Author: Farseeker

Genre: Romance/Angst

Multi-chaptered: Well it is now, isn't it?

Warnings: Possible slight language, slash pairing, student/teacher relationship, (future) violence, disturbing imagery, possible OOC.

Pairing/s: Severus/Harry. Others may occur, but this is the main one and the others won't be planned.

OOTP-Inclusive: Yeah.

Summary: Sometimes the way you define hate and how others define it differ, and sometimes you can believe someone to hate you when they don't…

Author's Notes: Dude, I am so cool. Over about four hours on Sunday I wrote both this chapter and the new one for 'Scream'. Both are unedited. I so rock. Just on a side note, it is fourteen days almost exactly until I will be seeing David Bowie performing live in concert, oh yeah. *gloatgloat*

* * *

Severus had his owl deliver the bottle to Harry the next morning. He had, after all, promised the potion as the prize and the boy had won fair and square.

The next week was completely uneventful, and it had Severus more on edge than he would have been if disaster had followed disaster. No calls to Death Eater meetings, no visits with Albus where he would be served tea with lemon and three sugars because the Headmaster refused to believe that he truly preferred his tea black. The visits would end, inevitably, with Albus asking a favour of Severus and him agreeing because no matter how much the requests grates against him, Albus had absolute faith that he would. Even Longbottom refrained from blowing up his cauldron. To Neville's horror he had discovered that he needed to pass in Advanced Potions to be able to train as a healer. To Severus' horror, the boy had actually taken the class.

It didn't surprise him, then, when he ran into Longbottom during his last check of the castle halls. It didn't even surprise him when instead of quailing in fear Longbottom had grabbed hold of his arm and dragged him towards the Gryffindor Tower, babbling something about Harry and screaming, and not being able to wake him.

He was led through the portrait entrance and up to the seventh year boys' dorm. They were standing around one of the beds, the curtains pulled aside. They looked confused and scared, and Severus understood why.

Harry lay on the bed, eyes clenched shut and hands wrapped in the bed sheets, clutching tightly. He was curled on his side, and his pillow was pressed against his face by his arms. Even through it you could hear his screams, barely muffled by the pillow.

"He won't wake up," Weasley said, freckles standing out on his pale face. "He just curled up tighter when we tried."

"Move aside," Severus snapped. "And go and find Professor McGonagall. She should know about this, being your head of house."

One of the boys scuttled off, casting a quick, frightened glance back at the boy on the bed.

Severus moved closer to Harry, and tugged the pillow away from him. He watched, more than a little disturbed, as a bruise blossomed on the boy's cheek before fading away, leaving the pale skin unmarred. A cut slit open on one of Harry's hands, apparently opened with an invisible razor, and then sealed itself up again, almost like a zip. It happened so quickly there wasn't even time for more than a thin line of blood to escape.

Severus tried shaking the young man first, but nothing happened apart from Harry flinching away. Next he summoned a pitcher of water – icy-cold, he noted with a kind of twisted satisfaction – and dumped the lot over Harry. No change at all. Quickly running out of patience Severus hauled the boy up by the collar of his pyjamas – they were much too big for him, he observed – and slapped him. There were sounds of shock and outrage from the children behind him, but Severus was concentrating on Harry. His screams had cut off, been swallowed down. He hiccuped once and then his eyes opened, blearily confused. Satisfied, Severus released him. Harry slid back onto the bed, and Severus cast a quick drying charm over him and the sheets. Harry blinked and his teeth started to chatter.

"Why is it so cold?"

Severus raised an eyebrow. The water he had tipped over Harry had been chilled, true, but Harry certainly shouldn't have been reacting the way he was, especially after the drying charm. Severus studied Harry for a moment before realising that he was now flushed and breathing quickly; beads of sweat were already forming on his forehead. Severus put a hand against Harry's head, barely having to touch him to realise that he was running a high fever.

"Trust you, Potter. Got to make a drama out of everything, don't we? I'm taking him somewhere cooler, he's running a fever."

