Taking Care of Business

"Take care of him, Harry..." The headmaster's last words to me before he sent me in search of Snape buzz around my ears like a pesky insect - no matter how much I try to swat it away, it just keeps coming back to plague me.

Take care of him.

I snort. As if Severus-bloody-Snape needs a 17-year-old kid - also the bane of his existence - to watch after him. Take care of him, indeed. More likely, he'd have me taken care of if I so much as gave him a sympathetic look. Taken care of permanently. With lots of pain and screaming.

And yet.

I looked into Dumbledore's quickly-fading eyes and I said, "I will." So I suppose I will, even if it gets me maimed, killed, or otherwise unpleasantly incapacitated in the process.

I just wish he'd told me how.

How exactly does one "take care" of a former-death-eater-turned-spy-turned-nasty-git-potions-professor? I'm not much for comforting, even at the best of times. Ron and Hermione's first little spat as an official couple nearly sent me running voluntarily into Voldemort's arms. I'd have rather faced off with a hundred death eaters than be in the middle of that.

Taking care of Snape is going to kill me. Or turn me into the next dark lord.

I sigh, brushing aside my unhappy thoughts, and take out my potions homework. It's only been two days since Dumbledore's passing, and of course classes have been canceled all week, but for some reason, doing my potions homework is the only thing that puts me into a deep enough sleep that I don't wake up screaming my bloody head off.

I drift off moments later, floating muzzily into that foggy realm between waking and sleep. Images of the last couple days flash behind my eyes like a Muggle film. I see Dumbledore, smiling, pouring tea, and then clutching his chest, falling to the ground...

The image changes quickly, and I am bent over him, begging raggedly for him to respond. I then see the corridors of the school zip by crazily as I make my flight to the dungeons. I see Snape's face, the way the indifferent mask slips for the barest second when he opens the door. I see Pomfrey, face swollen from tears, directing the coroner to the body, Minerva clenching and unclenching her jaw in what for her is a shameless display of emotion. I no longer see Snape, but I feel him, his chest lightly pressed against my back, his breath warm on my neck. I didn't expect him to be so warm.

And then I hear Dumbledore's voice, his last request of me. As if putting the fate of the entire wizarding world on my shoulders wasn't enough, I'm now expected to take care of one of my worst enemies. He might just as well have asked me to shag Draco Malfoy. But he didn't - he asked me to take care of Severus Snape, who he loved like a son, in whom he saw worth when no one else did, in whom he placed his trust.

Take care of him, Harry.

I will, Dumbledore. I will. But I don't know how.

What if I fail?

The voice fades but does not die away completely; I can hear it surrounding me, whispering those words like a mantra: Take care of him. And suddenly I see Snape again - he is looking at me, hatred roiling in those fathomless black eyes, lips twisted into an ugly sneer.

"You're usless, Potter," he says, scowling ferociously. "Can't even carry out Dumbledore's dying wish. Pathetic."

"What?" I say, confused. I haven't even had a chance to carry out Dumbledore's wish. What does he mean?

"You're a disgrace, Potter. Completely inept. The-boy-who-lived-to-be-an-eternal-cock-up." His eyes bore into me accusingly, and I blink, trying to ignore him, shut him out. I can feel his gaze on me though, and I open my eyes, thinking I'll apologize, though I'm not sure what for. When I look at him, I find he has stepped back, looking over my shoulder, and there is fear in his face. I try to turn around, but cannot move. Whatever he sees behind me, it is enough to shatter his defenses. He whimpers like a child and backs away, holding out his hands as though to keep something back.

"What is it?" I whisper, wishing he would say something, call me names, give me a good verbal lashing - anything to stop him from looking like that.

I reach out a hand to him, but he does not see, and when I try to move forward, he moves farther away. I watch in horror as he sinks to his knees, hands raised in surrender.

"Take me," he says softly, bowing his head. "Take me instead..."

Instead of what?

