Harry drifted into sleepy awareness. He felt snug and cared for. He rested against the comforting warmth of a body.

A…body?

A body!

His eyes snapped open. His glasses had at some point been removed, but he could see well enough to realize it was Snape's body against which he leaned. He yelped, and tried to jump up, but found he was swaddled in some sort of material. He rolled helplessly across Snape's lap. His eyes were round. If Ron and Hermione could see this… and what was this stuff all over him?

"Don't panic, Potter," Snape drawled. "It's burn poultice."

Snape arranged Harry on the couch and stood up, stretching out his arms as if they were cramped. He balanced Harry's glasses on his nose. Harry felt vaguely grateful; Snape always seemed to realize that was the first thing he wanted when he woke up.

"Burn poultice?" Harry said stupidly.

"Yes…Potter, you told me you knew what a Fireheart stone was!" Snape sounded aggrieved.

"Er..yeah, I do…it's a channel for magic, isn't it? Sort of like a wand but not?"

Harry was perplexed. He had just woken up. In Snape's arms. He was wrapped in poultice, and now Snape was giving him some kind of quiz on the properties of magical stones?

"And did it not occur to you that the stone would channel your uncontrolled energies while you slept?" Snape demanded.

"No..uh, has this got something to do with me being wrapped in this burns stuff?"

"Yes, Potter," Snape sighed. "It does. You nearly turned yourself into kindling. Fortunately I was not too far distant, and the damage was only superficial. How is your skin?"

Harry prodded himself here and there under the poultice. "It's a bit sort of tingly, but otherwise it feels fine."

"Good. Never wear that stone while you sleep. You have far too many nightmares. The stone will try to turn them into actuality….Possibly I should not have given you it…" Snape actually sounded worried.

"I really like it," Harry said quickly. "I'll be careful with it in future, I promise. Professor, can I get dressed now?" He did not want Snape to reclaim the gift, so he forebore from pointing out that if Snape had only told him that in the first place, he would not have spontaneously combusted while he slept.

"Certainly." Snape turned away from Harry, and moved across the room. He had signalled the house elves, and breakfast should be on its way.

"Er……Professor………….." Harry, having tried to move his limbs, realized that he was wrapped too tightly within the poultice for more than minimal movement. He flopped on the couch like a landed fish.

"Yes, Potter?" Snape glanced over at his shoulder at Harry. His eyes glinted.

Harry realized, indignantly, that Snape had deliberately left him in this predicament and was actually laughing at him. "Could you help me up, please?" he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

Snape snorted and transfigured the poultice back into its original forms.

"It's a good thing your skin has healed," Snape commented, not looking at Harry, "because you will need to leave today."

"Today? Oh..! Where..?"

"Headquarters. You should be well enough to travel now. To make sure, if you will give me your griffin remains, I will brew you the Elixir. That will strengthen you for the journey. Your skin may still have some residual soreness, and it might need protection, as you will be going by Floo."

"Oh. OK…."

Harry went to fetch clean clothes and to freshen up in the bathroom. He wondered why he didn't feel more overjoyed at the prospect of leaving. Especially after that cataclysmic row last night. But Snape seemed to have decided to ignore the argument is if it had never happened. That suited Harry just fine.

Harry examined his tangled feelings about visiting the Order. He hated 12, Grimmauld Place anyway: ever since Sirius had died. Also, he didn't want to lie to his friends, but he didn't want to explain about the Dursleys either. He was reluctant to explore the reasons why. He felt ashamed about what had happened. He knew it was stupid to feel that way, but he did.

Snape was crotchety and difficult; but he knew all about the Dursleys, and he seemed to understand that Harry didn't want to talk about it. His lack of overt sympathy was easier to live with than fuss and exclamation. Also…Snape was singularly lacking in expectation as far as Harry was concerned. That was sort of refreshing. But of course he was looking forward to seeing Ron and Hermione again.. they could go shopping in Diagon Alley.. he would probably see Tonks and Lupin and Mad-Eye….Harry began to cheer up.

Now he was leaving, the boy looked positively bouncy, I noticed sourly as he returned to the room and began to eat his breakfast. He still picked at his food.

"Potter, the house elves do not prepare meals simply for their own pleasure in grovelling servitude. Eat."

He mumbled something. My ears could not have heard him correctly. I thought he had said "You sound like Hermione."

"I – what?"

"Hermione." The boy was grinning at my discomfiture. "She's always going on about house elf appreciation and so on."

Hmm. I supposed if I were obliged - under threat of death - to sound like any one of the tedious trio, Granger was at least half-way capable of stringing coherent thoughts together. Weasley's brain cell (singular) was likely to expire from loneliness any time soon. And as for Potter…well…I waited, alarmed… I was sickening for something…for one strange moment, I had been unable to recall why sounding like Potter would be so devastating.

Foolish. Gryffindor. Noble. Idiot. And again: idiot.

That was better.

I rose from the table, my mind on the Griffin Elixir I was about to brew.

"Professor?" Potter said in a very small voice. I arched an eyebrow at him. "What did you tell them? The Order, I mean. They know I've been ill, it was in their letters…"

Ah. Now this, I understood.

"I told them you had been taken ill, made a thorough nuisance of yourself, and ruined my vacation. Naturally."

