Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and all these other people are characters belonging to J.K. Rowling. I claim no rights to them, their surroundings, or their situations. Much to my sorrow.

-- 4 Snape: Just a Little Unwell

"For the last time, Severus, SIT DOWN." McGonagall's voice held that note of finality that warned she was through arguing. It occurred to Snape, breathless with coughing, that in his current state, he stood very little chance of eluding whatever spell she had planned to keep him stationary if he continued to resist.

So, with as much haughty Slytherin disdain as he was able to muster, he straightened up and rasped, "Very well, Minerva; if you insist on wasting Madame Pomfrey's ti--"

He swore inwardly as his lungs seized up again, resulting in a coughing fit so violent it almost knocked him over. The room spun crazily around him. "Look smart, Poppy, he's about to go over," he heard Minerva say. She and the Healer had evidently been expecting something like this, blast them, and they seized the opportunity to steer him into a nearby chair.

"It's not only smoke you inhaled, you know," Poppy told him, not unkindly, as she fitted another mask over his face and cast a quick charm over it. "You're fortunate you weren't overcome by the fumes; we might never have found out whether you'd suffocated, burned, or been blown up." Snape nodded irritably, noting with a certain detached interest that he was tasting blood, but primarily wishing the woman would go and prattle at someone else so that he could pass out in peace.

Her charm was effective, however; on his next labored breath, soothing vapors rushed into his airways, at once beginning to relieve the irritation. As much as he detested being fussed over (and knowing quite well what he had inhaled, thank you very much, he'd brewed the highly toxic--and highly flammable--concoction himself,) it was a distinct relief to be able to breathe properly again.

The abrupt influx of oxygen made him dizzier still, and he leaned back in the chair, eyes drifting shut as he inhaled deeply, rather enjoying the sensation.

"Merciful heavens, Severus. You've never had much colour, but you were positively ashen up until a moment ago," McGonagall murmured. He wondered, as he always did, whether the concern in her voice was genuine, or merely what was expected of the Head of House Gryffindor. He made a shaky gesture of acknowledgement nonetheless, admitting--very privately--that he ought to have listened to her from the beginning and saved himself this rather humiliating spectacle.

Unfortunately, it had been quite beyond Severus Snape's ability, for many years now, to believe that a word of kind advice was to be taken at face value, until well after the opportunity to do so had passed him by. In his youth, he'd been the brunt of too many cruel pranks disguised as favors. Suspicion had become habit, then second nature.

And of course, it went without saying that among Voldemort's Death Eaters, there was always an ulterior motive...

Even Dumbledore, the only man Snape could call a friend without reservation, had his plots and his ulterior motives. He would go to extraordinary lengths to protect his friends and allies--but Snape suspected that they were all, in the end, expendable in the service of the greater good. Albus included, which was why Severus couldn't hold the man's ideals against him.

Still. When it came right down to it, only one person had ever treated him with unfailing, unconditional kindness. And she had died some sixteen years before, at the hands of his own Master. His fault, in part, for failing to warn her; for waiting too long to sound the alarm; for believing Voldemort when he'd promised that she would come to no harm.

Snape's already feeble ability to trust had been laid to rest with Lily Evans.

Dimly aware that Minerva and Poppy had moved off to let him rest, he slumped low in the chair and let himself drift for a while. Hogwarts was gone...somehow his mind hadn't quite wrapped itself around that fact, despite his acute awareness that the place had very nearly caved in on top of him. His home for more than half his life, blown to smithereens, burnt and blasted...the victim, in the end, of its own spectacular success.

Severus Snape was not prone to tears, even in the worst of times, and they did not come to him now. Still, his chest was feeling uncomfortably constricted again, as was his throat, which was excruciatingly sore to boot. He pulled himself up in his chair, resigned that he had better swallow his pride (metaphorically speaking) and ask Poppy if there was any further treatment she could administer. The prospect of being unable to speak a countercurse, even for a day or two, was very disconcerting.

Perhaps he ought to inform her of the precaution he'd taken earlier, as well...it was due to wear off soon...

