"He wants to do what?" Harry bellowed.

"Severus Snape wants to call in the life-debt that you owe him. He is planning to invoke an old law, Indenturus indentures one wizard to another for a specified time, normally a year and a day," explained Kingsley.

"What does indenture mean, exactly?" Harry was sure that he knew the answer, but he had to make sure.

"It's a bond, Harry. You'll be bound to him, as his servant, until the debt is paid."

"No way! I don't owe that git anything! He can just go fuck himself as far as I'm concerned," Harry spat viciously.

Arthur Weasley just looked at Harry with a sad but steady gaze. "I'm so sorry, Harry, but I'm afraid you can't refuse."

"Oh can't I? Try just bloody watching me."

"Harry, I feel as awful as Arthur does about this," Kingsley looked as grave as his companion as he spoke, "but you can't refuse his demands. He could have asked for anything, you know. You do owe him several life-debts, after all, so he's actually being rather reasonable."

"REASONABLE!" Harry knew he was shrieking now, but he just didn't care. "How can you call it reasonable that he wants a year of my life? That he wants me to serve him, be his fucking slave for a year. That's like something out of the Middle-Ages, that is. It's fucking barbaric!"

"It is all of those things," replied Arthur Weasley, peering at Harry over his half moon spectacles and reminding him, somewhat uncomfortably, of Dumbledore. "Unfortunately, it is also perfectly legal and there is nothing any of us can do to stop him. Believe me, Harry, we tried everything we could think of before we even contacted you. Snape has obviously thought this out very thoroughly indeed."

"Well, fuck!" Harry threw himself back into his chair; he had never felt so frustrated. It just wasn't fair. He had done what the world had wanted him to do and killed Voldemort. He had given up his childhood for them, his family. Merlin's balls, he'd even been prepared to die for them, and now they were going to give him to Snape. Severus Tobias Snape, the greasy git who should have died from Nagini's savage attack, but who had somehow survived to ruin Harry's life.

"We are sorry, Harry. We really have tried everything." Arthur looked grave and Kingsley, too, looked sad. Harry knew that these two men cared about him; they had shown him so time-after-time. Arthur had welcomed Harry into his home and Kingsley had become a sort of mentor to Harry, something he much appreciated. If they said they had tried everything to help him then he was sure it was so.

Harry sighed and leaned forward to put his head in his hands.

For a long moment nobody spoke.

"Will I have to go and live with him? Do everything he tells me to? What about Ginny?"

"Snape is in Arthur's office. We should go and discuss logistics with him," Kingsley said, his tone kind, "but, yes, it is, quite frankly, almost certain that you'll have to stay with him."

"The indentured service shouldn't affect your relationship with Ginny, though," Arthur added.

"Right!" Harry said bitterly. "My girlfriend won't give a toss that I'm shacked up with a greasy bad-tempered bastard who should, by all rights, be dead!"

The ironic thing was that, until now, Harry had been happy that Snape had survived. He'd spoken for him at the Wizengamot, had even tried to see him once or twice, not that he'd got very far. After sending an owl to ask if they could meet, so that he could return Snape's memories and perhaps learn a little about his mother, he'd received a solicitor's letter telling him to cease bothering Severus Snape and an unbreakable glass phial in which to deposit the memories. He'd heard nothing since… until today.

"What about my training?" Harry almost didn't dare to ask; he'd always wanted to be an Auror. It had taken quite a while for him to be accepted and he had to work really hard in order to prove he was there on his own merit and not because he was the 'Chosen One'. Because he had not finished his 7th year of schooling, he also had to take evening classes in order to complete his NEWTs. He'd done all that they'd asked of him and, so far anyway, he was holding his own. Harry finally felt his classmates and tutors were beginning to respect him, Harry, just for himself and not as The-Man-Who-Defeated-Voldemort.

"That's up to Snape." Kingsley continued to sound sad. He'd been delighted when Harry had become an Auror. He'd told Harry so, told him he was proud and that he knew Harry would do well in his chosen profession.

He couldn't feel as badly as Harry did though, because Harry was near to feeling hysterical. It wasn't fucking fair, he just wanted to be left alone, to live his life as he wanted, he and Ginny.

Harry turned his face up to the ceiling so that he could blink away the tears that were gathering in his eyes. For a moment Harry felt total and utter despair. Why him? Why did it always have to be Harry? Other people got the lives they wanted; got to marry the girls they loved, have jobs and families. He took several deep breaths and then brought his chin back down so he could look Arthur and Kingsley in the eye again.

"Okay, I'll be a good boy. Just tell me what I have to do?"

"I'm sorry, Har…"

"Don't, Mr. Weasley, please." Harry's voice broke on the last word. "Let's just do this and get it out of the way."

Harry had been having a good day, a great day, at least until now. He'd had lunch with Ron and Hermione; he was supposed to be having dinner with Ginny. His training was going well. All in all, he'd been enjoying life-after-Voldemort; he should have known that something was bound to go wrong.

Snape looked terrible. Harry thought it was a miracle he'd survived this long. His skin was chalky-white and flaky. His eyes looked hollow, the dark irises hard and stony. There was no mercy in those eyes. Not that Harry expected any mercy from Snape.

The man looked up as Harry walked in and those thin lips of his curled into a supercilious sneer. "Potter, you finally got off your arse to meet your obligations then."

Harry didn't answer him. Snape's voice had become nothing more than a rasp, his throat wrapped in a dirty, grey cloth. His hair was greasier than ever and his face was pinched with pain. Harry almost felt sorry for him, would have felt sorry for him if the ugly bastard hadn't just ruined his life.

Snape stood. "Shacklebolt, let's get on with it. I haven't got all day. I'm not a rich, young playboy without obligations; I have commitments."

Harry could feel his ire rising. "I'm not a playboy either, Snape, and I do have obligations too."

Snape sneered at him. "Yes, well, I'm sure your little playmates will still be here in twelve months time."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Kingsley interrupted. "Shall we get the ceremony out of the way?"

"What ceremony?"

"You have to be bound to Snape." Kingsley sounded resigned.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Harry said. "I've said I'd do it. Why do we have to go through some sort of ceremony?"

"So the magic knows the debt is being paid," Arthur answered.

"So that you cannot renege," Snape interjected in snide tones.

"I won't bloody renege."

"So you say, but I'm afraid that I trust no-one, Potter. Not even the Golden Boy himself."

Kingsley produced a cuff, a silver one. "You have to wear this, Harry, on your wand arm. It'll bind you to Snape and I'm afraid it'll bind your magic, too."

Harry just shook his head. This was so typical of his life—a cuff, to bind his magic?

"You can't refuse, Potter. The cuff is mandatory."

"I shook my head in disbelief, not dissension," Harry snapped.

"Severus…" Kingsley growled, his tone one of warning. "Harry is here to do as you asked. He isn't being difficult. He hasn't refused. Can we at least be civilised about this?"

Snape scowled. "Potter is here for one reason and one reason only, because he has to be. Do not think that I have to or, indeed, will be nice to him. I am calling in my debt because I need to. Just get the cuff on him and we'll be leaving."

Harry felt like exploding with anger. He was giving up everything, for a whole year, and the git was acting as if he were the one being difficult! He turned to say something rude and scathing and then he looked at Snape, really looked at him. The man seemed to Harry to be on the edge of coming apart. His eyes betrayed him. Sometime in the last year or so, Harry had grown tall enough to look Snape in the eye and all he could see now was despair.

Harry didn't know what the hell was going on with the man, but he did owe Snape a lot… he owed him his life.

"Let's just do it, get it over with," Harry said tearing his gaze away from those haunted eyes and extending his wand arm. "Put the damn cuff on, will you?

Harry staggered and stumbled on exiting the floo into Spinner's End, where the potions master had sent him ahead, apparently not trusting him to follow, but managed not to fall on his face as per usual. Brushing soot from his clothes, he glanced up to take in the room, stood stock still, and gasped. Snape's house was absolutely filthy.

He spun around as a crashing noise behind him heralded Snape's emergence headlong out of the floo, where he quite literally collapsed into Harry's arms, unconscious. In all of Harry's memory, Snape had never behaved in such a manner; he was always calm and dignified. Still in shock from the filth surrounding him and further stunned by the turn of events, Harry proceeded to half carry, half drag the comatose man upstairs to one of the two small, cramped bedrooms. It seemed ridiculous that the towering bat of his childhood had become so fragile and weighed so little.

The bed was filthy, too, and there were no clean sheets, no clean clothes, nothing clean at all. Just looking around the house made Harry's flesh crawl as everything was dirty. The windows, the furniture, even the walls. Obviously, Snape had been too ill, too weak to do anything about it.

"Oh Merlin, Snape," Harry said to the unconscious man, "what the fuck happened to you?" He'd been so angry today, furious with the man for being so arrogant, for ruining his life. All he felt now was pity, but he decided to keep that to himself, knowing that Snape would prefer his anger.

In desperation, (as he didn't feel that he could lay Snape down in such filth) Harry fished for his wand, which was in his back pocket. Only his left hand was free, as his other arm still supported Snape. He cast a weak Scourgify on the sheets before placing Snape gently onto the bed and then went in search of clean bandages; he could find neither.

Harry'd never cast magic before using his left hand, but he'd long ago learned to do everything else with it. He'd had to learn as a kid, it being prudent to do so after one too many overenthusiastic arm twists from Dudley, a strained wrist and, on one occasion, a broken arm. So, he wasn't surprised at how easily he managed left handed wand use, or the fact that his spell was definitely weak. No, he was rather surprised that he could cast anything at all. After all, Kingsley had warned Harry that he would not be able to cast any magic while he wore the 'cuff'; that's why it had been placed around the wrist of his wand arm in the first place. But then Harry had never been one to fall into the 'norm' when it came the wizarding world. In this case, Harry was extremely grateful for whatever help he could extract from his magic, bound or not.

They'd argued in Kingsley's office, he and Snape; the other man insisting they leave right away and Harry refusing to do so until he'd written to his friends and Ginny, and gathered some things together. Snape had also insisted that Harry leave his wand behind, but Harry had tucked it away in his pocket. Snape might have control of Harry's life for now, but Harry was going to fight him every step of the way. That's how he had always survived after all, by being bloody difficult.

But looking at his former professor lying on grey bedding on the battered iron bed, pale, clammy and very obviously ill, Harry was sorry he'd fought him so hard. He was still shocked at the meanness of Snape's living arrangements, the poverty of it; he deserved so much more than this. No one deserved to live in such a run-down, filthy place.

Harry had no clear idea where Snape's house was located, but he was sure of three things: there was no food in the house, absolutely nothing to clean with, and not a first aid item or bandage anywhere. So, after making Snape as comfortable as he could, and circumstances being what they were, he set off to find some provisions.

Harry pretty well figured they were still in England but from the little he'd seen through the grimy windows the street outside could have been in any number of places. Upon leaving the house and walking down said street he half thought it might be a town in Northern England, a mill-town of some sort, which looked a bit seedy and run down, somewhere definitely going through hard times. It was a grey day, but Harry felt good to be out in the fresh air and away from the dank, dreary house that was Snape's home. There was a large, abandoned mill-building at one end of the street, so Harry, deciding it was probably a dead-end, had chosen the other direction. After a few minutes of walking the clouds cleared and all at once it was sunny and a tad warmer, not that sunshine made the street any more welcoming. Harry supposed if he waited a few more minutes it would begin to rain again—after all, he had already decided he was still in England.

Whistling tunelessly to himself, Harry traversed the path along the canal bank opposite Snape's house. A number of the houses were boarded up, graffiti decorating the wood and everything looked sad and shabby. Someone had left a supermarket trolley on the bank; twisted and rusty, it was partly tangled in a hawthorn bush. Spying it, Harry was sure there had to be a shop nearby somewhere. He had a Muggle cash card with him, one that he carried everywhere, so he wasn't worried about paying for food and supplies.

His wrist had started to tingle when he left the house, though he'd only really noticed it in retrospect, after a little while longer it began to burn with pain. By the time he returned thirty minutes later, he was in such agony that he was ready to rip his arm off. He'd only made it as far as the corner shop at the end of the road and back again by sheer bloody-mindedness. The cramped little shop had been quite well stocked, however, and Harry managed to procure enough bits and pieces to keep them going for a day or two, which was all he could manage under the circumstances. There was probably a big supermarket somewhere—as indicated by the trolley—but Harry had no idea where it might be and after twenty-something minutes away from Snape's place he was in too much pain even to think of looking further.

Snape was still unconscious when he got back, for which Harry was exceedingly grateful, because the way Harry felt he'd have ripped Snape's arm off if the bastard had been awake… and probably end up regretting it.

There was a rather ancient Muggle washing-machine in the kitchen, but it seemed to work. Harry filled it with soiled bedding and worn pyjamas and then set to work cleaning the kitchen. He had managed to remove Snape's pyjamas, the sheets and blankets, and mattress-protector, from a mattress that wasn't dirty, amazingly enough, without the use of any magic. His magic seemed to have totally deserted him, possibly because of all the pain he'd been in, or maybe because of the spell he was under. Harry sighed to himself; he was sure he'd have plenty of time to find out.

Once the first lot of bedding was clean and dry he took it upstairs and started on Snape. The man was as filthy as his house, his hair and body matted and caked with grime. But before Harry could start to bathe Snape, he had to clean the bath which was streaked with the same brownish-grey grime.

Like everything else in the house the bathroom seemed to be falling apart. The fittings were old and the plastic bath was a yucky avocado colour. The water-heater clanked and groaned as it heated the water—Harry thought it was almost certainly older than himself… ha, it was probably older than Snape, come to think about it. However, once he finally cleaned it, no easy task he found, it did produce enough hot water to at least give the man a decent bath. Leaving the tub to fill, Harry returned to the bedroom and Snape.

Harry had left Snape on the bare mattress, wrapped in a towel to protect his modesty. He wanted to take care of the man for some reason, wanted to help him. He sighed, his saving people thing kicking in with a vengeance again. "I'm such a bloody push-over for a sob-story," he muttered, grumpily. "You should have just asked for help you stupid sod," he told the unconscious man. "I'd have helped you, the Weasleys would have helped too; you only had to ask, you cantankerous arse."

For some reason, insulting Snape, even if he was unconscious, seemed to help Harry, if only a little.

Snape didn't say anything at all, he didn't even stir.

The bandages were damp now as well as dirty. They were stuck fast to the man's skin and Harry had to find a knife to cut them away. The wounds were still open and weeping blood; Snape wasn't healing properly and Harry was worried he might develop an infection.

