Tomorrow came around too quickly.

Despite Harry's efforts of staying awake all night to delay the inevitable, he'd only managed it until three before his traitorous body betrayed him and sent him into a feverish sleep. Later, he'd woken from a nightmare screaming so loudly his throat ached from the force of it, and he was sure he would've woken the dead had he not had numerous silencing charms set up around his bed since the start of the school year. For the rest of the morning that sickening green light played behind his eyelids.

It was not a good day.

In Charms Harry accidently dropped his wand and left Neville floating upside down for a good three hours, in Potions he managed to tip an entire jar of frog eyes into his cauldron which created an explosion so violent, a nearby jar popped and sent shrapnel flying into Cho Chang's eye and in Divination Trelwaney predicted him yet another gory and miserable death by the end of the week. Harry thought for the first time in her career, she could be onto something.

As he stomped through the castle to the Snape's office, he realised he was so impossibly tired he didn't even have it in him to be nervous. Hopefully, Snape would assign him an easy and a methodic task which would just occupy his hands so he could close his eyes whenever Snape wasn't looking and surrender to that sweet call of sleep… or death. He'd take either at this point.

He knocked.

"Come in." Snape said. Harry pushed the door open with more force than necessary.

Snape was sat at his desk marking essays. Harry blinked slowly.

God he was tired.

Snape raised an eyebrow at him.

"Has your brain died its final death?" Harry realised he'd been staring like a fish for a few seconds too long and walked in, shutting the door behind him with a glare.

"Good evening sir." He managed. Snape went back to scribbling at his desk and paid him no mind. Harry stood awkwardly opposite him. Any second now he was going to assign him something awful.

Snape dipped his quill and wrote some more.

And then some more.

It was terribly warm; Snape had the fire on. How he managed to not die of heatstroke under all those layers Harry did not know. Perhaps he was hiding something awful under them like scales. It would certainly explain a few things.

He continued to write.

Harry's eyes began to droop of their own accord, and he swayed slightly. Snape stopped and looked up him. Harry righted himself.

"Are you sick Potter?" Coming from anyone else that sentence could have been concern, but from Snape it was more like an accusation. Harry scowled.

"No." He snapped. Then regretted it. Why didn't he say he was ill? He might have been able to leave! He briefly wondered if he'd be able to make himself vomit out of sheer willpower. That was sure to get him sent away. Snape glared and began putting papers into his desk.

"I'm sure you know why I had to call you here so let's get straight to it. Over there you'll find a collection of snails, I need them de-shelled and put into that basin."

Fantastic.

Harry sighed and wandered over to where Snape pointed. Sure enough, there was a huge bucket of what must have been one hundred snails, their slime crusted and dry which had left them in one awful, congealed mass. Harry swore he remembered reading somewhere that snails had to be alive to be of any use in potions and these ones were most definitely dead, which could only mean Snape was doing this sheerly out of spite. He glanced around for a stool to sit on, found there was none, and took a steadying breath.

He could do this.

He felt Snape's eyes on him as he grabbed ahold of one of the poor creatures and whipped his head around to stare back. Snape blinked and went back to organising his papers. He pulled at the thing in his hands. The snail in his hand came free with a horrible pop.

Working together? This was slave labor!

He took a deep breath.

As Hermione had so helpfully pointed out, (while she hit him over the head with a four-inch-thick book) if they ever wanted to be free of one another, they were going to have to be civil. Harry's prayers that the Ministry would bore of interfering with the borderline abusive teaching across British wizarding schools were proving ineffective, so learning to be cordial with Snape was the only option the pair of them had to put an end to the insufferable 'counselling.' But it wasn't that easy. Harry wasn't sure he could even smile at Snape without suffering a stroke and severe PTSD for the remainder of his life. Hell, if he ever tried the universe would probably collapse due to some law of reality being violated.

He took another deep breath.

They needed to be civil. He could do it. After all, once he'd had to partner with Malfoy in Potions, thanks to Slughorn's genius idea to pair the top students together, and they'd managed alright. Sure, the slimy dickhead had tried to throw Harry's wand into a highly corrosive potion and Harry had accidently caught Malfoy's hair when he lit the fire, but they managed. It could be the same here.

