Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Sad.

Chapter 2: Wheezing

Harry found it extremely difficult to keep his pace measured as he walked down the lane toward Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. The Hogsmeade branch of the popular joke shop had opened just a month before and was making Zonko's very nervous. He could have flooed directly there but slamming the door made a much better exit than vanishing quietly into a fireplace. And he didn't want to show up at the store angry and vulnerable to Weasley pranks.

He grinned as he remembered a lush swamp fenced off in the hallway, fireworks so close to Dolores Fucking Umbridge you could see her hair singe in the heat, Canary Creams…

…Fred.

Harry was walking so fast he had to adjust his bag so the weight was centered at his back.

He still couldn't look Molly Weasley in the eye. Arthur avoided him. Harry knew the good man didn't mean to shun him. The fact was Arthur's behavior subconsciously mirrored the rest of the Wizarding World's—mingled with stunned joy was a fervent desire to forget anything ever happened. And the Boy-Who-Lived-Again was an integral part of those events. Harry Potter had never felt less famous but more conspicuous in his life.

Predictably, George was having the worst time with Fred's passing. Harry couldn't be in the same room as Forge without instinctively looking for Gred. But George himself looked around every few minutes, expecting his twin to help him convince a customer to try a Quack Quotes Quill or toss Ginny into a bin of Tickling Thimbles. Then complete bewilderment would shadow his thin face, usually followed by ducking into the backroom "to count stock."

Ron had left for Australia with Hermione a few weeks ago to help her parents adjust to life without memory charms. Last he heard, the Grangers took the news rather well that they really weren't Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They had a thriving practice in Australia, however, and weren't too keen on returning to England soon, even with Voldemort gone.

Throwing his bag to the ground, Harry started running down the deserted street.

Ron was the easiest to be around—even easier than Ginny. That first week after the Final Battle, that was the worst. They tried to hide it from him but nothing could cover the evidence of prolonged grief. Harry found a part of him was extremely jealous. He couldn't grieve. He had tried. He just got frustrated and wanted to hit something.

Why did a cheerful mate have to go? Couldn't Snape have died instead?

He remembered how he felt while viewing Snape's memories, when he truly thought the spy was dead: realizing he had been wrong the whole time, that a childhood friend of Lily's had been staring him in the face for years and he hadn't known. The stories the professor must have!

Harry smirked. As if Snape would ever share those stories in the first place. He would still trade Snape for anyone who had died during the final battle, especially Lupin or Tonks. More than anything, he hated the fact Teddy Lupin was now an orphan.

Harry turned and ran back to his bag.

Much slower than before, he resumed his walk.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

Snape had had worse mornings—much worse, in fact.

If Severus Snape whistled, he would be now. Really, other than his imminent death, things were quite good. The Dark Lord—Voldemort—would never interfere with his life again.

Those moments between Nagini's bite and the Dark Lord's exit from the Shrieking Shack were the most nerve-wracking of his life. That was saying quite a lot. But those moments were all that was needed to remind the Potions Master of his debt to Lily and subsequently, the strange force inside him that compelled him to look after her son. And the Dark Lord was still very much alive at that point.

So after giving Potter the necessary memories—and a few extra in case his potion completely failed as he had never had a chance to test it, thank Merlin—he withdrew a needle from his robes and administered the potion directly into his veins.

Snape took a moment to glare at his left arm. The Mark was gone. But now he looked like a fucking heroine addict.

The Potions Master spent a month at Spinner's End, trying in vain to brew something that would completely eradicate Nagini's poison. The damn snake venom multiplied itself and seamlessly attached to his blood cells, becoming an integral part of his biology. The potion managed to decrease the poison's spread dramatically, but there was no way to flush the venom without a full circulatory system transfusion—blood and organs—impossible even by wizarding healing methods.

After realizing he had six months of borrowed time before his organs failed, Snape decided to spend those last six months doing what he did best—saving Harry Potter from himself.

The Boy-Who-Lived knew Death Eaters had survived the Final Battle and were bent on his destruction, but where did he decide to live? Right smack in the middle of bloody Hogsmeade! Even Snape had had the sense to wait until it was dark to find Potter's front door, though the whole Wizarding World thought he died in the Shrieking Shack. Potter and a house elf were the only two who knew he was alive.

And soon Ginny Weasley. Snape grimaced. Spending an evening with two forlorn and lovesick teenagers made his lungs hurt.

Or were they actually hurting?

The Potions Master withdrew a needle nimbly, found a vein, and let the potion go. The ache in his lungs subsided slightly, but he couldn't help but wonder if he had been ambitious with his earlier diagnosis. Six months might be optimistic.

