May 2nd, 1999.

'Everything seems to be in order,' the healer stated cheerily, as if this was a thing to rejoice over. As if Severus had not just given her a long list of symptoms she had failed to adequately diagnose.

As she noted his displeasure, she lost some steam. She was experienced enough not to quiver under the glare of an obstinate patient; clearly whatever she was about to say, he wouldn't like.

'Well?' he pressed. His appointment had been delayed by half an hour, which meant he'd already been away from home longer than he'd intended, and it was making him swallow bile.

'It isn't impossible that you should periodically experience some weakness or discomfort,' her wand tapped against his file. The sound was unbelievably grating. 'But I see no physical reason for violent tremors, headaches or breathing difficulties. I would ideally refer you to a Mind Healer for further treatment.'

'Your diagnosis is that it is all in my head,' he said with acid. His heart thundered. He couldn't decide whether to be relieved or embarrassed.

'That is hardly what I said. But yes, I do think that the mild symptoms you may be experiencing due to lingering nerve damage are triggering more serious psychosomatic—'

He waved her off. He used big words to express small ideas often enough to tell bullshit when he heard it.

She smiled. 'You've come in worried that your condition is deteriorating. This is good news.'

'I am overjoyed.'

Severus slunk down the examination bed and righted his coats. He'd dressed in wizarding clothes for the first time in months, desperate for any added layer to shield him from the misery of St. Mungo's, and they chafed when he walked, ill-fitting and awkward. The moment he got back, he was putting them through the wash and dumping them back into the corner of the closet, to best contain the stench of death.

It permeated the room, that smell, even though he was fairly confident no one had ever died in it. All in his head.

What would he tell Potter? They needed at least one mentally stable person in the house. Severus had lived with his trauma long enough to accept his fate, but the boy took everything entirely too seriously.

The healer scribbled something on a piece of parchment, then slid it across the table. 'The referral,' she said, with a laugh in her voice. 'There is no expiration date. Use it whenever you're ready.'

Severus planned on dying before that happened, but he pocketed the slip to humour her.

She had busied herself with note-taking when he opened the door to leave, and thus gave him no easy opening for that one last query: he'd meant to mention it, then he had decided against it, and now that she'd deemed him short of a marble, she would necessarily assume he was relating a new symptom of his own even if he told her he was asking for someone else. He dallied by the door in shameful awkwardness, and once he'd accepted that the question wouldn't leave his throat, the 'good day' came out garbled and awful.

This was likely beyond her field of expertise. He should have bloody asked anyway. But he was still raw from her words, and too much fear rested on the issue, and he knew perfectly well most of it was unfounded, and—Damn Potter and damn his Apparition test. Clearly, Severus was already going insane without having to worry over the boy's mental health affecting his magic.

He stalked down the corridor, wanting to go home and knowing he wasn't ready to go home. At the stairway, he stopped and leaned on the railing to catch the breath rushed out of him, the lingering realisations a burn on his skin. Wizards and witches grumbled their way past him, bleeding and oozing and impatient. What should he tell Potter when he inevitably stuck his nose into his business? The truth? After all, this was certainly better news than that his nervous system was traipsing toward total failure.

He tried to imagine telling him. He'd never been much of a fantasist; it was entirely beyond him.

When he saw Draco Malfoy pressing his way through the flood of discontent, he thought at first he'd imagined him, too, but then their eyes met. Severus didn't need to reach far to see the weariness beneath the surprise; there was little in the boy's mind except. Either he'd grown so apathetic as to forget what threat looked like, or he truly had a legitimate reason to be here.

'Draco,' he said, torn between interpretations.

'Severus,' Draco said coldly.

There was option three, he supposed: some childish naiveté might have taken hold and driven him to believe their old acquaintance would shield him from scrutiny. It would have been disappointing if true; for whatever awards he might have received, Severus's standing with the Ministry was not one to allow collusion with a Malfoy.

'And what might you be doing here?' he asked.

The boy's smile was canted. Perhaps not naiveté, then. 'Don't worry, Severus. My visit is entirely Ministry-sanctioned.'

Severus caught his eye and detected no deception.

'Do you mind?' He looked away sharply. Severus felt no remorse. He had to wrestle with the impulse to Leglimise Potter on a daily basis, knowing the brat would kick up a fuss if ever dared it; compared to the row that would have followed such a slip, Draco's displeasure barely registered, and would not stop him from indulging.

'I hope you are doing better now,' he offered instead, pointedly not asking for details; he had no real concern for Draco's privacy, but it was an easy enough front to put up.