He could do this.

He gripped the sticky snail tightly between his fingers and conjured up all his Gryffindor courage.

"What is this for sir?" Snape's head snapped up so fast Harry's neck winced in sympathy. Snape however seemed utterly unaffected and stared unblinking at Harry, shocked. Harry suppressed a pleased grin and Snape's face settled back into its default miserable expression.

"That's no concern of yours."

"Well, I am helping to make it."

"Hardly. That one still has half the shell attached. You'll stay here until its done properly."

"Are they for the hospital wing? Professor Dumbledore said I was helping you with that."

"What ills do you know of that can be cured by shell-less snails?"

"Well, Ron had to have snail slime rubbed onto a hex wound once after Defense."

"Snail slime, Potter, is called mucin. It has healing properties. And if Mr Weasley possessed any amount of intelligence he would have seen Goyle's cutting hex coming from the North Pole."

Harry ignored the jab at Ron and continued fighting to get the shell off another poor creature's body. He felt immensely thankful they were already dead. That was one of the things he didn't like about potions (aside from Snape): all those poor creatures who ended up inside them. Sure, he ate meat and everything- he wasn't a nutter like Luna- but eating a nice pork chop was markedly different to ripping the legs off a tarantula one by one. He shuddered.

Snape continued fussing about his desk and Harry shifted slightly so he could watch. He was struck by how awful Snape looked; even worse than usual which was a feat in itself. His eyes were deep and rimmed with purple bruises of exhaustion, he looked dangerously thin even under all those robes and his skin was a frightening yellowish hue. Harry remembered something about severe alcoholics suffering from yellow skin and wondered if that was what was wrong with Snape. Uncle Vernon was certainly prone to fits of violence after a drink or two- only towards Harry mind- perhaps Snape was the same.

Harry's scar began its customary evening throb as he focused on the task at hand. He squeezed his eyes shut and envisioned himself cozied up in bed. Only a little while longer.

"You are sick." Snape snapped. Harry looked up.

"Er, maybe a little." He said, hoping to be dismissed. Snape however got up and moved towards him. Harry resisted the urge to step away. The man stopped a few feet in front of him and frowned slightly.

"What's wrong with your head?" He said. Harry realised he'd pushed his hair back at some point during the evening and that his scar was probably inflamed. God, he hoped it wasn't bleeding. Quickly, he reached up and smoothed his hair back down over his forehead.

"Was leaning on it." He said stupidly. He'd been standing the entire time. Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Is it your scar." He said bluntly. Despite the man's unwavering gaze Harry sensed that Snape was uncomfortable with the turn of events. Harry realised he was too. He rubbed his neck and shrugged looking back at the bucket of snails. He picked up another and began prying it apart. Snape was silent for a moment, then left for his storeroom and Harry relaxed assuming he was satisfied with his response. Honestly, being civil with Snape felt like pulling teeth. Every moment worse than the last.

He continued popping the sticky snails out of their shells for a while longer, imaging the feel of his soft, soft bedsheets against his bare feet, when Snape came back into the office. Harry waited for him to sit back at his desk, trying to think of another conversation starter he could attempt, when suddenly the man strode up to him and slammed something down on the desk. A vial? Harry looked at him, but Snape was glaring at the de-shelled snails piled in the basin.

"Congratulations Potter. You've made such a pig's ear out of this that I fear if I let you alone any longer, they'd be rendered utterly useless. Take this and clean up. We're done for the evening."

Harry almost sobbed with joy and reminded himself to fail at every task Snape ever set him from there on out. He picked up the vial which was full of a shiny purplish cream.

"What's this sir?" He said. Snape scowled at him. Harry shrugged apologetically. Snape sighed sharply and moved to pick up the basin of snails.

"A numbing cream." Harry blinked blankly at him. Snape seemed to become even more riled up by this and moved away to slam the basin down on his own desk.

Wait- numbing cream…? Did Snape really mean for-

"Oh! Sorry, right my head- that's what you mean right? I guess- right?" Snape's face started to take on the dangerous 'I will de-bowel you' expression he favoured in class and Harry quickly grabbed a nearby spounge to scrub the workspace in front of him.

Snape. Had given him numbing cream. Snape. For his head.

