The next day, Pomfrey released him with a veiled order to quit Quidditch before he got himself killed. Harry caught himself actually considering the command. It seemed like Quidditch only ever landed him in the hospital, and he was no longer sure that he wanted anything to do with the game. This time he'd walked away with a concussion and a broken arm, but what about next time? The legacy of a father he was no longer proud of, and the pride of a House he would soon be leaving forever, didn't seem like reason enough to bring his life to a messy end over. Accidents were commonplace in Quidditch, and his recklessness on a broom could very well bring the timeline of his life to a quick and sudden stop. It wasn't even a matter of becoming more careful, because this most recent accident had in no way been his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault, it was just a fact of the game, and Harry felt real fear when he thought about that. Luckily, he had all of Christmas to come up with a decision.

The Wizarding Savior did not mention his sudden crisis of identity to his friends. He discovered, when he thought about talking to them, that some decisions you just had to make on your own. And they wouldn't say anything he hadn't thought of already.

Neville, who was quickly establishing himself as a much different person than everyone saw him as, demanded Harry quit as soon as he appeared at lunch the next day, following his hesitant release from the Infirmary. Harry, who did not pander to anyone about his personal choices, flat-out refused. It wasn't Neville's decision to make, and Harry didn't care how much he cried, whined, and pleaded, he wouldn't let him make it. Hermione also aired her complaints about what she saw as a 'barbaric ego-trip', and sided with Neville. Harry spent his first day free of the Infirmary not speaking to either of them, and avoiding Dean and Seamus who wanted to relive the nightmare as if it were a brand of honor. Ginny, bless her, was blessedly silent on the matter, only commenting that she was glad he was 'okay'.

When Harry met with Snape on the steps of the castle the morning after his release, he waited with bated breath for the man to say something, either of the accident or in regards to his recovery. He knew it was coming. The tension coming off the man was palpable, and black eyes refused to meet his. They reached the tree by the lake that Harry and his friends had laid claim to over the years before that deep baritone finally broke the silence. The gilded edge of concern in his tone warmed Harry in the frigid morning air.

"I am…pleased, that you have recovered from your accident so quickly. I was concerned."

Harry, who had expected this, tried to laugh off the dagger point of fear that touched his heart as he remembered the bludger racing towards him.

"I'm flattered," He chuckled, his breath ghosting in front of him. "I've survived worse, though."

The Gryffindor started when a shockingly warm, dry hand grabbed his and pulled him to a stop. He turned in confusion as calloused fingers curled around his hand. He knew this grasp, had felt it often in his adventures. It was a grasp of reassurance, something grounded that declared everything as being right with the world. He stared up into the coal gaze.

"I am being serious," Snape said sharply, narrowing his eyes the slightest bit and furrowing his brow. "I didn't- No one knew what had happened to you, when you fell to the pitch. For all anyone knew, that stray bludger had caved in your skull, or the fall had broken your neck. I am not accustomed to fearing for another's safety, and I do not appreciate that you forced me into such a role."

Harry frowned, knowing he was just short of scowling. "You're not going to tell me that you also expect me to quit one of the few things I'm good at, are you?"

"I wouldn't, even if I thought it would matter," Snape answered, his tone softening. "I believe Quidditch to be a dangerous and useless pastime, but I am aware of your affinity for the game. I would never ask you to desert something which brought you real pleasure, no matter how barbaric it may seem to me."

Harry smiled appreciatively. "You do realize that you often referee that dangerous and useless pastime?"

Snape smirked. "Yes, but only in an attempt to prevent incidents like what happened. I thought my heart would freeze in my chest when you slipped from your broom. When it became clear you weren't moving, even after the Headmaster's attempts to soften your fall, I worried the very same organ might leap free of my chest, instead."

This was the closest Snape had ever come to addressing the strange shift in their dynamic from enemies to…'not'. Harry was so warmed by the sentiment that he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. He knew, objectively, that Hermione and Neville, at least, if not half of the assembled students and professors, had probably felt similarly during the game two days ago. Somehow, though, it meant more for this man, who guarded his emotions almost jealously, to say such things. He squeezed the hand still clasped in his reassuringly.

"Thank you," He murmured.

Snape looked at him sharply, as if expecting to find he was being teased. Harry let his sincerity show in the blush that refused to recede, and the shimmering light in his green eyes.

"I mean it," The Gryffindor continued. "It means a lot to me, that you care so much. And it means more that you aren't using your concern as an excuse to try and make me do something I don't want to do."

"It-it is a triviality," Snape replied softly.

It was no such thing, but Harry didn't see any sense in pointing out what they both already knew. They resumed their walk of silence. After a bit, Harry realized that their hands were still clasped. His first thought was that it felt kind of nice. Their hands fit perfectly into the contours of one another's grasp, and the touch was surprisingly warm without the dripping sweat he'd begun to associate with the contact. In the very next moment, guilt, like a sliver of ice, touched his heart, as he thought of his boyfriend lying asleep miles above them in Gryffindor Tower. As the sliver of ice nestled firmly into the rapidly beating muscle in his chest, Harry made the decision not to pull away. It wasn't as if he were cheating on his boyfriend, anyway. It was just…contact; something to ground him in the moment. A small thing, really.

-Break-

The next day, when Harry joined Snape again for their morning walk, his heart fluttered in his chest. It was one of those odd occasions where he asked the Slytherin questions about his work, if only to hear him speak. When the older wizard began to wax at length about an experiment he'd been working with, Harry noticed with trepidation that they were walking closer together than they ever had, and that their hands kept brushing as a result. Did he dare?

With no real thought to the action, the next time their fingers brushed he turned his palm to curl into the slightly larger hand of his companion. Long, potion-stained fingers wrapped firmly around his own in response. Neither openly acknowledged their joined hands, and Snape's speech never faltered. It simply was, and Harry ignored a brand new sliver of ice in his chest. It was, after all, such a small thing.