Never Done

Chapter 14

"Severus."

The man on the bed did not move.

"Severus!" the voice insisted. Snape slept on, and the voice huffed in indignation and discomfort, finally repeating itself in an uncharacteristically concerned and loud voice. "Professor Snape! Wake up! A student needs you!"

Snape rolled over, blinked, and sat up. Bleary-eyed, he looked around, his eyes instinctively going to the portrait hanging on the wall to the left. "Salazar. What is it?"

"There is… a… student… in need of aid."

Snape shook his head, disoriented. "Salazar… it's the middle of the summer. Isn't it? How could there be…" He sat up with a start. Potter. "Where is he?"

"In the sixth year dorm."

"What House, you idiot?"

"There's no need to snap at me, youngster! If you're going to be so snippy –" Salazar could give Snape lessons in snarkiness.

"Which House, damn it?" Snape was already sliding feet into slippers and grabbing a robe to throw over his sleepwear.

"Ours."

Snape paused to frown at him. "What do you mean, he's in ours?"

"I don't know, Professor. How many Houses do we have in common?" the portrait drawled.

Snape shook it off, irritably. "What's wrong with him?"

"From the sound of his caterwauling, I'd hazard he's having a nightmare. Again. Not that I blame him." Slytherin muttered that last sentence, but Snape heard him anyway.

"Accio potion!" he called, flicking his right hand toward his bathroom. A vial slapped into his palm as he left his room, strode swiftly toward the door to his quarters, and took off toward the Slytherin dorm at a run, something he would never admit to, were he ever asked.

He was slowed down by a strange thickening of the air in the corridor, halfway between his rooms and the entrance to the Slytherin common room. He cursed and fought his way through it, trying to feel for the magical signature of the witch or wizard, or the identity of the spell used to set the trap. Just as he broke through and turned back to investigate further, something silver flashed past his shoulder and clattered against the opposite wall, falling to the floor. He flinched and reached for his wand, growling in frustration at coming up empty-handed again.

"What the - ? Potter!" Damn the boy! It was clear Potter had set a trap to attack anyone venturing into Slytherin territory. Though… I can hardly blame him…

There have been… threats…

He took two steps toward the wall and bent to look at the thing – a boline, though better than student-quality. He frowned. Had he not turned, it would have impaled itself into his arm, if not between his ribs. He held a hand over it, testing passively for hexes or curses, but it felt clean. He poked it tentatively, and, feeling nothing untoward, cautiously picked it up, automatically testing its balance and sharpness. A fine tool, one he'd be proud to own. He wondered what the boy was doing with it, why he'd risked this obviously valuable item to protect himself with.

He shook off his momentary anger and the cold shiver that worked its way under his robes at the thought of Potter being attacked here, at school, where he should be safe, and turned back down the corridor. He'd have to help the boy… man… Potter… set traps that were effective but would not impale the stray professor… or Filch… though that thought made Snape's lips twitch as he reached the door to the common room. He tucked the boline into his belt, took a breath, thought no more than a moment, and said, "Half-Blood Prince," placing his hand on the door. It gave way. He shook his head as he entered and turned toward the left, and the boys' dorms, Potter's yells and moans directing him.

The second door on the right housed the sixth years, and he opened it hastily but carefully, not wanting to startle the boy. Potter was thrashing and writhing on his bed, cursing and crying and calling out, "No! No! You can't! Please! Please! Please!" he called a third time, sobbing.

Snape reached his side and observed him a moment, trying to assess the best way to intervene. The boy was drenched in sweat, his face so contorted in pain or grief or whatever had him in its grips that the tendons on his neck stood out starkly, even in the dim light from the fire. Potter gave an anguished sob that tore right through Snape's calm demeanor, and before he knew it, he had knelt at the bedside, reaching out an arm to place over Potter's shoulders.

"Potter. Potter! It's alright. It's over. You're alright. Potter!" The boy's thrashing and moaning continued. Snape raised his voice. "Potter – stop this this instant!" No effect. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for your foolish emotionality, Potter, and if you don't stop this instant, it'll be fifty more!" he said loudly.

