Taking Care of Business

Infuriating little... A thousand slanderous names flit through my mind, and I grasp at them, trying to find one derogatory enough to suit the brat. I finally settle on one.

"Potter," I growl, my voice trembling with loathing. Potter. That insolent, arrogant, selfish, brainless... I sigh, sinking moodily into my chair by the fireplace and try to think of anything but Potter. Mentally berating him is doing me no good, and I don't even have the joy of seeing his boyish features twist in rage and indignation.

The paper in my hand is beyond crumpled, and I uselessly attempt to smooth it before reading. The letter had appeared just as dinner was ending. It was my first time in the Great Hall since... since Albus. The tawny owl had nearly dropped the scroll in my soup, blasted creature. The scrawl on the front was hauntingly familiar, and I felt my stomach seize up painfully.

I headed toward the abandoned classroom hoping for a few moments of privacy. It was much closer than the dungeons, and I was afraid my legs wouldn't carry me any further. As I rounded the corner, I heard Potter's scream. Of course it was Potter. Who else? The boy seemed born just to plague my already-pathetic existence with his own.

Take care of him.

Those damned words seemed to come floating back at the most ridiculous times. Grumbling, I broke the flimsy locking spell the idiot boy had put on the door and barged inside. The insufferable little prat was standing in the very center of the room, one arm raised toward the ceiling, the other hand scratching absently at his stomach, t-shirt drawn up to reveal pale flesh.

My first thought was how undernourished he seemed. My second thought was... well, I didn't have one.

The confrontation hadn't gone well. Of course, no blood had been shed, which was a small victory. But the boy simply refused to talk to me - about his nightmare, about... Albus. Well, perhaps it was understandable. And yet, Potter was absolutely infuriating. How was I supposed to 'take care of him' if the blasted idiot wouldn't even speak to me? And what on earth had he been on about, asking me if I was all right? He was obviously suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress.

I again dismiss my thoughts of Potter and return my attention to the neglected scroll. I unroll it, feeling my nerves jangle as I do so. The script is untidy and wobbly, as though the hand holding the quill had been shaking. I swallow hard and force myself to focus on the words, reading slowly and carefully.

Dear Severus, it read.

If you are reading this, dear boy, then I have most certainly gone to that great candy shoppe in the sky.

I snort reflexively, and the laugh becomes a quickly suppressed sob. Damn him and his repulsive sense of humor.

If everything went as planned, I was able to speak with you before my passing and impart to you my last request. I know Severus, that taking care of Harry seems a difficult and unwanted task, but you know I wouldn't ask it of you if I thought you were not up to the job.

I know I probably already said this, but I am an old man - indulge me. I love you as I would a blood son, and I know that deep inside of you lives a man with a great capacity to care. Now, don't give me that look, Severus, you know it's true. Well, perhaps not, but I hope that in time you will discover that it is.

I can't help a small smile - I had been giving the scroll one of my patented scowls.

My love for Harry is also that of a father for a son. I want nothing more than for the two of you to find some sort of happiness in your lives. However, I know that will not be fully realized until Voldemort is destroyed.

He is not ready, Severus. Harry is strong, and brave, and has talent unlike any wizard I've seen since the time of Tom Riddle... and then of you. But he is young and inexperienced and has too soft a heart to willingly inflict harm. He is vulnerable. Beyond taking care of him, you must prepare him. If he goes into battle with the skills he currently possesses, he will die.

A cold chill arcs up my spine, and I shake it off, attributing it to the dying fire. I aim a spell at it and settle back in my chair as it blazes up again.

You must keep him safe, Severus. As soon as the threat of Voldemort grows near, take him. There is a house, outside London. It is near enough to Grimmauld Place that you will be able to get there by Muggle means if necessary. The place is more heavily warded than even Hogwarts, and the two of you should be quite safe there until Harry is ready to face the dark lord.

I know the task I have set for you is not a savory, or an easy one. My wish for you to take care of Harry is just that - a wish. But in this one thing, Severus, you must do as I say. You must prepare him, come what may, to face his destiny. Though many have thought me omniscient, I know not what will become of the boy-who-lived.

Directions to the house are enclosed. Remove him there at once the moment Voldemort threatens. My greatest wish is not for Harry to merely succeed, nor to simply vanquish the dark lord. It is not even to live. It is to find something worth living for. Teach him, Severus. Help him. Give him a reason.