Snape.

For him?

It must be poison.

Harry stumbled as he quickly cleaned and scrubbed the equipment he'd used, feeling like the world was spinning backwards. Snape was helping him? It was impossible. He must have dreamt it. He pinched himself but the vial remained standing inconspicuously on the table. Harry shook his head and scrubbed violently. What the hell was going on?

Perhaps Dumbledore ordered him to do it. Perhaps the old man had noticed Harry's constant fidgeting about his head and decided Snape giving him the potion would function as the perfect peace offering between them. Yes, that must be it. Or it was a corrosive acid that would burn through his skull into his brain like a chemical lobotomy. What was it Snape had said to him in Defence the other day? That it was unfortunate neurosurgery was not permitted as punishment, because students like Harry could only benefit. Perhaps he'd taken matters into his own hands.

He spied Snape in his peripheral vision. He was sat back at his desk and writing furiously, his left arm holding the papers still as he worked. Harry watched him.

Did the Dark Mark hurt in the same way?

Harry dropped the basin in the sink with a resounding clang.

"Sorry!" He said quickly. Snape glared.

"Get a move on Potter."

Harry had never thought about it before, but he could always feel when Voldemort was calling his Death Eaters. It was the worst pain of them all; an awful ache that felt like a wound being stretched open until the skin tore, that felt like his body might turn inside out through his skull. Perhaps Snape felt that too. He couldn't believe he'd never thought of it before. Maybe constant pain was why the git was always so sour. Surely no numbing potion could help a pain as strong as that though. Perhaps Harry was overthinking it. Snape was just doing what Dumbledore asked. That was it.

Wasn't it?

Finally, he finished clearing up, grabbed his bags and the vial, and left wobbly, neither of them saying a word as the door slammed shut. He half ran back to his dorm.

Harry collapsed into bed, bone tired, and smeared some of the cream onto the back of his hand to test it. Sure enough, it numbed with no obviously lethal effects, so Harry smothered a generous amount onto his scar. It cooled and tingled against his skin but took the edge off the pain, and he shut his eyes and groaned as he relaxed into the pillows.

Despite his exhaustion though, he couldn't stop thinking about the black skull that he knew lay beneath Snape's robed arm and when he finally drifted off, he dreamt of it swallowing Sirius whole as Cedric screamed for Harry to save him.

.

If Harry had thought the cream had been a peace offering, he'd been sorely mistaken.

The next counselling session saw Snape sat curled into himself for the full hour, stubbornly refusing to answer any questions with more than non-committal mutterings or so much as glance in Harry's direction. When it was over, he stood so aggressively the chair nearly tipped and left in a fury of sweeping black robes.

Class, somehow, got even worse.

Snape paired Harry with Malfoy and had them duel until the pair of them were both stumbling with exhaustion. When Malfoy couldn't out-maneuver Harry's shields and hexes, he called up Goyle to have a try. When it seemed borderline psychotic to keep Harry going any longer, he called him up to his desk and assigned him a three-page essay to write about the importance of self-control in spell casting and Harry nearly spat at the irony.

Harry's nightmares had reared their ugly head again and he'd taken to casting glamour charms before he drew the curtains around his four poster every morning. He was sure all the teachers could see straight through him, particularly Dumbledore who watched him with concern during mealtimes thinking Harry didn't notice, but it at least kept Hermione and Ron off his back. He'd taken up reading the Half-Blood Prince's scratchings again for comfort, deciding he'd take wet dreams over fictional boyfriends than the harrowing nightmares of Sirius dying over and over again.

Eventually though, the two started to overlap and Harry found himself dreaming of muscled chests and the killing curse simultaneously, until he woke Ron up one morning by running to the bathroom and vomiting into the toilet.

"Harry? You alright mate?" Harry gasped and coughed.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Morning sickness?" Ron joked. Harry laughed weakly.

"Dunno." He took a shaky breath and pulled the flush chain, then opened the door to Ron's concerned face.

"Alright?"

"Must've eaten something bad." Ron hummed. Then sighed awkwardly and wrung his hands. Harry moved around him out of the stall and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the inevitable worry.

"You know you can talk to me Harry? Like, oh god that sounds gay-"

Harry bit down the urge to laugh hysterically.

