Chapter Three: By The Time I Got To New York*

*Lazarus, David Bowie

"He doesn't want you to be present for his discharge interview, Mr. Snape," the orderly held up his hand to stop Snape from entering the room where Harry was talking with hospital personnel. Snape watched through the door's reinforced window pane as a woman in white lab coat slipped several pill bottles into a paper bag.

"I suppose that is his right," Snape said sourly, tapping his fingers on the counter, "You're sure you can't give me any information on his condition?"

"Mr. Potter has not authorized us to release his medical information to you, I'm afraid."

Snape sighed heavily, turning away.

"Do you want my advice, Mr. Snape?"

"Not particularly," Snape sneered.

"Ask him yourself," the orderly advised.

Snape was just about the tell the orderly that he had already done as much when the office door opened abruptly. Harry emerged, dressed in street clothes and carrying a small duffle bag. He looked up at Snape apprehensively, blinking his bright green eyes.

For a moment, Snape's stern expression softened.

"Ready, then, Potter?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded, "Let's go."

The two former wizards walked together towards the elevators. Only once the elevator doors had closed, isolating the two of them from the rest of the world, did they speak.

"I could go for a bit of lunch. How about you, Professor?"

Snape smirked, "You really don't need to call me 'professor' anymore, Potter. You're nearly thirty years old and I think it's safe to say my teaching license has been revoked by the Ministry."

Harry chuckled nervously, "Well, is it OK if I call you by your given name, then? Or should I call you Mr. Snape?"

"Don't call me Mr. Snape. That sounds ridiculous."

Harry looked up at Snape expectantly.

"While I am gratified that you feel the need to ask my permission to address me informally, Potter, it really isn't necessary," Snape said silkily, rolling his eyes.

"All right," Harry nodded in understanding, "It just...might take some time to adjust."

Snape snorted, seemingly amused, "By all means, take all the time you need."

"So, lunch? I'm famished. There is an Italian eatery around the corner that's top notch."

"Lead the way," Snape gestured to the elevator doors as they opened.

The two men walked in companionable silence out the front doors of the hospital and made their way down the congested New York City sidewalk. At particularly busy crosswalk, Harry turned around and grasped Snape's hand. The older man's eyes widened as he looked at Harry in shock.

"Wouldn't want to lose you, now, sir," Harry quipped good-naturedly.

"This is hardly necessary, Potter," Snape huffed, but did not pull his hand away.

"You seem well," Harry observed as he twirled a nest of linguine around his fork.

"I seem well? Aren't you the one that just got out of hospital?" Snape said dryly, cutting his lasagna.

"I was in hospital four weeks. You were in Azkaban for ten years," Harry said quietly, sitting back against the plush red leather seat in their booth.

"Ah," Snape inclined his head, "Yes, well, Azkaban has changed considerably since the end of the war, Potter. Mainly thanks to reforms advanced by your old friend, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Dementors are no longer used as guards, which has improved conditions tenfold."

"That's good to hear," Harry replied, taking a sip of his root beer.

"So what possessed you to move to New York?" Snape changed the subject, eyeing Harry curiously.

Harry chuckled darkly, "What possessed me to move to New York? Ha. An apropos question if I ever heard one. Well, for one, I wanted to get away from the British tabloids. If you'll remember, I couldn't leave my flat without being blinded by flash-lamps. But, in retrospect, it was a capricious decision, really. A hallmark of...my illness."

"You must forgive me, Potter. I am not well-versed in muggle psychiatry. Could you...elucidate?"

"I can't believe you're here," Harry ignored Snape's question, "I thought I'd never see you again. I can't believe you would want to see me again."

"It wasn't so much a question of want," Snape said slowly, measuring his words, "I needed to see you. You understand?"

"No," Harry responded coyly, "Could you...elucidate?"

"You brat," Snape inhaled sharply, "Could you act your age, for once? I was worried about you when I heard you were ill and hospitalized in a foreign country without anyone to care for you. I already said as much."

Harry felt a warmth spread through his body at Snape's words.

"I've…"

"Yes?" Snape encouraged him to continue.

"I've waited so long, it seems, for you to stop hating me."

Snape sighed heavily. He had known this particular conversation to be inevitable.

"You do realize that part of that was theatre," Snape looked at Harry with a strange expression.

"The operative part of that phrase being 'part of that'," Harry lamented, cradling his head in his hands.

"I misjudged you, yes, I admit," Snape bit out, "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"When?" Harry asked simply, seeking out the onyx eyes.

"When what?"

"When did you stop hating me?"

Snape broke eye contact with Harry, looking down and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I suppose…" he began, "I started seeing you differently your fifth year, after the Dark Lord had returned. I couldn't let on as much, though. You had not mastered Occlumency. Had I started treating you with a modicum of respect, I would have been made. You know that, Potter."

"What about the four years before that? You had it in for me the very moment I walked into your classroom."

