Harry awoke with what he could only assume was the world's worst hangover. His mouth was dry as a desert, his head felt like he'd gotten in a fight with a brick wall and the wall had won, and his stomach rolled threateningly if he so much as moved his eyes. He couldn't believe how much he'd had to drink the night before. And in front of Snape of all people. It had been fun at the time, and Snape had at least been tolerant. The last thing Harry remembered was Snape suggesting they make their game more interesting. Everything after that was a blur, with the occasional bright point, like his admission of Hermione and Dobby's guilt. Unfortunately, as the night progressed, things went from blurry to black. He couldn't even remember making what he was sure had to have been a heroic effort towards his bed. He was, however, shirtless under his sheets, so he must've made it here on his own. He doubted Snape, ever the world's biggest prick, would have taken the time to make him even slightly comfortable by half-undressing him before carting him into his bed and tucking him in. The mere idea passed a shudder down Harry's spine. Sure, Snape had seen him shirtless when they'd been forced to share sleeping quarters, but the thought of the man undressing him was just weird.

Recalling his uncle's many hangovers over the years, Harry sighed. The only real cure for a hangover was a long shower, a hot breakfast, aspirin, and lots of coffee, followed by lots of water. All of which meant he had to get out of bed, something he was loathe to attempt considering the precarious state of his stomach contents. Finally, knowing he couldn't put it off much longer, he rolled carefully out of the bed. A light flickered in his brain, some forgotten moment, perhaps from years previous, of him doing something similar while in the most unimaginable pain. Shaking clear of this sticky cobweb of memory, Harry slowly and deliberately moved around his borrowed bedroom, collecting clothes for his shower. When he'd done, he shot as quickly as he could across the hallway between his room and the bathroom. He wanted to put off Snape's snide comments about holding his liquor for as long as possible.

The water was heavenly and hot, and Harry could already feel the impossible magic only a hot shower could deliver working at his dehydrated body. He would still need to consume his weight in water and coffee after this, but he felt immensely better just standing under the steamy spray. Only when the water began to cool significantly did Harry leave the glass-enclosed stall and towel off. His joints creaked dryly, another symptom of the severe dehydration and alcohol poisoning he'd earned for one night of "fun". He already knew, from watching his uncle, that a truly epic hangover could last as many as three or four days. He just hoped he hadn't gotten that drunk.

Downstairs, Harry was surprised to find Snape wasn't waiting with a scathing remark at the tip of his tongue. Instead, his worn and torn deck of cards sat innocently atop the coffee table, which had been moved back to its niche by the fireplace. Harry looked at Snape's chair curiously, and felt a whisper of memory slide over his brain like water.

It must be so.

Harry shivered. That's right. He'd asked Snape about being his true love. And fairy magic didn't lie. But what had happened after? The Gryffindor shrugged. Obviously nothing significant had happened, or he'd have found Snape waiting with a sharper tongue than normal. Certainly not what he thought he'd been thinking the night before. What a stupid thing to do that would have been. If he'd done that, Snape probably would have been waiting to tell him to get out of his house and never return.

In spite of its angry churning, Harry felt his stomach rumble hungrily. Surprised, but pleased (hungry meant the chances of vomiting were severely diminished), Harry went into the kitchen. He froze in front of the small, lopsided table that he and Snape typically dined at.

"What the hell?" Harry intoned. The sound of his own voice surprised him, and he jumped a little.

It was enough, at least, to get him moving. He approached the table cautiously, uncertain if he should trust what he saw. He picked up the small note lying between a full plate of food and a steaming mug of coffee, below a green, round-bottomed potion phial. Snape's even, refined handwriting stood out on the sheet of parchment, and Harry's brow furrowed deeper and deeper in a frown as he read.

Potter,

Eat before you take the potion. The combination will cure what I can only assume is a monstrous hangover. I can only hope you have learned your lesson about over-indulging in alcohol. I will be in my lab for most of the day, so lunch and dinner are in your hands. Always assuming you cannot occupy your own time, I have left your birthday present in your bedroom. Loosely translated, it is Chinese Solitaire. There are instructions with it. Do not lose your marbles in my home. I won't have you tearing my house apart when you go looking for them.

S. Snape

The second to last sentence surprised a laugh out of Harry, even as his frown deepened. Snape had to have known the phrase had a double meaning. Had the man made a joke? Either way, Harry still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Not only had Snape apparently provided him the cure to his hangover, as well as a bonus cup of coffee, rather than let him suffer through (as, Harry was sure, an adolescent really should), he'd left a note. And on top of that, he'd apparently given Harry a birthday present. What the hell was that about? So far, their summer had been a matter of just barely tolerating each other. Well, that wasn't entirely true. They had shared a bed for two weeks. And had been playing card games nightly ever since the bed-sharing had been quit. Even so, they weren't close enough for something like this, and definitely hadn't warmed to each other enough to be giving gifts. What the hell was Snape playing at?

