By LastCrazyHorn

Word Count:

Rating: PG-13 for brief language, violence, and depictions of abuse

Summary: A disabled Harry comes to Hogwarts story. Everyone expects him to be like his dad, but how can he be with such a different past? A Slytherin Harry takes on Hogwarts in an unusual way.

Severus hated staff meetings. As far as he was concerned, they were largely pointless wastes of time that Dumbledore scheduled in order to encourage inter-house cooperation. He had long promised himself that if they ever were forced to play trust building games, he was going to spike everyone’s tea with something vomit inducing. He fingered vials for three such options in the inside pocket of his robes, and lifted the corner of his lips in an evil looking smile that left the weaker willed members of the staff feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

“And as you can see, these are the students that are slated to be here over the holidays,” Dumbledore was droning on as though they couldn’t read their parchments. Severus eyed the people sitting at the table with him and sighed. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, considering the calibre of intellect present.

He wasn’t surprised that more members of Slytherin were staying for the Christmas holidays than any other house, but it did give him a start to hear that all of the school age Weasleys were going to be there that year as well. He’d have to keep a closer eye on his snakes, especially Harry. Of course, he was already planning to invite Harry to tea at least once during the holidays as well. He’d be happier if he could find a way to keep the boy with him most of the break.

Perhaps I can get him to assist me with some brewing, his thoughts trailed off as Poppy stood off and begun her report.

“Higgs is resting comfortably in the infirmary now, after regrowing most of the bones in his arms and left leg last night,” Poppy said.

After his initial interest in Poppy’s report, Severus tuned out again; having already heard a more detailed report on Higgs from her earlier in the day. His Snake would be fine, but news had already made it around Slytherin that the boy was being benched for the rest of the season.

That was the official reason, but the very carefully guarded truth was that Higgs had refused to continue on as Seeker after what had happened.

“I don’t want to ever go through that again,” a very tired and pained Higgs had told him late the previous night. His Snake had been white faced as he had lain in the infirmary bed, barely conscious with the mixture of pain killers and skele-gro within his system.

Severus hadn’t been surprised to hear whispers around his house that Warrington was bucking for the Seeker position, but he already knew he would be turning him down. Not only did the boy have no experience, but he was also on academic probation.

Experience, of course, was only part of the problem. Of the upper years, Severus well knew, there were no other options for Seeker (he had, after all, attended each and every one of the Slytherin Quidditch tryouts).

“Wh-Wh-What a-a-about Draco Malfoy, S-S-S-S-Severus?” Quirrell’s trembling voice brought him out of his musings with a start.

“What about him?” He sneered in response.

If Quirrell was even thinking of suggesting that Draco should be Seeker—his thoughts were cut off once more as Minerva’s voice cut through the group.

“If we’re going to start suggesting the impossible, why not Harry Potter? Merlin knows I heard enough of how he caught Longbottom’s Remembrall after a fifty foot dive.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed at the disdain he heard in her voice. Clearly his conversation with the Gryffindor head of house was going to have to occur sooner as opposed to later.

Conversation erupted from the other staff members around them over seekers and school rules and who had the best chances at winning the house cup that year. Severus closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, slowly counting to ten in his head as he did. His co-workers were idiots.

“SILENCE!” Dumbledore’s voice boomed out in the midst just as Severus reached nine. The conversations immediately stilled around him, but he took another moment before looking back up.

Dumbledore’s eyes were blazing with the sort of fire that one didn’t normally see from the doddering old headmaster facade he typically presented to the public.

“I would like to remind everyone present that the decision for who shall be the next Slytherin Seeker is entirely up to the Slytherin head of house. Severus, have you made any decision yet?” Dumbledore’s calm blue eyes flicked to him.

“No final decision has been made, Headmaster,” Severus answered curtly.

“Then I suggest we close this discussion and move onto more pertinent matters. Any questions?”

Everyone present wisely kept their mouths shut.

“Good.” Abruptly Dumbledore smiled and Severus watched in some amusement as the room around him relaxed. “Now, does anyone have any requests for foods to be served at the Christmas feast? Might I remind everyone that you must actually be planning to be here that day for your suggestion to become effective?”

. . .

“Severus, a word?” Dumbledore called out as the meeting finally broke some interminable time later.

Everyone around him wisely moved their conversations elsewhere and a surprisingly short time later, Severus found himself alone with the headmaster.

“I was thinking that under the circumstances, should you want to appoint a first year to the Seeker position, the rules could be bent a bit,” Dumbledore said with a benevolent smile.