Draco huffed, not buying it. Severus should never have expected naiveté.

'I hope you are doing better as well,' he intoned. 'Though with the Chosen One himself as your nurse, I can only imagine the prognosis is stellar.'

Severus swallowed around the feeling and tucked it away for later, though without any real notion of what to do with it. He could no longer use it to fuel any anger at Potter; the last time he'd been angry with him, the idiot regressed far enough to believe he was going to be starved next, and that was a memory Severus had resolutely added to his nightmare repertoire for the next decade.

'How is Potter?' Draco drawled, enjoying his silence.

'He is well,' Severus lied. 'How is your mother?'

'She is well.' His hair spilled over his forehead as he leaned over the balustrade in a mirror image of Severus; the strands were glued together, like they'd been treated to too many grooming spells and not enough shampoo. 'You've not heard anything about Goyle's father, I imagine.'

Severus cast a quick Muffliato.

'No,' he said, which was the truth. He'd been staying away from the Order gossip mill, trusting he would be approached with any news relating to Potter's safety, and Goyle's name had not come up.

'I suppose if you've not, then that means he's not being an idiot,' Draco sighed. 'I've told Greg about a rumoured sighting on the continent, but Merlin knows that's a lie. He's frantic about the whole thing.'

'It seems the Order has little interest in him at the moment,' Severus said carefully, thinking, 'and he is much too small a fish for the Ministry to pool resources toward a manhunt. As long as he continues to keep a low profile, I would say he is unlikely to be recaptured any time soon.'

Draco nodded. 'I'll tell him you said that. For some reason, he is convinced you would know what you're talking about.'

'You seem to think the same, seeing as you're asking for my counsel.'

'No one else to ask,' he gave him that smile again, a receptacle for some unvoiced fury. 'Greg's swallowed poison he'd stolen from Magical Accidents just the other day. They use it to kill off tissue before amputating. Thank Merlin you've taught him bull in Potions, or he might have known the correct dosage. And so, desperation—' he pointed at his own chest; then, with the utmost theatrics, at Severus's, '—strange bed fellows.'

'I didn't realise he was still in St. Mungo's,' Severus said, though what he thought was, how many poisons left unwarded in the Sandsend laboratory, how many deadly, how many fast-acting, had he been in a good mood this morning?

'They hit him with some nonsense curse combination,' Draco's fingers rapped on the railing. 'He's still not walking right, though at this point—it would be best for everyone if he got his sentence over with. It's a measly three years, but they won't send him until he's well, and he won't get well until they've sent him. As it stands now, I'd venture he's doing this to himself, but I can't very well order him to just stop, can I?'

'I was not aware Mr Goyle and yourself were quite so close.'

'Neither was I,' Draco said, 'until everyone else I was close with was murdered or sent to Azkaban.'

'Potter tells me otherwise.'

'Yes, well, Hermione Granger is many things, but she isn't a Death Eater. She has never been a Death Eater. There exists an area where our experiences will never overlap.'

He cast Severus a look, like maybe despite his bitterness, he hoped for an inkling of connection where each of their experiences diverged from Miss Granger's. Severus found some solace in excavating that little bit of naiveté.

'You are not a Death Eater,' he told him. 'Not in the way I am. You have never been a Death Eater in the ways I have, and I would ask you not to suggest otherwise. I find it offensive, and I am unwilling and unable to offer any understanding that exceeds what your Gryffindor can provide.'

A childish scowl of hurt answered. 'Fine,' he spat. 'Be that way.'

Severus caught the smile before it twitched his lip. 'Good day, Draco.'

He pushed himself off the railing.

'Wait.'

Severus arched an eyebrow, torn between impatience and intrigue: Draco wasn't one to repeat a plea when refused.

A sigh. 'I wondered if you were still trialling that potion.'

'I assume you are referring to the brew that might remove the Dark Mark?'

'Obviously.'

'With no one to trial it on, the branch of research has decayed, though not beyond repair.'

Draco had the decency not to ask why Severus hadn't trialled it on himself, though he threw him a pointed look to that end. 'Well, you may trial it on me if you like. I am free most weekends.'

This time, Severus allowed himself the smile. 'Would the appointment include shouting derogatory comments at Mr Potter and myself, or is that not on the agenda?'

Draco huffed importantly. 'Not at the moment, no.'

'Then you have my interest. Would this Saturday suit?'

Draco thought about it. 'Sunday's better,' he decided. 'Hermione's off being interviewed and then she's visiting with family on Saturday. I assume Potter might like to see her if he is to travel all that way.'