"It would be so much easier if you'd let me use my magic, you bad-tempered bastard," Harry muttered as he pulled on the pink rubber gloves he'd bought at the corner shop. "I look bloody stupid in these, but I've got to clean out these bite-marks or you are never going to get well. Mr. Weasley's wounds took weeks to get better and I have no idea how they managed it; I'm not a healer, after all. Magic didn't work—I know that much, so we'll just have to get you better the Muggle way, eh? Fancy getting yourself bitten by a bloody great snake! Silly sod!"

By this time Harry had recovered enough magic to produce a weak levitation spell which allowed him to get Snape to the bath and the sleeping man afloat whilst Harry made up the bed with the freshly laundered bed-linen. Returning to the tub, Harry worked slowly and methodically, he cleaned both the man and his wounds and then re-bandaging him, dressed him in clean, if somewhat faded pyjamas, and finally returned Snape to a clean, warm bed.

"I found you an extra pillow and you have clean sheets and blankets again now. I think you're probably just exhausted, because you're not hot so you don't have a temperature. If you're not any better in a day or two then I'll maybe find you a doctor, but God knows what some GP would make of you.

"It'll be better now you're clean and I reckon you'll probably sleep until tomorrow. I'm going to go and carry on cleaning the kitchen, because if I cook anything in that mess, I'll probably come down with food-poisoning. It wouldn't harm you of course. Even Nagini couldn't kill you, hmm? A few simple germs wouldn't stand a chance; they'd probably get snarked to death."

Harry piled the dirty old bandages into the bowl he'd brought with him from the kitchen and took off the pink-rubber-gloves. "I don't know why I'm talking to you like this… it's not like you can hear me or anything. I'll pop in and check on you later, see if you've woken up.

"Oh well, Harry, from house-elf to the Dursleys to a house-elf for a git. I suppose at least you won't make me sleep in a cupboard," Harry snorted. "Your cupboards are probably as full of junk as the rest of this house."

As the potion master slept, Harry wandered slowly back to the kitchen, noticing here and there signs that the man had tried to clean-up at one point, before he'd given up, too weak or ill to do anymore. Harry's heart clenched with pity yet again; somehow the fact that the grime had bothered Snape enough to make him try to clean-up, and then fail to manage it, seemed worse than him not minding at all. But how could anyone not have minded this?

He felt very weary; being angry did that to him. He just wanted to rest, but he had to clean the kitchen first and then he had to find some clean bedding for himself.

Severus couldn't move. He knew it was a side-effect of the venom, this paralysis, but the attacks were becoming more frequent and severe. He'd run very low on money to buy more potions ingredients with which to treat himself and his magical strength seemed to be dwindling along with his finances; he was even almost out of antivenin, the last batch he'd been able to brew. He'd been taking it dutifully but he knew deep down the potion wasn't nearly as strong as it should be and there was nothing he could do about it. It was at this point he'd simply decided he couldn't cope anymore on his own, hence his carefully considered plan involving calling in his life-debts with Potter. Somehow he'd managed to keep himself together in Weasley's office, but once he arrived back at home the venom had overwhelmed him once again.

It was like being under Petrificus Totalis except that his limbs were not rigid; instead, it felt as if he'd been transfigured into a ragdoll. He could feel everything that Potter did to him and hear every word he spoke. He wanted to hex the boy; he hated feeling helpless.

He felt himself being carried upstairs and placed on his filthy bed, then he heard Potter leave and the front door close. For a short while he panicked as bitter tears prickled at the corner of his eyes, but he couldn't let them flow, he wouldn't be able to wipe his eyes or blow his nose… he could choke to death. Potter shouldn't have been able to leave; the cuff should have stopped him. It would have to be bloody Potter who overcame such strong binding magic.

The tears wouldn't seem to go away, his nose prickled with the effort of trying not to cry. His mother had always said that self-pity brought tears to the driest eyes. She must have been right, because Severus hadn't cried since Lily's death and he preferred not to think that he was brought so low by despair.

Severus had tried so hard to manage alone, but it had become harder and harder as his strength and savings became more and more depleted. Officially, he'd been cleared. He'd even been awarded an Order of Merlin (third class), but no-one would employ him or help him. When he'd finally reached the decision to use the life-debts Potter owed him, he'd felt a glimmer of hope and began to wonder if he might make it through this after all. Now, with Potter just walking out, he didn't know what to do.

Bloody Potter shouldn't have been able to leave him here alone. It wasn't fucking fair!

Severus must have slept for a while. He awoke to a feeling of panic when he felt himself being lifted. Who could be moving him? But the paralysis was still in force and his eyes remained firmly shut; he couldn't fight, couldn't struggle, couldn't move. Though, as it turned out, he didn't need to—it was only Potter who was gently lifting him from his bed to remove the sheets underneath and his filthy clothes. He felt so helpless.

"S'alright, Professor. I'm just gonna get you clean. It must have been awful being this dirty, hmm?" He'd never realised Potter's voice could be so soothing. When had he come back, had the magic compelled him? He wanted to slap the boy away, but the thought of being clean was such a wonderful one; besides, he couldn't slap anyone… he still couldn't move.

Potter was unbelievably gentle as he took Severus' clothing off but he wanted to beg the man to stop, to let him be. He didn't want to be seen like this, not by anyone and especially not by Potter. It was his own fault though, wasn't it? He should never have contacted James bloody Potter's whelp, but what else could he have done. He'd had nowhere else to turn.

The odious boy kept talking, wittering on about inconsequentials and Severus wanted to bellow at him to shut up, but he couldn't do that either.

He was helpless, totally, fucking helpless. A tear escaped and trailed down Severus' cheek. "Oh, Professor," Potter said in that annoyingly soothing tone that he seemed to have adopted and then he wiped away the tear; Severus would have bitten him if he could.

He nearly fainted from the pain, when Potter cut away the bandages and then again in the tub when the wounds were cleaned. He tried to concentrate on Potter's voice instead, but Potter was insulting him, blathering on about rubber-gloves and house-elves, total and utter fucking nonsense of course—but then everything the brat said was complete nonsense, always had been. Severus wondered, if he made it through this, whether he would die from the total banality of Potter's company.

Severus was alone when next he awoke, but this time he could open his eyes. The curtains were drawn back and sunlight flooded in, and he knew this time the tears that sprang to his eyes were because of the light, or so he told himself at least.

"Hey, Professor, you're awake! About time too." The boy entered the room carrying a tray. Severus could just see the brat from the corner of his eye. For someone who'd recently found out that he was to become indentured for a year, he didn't seem too upset. No wonder Severus hated him, he was both cheerful and optimistic; he was such a bloody Gryffindor.

"Let's get you sitting-up, then," Potter said, before unceremoniously hauling him upright. Well, if Severus were honest he'd actually been quite gentle, but Severus refused to feel generous towards Potter.

"Right," Potter continued firmly, "because you are a twisted bastard, who won't let me use my magic, I can only manage one spell at a time, then I can't perform more for ages; I propose to evacuate your bowls and bladder. That'll be a lot more dignified than me taking you to the loo, huh?"

Severus tried hard to scowl, but his face was still mostly paralyzed. The spell tingled as Potter waved his wand, which he wasn't even supposed to have, in his left hand. So that was how the cocky little sod had done it. Potter still going his own way, breaking the rules left, right, and centre. That wasn't supposed to be possible, most wizards could only use one hand to cast. The devil-child would have to be different of course. Severus promised himself that as soon as he felt better he was going to make Potter really suffer.

"Okay, it seems to me that we've got a few problems we have to get round." Severus closed his eyes and wished the evil brat away. Why did he have to be so disgustingly cheerful?

"My magic is limited," Potter continued, "because of this daft bond thingy." He waggled his right hand back and forth as if to illustrate his point. "So I can't Apparate and get any stuff for potions, not that I could probably make any potions even if you did have the right stuff. So I reckon we're gonna have to do this the Muggle way. Now I don't know if Muggle drugs work on wizards. I bought some Ibuprofen cos the chemist said most people aren't allergic, and he also said that it helps bring down fever; I also bought paracetamol, cos I wasn't sure whether that would be better.

"But we have a problem—you obviously still can't talk and I reckon that throat of yours hurts like a bitch, so somehow we're going to have to communicate."

The brat sat down on Severus' bed and looked at him with his head cocked to one side. Severus insisted to himself that he looked like a demented chicken and certainly was not rather adorable like that; green eyes sparkling and hair all which way and that. Severus decided he really must be ill if he was finding the brat attractive; either ill or insane… most likely it was because of the pain… probably. He wished he was able to speak, then he'd tell the oaf what he thought of him. Potter'd had seven years of magical education, he should easily have been able to brew a potion to reduce pain. Severus refused to acknowledge the tendrils of guilt, which suggested the boy's lack of knowledge in potions had anything to do with himself.

"From what I can gather, you are able to blink your eyes, yeah?" queried Potter, wrenching Severus' attention back to him. He wanted to growl, sear the boy with sharp words, but instead he did the only thing he could do, he blinked as Potter's face broke into the most amazingly wide, satisfied, grin.

"Great! That's great! Erm… right, I think, blink once for yes and twice for no."

Severus glared at him.

"Okay, just blink for yes… you can glare for no, you're good at that! First of all, do you think Muggle drugs will help you with the pain?"

Severus wanted to scream, being helpless like this was unbearable. But he had to bear it, didn't he? He didn't have a choice.

He sighed; at least he could still do that. Then he blinked. Once.

"So, which one?" Potter held up the Ibuprofen first and Severus glared at him. Ibuprofen had an anti-platelet effect and wouldn't help with the bleeding, the still constant, steady bleeding from his wounds.

"Paracetamol it is then." Potter sounded relieved. "I'm gonna mash the pills up and spoon feed them to you, then I'm going to give you some water. That okay?" Severus blinked wearily and let the boy tend to him.

He must have slept again, but when he awoke Potter was still there and still smiling. Severus didn't know if he'd been there all the time or had gone away and come back. He wanted to smack the smug little brat, but he still couldn't move.

"You're awake again," Potter was saying.

"Nothing like stating the obvious, Potter," Severus rasped.

"Oh, you can talk now," Potter said, stating the obvious, yet again.

Severus didn't bother to reply.

"Can you move?"

He still couldn't do that, he could glare though, so he did.

"I need a potion."

"Yeah, I thought you might say that, but I'm no good at potions, you should know that."

Severus growled. "I brewed them, idiot. Work-room, door off kitchen, box labelled Antivenin. Fetch it."

"Oh, oh right," Potter said. "I'll be right back."

Severus breathed a sigh of relief, at last he'd be able to move again. He closed his eyes, tried to still his breathing and relax his sore throat. In what seemed like no time, Potter was back. "Here you go, Professor, we'll get this down you.

The boy was surprisingly gentle as he put a hand behind Severus' head and lifted him up so that he could give Severus the potion.

Afterwards he carefully lowered Severus back down, his hand brushing accidentally against Severus' cheek.

"Right, now we've got that down you let's get you fed. I know you say you're not hungry, but we've got to build you up. I've made some soup."

Severus wanted to tell the stupid idiot that he didn't want any bloody soup, but his throat still hurt, 'like a bitch,' as Potter would have said.

"Not hungry."

"You might not feel hungry but you do need to eat, Professor."

He still couldn't move his arms or almost anything else but perhaps the potion was working already, because it seemed that he could now move his head, he turned it away.

"Oh for fuck sake!" Potter sounded exasperated. "Look you old bastard, you need to get better because right now I am stuck here thanks to this stupid fucking bond that you forced on me. I can't leave for longer than half an hour, my magic's restricted so I can't seem to fire-call anyone or Floo out of here. This place seems to be under Fidelius because I can't even get anything delivered and I can't tell anyone where I am or even who I'm with. So you will drink this soup or I will pour it down your throat and you will let me help you or else I'll…"

Potter turned away. He was breathing hard. Severus thought he slammed the soup down on the bedside table; it made a definite slurping sound. He also suspected it had probably spilled a little, because the boy made a sort of strangled sound of frustration and stomped out of the room.

Severus turned to look in the direction the young man had gone. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest.

Seconds later the brat was back, looking cross and clutching a cloth.

"You are impossible!" he said, tightly. "I am sick of you already. God knows how I'm going to last a year! I am bloody trying here. I had a life! Plans, things I wanted to do. But I'm stuck in this fucking dump, fucking scrubbing and cleaning yet again."

The boy looked upset, really upset. For a brief second, Severus felt a pang of guilt, but he ruthlessly ignored it. The boy owed him a lot and Severus had no-one else.

So he let Potter prop him up against the pillows without a word and didn't even glare when the young man used his rather crude cleaning charms once again.

The soup was delicious, though he suspected it would have tasted better if it wasn't tinged with resentment. Potter spoon-fed him like a baby and then dosed him with more paracetamol after which he slept again.

Two days later, he could move his arms once more and his upper torso, only his lower body and his legs were still paralysed. Potter sat him on the sofa, under a blanket and went to make some tea. The sitting room was tidier and cleaner than Severus had ever seen it and there was a roaring fire in the grate. It looked like the boy had even dusted Severus' books. He could barely contain his worry any longer, the potion should have worked more rapidly than this, it had last time after all. Even though his bite marks had never completely healed, he'd been able to walk, he'd been able to perform magic, unlike now when he couldn't do either. He felt panicky, more scared than he'd ever felt. He hated being so helpless, so he took his feelings out on the Potter brat.

"I hadn't realised you were so domesticated," Severus sneered nastily.

Potter glared at him. "You probably don't know nearly as much about me as you think you do," he sneered back, in a fair approximation of Severus own tone. "However, I have always known you were a fucking bad-tempered bastard."

Severus almost smiled. He couldn't help it, but over the past few days he had developed a sort of sneaking admiration for the boy. He knew he was not the easiest of individuals at the best of times and he'd been in a pretty desperate state when he'd finally decided he had no option but to call in Potter's life-debts. Severus' plan had been to show the boy how to look after him, then send him to sell some of the rarer volumes of books he owned, thereby providing funds. He needed money, lots of it. He had to buy potion ingredients, the best ones, which would allow him to be able to make the antivenin once again in the proper strength this time. He feared that he might have to take the antivenin regularly for the rest of his life.

