It was not over.

Bellatrix had been quelled, but she would be back.

Like a Niffler, she won't stop until she finds gold. And she will find it.

Severus would seek Dumbledore at the first opportunity – but opportunities to escape the Dark Lord when you were needed were few/non-existent. Not that he could leave Potter either. Not now.

Severus carried Potter through the corridors of Malfoy Manor to his room, expecting to run into Draco any moment, though he knew that the boy was at his Great Aunt's, head no doubt being filled with more lies. It would burst if this continued.

Potter drifted in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently. Physical injury atop of magical was particularly draining - but Severus felt weak too, stumbling up stairs occasionally.

"No, no, no…" Potter kept saying, gaze as shaky as his voice.

Potter's room had one bed, Severus was glad to see; it meant that Snape was not a prisoner here. He was free to go to Dumbledore. Somehow he had survived the Dark Lord's doubts once again. Snape carried Potter to the bed and lay him gently atop it. A few spells later and Snape was satisfied that there were no surveillance charms on the room; it was a guest room after all, not a cell.

Potter's eyes found Snape's own, clearer and voice slightly steadier.

"You're really his?" Then Potter's gaze slipped to the side again and Snape could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Fever. "Confusin'."

Potter was lolling on his side on the bed, apparently oblivious to the blood dripping from the nasty head wound above his ear, matting his hair and staining the white sheets. Snape walked over, held the tip of his wand to the inflamed lips of the injury, murmured the spells he had murmured too many times. The blood vanished, the injury closed and all that was left was a thin line that Severus would soon make disappear. Not that he cared about aesthetics but, perhaps, Potter of all people didn't need another scar.

"You must be more specific, given Dumbledore and the Dark Lord are both male…" said Severus, once he had finished. "To a degree anyway."

Snape turned in an alarm as he heard a strange noise issue from Potter – who was almost falling off the bed with rasping laughter."Imagine Dumbledore as a- as a- girl! Lipstick! Oh Merlin! Imagine Volde-"

"Not here you imbecile. Not his name. Do you have a suicide wish?"

Apparently Potter did, for he continued, flopping back on the bed, spread-eagled, staring at the ceiling. "Imagine Voldemort with a pink dress! It would clash with green! Oh MERLIN!"

"Potter!"

Snape's voice was sharp in the strain of keeping up with Potter's mood swings: Potter tipped his head back laughter- then, before Snape could react to the glee, frowned at Snape as if concerned for his sanity.

"Do you really think they're girls?" asked Potter, squinting at Snape through bruises and blood.

"No! I merely meant-"

Snape stopped himself; he had been going to finish the sentence with 'that the Dark lord has left the human realm to such a degree that gender hardly applies to him' - but he hardly thought that was something that the Dark Lord would appreciate, in search of a better term….

Potter may still let something Snape had said in private slip through his Gryffindor tongue. The best compromise would be to act as the Dark Lord expected in front of Potter: Dumbledore's man - but not to the degree that he was disrespectful, which no true follower would dare to be. Even if that meant Snape would have to put Potter in doubts about his true allegiance…there was no love lost there.

Snape stilled. But there was. Love was obviously the wrong word, but there was an inkling of respect from Potter to Snape. The Dark Lord had said it: I saw in his mind last year that he never suspected you...

No time to get lost in happy memories, Snape walked to the cupboards, looking for the potions the Dark Lord had no doubt left here. The first drawer revealed photographs, captured seconds of the Malfoy life: Draco laughing, a small child with disproportionately large cheeks at the time, dressed in black like his father and sitting on the floor like he was just about to topple over, a herd of toy Hippogriffs galloping in circles around him.

A cough from Potter as he attempted to speak. "Are you really Dumbledore's though?"

"Yes"

"But…Why should I trust you?" Potter asked lightly, as if he were asking about the weather.

The next drawer was filled only with blank notebooks, green and silver, the kind that other Wizards would treasure as uniquely beautiful but the Malfoys had in excess.

"That hardly matters right now. The Dark Lord has instructed me to heal you - a task that I would also be completing if I were Dumbledore's. Take advantage of the Dark Lord's wishes coinciding with your own."

"They don't though. Never. Never. Never."