"But you can you know? Hermione's kind of worried."

"When is she not?" Harry said, with what he hoped was a believable smile. Ron grinned and shrugged.

"She's worse than Mum." Harry went to the sink to splash water on his face and held his cool hands on his cheeks for a few moments. Ron lingered nearby a urinal awkwardly.

"Seriously though, are you alright? You've been so out of it lately with, like, Snape and that book and- you know, just everything-"

Sirius.

"It's been a really shit year for you so far hasn't it?" Ron laughed awkwardly. Harry supposed that was accurate

"I know it's weird- it's just- you can talk to me, you know. If you want to." Ron went to wash his face to avoid meeting Harry's eyes and Harry felt himself blushing hot.

"Yeah, I know. Er thanks Ron. I'll- let you know." Ron grunted in acknowledgment and then they stumbled into a conversation about the latest Quidditch scandal.

Harry's week dragged on.

He started to consider Ron's offer. Perhaps he should talk to someone? If not about the disturbing nightmares, then at least about his new found interest in dick. Ron surely wouldn't care that Harry might be- well not gay, he still liked Ginny- didn't he? But maybe not entirely straight. The word gay sang in Harry's mind like mandrake screams and he rubbed his eyes furiously to keep it out. 'Gay' was such a silly word. 'Homosexual' was even worse. Why couldn't one thing about him be normal for Christ's sake?

To shut his head up, he made eyes at Ginny at dinner and was rewarded with a lovely pink cheeked smile. Ginny was really lovely. Of course he didn't like men! He pushed the concern to the back of his mind once more.

The next 'bonding session' with Snape was infinitely worse than the last. Snape wanted a very specific type of mushroom that grew deep within the forbidden forest in a very specific place, at a very specific time, and decided having Harry tag along would be a brilliant excuse to simultaneously torture him and comply with Dumbledore's wishes. If there was ever a good time to be stomping through a forest crammed full of dangerous creatures wearing just his uniform (because of course Snape hadn't thought to warn him) and his Gryffindor scarf, the middle of November during a full moon was absolutely not it.

Harry shivered and buried his nose in the fabric as his warming charm wore off and he muttered another one. It was almost pitch black in the forest now and the only light stemmed from the ends of their wands, of which Harry's kept periodically dimming as he spelled himself to stave off hypothermia. They walked in silence with Snape ahead taking long angry strides as Harry stumbled over tree roots and vegetation to keep up.

He was pissed.

"Are we almost there, sir?" Harry snapped, not caring if he sounded like a child.

"Silence Potter."

Harry kicked his foot into the dirt miserably as they walked on. A howl sounded to their right and Harry noticed Snape's steps falter slightly at the noise. He suppressed the urge to howl himself just to unsettle the man further. Maybe Professor Lupin would run back to Hogwarts in wolf form and avenge Harry by snacking on Snape. Right now, he hoped so.

Finally, they reached the clearing Snape had been looking for, and he stopped so suddenly Harry found himself walking straight into his back.

"Sorry sir." He muttered. Snape ignored him and knelt on the ground to search for the mushrooms.

Harry clamped his wand between his knees and blew hot air into his hands to stave off casting another warming charm. He didn't want to run out of energy for the trip back. Then he leant over to see what Snape was after. The man pulled something from the ground and stood up.

"See this?" He said.

"Yes sir?"

"This is what you're looking for. Grab from the root, otherwise they'll be useless. There's frog-ants about so watch your fingers. Get on with it."

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes or scream and took a closer look at the thing in Snape's hand. It looked more like a star than a mushroom, with a stringy root dangling from it's base. He walked a few meters away to get started, eyeing up the ground for frog ants. Deciding it was safe, he squatted over the earth and jammed his wand between his teeth to free his hands.

God he hated Snape.

The mushrooms were frustratingly tiny and far apart from one another, which left Harry waddling stupidly in a squat position across the grass instead of bothering to stand up. Despite his best efforts, the roots seemed to fall apart in his fingers, and it took him a solid five minutes to even get one of them out of the ground, by which point his fingers were so cold he had to squeeze them between his thighs for a minute to get the feeling back. Snape flashed the white light of his wand in Harry's direction.