And please, take care of him.

With love,

Albus

I wonder for a moment why my jaw is aching so, and then I realize it has been clenched tighter than a vise since I began reading the letter. I rub my cheeks slowly with my hand until the pain subsides, and then open and close my mouth several times.

I feel numb and weary, and want nothing more than to stumble into bed and sleep away the next week, or perhaps month. Or maybe it would be nice to never wake up again. I flinch at that thought. Of course, that is not an option. Not only am I far too rational a person to consider something as futile as suicide - I now find myself saddled with a responsibility which does not afford me the luxury of offing myself. A 5'8" responsibility with perpetually messy hair and haunted green eyes. A responsibility I wanted no part of but for some reason find myself compelled to fulfill.

Telling myself firmly that I will not take Harry Potter to bed with me, and then flushing at the implications of that thought (the thought of Potter, the thought you imbecile!), I change quickly into my nightshirt and slip beneath the sheets.

Twenty minutes later, I fumble at the drawer of the bedside table until I manage to yank it open. I feel around until my fingertips brush a cool glass vial and I pull it out. Raising myself into a semi-sitting position, I uncork the vial with my teeth and tip back the contents. If I cannot stop the incessant whirring of my thoughts long enough to fall asleep of my own volition, I will induce it with a potion strong enough to knock me into a near-coma.

The potion contains a muscle-relaxant - my own special brew - and I sigh as I feel all the tension melt away. My limbs thrum with a pleasant vibration, and my breath slows and evens out. My lips, fingers, and toes feel a bit tingly, but it isn't uncomfortable, so I pay it no mind and enjoy the blissful sensation of giving up control. I have one last thought, which is more like a flash of color, and then beautiful blackness rushes up to claim me.

***

At first I think the now-familiar pounding is a dream. A nightmare, more like. I must be reliving the night Albus died. I try to block out the memory, but the knocking persists. I blink, confused. And then I realize that to blink, I must be awake. I struggle with this concept for a moment, feeling as though my tired, overworked mind has gone for a nice vacation in the south of France, leaving the rest of me to muddle through as best it can.

Not doing a very good job of it though, it seems. My limbs are heavier than lead, and my head throbs with every beat against the stone door of my chambers. It occurs to me that I ought to do something about it, though I can't imagine what.

I lay there for a few more moments, thinking perhaps the knocker will simply give up, but he or she is apparently bent on driving me batty and refuses to cease the racket. With a muffled curse, I roll out of bed, nearly flopping on the ground as I struggle to regain control of my muscles. I sit on the floor, dazed, for a long moment, wishing I could undo the wards from my bedroom. I don't care at this moment if Voldemort is standing on the other side of the door - if he would only...

"STOP THAT INFERNAL POUNDING!" I shout, and am quite smug when I realize my tongue seems to be in good working order.

I haul myself up, grasping the bedpost as I sway dangerously. Haltingly, I make my way into the front room and lurch toward the door. I mutter the counter-spells to undo the wards and put on my best glare as the door swings open to admit...

Potter. What a surprise. The exact person I want so desperately to run from, the one I'm bound to protect, probably until one or both of us dies, the one who plagues my waking moments and haunts my rest.

I do hate him. That much is clear as I stand there staring, taking in his wide, red-rimmed eyes, tousled hair, and quivering bottom lip. He is the picture of a frightened, abused little boy, and I've no doubt all the bleeding hearts in Scotland would give their eyeteeth to comfort him at this moment.

He disgusts me. I sneer at him, narrowing my eyes to slits and wishing desperately that looks could kill. Then, I consider the ramifications of having a dead Potter on my doorstep, and decide the fulfillment of that particular wish is probably not wise.

I shake my head, wondering at my strange thoughts. Death glares and dead Potters? Were it not so similar to my normal every-day thoughts, I would think I had ingested a good amount of liquor before bed. As it is, I find it quite difficult to keep myself upright, and I grip the doorframe. It occurs to me that I'm leaning over Potter quite menacingly, and though that is a pleasing thought, I also realize that he has become a good deal taller in the past year. As I continue to waver toward him, he raises his head to look at me, and our noses collide.

The contact shocks me into straightening up, but I overcompensate and stagger backward, taking several steps before I trip over the rug and come down hard on my arse.