"It's good you said that three times or I wouldn't have believed you." Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course they do Potter! You are not so pure and nor is the Dark Lord so evil that your desires never overlap. You both breathe, do you not? You are both…"

Snape was going to say human, but reasoned that the Dark Lord may take offence to even that.

"…Wizards!"

Potter wasn't listening anyway.

"Look it's not my fault that Dobby stole that gillyweed, Professor. You kinda should stop jumping to conclusions. I could, I dunno…" a snort "make your hair nice – ha, bet you've never had that before" then the tone turned quiet "and you still wouldn't like me. Tried it with Vernon too…put cakes on his head, you know? Put them in his mouth - made cakes and cakes and cakes and he still didn't like me. Sugar all over, smelt so good. Couldn't taste it though, but could imagine. You and Uncle would get on! Yeah you should make a team with Uncle Vernon - compete in the triwizard tournament or something?"

What a remarkable speech. It would have been less fantastical if Potter somersaulted, then announced his attention to join the Internation Wizards' Gynmastic team….

Potter was already on another topic though, however much Snape's mind lingered on the words you should make a team with Uncle Vernon.

"Why does everything look blurry?"

"You don't have your glasses."

Potter's soft voice from the corner jumped easily from one idea to another. "Sir, you should really get another job. Something less dangerous. Waiter or summin'…"

Then Potter's mouth twitched, no doubt imagining Snape in an apron with a tray. Snape turned back to searching the drawers to hide his smirk.

"And what would happen to you if I did that?" asked Snape. "I hardly think waiting skills would help."

Potter snorted in his delirium. "I might make you able to carry me without tripping."

"You've hit your head hard if you think I won't punish you for that comment once we get back to Hogwarts."

"Head!" announced Potter triumphantly, still lying back on the bed, as if his body was controlling him when it should be the other way around "Does the Headmaster know we're here?"

"I will notify him as soon as possible."

"And where even are we? This isn't Mrs. Figg's house is it? Wow, she got rich. Didn't realise! Nice that she doesn't show it on the outside of her house. Where are the cats?"

Snape had no idea what to say that, so settled for ignoring him, a tactic he enjoyed.

"Where are they?" insisted Potter. "I don't think you understand. She'll be really worried if the cats are gone. She saved me from the Dementors, so I owe her, I need to find…I need to… Here kitty kitty." Snape turned to see Potter leaning dangerously over the side of the bed. "I think one's called Snuffles…or is that-"

Snape grabbed Potter by his arm and steered him back onto the pillows.

"You are feverish, foolish boy."

"Yeah, fine but if Mrs. Figg doesn't find her cats then Dementors will come."

The mind has a tendency to break after the stress is over rather than during; it's a survival mechanism to hold back dangerous symptoms until safety – to the best of its ability. Magic must help this for Severus had never met a muggle who could do it quite as well as a Wizard – and apparently Potter had delayed a lot of symptoms.

"Look!" Potter was pointing to the corner of the room. "A saucer! Cats are sometimes in plates, did you know that?"

Snape followed Potter's gaze to the window sill, to see a decorative white plate sitting there. There was no doubt that the boy was thinking of Umbridge and her strange, vile obsession. Severus had had no patience for cats since.

Turning back, Severus began searching again for the right drawer, finding himself in the familiar position of being more concerned about Potter's health than Potter was.

"Fascinating as that is, you are beginning to sound like Lockhart. After that unfortunate spell. And this room is larger than Arabella Figg's whole house. We cannot possibly be in her abode."

"Like a TARDIS…" said Potter, mouth open in apparent awe, eyes flashing to Snape again.

That was it, the boy was turning mad.

"We. Are. Not. In. Her. House!" said Snape, whirling to face Potter in a magnificent sweep of robes, that he had so perfected into scaring idiot students into getting vaguely passable grades; Potter didn't even seem to notice.

"Then where we are?" Potter asked in an innocent tone.

Snape turned back to the drawers, in defeat. "Oh, Merlin spare me… Potter, I need to heal you before you become more feverish, if that is even possible. Your incessant ramblings aren't helping for some reason."