I panic, and begin shouting at him. "Snape! Snape, stop it! Listen to me! What are you talking about? There's no one else here, Snape! It's me... Harry! Snape, please... tell me what's wrong! I can't take care of you if you don't tell me what's wrong!"

I freeze then, my blood running cold. I can't take care of him. I can't. That's what he's been trying to tell me - I've failed Dumbledore, failed him miserably. Snape is in trouble, and I do nothing but stand there, watching like a dummy.

I try to move toward him again, but am pushed back by an invisible force. Snape's eyes have rolled back in his head, and his shoulders convulse, as though he's in great pain but trying not to show it. I watch helplessly as he crumples to the floor, and will myself to move. My legs finally unfreeze and I rush forward, dropping to my knees beside him.

"Snape!" I hiss, shaking him roughly by the shoulder. "Snape, wake up! Don't do this to me! Don't make me a liar!" I roll him over onto his back and his head flops limply toward me. Cold, lifeless black eyes stare up at me, through me, into my very soul. This is my fault. I couldn't take care of him, and his death will be forever on my conscience...

I am woken by my own bloodcurdling scream.

Apparently the effectiveness of studying potions before sleeping has worn off.

I sigh, running a hand through my unruly hair and straightening my glasses, which are sitting crookedly on my nose and have left a rather painful imprint above my left eye. My body aches from sleeping cramped up in a tiny desk. The abandoned classroom is peaceful though, and I don't have to worry about waking my dormmates with my screams. I had originally thought of sleeping in the Room of Requirement, but there is a part of me that is afraid to discover what I might need.

I indulge in a stretch, scratching my stomach absently and wondering if Ron and Hermione will notice if I miss dinner. Again. I know they mean well, but their constant pestering is about to drive me over the edge. Honestly, I might almost prefer Snape's company once they're done with me.

Speaking of the slimy bastard...

The door of the classroom flies open and he is there, glowering fiercely. I pause, mid-scratch, and stare at him open-mouthed.

"Professor... what?" Seeing him in the flesh brings back the painful image of my nightmare in full force, and I find myself trembling.

"What are you doing in here, Potter?" he growls, sweeping his eyes around the classroom, probably looking for evidence of illegal activity.

"Sleeping," I answer honestly. I won't lie to him, but I don't have to give him any more information than is absolutely necessary.

"I heard a scream." He looks at me suspiciously.

"Yes."

"You are infuriating, Mr. Potter, do you know that?"

"Yes."

Snape rolls his eyes, but his sneer fades a bit. "Did you merely have a nightmare, or are you conducting experimental testing on hinkypunks in here?"

Well, I wouldn't call that a mere nightmare, but whatever. "Yes," I say, nodding slightly. "A nightmare."

His jaw clenches tightly, and he presses his lips together in a thin line. He stares at me for a long moment, and I stare back. On the outside I am calm and cool, but inside my mind is racing, wondering how in the hell I'm supposed to take care of that.

"Would you like to talk about it?" he says finally, through gritted teeth. My eyes fly to his face in surprise. He looks a bit stunned himself, as though he hadn't meant to say that.

"Sir?" I question, thinking there must be some sort of catch. You can tell me all about it Potter, but afterward I'm going to dismember you and throw all your parts to the giant squid and pretend it never happened.

"Talk, Potter. The thing that happens when you open your mouth and that ridiculously inane shite you pass off as conversation pours out."

I don't know how to respond to this. "Oh."

The sneer is back in place, stronger than ever. "Very succinct, Mr. Potter. I'm almost tempted not to deduct points for your stupidity."

I narrow my eyes at him, wondering if that's what passes for concern in Snape-land, but I say nothing. I notice that he does not take any points.

"Well then," he says, and - dear gods, is he fidgeting? Severus Snape, cunning, sneaky Slytherin... fidgeting like an antsy house elf? I want to laugh, but I know that will mean certain death, so I clamp my lips together and pretend not to notice.

"Forget I asked, Potter," he mutters, and turns to sweep out of the room. A sudden thought pops into my head.