The boy moaned, but his yelling ceased, and he grabbed at the sheets as if attempting to control himself. Snape shook his head, amazed at the boy's control, even in his sleep. "Wake up, Potter," he said quietly but firmly. "You're having a dream. It's just a dream. Wake up. Come on, boy!" He held onto Potter's shoulders with one arm, shaking him slightly, his other hand working its way into the nearer of Potter's fists, trying to get him to let go of the sheets.

With a cry, the boy startled awake, looking about himself, wild-eyed, a final moan escaping before he clamped his lips shut, and his eyes onto Snape's face. A sighing sob shook him, and he gripped Snape's hand without awareness.

"Oh, gods!" Potter said. His grip was painful on Snape's hand and wrist, desperate and shaky. "I thought you were dead! Oh, gods! I thought you were dead!" His sob turned to frank tears, which he tried to stifle by holding his breath and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Potter! Look at me! Open your eyes! Shake the image! Look at me!" Snape ordered again. He tried to loose his hand from Potter's desperate grip, but the boy would not let go. He moved his hand from Potter's shoulders to his face, intending to force the boy's head up, and his eyes open, but Potter turned his face into Snape's palm, rubbing against it, as if seeking reassurance that Snape was real, and not some figment of his imagination.

Snape's breath caught in his throat, and he determinedly swallowed against the lump that formed there, his hand – automatically, it seemed – caressing Potter's cheek, wiping away his tears. It did not seem to help. If anything, the boy's tears increased, though he seemed to be quieting down. Sighing, Snape got off his knees with difficulty and nudged Potter's knees. The boy moved them enough for Snape to sit on the bed at his side, and then curled himself toward Snape, ending up with his head on one of Snape's knees. Snape hesitated, then patted the boy's back awkwardly, wishing for the life of him that the boy would stop his useless tears. It made Snape's head hurt and his chest ache, but he denied that he felt a bit like crying, himself.

After a while, the boy's tears turned to sniffles and then silence, but he did not move from where he had placed his head. Snape realized he had been rubbing the Potter's back, running his hand up and down the thin muscles, feeling the bones of the boy's spine, as if he were malnourished. He frowned and shook his head, paying more attention to what he was feeling. Did the boy not eat? How could Minerva allow this? The boy felt half-starved, his ribs palpable under his t-shirt and thin muscles. His jaw clenched. Was no one taking care of the boy, after all he'd been through? Minerva and Poppy apparently saw him daily, for the love of Godric Gryffindor!

His other hand was still held in Potter's, though the boy had relaxed his hold. Snape was suddenly acutely aware that he was sitting on a bed, with an 18 year old male rubbing his face into his leg. He stiffened slightly, apparently enough for Potter to feel. The boy pulled abruptly back, landing against the bare mattress, his head bouncing slightly. Snape winced, picturing the boy's brain sloshing around in his skull, no doubt re-injuring him. He's going to have a headache.

Potter pulled his hand out of Snape's grasp and turned his head away. Snape could see the slight blush on the boy's face only because it was such a contrast to his generally pale visage. There was an awkward silence.

"What are you doing here?" Potter asked quietly, distantly.

Snape frowned at his tone. "I was sent," he said curtly. "If you object, I shall report to the individual who sent me that he needn't interrupt my sleep to –"

"No! I mean… Sorry. I…"

Potter rolled to sit up, one arm brushing against Snape's. He pulled his knees up, brushing against Snape again as he did so. Snape held himself still, barely breathing, though why his breath should hitch at the slight contact, he did not know. Potter hugged his knees, his head down, and talked into them.

"I'm sorry… whoever it was woke you." He paused and looked up. "It was Salazar, wasn't it?" Snape didn't bother answering. Potter sighed and rubbed at his forehead.

"Does that hurt?"

"What? Oh – the scar. No. I just… I have a headache."

"I have observed that headaches often follow prolonged…"

The boy cut him off with a wave of his hand, apparently embarrassed. "Sorry," he said again. "I…"

I'll set a Muffliato… I'll tell Salazar not to wake you… I'll cry more quietly… Snape could see it on Potter's face, read it in his eyes. He didn't have to say anything.

Snape pulled the vial from the pocket of his robe. "You shouldn't be here alone," he said matter-of-factly as he worked the cork loose. "You need to be with people… have things to do other than sitting around contemplating your navel… be distracted from… from your… your memories."

"What do you care?" the boy accused bitterly, but quietly. He sounded hopeless… lost.