Severus was a bit stunned until he remembered what Minerva had said about Harry Potter’s flying abilities.

“Any first year? Or just one in particular?” He asked, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny.

“Now Severus, don’t look at me like that,” Dumbledore replied, the twinkle in his eyes diminishing a bit. “I’ve heard reports out of your very own mouth about how fine a flyer Draco is.”

“Draco is an excellent flyer, but he is not mature enough to be given the responsibility,” Severus countered. “But that’s not who we’re talking about, is it?”

Dumbledore leaned back against his desk and peered at Severus over the tops of his half-moon glasses. “And who might that be, Severus?”

Severus ignored the urge to roll his eyes at the man’s playacting.

“Potter.”

“Oh, is he a good flyer?”

Severus scowled darkly and crossed his arms. He didn’t have time for this. “Yes,” he gritted out.

“Then what’s the difficulty? Look Severus, why don’t you ask the boy whether he even wants to do it before getting your robes in a twist?”

“That is entirely beside the point, Headmaster,” Severus seethed.

“And what is the point?”

“The point is that someone hexed Higgs’ broom, taking him out of the Quidditch season for good. The point is that there is someone that we both have suspicions about, but for whom nothing is being done about. The point is that you don’t seem to care whether Harry lives or dies, as long as he’s around to fit into your plans.” Severus stopped and panted, feeling his magic bubbling up very close to the surface. He needed to get out of there.

“I have a class to prepare for,” he growled, turning on his heel and billowing out the door.

. . .

Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts awoke to find itself covered in several feet of snow.

Not only could Harry feel the cold in his bones, but he could also feel it in the stump of his leg, which had started giving him phantom pains. Although the Slytherin common room was fairly warm from the heat of the multiple roaring fireplaces, the hallways were drafty, and the dungeons were miserable.

Harry was particularly thankful to Snape for spelling warming charms into all of their bedclothes. Plus, after seeing how much the cold was affecting him, Snape also charmed Harry’s robes and cloak with the same spell.

Still though, Harry ached at the end of the each day; particularly his hand and arm where his crutch rested, and at the end of his stump, where it stood on his magical prosthetic. Padding could only do so much.

In addition, he had been getting headaches, which he privately attributed to his eye, even though he was following the instructions for usage. Those pains he kept completely to himself; afraid of what Snape might do if he were to find out. Would he make him stop wearing it? He didn’t know and he wasn’t willing to find out.

He wouldn’t have said anything about any of his pain if it hadn’t been for Teddy’s sharp eyes. His friend had noticed that his limp was much worse in the mornings and the evenings; something that even Harry hadn’t been aware of. Instead of saying anything to him, Teddy had simply adjusted his gait, and started finding routes through the castle with fewer steps and somewhat warmer halls.

However, the proof of the situation was finally revealed one evening just before Christmas break, when Harry pulled back his duvet to find a vial of pain relieving ointment hidden just below his pillow. On it had been a note. Harry had recognized his head of house’s spidery scrawl immediately:

Harry –

You certainly have an intelligent friend in Mr. Nott. He, unlike you, was willing to tell me of the pain with which you so valiantly have been trying to mask each day. For some reason I mistakenly had believed that you would come to me if you were in need, especially given our rapport of late. Clearly I was wrong and I promise I shall watch you more carefully in the future.

Do not be too hard on him. There is no reason for you to suffer needlessly.

Severus Snape

Harry’s first instinct had been anger, but as he had read the letter over (and over) again, that feeling had faded into shame, and then finally into some sort of embarrassed thankfulness—especially after he tried the ointment.

Still though, the headaches had remained; except in Quirrell’s class, where they were closer to migraines.

. . .

Severus was more than a little annoyed with Flint. Someone—he strongly suspected Dumbledore, the blasted old meddler—had let it leak that Harry was a very good flyer, and now Flint refused to quit pestering the two of them about letting him be Seeker for the Slytherin team.

He was pleased that Harry had come to him immediately about it, but wished he could do more to settle the problem for him. He was worried enough for his young Snake’s continued academic progression, but it was also clear that the boy would greatly enjoy being Seeker. Of course, there was also the very significant concern regarding the identity of the mystery curser, and if by some great chance he did allow Harry to play, then it would only be after increasing the wards tenfold.

In the meantime, he had told Flint to keep looking for replacements until January, and then—and only then, provided that Flint kept up his side of the bargain—would he allow Harry to play if no other alternatives could be found. After all, it wasn’t as though the boy didn’t have enough going on already.

