Snape didn't release his hold on Harry until they got to the Infirmary. He knew that Potter didn't need the help. He suspected that Potter knew that, too. But there was something that felt agreeably like sin, touching Harry Potter, feeling him lean into that touch, warm and alive and powerfully there. Being able to lie about it made it even better.

But he deposited Potter on a chair in front of Pomfrey's desk and watched with a scowl as Potter was once again fussed over all out of proportion to his wounds. He felt a kind of twisted admiration when Potter explained that he had gotten wounded when he went up the tower to watch the snow on the Forest. The artful grimace he gave when he mentioned how slippery the stone had become warmed Snape's Slytherin heart. Potter had told no lies, but neither had he told the truth of the situation. He had merely related the facts in an elegantly arranged way. Snape wondered idly how long it had taken Potter to hone that skill in the course of his rather eventful school career.

Madam Pomfrey looked carefully at her patient, poked and prodded, then stared into his face, yanked down an eyelid and sniffed at his breath.

"You look terrible," she said bluntly, one hand reaching for her a bottle of Fogley's Fomentation, which she applied liberally to Potter's bruised skull. "You need more sleep and less stress for a week more, at least. Have you been eating?"

Coddling him again, Snape sniffed. He was just arranging his expression into a comradely sneer when the mediwitch suddenly turned and swept down upon him.

"And you, Severus! You have not been taking your potion, have you? What did you have for breakfast? How have you been sleeping?" And it was Potter's turn to sneer, which he did. Then Potter winced when Pomfrey's beavering amongst her medicines caused the bottles and vials to tinkle together musically and altogether too loudly for the amount of liquor he had drunk the night before.

His wan features and pathetic cringing at loud noises finally convinced Snape to grant him mercy. When Pomfrey went sweeping back to her storeroom in search of a nutritional elixir she guaranteed would set Snape's hair curling, he produced the small blue bottle of Hangover Helper from his pocket. He held it in front of Potter's red, running nose.

"Drink this."

"What is it?" Potter said suspiciously.

"Poison," Snape said irritably. "Or would you rather wait for Madam Pomfrey to figure out what really ails you? Her lectures about the dangers of drink are heartfelt and very detailed, as I recall."

Potter's sudden sly grin was all he could have wished. The little blue bottle was drained and back in Snape's pocket before the mediwitch returned with his elixir. Snape estimated that fifteen minutes would see Potter right again, especially if Pomfrey managed to slap some ice on the back of his head to prevent any further swelling. Sometimes magic just got in the way, in his personal opinion.

It took more than fifteen minutes for Snape to extract himself from his healer's determined clutches. He was finally pushed into promising to rest more, to continue taking more of the damned Heartsease potion and to swallowing a healthy dose of her all-purpose nutritive elixir. The bitter flavor of that quackish nostrum promised to curl his lip for a week.

When he emerged from Pomfrey's private examination room, Potter was still sitting on the bed where he'd been left, looking far better than he had. His color was good, eyes brighter and clearer, but there was a tension in him that Snape could feel from across the room. He was fairly certain he didn't want to deal with it, whatever it was, so he kept walking past Potter and out the door. However, his pace was moderate enough that someone who wanted to speak to him would be able to catch up and keep up. It was as much invitation as Snape could bring himself to muster, given the scene on the roof not yet an hour in the past.

Potter strode along beside him, their robes catching and whispering against one another as they paced the empty halls. Potter was like a kettle about to boil and Snape finally got tired of waiting for it.

"Well?"

"Severus. I'm....sorry about ... before. Up on the tower. I didn't mean it."

Ah, the Hangover Helper had kicked in. Potter's faculties, such as they were, were back in working order.

"You did."

"No! I would never..."

"If you continue to lie to yourself, Potter, you will always be a danger to yourself and to those around you."

"You bastard." A side glance revealed Potter with a clenched jaw and cold stare.

"Perhaps. But an honest one."

And there was nothing for Potter to say to that. He stormed off in the direction of the Gryffindor Tower, apparently forgetting that he was no longer a student. Snape felt a pang of deja vu.

He barely had time to register the warmth at his shoulder before Dumbledore said, "Some things never change, it seems."

