A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG.

Notes:

Continual thanks to lovely beta Nyarth. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! *but finish this first*

Chapter Seven. In which an encounter in the kitchen occurs, as told from the POV of one Harry Potter.

Harry got lost only once on the way down to the kitchen-- and that, he told himself, was due to the fact that the house seemed much different in the dark. Thankfully, he stumbled across a familiar corridor, and was soon back on the right track.

The house was colder in the dark, too. He was looking forward to the bright, cosy warmth of the kitchen he had briefly experienced earlier that day. Until then the robe and the muttered heating charms would have to do.

He smiled slightly, remembering how envious Ron and Hermione had been of his official permission to use magic on the holidays. With his status as Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived and Voldemort Target Without Equal, Dumbledore had talked Fudge and the Ministry into lifting the ban on underage magic, at least for him. It had been argued that he might need to be able to cast spells freely, in the interests of self-defence. He admitted to himself that a heating charm didn't quite fit the bill, but he doubted it was going to be an issue.

There. The kitchen doorway was open, spilling a rectangle of warm yellow light into the stone corridor. He walked even quicker, rounded the corner--

And stopped dead.

Severus Snape was sitting at the main table. Except, sitting was an odd adjective to use for such a pose, which was more like... lolling. Slouching. Slumping. Lounging. Sprawling.

He hadn't known Severus Snape was capable of doing any of those. He felt completely justified in doing a double take, to make sure this was really his Potions professor he was looking at.

Well... it looked like Snape... The man was still dressed in the trousers, boots, and stained dress shirt-- was it unbuttoned? By God, it was. The top two buttons, at least. Snape's head was thrown back, showing off a neck that did not, contrary to the rumours that floated around Gryffindor Tower, sport the bite marks that would denote vampirism. The face displayed an expression that Harry could not, in a thousand years, associate with Professor Snape, despite the fact he was seeing it on the man right now.

The eyes were lazily closed, and the mouth was smiling. That would be a smile. On Snape. Not a smirk, not a sneer, not 'isn't-it-amazing-how-simply-lifting-a-corner-of-my-mouth-adequately-conveys-my-disdain-and-contempt-for-all-things-moving.' No, this was a genuine, happy, contented, dreamy smile.

Harry half-expected a flying pig to crash-land on the table in front of him, just to complete the scene.

And then Snape's eyes opened. His confusion was apparent for a split-second in their obsidian depths, and then they focused on him with the usual familiar malice and loathing.

"Professor Snape," Harry heard his own voice manage, then mentally damned it. Oh now, wasn't that an astute observation? You were expecting maybe the Easter Bunny? his own inner sarcastic bastard commented, in a tone eerily reminiscent of Snape. Great. My subconscious sounds like him. Just great.

"Potter," Snape said roughly, returning to the pose Harry associated with the man: back ramrod straight, hands flat on the surface before him. For a moment, Harry found himself inexplicably saddened, and wondered at the feeling. Perhaps it was just that he'd never seen Snape content before. Relaxed. Happy.

That was sad for some reason he couldn't express.

He was aware his mouth was running on auto-pilot. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to intrude on you, I just came down for a little snack, I had some trouble sleeping, I--"

Snape's eyes closed unhappily, and one of the hands came up off the table to slice the air with a curt motion. Harry felt his own mouth shut instinctively at the motion, and thanked six years of Potions class for that.

For one moment, he just stared at the man before him, wondering how in hell he was going to manage an effective retreat, and then another voice, this one high and squeaking, intruded: "Was Master Potter having trouble sleepings? Nezzy is giving him a glass of warm milk, which will be putting him straight to sleepings!"

Oh God. The milk. No, he really didn't want the milk now...

Before he could articulate a response, he was being forced into the chair opposite Snape's. He sat with dread fermenting in the pit of his stomach, conscious that his presence really wasn't welcome right now to the man currently glaring from the other end of the table.

A heavy and embarrassed silence filled the air. Harry wished desperately that Snape would speak, if only to reprimand him or something. What on earth was the other man doing up at this hour? Harry's brain seized the inherent question and forced it down to his vocal chords, the rest of him protesting all the while.

"So... Professor Snape. Um. Had trouble sleeping?"

He thought he saw Snape roll his eyes and didn't blame him in the slightest. That had been rather inane. Too much to hope for an answ--

"No, Mr. Potter. I was working."

Oh. "... Working?"

"On a potion. Research."

"Oh..."

Damned if I am not the most eloquent screw-up to ever grace the halls of this house, Harry mocked himself. What did you think a Potions Master would be working on, nitwit? Charms?!?

