He fended off the stray recollection of having sorted Snape's socks and the black, silky boxers the man clearly preferred, pulled his own pants and socks from the one small drawer he'd appropriated in Snape's dresser, and got dressed, trying to get his mind to cooperate by going elsewhere.

Hermione and Ron had sent an owl yesterday asking him to come to the Burrow, but had not protested when he sent Pigwidgen back with an apologetic but firm refusal. He supposed that would be followed by a plea from Molly – maybe Ginny… He twitched a shoulder uncomfortably as he notched his belt, aware that it hung rather loosely on his hips, doing little to hold up his trousers, and, grabbing his latest book, headed for the Great Hall, knowing McGonagall would not leave until she was sure he'd had his breakfast.

He was startled, when he entered, to see Hagrid, Firenze, Trelawney, Flitwick, Sinistra, and a mass of red-haired Weasleys noisily chatting at the Gryffindor table, apparently all waiting for him. As soon as they spotted him, Ron and Hermione jumped to their feet and raced to embrace him, pounding his back and hugging him fiercely, while the others shouted "Happy birthday, Harry!"

"Wow!" he said, extricating himself from Hermione's grasp with difficulty. "Is it the thirty-first? I've lost track!" He reached the table and suffered the enthusiastic hugs, pats, and handshakes with good humor, and allowed himself to be planted between Hermione and Ginny, who leaned into him and kissed his cheek, missing his lips only because he'd turned, at the last minute, his attention caught by something Arthur was saying, or so he feigned. Then he turned and smiled at Ginny, and patted her hand, mentally wincing at the confused, hurt look in her eyes. He busied himself with conversation and breakfast, trying to ignore the pressure of her knee against his.

There were presents after breakfast – small ones, which he appreciated, as he wasn't really in the mood for a big celebration; a self-inking quill and new journal from Hermione, a subscription to Quidditch Illustrated from Ron, a petrified dragon's egg from Hagrid, who told him if he placed it in the fireplace, it would retain heat for thirty-six hours, a lockbox with secret compartments that bit the fingers of anyone not keyed to open it from George ("and Fred," he'd added, with a half smile), spell books from McGonagall, a set of Tarot cards from Trelawney, at which both Ron and George snickered, a new robe from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, a broom-care kit from Ginny inscribed From One Seeker to Another, and a basket of sweetgrass woven so tightly that it would hold water, from Firenze.

Bill, Fleur, and Charlie had sent birthday cards, the former accompanied by French chocolates, the latter with a dragon-scale charm threaded on a leather thong that he slipped around his neck. One side of the scale was inscribed with the rune for Courage, the other with Protection. As he slipped it over his head, he felt the charm settle on him, and he wondered how much the rare item had set Charlie back. He exclaimed over each gift, and thanked them all with genuine appreciation.

By the time breakfast was done, though, he was exhausted, no longer used to so many people, or so much socializing. Eventually, everyone said their goodbyes, to return to work for the day, and Molly took McGonagall's floo back to the Burrow, but they assured Harry they would all be back for supper and cake that evening. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny told him they planned to spend the day, and he had a moment's panic, his mind and his heart already warning him he'd been away from Snape too long. Hermione rescued him.

"Harry… can we all go up and see Professor Snape?"

He looked up to see McGonagall watching them. She gave him a small nod. "Uh… yeah… of course."

"And then let's play two-a-side Quidditch!" Hermione added brightly. Ron, Ginny, and Harry all turned to gawk at her, astonished.

"You hate Quidditch!" Ron exclaimed.

She reddened. "Yes, well, I've been reading up on it…" All of them groaned and exchanged grins at that. "and I think I would like to try. A well-rounded witch should be informed about all aspects of wizarding life, don't you think, Headmistress?"

McGonagall raised her cup of tea and murmured an amused agreement, then flicked her eyes to Harry and gazed at him meaningfully, the message as clear as if she'd said it aloud – You will spend time outside the castle today, Mr. Potter! He lifted both hands in defeat, and she looked smugly satisfied. He wondered if she'd arranged all this with his friends. Of course she had!

They made their way to the infirmary, two by two. Ginny took his hand and he squeezed it, then let go to point out places the castle was being repaired, maneuvering to walk next to Ron by means of calling him back to look at a niche where a suit of armor had once stood. Ron looked at him peculiarly, and Harry hoped the guilt did not show in his eyes, but his best mate thankfully said nothing.

Madam Pomfrey smiled as they entered. "Happy birthday, Mr. Potter," she said, handing him a small box. He opened it and was confused to find several long strips of leather curled inside.

"They're for your hair, Harry," Hermione said. His confusion increased.

"Well, it is rather long, mate," Ron said with a grin, tugging on it. Harry put a hand up and grabbed a handful, then shook his head as he realized it fell to his shoulders, now. He just hadn't bothered to cut it, not for months now, and simply hadn't realized its length.

"Here – let me," Ginny said, and she plucked a black length from the box, and deftly pulled his hair back to the nape of his neck, wrapping the leather around it three times and tying it off.

"I look like a girl," Harry complained.

"Nah – you look kinda' Scottish. You should do it in a braid," Ron said, laughing at Harry's bewildered look.

Madam Pomfrey smiled. "To keep your hair out of your work, Mr. Potter." She patted his arm, said, "The look suits you," and turned back to her office, leaving them alone with Snape, who slumbered on, oblivious to the conversation at his bedside.

"He looks great," Hermione said softly, moving to the head of the bed. "Do they know when…?"

"No," Harry said, unconsciously patting Snape's hand. "But it'll be soon – I know it."

"How do you know, Harry?" Ginny asked, her eyes on Snape's face.

"I just do," Harry said. "He'll come back to me." He did not notice the looks his friends exchanged, or the sad, supportive smile Hermione gave Ginny. They stood murmuring in a soft conversation as Harry gazed at Snape's face, patting his arms and hands in his usual inventory. Are you in there? Are you all right? Come back. I'm not done with you yet. He carded his hand through the blue-black hair, gently working his fingertips against the man's scalp, massaging and soothing, not that he could tell if the man needed it – but he liked to tell himself that the slack face changed under his touch… though maybe he was imagining it.

"Harry…"

He became aware that someone was trying to get his attention.

"Harry, let's go play Quidditch."

He looked up, one hand tangled in Snape's hair, to find his friends watching him, strange looks on their faces, each one slightly different. He pulled his hand away, gently patting Snape's shoulder before he let go completely. "Yeah, sure. I'm… Let's go," he agreed, and allowed himself to be pulled away, looking back once at the door, watching until it swung shut, blocking his view of the man.