Heart of the Guardian

4. Body Count

Harry studied the Potion professor's – Headmaster's, he reminded himself – face. He was less pale than he had been this morning, though the bones of his face still jutted out shockingly, emphasizing the sharp angularity of his profile, usually much less evident despite his hook nose. His eyes were sunken, darker, more fathomless, more foreboding – more haunted – than Harry was used to seeing them. Or maybe I just didn't notice, he admitted. Snape's eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids, and – not for the first time – Harry wondered what nightmarish events the man was re-experiencing. He shuddered and drew his robe tighter about himself, finally sinking into the chair and pulling the potions book to his lap again.

An hour or so later, deep in deciphering the recipe for a stress-reducing, calming decoction, he struggled to pronounce a word that was giving him trouble: Ashwagandha.

"Aash... wah... GAHN... dah," Snape muttered, his eyes still closed. "It's wah, Potter, not woh. And the major accent is on the third syllable. If you insist on slaughtering the language, I'll thank you to leave my books in my study." He opened his eyes, expecting the boy to be looking at him.

"Sorry, sir," the boy replied, but he neither closed the book nor looked up, his quill scratching on a piece of parchment on which Snape could see what looked suspiciously like lists of potion ingredients. He shifted restlessly against his pillow.

"Can I get you something, Professor?"

"I am not your Professor, Potter, as you deemed it unnecessary to attend school this year."

Potter paused his scratching to look up at him incredulously. "You're joking."

He did not see fit to reply. Indeed, he was not sure exactly what reply he could have given. Of course he did not attend this year! Snape's heart faltered at the very thought of what would have happened if Potter had shown up, had been at Platform 9 ¾ in London on September first. He chose to answer the boy's first question.

"No, Potter. I'm fine. I just need..." He hesitated.

"Sir?"

Cursing fluidly to himself, Snape weighed the relative indignity of allowing Poppy to help him with a bedpan and requiring Potter's help to get to the bathroom. He opted for the latter. "I shall require assistance to make it to the..."

"Oh!" Potter's eyes widened in sudden comprehension, and he closed the book with a snap, face reddening, and pulled out his wand. "Ah..." He looked toward Pomfrey's closed door uncertainly.

"I can walk, Potter," Snape growled, then stopped when Harry conjured a pair of soft, lamb's wool slippers and moved to help him sit up.

"Slowly, Professor."

Snape growled again, something inaudible. "My wand," he enunciated more clearly into the back of Potter's head as the boy bent to place the slippers on his feet. The boy straightened up and motioned to the bedside table. Snape snatched up the long piece of carved ebony and glared at the boy as if he thought that dignity, too, would be denied him. Potter wisely kept his own counsel, shifting to take some of the professor's weight, ready to catch him if he wavered. Snape did not miss the circular motion of the boy's wand behind him, nor the light support of the boy's hand at his back, but he was too engrossed in conquering the sudden urge to spew pumpkin juice all over himself and the warm slippers on his feet to protest, as he fought to get his balance and stay upright.

Several shaky and exhausting minutes later, Potter helped Snape back to bed, uttering a mild levitating charm to assist him in getting his legs onto the covers. Snape wondered if he looked as pale as he felt. He was sweaty, and he was shaking – either from the effort, or with cold, or both. He cursed weakly as he lay back against the pillows. Potter murmured, "Excuse me, Professor," as he pulled the blanket out from under Snape's emaciated calves, then up around his torso, assuring no draft could find its way under the coverlet. The boy took a dry cloth from the drawer in the bedside table, warmed it with a quiet murmur, and began dabbing the sweat from Snape's forehead. Snape's face twitched, but he did not have the energy to overtly complain or move away. Potter ignored the implied protest and doggedly continued until he had dried Snape's face and neck, right down to the collar of his pajamas. He touched his wand to a corner of Snape's sleeve, invoking a nonverbal Tergio, to siphon off the sweat that soaked the pajamas, followed by a silent warming spell on the blanket. Snape's shivering slowly subsided, his breathing became more regular, and he gradually fell into an exhausted but peaceful sleep.