A stream of profanity flows from my mouth, but even to my ears it sounds slurred and unintelligible. I look up to see Potter staring at me, jaw agape, eyes wide and stunned. He brings a hand to his face and absently touches his nose, which I note with a small sense of satisfaction, is trickling blood.

"I... Professor... are you..." He shakes his head as though to clear it and steps into the room, coming to kneel by my side. I think I ought to be angry, possibly disgusted, at his proximity, but I can't muster the energy to care. Now that I'm on the floor, it feels quite nice, and I decide it's a rather perfect time for a nap.

"Snape!" Harry yells, as I slump back onto the rug. He sounds as though he's speaking from a great distance, and I am glad to hear he's moved away. I can't be bothered to respond though, as I have more pressing matters to attend to, such as slipping down into a black pit of oblivion. I think I feel a hand on my cheek, and though I am unused to such contact, I have to admit it feels good. Soothing. Sweet. I remind myself to be thoroughly annoyed when I wake up.

***

When I wake up I am thoroughly annoyed to open my eyes to blinding sunlight. Where in all the circles of hell am I? Sunshine is not, nor will it ever be, permitted in my dungeons. I surmise then that I must be somewhere else. I sniff, wrinkling my nose at the medicinal scent. The hospital wing then. Lovely. What's happened now? Did Longbottom blow up my classroom again?

I turn my head, expecting to see a guilt-stricken Gryffindor hovering beside me.

I see a fuming, sullen, royally-pissed-off Gryffindor instead.

"Potter," I snarl, "what in blazes are you doing here?"

"You fucking idiot," he hisses in reply, and it strikes me as somewhat inappropriate. I wonder vaguely if I've missed part of the conversation. Of course, it takes only a nanosecond for me to realize that he, a student, has just called me, his professor - and not a very understanding one, at that - a 'fucking idiot.' It doesn't take long for the rage to settle in, and I welcome the familiarity of it.

"Who do you think you are, Potter?" I snap, pushing myself to a sitting position. I notice that I feel quite rested, and wonder how long I've been in here.

"Who do you think you are?" he responds, green eyes flaming. I can almost feel the heat from them, and I'm tempted to look away. Then I realize once again who I am dealing with, and I refuse to be cowed.

"Perhaps," I say slowly, dangerously, "you should explain yourself, Mr. Potter. Quickly, I would advise, if you wish to keep any points for Gryffindor, or any nights not in detention."

"I don't think you're one to be giving advice, Professor," he says in a low voice. I have to admit, though I would never do so aloud, that I am more confused than angered by behavior. I look at his hands, which are gripping the arms of his chair so tightly they have gone deathly-white, and realize that something has truly upset him.

"How could you?" he goes on, rising from his chair and looming over me. "Did you think no one would care, that it wouldn't matter? You selfish prat! Did you honestly think we don't need you?"

His voice escalates in pitch, and I note that he is nearly hysterical. I'm not sure what I've done to throw him into such fits of apoplexy, and while normally I would be quite pleased with myself, I am now only worried.

"Potter," I begin, hoping my voice sounds as benign as I mean for it to be, but he glares at me so fiercely that I halt.

"Tell. Me. Why," he says, so low I barely hear him.

"Why what?" I mutter. I'm beginning to tire of his melodramatics.

"Why the hell did you want to kill yourself? What did you think it would solve? Do you think that's really what Dumbledore would have wanted? Did you think no one would miss you? That I wouldn't miss you? Goddammit, Snape!"

I look at him, stunned, and he looks a bit surprised as well. He would miss me? He, Potter, would miss me, Snape? I know there was something more important in that jumble of questions, but for the moment I am driven to utter distraction by the idea that Harry Potter would miss me.

"You would?" I ask quietly, searching his face for the truth. "Miss me, I mean."

He runs a hand through his messy hair and scratches his head thoughtfully. "Well... yeah. I would. I mean, you're a complete git, and I typically despise you, but... Hogwarts just wouldn't be the same... I wouldn't be the same... without you here."

Were I an average person with an average-sized heart and average emotions, I would be touched. As it is, I am an unabashed scrooge with a stone-cold, shriveled-up heart and no emotions to speak of besides anger and bitterness. And yet, I am moved just the same. I open my mouth to say something - I don't know what - when the first part of his little speech hits me like a bludger in the face.