Severus had collected a number of valuable books over the years, but none of them was easily accessible. He'd been too weak to go up to the attic and get them, sort them, take them to be sold. So, there they sat, Severus' investment, totally useless to him. Until he'd had the brilliant idea of using Potter's debts to himself in order to inveigle the brat into doing his bidding. Potter, however, was becoming a conundrum and Severus wasn't sure he liked that. The boy was far more hard working than Severus had ever suspected he would be, far less complaining too, especially as Severus did his best to be especially nasty to the boy… to the young man.

He wasn't going to tell Potter about his developing but grudging admiration, though. "It is probably only my bad-temper that has kept me alive," he said with satisfaction, and smirked.

Potter seemed to sag. He ran a hand through his hair, making it look messier than ever. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Yeah, I can see how that would happen. People aren't exactly seeking you out for your looks and charm, are they?"

Severus was sure that his jaw had dropped. The boy obviously wasn't scared of him any longer, though he was sure he had been at school.

"Cheeky brat!" he said, somewhat surprised that he felt no rancour whatsoever.

Potter grinned. "Fancy that tea now?"

Severus almost smiled back at him. Almost. He forced himself to glare instead. He was not getting to like Harry Potter, he told himself, and he certainly didn't admire the boy's pert little arse as the young man stood and made his way to the clean and tidy kitchen to make him a cup of tea.

The days wore on, each one as long and as empty as the last. Severus was used to being busy, used to his independence; this enforced rest was slowly driving him mad. Potter dutifully woke him every day, bathed him and carried him downstairs. He tried to suppress the frustration he felt and be, at the very least, polite to Potter… and consistently failed. He was so weak and the fear that his magic was gone for good kept niggling away at the back of his mind. He snarled at the boy when asked if he would lift the restriction on Potter's magic. Potter was forever whining that things would be so much easier if he could use spells. Severus sneered at him constantly and belittled him as much as he possibly could; the last thing he wanted was for Potter to find out that he couldn't lift the restriction. He preferred the boy to think he was nasty and mean rather than weak, but he suspected that Potter, even though a somewhat dim Gryffindor, had guessed the truth.

Every three days Severus took another phial of potion, but nothing changed: his legs continued to have no feeling and refused to work for him in any fashion, and there was still no sign of his magic returning. Slowly, bit-by-bit, Severus grew more desperate and therefore increasingly bad-tempered, only finding cursory satisfaction when he got through Potter's air of calm and disturbed the man's equilibrium. After his initial tantrum over Severus' demands, the Gryffindor had been unaccountably mature about the whole situation and Severus could not be comfortable with that. It was just too far away from his perceptions of James Potter's son.

Finally the day came when he only had six phials of potion left and still no sign of improvement. There was nothing for it, he had to make more potion, a stronger version, with the best ingredients rather than what he was sure were the cheapest sweepings from the apothecary floor. For that he needed money and to get money he needed Potter's help.

They were sitting side-by-side on Severus' battered settee and drinking tea out of thick china mugs that Severus rarely used. They were old, tea-stained and looked very unprepossessing; he'd not wanted to use any of them.

But Potter had somehow, without the use of magic, managed to get them clean. He almost asked how the boy had managed it but decided he did not want to sound like a television advert for cleaning products. He'd sunk low enough in his life already.

"Potter, I need you to go up to the attic."

Potter looked sideways at him. "The attic?"

"Yes, I have some books up there I need you to fetch. Several boxes full of books, in fact."

"Okay. Do you want me to go now?"

"No, finish your tea first."

Potter did as he was told, watching Severus carefully from over the rim of his cup, his green eyes wary, perhaps prepared for yet another quip about his abilities, or rather Severus' perceived lack of them. But Severus didn't say anything at all, he was far too tired and he just couldn't find it in himself to mean the words right then anyway.

Potter had cobwebs in his hair. He looked ridiculous in Severus' opinion. He also looked less like his father than he used to. Whilst the boy's face had matured, it would never be traditionally good-looking, his features being a little too fine to be truly masculine. He had a straight nose with a smattering of freckles, a heart-shaped face and lips that Severus would have called kissable, if, of course, they had belonged to anyone other than Potter.

Then there were those eyes, undoubtedly Lily's eyes. They truly were beautiful, so beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful. They resembled uncut emeralds, deep green and multi-facetted, and they were shining with enthusiasm right now. Severus looked away. It must be the boredom, he told himself quite firmly, being stuck here, immobilised that was making him notice things about Potter. He'd spent years trying to ignore the annoying little brat as much as he could and when he hadn't been looking, Harry Potter had become a man.

Severus would have expected the boy to stomp about, refusing to help and lazing around like the spoiled Gryffindor he was. But Potter had surprised him, even if he only admitted it to himself. And Potter kept surprising him. For example, he would never have thought the boy would be so interested in books; he'd never read anything at Hogwarts, not unless he'd had to… or had he?

"Wow, Professor, these are amazing," Potter enthused, as he carefully emptied the boxes. "Some of these must be really old."

"They are," Severus told him. He was getting increasingly annoyed by the boy's apparent need to keep calling him by the outdated honorific.

"My name is Snape, call me that, or call me sir. I am no-longer your professor, or anyone else's for that matter," he snapped.

Potter just looked up at him with those wide green eyes of his, and then shrugged.

"Whatever."

The boy didn't look at him again and Severus felt a pang of regret for dousing that unexpected spark of enthusiasm. Instead, the boy turned back to his task, lifting each one of the books out of the boxes as carefully as the first and dusting it before placing it on a table beside Severus. The boy had moved the table closer without being asked, so that he could reach over and handle the books himself. Severus thought it curious; he wouldn't have believed Potter to have had that much initiative.

"Oh wow, pro… sir, look at this." The enthusiasm was back. In his hands the boy held a very battered hard-backed copy of a children's book.

"The Little Prince. I loved it when I was a kid; it was my very favourite story. Dudley had a copy, but Vernon decided it was far too poncy for his son so he actually gave it to me. I think it was the only decent thing he ever gave me.

"It doesn't look as valuable as the rest of the books. Do you mind if I read it?"

Severus wanted to say yes, he minded, and snatch the book back. The Little Prince had also been his favourite book when he was small, and this particular copy had been given to him by his mother. She'd always called Severus her 'little prince'; in fact, he thought it was inscribed to that effect and he wasn't sure he wanted Potter reading his mother's words. It was too late now, however, for he'd left it too long to refuse and he couldn't really rip it out of the boy's hands. He simply wasn't strong enough and, not only that, it would have been far too revealing as to how precious the book was to him.

He wasn't planning to sell that particular book anyway: it was irreplaceable. "You had better take care of it Potter because if it gets damaged then you will truly suffer. Now hurry up and keep sorting the books. I need to sell them and you will be doing the posting."

Leaving Snape to the contemplation of his books, Harry was washing-up the tea things, the Muggle way, and staring out of the window at the fine March day.

The last two weeks had been awful for Harry. In many ways it had been like a return to the Dursleys, though he could never imagine Aunt Petunia allowing her home to get into the sort of state that Snape's house was in. The place was cold and lonely and deeply depressing as well. If Snape had been here, on his own, since the final battle against Voldemort… well, it was no wonder he'd commandeered Harry into service the way he had. He could almost taste his ex-professor's desperation, so tangible had it seemed.

He felt sorry for the man, but also a great deal of admiration for what Snape had managed to do, how he managed to survive. Still, Harry couldn't like him. He was so prickly, so cantankerous, so downright bloody nasty. Harry had been at Spinner's End for nearly seventeen days, though it felt much longer. Every day had felt endless and he was beginning to feel desperately lonely. Snape had spent the entire time belittling Harry, making fun of him, undermining everything he did.

Each morning Harry carried him downstairs and propped him on the sofa. Then he would head out to the shop and stock up on whatever they needed.

Snape still refused to release the charm on the bracelet so that Harry could venture further afield. He said it was because he was punishing Harry for his stupidity, but Harry suspected Snape was not telling him the whole truth.

He repeatedly told Harry he was quite ridiculously idiotic for having left a house under Fidelius without having been given the address by the secret-keeper. He'd only managed to get back at all, it seemed, because of the charmed cuff, which tied him to Snape. Unable to harm his 'master' or his 'master's' house, Harry had been allowed to enter the wards. How Harry was supposed to have known any of this, when Snape had been unconscious and no-one else had seen fit to tell him, Harry didn't know.

He pointed out, rather resignedly, that he'd had to leave the house, otherwise they might have starved, but was still berated for stupidity. Finally, Snape relented enough to give Harry the address on a tiny scrap of lined Muggle paper. But he refused to extend the time Harry could be away from the property, so every time Harry went to the shop, which was almost daily, he had to sprint and then stagger back to the door, almost blinded by pain, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.

Harry would have given anything for a day off, some time to go and see his friends, Ginny, hell he'd have gone and hung out with Malfoy if it had been possible, anything to get away from the sarcasm and the ire of the invalided Snape.

However, it wasn't all bad, occasionally it was almost companionable. They'd had one or two interesting conversations and Snape had almost laughed once or twice. But how Harry was going to stand a year of this, he didn't know. Lately he'd taken to staring at the back garden, out of the tiny kitchen window. It was as much a mess as the house had been, but spring was definitely in the air now and Harry itched to be outside. He was sure it would do Snape good as well. Maybe he could get some seeds next time he went to the shop.

The chores he'd hated the least at the Dursley's were the ones in the garden. Petunia liked the garden to be neat and tidy, with all the plants forced into serried rows. In Snape's garden, small green shoots were beginning to peek up through the soil. It wasn't a huge space but Harry was sure he could grow some vegetables and some useful potions plants; he determined to discuss it with Snape.

"Potter! Come here."

Harry sighed, and rolled his eyes, the old git treated him far too much like a dog. "Woof, woof," Harry said, under his breath. He looked at his watch, an analogue with a cracked face, yet another leftover of his childhood with Dudley—but he was grateful he had it here, as he didn't seem able to cast a tempus charm; he tried not to cast anything if he could help it. He'd discovered his magic grew a little stronger if he didn't use it for a day or two and most of the time he got by without it. After his childhood and long summers 'sans magic', Harry thought he was amongst a small number of wizards who could survive any length of time without access to spells. But right now it was time for Snape's next dose of antivenin, so Harry got a clean tumbler from the cupboard and set off to give the grumpy git his potion.

Snape's last few phials of antivenin were kept in a room that may once have been a tiny dining room, but which was now a makeshift potions workroom. Snape wouldn't let Harry tidy this room due to his apparently unaltered belief that he was both clumsy and unorganized. The cantankerous sod seemed to believe he would never again find anything if Harry touched the contents of his workshop. The fact that he was unable to clean it himself, not to mention his current state of dishabille, was entirely Harry's fault, according to Snape. Harry should have known about this room and dosed Snape as soon as they had made it back to the house, rather than 'pratting around with Muggle rubbish'—Harry didn't bother to mention it was more than likely the 'Muggle rubbish' had saved Snape's life.

The fact was that the potions seemed to have little effect on Snape's current paralysis, and Harry suspected the man knew it, which is why he'd bitten his tongue. In Harry's opinion, a little denial was not necessarily a bad thing.

Funnily enough, after two weeks of being cared for by Harry, Snape was actually beginning to look a lot better than he had. He was clean for a start, his hair shone lushly and tumbled about his shoulders and the dark circles and hollow cheeks were disappearing rapidly. He still couldn't walk but he'd slowly reacquired the use of his arms and his upper body, so Harry remained hopeful.

Snape was meant to take a phial of antivenin every three days. Although Harry had dutifully administered it as instructed, Snape had stopped improving and still wasn't moving about any better than before. Harry could see it worried the man, but he wasn't sharing his worries with Harry and Harry certainly wasn't about to ask him—he liked his head right where it was, thank you very much.

Returning to the sitting room, he handed Snape his glass of potion, which the man downed with a foul look on his face. Harry didn't blame him, knowing first-hand just how disgusting Snape's potions tasted.

Snape was looking shifty and wouldn't meet Harry's gaze. Harry sighed to himself, the man had needed his potion but Harry could see that he wanted to send Harry away so he could continue to examine his literary treasures without Harry's presence. Not that Harry minded. The worst of it all was that he had to spend so much time with Snape, which was why he was so delighted when the man sent him upstairs to his room.

Despite Snape's repeated assertions as to Harry's supposed lack of brainpower, Harry knew he wasn't truly stupid. Snape was obviously planning to sell his books. Several of them were, without a doubt, pretty valuable. Harry had spent half his childhood in the company of Hermione Granger and had somehow acquired more knowledge than he'd ever thought he would on the subject of books. Amongst the magical stuff, there were also several volumes of literature. About ten or so of the books he'd sorted for Snape looked like they might be first editions: there was a Dickens and an Austen and a J.M. Barrie, all of them undoubtedly worth a small fortune and all of them stuck in the attic where Snape, in his weakened state, had been unable to reach them. No wonder the man had become so frustrated he'd finally succumbed to the need to indenture Harry.

Harry knew he'd probably have to go to the post office later as Snape would no doubt want to send details of the books to as many dealers as he could. That was fine with Harry; he had letters for Ron, Hermione and, of course, for Ginny. Snape had finally allowed him to write, though he couldn't give details of where they were, a post office box would have to be enough, but Harry was hopeful there would be some replies to his first letters.

In the meantime, he lay back on his bed, now clean and fresh, took out the copy of The Little Prince and opened it tenderly. The frontispiece was inscribed in a neat hand, a familiar hand, one he recognised from the Potions book he had briefly owned.

Harry ran his fingers over the words… it felt voyeuristic somehow, to be reading them. His chest hurt. Severus Snape was a cantankerous, grumpy, bad-tempered, greasy-haired bastard. But once upon a time his mother had loved him. Harry shut the book and held it to his chest. He was eighteen now, far too old for a mother, but just for a moment Harry felt deeply envious of Snape. He had nothing of his own mother's, nothing at all. So many times when he'd been a child, he'd have given anything just to hold something she had once held, but he never had. To hold something like this, to have something like this, seemed to Harry to be riches beyond compare. He sighed deeply, and opened the book again. It was dusty and the pages felt thin and fragile; he would treat it with very great care. He moved quickly on from the front page this time and began to read. Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book,…

"POTTER!"

Harry jerked up on his bed; he must have fallen asleep. The book, which he had promised to take care of, fell to the floor. Harry got down on his hands and knees and picked it up; it was undamaged. He gave it a wipe with his shirt, just to be sure, and placed it carefully on the bedside table.

"POTTER! GET YOUR LAZY ARSE DOWN HERE NOW!"

Harry sighed. "Coming." Right at that moment… he hated his life.