Snape closed his eyes against the surge of guilt and remorse in his chest. "I care, you bloody twit, because…" Because you are alone… because you've been taking care of everyone but yourself… because no one should have to go through what you went through, let alone with so little support… let alone at your age… Because you… cared enough about me… to stay… to take care of me… to think ahead about what I needed…

"I care because you are… my student," he finished somewhat lamely. The boy flashed him a look he could not decipher.

"I haven't been your student – anyone's student – in over a year, Se… sir."

Potter met his eyes then, and Snape shook his head at what he saw there. The boy's eyes looked… ancient… as old as Snape sometimes felt. He reached out and patted the… man's… knee. "You should get some sleep."

Potter shuddered. "I… I think I want to get up."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Even without a Tempus, I can tell it's the middle of the night, Potter. You're exhausted… and you've just had a nightmare that…" He shifted back toward the edge of the bed, "has left your mattress and blanket soaked and cold…" He looked at the bedside table, glanced at Potter, who watched him with a steady gaze, picked up the boy's wand, and waved a drying spell over the boy and his bedding, such as it was. He held the vial up in front of the boy's eyes, moving it back and forth so that the liquid inside was visible in the faint firelight. "Dreamless Sleep," he said by way of explanation. Potter shook his head. "I insist, Potter. Both of us need our sleep. And…" he sighed, "in the morning… we should talk."

Potter hesitated, but finally nodded, and held out his hand. He drained the vial, and handed it back to Snape, who corked it and stood. As he went to turn away, Potter made a move as if to reach for him, and he aborted his move, shifting to look around the room, waving the wand still in his hand to summon a hard desk chair. Setting it at the end of Potter's bed, he turned back to the boy.

"I may as well read a while, as you've woken me completely up," he observed. He tried for admonishment in tone, but it came out amused and worried. Potter's eyes widened, then he snorted and shook his head, lay down, and pulled his meager blanket over himself. Before Snape had time to blink twice, the boy was asleep. Snape observed him a moment, sighed, and looked around a second time. There were few things in the room, other than bed frames, desk chairs, and bookcases. A roll of parchment lay abandoned on one desk. He called it over, and transfigured it into a pillow, lifting the boy's head by magic, and tucking the pillow under it. He shook his head again as the boy shivered in his sleep, removed his robe, and tucked it around the sleeping… man… Then he left the room, in search of reading material.

The common room was nearly empty. Salazar Slytherin was back in his frame on the wall over a desk, eyeing Snape silently, as was his wont, unless he had some snide observation to make or Snape asked his input on something. His eyes shifted to the wand in Snape's hand, and Snape twitched it self-consciously, wondering why it fit his hand so well, when it was shorter and thicker than his own. It felt warm. He sighed. He knew what that should mean – that his energy and the boy… man's… Potter's were compatible. But when had they ever worked compatibly?

He pushed that thought away, ignored Slytherin's portrait, and looked about the room. It was virtually empty except for things that should be there over the summer – furniture, primarily, and a few Slytherin artifacts. There were two exceptions – a bit of parchment on the desk under Slytherin's portrait, and a book on the sofa. Dismissing the parchment, he strode to the sofa and picked up the book, raising his eyebrows at the title. Rather esoteric reading, Potter, he thought. Far too advanced for someone of your intellect… Or so he had thought, anyway. What are you up to?

He considered a moment, looking around the common room, aware that he would be more comfortable out here than in the dorm itself, no matter how cozy a chair he transfigured, but, remembering the boy's resistance to wakening mid-nightmare, he took the book back to where Potter lay, quiet now, under the influence of Dreamless Sleep. He flicked Potter's wand at the chair, turning it into something slightly more comfortable, and settled himself to read, wondering what had caught Potter's eye.

He ran his finger down the index, a corner of his mouth twitching in amused interest. I'll have to check this out of the library when he's done with it, he thought. His finger paused at Magical Constructions, itched to turn to Sympathetic Magic, then settled on The Unique Case of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Surely that was what the boy had been reading. He turned to the first page of the chapter, and began to read.