Shrugging, Harry sat down to his breakfast. He was incredibly curious about the Chinese Solitaire he'd somehow missed while gathering his shower essentials, but he knew it was best to take care of his hangover first. The breakfast was good, and still warm, and the coffee was delightfully black and bitter. The potion was thick, and chalky, but it settled Harry's warped mind and churning stomach as promised. After washing his plate, and leaving the potion phial on the table, Harry returned to his room. Atop the dresser he'd been given for the summer sat the strangest game he'd ever seen. It was a thick, round, wooden platform, with 38 shallow grooves carved halfway through to hold the round, colorful stones that numbered 37. Around the edge was a long, shallow trench. The instructions said that the goal was to jump each "marble" (which were really weighty, polished stones) until only one remained. It was very possibly the most challenging, time-consuming game Harry had ever played.

Harry played with his new, wonderful game (which was by no means actually new) straight through lunch. Snape never once appeared, as promised, and by three Harry was slightly bored, but mostly hungry. He went into the kitchen to seek out a light lunch. Instead, he found himself absent-mindedly gathering the things to make beef stew. He had yet to actually use Snape's kitchen to cook, save the odd breakfast; not because of rules but because the man was such a stickler for scheduling. By the time Harry realized he was hungry, Snape was already setting out whichever meal. Now, however, Harry began to cook as if the kitchen were his own. It took some searching, but he managed to find absolutely everything he would need to make his favorite dish. Beef stew wasn't necessarily complicated, but it was easily ruined, especially while cooking down the stock enough to make the proper gravy. Harry loved cooking beef stew, loved varying the recipe dependent on his mood. Snape would no doubt find something wrong with it, if not specifically, inherently, but Harry didn't care. If dinner was in his hands, he would make what he bloody well pleased. It wasn't as if Snape had ever bothered to ask him what he wanted to eat.

Harry had been cooking for two hours, and had begun to contemplate whether or not he should leave out a bowl for Snape, when the man appeared.

"That smells…enticing, Mister Potter."

Harry leapt most of the way out of his skin, nearly dropping the ladle he'd been using to stir his stew. As Snape's words penetrated, he felt himself blush and hated himself for it. He didn't turn, lest Snape see his blush and tease him for it.

"Thanks," Harry said aloud. "It's my own recipe."

He didn't say "I hope you like it." The thought, however, touched his mind, sending a queer, trembling snake of nervousness up his spine. He turned now, to see Snape sitting sideways in a chair at the table, reading from a book. Black eyes moved over the page, and never once acknowledged the Gryffindor at the stove. Harry felt a small thrill of relief wash over him. This was odd, of course; he shouldn't care what Snape thought about anything, but somehow he did. He found himself really wanting Snape to like his stew, even though he had never cared before about how his cooking was received. The nearest he'd ever gotten was his relatives, and his hope for favor had more to do with avoiding punishment than anything else. There was no threat of being beaten here, but he still really actually wanted Snape to appreciate the effort that had gone into the meal.

Dishing out two bowls of the stew, Harry carried his hard work to the table. He set one bowl near the Potions Master's elbow, and sat down across the table with the other. He waited on the edge of nervousness as Snape closed his book and turned in his chair. Slowly, as if moving through water, Harry watched as Snape took up a spoonful of the steaming dish, blew on it serenely, and tasted it. Harry waited in an agony of impatience as the man appeared to savor the stew curiously.

"It is…adequate," Snape said at last.

Harry felt his face fall into a moue of disappointment. Adequate? The hell kind of assessment was that?! Scowling, Harry lowered his eyes to his own food and began to eat only out of habit. His appetite was gone entirely, and he hated himself for ever hoping. He hated himself for expecting more from the former Death Eater. Of course Snape wasn't going to actually compliment him. He could have fed the man the mythical Ambrosia of the Gods and the man would have found it lacking.

"What happened last night?" Harry asked conversationally. "I sort of blacked out after we made the game more interesting."

"Not much," Snape replied coolly. It took a moment for Harry to realize that this was all he would get.

Harry ate in silence, refusing to make any further attempts at conversation. As he scraped up the dregs in his bowl, he felt a monstrous urge to sneeze that he found he could not prevent. Leaning into the crook of his elbow, he choked a stiff sneeze, followed by a heavy coughing fit that left his throat burning. When he looked back up, Snape was staring at him stoically.

"Potter…are you alright?"

If Harry didn't know better, he'd have almost said Snape sounded concerned. He did know better, however, and he merely shrugged, returning his gaze to his empty bowl, and the task of gathering what little remained at the bottom. He started horribly when fingers like ice pressed against his neck, and glared up at the Potions Master. Damn, the man was silent as the grave.

"You look pale, and you're a little warm. I want you to take some Pepper-Up before you go to bed, and I want you to turn in early tonight, no games."

Harry scoffed. "A, you aren't my nurse, and B, I'm fine. Anyone would feel warm compared to those icicles you call fingers, and I'm probably pale because of the dehydration and alcohol poisoning I put myself through. Grateful as I am for the potion you provided, potions can't make everything all better all at once."

Snape scowled. "I am aware of that, Potter, however-"

"If you don't want to lose to me anymore, then just say so," Harry retorted. "Because I'm not sick. I've never been sick in my life."