Severus was feeling increasingly bad-tempered but he refused to feel guilty for being so nasty to Potter, because… quite simply… he had no-one else to take his frustration out on, so the brat got the worst of his ire. He'd written some twenty-three letters and not had a single reply. In retrospect, he should not have used his own name, but it was too late now. The word was out that Severus Snape was selling rare volumes and first editions. His gut twisted with bitterness. It wasn't right. He'd given everything for the good of the wizarding world and yet they treated him like this.

The only thing he could do now was to take some of his books into town, there being a small antiquarian bookshop he could visit. But how in the hell was he going to get there? He still couldn't walk and he couldn't release the spell binding Potter in order to give him longer away from the house. In that moment, he threw his head back and closed his eyes, feeling the deepest, darkest despair.

Harry had an idea. The old shopping trolley was still tangled in the bushes; he'd not cast any spells for a couple of days, so he hoped his magic was strong enough for transfiguration. Harry was going to get them both out of the house for a while. Snape wasn't fooling him any longer, if the man had any magic he'd have used it by now. It would have made their lives so much easier. Snape still couldn't walk, couldn't seem to move his legs at all, but the trolley was a good candidate to become a wheelchair. After all, Harry wasn't tied to the house, he was bonded to Snape. He was sick to death of the miserable git snapping at him all the time, although he couldn't really blame the man. Stuck in the house for weeks on end, no wonder he was so grumpy.

Harry sighed again. Who did he think he was kidding? Snape would have been grumpy whatever his life was like, but Harry needed a break. It had been raining for the last few days so he hadn't even been able to put his plan of spending time in the garden into action. Snape had scowled at him when he'd suggested it, but he hadn't said no. So Harry had spent a very pleasant afternoon clearing a patch of soil in preparation for planting; but it hadn't stopped raining since then.

It was early morning but still dark when he ventured outside to give his transfiguration idea a go. He needed the cover of darkness so there would be no risk of the neighbours seeing him using magic. It took him three attempts to get the shopping trolley out of the bush, it being well and truly embedded. He knew he didn't have much time for he'd have to return to the house when the pain in his wrist became unbearable. Finally, just before dawn, he managed. His magic was very weak again, but he did produce something he could use to take Snape for a walk and get them both a little further than the shabby shop at the end of the road. He tried the newly transformed wheelchair by pushing it up and down on the pavement outside the house; it was somewhat wobbly and it still had the words 'Quick-Save Supermart on the red plastic handle, but it would do.

He smiled in triumph at his success and then went inside to wake Snape.

"What the hell are you doing, Potter?" Severus snarled. He couldn't work out what was wrong with the boy, his green eyes sparkled with mischief in a way Severus had not seen for a very long time, certainly not since he'd agreed to the bond. In fact, the boy seemed almost happy. Severus realised he'd not seen him look as happy as this since he'd been a child at Hogwarts, at which point Severus had determined to eradicate any trace of happiness in James Potter's brat. Considering what Potter had gone through later, Severus couldn't help feeling this had not been very well done of him.

It was only just light, but Potter was waking him anyway. Severus had taken to lying in each morning, there not being much point in getting up after all, especially as he couldn't move very far unaided and still couldn't do any magic. Hope had flared briefly, a few days ago, when Potter and he had ventured outside into the garden, but it hadn't stopped raining since then and Severus was seriously pissed off.

Well, no wonder he was fed up, he hadn't been out of the house since he'd gone to the Ministry to claim Potter. He'd been so weak and half delirious with pain that day, there was no way he could have enjoyed his outing.

He growled at Potter as the young man carried him downstairs and, even though he still couldn't feel his legs, he was somehow surprised that his flesh seemed to tingle under the other man's touch.

Potter sat him at the table where a steaming bowl of porridge awaited. Severus scowled. It annoyed him that the wretched boy insisted on stuffing him full of food. The boy seemed to be a very competent cook: three meals a day of home-made soup, casseroles and stews. Severus was sure Potter was trying to fatten him up (no doubt the result of brainwashing by the Weasley matriarch), and he had to admit it was working. Apart from the fact that he had no magic and couldn't use his lower limbs, he felt better than he had in years.

Not that he was going to tell the boy any such thing.

Potter sat him on the hard kitchen chair and then left him to eat his breakfast alone. Severus sulked. The porridge was perfect, thick and creamy and sprinkled with brown sugar and cinnamon. The coffee was freshly made. But Potter wasn't there, and there was no way Severus was going to call him. It was just that he'd… become used to sharing his meals with the brat. Again, not that he was going to say anything of the like to Potter.

"Look what I've found."

Severus turned to see Potter, huge grin on his face, standing in the kitchen doorway and holding the handles of what appeared to be a hideously deformed wheelchair.

"What the blue blazes is that?" Severus bellowed. "What are you planning on doing with it?"

Potter's grin widened impossibly. "I'm taking you for a walk."

Severus was still sulking. He was not going to admit the boy'd had a good idea, or that he'd done a good job. The wheelchair was uncomfortable and somewhat wonky, but it worked. It was wonderful to get out, to feel the sun on his skin and to feel his hair being blown by the warmish spring breeze. Luckily, the rain was holding off, for the morning at least. Potter had tucked a somewhat moth-eaten blanket around his knees and they'd wandered along the canal. The crocuses were out, producing living carpets of yellow, white and purple, and there were daffodils everywhere. Severus couldn't help but feel rather more cheerful than was normal for him, to the point he might even have said something, but Potter, the wretched brat, was singing cheerfully under his breath, so he didn't.

The town had barely changed since the day he'd left for Hogwarts and Severus had rarely visited since. Like many smaller towns, most of the large shops had moved to big industrial estates, which were, in Severus' opinion, nothing more than shrines to the Muggle motor car. In the centre of the town, though, there was still a fairly decent sized supermarket, a gaggle of stalls that could not really be called a market and a number of small, individual little shops, a few whose owners were squibs or even wizards.

Severus would be able to order some potion ingredients at the apothecary, once he sold his books that is. Up until now they'd been surviving on Potter's money. Severus hadn't wanted to take it, hadn't wanted the boy to buy food or anything else, come to that. They'd had a screaming row about it, but Potter had said he absolutely refused to starve. So they'd compromised. Potter bought more food than he needed and Severus helped him eat it and they just didn't talk about the logistics at all. Severus, however, could not and would not ask Potter to purchase potions ingredients; that's why he was selling his books, and why their immediate goal was to head to the bookshop.

Snape was sulking again and Harry was proud of himself for not shunting the grumpy bastard straight into the canal—not that he hadn't been severely tempted. But part of him, a big part if he were honest, felt sorry for Snape. The bookshop had been dark and dirty, somewhat reminiscent of Snape's house before Harry had cleaned it. The proprietor had been oily and obsequious and reminded Harry of the shop-keep in Knockturn Alley. He'd also offered Snape far too little money for his books, upon which Snape had thrown the books back into his bag and told Harry to get them the hell out of there. Up until then Snape had been almost cheerful, well for Snape that was.

In retrospect, Harry was glad the grim little place had been closed that morning. A hand written note had told prospective customers to come back at 1.30, so they had, but they'd had an almost pleasant morning prior to finally arriving at the bookshop.

First of all Harry had taken Snape to the supermarket. It was wonderful to be able to buy fresh food at last, so Harry went a little wild. The selection of fruit and veg was excellent, unlike the tired salad and shrivelled carrots and tomatoes he'd been getting at the corner shop. He bought chicken and mushrooms and beef to roast, he bought biscuits and baking ingredients and cartons of juice and numerous packets of seeds, and all this time Snape sat in his transfigured wheelchair and scowled. People avoided him and a small child began to cry the minute she saw the scowling, darkly clad man. Snape didn't seem to care, though he did look slightly less grumpy when Harry bought some chocolate chip ice-cream. Luckily the supermarket would deliver, because Harry couldn't perform any spells in order to shrink their purchases—having transfigured the shopping-trolley earlier, he simply didn't have the magical energy left.

Next, they went to a hardware shop and Harry bought some garden tools, then, as the bookshop wasn't open yet, they went to a tiny coffee shop and had a cheese toasty each. Finally, they headed for the bookshop and that was when everything had gone wrong. Now Harry wasn't sure what to do. Upon arriving home, Snape had made Harry take him upstairs and said that he didn't want to be disturbed for the rest of the day.

Eventually Harry made some tea and sat down to write a letter to Hermione. He'd had two letters from Ron and four from Hermione, though none from Ginny, which worried him a little. But Hermione had always been there for him and he was sure she would offer him some advice, but even if she couldn't… he desperately needed some friendly words.

The boy was knocking on his door again. Severus pulled his pillow over his head. "Go away!"

He'd been in his room for two days. The boy would come in several times a day, help him with his toilet and bring him food. Severus refused to speak to him. This was the closest he'd ever come to giving up. He'd been through so much in his life and yet somehow he had survived everything the bloody world had thrown at him, but not this. He couldn't survive this. He couldn't sell his books for the ridiculously low price he'd been offered by the bookseller; he'd been prepared to take a lot less than the books were worth, but he had to make enough to buy potions ingredients.

"Professor Snape?"

Potter was standing next to the bed now… the audacity of the brat, to enter uninvited. Severus ignored him.

The boy coughed, "Excuse me, Professor Snape."

Severus clutched the pillow more tightly. The boy grabbed it and pulled it away.

"What on earth do you think you are doing?" Severus screeched. "I told you to leave me alone."

"Well, I'm fed up of you lying around all day," Harry hissed, roughly pulling the bedclothes from Severus' shoulders. "You didn't give up fighting Voldemort, you never gave up loving my mum, you were loyal to Dumbledore even when he was being a manipulative arse, a—and… you always protected me. I won't let you give up!"

Severus had put on a considerable amount of weight over the last few weeks; he was no longer as skinny as he once had been, thanks to Potter's home cooking. So the boy was red in the face and breathing heavily by the time he'd hauled Severus into a sitting position and plumped up his pillows. Then he stood back and placed his hands on his hips in a pose so reminiscent of Lily that Severus didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Are you listening now?" the boy demanded, his green eyes flashing with anger, just like his mother, so like his mother.

Severus just nodded in assent. "But make it good, Potter."

The boy sat on Severus' bed, still glaring and just for a moment Severus felt short of breath. He'd been refusing to acknowledge it for weeks, but Severus was undeniably attracted to Harry Potter. Everything the boy did sent a pulse of heat rushing through his veins, his heart beat faster, his palms felt sweaty. The scent of him so close, the weight of him on the bed, it was driving him crazy. The boy was looking away from him, a slight rosy flush to his cheek. Severus wanted to lean over, caress the boy's cheek. Kiss him. He sighed deeply, trying to get a rein on his emotions.

"Well?" he snapped, to cover his desire. "I'm waiting."

Potter bit his lip, plump, pink flesh squeezed by neat white teeth.

"I wrote to Hermione; she thinks she's found a buyer for your books."

Severus couldn't breathe. A short while before he had been in the depths of despair, but now he'd been bewitched by the brat-who-lived and all at once he felt a huge sense of relief. The boy, the green-eyed, infuriating boy had saved him. Could it be true? All at once his relief was washed away by a feeling of doubt and he swallowed, hard, in an attempt to rid himself of the lump that had suddenly lodged itself in his throat. His voice, when he finally spoke, sounded small and not a little broken.

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes," Potter answered. "A friend of Hermione's uncle sells books, a Muggle, but that doesn't matter does it? Some of your most valuable books are Muggle books anyway."

That wasn't strictly true. All of Severus' 'Muggle' books were magical editions of Muggle titles and the most valuable books of all were volumes of potions or Dark Arts books.

"Erm, I hope it's okay… I listed some of the titles when I last wrote to her. She says her uncle's friend was very excited about the J.M. Barrie book, apparently they never come up for sale. That one alone would probably keep you in potions ingredients forever. So you might not even have to sell them all."

Severus was stunned. Potter had gone to all that trouble for him? The boy had seen his anguish over the past few days and then done something about it. He was deeply touched and somewhat ashamed of his recent behaviour towards the boy. Of course, he'd never been particularly nice to him, but his recent temper had been way beyond sour.

He raised his eyes again to meet Potter's, those pools of deepest green. He expected to see pity or something similar, but instead all he saw was compassion.

"Thank you, Harry."

The young man's jaw dropped; he looked totally astonished.

"Oh, um, you're welcome, Pro… um… Sir."

Harry looked so taken aback, so nonplussed that Severus almost smiled, but figured he had shocked the boy enough for one day by using his first name.

"Please, Harry." The name tasted so sweet on his tongue. "I think you have earned the right to call me Severus."

The boy's answering grin was balm to Severus' damaged soul.

Severus couldn't bear to part with the Barrie in the end. It had been another gift from his mother, as all his Muggle books were. It was Muggle literature that had prompted Eileen to fall for Tobias Snape, so, in retrospect, she should probably have hated Muggle literature rather than embracing it.

Tobias had been a writer, or so he'd pretended. As long as Severus had known his father, and that was far too long in his opinion, he had never seen the man write anything, not even a grocery list… well, especially not a grocery list now that he came to think about it. Shopping for groceries was 'women's work' as far as Tobias was concerned. But Severus had seen pictures of his father as a young man—still, flat things, with no life to them whatsoever. Severus resembled him strongly, something that had always added to his dislike of his appearance, although the young Tobias had a certain dashing charm Severus always felt he lacked.

However, he did put aside several books he definitely wanted to sell, though he felt rather more than just a pang to be parting with them.

He had originally decided to sell his magical textbooks because they were the ones that would generate more money in the magical world. Muggle literature, even the magical re-prints of them, fetched far less than even the most dreadful 'magical fiction', so Severus had thought his favourite books to be safe. Now, however, he had no choice.

He and Harry sat in the tiny sittingroom, with thick velvet curtains drawn against a late March storm and orange flames blazing merrily in the fireplace, flickering against the polished brass on the hearth. Everything was still somewhat shabby but so much cosier these days, and sparkling clean. Severus looked over at Harry, curled up on the sofa. It was a tiny sofa and as tired as the rest of the furniture in the house but somehow it looked better because Harry was there. He sat engrossed in The Little Prince, his hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate, the firelight glinting off the silver bracelet on Harry's wrist.