But when he opened his eyes, he found he was no longer alone. Sitting in a chair directly across from his own was the third person responsible for Lily Evans' death--her son, Harry. He regarded the Potions Master with an unusually thoughtful expression. Which, for Harry Potter, meant vaguely perplexed rather than smugly self-satisfied.

"What are you looking at, Potter?" Snape started to ask, more off-balance than he wanted to be at the boy's sudden appearance, but he only got as far as "Wha--" before the agonizing pain in his throat forced him to halt, coughing again; not so wrenchingly, now, but it was still most unpleasant.

Potter waited politely until the spasm had passed before replying. "You'd probably do best not to say anything, Professor. Madame Pomfrey said it's a wonder you've still got vocal cords at all." He took a deep breath, as though bracing himself. "But there are some thing I've been wanting to say to you."

Snape debated simply standing up and walking away, but two things prevented him. One, he was still feeling a trifle unsteady, and while he could live with the idea of falling flat on his face in the middle of a crowded room--it wouldn't be the first time--he'd be damned if he was going to do it at Harry Potter's feet.

And two, in spite of himself, he was curious to know why Potter had sought him out. The youth had him at a unique disadvantage. No grade to slash, no detention to hand out, no points to dock House Gryffindor--he hadn't even his own wit to defend himself with. Inwardly he steeled himself, expecting a tirade that had been a long time in coming.

And which, he had to admit--privately--he probably deserved.

"You were right about my father."

Snape lifted his head and stared at Potter, certain he must be hallucinating. "Beg your pardon?" he croaked, quite oblivious to the pain this time.

"I said, you were right about my father," Potter repeated, with the air of someone delivering a speech rehearsed carefully many, many times. "He was an arrogant git. He did like to show off and attract attention. He did fancy himself a celebrity. And he really wasn't all that."

He leaned forward earnestly, his hands clasped together before him in a white-knuckled grip, lowering his voice. "I know I look a lot like my father, Professor Snape, and I do get a lot of attention. But I'm not him. I never asked to be the Boy Who Lived, and I don't pick on people just because they exist. I apologise for the way he treated you, if that makes things any better, but it all happened long before I was born and I can't undo it. So I really wish that when you look at me you'd try to see me, Harry Potter--not my father.

"We might never be friends," he concluded, "but I'm getting really tired of acting like enemies when we're supposed to be on the same side."

Snape was thunderstruck. He'd never expect to hear a speech like that from a Potter if he'd lived to be three hundred. The old grudge he'd nursed so viciously for so very long actually wavered, for an instant.

But then, peering into those brilliant green eyes, he thought he saw something that infuriated him beyond all tolerance. Tearing the mask away from his face, he lurched out of his chair and advanced on Potter, contempt lending him the wherewithal to summon up his usual air of menace.

"I--don't want--your pity, boy," he hissed, the effect somewhat diminished by the halting, gravelly sound of his voice. He swayed dangerously on his feet, staying upright by sheer force of will. But his glare was every bit as poisonous as it had ever been, almost daring the youth to say something snarky, something sarcastic, something...James-ish.

But Harry just met his gaze calmly, and replied with utmost seriousness, "Good, because you haven't got it. You're alive, after all...you got your second chance.

"He didn't."

And with that, Potter stood, thrust his hands into his jeans pockets, and turned away, walking back toward his friends--who though too far away to hear the conversation, had seen the look on the Potions Master's face and were regarding their co-conspirator with something very like awe.

It was just a little too much. There were a thousand things he wanted to say to that infuriating, insolent, self-righteous, pompous...

Oh dear gods, Severus you fool. How could you have forgotten?

Even as the thought struck him, Snape was seized by an acute, unreasoning sense of anxiety. His lungs were cramping up, he couldn't breathe. Sparkling lights danced before his eyes, and all that escaped him was a small strangled noise as the world tilted sharply and slid sideways, his legs abruptly giving way...Merlin's blood, had he really damaged himself that badly...?

As though from a great distance, he heard a high-pitched voice shout "Wingardium Leviosa!" and knew that his fall had been broken.

And that was the last thing he knew, for some time afterward.

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