"Why the hell did I do what?" I say, flabbergasted. He looks surprised by my sudden change of subject, but I take no notice of it. "You think I tried to... but why on earth would I... Potter, what in bloody hell is going on?"

"You tried to kill yourself, sir," he says calmly, placatingly, as though speaking to a small child.

"I did no such thing!" I cry, indignant.

"Yes sir, you did. I found you, two nights ago. I came down to your rooms to... well... and you were acting strange. You fell, and then you passed out. I kept asking you questions, but you wouldn't respond, so I flooed Madame Pomfrey, and she brought you up here. She ran some tests, and found that you had an abnormal amount of some really potent sleeping potion in your system. It was mixed with some sort of muscle relaxant, and the combination was way beyond what your body could handle. She had to pump your stomach." He makes a disgusted face, and I wonder how much he was witness to. "Several times."

I am appalled, not to mention horribly confused. "But I didn't mean to..."

Potter sighs, and I notice he looks much older than his seventeen years. "No one is going to say anything, so don't worry about that," he says. "Pomfrey wouldn't, for fear of her life, and I... well, I know what it's like... to want to..." He trails off and looks at the ground, and I see his adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. "I won't say anything."

"Touching as that is, Mr. Potter," I say tightly, "I did not, nor would I ever have considered, offing myself." Okay, that is a blatant lie, but heaven forbid the little bugger try to organize some sort of intervention on my behalf.

He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I wonder for a moment if he picked it up from me. "But the potion.."

"There must have been some mistake in my measurements," I say, thinking back. Too much asphodel, perhaps?

"You don't make mistakes."

I almost smile. Almost. "While I appreciate the compliment, your facts are a bit off. Though it is rare that I make a significant mistake, it has been known to happen. And I was a bit... distracted... when I made that particular potion."

He looks at me curiously, and I decide to go on. "It was the day after... after... Albus." His eyes darken, and he nods in understanding. Silence stretched between us like a chasm, and I wonder why I should struggle so to find something to fill it.

"Why did you come to my rooms?" I ask finally. The boy shifts uncomfortably.

"I had a nightmare," he says, so softly I wonder if I heard correctly.

"A nightmare?"

"Yes. Another one."

"What was it about?" I realize, to my horror, that I sound concerned. What has the damn boy done to me?

"You."

Now I'm sure I've misunderstood. "Pardon?"

"It was about you." He speaks up a bit, and there is no questioning it. "I dreamt that you... were in danger. I tried to get to you, but I was too late... and when I finally found you, you were... you had..." He pauses, taking a deep breath with difficulty, and I find that I too am having trouble getting air into my lungs.

"Go on," I say encouragingly.

"You were dead." His voice is barely above a whisper. "When I woke up, I still had that same terrible feeling, so I went in search of you."

"And when you found me, I was acting like a drugged lunatic," I add. "And then I fainted." Potter nods, and the events of that evening begin to come together. "Did I commit suicide in your dream?"

He nods again. "Well, sort of. All I saw in my dream was you fall to your knees, and you said... 'take me instead,' and then you slumped over. When I was finally able to get to you, you were already... gone. There was a vial lying beside, with some sort of potion in it. That's when I woke up." I see a shudder convulse his shoulders, and I feel sorry for him. I'm almost tempted to reach out to him, to reassure him somehow, but I'm afraid of what the shock would do to him.

Fortunately I don't have to make a decision, because Pomfrey bustles in at that very moment. I am silently grateful for her poor timing, just this once, and I remind myself to give her a nicer Christmas present. Amend that: give her a Christmas present.

She is carrying a tray with a glass of water in her hands and humming a merry tune, but when she sees me, she stops and frowns.

"Severus, you're awake," she says, thought she doesn't seem too pleased.

"Yes," I say, rather curtly. "Is that for me?" I nod at the water, noticing for the first time how parched I am.

She responds by setting the tray on the bedside table and thrusting the glass at me. I mutter a thanks and toss the water back, relishing its coolness on my aching throat. She refills the glass grudgingly when I hand it back to her, and I drink again.

"Now," I say when I finish, "Potter has informed me that you are mistakenly under the impression that I tried to commit suicide two evenings ago."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, Severus. And no, I don't plan on telling anyone. But let me just say, if you ever try a stunt like that again, I'll just let you die. Honestly, how could you be so stupid and selfish? Not even a week after we lost dear Albus..." The wretched woman loses her composure entirely and bursts into tears. I give Potter a long-suffering look, and he grins at me. I feel better somehow, though I don't bother to contemplate why.