Severus sighed, content for the first time that he could remember. He had not thought to have anyone to share his life, but since the previous day, when Harry had come into his bedroom and told him about Hermione's offer, something had changed within Severus. For some unknown reason, he didn't feel quite as angry anymore and he was beginning to feel the first stirrings of guilt about what he had done to Harry. He had already admitted to himself that he found the boy attractive, that he was certain he was beginning to fall for him. What he hadn't felt before was this new sense of respect for the young man. Oh, he'd long admitted, albeit with a certain reluctance, that the Harry was honourable and tremendously brave. But now he also saw other qualities that he could not help but find admirable as well.

Harry rarely complained anymore, and he had plenty to complain about, because, whatever his reasons, Snape knew he had treated Harry shabbily, on purpose and repeatedly. However, instead of refusing to help him or treating Severus as badly as he himself had been treated, Harry had chosen to just get on with things, and this steadfast attitude was the main reason Severus' health was better than it had been in years. Albus had been right all along, damn him. Harry was far more like Lily than Severus had ever thought him to be.

The boy didn't seem aware he was being watched. A surprisingly slender hand reached up and started playing with a lock of that damnably messy hair. Harry frowned and then a small smile curved his mouth and Severus wanted to kiss that mouth more than he had ever wanted to do anything.

Then Harry looked up and smiled directly at Severus, seeming to light up the room. "I do love this book." He looked away again. "I'm almost finished, but you know the story don't you?

"Yes," Severus replied softly. "I know it well."

"Yeah, I thought you did. This is my favourite bit; it's the part where the prince tells the narrator how he sees that things are beautiful. You know the fox's advice."

Severus swallowed hard. That had been his favourite part of the book too. His mother had quoted the passage to him often enough. The wisdom of the fox, one of the characters the prince met on his epic journey, stated simply that beauty is in everything, even if it is not always apparent. When he had been shunned because of his shabby clothes and sullen demeanour, his mother would tell Severus there was so much beauty inside him but it just couldn't be seen. Later, Lily had followed her example, and seen good in him, though where, he didn't know, because, try as he might, Severus had never been able to see beauty in himself.

"Do you want me to read you a bit, whilst you're sorting through the stuff you're going to sell?" Harry asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Severus was stunned and deeply touched by the gesture. Again for some reason he could not fathom he didn't quite trust himself to speak, so he simply gave a curt nod and tried to pretend he was indeed sorting his books. In truth, he was listening to Harry read in a low, clear voice, listening with all of his being.

""The stars are beautiful, because of a flower that cannot be seen."

I replied, "Yes, that is so." And, without saying anything more, I looked across the ridges of sand that were stretched out before us in the moonlight.

"The desert is beautiful," the little prince added.

And that was true. I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams …

"What makes the desert beautiful," said the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well …"

Severus sold all of his Muggle literature books in the end. All except the first edition of Peter Pan, somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to part with that. The version he owned had beautiful illustrations that moved, just like magical portraits: Peter flew with Wendy in a blue, blue sky; Tiger-lily struggled to get away from the pirates; Captain Hook fled from the crocodile. Severus still felt a very deep fondness for them. It was with this book he had started his collection and it had cost him nothing. His mother had found it in a small Muggle charity shop, the Muggles being completely unaware of what a treasure it was because, for them, the illustrations were still.

Severus' glance strayed to the bookcase where he'd placed his precious book, glad he hadn't had to part with it. The volumes he had sold had generated a surprising amount of money, but then Severus would need a large amount. The antivenin potion needed the most expensive, the rarest ingredients. The original batch had been brewed at Hogwarts, paid for by Albus as a precautionary measure against Voldemort's fondness for using Nagini to punish those he saw as transgressors. Arthur Weasley's injuries had been a catalyst and few knew it had, in fact, been the very potion, brewed in secret by Severus, that had revived the man.

Severus' injuries were far worse than Arthur's had been and the second batch of antivenin, brewed of necessity with inferior ingredients, had not been strong enough to cure him.

But, thanks to Harry's ingenuity and persistence, he had at last managed to generate enough funds to buy the best ingredients. That, combined with the fact he was so much stronger now, really gave Severus the hope that this time he would be restored to health and could reduce his need for the potion, possibly even eliminate it altogether if he could somehow change the formula.

He finished his list and signed his name as Tobias Prince. He'd finally decided that his own name was poison, so from now on he was not going to use it, not for anything. He sighed, sealed his order and put it in an envelope so Harry could send it on its way.

It was a lovely morning and Harry was cheerfully working in the garden. Severus, reading a potions volume in preparation for his order arriving, was sitting in the transfigured wheelchair, or rather what was left of it. The magic Harry had used in transfiguring it was slowly seeping away; the seat-back had already returned to a metal mesh (he had found an old, rather battered pillow to keep the man comfortable) and Harry also had his suspicions about one of the wheels. He was keeping a close eye on it, as he really didn't want it returning to its original form with his ex-potions professor still sitting in it. He secretly admitted to himself, however, that it would undoubtedly be a very funny sight. But the thought was without rancour.

Since the sale of the books, Harry and Severus had, somehow, reached a mutual accord regarding their relationship. The potions master had been so pleasant of late that, hard as it was to believe, Harry found himself enjoying the man's company and quite satisfied with this aspect of his current situation. There was one thing Harry thought he would never get used to: calling the man by his first name. Severus sounded so strange on his lips—yet at the same time, rather nice if Harry were completely honest.

Harry was still missing his friends, though, and worrying about why there was no word from Ginny. In their letters, Ron and Hermione both explained that she was busy but that she sent her love. Their letters did nothing to ease his anxiety. He'd been with Snape for over four weeks now and had written a lot of letters to Ginny, practically one a day, but there had been nothing in return.

Part of Harry wished he could go and see her, just hold her close, drink in the scent of her hair, her skin. But the longer he was away, the longer he didn't see Ginny or hear from her, the more apprehensive he felt about seeing her again, about being rejected. Not that he was going to be able to see her, or Ron or Hermione, for almost a year. And truthfully, Harry smirked to himself a bit, he couldn't see Snape allowing a gaggle of red-headed Weasleys and the 'Know-It-All' visit him here. It was a testimony to their new-found tolerance and almost friendship that Harry wasn't unduly upset by this knowledge.

He stretched; he was on his knees weeding between the seeds he'd planted the previous week. He'd managed to clear quite a lot of soil in a very short time, plenty for a good vegetable-patch. Harry was actually looking forward to seeing the seedlings, to producing food for the table. He was nowhere near as surprised as he would have been three weeks ago to find he was no longer feeling as trapped or lonely as he once had. In the last few days, he'd actually begun to find it restful here.

His life had been so frantic for so very long, but now he had time to read, to work in the garden, and to think: to think about whether he really did want to be an Auror after all. He had truly believed he was happy and that hunting down criminals was what he wanted to do. But with Voldemort gone and most of the Death Eaters rounded up, the job had become rather mundane and Harry wondered if he truly did want to spend the rest of his life chasing miscreants in the mould of Mundungus Fletcher, or whether he'd rather do something else.

Most days he managed to go for a walk, several walks in fact. He couldn't really go that far without the ex-professor, because of the bond-bracelet, but he could go out; and only the day before he'd pushed Severus in his transfigured wheelchair for several miles along the canal-bank until they were in the countryside. He stood up and stretched again, aiming to loosen the muscles in his back. He was quite stiff from kneeling for such a long time. He looked up as a shadow fell over him and saw a flock of owls overhead carrying a large parcel.

The potions workroom was actually quite cosy since Harry had finally been allowed to give it a good clean. Many of the jars had been empty as Severus hadn't had the ingredients to fill them. Harry spent the afternoon unpacking ingredients from the newly arrived parcel and putting them away—it had been surprisingly pleasant. He thought the jars looked so much better filled with contents, although he still couldn't bring himself to look too closely at some of the more horrific looking items.

Severus was contentedly chopping his way through a pile of green stuff and adding it to a simmering cauldron. The owl, in the corner of the room, ruffled his feathers and turned around on his perch.

Snape had bought an owl.

Harry had no doubt the owl would be immensely useful to the ex-potions professor, but the fact the man had told Harry they could share it, that it would be easier for Harry to contact his friends, had touched him deeply. The creature was a tawny-owl, the most common in Harry's experience and therefore probably the cheapest. This particular creature was especially beautiful; it was watching him solemnly with large dark eyes.

Harry had no idea what to name it. Severus had suggested he might like to come up with something, but Harry couldn't quite bring himself to. Losing Hedwig still hurt; he had sworn never to buy another owl as there was no-way he could replace his first real companion.

"I have a suggestion," said the potions master, breaking into his brooding thoughts. Harry shook himself and looked up.

"Um… sorry, Sir. I… er… missed that."

"I have thought of a name that might be suitable for our owl, Harry. And please remember to call me Severus."

"Oh, er, right. Sorry, Sn—Severus. I keep forgetting." Harry still felt somewhat unsettled by way the man had been treating him; this new, mostly pleasant Snape, was such a novelty. "What do you think we should call him then?"

"How about Amiciticus?"

"Yeah, fine, great. Er, what does it mean?"

Severus turned very slightly pink. "It's Latin. It is the masculine of Amicitica. It—it means friendship. I thought it might be a pertinent choice — we do seem to have reached a new accord, have we not?"

Harry's mouth fell open. Snape, no, Severus was looking at him hard, staring really, with those unfathomable dark eyes. He seemed nervous, apprehensive.

For a second, Harry didn't know what to do. The man sitting opposite had been awful to him, had treated him badly for years. Just four weeks ago he had, in effect, ruined Harry's life, indentured him, and removed him from his friends and his girlfriend. He had made Harry's life a misery since the age of eleven. True, Harry had not minded being around the man so much in the last week or so, but he wasn't sure that they were friends, not yet anyway.

But then Snape had always been there for Harry, he'd saved Harry's life, many times. He was brave and self-sacrificing, and he had suffered dearly for his mistakes. There was no question he had been desperate when he'd called in Harry's life-debts. And things had been so much better in the last few days; Snape was right… there had been a new accord.

Snape was blushing more deeply now, his face was contorting into a scowl and he began to turn away. Harry didn't want to reject him, he had come to know Snape so well and knew it must have been incredibly hard for him to reach out to Harry as he had.

"YES!" Harry blurted. "I—I, mean, yes, that's a good idea. A very good idea. I think we should…um…give it a go."

Snape stared at him steadily, then his mouth quirked at the corner, very nearly a smile. "Well, that's decided then," he said.

The potion was finally ready. It was a deep, rich purple, just the exact colour it should be. It was the orchid that made the most difference. All of the ingredients were the very best that money could buy, but the secret ingredient was the Angraecum cadetii, one of the rarest orchids in the world. It was found in Mauritius. There were only thirteen plants left and only two of them had actually flowered or produced seed in the last two years. Two ounces were needed for this particular potion and it cost 270 galleons an ounce.

There were a number of other orchids which could be substituted but none of them had the efficacy of the Angraecum cadetii, as Severus knew to his cost.

Severus called Harry to remove the cauldron from the flame and the young wizard performed the spell as directed. Severus had finally confided that he had lost his magic. He'd felt so ashamed his voice had cracked at the telling and he'd not been able to meet the boy's eyes.

"Yeah, I know," Harry had admitted steadily. "I know you're cantankerous and vindictive, but you're not stupid. I reckoned that if you'd been able to perform magic you'd have done it by now."

Harry's insight had stunned him. The boy had known all along, and yet he hadn't mocked Severus, had never even mentioned it, in fact. Far from being the reincarnation of his father, as Severus had once assumed, he now found it hard to see anything of his erstwhile rival in the boy at all. Harry didn't even look that much like him anymore, not to Severus' mind anyway.

It took no time at all to decant the liquid into phials and then, at last, it was ready.

Severus awoke the next morning all warm and comfortable. He stretched and wriggled his toes. He could move his toes! He nearly fell out of bed in shock.

"Harry!" he shouted, voice sounding shrill even to his own ears.

The boy appeared in the doorway seconds later, looking dishevelled and half-asleep, eyes blurry and sans glasses.

"Wha' isit, Sev'rus?"

"I can wriggle my toes."

The resulting huge smile warmed Severus' heart.

Three days later he could do magic again and two days after that he stood for the first time in almost two months. By the end of the following week, Severus was walking again. He felt a thrill every time he stood on his own two feet, walked across a room, reached up for a book or took a bath unaided; Severus rejoiced.

This particular morning Severus decided to make the breakfast, as he was feeling particularly magnanimous towards the boy. For one thing, Harry deserved a rest and, for another, he knew beyond doubt he would never have managed to survive if it wasn't for Harry's help. He owed his companion a great deal. The boy had had no choice, of course, but he'd been so gracious about everything.

Severus found himself whistling, tunelessly under his breath. The sun was shining and warm air wafted through the open kitchen window. With a flutter of wings, Amiciticus entered and settled on the counter, eyeing the bacon that he knew would be his reward. Severus removed a copy of The Daily Prophet gripped in one talon and the rolled parchment attached to the other leg.

The parchment turned out to be a missive from his Apothecary, informing him that Angraecum cadetii had now reached the price of 290 galleons per ounce. The man was suggesting that, as prices were only going to rise, Severus might like to purchase some soon. Severus pursed his lips. He had enough in stock for three more batches and then he would run out again. Perhaps he should just go ahead and order some?

With complete recovery almost in reach, Severus knew he couldn't face another slow decent into debilitation. He was becoming convinced that if he could only take the antivenin regularly for a set amount of time, he would eventually no longer need the potion at all; already the amount of time between doses was getting longer and longer. To achieve this goal, however, he definitely needed the orchid, and he wasn't sure, if he kept at this rate of spending, just how long his money would last. Perhaps he'd have to sell the Peter Pan after all? Then he could simply buy a large stock of the orchid root and possibly even use the leftover as a future investment.

Severus poured boiling water into the coffee percolator and turned to place some croissants on the table.

Harry walked in and Severus was even more delighted that he had come down early. The young man was still in his nightclothes and Severus thought he looked rather delectable in low-slung pyjama bottoms and a too small t-shirt, which showed off his abs and toned stomach to perfection. There was a significant gap between the edge of the t-shirt and the top of his pyjama bottoms, which were, contrary to his t-shirt, far too big. They skimmed his hipbones, revealing far more than the boy probably realised. Severus said good morning and then turned round rather rapidly in an attempt to hide just how interested he was in the boy. He couldn't help but be rather pleased that Harry seemed to have no qualms about wandering round without wearing too many items of clothing, luckily he didn't seem to own too many.