…oooOOOooo…

Potter's restless movements pulled Snape out of his reading. He frowned. The boy should have slept for at least another two hours. He cast a Tempus with the boy's wand. Six-thirty. He watched as the boy continued to move about, slowly coming awake. Potter stretched and frowned, likely discomfited by the thin mattress. He pulled the blanket and Snape's robe up to his neck, rubbing his face into the latter, inhaling deeply. One corner of Snape's mouth twitched upward as Potter's nose flared. Suddenly, the boy started, gave a wordless cry, and jerked fully awake, his eyes opening in near panic, meeting Snape's amused gaze. The boy looked down at Snape's robe, shoved it down and off of himself, then grabbed it back up to pull around his waist, when he remembered he was in his underthings. Snape pushed down his amusement with difficulty.

"Awake, are you? A bit early, don't you think? Very well, then. Take your bath – yes, a bath, Potter! You were covered in sweat last night! Then dress and meet me… in my quarters. You have half of an hour. Don't be late."

Without giving the boy time to object or reply, Snape stood, placed the book on the nightstand with Potter's wand atop it, turned, and swept from the room. Salazar's gaze followed him to the door.

The thickened spot in the corridor caught at him again, reminding him of the boline at his waist, but he pushed through easily enough, muttered the password at his door, lips twitching again, and set about readying himself for the day. Twenty-three minutes later, he left his bedroom and stopped short. Potter was standing uncertainly just inside his door. They stared at each other, and to Snape's satisfaction, Potter pulled his eyes away first, gesturing toward the door. "I… it… it opened when I got here. I thought you…" He faded to a halt, glancing back at Snape.

Snape chose to say nothing, just let the boy assume what he would… Why had the ward not kept the boy out, though? I'll have to change the password. He maintained a silence as he stepped toward the boy, who flinched slightly and pulled back. He reached past him to snag his robe from a hook by the door, smirking at the relieved look on Potter's face, though it was followed swiftly by something else that he could not decipher. He threw his robe over his shoulders, keeping a curious eye on the boy, and noting again the changes in the boy since he had last had time to study him, better than a year past.

He was just a hair taller, no more, and pathetically thin, as if food had been scarce while he and his friends had been on the run – which it likely had been. He looked… stronger, nonetheless, as if he had been honed to razor sharpness. His cheekbones were more prominent, his jaw stronger, as if he'd built muscle by clenching his jaw repeatedly. His eyes were… exhausted… and perhaps grief-stricken, though that could have been Snape's imagination. His hands were stronger, scarred… no longer a boy's hands, but the hands of a man who had seen hard labor. His shoulders were stooped in… pain, or grief, or tiredness.

Snape's heart clenched. No eighteen year-old should look thus… as if he'd borne the weight of the world on his shoulders and was world-weary. But… that's exactly what Potter had done – at least since he'd turned eleven. Something sad and tearful tried to worm its way out of Snape's chest, but he fought against it and beat it down. Now was not the time.

"Come," he said, and his voice was… nearly kind. "Breakfast – in the Great Hall, or Minerva will, no doubt, come and scold us. Better not give her a reason." He smiled slightly, and Potter looked as if he nearly would come to tears at that. Snape turned away – for both their sakes.

…oooOOOooo…

They entered the Great Hall in step, having made their way through the tunnel from the dungeons, up the stairs, and across the main hall without talking. Snape pondered the things he needed to ask about, the things that demanded to be said, but that he could not wrap his mind around saying. He made a mental list, wincing inwardly on some of the items. After breakfast, he thought. After meeting with Shacklebolt… after I get my wand back. It was defensive, he knew, but he had no intention of doing a damned thing more, without his wand in hand.

Shacklebolt had already arrived, he was glad to see. He was seated next to McGonagall, listening to something Flitwick was saying, across the table from him, and nodding. McGonagall noticed them walk in, her eyes flicking from him to Potter and back. She nodded reassuringly. Snape sat next to Flitwick, seeing as the man charmed a portion of the bench into a chair for him again, without even looking. Why don't they just leave it that way? Potter took up his usual seat at Snape's right, caught Shacklebolt's eye, and said, "Good morning, Minister."

"Mr. Potter," Shacklebolt said, "Finally ready to leave Hogwarts, then?" His eyes shifted to Snape's, and he nodded in greeting.

Snape hesitated before nodding back. "Minister."

"We've known each other too long for that, Severus. 'Kingsley' will do as well now as it ever did – unless we're at some Ministry function."