"Poppy," I say gently, hoping to shut her up. "Now listen. The potion I took was a mistake. I put too much of some ingredient in it, and it reacted badly with my system. It was an accident. I don't imagine I'm lucky enough to leave this atrocious world behind just yet."

She sniffles and frowns at me, but her face has cleared somewhat. "Well then," she says, brushing imaginary lint off her apron and looking as though she feels rather foolish, which I imagine she does. "I suppose there's no need for that counselor from St. Mungo's I contacted."

"Oh, good lord," I mutter, too bemused to be properly angry.

"Now, now Severus, I'll just floo over there and tell him he's no longer needed, that's all. You get some rest, and I'll be in to check on you in a bit. Mr. Potter, you ought to be getting back to your dormitory, don't you think?"

Potter gives me a panicked expression, and though I wonder at it, I understand that he has no desire to return to his nosey friends and the intrusive questions they will surely ask.

"He's fine, Poppy," I say, ignoring his small gasp of surprise. "He had a few questions about his potions homework."

"Well, I hardly think now is the time..."

"If you had seen his grades, you would think now is the perfect time," I say, and she shuts her mouth. Praise the gods above. Without another word, she exits the hospital ward, the heavy door clanging shut behind her.

"Thank you, Professor," Potter says, once she has gone.

I nod, and then something hits me. "How long have you been here, Potter?"

He looks embarrassed, but he meets my gaze head-on. "Since Madame Pomfrey brought you up here."

I am struck dumb. "You've been here for two days?" I manage to say finally.

"Yes."

"But... but why?" I cannot imagine one single reason the boy would be so concerned with my welfare, but my curiosity must be satisfied.

"Because I... because of what Dumbledore... just because," he finishes stubbornly, kicking at the ground with his foot. "I was worried."

I don't know how to respond to this, so I say nothing. The silence is once again becoming uncomfortable, and I almost wish Pomfrey would burst in again.

She does not, but someone else does.

As the werewolf shuffles into the room, robes shabbier and hair shaggier than ever, I am torn between being grateful for the interruption, and thoroughly irritated by the person doing the interrupting.

"Remus!" Harry shouts, hurling himself at the wolf, who laughs and staggers backward under the weight of the boy. I scowl, thinking of how unseemly their show of emotion is. He's seventeen, for god's sake, not some child to be petted and fawned over.

Lupin apparently does not realize this, as he both pets and fawns over the brat, who is eating it up. He ruffles the boy's already untidy hair, mussing it further, and smiles down at him indulgently.

"How are you, Harry?" he asks fondly. I want to growl at him.

"All right, and you?"

"The same. I've been looking all over for you. I finally ran into Poppy in the hall, and she told me you were in here. She seemed a bit...erm... emotional. Is everything all right?"

"Oh, yeah. Everything's fine, Remus." Potter smiles nervously and his eyes flick over to my bed. Lupin's gaze follows, and he looks at me curiously.

"Hello, Severus," he says politely.

I nod. "Lupin."

"Are you ill?" I want to snap at him for his nosiness, but Potter is looking at me imploringly, and I feel my annoyance drain away. Which is, in and of itself, rather annoying.

"No," I say wearily, wishing everyone would go away and leave me alone in my grouchiness. "A potions accident. But never mind me," I say, mustering up some of my old sarcasm, "to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

If Lupin notices the jibe, he says nothing of it. "I've come concerning the letter." My stomach flip-flops.

"What letter?" Potter asks, looking from the wolf and back to me.

"It's not important, Potter," I snap, ignoring the hurt look on his face.

"But..."

"It's none of your concern!"

"Like hell it's not! If it wasn't, you wouldn't care if I heard." Damn. The idiot has a point.

"Harry! You shouldn't take that tone with your professor," Lupin admonishes.

I scowl. "Thank you, Lupin, but I'm quite capable of dealing with unruly students on my own. Now, just tell me what this is all about and then get out."

"Well," he says, sighing and smiling ruefully, "you probably aren't going to like this, but..."

"But what?" I say irritably.

"Albus has made me your secret keeper."

Oh, bollocks.