"No…they're not incessant! I'm telling the truth! Maybe I should ignore the toad altogether. But she is so annoying! He's back and she just won't believe it! Writing 'I must not tell lies' on my hand seems a fairly pointless exercise."

Snape felt as if he were trespassing, learning thing Potter would be furious to know he had found out, things that Snape would have kept to himself at that age, for shame. Yet, the fury he was feeling, brewing inside him, most potent of potions, whiffed to his mind, ensnaring it, so he had no choice but to respond.

"She. Did. What?"

Potter didn't even hear him. "Here kitty, kitty."

Snape turned back, knowing there was no point pressing now – but he would have to at some point, would have no choice but to find out more, if they got out of this mess. Severus did not like unanswered questions, especially ones that involved Potter.

Then, Potter stopped calling for that blasted cat and started talking again in a language familiar to humans.

"Ohhhh! I geddit…"

Though Severus wasn't sure 'geddit' should qualify as English.

"Still though, Dudley's room has always been nicer than mine but this is insane! I s'pose Dudley felt sorry for me," continued Potter, muttering under his breath as if talking to himself. Though he did try to give me that hardened bread in my cupboard. Ha. Dudley can't even make toast…So he put me in his bed, that's nice."

And which wound would Severus press for information first? There were so many. Focus on one and the others would bleed out.

"Wait, would about if Marietta tells Umbridge again? 'Cause Umbridge would probably put me back in my cupboard."

"Ah!"

Determined not to listen to ramblings that could include both truth and fiction, were so muddled that any anger Severus might feel from them could be unwarranted, Severus had focused on searching and finally found the drawer with the potions in: bottle upon bottle. Everyone had a wand, but Severus had this extra edge: potions were far more secretive and subtle than the rash, fumbling spell, loud, roaring and obvious.

Severus selected the Sleeping Draught, and Dreamless Sleep for good measure, pyjamas from a drawer and stalked over to Potter's bed.

"Drink these then change into your pyjamas," said Severus, handing Potter the vials "Green one first."

Potter looked up at Snape again, expression crumpled into childish despair. "I don't want to drink pond water again, Dudley."

Snape stilled, completely. "It's not pond water."

Snape felt almost helpless at their quiet exchange, so few words, but with more significance than any of their past conversations.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"I really don't wanna…"

"It will help you sleep."

"But-"

"Trust me."

"No."

Snape no longer knew who Potter thought he was talking to, but it didn't matter; Potter did not trust him, and that wasn't going to change quickly. And yet, they had to either work together to get out of here or die together. Snape let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

"I could spell the potions into your stomach myself, which I would hope you would have learnt in potions by now." Severus took another breath. "The only reason I won't is because I fear that it would result in you trusting me less. That is how important your trust is." Potter said nothing. "What can I do to convince you?"

Snape reached for the vials in Potter's hands then, for so many reasons: to take them out of Potter's shaking grip in case he spilt them, to make sure Potter was ready to take them of his own admission, to make sure he didn't feel pressure.

Potter flinched violently. The potions spilt everywhere. Potter cowered, vials discarded, eyes glinting with fever.

Snape caught Potter's wrist before he could even think about it.

Potter took slower breaths, but still eyed Snape as if he might attack. "My wrist-"

Snape loosened his grip. "I'll-"

"No," said Potter, eyes blinking heavy. "I like it. It's warm. Outside Mrs. Figg's house, when the footsteps came towards me, someone did that. I dunno…nice."

Potter's bottom lip trembled slightly, but his gaze stayed hard on Severus's own.

"Potter?"

"I'll take the potions."

There was a moment, where Severus's fingers stayed in limbo around Potter's, before he let go. Potter must have been remembering Severus holding his wrist – and Bellatrix must have been the footsteps Potter was describing. Snape's hand had calmed Potter. Snape's unique touch on Potter's unique wrist. How a combination like that had worked, Severus didn't think he'd ever know. But not one to miss opportunities, whatever the state of his mind, Severus turned to fetch the vials.

When he returned, though, Potter was asleep, slumped back on the pillow, mouth open and rendering the potions pointless. Snape counted four potions wasted because of Potter already. The cold vials were banished from his hands then, and replaced by Potters' warm, bony wrist.