However, one consequence of Severus' newfound mobility was his capacity to become aroused very easily now that he was no-longer paralysed from the waist down. For many years as a spy and supposed Death Eater, Severus had been too busy for any relationships and had never managed to have anything other than the most casual sex. He'd had one night stands, a short relationship with Reg Black, years ago now, and the occasional pity fuck from Lucius. He had never, ever had the opportunity to spend every day with an extremely fit and, to Severus' mind, very attractive young man. He therefore planned to take full advantage of the opportunity and enjoy every moment. If Harry had no qualms about displaying his body, then Severus was going to have no qualms about enjoying the view.

The ironic thing was that Harry seemed to have no idea how gorgeous he was.

"The Prophet's on the table," Severus said, heading over to the fridge in some considerable discomfort; his cock was very hard indeed. The boy looked completely delectable this morning and Severus wanted to forget about milk or coffee or anything else, get down on his knees and lick Harry's, dark, enticing happy-trail.

"Oh, thanks."

Severus had started taking the newspaper several weeks beforehand, just after Amiciticus had arrived. He didn't really care about what was happening in the wizarding world anymore, but since his magic had returned it made him feel more connected somehow. He smirked to himself, thinking how they both also enjoyed reading the endless speculation about where The Saviour had disappeared to. The official story was that Harry, exhausted by the events of the last few years, had taken a sabbatical. But that didn't stop the supposed sightings and ever more outlandish stories. Severus snorted at the memory of himself and Harry sitting at the table several mornings in a row and chuckling at the nonsense being written about the hero's whereabouts. Though, as Harry pointed out, none of them were quite as outlandish as the truth.

"So what is the charming Ms Skeeter proposing has happened to you today?" he asked, turning around again now that his erection had subsided to a manageable level, which was still half hard and ready for action.

Harry didn't answer him. He was standing by the side of the table, white faced. Swaying slightly as though he could hardly stay standing, he clutched the newspaper in hands that were trembling madly.

"Harry?"

Harry looked up at him and Severus stepped back — Harry's eyes were full of pain. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again.

Severus crossed the kitchen in a couple of strides. But Harry wasn't looking at him any longer, he was staring at the newspaper again.

Severus wanted to touch him, comfort him. He looked so small all of a sudden, so very young.

Severus looked down at the article Harry had been reading to see a picture of Ginny Weasley: a Ginny Weasley dancing in the arms of Blaise Zabini. The photo had been taken at some sort of Ministry event. Ginny was wearing a very revealing dress and Zabini's hands were demonstrating his appreciation of her outfit by roaming all over her invitingly displayed body. Zabini whirled her around in the photo and then kissed her. Ginny kissed him back passionately and then turned to look at whoever had taken the photo and smiled widely.

The caption read: Ginny Weasley, snapped with yet another beau. Does the Saviour know he is now most definitely the ex-boyfriend of the ever-friendly, very flirty Ms Weasley?

"Severus," croaked Harry, his voice sounding small and horribly broken. "I feel sick!"

Severus' heart clenched. For a second he stood there helplessly opening and closing his hands. For once in his life, he was at a total loss to know what to do. He had seen the young man standing beside him grow up, had watched him face unbelievable odds, never flinch from danger and never give up. Harry Potter had definitely earned his admiration, and more than that, against all odds, he knew himself to be half in love with the boy. If anyone had told him, just a few months ago, that he would come to care so much about this particular Gryffindor, be so impressed by him, he would never have believed them… it wasn't believable.

"I thought she loved me."

Severus didn't think any more; he acted purely on instinct, took the boy in his arms and held him close.

Harry just stood there, trembling violently. He made a strangled sound, so full of pain that Severus flinched.

He found himself rubbing gentle circles on the young man's back. Harry melted against him, his head was tucked under Severus' chin and slowly, so slowly the boy's trembling ceased.

"M'sorry,"

"Don't be sorry, it's alright." Severus had never felt like this before and yet he'd been keeping Harry safe for most of his life. Harry was his! His responsibility. His to take care of.

"Hush," Severus whispered, placing a soft kiss on the boy's messy hair. "Hush, Harry, it's alright. I've got you… I've got you now."

Harry felt as though he'd been hit by a bludger. Ten bludgers He felt sick, he was finding it hard to breathe. He'd known though, hadn't he? Ron and Hermione's excuses had grown ever thinner, ever more transparent. But to find out the truth like this. To see her like this. Ginny was going to be his family, his future. He was finally going to have someone to care for, someone who would care for him. He was going to be a part of the Weasleys, belong somewhere at last. He couldn't understand it, what was wrong with him, was he that unlovable?

He began to tremble, he didn't think he could hold himself together, he thought he would come apart, just shake to pieces.

Then Severus was hugging him. Severus Snape, the snarky git, greasy bastard was holding him close, soothing him, whispering gentle words. He'd been enfolded in warm, strong and protective arms — a rare occurrence in his life, and never had Harry felt so comforted in such a way, been held so securely and for so long. For a second he held himself stiffly, unwilling to believe this was happening to him. Suddenly, he couldn't resist anymore and allowed himself to sink into the other man's embrace. He thought he would die from the pain, as if his heart was being crushed. A sound, an animalistic sound was torn from his body, ripped from his solar-plexus. It was a cry of despair.

Severus was whispering to him, comforting him, stilling Harry's trembling with his strength. Harry felt Severus rubbing gentle circles on his back, felt a kiss on his head and finally, for the first time that he could ever remember, Harry allowed himself to give in to his grief. Grief for all that he should have had, for the love he'd never known, wasn't sure he would ever know now. And through all of this, the man who'd watched over him since he'd been a child simply stood and held Harry close and somehow stopped him from falling apart.

Harry couldn't look at Severus, he was far too embarrassed, so he kept his eyes on his coffee cup instead. "I don't know what to say. I've never done anything like that before."

"Don't apologise, Harry. You had every right to be upset."

Harry snorted. "Be upset, perhaps. But not fall apart, cry all over you like some silly, teenaged girl!"

Severus put his hand on Harry's back and just left it there, a warm comforting weight.

"I'm such a mess." Harry pushed his hand through his hair leaving it every which way.

Severus snorted.

"Join the club, Mr Potter. I am hardly a prime example of a man who's made the right choices and become a success in life. I fell in love with a woman who didn't want me, joined the cause of a murdering madman and was eventually chewed-up by a snake. I've had no long-term relationships, have no true friends and had to practically enslave you in order to survive. I'm not someone who can level any criticism. Or give any advice, come to that."

Harry smiled wryly. "Well, when you put it like that!" He rubbed his bare arm across his eyes. They felt hot, all of him felt hot, like he was burning up. He hardly dared to say the next few words he wanted to express, but he had no secrets left from this man; he had seen Harry in the very depths of despair and he hadn't turned away. "Do you know that you are the first person who's ever held me like that?"

Severus reached over and gently squeezed Harry's hand. "And do you realise you are the first person that I have ever held in such a way?"

"Am I? Wow! Well, you're good at it; you should do it more often."

He felt the blush rising. He had just told a man, his ex-teacher, that he was good at hugs. Not that he'd much to compare it with, but it had certainly helped him.

Severus sounded amused. "Perhaps I might do that, Mr. Potter. Just let me know if you ever feel the need again."

Harry was sitting beside him, knees practically under his chin, feet pulled up, his upper arm and shoulder scant inches from Severus' own. In the last few days, since his spectacular meltdown, he seemed to feel the need to be close to Severus. He was forever brushing past him or standing very close. So many times Severus had almost reached out and pulled the boy into another embrace and yet, somehow, he didn't quite dare. The first hug had been born out of the need to comfort a young man who was falling apart in front of his eyes, if he touched Harry again it would be for very different reasons.

He threw a sideways glance at Harry. "I don't know how you manage to get yourself into such contortions, Mr. Potter. You can't possibly be comfortable like that."

Harry chuckled, then grew sombre. "Please don't call me that; I like it when you call me Harry. I like the way my name sounds when you say it."

"Very well, Harry, though you do know that I mean nothing by the use of your surname? My feelings towards you have changed considerably since I called you by your father's name with such disdain."

"Yeah, I know. I like this way much better."

For a short while neither of them said anything, the room was silent except for the quiet ticking of his mother's mantle-clock. Then Harry spoke again.

"You know it's weird, when you forced this cuff on me I hated you."

Severus flinched, the boy held his arm out as illustration. His stomach churned, what on earth was the young man going to say now? He braced himself for the censure he was sure was coming his way.

Harry continued. "Then I got here and I saw you didn't really have a choice. Well, other people might have done." He leaned closer, green eyes flashing with emotion as hot breath huffed against Severus' cheek. "Other people might have asked for help. But then you're not like that. You never had anyone to turn to, did you? So it never occurred to you that I would help you if you simply asked."

Severus flushed with shame. He couldn't look at the boy.

"It's all right, Severus. I'm not pissed off with you. I understand, 'cause I don't ask for help either. I never have. We're probably more alike than either of us realise.

At these words Severus stiffened with shock. "Y—you think we're alike?"

"Well, yeah. I mean… it's obvious when you think about it. Both of us had crap childhoods, both of us were manipulated into fighting a war that was really nothing to do with us, both of us are on our own now."

At Harry's words, Severus' previously immutable world-view suddenly melted away and he couldn't believe he'd ever been stupid enough to believe all his preconceived notions of what James Potter's son would be like. He hadn't seen them as anywhere near alike, more like poles apart. He would have scoffed at the idea of his being remotely like Harry Potter, the Gryffindor Golden Boy, the Saviour of the world. Harry had a bright future, he was showered with praise, feted, exalted. He'd not been scorned and hated and left to survive on scraps.

But, if he were honest, Severus knew he'd been buying into the publicity which had dogged the boy since he'd arrived in the magical world. In their conversations over the Daily Prophet articles Harry had made it very clear that he hated publicity. The boy was not the pampered prince Severus had once supposed him to be. He didn't own a wardrobe full of fine clothes, he didn't scorn getting down on his hands and knees and scouring the workroom floor after Severus had spilled some ingredients. He was hard working, diligent, resourceful. He was admirable.

So in truth, he was not like Harry at all.

"I'm not like you, Harry," he insisted. "I have been cruel and selfish. I should not have forced you here as I did. It was not well done of me."

"Pah!" Harry blurted. "Well, I didn't exactly have much fun the first few weeks but it wasn't ever as bad as the Dursleys. And now? Well now, I find I don't mind so much. I don't mind that I can't do magic. After all, I grew up without it, though it does come in handy sometimes. But… I don't know… if I'd had to deal with what happened with Ginny in public, maybe I would have come apart. I didn't just lose my girl-friend, you see, I lost my whole family. It's been good to be able to feel safe here, lick my wounds in peace."

If Severus had been shocked before, he was way beyond that after the boy's latest statement. He didn't know how to respond. "The Dursleys were worse than your first few weeks here?" He cringed as soon as the words were out of his mouth, of all the things he could have said, that had to be the dumbest.

Harry just chuckled. "Hell, yeah. You saw my memories. As a kid I didn't know any better but when I look back now, I know my so-called guardians probably should have gone to prison. They made a kid sleep in a cupboard for ten years, worked him like a house-elf, starved him, set dogs on him. If any Muggles had known, they probably would have intervened and I'd have been removed from that environment; but I was protected by magic and half the time I thought I deserved it anyway."

"Oh, Harry. I didn't know." And he hadn't; he'd seen a few fragmented memories, had gone to Dumbledore after some of those benighted Occlumency lessons, and told the old man the boy's home life appeared far less than ideal. But he hadn't expected anything like the catalogue of ill-treatment Harry had just mentioned.

"You told Dumbledore that he'd raised me like a pig for the slaughter."

Severus snorted, almost a laugh. "I came to that conclusion after what little I saw in your memories." Severus wasn't quite sure whether he could adequately express his horror at what had happened to Harry. "Albus could not have known how bad it truly was, he…"

"Oh, please, Professor," Harry interjected, sounding not nearly as bitter as he should have done in Severus' opinion. "He might not have known how dreadful it was, but he suspected and yet never tried to find out more. He didn't want to know."

Severus felt the last of the respect he'd felt for Dumbledore die at that moment. The boy was absolutely right. Dumbledore had let Harry suffer for the 'good of the cause'.

"Why don't you hate him?"

Harry regarded him steadily for a moment then he shrugged. "What would be the point?"

But Severus couldn't leave it alone. "You don't hate me either, do you?" he asked, stomach churning at the thought of what Harry might say.

"Nah!" Harry pushed both his hands into his hair and brushed it up, away from his forehead, exposing a fading lightning-bolt scar. "I did hate you when I thought you'd murdered Dumbledore, but then, when I found out he'd ordered it, I knew you were just as trapped as I was. Then for ages I thought you were the world's biggest git…" Harry dropped his hands and grinned at Severus, "but since we became more friendly and then after you hugged me the other day, well, I reckon you're not so bad."

Still he couldn't let it lie. "If I hadn't forced you to be here, then perhaps you wouldn't have lost Ms Weasley."

Now Harry's eyes betrayed how hurt he still was. "No, I'd have kept her, and married her and then one day she'd have betrayed me anyway. I would have waited for her, for always…" he stopped and shrugged and then swallowed hard. "Besides, it hardly matters anymore."

"It matters to you, Harry," Severus told him.

Harry shook his head. "I was just as hurt by the fact that Ron and Hermione didn't tell me."

"Perhaps they didn't know… at least not the extent of her perfidy."

Harry was grinning at him.

"What?" he snapped.

"Only you could use a word that I've never even heard of so casually. You make me feel so thick sometimes."

Severus scowled. "Stop changing the subject. You should answer your friend's letters; they are beginning to take over the house."

Harry's grin grew wider. "Go on then, act like you don't care about me and I'll try and pretend to believe it."

"I can't pretend not to care for you, Harry. It's already far too late for that."

Harry's smile faded but there remained a warmth in his eyes Severus couldn't remember seeing there before, not directed at him anyway.

Harry stood up and walked across the room in the general direction of the kitchen and Severus concluded the young man had reached his 'intimacy' limit for one day. At the door, Harry turned back again. "I'm putting dinner on… it's chicken casserole tonight. And I'll write to my friends, so stop worrying, okay?"

Severus' heart gave a little skip. "I could always come and chop the onions."

"Yeah, all right. And then you can explain what perfidy means."

"Erm, Severus?" Harry was standing opposite him in the workroom, chopping his way through a huge pile of feverfew.

"Yes, Harry."

"Can… er… may I ask a personal question?"

Severus raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

"Are you gay?"