"I was wrong to despise you. You might have been the son of my childhood nemesis, but you were only a boy and had done nothing wrong. It was indecorous of me...to say the least. If I had it to do over again -"

"No," Harry interrupted, "Don't. There is no point wishing we could live our lives over again. We can't. Besides, all's well that ends well, yeah? We did well to survive the war. Who is to say that if you had openly pledged your loyalty to me that the outcome would have been the same?"

"Very true," Snape pursed his lips, "Now, I do believe you've led us off-topic, Potter. What led you to check yourself into a mental institution?"

Harry grabbed the dessert menu from behind the salt-and-pepper shakers and started flipping through its pages with vigour, "I'm thinking something with chocolate in it for dessert. Maybe the tiramisu? Does tiramisu have chocolate in it?"

Snape reached across the table and snatched the menu from Harry.

"There'll be no dessert for you, young man, until you answer my question," Snape cocked an eyebrow and looked at Harry expectantly.

Duly chastened, Harry suddenly got very quiet and averted his gaze from the stern-looking man.

"I don't mean to pry, Potter," Snape's expression softened, "And I think you know me well enough to know I'm not interested in selling your secrets to the Daily Prophet or the Quibbler. I just want to get a sense of -"

"It started after the war," Harry divulged slowly, "Four years after the war ended. I started feeling really sorry for myself, I guess. I was out of work and I felt isolated from the wizarding world, apart from my ongoing run-ins with tabloid reporters. There was this tremendous pain - emotional pain; it came crashing down on me like a tsunami. I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. I cried almost constantly. My limbs...felt so heavy. I couldn't smile; it was like the muscles in my face didn't work properly anymore. I couldn't cope. For awhile there, I… I wanted to die."

Snape noticed Harry's hand begin to tremble as he reached out to direct the straw from his root beer to his mouth, but said nothing.

"Is that when you sought help?" Snape asked carefully.

"No," Harry shook his head, "That's when something incredible happened. I woke up one day, and the depression had lifted. It was gone. And in its place was this...euphoria...just out of nowhere. The day before I had been virtually catatonic, and then suddenly I had this burst of energy and ideas. That's when I decided to leave for New York. It was early December and I had seen an advertisement for the upcoming Times Square New Year's broadcast on the telly. I applied for a travel visa that day, on a whim. I left for America the day my papers came through. I was in Times Square on New Year's Eve to watch the ball drop."

"Were you alone?" Snape asked inquisitively, "That New Year's Eve?"

"No," Harry admitted sheepishly, "I was...with Draco."

"You were with Draco," Snape repeated, as if he were trying to make sense of it, "And this was in December of 2002?"

Harry nodded, guilt evident in his features, "And...I might have snogged him during Auld Lang Syne."

"Harry Potter!" Snape chided, disbelievingly.

"I know. I'm a terrible person," Harry sighed heavily, "That's why Hermione won't talk to me anymore. Draco broke off the engagement shortly after."

"Is that also why Weasley won't give you the time of day?"

"No," Harry breathed, "It gets worse."

"Go on," Snape sounded intrigued.

"New York is an expensive place to live, yeah? So I blew through my inheritance in the first six months."

"Wait, what?!" Snape knew that the Potters had been fairly well off. From what he had heard through the tabloids, Harry had received his full inheritance of nearly 400 000 pounds on his 17th birthday. How had he spent that much money in less than five years?

"I couldn't earn enough money working minimum wage jobs to cover my rent, so I reached out to my friends. Arthur Weasley offered me a loan. I never paid him back."

"That was almost eight years ago! The Weasleys barely scrape by as it is, Potter! How could you?" Snape admonished, "What of the Black estate? Don't tell me that's all gone, too!"

"I might have made...some sizeable donations to Hogwarts after the war. And the Chudley Cannons. And a few charities…"

"You foolish, foolish boy!" Snape rebuked Harry, standing up and towering over him as he cowered in his seat, "I could take you and -"

Harry gulped audibly as Snape stopped short, perhaps realizing they were in a public setting and people were staring. Collecting himself, the older man took a deep breath and sat back down.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you," Harry choked on a rebel sob, "You have no idea how ashamed I am of what I've done."

"How have you been getting by for the past eight years, Potter?"

Harry looked up at Snape with a haunted expression on his face that said everything he needed to know.

"Jesus H. Christ."

Snape stood up - as if to leave - but then scooted in beside Harry. He sat like a statue, looking straight ahead into the abyss, but let the younger man cry on his shoulder as if it didn't bother him in the least.

"We'll get you sorted, Potter," Snape reassured him after a long while, "But first, let me treat you to some tiramisu."

Harry lifted his head from Snape's shoulder, looking up at him with a timid smile.

"You're good for it?" Harry whispered, an impish expression taking over his countenance.

"I guess I'd better be, haven't I?" Snape rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile playing on his lips.