In addition, he had finally had that talk with Minerva, and though things hadn’t gone as smoothly as he would have liked, at least the woman had agreed to temper her behaviour towards the boy a bit more than previously, and from Harry and Teddy’s reports, she was.

. . .

Finally, in the last Transfiguration class before the break, Harry found himself paying even less attention than usual. His head had been pounding all day, and now the pain had reached a point that left him with barely enough energy to sit upright, let alone follow anything that McGonagall was saying.

If he had been in Potions, he knew that Snape would have noticed the problem immediately and likely sent him to bed, but McGonagall was a different sort. He figured that if he were absent, she’d just use it as an opportunity to take points, and what with his continued “feud” with Weasley, he really couldn’t afford to lose any more. Despite his rocky start, he had found himself acclimating to his position as a Slytherin, and now liked his house.

Just one more hour, just one more hour, he chanted in his mind, idly drawing his uninked quill across the top of his desk. The room was unusually hot, nearly stifling in fact, and it was not helping his resolve to stay awake. The back half of the class was mostly asleep already, but he knew she’d get onto him if he tried the same thing.

For a moment, he was annoyed with McGonagall’s biased treatment of him, but then the feeling passed. At least she wasn’t actively trying to hurt him.

She just requires that I be perfect, he snorted to himself. The sensation hurt his throat and he made a mental note not to do it again.

Teddy abruptly shoved an elbow none too gently into his side, and he immediately straightened, looking up into McGonagall’s angry visage.

“Mr. Potter,” she said, drawing out the word as though it pained her. “Exactly what do you think you are doing?”

“Pardon?” He asked, rubbing at his sweating forehead with the back of his hand. If only it weren’t so hot in here!

“The desk, Mr. Potter,” she clarified, her eyes flaring dangerously.

Cautiously he glanced down and to his mortification saw that the lines he had been doodling were now smoking in the wooden top of his desk. He caught sight of the few students still awake smiling and peering over at him in curiosity. Gritting his teeth, he flushed in embarrassment and tried to wave the smoke away with his hand.

Looking back up, he saw McGonagall’s lips moving and he focused in just enough to see that she was still talking to him.

” . . . Are so bored, Mr. Potter, that you have resorted to defacing school property in my classroom, then I suggest you leave.”

Finally, he thought with a mental huff.

He made a show of it though, shoving his parchment and quills into his bag with an unhappy expression. He stood up and nearly fell over, barely catching himself on his now smoke free desk. His head was swimming, and this time he could barely understand McGonagall’s words as she spoke to him about respect and points. In fact, he didn’t even wait for her to finish speaking, but took off for the door just as soon as he could walk without keeling over. His whole body ached and belatedly he realised that the heat he was feeling was coming from his own body.

Adjusting his bag once he was free of the classroom, he leaned his head back against the blessedly cool stone of the corridor wall and took a few unsteady breaths in and out.

“I’m not allowed to be sick. I’m not allowed to be sick,” he muttered to himself a few times as he tried to make his fever addled brain focus. “I just need to go lie down. Yeah,” he nodded uncertainly. “Just tired.”

He wished Teddy was there with him as he began the long trek back to their dorm. He barely made it the length of the classroom before the world swam before his eyes again and he was forced to stop and lean against the wall again.

Letting out a low groan, he rubbed at his aching forehead with his hand and tried to push away the darkness that was threatening his consciousness. It never occurred to him that he could go back to his class and ask for help from McGonagall. Even if it had, he would have shoved the thought away. McGonagall would just as likely tell him to suck it up and get on with it—or so he figured.

Moving forwards once more, completely lost in his own thoughts, he never noticed that there was someone in the hallway with him until he felt their hand on his shoulder. Then, even sick and somewhat discombobulated, he still managed to spin around, whip out his wand and pin them to the wall, his reactions a result of long practiced reflex.

“Harry, it’s just me!” Hermione had to repeat at least twice before his blurry eyes would focus enough for him to understand.

“Oh,” he answered, dropping his wand from her throat and taking an unsteady step backwards, actually having to lean on his crutch to keep himself from falling.

“Harry, you’re burning up,” she said, stepping closer to him and slowly putting a cool hand up to his forehead. “How do you feel?” Her concerned eyes peered at him worriedly.

“Been better,” he slurred, rubbing at his head again.

“Come on, we’ve got to get you to Madame Pomfrey.”