It couldn't be too bad, then, if he's allowing first names.

Snape did not miss that Potter had not answered Shacklebolt's question. He shot the boy an enquiring look out of the corner of his eye. Potter pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. Snape considered him a moment, nodded minutely, and caught the boy's relief before he turned back to the table. He dished himself up some breakfast, catching Minerva just before she did so, forbidding it with a glare. She smiled slightly, and pulled her hand away from the dish she was about to serve him from. He turned to look at Potter, who was sitting with his hands clasped in his lap, narrowed his eyes at the boy, and dished him equal servings of everything he served himself – and twice the rashers of bacon. While the boy did not stop him, nor did he even pretend to eat.

Snape leaned slightly in Potter's direction, waited until Shacklebolt was engaged in responding to Flitwick again, and murmured, "You will eat, Potter, or I shall take it out in points from Gryffindor, with or without your presence!" The boy huffed and glared at him, but sat up straighter in his chair, and began to half-heartedly shovel food into his mouth.

Breakfast passed in deceptively casual conversation that Snape was uncomfortably aware was a test of sorts. Shacklebolt was assessing his readiness to have his wand returned, and Snape irritably concluded that the Minister had somehow formed the impression that Snape was emotionally unbalanced. He'd have sworn at the man's constant probing, were it not for his fear that it would prove the suspicion right, and cause a delay in the return of his damned wand! As it was, he constantly bit his tongue, afraid to make even his usual biting remarks. Finally, Minerva stood, and said, "If you gentlemen would join me in my office…" Her nod included Snape, Shacklebolt, and, for some reason, Potter, who immediately put down his serviette and stood, waiting for Snape to do so as well.

Shacklebolt contrived to walk next to Snape on the way to Minerva's office; Potter nearly trod on his heels, trying to listen in on their discussion. Snape was tempted to cast a wandless hex at the boy, but refrained. Shacklebolt commented on the state of repairs as they walked. "The castle was badly damaged in the battle."

"So it seems. Not unexpected," Snape replied.

"Voldemort spared no effort to get at Potter."

Potter choked behind them. Snape pretended to take no notice. "As he would have." He hesitated. "He was a desperate man, in the end."

"Fortunately for us, he was just a man."

Snape nodded silently.

"Were it not for Potter, I doubt any of us would have survived – unless we'd gone over to his side."

"Ah yes - Potter, The Chosen One," Snape sneered before he caught himself. He closed his eyes momentarily. Bloody fool! Attack their hero, and you'll be lucky not to see the inside of Azkaban – permanently! There was a huff and a muffled laugh from behind him. Unexpectedly, Shacklebolt, next to him, relaxed, and Snape realized just how on guard the man had been.

Shacklebolt changed subjects, and the rest of the walk to McGonagall's quarters was spent on updates on what was happening elsewhere in the wizarding world, including the search for errant Death Eaters and Snatchers.

"I can help you, there, perhaps. Who is still unaccounted for?"

"As we don't have a full list, we're not completely sure. Might you…?"

"Of course, Minister. When would you like me to appear?"

"No need for anything formal, Severus. We can go over it at your convenience, though sooner is better, of course. They've already had too long to go to ground."

"Of course, Minister."

"Kingsley."

Snape nodded.

The group reached the gargoyles guarding McGonagall's office, and Snape irritably recalled that he had no passwords for those places he commonly accessed. "Tartan Pumpernickel," Minerva said, without pausing in her stride. The gargoyles leapt aside with a crunch, returning to their posts as soon as the four of them stepped onto the spiral stair.

Arriving in the Headmistress' office, Shacklebolt looked at McGonagall, who nodded. He seated himself behind her desk. McGonagall stood at his side and gestured. "Take a seat, gentlemen," she said to him and Potter. Potter shot him a confused look. Snape looked back coolly and seated himself in the wingback chair in front of the desk, propped his elbows on the arms, and tented his fingers in front of his chest, his usual calming pose. Potter took up the other chair, and kept looking at Snape nervously, for some reason.

"How are you feeling, Severus?" Shacklebolt asked.

"I'm fine. How are you, Minister?" he drawled.