The last part was directed at the remaining boys. Without waiting for a response he gathered Harry up in his arms. As he turned to leave, he noticed something that made him pause.

Harry had placed his trunk at the end of his bed and had obviously been using it as a nightstand of sorts. There were picture frames on it, his glasses and a bottle – a very familiar bottle that still contained all the potion that had been in it when Severus had last seen it.

"Hand me that," He snapped, an icy, sick feeling inside of him. One of the boys scrambled to grab it and passed it to Severus who grabbed the neck of it and used his wrist to support Harry before stalking out of the room.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a small crowd of girls who had clearly been woken by the commotion. One of the girls followed him across the common room. He couldn't see her but suspected that it was Hermione Granger.

"Tell your head of house I've taken him to the West Tower courtyard," He said, not bothering to check if she had heard him. The Fat Lady swung open without waiting for a password and Severus strode down the hall, Harry lying limp in his arms The boy didn't seem aware of what was happening – he clung to Severus without question, turning himself in towards Severus' heat.

"Warm."

"Warmth is not good for you, boy," Severus told him shortly. Harry looked up at him, blinking green eyes that seemed a lot larger without the glasses to frame them in confusion.

"You aren't good for me?"

Severus ignored the question and continued on his path, a part of him finding the time to wonder at how hurt Harry had sounded when he had asked the question.

* * *

The courtyard Severus had taken Harry to was not a place often visited by students or teachers. It was fully open to the wind, and featured only a couple of weather-beaten benches and a few ghostly-looking trees. It wasn't really even a courtyard – a door about half way up the tower led out to it from the stairs, and as far as anyone knew there were no rooms beneath it. Severus placed Harry on one of the benches and settled himself on one opposite. Within a few minutes the flush had faded from Harry's cheeks, and he was looking about, taking in his surroundings.

"Why haven't you used it?"
Harry flinched at the blunt, more-than-a-little pissed off tone.

"I didn't want to."

"I didn't poison it. Dumbledore would skin me alive for harming his golden boy," Severus sounded disgusted, although whether with himself or Harry was not clear.

"That's not why."

"Well you must be pretty stupid then boy, to want to go through what just happened. I saw the bruises and the cuts—"

"It's the first thing I've ever won."

Silence followed the statement. Severus was surprised, to say the least. To not take a potion for a reason as childish as that was beyond comprehension.

"As much as it pains me to say it, Potter, your Quidditch team has a long-standing winning streak over the Slytherin team largely because of you."

"You said it was a team yourself, Sir. Teams work together and win together. It is the Gryffindor team that wins the Quidditch cup, not I."

"Then the Triwizard Tournament."

"Was won by Cedric and I together. It's not really something I'd like to remember anyway."

"Surely some kind of small award when you were still going to muggle school?"

There was no response this time, just a strange smile.

"Even if that is so, Potter, it is ridiculous not to use it. You can always keep the bottle."

"The bottle wasn't the prize though; the potion was. It is something that I find to be important to me, even if the person who gave it to me hates me."

"I don't hate you."

Silence again, although this time it was the kind that said that Harry didn't believe him but couldn't be bothered wasting the time in pressing the matter. That quiet certainty annoyed Severus. Who did the boy think he was, to be so sure of Severus' own feelings?

In the silence the courtyard door swung open, and McGonagall hurried out, a tired and panicky look on her face; fully dressed in her robes but still with slippers on her feet.

"Mr Potter!"
She walked straight past Severus to Harry, asking him if he was okay. Harry assured her he was but she didn't seem to believe him, and kept asking him the same question. Severus watched them for a moment before standing and stepping back into the shadows, leaving the courtyard and making his way back down to his rooms.

The fire he had left burning when he had started his rounds had died away to nothing more than a few embers, but the room was still warm so Severus didn't bother lighting another one. When the cold of his bedroom woke him in the early morning he dispatched another bottle with his owl, along with a sheet of parchment.

When Harry awoke he found an owl perched on the corner post of his bed bearing a bottle, an explanation of what the potion did and precise instructions, all in Severus Snape's careful script.