'Mr Potter and I appreciate the consideration.'

'Yes, well, thank you for being so graceful about it,' Draco hissed, blood seeping through some of the paleness around his throat. 'Owl me the details, will you?' he added, then strutted away, stiff-backed and proud. If he was to continue surrounding himself with teenagers, Severus should like to find some that were a tad less demanding.

When he went home, he thudded right past the living room and upstairs, where he stripped and then washed his hands in burning heat for a solid three minutes. The skin on his neck where the healer had touched, he scrubbed raw, until it occurred to him drawing blood would only contribute to his status as a nutcase.

For once, Potter wasn't the first thing to announce its presence when he returned downstairs. It was his wake that drew the eye: the pigsty had been Severus's coffee table just this morning. Now, you could barely make it out from underneath the snotty tissues, used mugs growing mould, plates with cold food and torn scraps of parchment and books covered in cornflakes and breadcrumbs – and the owl, for Christ's sake's, sitting amidst the feast, beak-deep into a half-eaten egg.

A hand appeared from behind the back of the sofa. 'Hi,' it waved.

Severus swallowed around half a dozen comments, all entirely called for. He circled the sofa and eased the flaccid egg white out of the animal's hold. Not for the first time, he considered taking an interest in taxidermy.

Princess Potter peered up from his place atop ten thousand pillows, looking as pathetically miserable as he could manage it, even though it was Severus who'd just returned from a hospital visit for a potentially debilitating condition.

'How was it?' His nose gave a repulsive whistle when he breathed.

'Fine,' Severus said, like a bloody coward. 'Move.'

Potter sat up with an entirely fake wince and shuffled deeper into his pillow nest. He'd caught a rather mild case of the sniffles during his ridiculous dash into a hurricane, and he'd been milking it in a way that cut a little close for comfort to Severus's fondest memories of James Potter. But he hadn't retreated into his room the way he often did when his mood dipped, and Severus had fully expected to spend days coaxing him out after their fight that night. Instead, he'd trotted downstairs the following morning, trailing blankets, announced himself in the throes of consumption, and thrown his dead weight on the sofa. He hadn't moved since.

Severus had to assume this was better, though he had no real frame in which to understand the new pathology.

He shoved the blankets over Potter's knees to best avoid touching them, driven by the sense that he'd carried in some impurity from the ward despite the clothing change. He glared at the mess. 'Do you plan on washing any of those, or are you breeding cockroaches? You'll need to give me your rates if you are.'

'I'm sick. You can't bully me about cleaning when I'm sick.'

'Oh, and how convenient that is for you, this crippling illness of yours.'

'I'm not making it up!'

Severus tensed in surprise. 'Do not yell.'

'I will yell if you come in here and immediately accuse me of, what, pretending to be ill for attention or—something—'

That was precisely what Severus believed was happening, but he recognised saying so would be unhelpful.

'I said no such thing,' he told him instead, 'and I would appreciate it if you didn't put words in my mouth.'

'Don't yell at me!'

'I'm not yelling at you—'

'Yes, you are!'

'You're the only one yelling,' Severus said, which was almost entirely accurate. 'And I'm not accusing you of pretending, though if you were so desperate for attention that you'd fake an illness, then clearly you would have sorely required it. Now, which of those are you still eating?'

With a groan, Potter pushed himself up to reach for the nearest plate. 'No, sit down,' Severus lifted a hand to stop him, then felt awkward about touching him. 'You want to be ill, you're going to stay put.'

'I don't want to be ill!'

'Then stop.'

The boy burrowed his head in his elbow. 'I really do feel ill,' he murmured sulkily.

'Yes, well, if you rest and avoid storms for a few days, you will no longer.' He pulled at the corner of the blanket to cover the bare feet peeking out, because he'd clearly been born with a natural disposition toward being bullied by Potters. 'Would you allow me to put the whole of the feast in the bin, or are you going to pitch a fit about wasting mouldy toast?'

Potter shrugged. 'Just leave it for Artemis to finish.'

The gods must have looked favourably on Severus for not having strangled the boy so far, because he had not thought himself possessed of the strength to say, 'Fine,' and yet he did.

It was silent for an uncomfortable moment. Maybe Severus shouldn't tell him that he'd been making up an illness, too: the boy knew entirely too much about him already. Then again, perhaps honesty would make him more willing to divulge if he experienced another lapse in magic, and if that turned out to be Severus blowing things out of proportion, then at least he might feel better about his general hysteria.