"Kingsley. And I'm fine." The ghost of a smile crossed Kingsley's face. "But I'm not the one whose been comatose for the past three months… with snake venom coursing through my veins."

Ah. "I assure you – Kingsley – that I am quite fine."

"Pomfrey tells us you are likely to have some problems with…"

"I'm quite aware that I am expected to have some temporary lingering effects of the venom, but I assure you, I am quite capable… quite capable… of managing them."

Kingsley withdrew a box from the inner pocket of his robe, opened it, and flipped back the velvet covering. Snape did not need to look to know what the box contained. Kingsley plucked the long, ebony wand from its nest, held it by the tip and end, and spun it idly in his hands. He looked at Potter, who looked back at him blankly. Then the boy's face changed as, apparently, the other shoe dropped, and he hesitantly looked at Snape. Snape knew he was thinking about Snape throwing him out of his quarters… dragging him from the library. Would the boy scuttle his chances of regaining his wand? He met Potter's gaze calmly. He'd earned a delay, he knew, and wrestled with himself to accept that inevitable outcome. But Potter's face changed again, to something indecipherable, and he turned to the Minister.

"Professor Snape has been… supportive. He helped me with a nightmare last night. I… appreciated it."

Kingsley nodded, and Minerva smiled slightly. He looked at Potter a moment, then turned back to Snape. "Arthur and Molly wanted me to pass on an invitation to dinner tonight," he said, watching Snape closely.

Weasley…

He was flying, the broom beneath him not nearly fast enough for his need. Desperation had him pulling on it harder than necessary, harder than useful. He could lose everything in the next few minutes. The wizarding world hung on his ability to help Potter escape the trap that his information had helped the Dark Lord set for the boy, so close to his seventeenth birthday. Potter would die if Snape failed… and he, Snape, may well die if he succeeded in diverting the efforts of the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself… if he were discovered…

Two persons – Lupin and one of the decoys – he could tell by the way the person sat their broom that it was not Potter – rose up through the circle of Death Eaters surrounding the general location in Little Whinging in which the Dursley household was known to be located. A Death Eater to Snape's left gave chase, Voldemort flicked a hand in command, and Snape followed, reluctantly. If only he could tell which was the real Potter…

At least I can save this one… get back to the others, he thought. The Death Eater flung curse after curse at the fleeing pair, who dodged and flung back curses with varying shades of expertise. The decoy was not as experienced as Lupin, of course. A stinging hex hit the hand with which the Death Eater clung to his broom, and he cursed loudly. He drew his arm back in a familiar move, and Snape knew he was readying the Avada Kedavra. Terror drove him, and he raised his own arm, aiming at the Death Eater's back. Sectumsempra! he shouted, but the Death Eater swerved just at the wrong moment, and the curse passed him up, hitting the decoy. NO!

He'd thought he'd killed the witch or wizard… blood had spurted from… somewhere… he'd thought it a direct hit, and, as he was the only one who knew the countercurse, the decoy was doomed. NO! he yelled again, grief and rage filling him. The Death Eater looked back at him in angry confusion. What the hell, Severus? he called. He belongs to the Dark Lord! Snape said, thinking quickly. Or did you not understand our master's orders? Perhaps you would like to report that I prevented you from killing the boy in his stead? He sneered in what he hoped was a convincing matter. No. No, you're right, of course, Severus. Thank you. We… we need not mention this… right?

He'd found out later that the decoy had been George Weasley… and that he'd lived, but lost an ear… and a lot of blood. The Weasleys had one more reason – as if they didn't have enough already – to hate him.

Snape pulled out of recollection with difficulty, to find the others all looking at him with varying degrees of concern, his hands clenched so tightly on the arms of the chair that his wrists ached and his fingers were white. Potter's hand was half raised toward him, and McGonagall looked sympathetic. Kingsley's look was… unconcerned… professional… dispassionate – until Snape looked in his eyes and saw the warm concern and support there.

Snape cleared his throat. "Please tender my regrets, Minister. I'm afraid I have other plans for the night."

Kingsley turned to Potter. "The invitation was for both of you."

Potter paled and opened his mouth several times, looking rather like a fish, Snape thought irrelevantly. He shrank in on himself, his face went blank, and his eyes darkened. "I… I c…ca… I can't," he stuttered.