Standing slowly, his black robes hiding his extremely thin frame, he wandered over to the kitchen and looked out the small window over the sink. The sun had come out fully.

Soon, Severus Snape was asleep on the small patio outside the apartment, the shades drawn to the point where the sun barely filtered through. Anyone walking by could only see him if they went right up to the patio. However, an alarm would warn the Potions Master and he would be in the house faster than he had ever cursed a rose bush hiding a pair of snogging students.

Being dead was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Harry stood outside Weasleys Whizarding Wheezes, staring at the front door. It was a standard wood door, its dark finish tinted red. The white lettering curved across the front popped out and the gold knob wore a cheeky sign that said "Turn me."

A young witch walked by, her eyes lingering on him before he nodded in her direction. She made as if she had been interested in a nearby sale sign and rushed off.

Any cheer that had been left in him dispersed with that interaction. He took one more look at the joke shop and turned around.

He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to go.

His flight took him right on the edge of an alley. Looking down, he was surprised to see it resembled Knockturn Alley. But that was in London, far from Hogsmeade.

A warning signal went off in his head.

He ignored it. A few curious steps in, and the sun seemed to die. Something about the dim street, the anonymity of the darkness gave him courage and he charged on.

Passing a storefront that looked suspiciously like Borgins & Burkes, he stayed close to the dirty alley walls, his small stature hidden in the shadows.

"Dearie, do you have a Knut to spare?" croaked an old witch huddled in one corner.

"Eh, not now…" mumbled Harry, side-stepping her out-stretched hand, which then clasped to his ankle.

Beadie eyes looked up at him, belonging to a filthy face that was much younger than he originally thought. "I'll give you anything, honey. Anything." The hungry smirk on her face betrayed her.

"No, really, I…"

"No Knuts then!" cried the witch. "For free! Just a touch…"

Swallowing, his throat dry, he reached down and freed his ankle, backing up quickly as soon as the hand retreated back into the woman's cloak.

His revulsion retreated as the danger did.

What could drive this woman to offer herself—her freedom and her body—for just a touch?

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Patricia Yaxley."

Why did the name sound so familiar? He waited for the telltale *ding* of the lightbulb turning on but got no such response.

"There's a shelter a few blocks down that can help you more—"

Whimpering interrupted him, then sobs, and he fled the alley before Patricia Yaxley could say another pathetic word.

Stepping into the bright sunlight, he understand why the woman stayed in the shadows.

Walking quickly, he hurried back to his flat. Snape was there, true, but at least he didn't try to gloss over the past. He had an annoying habit of stating the worst and driving Harry up the wall with his biting sarcasm. But he didn't tiptoe around his feelings or give him pats on the head.

And right now, the Boy-Who-Lived could do with some bluntness.

The last seven years felt foggy, filled with deception—however meaningful it might have been—and almost, in a way, nonexistent from his current life.

Harry snorted. His current life. Yeah, what did he do? He cooked. He babysat Teddy Tonks every Friday so the grandparents could have a night off. He discovered Muggle video games and realized why Dudley was so obsessed. When he could stomach it, he visited Ginny at the Weasleys' shop. She was filling Fred's position to the best of her ability during the summer, being extremely clever with charms. They hadn't officially gotten back together yet, mostly because Harry couldn't get rid of the pit in his stomach that appeared every time he saw the front door of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes… or anything Weasley, for that matter.

He played around with the idea of finding a part-time job, just to distract him and pass the time. He knew many shops who would hire the Boy-Who-Lived before the words "Are you hiring?" passed his lips, but it wouldn't be due to his experience or qualifications. And that bothered him.

Eventually, he would apply for Auror training. Now, he didn't feel ready. Something kept him from taking that step—a hesitance or doubt that began with the grief of his friends and fed off his own grief and guilt with every passing day.

He had arrived. Taking a deep breath, Harry opened the front door and looked in. Snape was nowhere to be seen.

Walking quietly down the hallway to his room, he closed the door behind him and shoved Zelda: the Wind Waker into the Gamecube.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Author's Note: One more chapter! It's a bit longer than the last one, though not as long as I had hoped. I had to delete this immediately after I first posted it, so I apologize if anyone got two alerts. Found a glaring mistake and had to fix it before I was stoned!

This definitely won't be Severitus—it doesn't need to be. In fact, I believe it will stay completely Canon, unless I make an accidental mistake. In which case, I'm sure I'll be informed of said mistake and duly remedy the situation. ;)

Thanks for the Britpicking! I will definitely take those into account as I write… I'm afraid I'll have to start a list somewhere…

University classes start tomorrow, but I promise I'll update as often as my insane schedule allows!