The silence was interrupted by rhythmic crunching. Potter had snatched up the bowl of cornflakes. Severus hated how familiar the sound felt.

'I'm a bit weird about food, I guess,' he said out of the blue. 'Probably because when I lived with the Dursleys, I had to try and sneak out all kinds of leftovers. I had a loose floorboard in my bedroom where I put, like, the yoghurt Dudley didn't want any more or overripe bananas. Never cornflakes, though. You can only do soft foods, because the crunchy ones make too much noise and you might get caught.'

This was all delivered in an entirely conversational tone. Severus tried not to imagine a younger Harry muffling the sounds of chewing in the dead of night. Maybe he shouldn't tell him. After all, one question would lead to the next, and then it would come out that Severus's made-up symptoms had worsened considerably since he'd found out about the abuse, and then the stupid brat would blame himself for his mental collapse.

It had been torture not to talk about it and keep guessing, but he wasn't so sure he preferred this new openness.

'Well.' He cleared his throat. He should touch the boy's shoulder or something. His knee? What was the appropriate touch in the circumstances, how much and how long? He wanted it to feel natural. He didn't want Potter to flinch away or think he was being odd. 'That would explain it.'

He didn't touch him.

'You want some?' the boy angled the bowl toward him, then chuckled as if nothing at all was wrong. The little sadist.

'Get that away from my face. You should have some real food. What do you want for lunch?'

'Uh, fish and chips?'

Severus bit down on a comment about how salt and grease were not conducive to convalescence. Potter wasn't actually ill, so it hardly mattered; and he was fairly certain eighteen was too old to grow spoiled. 'Fine.'

'Look, it might be my last meal for all we know.'

'I said fine, didn't I?'

'We don't have to have it though, if you don't want it.'

Severus decided to put an end to the conversation by leaving.

'Where are you going?' Potter whined. 'No, stay, I need to show you something.'

The something in question was a crumpled piece of parchment, which upon closer inspection turned out to be an old Potions essay. The boy's mental decay must have begun young, if he'd thought this a memento worth preserving.

'Were you in a bad mood when you were grading it or something?' he was looking over Severus's shoulder, chin close enough to his rotator that he tensed, afraid he was going to knock into him by accident. 'Constricted by the school marking system, I am forced to settle on a Troll, though this plagiaristic blabber reads as if it had been produced by someone with half the brain. Do you really take the time to think these up for every essay, or just mine?'

Severus had no memory of the comment or the essay, but he recognized the material: it had been written in Harry's second year at Hogwarts. The large handwriting pooled together toward the end of each line, slipping off-angle and curling into the next row.

'Oh, I remember this, actually! Yeah, I had to ask Hermione what plagiaristic meant—wait, what's that I wrote here? That makes no sense—God, did I really sound that stupid?'

He wanted to get to his feet, to escape, but Potter's chin and teeth and mercilessly flapping tongue were in the way. 'Don't be ridiculous,' he managed through a wave of nausea. His hands started shaking, but there was no blaming it on nerve damage anymore. 'You did not sound stupid, you sounded like a twelve-year-old.'

'And twelve-year-olds all have half the brains of a troll?' he laughed. 'Is that individually or collectively?'

A thing in Severus's chest twisted, then snapped. He was perhaps going to be sick. He was perhaps going to die of shame. A twelve-year-old. He tried to remember the way he looked back then, though it felt strange to visualise. The glasses had been larger on his face, he thought. He hadn't reached Severus's shoulder yet.

And Harry was right: he should have done something then. He reached way past Severus's shoulder now, and he would never get any of this childhood back no matter how many bowls of cornflakes he inhaled.

'Collectively. Could you—could—put it away, for now.'

'Sure.' The weight behind Severus's back shifted. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm fine.'

'Did—uhm, I know you'll tell me it's none of my business but, did they say anything? You know, at—at St. Mungo's?' He breathed, then breathed again. Severus tried to copy it, until he realised he wasn't panicking anymore, he was only sad. 'I'd really like to know.'

Severus shut his eyes. 'Everything is alright,' he said. 'In a few months, I should see some improvement.'

'What, but they gave you something for it, or—?' Severus shook his head. 'No? So what, it's just going to get better on its own over time?'

'Yes,' he said, and decided in that moment he was telling the truth.

Thank you all for reading! I'm very happy a lot of you seemed to enjoy the previous chapter. I've had no time at all this weekend to reply to reviews, but should be able to do so tonight :)

We're almost at the end now... The final chapter is coming on Thursday, and it's a long one!