Abruptly his awareness returned full force and he took a wary step backwards away from her.

“No. I’m not going to the infirmary,” he answered decisively, shaking his head and immediately regretting the motion as his head swam even more furiously.

“Fine then! Snape then,” she argued, bravely stepping towards him once again.

“Why are you here?” He squinted at her suspiciously. Despite their better relationship since the incident with the troll, he was still wary of anyone who wasn’t a Slytherin—especially girls.

“Teddy tried to get permission to go after you, but McGonagall wouldn’t let him. I don’t know why she seems to dislike you so much,” Hermione was shaking her head and he wished she would stop. His stomach was starting to feel uneasy, and he really didn’t want to throw up in front of her.

“But she let you go, of course she did,” Harry said, mostly in a mutter.

“I asked to go to the loo,” she answered, a light blush suffusing her cheeks with her admission.

“Right,” he answered, suddenly confused. Why was he standing in the hallway? Wasn’t he supposed to be somewhere else?

“Let me walk you to Professor Snape’s office, please Harry,” she implored.

Snape’s office . . . it seemed as good a place to be as any other, were his muddled thoughts.

“Okay,” he answered sluggishly, silently accepting Hermione’s hand on his arm as they started walking.

. . .

Hermione was very worried about Harry. He had looked sick before leaving Transfiguration and it had blown her mind a bit that McGonagall hadn’t seen it. Teachers were supposed to be good. They were supposed to be role models and mentors for their students. They weren’t supposed to be examples of bias. Even Snape, for all of his anger towards Gryffindors, still always managed to send them to the infirmary when it was obvious one of his students needed to go.

She’d seen the look on McGonagall’s face when Teddy had requested to follow Harry out. She’d only seen her head of house that angry once before, and that had been directly after the troll incident. At the time she had thought it was because they had put themselves in danger, but after today’s class, she wasn’t as certain anymore.

She kept her hand on Harry’s arm the entire way to the dungeons. She could feel the heat coming through his robes and it worried her that his fever was so high. Every so often, he would sway and she would have to tighten her hand to keep him from falling sideways. She had no idea where he would have ended up if she hadn’t come out after him. She wasn’t entirely certain that he even knew where he was.

That concern was justified as they finally made it down to the dungeons, near to where Snape’s office was. Harry suddenly pulled out of her hold and started beating on the wall with his fists.

“Harry?” She asked, forgetting that he couldn’t hear her.

“I want out! Let me out!” He yelled.

She tried to grab his arm, but a wall of blue fire threw her backwards onto the floor a few meters down the corridor. Suddenly a tall black shadow draped itself over her and she scrambled to her feet, relieved beyond measure.

“Professor!”

Snape sneered in disdain at her, but she paid no mind to it, or to his imposing figure.

“Please sir! You have to help Harry. He’s sick!” She said, not thinking as she grabbed his surprisingly warm hand and pulled him down to where Harry was still ranting at the wall.

“Miss Granger, I insist that you unhand me at once,” Snape growled at her as he warily moved to Harry’s side.

“Let me out! I don’t want to die!” Harry was screaming now, his hand already bruised purple by the time Snape got to his side. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as she saw him spell the hallway silent; knowing better than most how much her friend valued his privacy.

Snape didn’t talk as he kneeled down beside Harry, his motions swift and fluid despite his great height and heavy teaching robes. She watched with bated breath as a long fingered hand reached out to touch Harry’s shoulder, and then she gave a relieved sigh as it was met only with a flinch.

Snape turned Harry to look into his eyes, pulling him away from the wall with far more gentleness than Hermione had ever witnessed from the dour man.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” Snape murmured over and over again until finally Harry responded to him. She watched as her friend’s knees abruptly buckled, dropping his body neatly into their professor’s waiting arms.

“It’s so hot,” Harry whimpered, before pressing his face into the front of Snape’s robes.

“I know,” she thought Snape said. Then, to her surprise, she watched as their professor stood back up, Harry’s body dangling limply from his arms, his crutch hanging down loosely from her friend’s arm.

Snape touched a button on the crutch and suddenly it retracted. Turning back towards her, Snape carried Harry up the hall. Hermione thought he looked a bit like Death carrying a victim, but wisely kept that observation to herself. Still, she thought Snape looked a bit oddly at her as he went by with Harry still carefully held in his arms.

“Well, Miss Granger,” she heard him say in a low undertone just as they reached the far end of the corridor. “You certainly are full of surprises. 5 points to Gryffindor.”

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