He looked relieved. "So you didn't – the Dursleys –"

"If it makes you feel any better, Potter, everybody's main anxiety is whether you will have survived spending several days alone in my company without permanent damage to your psychological health. I merely informed Mrs Weasley you were ill when I collected you, that you had hurt your head, and were unfit for further travel. She asked how you came to be injured, I told her I had no idea and no interest. She found this entirely plausible. She thinks little enough of your relatives, but struggled to decide whether you would have been better off in their or my tender care."

"Thank you," Potter said quietly.

"I should tell you, however," I added, "that I will be unable to keep the truth from the Headmaster. What you say to anyone else is entirely your own affair."

I made for my laboratory.

"Professor," he said again.

"Yes, Potter?"

"I won't say anything either…about.. you know…"

I paused, then chose to ignore this. "Bring me your griffin bones, Potter. We need to get started. This potion does not take long actually to brew but it is very fiddly and intricate to prepare."

I liked being alone. I did not need the company of anyone else: ever, at all. I was thoroughly looking forward to having Hogwarts back entirely to myself. Yes, most certainly.

Still… I hoped he would be all right at Headquarters. The Weasleys were idiots. Lupin was an idiot. The abysmal Mundungus Fletcher, who continued to haunt 12 Grimmauld Place, was living proof the Dark Lord's obsession with pure-blooded ancestry was wholly misguided. Yes, the world most assuredly was marred by some profound and fundamental design flaw. Not least, it seemed to me, because somewhere along the line I seemed to have acquired some sort of interest in Potter's well-being. I supposed it was rather like spending a lot of money on something in error, and then not wanting to dispose of it simply because it had cost you so much. After all the time and pain I had invested into Potter, I found I had become quite attached to his continuing existence.

So, I brewed his potion with care. They would only blame me, after all, if he fell out of the Floo at the other end in the same sort of state he managed on a regular basis whenever he landed at my feet. I would be in daily expectation of howlers from Molly Weasley, complaining that her precious Potter was too thin, too pale, and altogether too…vulnerable. He still looked as if a good breeze would knock him down. And it probably would. Especially if I had the misfortune to be anywhere nearby.

"Professor?" Potter interrupted my train of thought.

I grunted. He appeared to take this as encouragement.

"Why don't you come to Headquarters?"

Because Dumbledore has imprisoned me in Hogwarts. Without asking me. Like a child in detention. "Because why would I have any desire to lock myself away with a pack of Weasleys and assorted members of an underground resistance group in which I no longer play any active part?"

"Oh. It's just, I wondered whether you'd be OK, you know, here on your own.." His voice trailed off.

I eyed him narrowly. Was the brat daring to suggest I might be lonely? Without him to plague me night and day? Or.... was he questioning whether I would be safe? Now where might Potter have come by the notion that I could be in danger…I had not shared with him my private correspondence…

"Why," I inquired silkily, "do you ask?"

"Well, it's no secret that Voldemort's after you, is it? And Headquarters is supposed to have all these wards around it too, just like Hogwarts, and there're other wizards around there…and here, everyone's away...."

I agreed with him. I saw no reason why Dumbledore couldn't have allowed me to visit London, basing myself at the Order of the Phoenix Headquarters. I would even have put up with the Weasleys for the sake of some freedom of movement, and Merlin knew there were enough of them to stomach. However, as letting Potter know I agreed with him contradicted some deep-seated behavioural codes, I merely growled.

"My movements are no concern of yours, Potter. But, I assure you, I am much moved by this evidence of your care and concern." I sent a sneer in his direction.

He seemed unfazed by the sneer. This was worrying. Spending so much time alone with me appeared to have given him some kind of immunity to lower-level means of intimidation. It would be exhausting if my careful and precisely calibrated set of sneers, glares and scowls had lost their effectiveness in class, and I had to resort to more potent means of terrorization. (After which, I reflected bitterly, he would doubtless find some way to blow himself up, and it would somehow all end up being my fault, and I would have to spend yet more sleepless nights repairing the damage.)

The Elixir was finished. I had brewed the whole lot whilst I was at it; Potter would only need a couple of drops of it for the Floo journey.

"Here you are, Potter." I handed the bottle over. "You will only need two drops of this. Never take more than four drops in one day. Be sure to store the remainder somewhere cool and out of direct sunlight." I racked my brains; Griffin Elixir was a stable and entirely safe healing potion, but if anyone could find a way to turn it into a dangerous, volatile and life-threatening mixture, it would be Potter. "Don't add anything to it. Don't stir it. Don't shake it. In fact, really it would be best if you didn't touch it at all except to gently decant what you need…"

He nodded. I got the distinct impression he was humouring me.

"I'm all ready, then," he said. "Where is the private Floo?"

The private Floo..? He had. The atrocious child had been reading my mail. He could not have known a private Floo even existed otherwise. It was illegal, because it was not registered with the Ministry.

I had engaged in many emotionally fraught and extremely hazardous situations over the years. I had spent days, weeks, living on the edge of my nerves as I betrayed the Dark Lord to his very face. But, I discovered, I really could not be bothered to begin another argument with Harry Potter. The contents of the letter were known to the Order, after all, and Dumbledore had always allowed Potter and his friends access to an unwise amount of Order business.

I sighed to myself and chose to ignore his slip.

"Dumbledore's office," I told him.

And perhaps the boy was not entirely lost to all proper gratitude and appreciation. At least, in his parting words, he did sound sincere.

"I really do want to thank you, Professor," he said to me earnestly. "I know how hard you worked looking after me. And, Quidditch was fun, and even working in the lab…well, anyway. Thanks.."

And then he stepped into the fire.

Peace, at last.

Well: that was the theory.