"... So, was it going well?" he asked tentatively. So far the man hadn't called him an idiot to his face. That had to be good, right?

"What?" Snape asked sharply. He fought the urge to flinch.

"Was, uh, your research going well?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes, it was..." Snape said softly, his eyes losing focus. For a moment, that weird little smile seemed to flicker across his mouth again. Harry stared, amazed. It was so easy to catalogue Snape by the things he disliked (Harry, Gryffindors, students, humans...) that the thought of something giving him pleasure was... surreal...

The smile hovered for about a half second before Snape seemed to shake it off with an impatient little gesture, staring morosely into his coffee cup. "Going very well," he repeated absently, as if not even aware of who he was talking to.

Nezzy was shoving a steaming cup of something that smelled rather awful in his face. Too afraid to refuse it, he accepted it and took a sip. And fought not to gag.

He set the cup down with a shudder, and looked at Snape instead. The man was practically wolfing down the bread on the plate next to him. It was incongruous with his normally dignified and precise actions.

"Enjoying the milk, Potter?" drawled an all-too familiar voice that sounded amused. Harry couldn't help making a face that was very indicative of the taste of his drink. His professor snorted, looking away.

Another silence settled in. Perhaps it was Harry's imagination but they seemed to be getting less awkward. He tried another swallow from his cup.

"Well, Potter, exactly what are you planning to do with yourself for the holidays?"

Harry set down the cup and successfully hid surprise at his professor making small talk. Imagine that. "Well... I've got homework, of course... maybe for once I'll actually get some studying done over the summer," he said with a small chuckle, before remembering one didn't 'chuckle' with Professor Snape. He trailed off into nothing, trying to screw up his courage to ask the question. Asking favours of Snape-- what was the world coming to...

"... and, uh..."

"Spit it out, Potter."

He took a deep breath. "I... was wondering if, um, I might-- could do some flying, in the courtyard. With my broom."

Harry wasn't prepared for the indescribable expression that crossed Snape's face, though it was gone as quickly as it had come. The professor stared into his coffee, his face suddenly paler than usual. One of the long-fingered hands was clenched around the cup so tightly the knuckles turned white.

Was Snape ill? He almost looked it. Harry wondered what the hell he had said to trigger that... or if Snape had heard him at all. Perhaps the man was in a bad shape from working all day? He bit his lip, and asked cautiously, "Sir? Did... did you hear me? I said-- I asked if I could fly around the courtyard..."

Snape slowly looked up at him, and Harry stared, taken aback by the sheer terror in the black eyes-- no, there was nothing there. Harry was imagining things.

"I... don't see why that would be a problem," Snape said, and Harry was too relieved to note the expressionless tone of the words.

"Thank you, Professor," he said with what he hoped was a grateful smile. The man nodded, looking tired. Harry felt oddly triumphant. Let's go for broke.

"Uh... one other thing..."..."

"Well?"

"Can I, uh, read some of the books in the tower?"

Snape blinked, then said, "That's... that would be fine. However-- wreck, ruin, or lose anything in my library and I'll be using your skin to bind my next volume of notes."

Harry's triumphant feeling quickly wilted and died in the face of the malice that crackled in the dark eyes. Thankfully, Nezzy interrupted. "Master Potter, you is not drinking your milk! Now it is all cold! Wait. Nezzy is getting you some more..."

"No! I mean-- uh, no thanks, that's all right, I'm very sleepy. It worked. I think I'll just go back to bed," Harry said quickly, then tried a convincing yawn. Time to beat a retreat....

He was almost to the door, wondering if under the circumstances he should bid the professor good night, when Snape himself spoke. "Before you go, Potter..."

"Sir?" If he says 'good night,' it will be entirely too surreal.

"Don't make a habit of walking around the house at night. This is an old house. Things live here that I really don't think you'd want to meet in the dark. Also, there are wards you could inadvertently trip. The resulting mess would be something I'd rather not have to clean up."

Dumb, Harry. Very dumb.

"Uh... yes sir. Good night, sir."

He felt rather than saw the smirk that accompanied Snape's parting shot, "Pleasant dreams."

Harry fled back to the comfort of his room and managed to not get lost once on the way. The bedroom door opened at his touch and he quickly threw himself under the covers and the warmth they represented.

Oddly, he was tired now. He felt his muscles slowly slipping from his control, his eyes slowly drooping... His last conscious thought before sleep claimed him was, Pleasant dreams? Yeah, right...