Severus spluttered, he certainly hadn't expected that question. He wondered where on earth this was going. The young man wasn't looking at him but his face was flushed and he looked deeply uncomfortable. Had he seen Severus looking at him, admiring him? Was he about to be told to back off? Because if he was, Severus didn't know if he could oblige. He could hardly keep his eyes off the vibrant and immensely attractive young man.

"I am bi-sexual, Harry. I've had relationships with both men and women," he finally replied.

"Okay, thanks for telling me." The boy paused and chewed his lower lip, obviously wanting to say more, but Severus wasn't going to force him; he would wait it out, let Harry speak in his own time. "You see… the thing is… I think that I might be like that too, you know, bi-sexual I mean."

"I see." Harry still wasn't looking at him, but his chopping rhythm had become erratic and his hands were shaking a little.

Severus felt an unexpectedly sharp pang of sympathy for his companion. Harry was bright red now, to the very tips of his ears. It had never occurred to him the young man might be bi-sexual. He wondered when Harry had realised it himself and if it meant that Harry was getting ready to move on. It was only a month ago the boy had found out about Ginny Weasley. Harry had been uncharacteristically quiet and sombre during the first half of the month, but for the last few days his sparkle had begun to return and Severus was delighted to see it. He hadn't realised how much it meant to him until it was gone.

"Um… Severus?"

Severus looked up at him again. Harry paused once more, whatever he wanted to say, he couldn't quite manage it yet. He stopped cutting up the feverfew, his eyes fixed on the tabletop in front of him.

"Yes, Harry," Severus finally prompted.

Harry swallowed hard.

"Do you think, erm… doyafindmeattractive?"

"I beg your pardon."

Harry's blush grew even deeper, something Severus would not have thought possible, even a few seconds earlier.

"I've seen you looking at me," Harry said.

Severus froze; here it came. Harry was about to ask him to stop staring all the time, but that was going to be impossible. He couldn't keep his eyes off the boy now; he was totally besotted.

"I'm sorry if it offends you."

"No, no it doesn't." Harry was staring at him now, wide-eyed. "I like it. I… like you. It's been really good these last few weeks. I've been thinking about it, thinking about you. Ever since you held me. I don't think you'll ever know just how much that meant to me. I keep thinking about it. How it felt to be in your arms. You said…" Harry gulped, "you said, that if I ever wanted you to do it again, that I should ask. Well I am, asking I mean…"

But whatever else he was going to say was lost, because Severus had crossed the workshop with his long-legged stride and done as Harry asked, and when Harry's eyes widened and his face tilted up almost begging to be kissed, Severus acquiesced to that too. He'd wanted to kiss the boy for such a long time, had wondered what those lips tasted like. Well, now he knew, they tasted of Harry.

Harry gasped and then he melted, melted into Severus' embrace. The man was demanding, forceful, and desperate for Harry it seemed. Not that Harry was complaining. It had never been like this for him. He'd always had to be the strong one and whilst he and Ginny had frequently made love, it had never been like this, as if she wanted to devour him as if he was everything she ever wanted. Never had he known passion like Severus was showing him now.

It had taken Harry over a week to pluck up the courage to speak to Severus as he had. After 'The Hug' as he thought of it, Harry couldn't seem to get Severus out of his head. He'd been devastated about Ginny and deeply hurt, but every time he was alone, every time he drifted off to sleep, it was Severus he dreamt of and whose arms he felt around him. He'd tried to brood about Ginny, he really had. But try as he might to envision soft curves and flowing red hair when he pictured her, instead he would get a vision of black eyes that seemed to burn into his soul, long fingers that he could imagine caressing his skin, long dark hair, which (he knew from having washed it) felt like the finest silk beneath his touch.

Harry remembered, with pleasure now, the times early on when he had bathed Severus almost daily. Even after the new potion started to take effect, he was there when Snape needed help. Harry had seen the changes in the other man's body, it had gone from being as pale as milk and pitifully skinny to being merely slim and seemingly well-toned. Harry had bathed him so often that for a long time Severus hadn't bothered to cover up around him. But once he'd regained his health he had piled on the robes and returned to being buttoned-up and unapproachable again. However, for some reason, the fact that the older man's body was so well covered only served to enflame Harry's imagination.

Even before Ginny's betrayal, Harry would find his thoughts straying to Severus. He'd told himself it was just the close proximity making him think of him differently, but how could it not? At first he'd hated the man and then slowly, by degrees he'd come to respect him and then to like him and finally to never being able to get the snarky git out of his thoughts.

After the hug, Harry had found himself brushing against Severus, standing too close, just wanting to be near him, half-hoping that something would happen between them, that Snape would grab Harry and just take him, but the selfish git was simply far too honourable.

He would wake each morning with his hand upon his cock and Snape's name upon his lips and he had taken to sneaking upstairs halfway through the day for a quick wank.

At first he thought the attraction was on his part alone. Severus no doubt saw him as a stupid kid and what would someone like Severus Snape want with a grubby schoolboy, not to mention James Potter's son? He obviously considered them friends now, which was a miracle in itself as far as Harry was concerned, but couldn't possibly be interested in anything more. So Harry had taken to watching him, trying to decipher the emotions in those haunting, dark eyes. Then he'd noticed how often those eyes were on him, Harry. How hungry they looked sometimes.

Finally, he made his… what was it? His confession, his proposition? Whatever, he made it and, to his immense surprise, Severus had grasped the opportunity with both hands, and grabbed Harry just as forcefully as he had in Harry's hottest daydreams. Harry could not contain his glee, or his desire.

Those hands, those beautiful, strong hands, which moved so skilfully when they created potions, were buried in Harry's hair, stroking his face, holding him tight as Severus plundered his mouth. Harry kissed back more forcefully, more passionately than he'd ever kissed anyone before.

Then Severus lifted him, Harry's smaller stature posing no problems in this endeavour, and dumped him on the worktop, amongst various potions ingredients. He tugged at Harry's t-shirt.

"Off," he hissed, making his demands through clenched teeth. Together they removed the offending item. Then Severus pulled at the buttons on Harry's jeans, not bothering to speak this time, but then Harry didn't need him to.

The boy felt wonderful to Severus, every single part of him felt wonderful. He had waited so long to see how that soft, silky skin felt beneath his touch, dreamt about it, almost reached out so many times before stopping himself, not wanting to force his greasy, bitter self on the shining young man that he held in his arms. For weeks Harry had tended to him, looked after him. He had been gentle and caring and all those tentative touches had nearly driven him to distraction. Nobody had cared for Severus like Harry had and he couldn't even blame it on the forced bond.

He had researched bonds very thoroughly before he'd claimed his debts. There were so many available that the choice seemed endless: bonds which forced the submissive partner to fall hopelessly in love with the master wizard, bonds which allowed two bound wizards to share each other's thoughts — that idea had made Severus feel slightly sick, for he certainly hadn't want to be subjected to inane Potter-babble. But that was then, that was months ago, before Potter became Harry, before he became someone who Severus cared for so deeply. The bond he'd chosen was the simplest. It bound Potter to his company and restricted his magic — though it should have bound it totally. But nothing was quite as it should be when it came to Harry Potter. The ban on magic could not be undone, but he had managed to expand the time restriction so that Harry could be away from him for longer periods and go further afield.

When he kissed Harry he felt complete, as if this was what he'd been waiting for all of his life, as if this was what he needed to truly feel alive.

Harry was responding passionately. Harry's hands clutched at Severus' shoulders, short nails still somehow digging in; the boy's grip would undoubtedly cause bruises but Severus didn't care. He hoisted the boy up and placed him on the workbench, still kissing him passionately. He pulled at the boy's overly-large t-shirt. Harry seemed to have the most peculiar way of dressing, mostly Muggle jeans and t-shirts that were usually old and either too big or too small.

Severus preferred too small… far more revealing. For a brief second it occurred to him to wonder why the Weasley chit hadn't taken him shopping. At that precise moment, however, he managed to get the boy out of his clothes and decided clothes were superfluous and he would just persuade Harry to never dress again.

Quite simply a naked and writhing Harry Potter, spread out before him like a feast on a bed of feverfew, was by far the most erotic, the most delectable thing Severus had ever seen and he spread the boy's legs wide and leaned forward to partake of the proffered feast.

Harry was naked, lying amongst the potions ingredients on Severus' workbench and the man was playing with him. He was stroking Harry's abdomen with one hand and alternately pinching and stroking a nipple with the other, and all the time he was talking to Harry in that gorgeous silky voice.

"Merlin, you're sexy. So fucking sexy." He kissed a trail that followed the path his hand had taken over Harry's stomach. "I've waited so long for this, for you." He placed his tongue in Harry's navel and then licked and nibbled his way back down towards Harry's rock hard dick.

"Guh!" Harry burbled and Severus chuckled.

"Guh indeed, my little Gryffindor. You little prick-tease. All these weeks you've been squeezing past me, brushing up against me, sitting far too close. Hiding this." He firmly grabbed Harry's cock in his hand and squeezed it. "Well you can't hide anymore, Harry, you're mine now."

Then he licked the end of Harry's cock and took him into his mouth.

Harry had never felt anything like it before, Severus licked and sucked and teased him. He still caressed Harry's nipples, cupped Harry's arse cheek and squeezed it, stroked it. Harry could hardly keep up with all the sensations Severus was creating in him. He could no longer speak coherently; he could only babble and beg. Then Severus pushed a finger against a spot at the base of Harry's cock and it was as if the world exploded.

Harry writhed, he threw back his head and screamed and then he was coming, hard, into Severus' hot, wet mouth.

Harry was spent. He lay beneath Severus, his chest glistening under a sheen of sweat and heaving with exertion, his glasses lost somewhere along the way. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his lips looked as if they had been bee-stung. He was gazing glassily at Severus, eyes wide with astonishment. He didn't speak, but those swollen lips mouthed the word, "Wow!"

Severus smirked. He spread his hand on Harry's stomach, just to keep on touching him, claiming the boy as his.

Harry pushed himself up on his elbows and regarded Severus steadily out of hooded green eyes. He looked so unbelievably sexy that Severus' cock, which was currently trying to burst out of his trousers, got harder still. Harry's erection, however, had completely gone. The young man's cock lay limply amongst the dark curls, curls that were tangled with remnants of feverfew. He should have taken it more slowly, but he had waited so long for this that he'd simply not been able to resist. Harry was young, though, and had been very aroused. With a bit of rest he'd no doubt recover quickly, but Severus might not last that long. He might have to head upstairs and finish himself off.

"Thank you," Harry said, surprising him. "That was amazing, the best… well, I don't know… just the best." His eyes shone wetly for a moment and then he sat all the way up. "What about you?"

Severus smiled at him and placed a hand so that it cupped Harry's cheek. Harry leaned into the touch and closed his eyes.

"I'll just pop upstairs for a minute while you get dressed."

Harry's eyes opened wide and he frowned. "That's not fair!" he exclaimed. "Look it's my turn now, but I've never done one of these before, er… Ginny doesn't have the same equipment, so I won't be able to manage anything as good as that!" As he spoke he scooted himself off the table and got down on his knees at Severus' feet. "You'll have to tell me what to do, okay?"

Severus nearly came then and there without a single touch. The saviour of the wizarding word was kneeling naked at his feet and currently trying to undo his buttons in order to give him a blow-job. For a second, Severus let his cock do his thinking as Harry's hands finished with his buttons and released his erection. His only coherent thought was to thank whatever gods might be listening for that overdeveloped Gryffindor sense of fair play.

But this was Harry, his Harry, the boy who'd cared for him and looked after him. Severus had wanted to pleasure the boy, to say thank you for all that he'd done. He wanted to touch Harry, to taste him, do something he would never have thought possible, something nobody could have thought possible.

"Wait," he said, placing his hand on Harry's dark head, fingers brushing the dark curls disturbing the tiny scraps of petals and ferny leaves from the feverfew that had tangled there. "Wait, Harry, you don't have to do this."

Harry just grinned up at him. "Yeah I do. Why should you have all the fun?" He frowned, stuck out a pink tongue and licked the tip of Severus' cock. Severus was sure that his brain had melted and for a while, he completely lost his capacity for rational thought.

Harry was asleep, his head resting against Severus' shoulder, his even breaths soft against Severus' bare skin. They were curled up in bed, tucked up in dark green satin sheets. The boy was such a sensual little bugger. He was also the most tactile lover Severus had ever had, and so demanding. He could never seem to get enough of Severus; it was quite ridiculously flattering. He couldn't seem to keep away from Severus; he was forever touching his hand, stroking his hair or leaning in for a kiss. Whilst Severus loved the attention, rejoiced in it even, it also made him rather sad. Never before had it been so apparent to Severus how starved for affection Harry must always have been. He needed Severus, had to be near him, adored being cuddled and taken care of, and in return he lavished love and affection on his older lover. He had been let down and abandoned so many times in his life, Severus swore to himself that he would look after the boy forever, if Harry would let him, that is.

Harry was perfect as far as Severus was concerned. So perfect, in fact, that he sometimes wondered what Harry saw in him and wondered whether the boy would wake up one day soon and simply walk away — when the cuff came off perhaps. Severus shivered, not wanting to think about such a day… ever.

The last few weeks had been perfect, well, almost perfect. Severus had decided to sell his final book, the Peter Pan. It had cost him more than a little qualm to part with it, but once done it was as if his luck had finally changed. His regular Apothecary approached 'Tobias Prince' to start making Potions. Severus suspected that d'Artagnan Diggle, elder brother of Daedelous, knew perfectly well who he was. He probably needed a good brewer who wasn't asking to be paid too much and he simply didn't care anymore what Severus Snape had done in the war. So now he had a job. He still felt pangs over his book, though, thinking that if he'd waited a few more days he wouldn't have had to sell it. But, on the whole these days, he was mostly well content and every day he woke to Harry.

Harry, who seemed happy to pootle about in the garden, read, do assorted chores and who provided and demanded spectacular, wonderful sex. Because he had increased the time on Harry's cuff, allowing him to be away from Severus for several hours—the young man had plenty of time to go into town, go for a long rambling walk, or visit his friends. Except he hadn't; Harry didn't seem interested in seeing anyone else and Severus was worried. Harry had been with him for five months now. Ginny Weasley's betrayal was in the past, and yet, Harry still didn't want to meet with anyone and he equally didn't seem to want any of his friends visiting Spinner's End. Every day, for several months now, letters would arrive and Harry would reply, sending them on their way and then turning back to his life with Severus.