"Potter may be one of the great constants of the Universe," Snape said bitterly.

"Have you tried kissing him?"

* * * ... is a Fangless Child * * *

There wasn't enough Heartsease Potion in the world to counteract a man like Albus Dumbledore. Snape was certain of it now.

"I beg your pardon, Albus?"

The Headmaster seemed completely unfazed by the icy menace in his Potions master's tone. "It tends to clear the air."

"So would hexing him into next week."

Dumbledore fell into step with him and pretended to consider Snape's comment. "No, on the whole, I believe that your goals will be better achieved by kissing him. Rather thoroughly."

Shock made his tone somewhat weaker than the half-insolent drawl he'd planned on. "Have you always had this prurient interest in your staff, Headmaster?"

"It's hardly prurient, my boy. I would merely like you to get on with it, so that things will settle down around here before the new term."

Dumbledore's tone suggested that Snape was dilly-dallying around incensed him more than he had thought possible. And that he was being dilatory about ... about...!

"You are not seriously suggesting that I enter into a relationship with a former student, are you, Headmaster?"

"Severus, not five minutes ago, you claimed to be an honest bastard. Now is hardly the time for either of us to claim not to understand the situation."

"Which is?" Snape forced through gritted teeth.

"You have cared for him for many years now. He feels the same way. Your working partnership tells me you respect and trust one another deeply. Recent performances on both of your accounts suggest that the caring and partnership is rather deeper than previously suspected." Dumbledore stopped and laid a hand on Snape's arm. "And, my boy, you need to get laid."

A stroke. That was what he should have had. Obviously a heart attack hadn't been nearly enough. Just when he'd thought this Christmas couldn't get any worse, there it was. A frank and fatherly discussion about his sex life with the Headmaster.

"And so you recommend my seducing a boy more than twenty years my junior? Half my age? Harry Potter, no less?" He hated the squeak that appeared to have crept into his voice.

"He's not a boy any more, Severus. Surely you've noticed?" The twinkle in the Headmaster's eye was appalling. "As to being half your age, well, emotionally, I'd say you're about even." He continued relentlessly, "You've been a bit stunted in that respect, my friend. A younger lover is just what you need to bring you up to speed. And Harry certainly has the courage to see it through with you."

"No one has ever accused Harry of lacking courage; it's the brains that have always been in question."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore smiled. "But he is certainly wise enough to see all that is best within you, my friend. The only question is, are you brave enough to let him in?"

They were standing in front of Snape's quarters and he hadn't even realized how skillfully he had been guided there. Dumbledore's demeanor became suddenly brisk and business-like. "Tomorrow afternoon, I am having the Minister to tea, Severus. I should like to offer him some of our special "House Blend" at that time. Will it be ready?"

Snape nodded, pathetically grateful that the topic of his personal life had been dropped. "You'll have it in the morning, Headmaster."

"Excellent," Dumbledore smiled and rubbed his hands together. He certainly did seem to enjoy his plotting. Snape had always appreciated that aspect of Dumbledore's personality -- when it wasn't directed toward him or his love life.

"And you'll be First Footer this year, as usual?"

Snape sighed. Dumbledore loved his holiday traditions. Hogmanay, Scottish New Year's eve, required that a tall, dark-haired man be the first person into one's home after midnight to ensure good luck all year. For years, Snape had been the only member of the Hogwarts staff to fit the bill. So he had crossly made the rounds of his colleagues' quarters at midnight on New Year's Night. Most were wise enough not to invite him in for cakes and wassail, although there were a few die-hards every year. Sprout, Vectra, and Dumbledore were the only ones with whom he spent any time, usually leaving their quarters with a fifth of very good liquor or a pound of his favorite dark chocolate.

"Can't Harry do it?" Snape became aware that he sounded whiny and scowled.

Dumbledore laid a wrinkled hand against Snape's hair. "I prefer the luck that you bring me, Severus," he said gently. "You can send Harry next year."

Then the Headmaster was gone and Snape was left standing outside his own door, trying to swallow around the thickness in his throat.

* * *

(Author's note: Ten points and an honorable mention to the person who recognizes the fractured quote that forms the titles of these chapters. -- JiM)