. Vii. Sick

The next instant he felt something cool and calming on his forehead, and heard a voice that could only belong to one person. "Lie still, Potter." That made him sit up faster than he'd catch a snitch. How strange it was to see a man you last saw writhing in pain on the hard ground surrounded by trim hedges now sitting next to you with that cold, assuming front like you had been the one who had been in trouble. "Head as hard as a brick wall…"

Snape looked different, to say the least. He had ditched the robes, and black sleeves were rolled up to reveal a shamelessly vibrant (still) Dark Mark. It was the first time Harry had ever seen it, and it could only mean one thing: Snape had been taking care of him. No. "Where is Dumbledore?" No. No. Snape was not going to be ruthlessly battered and interrogated for him and then play nursemaid. He had given up too much for him already. No way.

"The Headmaster left hours ago." Raising an eyebrow, Snape stood and walked over to a dresser. On it stood a bubbling cauldron, and Snape emptied the liquid into the bowl with a ladle before returning to the bed. It was just then that Harry realized his room was strewn with numerous ugly substances that stank to high heaven. The Potions Master must have been in his element. Suddenly, Harry felt a sturdy hand supporting the back of his head and the bowl being lifted to his lips. "Swallow. Don't spill. Swallow." Harry obeyed, glad for once at being told what to do.

"It sickens me, what he does," he said lowly, and judging by the look on Snape's face it was nothing new to him. "Obviously." Harry let his face be whipped off again, revelling in how good it felt. Then it hit him. Snape was the most competent staff member at Hogwarts to deal with medicines besides Poppy Pomfrey herself. He probably came back wounded from Death Eater meetings often and as the youngest Potions Master in Britain knew just the right remedies.

But his musings were soon interrupted by the sound of the front door closing- whoever was here was smart enough not to ring the doorbell. Snape left quickly, without the usual billowing effect but just plain black slacks, pushing his sleeves down as he went- which made Harry feel, for a flickering instant, pride. He did not want the guest to see it, but felt comfortable letting Harry see it. He grinned a moment later as Ron entered the room with Fred and George in tow. "Happy birthday, mate!" Their elated expressions soon twisted to those of concern. "How are you?" asked Fred smally, and Harry thought he must still be quite pasty. "I'm fine," he forced a smile, not at all difficult, and Ron looked relieved as he pulled a box out from behind his back and laid it on the nightstand. "It's from Mum. She only wanted a few of us to bother you at a time, hearing how bad you were…" Ron's voice had died to a whisper. "You don't have to tell us, but we were wondering what happened to make you so ill, today…"

Was it his birthday, really? Why else would he have gotten a cake? He knew he was going to tell them, because he always told them, and they needed to know. "It was Snape being tortured by Voldemort. For me." He shuddered. They would never know the horror. Not being able to stop it. None of them knew how to respond to that. George looked around curiously as if to avert his gaze. "This room is in tatters, Harry." "I've been out for a couple of hours." They were so easily distracted. By the light coming in through the windows it appeared to be late afternoon.

"Are Hermione and Ginny coming?" Sadly, George shook his head. "You're pretty shaken up. We weren't supposed to stay long…" "I'll walk you out." But he was too weak. He was too weak, and they weren't going to let him get away with it. It all seemed so familiar, as if it had happened before. "Snape says if you so much as stick a big toe out of bed he will personally murder us. You wouldn't want to be responsible for the untimely deaths of three Hogwarts, would you?" The words were light, but Fred seemed to realize his mistake- a lump seemed to be forming in his throat.

"We were wondering if there was a reason he was more civil today." He actually gulped. "I appreciate you coming, guys." "Mom said not to eat your cake until you're recovered, mate. She's real worried about ya." People were worried about him, they cared about him. Harry gave a true smile now. "Tell her I'll be fine, Ron. Sorry you couldn't stay longer." "We'll be back," Ron returned the smile and departed with his brothers. Harry sighed, left alone with his thoughts.