Snape continued to scowl for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest. "This isn't about games, Potter, it is about your health. However, as you are seventeen, it is your choice. If you insist you are not ill, then I shall bribe you. You wish for our nightly routine to continue as-is. I will only play your silly games if you consent to take a dose of Pepper-Up."

Harry scowled as well. "Fine. But, I'm telling you, I don't get sick."

"Fine," Snape spat. He returned to his side of the table and began to eat again. "Your stew lacks flavor."

Harry scowled and stood angrily. He took his bowl to the sink, just barely resisted the urge to toss it into the metal pan, and went into the living room. Damn that man!

-Break-

Later that night, he and Snape were playing a game called "Go Fish". Harry had yet to actually speak to him, only shrugging his shoulders and dealing the cards when Snape suggested they play. They'd been at it for about an hour, Harry having held up the cards he was seeking in an attempt to remain mute. Then Snape apparently decided to end the silence.

"I…apologize," He said with a grimace.

Harry's head shot up. "What?"

Snape glowered. "It was not my intention to insult your cooking. I had only meant to inform you that there were things you could change."

Harry frowned down at the cards in his hands. "Oh…okay. Thanks, I guess."

Snape gave a stiff nod. "How is your summer homework coming along?"

"It's…okay," Harry answered suspiciously. "I've technically finished, but I'll probably go over it again before the summer's out." He sneezed suddenly into the crook of his elbow. "Damn, that hurt."

Snape did nothing to hide his smirk. "You're catching cold, Potter. Just admit it."

"I told you, I don't get colds. If I were going to get one, it'd've been when I got caught in the rain. Only, I didn't, because I don't get colds," Harry argued. "Do you have any 7's?"

"Go fish, Potter."

Harry picked up a card from the deck and tried and failed not to grin as he laid out his four sevens triumphantly. "You've got rotten luck," He told the man.

Snape grunted. "Have you thought any about what you will do following your graduation?"

Harry shrugged. "Some, but not really. I'm sort of at a loss, to be totally honest. A few brochures and a five minute meeting with my Head of House in Fifth Year do not a conducive career-deciding environment make. I thought I wanted to be an Auror. But I was naïve. I'm not cut out for following orders, or filing paperwork, no matter how 'cool' Ron says being an Auror is. Tonks tried to sell me on it, too, but-" He sneezed again, his eyes watering as he cleared his throat. "But I just don't-" Another sneeze, followed by yet another, and a coughing fit to top it off. "I don't want to chase bad guys, with my neck on the line, for the rest of my life. Dark Wizards…I've got enough nightmares, without seeing the revolting things Dark Wizards can do without hesitation."

"Is there some other career you've considered?" Snape asked. "Fishing for Kings."

Harry shook his head. "Go fish. And, not really. I was so focused on being an Auror; I never left myself time to think of anything besides. I suppose I enjoyed teaching my friends in the DA Fifth Year. And I really enjoyed…never mind."

Snape frowned, pulling a card from the deck. "Enjoyed what, Potter?"

"Do you have any 9's?"

Snape handed over the card he'd just pulled from the deck. "Enjoyed what, Potter?" He repeated.

Harry sighed, which broke off into a deep, harsh cough that didn't seem to want to quit. "Damn, that hurt. I'm going to get some water. Don't look at my cards."

The Gryffindor stood and made for the kitchen, but was stopped by a hand grabbing his wrist. He turned back.

"What did you enjoy, Potter?"

Harry shook his head, scowling and yanking his arm free. "I said 'never mind', so just let it go. I'm not going to have you poking holes in my dreams, no matter how silly even I think them."

Snape scowled, fluttering his hand in dismissal. "Your fever has gotten worse."

Harry shook his head again, ignoring the light-headed swoon this caused. Despite the potion he'd taken this morning, he thought perhaps he was still a little hungover. He went to the kitchen and got himself a glass from the cupboard, going to the sink and filling it with delightfully cold water. A shiver raced up his spine, and he realized he was feeling oddly cramped in nearly every muscle. He closed his eyes to drink, and swooned again, barely grabbing onto the sink to keep his balance. Opening his eyes, he shook his head. That was a mistake, as the room suddenly spun violently. He lurched against the sink, emptying his stomach contents. Snape was at his side in the span of a heart beat as Harry retched. When he could do no more, he hiccupped and slid to his knees. The room wouldn't stop spinning, even with his eyes closed, and he was suddenly very, very cold. Snape followed him onto the floor, and his icy hand was very cool against the burning skin of Harry's brow as he held his head back against his shoulder, swiping gently at his fringe.

Harry frowned up at the man. "Snape…I think I might be sick."

Snape smirked, but Harry only saw it for a moment before a remarkably violent coughing fit took hold. He tried and failed to draw air between coughs, and could see the sparks of light that said he was dangerously low on oxygen. Even so, even when the cough had tapered off, he couldn't force air into his lungs, which had seized horribly. He gulped at the air, looked over his shoulder at his professor, and managed only one word.

"Help…" He wheezed. For the second time in as many days, his world went black.