"Professor?" I call after him. He stops, but does not turn back to face me. I take a deep breath. This is what Dumbledore wanted. This is for Dumbledore. If he murders me, I'll be able to tell the old loon "I told you so" in person.

"How are you doing?" I ask, and then shut my eyes tightly. Such a simple question - it is laughable that I am so afraid of asking him what I ask my companions on a daily basis.

He does turn then, and I can tell he is struggling not to show his surprise. When you really look at him, he's not so hard to read - his left eyebrow twitches when he's trying to hide something. It's off the charts right now.

"How am I doing?" he repeats, his voice a bland monotone.

"Erm... yes. I just... well, I was just wondering. I thought maybe you would want to... but no... probably not. Sorry. Never mind. Sorry... I..." I could kick myself. I sound like such an arse.

"Shut up, Potter. You sound like an arse."

Well. That was... creepy. My mouth is opening and closing, and I know I must look like some stupid goldfish, but I'm too surprised at being called an "arse" by my professor.

"You look like a goldfish, Potter."

Stop that! That's just... "Fuckin' weird," I mumble under my breath. When did Snape become a mind reader? It crosses my mind then that I've just cursed in front of a professor. I look up quickly, prepared to hear, "Ten thousand points from Gryffindor," but what happens instead is even more horrifying.

Snape laughs. Not long, and not loud, but a real, honest-to-Merlin laugh. I am shaken down to the soles of my feet. I am struck with a vision of all the deceased death eaters, running around hell, having a snowball fight.

"My, my," Snape says, left eyebrow going a mile-a-minute. "I am amazed the great Harry Potter would stoop to something so pedestrian as swearing."

"I'm sorry, sir," I say, hoping I look contrite. "I shouldn't have..."

"Nonsense," he says, surprising me again. "If that's what you feel, then you should say it, to hell with what anyone thinks. Though I must say, Mr. Potter, I am a bit shocked at your colorful vocabulary."

I look away, and feel my face heat up. Am I blushing? Oh god, I am. Shit. Why?

Because you just made a fool of yourself in front of a professor, stupid. In front of Snape, to be precise.

"So... detention tomorrow evening then?" I say, only half-jokingly. The man actually attempts a smile, though it comes off as more of a grimace.

"Not this time, Potter. Though I'm sure I shan't suffer too long without your presence disturbing the peace of my evening hours."

"I'm sure," I say wryly. An uncomfortable silence falls around us.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he says suddenly, and I look up quickly, surprised by the abrupt change of subject.

"About what, sir?"

"Your nightmare. Or..."

Or Dumbledore. He leaves the sentence unfinished, but what he meant to say hangs in the air between us heavily. Suddenly I want very much for this conversation to be over. I've asked how he is doing, and though it isn't much, it's a start. It's all I can offer tonight.

"I'm late for dinner, Professor. My friends will worry. May I be excused?" I feel bad for brushing off his concern - if that's truly what it is - but I just... can't. Not now.

He purses his lips and his face hardens. "Very well," he says, and I know whatever wall around him that had fallen is back up. "I wouldn't want the darling of Gryffindor to incite a panic due to lack of appetite." His voice is scornful, and I feel horrible, but I don't know what to say to make it better.

"Thank you, sir," I manage to say, and I walk past him toward the door. I notice he has a piece of paper clutched in his hand, and I try not to stare at it curiously as I pass. I hear him follow me out, shutting the door behind him.

"Potter," he says, and I turn back to him. "The next time you feel the need to use a classroom for purposes for which it is not intended, or to sleep somewhere other than your own room, I suggest you do us all a favor - remember that you're a wizard and cast a silencing charm."

Damn. "Yes, sir," I say. "Thank you." I walk away, feeling like an imbecile, and then I realize I am going in the wrong direction, away from the Great Hall. I turn, pretending I don't see him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, that damned smirk plastered on his face. I march past proudly, ignoring the low chuckle that floats down the hall after me.

Take care of him, indeed.