It wasn't long, though, before the Potions Master returned, looking glum. Harry's heart lurched. "You will need to take a nutritional potion every hour, to speed along your recovery," he was informed. This seemed to pull a string, irritate something deep inside of him. They were going to talk about it, if he had been made to spill his guts about his less-than-glamourous home life. "Mighty speedy recovery you had," he retorted, rude as it was. Snape was snarling now, but it could not bother Harry anymore, and he would not let him hide. "I have my methods. You are a nosy brat, Potter, who has never yet reacted as such to seeing people under the Cruciatus, or severing their own limbs in front of you, or bleeding helplessly when you could not do anything. I might inquire as to that." The sallow face looked triumphant. Snape, turning his nose up at Harry, focused his attention back to the simmering potion.

"It was out of the blue." He knew as soon as it left his lips that Snape would not accept the excuse. "You are exhausting," he said, laying his wand and the full cauldron on the dresser. Then, to Harry's shock, he sat on the end of the bed. For the second time that day. "Quirrell said that day you did not want me to did. I don't want you to die either." He could not meet those hard black eyes. Snape snorted. "I was not dying. It was the Cruciatus. And how touching." There was a hint of amusement in the otherwise dry voice. "The Cruciatus!" Harry screamed. "Reliving your worst nightmares under unendurable-" "I am quite familiar with it. Get. Over. Yourself." He was annoyed now, very. There was a long pause filled with repulsion, and then Snape sighed, giving up.

I am quite familiar with it, the words spun around in Harry's brain. I am quite familiar with it. What else was not being said? And why did it bother him more than- Then he got it. "They didn't do it all the time. Once." It was quieter than he wanted it to be. Swiftly the dark-haired man stood to attend that was making noises now, threatening, which gave him a moment to contemplate the boy's words. He knew he had some explaining to do before the Gryffindor would be satisfied. But of course the twat continued on as if to himself, as if he were alone. "Why did you get so upset? When you found out about the Dursleys?" He hadn't meant to ask it, it gave away too much, but he had been itching to… burning too…

"Let's just say that our childhoods were not all that dissimilar." He held a ladle out to Harry full of moss green liquid and the boy downed it. What? Had Snape been abused too? What else did he not know? It make sense. In class he had ears in the farthest corners and eyes in the back of his head- skills Harry himself had picked up. The way he could out-maneuver you at every turn, almost slippery. It fit, like pieces of a puzzle. It had given him the traits he needed to be a good spy. Harry nodded in understanding but did not dare reply. So the Cruciatus really was nothing. Harry took a deep breath. But why would he ever admit that they were in any way similar?

"How do you do it? All that pain then, how do you keep on now?" He was dying to know, trying desperately to keep a tear from escaping. "You really want to know? You truly believe you are strong enough?" It was a genuine question. Floored, Harry nodded again, seizing the opportunity. His eyes were closed; this time a tear did fall. I hope he didn't see it. "Get up. What day is it, Mr. Potter?" Hastily Harry flung the covers off of himself and stood. "July 31rst, sir." Why was that relevant? "I do believe," continued Snape slowly, as if considering, "that it is customary to give a person a gift when it is that person's birthday." The raised eyebrow was back- he was studying the boy's reaction.

A gift- from Snape? This can't be good. "Follow me. Quickly." The before I change my mind was not necessary; Harry obeyed the sudden orders readily. He was led down the stairs and to the sitting room, much brighter as sun shined in through the pale curtains. Harry watched, unsure, as Snape removed from a brown cabinet a silver basin encrusted with runes and stones, which he placed on the center table.

A Pensieve.

"Dumbledore left it here, strangely enough, and I think I know why," came the explanation. He was going to enter Snape's mysteries- though with permission this time. He held back a shudder as a long, frothy, cloudy strand separated itself from the dark, greasy head and fell neatly into the bowl. Harry was instantly curious. The thoughts began to swirl around- he began to dive-

"Aren't you coming?" The reply was only a venomous hiss in space-

"Absolutely not."