Yesterday Harry had received a letter from Hermione, begging him to let them (Ron and herself) visit and again Harry refused. Severus was worried about him. Later, whilst Harry had been out at the shops, he'd fire-called the Granger girl to ask what had been going on. Then he'd spoken to Harry and it was then he and Harry had their first real row.

Now he felt, once again, consumed by guilt. He should have noticed the boy was withdrawing himself from the world, that a very private part of Harry almost welcomed the loss of his magic and with it the attendant responsibilities. Here he was just an attractive young man, living with 'that reclusive ex-chemistry teacher', and the world could save itself. The extended time allowance on the bracelet allowed him the opportunity to get away by himself if he needed to but whenever they went into town together, they were welcomed by a number of people like long lost friends.

Both his parents had been born and brought up in this town. His mother's family known to the magical community, his father's to the Muggle. The townsfolk might think Severus weird, especially as he was very obviously living with a man far younger than himself, but if he was a weirdo, then he was their weirdo and they, quite bizarrely, seemed genuinely glad to have him back. Harry they seemed to like for himself. The man at the corner shop, where Harry went each day for milk and eggs and other bits and pieces, even told Severus once that "The lad's right nice for a poofter", whilst the pink haired lady at their cafe always saved a cake for Harry. Even the man at the bookshop seemed to have mellowed and had offered to look at Severus' remaining books for sale, the magical ones, and sell them at a fair price.

He placed a kiss on Harry's head. The young man was perfect, totally perfect, and Severus couldn't quite believe that he still chose to be with his greasy git, ex-potions professor. But Severus had severe doubts he could possibly be good enough for Harry. And tomorrow, when he went to visit his friends, he just might realise this fact for himself… and then… then Severus would lose him. Harry was perfect, their life together was perfect; Severus lay in bed, holding his lover and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Harry felt sick. He didn't want to go to see Ron and Hermione and was feeling particularly cross with Severus because he'd been manoeuvred into the visit. He supposed that was what he got for living with a Slytherin.

Severus was right on all points, though, and he knew it deep down. But he didn't have to like it and had told Severus so. He felt quite guilty that his lover looked so woebegone. Who would have thought that he, Harry Potter, could so easily subdue Severus Snape? Of course, denying him a morning blow-job wasn't an option when they had been at Hogwarts.

"Well, have a nice time," Severus said sadly, grabbing a pinch of Floo powder for Harry's journey. Severus had made him promise not to cast any spells if he could help it, because he could still only manage one weak spell a day. This wasn't, however, a fact he was planning on sharing with his friends.

"Hmm," was all he muttered in response.

He hadn't quite forgiven his friends yet for what had happened with Ginny and after, what he considered their betrayal of friendship. He still remembered opening the paper and seeing her picture. It had been the worst pain he'd ever known. All those weeks wondering, hoping that she was just too busy as Ron and Hermione kept telling him. But if only they'd written the truth, he knew he could have coped better.

Then he'd told them about Severus.

Neither of them had known what to write, neither of them had written for a couple of days. Then Hermione wrote a letter full of warnings and platitudes. Ron had just asked him if he'd gone off his bloody trolley.

Harry's response had been to stop writing altogether, at which point his almost ex-best-friends had bombarded him with letters till he'd finally replied, basically telling them both to mind their own fucking business.

Then Severus had stuck his large, Slytherin nose into the business, they'd argued, and the upshot was a promise to visit.

So Severus was making do without any until Harry decided to forgive him. But as Harry got ready to leave and Severus got ready to shout out his destination, Harry felt a pang of regret. His lover looked so very sad. He was only trying to do his best for Harry after all, even if it meant putting up with Harry's friends.

He stepped out of the Floo, put his arms around his lover and kissed him. "I love you, Severus," he whispered softly and rejoiced at the delighted look on his lover's face as he spun away in a wall of bright green flame.

Severus didn't know what to do with himself. He was missing Harry desperately. Harry's mood had unsettled him. Was this it? Would Harry start to tire of him now. He couldn't seem to become absorbed in anything; he felt edgy without Harry around. Had he meant it when he said he loved Severus? Did he love Severus, could he truly love Severus?

Severus had finally managed to lengthen Harry's time away to eight hours and the young man had already been gone for three of them. Severus whiled away the morning by making a potion, then wandered into the garden to look at Harry's supermarket trolley, now planted with a profusion of pansies. Harry told him that his aunt's garden had always been neat and tidy, with all the plants forced into rigid growing patterns. His garden wasn't going to be like that. He even insisted on using magic to water them whenever he could because he knew his aunt would truly hate that. Severus had discovered there was far more depth to Harry Potter than he'd ever realized. He was also secretly delighted that Harry thought of the garden as his.

Finally, he found himself in Harry's bedroom. Not that Harry ever slept there anymore. He slept with Severus, in their bed, the bed he'd bought the green satin sheets for. The single bed the boy had slept in for so many weeks was made up and on the pillow was Severus' copy of The Little Prince. Severus felt warmed by the fact Harry had kept the book, had possibly even been reading it again recently. The room was meant to be Harry's sanctuary, Severus' way of allowing him some space after taking away his freedom. There was little in the room, some clothes, a few books, and an empty owl cage that he wouldn't even let Amiciticus use. It was sad, really, how little Harry owned.

He crossed to the bed and bent over to pick up his book. It meant even more to him now than it had before, since Harry had read to him when he'd still been so ill. His foot caught on something and Severus looked down, half of his foot had disappeared. It was Harry's invisibility cloak. Severus bent down to touch it. This cloak had kept the boy safe at the final battle, as well as making Severus' life a misery at Hogwarts. The cloak felt so silky, it moved like water between his fingers. He gently pulled it, thinking to fold it and leave it on bed for when Harry came home. Perhaps it had fallen off the bed. But the cloak was stuck. He got down on his hands and knees, peered under to see what it was catching on and spied a cardboard box. He reached in and pulled it out and the cloak came away easily. He began to fold the cloak and then he saw what was in the box.

It contained his books, the ones he'd sold, or thought he'd sold. He couldn't breathe… what did it mean? Not all of his books were there, but his special ones, the ones that had torn at his heart to part with were here. They were all here: the Jane Austen, one of his mother's favourite authors, A Tale of Two Cities, with Sydney Carton, the anti-hero who Lily had once compared him to, and his precious Peter Pan, his very own copy, the one he had owned since he'd been a very young boy.

Severus didn't know what to do, or what to think for that matter. He put the cloak on Harry's bed, hardly caring that it fell once more to the floor, and then lifted the box and carried it downstairs. He couldn't understand it. Why did Harry have his books? He'd seen the remittance. These had been paid for, all of them, most recently the J.M. Barrie, which had fetched him more than all his other books put together. It was also the one he had been most reluctant to part with.

He thought back to his first few weeks with Harry, when Harry had offered him money, had said he could pay for them both, that he had more money than he could ever spend. But Severus didn't want Harry's money. Harry's money had once belonged to the two people Severus had hated most in the world. He found himself sitting on the sofa, opposite the fireplace. He felt cold and confused and somewhat hurt. Harry had tricked him, lied to him.

He didn't know how long he sat there, miserable, not knowing what to do. Harry had lied. There were several hours before Harry returned, what should he do? Did he continue to sit in this cold room and allow his anger to build? He simply couldn't understand why Harry had lied to him.

Glancing down, Severus noticed he still had something in his hands. It was his book, The Little Prince. He turned the pages gently; the paper felt so fragile under his fingertips. He read his mother's inscription and then turned to the front page and began to read Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book.

For more than an hour, Severus read. He returned to the story from his childhood. He read about the narrator and the little prince, he read about the different characters that the little prince met during his explorations, he read about the fox and about the snake that promised to bite the prince and allow him to go home, and he read about the rose that had told a lie.

Finally, he finished reading and he closed the book. The sitting room was still cold. Severus looked around the room. To a perfect stranger it probably wasn't a particularly nice space, being that it was cluttered and dark, but to Severus it was beautiful. It was beautiful because this was the room in which he sat with Harry. They drank tea in the kitchen and worked together in the workroom. They had built a life together, had they not? Severus was far from perfect, but then Harry wasn't perfect either. In Severus' book, in The Little Prince, the prince nearly throws everything he cares for away by running from his rose. He finally comes to accept that his rose isn't perfect, but that he loves her anyway. Maybe, just maybe, that was how Harry felt about him. He accepted Severus' faults and loved him anyway… and if that was so, then why shouldn't Severus do the same?

Harry had told him a lie, yes, but it had been for his own sake, not Harry's. He'd wanted to take care of Harry, not have Harry take care of him. He hadn't wanted to touch Sirius Black's money or James Potter's, and Harry knew it. But the young man had also seen Severus sinking into despair. So he'd found a way to give Severus the money and let him keep his dignity at the same time… not to mention his books… he still had his precious books.

"Oh, Harry." Severus would need to talk to the boy when he got back, but he didn't feel angry anymore. He felt stupid for his initial reaction and found himself thankful that Harry hadn't been there.

The Floo flared and Harry fell out, landing on the rug in a heap. "Bugger!" he said. "I still can't do this floo thing worth a damn." He scrambled to his feet and saw Severus sitting on the settee. "Hi Sever…" The smile that had almost split his face for a moment disappeared and his eyes widened as soon as he caught sight of the box of books. He went alarmingly pale.

"You found them then?"

"I did," Severus replied. He looked up at the emerald eyes, the dishevelled hair, and the dark smudge on Harry's nose, and his heart lurched with love. How could he have doubted the young man? Harry was so totally transparent he really could read him like one of his favourite books.

Harry looked crestfallen. "I'm sorry," he said dully. "I just didn't know what else to do; you were so desperate. I did sell some of them, but I kept these because I knew they were special. I was going to give them to you for Christmas. You see it wasn't like it was Sirius' money or my father's cos I paid the bookseller for the books and the money that you got was his, not theirs, do you see what I mean? I just didn't want you to lose them but I knew how you'd feel…"

"Harry," Severus interrupted.

"Yes?" Harry looked hopeful at Severus' quiet tone.

"Thank you."

Harry's face crumpled and he almost staggered into Severus' arms. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you, but I couldn't let you lose those books, you lov...mmmph!"

Severus silenced him with a kiss. He should have known, he truly should have done. There was no meanness in Harry, none at all. He had actually gone to a great deal of trouble to 'rescue' Severus' favourite books, so he hadn't been lying at all, really. But Severus also knew he wasn't perfect either. He was a mass of contradictions, kind and caring and yet petulant too. He was loyal to his friends and yet bad-tempered with them, blaming them for something which was not their fault. He was strong and resourceful and yet so very vulnerable too. He was Harry. Severus' Harry and by the way he had practically climbed onto Severus' lap, he needed Severus' strength too.

Harry was just himself and it had taken Severus far too long to see it. He was not merely the hero of the wizarding world, or the son of Lily and James Potter and the godson of Sirius Black; he was all of those things and he was none of them, and above all else he was a very good man and Severus loved him beyond reason. Now he knew he could love Harry, for his faults as well as for his qualities.

He gently broke the kiss and brushed Harry's hair out of his eyes, "On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."

"Er…what?"

"Nothing to worry about," Severus told him gently. "I was just telling you the secret of seeing rightly, not that you need to know it. You taught it to me in fact."

"I did?"

"Yes, Harry, you did. And finally I get it, too. The French was a quote from Le Petit Prince."

"The French translation?"

"No, Harry. The book was written in French and translated into English."

"And you've read it in French?" Severus nodded. "Wow, that's amazing. Is it very different in French? God, you're incredible!"

Severus smirked and pulled Harry closer; the boy was so very good for his ego. "It is different, but not hugely. The message is the same."

"Yeah, but to read it in another language, that is so clever! You're brilliant, you are."

"Not so much. You see, Harry, I might have read the book in two languages, but you instinctively understood its message. It's why you gave me a chance in the first place and why I, getting to know you better and learning your many qualities, fell in love with you."

"So you still love me then?" Harry smirked.

"I do, brat."

"Good. So what was it that you said in French?"

"It was one of the most important lines in the book, Harry: One cannot see well except with the heart, the essential is invisible to the eyes."

"Yeah, well, it certainly took me a while to see the goodness in you," Harry said, cheekily, but then he sobered. "But not nearly as long as I might once have thought. You're a good man, Severus Snape, and I love you."

Severus wanted to laugh out loud, wanted to swing Harry around and kiss him, wanted to take him upstairs and pound him into the mattress till he begged for mercy or for more. He'd tamed him, sheltered him, watched over him, and now Harry was his.

He took Harry's face in his hands and kissed him again and his heart felt like it might burst with happiness. Harry was his light in the stars, just like in the book, he was his water in the desert, but what was even more incredible, he knew that, for Harry, he answered the same needs.

"So, Harry." He whispered, pulling the young man even closer and dropping a kiss on his head, "Tell me about your visit to your friends."

The cuff lay glinting on the kitchen table, now nothing more than an engraved silver bracelet. All the magic had been spent. The last year had been the best year of Severus' life; it had transformed him, showing him what true happiness was all about. But until midnight last night he hadn't truly been able to relax. Although Harry had told him time and time again that he wouldn't leave, Severus couldn't believe him, not until the boy had the freedom to leave but didn't. Severus told himself that once the cuff came off, if Harry still wanted to stay, then he would believe him at last. He sighed, a sigh laced with the deepest contentment. They'd sat up together, he and Harry. They'd held hands and at the stroke of midnight the cuff had sprung open and fallen away.

He smiled and his eyes lit up with the joy of that moment. Harry had kissed him and told him he loved him, and then taken Severus' hand and led him upstairs to their bed. He ran a finger over the cold metal. It looked so inconsequential, such a small thing to have changed a man's life, to have changed his soul. He decided he would keep it, never throw it away, for this cuff had been what had finally allowed him to see Harry as he truly was, had brought Harry to him, had given him back his life.

He picked it up and weighed in his hand. It was heavy, but Severus wondered if he had felt the weight of it more than Harry in the last few months. The weight of guilt that he'd forced the boy to wear it, bound Harry to him. He'd been so lucky. It could all have gone so dreadfully wrong. Harry could have hated him, could have been cruel or rough when Severus was so helpless. But he hadn't. Severus took the cuff through to his workroom and placed it in a drawer. He would never use it again, but he couldn't get rid of it either. Then he went back into the kitchen and finished adding breakfast things to the tray: two boiled eggs each, some toast, some juice and a pot of coffee. He left the newspaper on the table — he wanted no distractions on this morning and then he headed back up the stairs to his lover's bed. His lover, his Harry, his rose.