"Get on with it, Potter."

"It's freezing." Harry muttered. Snape ignored this and repositioned his wand back towards the ground. Harry freed his hands and tried for another.

After a while, he got the feel for it and he'd managed to collect five of the blasted things before something sharp bit into his hand. White hot pain shot up his arm.

"Ah!" He recoiled and felt a lump of flesh being pulled out of his palm. He waved his wand to see the creature clearly, but it had already gone and he felt warm blood dribbling over his fingers.

"What is it?" Snape snapped, blinding Harry with his lit wand. Harry glared through the light and considered not saying anything. He decided though it might encourage Snape to send him back to the castle so instead he raised his hand slightly.

"Got bitten."

"I told you to be careful. Are incapable of completing any task without self-injury?" Harry was tempted to point out that his scar was hardly self-inflicted.

"It's fine. I'll just wrap it."

"With what?" Snape said. Harry didn't answer, intent on curling himself into a ball to retain heat and feel sorry for himself. Snape got up and marched over to where he was crouched. Harry shielded his eyes against the lumos with the grumpiest expression he could muster.

"Get up." Snape said. Harry reluctantly stood, shivering and miserable. Snape lowered his wand so Harry could finally see his face. It was just Snape of course- tired and annoyed. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Your hand." Snape snapped.

"Oh- right." Harry turned his palm up to Snape and winced. It was worse than he'd expected: a good inch of flesh was missing from the space where his thumb met his wrist, his hand almost entirely covered in blood. Snape sighed irritably and pointed his wand at it. Harry gasped and recoiled.

"Hold still you stupid boy!" Snape grabbed his arm and tugged it back with surprising strength. Harry held his breath and waited for something horrible to happen. All around them was very quiet. Although he doubted Snape would make his bones evaporate Lockhart style, he didn't put it past him to hex him into the next world. Instead, Snape did something extremely unexpected.

He started to sing.

At least, that's what Harry thought at first. A strange string of words began to drift from Snape's mouth in a steady, melodic hum. There was no discernable tune to them, but every word followed the other smoothly like a single note ringing in the air, and Snape's low voice ran over Harry's skin like butter. Then the magic began. Beautiful magic. Harry's felt his mouth drop open as clear, blue ribbons of warmth cascaded from Snape's wand, swaying and dancing before his eyes, before curling themselves like cats around his hand. He watched speechless as his forearm tingled with the weight of the spell and slowly the wound began to fade blurrily, until it was no longer visible at all.

Harry distantly realised that Snape had released his hand and stepped back, but he was stuck staring at his own skin, now clear and pink.

"What was that?" He blurted. Snape stared hard at him.

"A simple healing spell."

"No it wasn't-"

"Get back to work Potter." Snape returned to his space on the ground and violently pulled up another mushroom from the earth. Harry walked, dazed, back to his spot.

He cast another lumos and stared at the grass as his head swam.

That was no ordinary healing spell. It was stupid of Snape to say it was. Third years learnt all the basic healing spells for non-magical wounds and Harry liked to think he would have remembered had that been on the syllabus. Snape's voice had sounded, well, mesmerizing. Harry ran a hand through his hair, mortified. Well, obviously nothing about Snape was mesmerizing. But that magic was incredible. He flexed his fingers and marveled at the warmth still singing through the skin, like he was holding someone else's hand in his.

For once in his life, Harry desperately wanted to talk to Snape. Instead, he pushed his hair back and began picking at the mushrooms in earnest. Perhaps he did have Snape pegged wrong. Harry had never understood what Dumbledore saw in the nasty prat, but after seeing such stunning magic, even Harry had to admit there was something incredible about him. No, not incredible. Powerful. Genius even-

Harry yanked up a mushroom. 'Incredible' did not belong in the same sentence as Snape.

Eventually, the greasy git declared them done for the evening and so they set off back for the castle. Despite the fact Harry was now shivering so violently his teeth rattled like a train carriage, he managed to stay quiet as they walked on in silence and after feeling it build up in his chest for what felt like hours, Harry mumbled a single word to Snape that he never imagined he'd say.

"Thanks."

Snape ignored him, of course, but Harry could have sworn on his life that the air around him got a little bit warmer.

.