"This is not an option, Potter. I'm afraid I must insist," Kingsley said. "George Weasley would like to speak with the both of you, and…"

Snape frowned at him angrily. Why on earth… Can't he see the boy is not able? He turned back to Potter, who, if anything, had turned even whiter.

"No. I can't. You don't understand, I can't…" the boy said, panic in his voice. He raised his hands in a warding-off gesture, defending himself against some attack. "I can't. Please… please don't make me…"

If he could have, Snape was sure the boy would have backed right through the stuffing of the chair in his attempt to get away. As it was, Potter pushed himself jerkily to his feet and began heading toward the door, as if escaping the fires of hell. McGonagall murmured a word, and the door refused to budge when he reached it. He jerked at the handle, and turned toward, not McGonagall, but Snape.

"Please," he said. "Please… I can't…" Tears were coursing down his face, and he was shaking.

"What the hell, Kingsley?" Snape snarled at the man, throwing him an angry look. It would cost him his wand, for the moment, he knew, but this was… unconscionable. Didn't they see that Potter was distressed? The grief and pain and guilt was as plain as… as the nose on Snape's face. Without really intending to, he strode to Potter's side.

The boy clutched at his arms, looking at him pleadingly, heartbreak, fear, grief and sadness evident in every inch of his being. "Please," he sobbed out again, grasping at Snape in his need.

Snape put a supporting hand on the boy's shoulder, and Potter turned into him, burying himself against Snape's chest. He was shaking – his entire body was shaking, not just with sobs, but in fear. Snape pushed anger aside and grabbed onto the boy before he could collapse, wrapped his arms around him to steady and reassure him, and held him tightly.

"Damn it, Kingsley!" he said angrily, and then modulated his tone. "It's alright, Potter." He was going to lose his wand for this, he just knew it. "It's alright. I won't let them. You don't have to do this alone. I'll… I'll come with you. Shh… shh… it will be alright. I'll protect you." He was unaware of the tears streaming down his face as he held the boy, swaying back and forth, rocking him slightly in his arms. Dear god, hasn't he been through enough? He kissed the top of the boy's head without even knowing he did so, and held onto the sobbing boy until that resolved into sniffles. The boy stiffened slightly in his arms. He tightened his arms once in reassurance, and then let the boy go, pushing him slightly away, saying, "You'll owe me some clean laundry, Potter. I expect you to take care of it this evening."

Potter hiccuped and rubbed at his face. When he went to turn away, Snape took one of his arms and turned the boy back to him. "There's nothing wrong with tears of grief, Mr. Potter. Only a fool would deny them." He held onto the boy until he met his eyes and nodded. "As I said, I… will accompany you to the Weasleys… Perhaps we can get through this… together."

After a moment, Potter nodded, and his eyes filled again, overflowing, tears running down his face.

"Calm yourself, Potter, or do you require a potion?"

The boy shook his head.

"Very well."

He turned them back toward McGonagall's desk, fully expecting to see disapproval and denial.

"The hexes and jinxes in the dungeons, Severus?" McGonagall said calmly, though approval shone in her eyes. "You'll need your wand."

Shacklebolt held the wand out toward him, hilt first. Snape took one look at Potter, who was still trying to master himself, strode back to the desk and glared at Shacklebolt. "Bastard," he said.

Shacklebolt nodded. "The invitation stands, Severus. Tonight. However…" and McGonagall interrupted.

"There is no shame in feeling, Severus. It's only your ability to respond appropriately that was in question. I'd say…" and here she looked at Potter, "that your reaction was entirely appropriate, wouldn't you, Minister?"

"I agree," Shacklebolt said simply, still holding the wand out toward Snape.

He took it, feeling immediately grounded, immediately more himself, somehow, as if some essential part of his being had been returned to him. He glared at Shacklebolt and then McGonagall. "If you ever use Potter to get to me again, I'll hex you both into oblivion. Is that understood?"

Minerva nodded, amusement and regret in her eyes, and Shacklebolt said, "Understood." He nodded at Harry – Snape did not even realize he'd thought of the boy using his first name – and said, "My apologies, Mr. Potter. The invitation was real, and I thought it might help us assess if Severus was ready… However, I assure you, I will never resort to such tactics again."

Potter said nothing. Snape did not blame him. "Come, Potter," he said. "We have work to do."